The Astounding Rory

“Welcome, welcome one and all! Step right up, step right up! Come and see ‘The Astounding Rory’! I give to you the man that the forces of the universe forgot. This man has an unbelievable power, an unimaginable gift! He has the strength of a silverback and the accuracy an arrow. No man, nay beast, nay GOD can throw a football further than this man. He is to throwing footballs what Zeus was to throwing lightning bolts. Step right up, step right up. I am offering ten, yes you heard correctly, TEN Shillings for any man, woman or beast who can throw the football further than The Astounding Rory. Come forth, come all! Who has the muscular clout? Who has the blinding accuracy? Who amongst you has the strength, the gall and the guts to defeat Rory? Is it you sir? How about you madam? How about you sir? Yes, you! The blond haired man with the cute hamster face? Can you defeat Rory? What is your name young man? Phillip you say? Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a warm round of applause for our challenger!”

Yes, I'm sorry to everyone else, but this bit here is about football. Please feel free to skip to the next blog post if the mere thought of association soccer causes you to break out in hives of dismay and disinterest. For those of you not acquainted with the bizarre pastime that myself and many other nutters decide to follow on a daily basis by the name of Football, "The Astounding Rory" is none other than Rory Delap. Rory Delap is a footballer who is renowned for having a long throw. Is he the goal keeper I hear you ask? No he is in fact an outfield player. Your face may now be screwed up in confusion. "How is having a long throw relevant to a footballer? Surely being able to KICK the ball a long way is more favourable talent for a man in such a profession? Ah but dear reader you are forgetting a key part of football. A strange part of the game that actively encourages an outfield player to pick up the ball and fling it to his hearts content. I am of course speaking of the "throw in"

WIKIPEDIA Tells us that,
"A throw-in (or shy) is a method of restarting play in a game of association football when the ball has exited the side of the field of play."

Thanks internet! Thinternet!

Now throw ins are usually a gigantic waste of time. The attacking team will usually throw the ball pretty short to the nearest available player so that they can get back to doing whatever it is they actually want to do. To some teams though, the throw in is a valuable and devastating weapon. One such team was Stoke City, where Rory Delap used to ply his trade before being loaned out to Barnsley. You see, what Stoke would do is fill the box with loads of really tall people. They would then have Rory fling the ball into the box with pin-point accuracy. This would usually lead to one of the freakish giants getting on the end of the ball with a foot, head, chest or buttock (anything to get the ball over the line), which would give Stoke a goal. Delap has the ability not to just throw the ball really far but he also has the ability to make the throws super accurate. He's also seemingly able to control the balls height and trajectory, which I can only surmise is down to him having a high number of midichlorians in his blood. This means that Rory Delap's throw ins are both long, highly accurate and fly in at a difficult angle. Basically, they are an absolute nightmare to defend, especially with the cast of "Young Frankenstein" waiting in the box to get on the end of one of them. It's no surprise that for a while at Stoke the fans would cheer the awarding of a throw in the same way they would cheer the awarding of a penalty or the awarding of free Bovril to the over 60's.

I'll be honest and say that I am over simplifying this situation slightly. Stokes prolonged progress and status in the top division has not soley been down to Rory Delap's circus strongman act. However, to say he had nothing to do with their success would be unfair. Most Stoke fans I speak to like to play down Rory's contributions. From one angle I can kind of see why. Non-Stoke fans are generally fascinated with Delap's ridiculous throwing ability. Whenever anyone mentions Stoke City to me, it's the first thing I think of. It's not even the case of me doing it in a mocking or patronising way. Most fans of other teams will be honest and say that they respect Stoke as a team that can be a genuine attacking and defensive threat. Stoke have scalped a few teams in their time. I remember Everton barely escaping the Britannia Stadium (Stokes home ground for the non-football initiated) with 3 points in a thrilling 3-2 win back in Stokes first season in the top flight. Stoke went 2-1 up in that match at one point and a large part of it had to do with The Astounding Rory's crazy mad throw in skillz (the z makes it cool).

However, I can kind of see where the Stoke fans are coming from. It took years of effort and hard graft for Stoke to make it to the Premier League. There were many years spent scrapping in the lower leagues with teams like Stockport County, Crystal Palace and the like. Make no mistake about it, Stoke fans paid their dues and had to wait what must have felt like an age to dine at England's top table. For a team like Stoke to not just make it to the top league but also maintain their position is a genuine achievement and something that all their fans should be proud of. Not only have they been a fixture in the Premier League but they have also made it all the way to the FA Cup Final in 2011 and have also enjoyed a brief spell in European competition. They are a good side. You don't get to where they have gotten without having a good team to back it up. But, along with success has come ridicule. Stokes aggressive and direct style has not won them many friends from the Arsene Wengers of this world.

