Project Dim

I went to see Project Nim last night, Chris and Chloe were also there so I ended up getting pissed with them in the bowels of the Lendal Cellars. A couple of weeks ago I went to see Rise of the Planet of the Apes with Moogdroog, so this was a perfect continuation to the monkey themed cinematic experience. Being a massive life long fan of monkeys I loved both shows, I was roaring with laughter all the way through because monkeys are so funny, even when they aren't wearing fez's or riding around on tricycles. Here is a review of Rise of the Project of the Nim:

In 1972 a monkey (Nim, played by a heavily made-up Orson Welles)  is born to human parents in Connecticut, Harold and Katie Dre (Joe Pesci and Oprah Winfrey). At first the monkey child is placid and friendly but full of intelligence, the monkey hides his intelligence knowing it may one day be his downfall. The Dre's take Nim around the country showing him at Country Fairs as his skills in riding tricycles grows. Nim becomes a national sensation as a daredevil Wall-Of-Death monkey tricyclist, quickly securing a TV contract he becomes a television star. As he becomes more famous, he grows further and further away from his parents, who by this time have given birth to a performing dog (Joe DiMaggio, uncredited). The Dre's put all their attention into the new child's singing career and Nim grows impatient and more and more distant. Nim ploughs part of his vast fortune into the fledgling race to the moon, sending monkeys into space to explore the outer reaches of human (and monkey) understanding. Then tragedy strikes and Nim is apparently killed in a stunt that goes wrong when he was set to jump over twenty London buses on fire. The nation mourns the loss of a hero and visionary, but quickly recovers when the stunt is finally beaten by the performing dog who has abandoned the singing for a career on the track.

Five years pass and the action switches to the dark side of the moon, where we discover Nim still alive and well. The stunt catastrophe was a cover up for his escape from Earth. We also learn the monkeys sent up to the Moon are also alive and have created a colony far from their human oppressors. Under Nim's instruction and funding the colony have built a startling array of weaponry, including tricylces fitted with heavy machine guns and armoured fez's. All set for an invasion Nim's monkey army begin the assault on Earth and it isn't long before all the monkeys in all the zoos in all the world are brought together to fight humanity.

Nim leads the monkeys to victory and vanquishes the remaining humans to the zoos. Only one human is left, Harold Dre, Nim's father. During Nim's absence, Harold used the time to create an exo-skeleton suit, initially for use in stunt tricks, but also housing a complex surface to air missile system. Dre defeats Nim's monkey airforce but has underestimated the intelligent powers of his son. A 78 minute cataclysmic showdown in the Grand Canyon sees Nim finally defeats his father with a clever use of an armoured tricycle (I won't reveal the delicious twist here!) and the world is enslaved under the yoke of the monkey. The film ends with a long scene in the monkey parliament where they decide which monkey will be in charge by throwing shit at each other and wanking.

10 on 10!!

Calamari Ferrari Pt.2

August 17th 1844. Lord Roberts, being an excellent engineer, soon set the feckless Greek locals to building a pontoon bridge in order to ease our passing between points of strategic import. The Greek is a feckless worker, he is prone to bouts of inactivity which he calls 'Siesta'. These occur, in the main, between two and six bells. Being of stout English stock, I was most distressed to see these daily occurrences and bid Lord Roberts to quicken the pace of the labour. The Turk is almost equally feckless, but the fighting spirit of Pasha's soldiers is indomitable and he is quick to gain advantage, so we had to work fast if we were to give him a thorough drubbing. Lord Roberts used his usual form of coercion upon the Greek, that is, with the stout end of his billy-club. The labour was quickly completed, a d--n good thing too, as the heat was playing havoc with my distemper, and we were able to leave the isle of Santorini. To Naxos we were bound.

Farewell, Isle of Disrepute...

Naxos; the birth place of that most heathen of Greek deities; Dionysus. A man I would have no truck with, a licentious beast given to the baser of humanities depravities. So it was with a wary eye I travelled to Naxos. During the crossing Lord Roberts and I made the acquaintance of a middle aged travelling lady from the Atlantic colonies. She was engrossed in a tour of sites of antiquity and spoke eloquently of history and conjured up wonderful images of the graceful ancients. Lord Roberts fell into a deep slumber upon such utterances, but I was enraptured. I have often wondered why it is that well-to-do ladies of a certain age are enthralled by the Ancient Hellenistic Culture. One hopes it is nothing to do with the large amounts of phalluses that are on display.