No matter what success they have enjoyed, Stoke have had to make do with constant negative labelling. They are a “long ball” team. They are “dirty”. They don't play attractive football. Stoke are a team that live with a constant negative image. This is a negative image that The Astounding Rory has only perpetuated. Stoke are currently trying to make strides to dispel their image as a bunch of gruff long ball merchants. A host of new players have been brought into the club. They've even signed a new striker in Michael Owen who is considerably shorter than the usual Stoke forward. I've always imagined that Stoke have one of those cardboard cut outs at their training ground. He's a giant clown in red and white stripes in my mind for some reason. He's holding his arm out to his side and he has a speech bubble coming from his mouth saying “You must be this tall to sign a contract”. Since this season began, Delap couldn't get a game in a Stoke shirt. Coincidence? A large part of me doubts it.

As mentioned earlier, Rory Delap has currently gone out on loan to Barnsley. Maybe this is it for him at Stoke? If so, is this the right decision for the Stoke management to make? It's not as if their form this season has been ground breaking. They are currently in the lower half of the table although I would be surprised if they were to be relegated. Maybe if Rory were to come back their fortunes would improve? Maybe there would be no change at all. My colleague Rich at work is of the opinion that if it wasn’t for Delap’s insane throwing ability he would barely be able to make it in League Two. He is a Port Vale supporter however and they tend to not be too warm on Stoke City. One thing for certain is that Rory Delap will forever be a name associated with Stoke City, whether either party wants it to be or not. Incredible feats of strength or skill will always attract attention. A Rory Delap throw in combines both. That to me isn't anti-football but merely excellent entertainment.

Roll up, roll up! Ten Shillings for anyone who can match The Astounding Rory!!! Step right up, STEP RIGHT UP!!!!

Here’s some clips of Rory doing what he does

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nONE_ecZ0tg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7-mGH6X3PI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xaLoCe-DJ7c

Boyle: A defense

Frankie Boyle. There's a controversial way to start a blog post. I've mentioned Mr. Boyle before in my Julie Burchill column back in 2010 (which btw, hasn't aged well. Although I do admit to chuckling again at the thought of a care bear dying every time she tries to be witty). My general point at that time was that I found it impossible to be offended by Frankie for the simple reason that I don't believe for a second that he believes in 95% of the horrific things he says. They are jokes. He's a comedian. Comedians tell jokes. Why the offense? There are some times when he makes a political or social point where I do think he believes in what he's saying but these don't tend to be overly offensive. But when he starts garbling in a scary voice regarding "Michael Jackson's Children Hospital" ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RM8EVIbNxk4 ), you know that this part of the show is not to be taken seriously.

Frankie Boyle, despite not being your traditional comic, has a shtick. This shtick is simple but effective. He says incredibly offensive things and then people laugh. People laugh because hearing something offensive is funny. It's funny because its taboo. You won't agree with what's being said but you'll laugh because someone is actually saying it. It's not the actual content of the joke that you are laughing at but rather the awkwardness the jokes creates. It really is an excellent act all things considered because there is a disconnect between Frankie and the material. People who get this understand what Frankie is doing and enjoy his comedy for what it is. However, there are many who don't like Frankie's style of comedy. There are others who go out of their way to knock the man. Newspapers line up to chirp about the most recent "vile" thing he has said. They don't get it but they want to take that sort of comedy away from people who do. This infuriates me.

 

Frankie is hardly ever on TV these days with most channels seemingly black balling him. This makes no sense to me whatsoever. Yes, Frankie's material is exceedingly rude in the same way that Mr Kipling's cakes are exceedingly good, but that's no reason to deny him a slot on the idiot box. Put him on way past the watershed at something like 11PM. It might not do gang buster ratings but the people who appreciate him will tune in and those who don't like him can leave us all alone. 11PM is late enough in the schedules that it shouldn't be an issue. Parents should be capable of keeping their kids from watching it. Snobby TV elitists can be appeased by having it on something like Dave so that it doesn't "dirty" the major terrestrial channels. We can have our comedy and they can go and watch the proms.

We really need to start embracing comics like Frankie Boyle. For years, people like Mary Whitehouse campaigned for years to keep people like Frankie off the telly. Many opposed her and her acolytes because they knew that such forms of censorship are wrong. Television should be a world for everyone. It should be inclusive and not exclusive. If people are worried about the “wrong” people watching Frankie Boyle, then there are methods previously discussed in this blog post to ensure that they don't. I would have no problem with a parent saying their young child could not watch Frankie Boyle. It's a perfectly understandable stance and one I'm sure my parents would have shared when I was younger. However, the off chance a child may sneak past their parents TV security and watch the show is not, in my opinion, and adequate reason to stop a comic like Frankie Boyle being on television. Yes, Frankie Boyle is very, very, VERY rude but that's about it. He's not inciting hatred or calling for Katie Price to be assaulted in the streets. He's telling jokes. When did we become a society who couldn't take a joke?

Frankie Boyle's "Last Days of Sodom"
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Frankie-Boyle-Live-Last-Sodom/dp/B006TWMOPM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1359412048&sr=8-1

Frankie Boyle's "My Shit Life So Far"
http://www.amazon.co.uk/My-Shit-Life-So-Far/dp/0007324510/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1359412126&sr=1-1

Warblings of an Ar(se)tist

The past two blogs haven't exactly been the most cheerful ones. Reading them back, they kind of come across as a cry for help. The last muted screams of my soul as it thrashes away in the ocean of despair, slowly being sucked below by a Giant Squid of......errrr........shit? That one lost itself a bit at the end didn't it? Sorry to subject your eyes to it, that must have been painful, like the pain a Yak feels squirming to excrete Jeremy Vine..

Writing these blogs is a way to ease the volcano that is my self hate. Otherwise it might explode, killing a small neighbouring village in the process. Thinking of their imaginary houses, melting into the volcanic rock, nearly brings an imaginary tear to my imaginary eye. Not that crying would help. I’m always amazed how women feel better after having a “good cry”. What exactly is a “good cry”? I’m not even talking about crying when you see something nice or beautiful. I was moved to an emotional shudder at the end of “The Snowman and the Snowdog” but that was only because I found the ending so unreasonably happy that tears of happiness started stampeding to the front of my eye-lids. Crying when your child is born, when the woman you love agrees to marry you and when Rocky finally beats Ivan Drago at the end of Rocky IV are all happy tears (Unless you’re Stalin of course). Crying due to sadness or through stress is never good. It’s good in as so much as a fart is good, in that is releases pressure from your body thus relieving certain stress on certain points of said body. But aside from physical and chemical reasons, it must surely be impossible to have a “good cry”? I've certainly never had one. Every time I've had to cry for negative reasons has been a thoroughly unpleasant experience that I have always felt like I would never want to experience again. As much of a social weirdo as I am, and that’s considerable, I have still yet to cross that bridge into thinking that crying is “good”. If I ever do, you might as well just stick the fork in me at that point because I’ll be done. 

Back in my younger days, I used to be a drummer in a band called “The Viaduct” and during that period I used to write maudlin songs about things that didn’t really matter. That’s essentially what music is, a bunch of people complaining, praising or bragging with instruments making noises in the background. Loses some of its romance when you describe it as that doesn’t it? The songs that I would write were outlets for my inner disenchantment. I say that like they were some sort of high artistic endeavor but most of them were about how I wished I had a girlfriend or how I wish people respected me as an artist. When I read them back now they come across as the warbling of a deeply deluded fool. I actually managed to get some poetry published in a student journal during this period as well and that was equally as self centered and whiny. After studying poetry from my school days all the way up to university, I think this is a central theme. A poet in his or her poem is never just trying to write something you would enjoy. A poet is ALWAYS trying to use their poem to somehow promote themselves in one form or another. This includes all poets from Rossetti to Shakespeare to Heaney. Hamlet is just Shakespeare showing off, which is probably why the play drags on for hours. When Hamlet goes upon one of his many arduous soliloquy's, that is basically Shakespeare patting himself on the back. You’re supposed to read or listen to it and think “Wow, isn't Shakespeare talented?”.

Every Shakespeare play is him showing off with a plot shoe horned in. This is most poetry. Every poet wants you in some way to marvel at their own skill. So does every musician. So does every entertainer. They are never just doing what they are doing simply to entertain or inform. Deep down, they want you to like them. They want you to think they are talented. I remember being struck by a Heaney poem in secondary school. It was a deeply depressing poem about going to a small boys funeral and how profoundly it effected Heaney and the village in which he lived. All I could think while reading that poem, even in my younger days, was how tasteless it was that he was turning this into a poem, into art. Heaney was trying to describe his own grief at the situation but he was doing it in a way that would make you admire his penmanship. He was deliberately using particular phrases and language, all designed to impress upon the reader his own skill. And he is skilled. Let’s make no mistake here, Seamus Heaney is outrageously talented and a keen word smith. This is why he’s a poet after all. However, I couldn't help thinking that he cared more about what you thought about his talents than the story upon which he was trying to tell. This was a true story as well, the events in question DID happen. It’s one thing to create a story for a poem or play but to actually take a real situation and then, for better lack of term, tart it up with extravagant language, just doesn’t seem right to me. Turning such a tragic and real event into an excuse to promote yourself in that fashion is why I don’t think I could ever bring myself to write a poem again.