All the girls like a Greek

As we set about our stabilising the defences of Naxos I took the chance to commandeer a schooner out to the ancient island of Delos. I brought Lord Roberts along in a vain attempt to distil some culture upon his persona. Upon dispatch from the great Motherland I had also been instructed that this was not a purely military expedition and we were to return to London with treasures of the ancients. The Greek has left his past to go to rack and ruin and as Europe's retainers the English were in the perfect position to corral and protect his treasures. Lord Elgin had already done marvellous work at the Parthenon and we were not about to be over-shadowed by his achievements. We brought several strong-arm boys with to help in the task (these boys seemed to follow Lord Roberts wherever he went; when I pressed him on their presence he always muttered ‘women for dynasties, boys for pleasure’ I was always at a loss to fathom his words). We arrived at Delos and immediately set about our task with gusto. The statues offended my eyes with their nakedness and I instructed the boys to remove the offending articles with chisel and hammer. The ladies of London would no longer have to suffer fainting fits when gazing upon such marvels of the ancient epoch.

The scaffolding isn't original...

We left Delos empty of treasure and set sail for the island of Mykonos. The poverty and desperation we saw there made us flee almost as quick as we had arrived and I for one was glad to not have to stayed another moment in that G-d forgotten land.

What a dump

For those with an interest in that sort of thing, I prepared several Lithographs during my time in Greece, they hang in a public gallery which may be seen here: TRAVELS AMONGST THE ANCIENTS

Calamari Ferrari Pt.1

August 16th 1843. It was with quite considerable consternation that I was given my first overseas assignment. Having served with the Household Cavalry for some two years I had yet to be given the opportunity to 'see the world', as is the case with most soldiers of the Her Majesty (Gentlemen, The Queen). Rising through the ranks to Captain (with a quite considerable monetary greasing) I was given the most honoured position of overseeing the defence of the Hellenic Islands against the incursion of the Turk. Although I had not left these green and pleasant lands before (Oh! Jerusalem, bring me my arrows of burning desire!) I was well versed in the ancient wisdom from that antediluvian Cycladic culture. My lofty time at Harrow and the dreaming spires of Cambridge were spent immersed in the elegant works of Homer, Plato and Zorba. I read Archaic Greek as a matter of course and could recite large chunks of the Iliad in it's original tongue. I was ready for the grandest of great tours.

The Temple of Apollo Creed

It came as quite a shock to step ashore from my packet steamer in that island called Santorini. From my garret room in Magdalene college, Ancient Thira had held a special charm for me, being, as it was, the end of Minoan rule through climactic catastrophe. However this was not the land of culture, the mythical locale of Socrates and Stavros. No this was (G__ forgive me for using such vulgarity) a den of the utmost inequity. A motley collection of ne'er-do-wells, twerps and vagabonds greeted me that first day, each advertising a flesh pot of greater depravity than the last. Swarthy features and dark eyes peered about my person, each looking for a weakness that they could exploit. This was not the only foulness to beset me at my first posting. The damnable heat and flies bore their individual burden upon my body. I assumed that this heat was the reason for the locals baring as much flesh as they did. Most walked around brazenly in what appeared to be little more than loin-cloths. Even the during the most heathen heights of Sodom and Gomorrah had not such wanton crudeness in the display of the human form been realised. I for one was red faced ashamed at the exhibition and was glad to have brought my stiffest of starched collars within my travelling bag.

A hive of scum and villainy

It was amongst this scene of licentiousness that I first met my compatriot for the task that lay ahead of me. Striding through the crowd, swinging his billy-club at the locals, came Lord Roberts of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. An uncouth man, it must be said, a Gentleman of low learning, like many of his native country-folk. Lord Roberts could not bear what he termed 'culture' and a man with little or no time to learn the ways of the Hellenic Aboriginal. I feared that my time in this country would be a most depressing misfortune on my part. These doubts were soon swayed when I saw the swift way with which he dispatched a particularly foul inhabitant by dashing said beasts brains on the walkway. A manly handshake from a black burnt hand further assured me that no harm would come to either of us during this time.

Transit infrastructure in place

Lord Roberts was there in body as an engineer attached to the project and we wasted no time in establishing a rail-head. He knew the land better than the locals, having braved the areas they avoided due to long held superstitions of ghosts and other supranormal phenomena. In no time we had a working transit system that was the envy of the island chain. It was from this establishment that we launched our first punitive expedition...

Just a test: 

 

If you can fly a Sopwith Camel...