This blog is very self centered. I use language in this blog constantly to add flavour and spice to events and stories. Some of these are personal accounts. I haven’t plagiarised or taken on loan as The Smiths state so eloquently in “Cemetery gates”. That being said, I write everything, including this actual sentence, because part of me wants you to think that what I’m writing is of good quality. I may want it to make you laugh, get angry, feel grossed out and even feel sad. Ultimately though, I’m doing what I’m doing because I want you to think I am some way talented and what it is I’m doing. It’s why anyone does anything. However, I think it’s time that anyone who takes part in any form of artistic endeavours treads carefully when dealing with a real event. Describe it, make the readers/viewers/listeners understand why it’s important; let them know why you care and why so others do. But please, don’t turn it into an excuse to show off why it is you are so talented in the first place. There will always be some one somewhere, with a big nose who knows the situation and they may not take kindly to you using their own personal tragedy to impress people with your mad skillz (the z makes it cooler!). And here I was trying to do an upbeat post this time! Seems that no matter what I intend, it’ll always end with a rant and some good old fashioned self hatred. Way to go Mikey! Way to go!! Another dose of misery heaped on the masses! 

Seems so unfair, I want to cry

The F World

Fat. Fat, fat, fat! I can say that word cos I am it. Ignore the picture on here. It's long out of date and from a simpler and kinder time. Plus, I'm wearing black in it aswell. Kind of like how African-Caribbean people can say the “N” word and Homosexuals can use the “P” word. I am fat. Not “chunky” or “husky” as I have tried to delude myself in the past. I am a fat man, and I’m taking the word back baby! That’s right, you “Thinners” out there can’t use the “F” word but bonafide porkers like me can. It’s political correctness gone mad! MAD I SAY!!! As a society, I think it’s fair to say we are generally getting pudgier here in the west. We’re living in a fat world (Or “F” World if you’re frustratingly skinny as a garden rake). I think too many of us heavily endowed aren’t doing enough to try and limit our girth and I think it’s time we do something about it.

I am naturally fat. I know that’s a cop out answer but it is at least partially true. My genetics are legitimately awful. If it wasn’t for doctors, nurses and a titanic piece of luck, I wouldn’t be writing this right now. All things considered, I was shittingly lucky to born in the 1980’s. If I’d been born in Tudor Times I wouldn’t have lasted a week.  This isn’t a bit of joyful self-hatred either.  When I was born I had a serious virus that I only survived due to modern medicine. I think I’ve been on borrowed time ever since and I’m also pretty certain that the virus left me with permanent damage.  I’ve always been a bit sickly and I naturally tend to be quite inflexible and un-athletic. I’m a genetic failure in all honesty. Whenever I eat so much as a slice of bread it clings to my frame like a busy bumble bee sticking to whatever it is the fuck they stick to. My dad is on the large size too and my uncle isn’t what you could call svelte. I guess the male Fitzgerald’s are just naturally chunky monkeys.

However, I am mature enough to know that I can’t hide behind the “I’m naturally a big fat bastard” defence any longer. Some people can eat 7 buckets of chicken and not gain an ounce. Nature has dealt me a fairly crappy hand but sitting around whinging like a big fat whinger isn’t going to help me or others similarly afflicted. Like most large folk do at the turn of the year, I’ve been making a conscious effort to do more exercise. I’m going for a run after I’ve written this for example. My knees and back are already plotting to make the experience a deeply unpleasant one. Joy.

Also, I’ve returned to the dreaded “D” word (What is it with me and using one letter to describe words today? I’m a right “C” word aren’t I?). The “D” word in question is “Diet”. Ah, “Diet”. No word causes more fear and angst to a lifetime chunker like me than that word. Copious amounts of salad, fruit, vegetables and other assorted joyful food treats *shudder*. I’ve also come to the harrowing conclusion that I pretty much have to have this diet forever. My body is such a shambles that it’s the only way to ensure it doesn’t balloon like a zeppelin.  Forever, forever, forever-ever! To be fair, people should aim to eat healthily regardless of their size. And honestly, whoever thinks there won’t be days when I crack and eat something I shouldn’t is as deluded as Jeremy Vine thinking that “Egg Heads” is a good use of his or anyone else’s time. It will be impossible for me to ALWAYS take the healthy option because

1 – I’m only human

2 – Healthy food places tend to be in harder to reach times and places than unhealthy ones

And

3 – Me a big fatty fatty who like eat fatty food!!!

But I’m certainly a lot more conscious about what I eat than I have been in the past. I think after a while I’ll “train” my body to not crave certain things and it will be easier to stick to a healthy diet. At the moment though, my body wants one thing and that’s junk. I spent my walk home a few days ago fantasying about KFC Drumsticks. I am not making this up. I actually started drooling as I clopped along, my thighs rubbing against each other like two of those huge spinney things covered in Donner Meat. I’m actually drooling a little bit now thinking about it again. All along the route I take home there are countless posters for Big Mac’s, Chicken Wraps and Confectionary. I passed a petrol station with a poster outside it for Crème Eggs and it took every urge I had not to walk in and buy some. I don’t even like Crème Eggs but feed me nothing but radishes and I’d eat a trough of the bastards without thinking twice.

Every waking moment I see something that reminds me of the food I can’t have. Even if nothing visually sets it off, my mind will still conjure up memories of the foods I can’t have. My taste buds will then jump in and I’ll get a taste memory of them on my tongue. How thoughtful of my body eh? My body and mind don’t seem to realise that having a diet and sticking to it would be something that would benefit all three of us. They are both enjoying my plight and torturing themselves in the process. It’s an on-going cycle of self-hate and self-punishment that only a loser like me could put myself through. I’m not just a loser, I’m also a genetic loser. Born into the world as a failure. A physical freak who shuffles through live until deaths sweet release finally decides to put me out of my misery. Oh god, mentioning deaths sweet release has now got me thinking about Mars Bars (Because Mars Bars are sweet, not because they cause death. I want to make sure I’m very clear on that in case Mars solicitors happen to be reading). My mind is a swimming pool of food and it’s taking all I can to paddle in the shallow end. Someone throw me a life jacket!

2012 be gone!

2012 Year Review

It’s that time of year again where everybody is doing “year end” columns and blogs where they recap what happened in the year and highlighting all the important social and cultural events that shaped the year for all of us. Who can be fucked reading another one of those eh? I know I fucking can’t! Instead, I'm going to use this blog as a chance to plug things that I like and vaguely link them to the theme of 2012. The theme I’ve gone for is “Things I’ve given up on happening thanks to 2012”. Enjoy this blog or I’ll come round to where you live and do nothing to you as I’m a giant coward and far too lazy to leave the house to hurt anyone. Who can be arsed going on a killing spree motivated only by revenge? It’s raining outside for Gods sake! I’m writing this as an excuse not move a telly as I don’t want to get my hair wet. I’m a cunt really aren’t I? Oh well, best I know now rather than going through life deluded. Here’s the things I was wot going to rite aboot.

I have given up on Charlie Brooker ever replying to one of my tweets

This is a bit of a sore one for me. By reading anything I’ve written since about 2007 (Especially the opening paragraph of this article) it’ll be obvious to all but a blind yak (and even subconsciously they would have an inkling) that I am a massive fan of Charlie Brooker. For a while the only reason I had twitter was so I could read his, admittedly hilarious, tweets. After sitting back and reading them for a few months I realised that Charlie would actually respond to some people if they tweeted him directly. I sent a few tweets first just off the cuff hoping he’d reply. He never did. I had long given up hope that any “celebrity” would reply to one of my tweets but in the space of 2-3 months in 2012 suddenly people started replying. Richard Keys, Ade Edmonson and some tit called Percy Carey all replied to my tweets. Then I had what could only be described as a “Nerdgasm” when Dominik Diamond replied to one of my tweets. Yes Dominik Diamond. THAT Dominik Diamond. The man who I named my game review blogs after. To say I was delighted would have been an understatement. Never having such a good twitter run before, I decided I’d try Charlie Brooker again. Surely he’d reply now? The odds were on my side now right? Wrong. So yeah, I’ve pretty much accepted that the only time I’ll have a shred of conversation with Mr Brooker will be if I assault him in a darkened stairwell and that not’s very likely. Still, check out his twitter and follow him if you don’t already. The links below. Follow Charlie or I’ll come round your house and gut you like a fish! Maybe.

https://twitter.com/charltonbrooker

 