I have been working at home this week, so I haven't had the (mis)fortune of braying at Logan Josh and his usual apish antics. I did go to the cinema though, twice, in fact. 'Twice in week? You must be crazy' I hear you say. Well, believe it, baby, because I did! I went to see Hobo With A Shotgun on Monday and then the Congolesian crime drama Viva Riva! on Tuesday. Helen also called over on Tuesday on her way down from Edinburgh. It would appear that my house is now a pit stop and lies equidistant between Edinburgh and anywhere that anyone wants to go. So the cunts line up at my front door to use the amenities. Well, sleep on the sofa anyway. And eat my crumpets. Helen interrupted a get together drink with Chris, Jitka and Ryan and forced her way into the pool team. Even with three against two the game lasted for about eight hours, so we got our money's worth at least. In all seriousness, it was good to see her again, even though it was only a couple of months ago when I last saw her at Lindisfarne.

Speaking of Logan Josh, I saw him this afternoon. He'd manged to find the Holy Grail of soundtracks in Oxfam and sent me boorish and bragging photos of it on his phone. It was the Biggles: Adventures in Time soundtrack on vinyl. Let me allow that to sink in:

The soundtrack to Biggles: Adventures in Time on vinyl.

On vinyl. This was it, this was the big one. Now if you know me like I know me, then you will know that Biggles: Adventures in Time is my second favourite film of all time. Ever. It has one of the best ever songs ever recorded ever in it, Do You Want To Be A Hero? Ever. I looked at the pictures the ape had sent and wept like a baby. This was the kind of item I would gladly give my first born for. I told him so. I shouldn't have because it gave him a position of high ground over me. I should have feigned disinterest, played hard to get, but emotion overcame me and I was caught in a moment of weakness. He said he would be up for a trade of an item of equal worth. Secretly he wanted my Oddball hooded top, but I held out on him until finally he buckled and money spoke louder than trinkets. I have yet to hold the item in my hands, but believe me, it will be mine, oh yes.

Featuring Motley Crue!!

He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named is not the only one to send me bizarre and abusive text messages. During the riots Danny Salter made the mistake of making an inflammatory remark on Facebook, which I told him I'd forwarded to the Police:

You're nicked sonny...

Later that evening I had the following text conversation with him:

Him: There are police helicopters circling above my house. Is this anything to do with your web of lies? You shit.

Me: I hope so, you're going down in fast track justice!

Him: I'm not going down without a fight. I'm going out in just my pants to face the filth. Let it be known that I intend to have 'Alex Sotheran Is A Twat' carved onto my gravestone. Nothing else. Just that.

Me: I hope they tear gas you, like the dirty rioter you are.

Him: I've always loved the police, you know that. I was devastated when ITV axed The Bill. Your filthy hate campaign has brought me to this. I hope you're satisfied, you shit.

Me: I'll only be satisfied when you're getting bummed in prison.

Him: I'm not here to at out your sexual fantasies, Sotheran. They'll never take me alive. Onwards to Asgard!

Then ten minutes of silence, until:

Him: It turns out all the helicopters had RADIO CORNWALL emblazoned on the side. May have been a slight misunderstanding. Slightly regret the little rocket launcher thing. Fuck em.

A Torrent of Shit

More texts from He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named. It was his birthday:

Me: Happy Birthday, you shit

Him: I can do anything i want today, i think i might fucking stab someone in the gut.

Me: Well, it's your special day princess.

Him: That's what I'll tell the coppers, i'm a princess and it's my special day so they can fuck off.

Me: You tell 'em girlfriend!

Him: The copper was being a dick so i stabbed him too. Then more cops came. Now i'm hiding in the fun factory at the harvester restaurant where i was having my birthday party before the police spoiled it.

Me: OK. It's a pretty tricky situation you've got yourself into. At least you're in a place with food so you should be able to hold out for a while.

Him: I've taken a bunch of toddlers hostage, should i start cutting them now to show i'm serious, or should i wait for a bit, or maybe just cut one to start with

Him: The little shits won't stop screaming and crying, i can hardly think with all this fucking noise

Me: Give them some chips that will keep them quiet

Him: Awesome idea thanks, that worked really well. One of them would not shut up so i cut her and put her outside, problem solved! We make a great team.

Me: I'm just giving you advice. We are not a team. In fact i was the one who called the police in the first place.

Him: Bullshit, you're not getting out that easily. You said it was my special day. You said i was a princess. You as good as stabbed that girl yourself.