I have given up on ever writing a novel

This year I was delighted to hear that my good pal Xander Cooper had not only finished his novel but that it had also been picked up by a publisher. Prose has always been something that I’ve struggled with myself. Script writing, blogging and even *shudder* poetry seem to be much easier for me to get my pea brain around. I took prose workshop in University thinking I’d finally be able to get my fiction prose juices flowing. I’d finally write that wonderful book I’d always wanted to write. It’d be funny/exciting/life affirming/sexy and I’d be held in the same reverence as Iain Banks/CS Lewis/Ben Elton. It never happened. The best word to describe my prose is “mulchy”. I may have just made that up. If I have, it only proves how underwhelming my prose is. If I was good I’d be able to come up with a much cooler word like “Fuckstrocity” but sadly I am not that man. Xander Cooper clearly is. Please visit Amazon and pick his book up or I’ll come round your house and stick a butter knife down your ear hole! Possibly.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Lible-Dawn-New-Age/dp/1477218769/ref=sr_1_sc_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1356961834&sr=1-1-spell

 

I have given up on Everton ever winning the League Cup (Non-football fans should move onward)

Despite not winning anything since 1995, Everton FC’s trophy haul is pretty impressive all things considered. 9 League Titles and 5 FA Cups isn’t too shabby when you consider Only Man United, Arsenal and Liverpool can only really claim to have been that successful in both League and Cup (Chelsea don’t count based that had it not been for an eccentric Russian gazillionaire pumping the fiscal equivalent of 500 rupees from Zelda into them they most likely wouldn’t have won a fucking sausage after 2002). Spurs have been highly successful in the FA Cup and Leeds, Notts Forrest and Aston Villa have also had a fair amount of success both in the league and cup competitions. However, one domestic trophy still outwits Everton every year and that is the Coca Cola/Worthington/Capital One/Milk Cup, better known to people who aren’t twats as “The Football League Cup”. It’s named as such as you can only compete for this cup if you play in the Football League. Like Ronsil Wood Stain, it does what it says on the tin. Everton have been in the Football league since the 50’s and this cup has been going since the 60’s. This has given Everton around 50 years to win the chuffing thing and they still haven’t managed it.

Sure they’ve reached the final on a few occasions but they have never been able to win the actual cup itself. Liverpool have won it loads of times and they care so little about the thing that winning it was deemed a sackable offence for their most recent manager Kenneth Dalglish. This grates my soul. I can honestly say that if you said Everton could either win the FA Cup or the League Cup I’d choose the three handled monstrosity that is the League Cup in a heartbeat. This year I genuinely thought it’d be Everton’s year. In the first round they slaughtered Leyton Orient 5-0. It was a visceral dismantling and Steven Naismith got a hat trick which led me to think for a split second that he was the perfect replacement for Tim Cahill (HA!). The drubbing was so emphatic that when Everton were up 4-0 the Orient fans began chanting “How shit are you? You’ve only scored 4!”. The fifth goal shut their cheeky gobs. I left Goodison filled with optimism that maybe this could actually be Everton’s year. No, it WOULD be their year. They were finally going to win the Milk Cup and 50 years of failure would be sand blasted from history. They would finally have picked up every domestic honour and there would be one less stick for Liverpool fans to beat us over the head with. The absurdly beautiful three handled trophy would be making it’s way to Goodison’s trophy cabinet. March 2013 would see Everton in the final at Wembley! It was almost set in stone. I could see Phil Neville walking up those Wembley steps his cheerful chipmunk face beaming with pride! Then they were knocked out in the next round by Leeds United.

Watch this video or I’ll come round your house and stick charcoal down your nickers! Doubtful.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6MzVSKYINI

 

I have given up hope of ever marrying Sienna Miller

Pretty self explanatory this one really. Below is a video of Sienna being adorable. Watch it or I’ll come round your house and yadda, yadda, yadda

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9L_qgNO-LY

 

So yeah, that was 2012. Hurray! I’m going to go and weep softly in a corner for a few hours and then play a video game and commit an atrocity, because that’s what they do, apparently. BYE!!!

(Dominik) Diamonds are Forever - Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2 Review

I love the Call of Duty games. I know I shouldn’t. I know I should be appalled by the violence and the fact they take real life events and put them in game form. But I still love them because quite frankly they are some of the most intense video games I’ve ever played and the newest member of the family is just as much of a nutter as his previous brothers and sisters.

When I first joined the “Next Generation” of gaming one of the first games I bought was King Kong. It was a decent enough first person shooter but I never really loved it. I traded it in and got this other game called “Call of Duty 2” which I’d been told was really good. It was one of those World War 2 games that involved you running around and killing Nazi’s. Naturally that sounded appealing so I put the game in my console fully expecting to enjoy it. 4 days later I emerged from my living room after completing the game twice in a row and pretty much accepted that I’d played one of the best games ever.

CoD 2 would probably seem stupidly basic today but I back then I was enthralled. These days I still play it from time to time just because storming the beach on the D-Day landings is still an exciting and dramatic experience. That being said, I no longer think it’s the best game ever.

Modern Warfare 2 continues the legacy but this is CoD 2 on anabolic steroids. It’s bigger, brighter, has crazier weapons and generally just slaps you in the face while yelling “You like that? Well do you? BITCH!!!, I know you're having a good time!”.

And to be honest you’d be a fool not to. Now granted, Modern Warefare 2 has some flaws and it would be remiss not to mention them. One would be that the single player story mode isn’t exactly a Peter Jackson epic. I blew through it in about 2-3 days and I’m sure people who are actually good at video games smashed it in one afternoon. That being said, there wasn’t a single moment in those 2-3 days where I wasn’t on a constant thrill ride. And even though the single game is over rather quickly, the online modes more than make up for it. Honestly, if you take Modern Warefare 2 online then your life will start to evaporate.

Another flaw, to some certainly, would be THAT level. You know, the one in the airport. Yes, THAT one! Now I usually don’t get uncomfortable playing games but even I have to admit that this particular level in question is pretty messed up. If you haven’t played the game before you’ll be greeted with a message at the start of the game giving you the option to opt out of this level. For those who are easily offended, I would suggest you take the game up on its offer.

The level is a perfect example though of the games biggest flaw in my eyes. Sometimes it tries so hard to be shocking that it comes across as trying too hard. In the first Modern Warfare there was a level where your characters helicopter had been shot down in a nuclear blast. The level consisted of your character crawling around for a few minutes before dying. There was no way to save your character; he just died while you stood helpless. It was a shocking and very powerful moment. They do it again in Modern Warfare 2 but this time it involves your character being shot and then being set on fire while semi-conscious. This time rather than being a moving and poignant point it just becomes annoying. It worked so well last time that the developers clearly felt the need to do it again but this time it just doesn’t have the same feeling or appeal.

So, Modern Warfare 2 isn’t perfect. There are flaws to the single player mode and sometimes the game just comes across as being a bit tasteless. I’ve not even really got into the story but needless to say there are some great bits and some very shocking moments. That being said, I think there are almost too many twists and turns to the story. Modern Warfare felt a lot more focused, it had its eye on the prize so to speak. Modern Warfare 2 clearly feels it has to top the previous gaming experience and tries so hard that it becomes obvious that it’s trying. Kind of like how the second Matrix movie upped the explosions and car chases because it realised that it couldn’t really add any more to the message from the first film. Modern Warfare 2 adds more set pieces and weapons to try and make up for the fact that the story just isn’t as good.

Modern Warfare 2 strikes me as a game without a message. And actually I think this isn't too much of a problem. Far too may games try and have a message these days. It’s nice to play a game where the goal is to shoot as many bad guys as possible with as many cool weapons as possible. And as far as that goes, Modern Warfare 2 is a bona-fide classic. It has smooth gameplay, excellent graphics and a top notch online mode. If you have to buy a first person shooter for any console then I’d recommend this one.

Overall Score – 9.5

This and That with Mike Fitzgerald 14/06/2010 - This is a little bit bitter, be warned

I’m sure Julie Burchill the person is lovely. She’s no doubt an intelligent and perfectly likeable lass. But as a columnist and TV Presenter she gets right on my wick. She’s like a creature from Hell that is no longer merely happy living in the dark catacombs suckling on Satan’s teat. She instead wishes to rise up into the realm of the living, destroying all who get in her way.

I’ve had this rant in me for a while, tucked away at the back of my mind for future reference. However, it’s come charging to forefront of my consciousness again, thanks to The Independent. The Independent is my favourite paper and I buy it often. It’s a source of enjoyment in my usually dire existence. However, when I picked up my copy of The Independent today to be met with a massive headline reading “Julie Burchill’s new column”. Yeah it was right there on the front page, like it was a bloody selling point. Like we were all supposed to be delighted that we would now all be able to “enjoy” Burchill’s words and thoughts every week.

For the uninitiated with Julie, she’s a deeply unpleasant presence that seemingly hates everything, but not in a humorous way like Charlie Brooker. She’s like Brooker’s nemesis. Similarities are there. There’s the trademark bitterness and the fearless ability to attack all whom exist. The difference is that Charlie Brooker has charm and a general feeling of humour in his work. Burchill retains all of the bitterness with none of the humour. Have you seen Julie Burchill trying to be funny? Every time she writes something she considers witty, a Care Bear dies.