 Not the only ridiculous text messages I received this week, however, were from He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, I got the following off of Berny:

Thinkin about doin a riot in york, u in? I know a big furniture shop where i hav a hire purchase account with, could start there, yeah? Then always wanted a blackberry, there is a nice hat shop i like, after wine store then finish off with sex shop. Sound good?

That was the weekend that was

Wow, that was a fucking busy weekend. I'd wanted a nice quiet Friday night in, watching Kagemusha and stuffing my face with pistachio nuts and bottles of beer. My plans were thwarted when I got the following text off of Denise 'Me and my friend are coming down from Edinburgh and will be stopping at your place. Not only that, but I've told her you are wild and will show us a good time in York.' What was I to do? The pressure was enormous. I hadn't seen Denise for two years and had never met her mate before. The last time I'd seen her was in Sligo when everyone was coming down from a mountain of pills taken at a beach party. It was time to pull out the big guns and no mistake. I took them to the House of Trembling Madness to meet up with some archaeologists. Despite this, they did seem to enjoy themselves, with the exception of one guy who was an absolute cunt and trying to make an argument with everyone he came across. He was so much of a cunt that Kirk actually told him to his face that he was a cunt. Surprisingly, he was offended by the idea that he might be a cunt. You'd think if you were a cunt and someone told you that you were, it would only serve to confirm your suspicions that you were, after all, a cunt and should start thinking about changing your cuntish ways. Let's just hope that Kirk's newsflash worked in his favour and he has stopped being a cunt now.

Just stop already.

All that besides, Dervla had not only grown up in the last two years (she was able to give and receive hugs now...), but she had been inked upon. She lives in Andover where Chinooks are a common sight overhead and it has now become her lifelong dream to get a ride in one (this dream surpasses her earlier lifelong dream of holding a lamb. Unfortunately this dream has never been realised, so she has had to make do with another one). In an attempt to get a ride in a Chinook she befriended a soldier, who promised her the world (and a ride in a Chinook), all she had to do was endure endless mind numbing phone calls where he asked her what her favourite colour was. Quickly tiring of this she never got the ride she was promised, but then neither did she have to ride the sentry, so all's fair in love and war, I guess. Anyway, I suppose she thought the next best thing to riding in a Chinook was to have one tattooed on herself. Which she did and is without a shadow of a doubt the single best tattoo I have ever seen:

Womp womp womp

No sooner had I waved Dervla and Kristy (as was her friend's name) off, than I was off to pick up Gilbert and Kirky and whisk them away to Posh Bastard's country pile. For nearly a year he had been promising to host a barbecue for us survivors of Engaruka. It was complete coincidence that Gilbert was in town from Kenya for a week, but the barbecue was more spurred on by the fact that Mrs Posh Bastard was having a clear out of her old records and had promised me some Slayer vinyl. Now, I have a passing interest in both Slayer and vinyl, so this was great news indeed and any opportunity like that should be seized upon with great gusto. It took half an hour to drive down PB's drive and we were greeted by a butler upon arrival. PB and Mrs PB arrived moments later on horseback, covered in the blood of the hunt and surrounded by foxhounds that yapped at our ankles. PB seated us outside (an ancient law he quoted; something about proles not being allowed under the roof) until the weather took an inclement turn and he grudgingly allowed us into the West Wing. The food didn't stop coming and I was gripped with meat stroke yet again, for about the sixth time this summer. Not only that but our munching was drowned out with the dulcet tones of Slayer, Metallica, AC/DC and Led Zeppelin. Gilbert was taken away by the funniest taxi driver that North Yorkshire has to offer and the rest of us were free to continue drinking like fish and playing shithead, only interrupted by the occasional bellowing of SLAYEEEEERRRRRR!!!!

Posh bastards...

Mrs PB suddenly decided that it was time for everyone to go to bed and Kirky and I were shown our respective rooms, mine was up in the garret of the North Tower, his, a fourth floor lodging overlooking the gardens and the fountains. PB dressed in his finest tweed for breakfast the following morning and piled more bacon on us than the local pig farms could handle. I spent the afternoon lying on my couch in the recovery position watching The Redemption of General Butt Naked until Pins texted me about meeting up for a drink in the evening. She and Dermo were over from Northern Ireland for various weddings and such and were camping close to York. I met the two of them and we ended up in the Punch Bowl waiting for an hour for clap cold food whilst a Brazilian couple on the table besides us beat the shit out of their six year old son. Refusing the food and demanding a refund we eventually ensconced ourselves in the Bombay Spice and had a feast of curry that was only two hours after we had originally decided to eat...