Her Wikipedia entry declares that she once referred to herself as a “militant feminist”. Now I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt her, seeing as Wikipedia isn’t exactly an expertly run database of fact. But if she did indeed say that then I can only roll my eyes. Anyone who refers to themselves as a “militant” anything deserves a right talking to. It’s just another way of saying you’re an unreasonable and vile piece of gob shite.

I first became aware of Burchill’s work years ago when she made a documentary looking at Chavs. The basic gist of the documentary was that Chavs were actually fine upstanding young folk who had been unfairly type cast by the middle classes in a wicked scheme to keep these good old “salt of the Earth” youngsters under the thumb. The documentary seemed to ignore the fact that there’s actually a fair amount of Middle Class tossers out there who could easily be described as being Chavs. I should know as I fucking went to school with some of them. Being a Chav and being Working Class are not mutually exclusive. I hated Burchill instantly.

The second documentary I saw by Burchill involved her looking at how Reality TV had affected British Society. The most sickening part of this documentary involved her presenting Jade Goody as a Working Class hero who made herself famous despite the fact that “Middle Class Snobs” had tried to hold her down. The documentary involved Burchill and Jade going to an “old fashioned west end pie shop” like they were Lenin and Trotsky drinking cheap Vodka in a run down Moscow bar discussing the rise of the communist nation.

Let’s just ignore the fact that Jade Goody was immensely annoying in Big Brother. And let’s also ignore the fact that the biggest detractor to old Jade was The Sun which is the paper in England most popular with the Working Classes. Let’s also ignore that in said newspaper, countless numbers of Working Class readers sent in letters agreeing with the columnists views that Jade was a generally annoying person. Let’s ignore ALL that and Julie Burchill may just have a point to make. Maybe.

Anyway, what was Burchill’s column about today? Her main point was that if you’re rich you can get away with being racist and offensive. It centred on Roman Polanski and Mel Gibson and how both of them had “gotten away” with their indiscretions thanks to money. Last time I checked, anyone with half a brain had pilloried Polanski and Gibson is pretty much an international laughing stock with anyone intelligent enough to spell “poo face”. This doesn’t stop Burchill kicking up a right fuss mind. Apparently it’s all a big conspiracy being led by the Middle Classes to crush this and that etc, etc, etc. I’d also be interested to see what Burchill thought about her best mate Jade being heinously racist to Shilpa Shetty on Celebrity Big Brother. Last time I checked, Jade wasn’t exactly living out of a dumpster at that point in her life.

Just to make it clear, I have nothing personal against Jade Goody. I just didn’t like the way she was used by Burchill to suit her own means.

Burchill also used the column to attack Frankie Boyle for telling offensive jokes. Last time I checked, Frankie Boyle’s whole shtick is that he tells incredibly offensive jokes for the simple that that they’re incredibly offensive. To take Frankie Boyle seriously is up there with thinking “Spinal Tap” is a real documentary or thinking that Terry Venables can sing.

Anyway, I’ve ranted enough. I don’t like Julie Burchill. Let’s leave it at that.

So, the World Cup is finally over and I know you all want to ask the same question. What channel did I watch the final on? The answer is BBC1 with CBBC commentary. Let me tell you, if you’ve had a hard day then there’s nothing better than watching an international sporting event commentated on by guys from Blue Peter. It was actually quite funny in places, although it got a little creepy with the hosts constant encouragement for the kids to “ask mum and dad if you can stay up just a little longer”. As much as I love Adrian Chiles, and that’s not a joke, I had to go with the BBC for the simple reason that adverts are the bane of my existence. That and I thought I’d justify my licence fee by watching the channel it actually pays for.

The main talking point from the final seems to be the SHOCKING actions of referee Howard Webb. Apparently, both Spain and Holland were angry that he gave out loads of yellow cards. Imagine that, a referee giving players yellow cards for yellow cardable offences! The SWINE!!!

As for Big Brother, all I can say is that I hope John-James and Josey get married and have lots of kids. They can get Ben in to baby sit sometimes. It’ll be excellent! Can you imagine Ben trying to cook tea for 7 hungry half Bristol, half Australian kids. There’s a sitcom there, I’m sure of it!

Oh and Corin has now replaced Cievarrrrrggggghhhhhhhhh, as my least favourite house mate. She just winds me up with her constant false enthusiasm. Let’s hope we don’t bump into each other in Stockport at some point.

See you on Friday when I review Modern Warfare II