At last! After months of procrastination we finally managed to record our very first podcast. Here's a few important notes about our first episode, which you can listen to in all it's glory below:
1. We record it during our lunch break which accounts for the rough and ready sound. (We will improve on this). 2. We will feature a different biscuit each week with our cuppa. Suggestions are welcome.
3. We'll chat about what we watched, took part in and experienced in the week gone by and what we have planned for the week ahead.
We apologise in advance for any poor sound quality you may experience and for the unorganised ramblings of two idiots, but it is our first time. There is some NSFW language, so you've been warned.
The music you can hear at the beginning and end of this podcast is a track called Calzaghe by the band Jumpers Knee. You can hear more of their sterling work at their Myspace page and, if you feel so inclined you can also join their Facebook group.
Biscuits we devoured this week were Border Luxurious Chocolate Gingers. Bad boys!
This is footage from a CCTV camera inside a shop somewhere in America. As you will see three half naked thugs antagonise a man waiting to be served, before long all hell breaks loose until a freight train in an American football jersey opens a great big can of whoop ass on them all. He is like a mushroom cloud with arms. I've watched this video nearly 50 times and it gets better with every viewing. Enjoy this tasty slice of schadenfreude.
Stop stressing about the calories in that last rice cake you devoured like a starved lioness on the Serengeti. Let HMS Friday distract you from your body image issues for just one second and allow this little moment of Zen to wash over you. Trust us, it'll feel great. CLICK HERE
Waking up with a hangover on a Sunday to face yet another day of miserable soul sucking weather is a fucking nightmare at best, but this little ray of sunshine courtesy of General Sir Mike Jackson and his mobile phone on the Andrew Marr Show brought a big smile to our faces.
People can't do simple practical things anymore without turning them into 'events' or moments people will remember for the rest of their lives. This inability to behave normally is twinned with their ongoing search for their fifteen minutes of fame.
A perfect example of this is the increase in the amount of staged wedding ceremony 'performances' which have been filmed and uploaded to You Tube. You know the ones where the bride and groom surprise everybody by launching into a full choreographed dance act to a popular piece of music, which then ends up being broadcast as an "and finally" segment on the local news. Or their video goes viral and they become internet sensations overnight, (see below).
I want to see the footage of the wedding performances which didn't go so smoothly. I want to be at that wedding where the act grinds to an embarrassing halt because somebody fell and broke their tibia, or launched into a diva like tirade because the best man forgot the routine. I want to be at that wedding where the whole wedding party watch on in horror as a tsunami of uneasiness washes over us all. Give me that wedding any day and in the meantime just get fucking married and be done with it.
I don't care for Lady Gaga's music, or any of the other commercial shite doing the rounds right now, but watching her Poker Face video the other night I couldn't believe how much she looks like Corporal Maxwell Klinger from Mash. At least Klinger had talent and better dress sense.
Where the fuck do you begin with a topic like this? Its apparent somebody somewhere involved with the British Nationalist Party thought that it would be a good idea, in between petrol bombing mosques and bashing the gays, to comprise an article in the same fashion as FHM's High Street Honeys, only instead of stunning young models they used moderately attractive, mouth breathing, female BNP members.
The idea itself isn't bad for a political party looking to sex things up to attract a younger demographic, but when your party is solely based upon ugly politics then your members aren't going to be breaking hearts any time soon...just the heads of various ethnic minorities.
The questions asked throughout the article are ludicrous, for example: Which do you dislike more Muslims or Jews?Towel or rag?Hitler - hero or villain?Would it be possible to maybe come to a comprise with a noble race like the Chinese? Perhaps keep them on as a sort of servant class?
Be warned you may experience an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion after reading this article which comes only after dipping your toes into the waters of fascism. Depressing as fuck!
Were you there? Did you see any of the headlining acts? Did you get totally off your face on all sorts? No, neither did we. But that doesn't mean that we can't appreciate what has to be the finest collection of Glastonbury photographs published online so far. PICS HERE
First Farrah Fawcett, then Ed McMahon and now the King Of Pop Michael Jackson. There really is something rather spooky about this unwritten rule of celebrity deaths happening in clusters of three. As Jacko's fans whip themselves up into a frothing, hysterical orgy of grief its apparent that the star's sudden demise leaves an opening for some new pretender to take over the mantle of King Of Pop and we think we've found the right cat. Ronald Jenkees might look like the estranged son of Eric Morecombe but the kid has mad skillz when it comes to making music. Check out this tight little jam as Jenkees blazes a trail.
Oasis recently played a sell out gig at Murrayfeild rugby stadium in Edinburgh. At the end of the concert the crowd, now well oiled with alcohol decided that waiting to climb the stairs to exit the terraces was a waste of time, so they ascended the seating instead. Amidst this blatant health and safety free display some classy young lady decided to pull her knickers down and have a piss right in front of them. Not to the side or over in a corner, right in front of them so they had to pass her to leave...as she was pissing!
We've been promising this for some time now but we are finally reaching the final few hurdles. Equipment has been ordered, plans have been drawn up, music has been sourced and tea and biscuits are a waiting in the wings. In the meantime we've been listening to our own special favourite podcasts online. Links below.
To save a bit of time explaining what the podcast goals and aims are, here is a brief synopsis:
Each Friday Grant and Chris will host the HMS Friday Podcast, where they will share tea and biscuits in a raw unedited conversation about what they did, watched, attended, experienced during the week and what they're prospective plans are for the weekend ahead. Guests will be joining them on the one condition that they bring they're own biscuits for Grant and Chris to taste and critique. Basically it will be about two really boring, uninspired and slightly depressed individuals talking a power of shite for 45 minutes so that you, the listeners, can revel in the fact that your lives are infinitely more exciting and satisfying than our own.
You just know this arsehole was bullied a lot at school. Watch the video above as Texas Deputy Chris Bieze tasers a 72 year-old woman. That's right this failure pile of flesh decided that shooting an old lady with two darts and then pumping her elderly body with tens of thousands of volts of electricity was well within the boundaries of normality. Regardless of the fact that his Sasquatchian frame could have easily overpowered the woman from Midlle Earth. Apparently the little old lady was pulled for being slightly over the speed limit in a construction zone and refused to sign for the speeding ticket. Way to go Deputy Bieze you bagged yourself a real Ma Barker, you better rush off to deed poll so you can change your name to Elliot Ness. Levelling up big fella. Levelling up.
Getting angry is fine, getting vocal is even better, taking to the streets is perfect but having a protest picnic is definitely the way forward. Here's a video of two people filmed by Don't Panic soaking up some rays, drinking a little champagne and treating themselves to some juicy strawberries on the grounds of a very large house.
The uppity, prehistoric thieving arsehole who owns this wonderful property, which the British public has paid for the upkeep of, is none other than Anthony Steen, the Conservative MP for Totnes in England. The right honourable Mr Steen helped himself to around £90,000 of taxpayers money to spend on the maintenance of his grounds and guess what? He doesn't think there's anything wrong with that. In fact Mr Steen believes the reason everyone has their panties all up in a tight bunch about his spending habits is down to nothing more than jealousy. Recently interviewed on Radio Four Mr Steen vented his spleen and stated: "Do you know what this is about? Jealousy. I have got a very, very large house. Some people say it looks like Balmoral. It does me nicely."
Don't Panic have the right idea, why get angry when you can get even. Seeing as a large portion of the grounds belongs to the British taxpayer they've invited us all down to share some quality summer fun in the sun. Dig out that tartan picnic rug sharpish, because this is how you protest.
Listen to Mr Steen's radio interview HERE. His pomposity is astounding.
I am an unapologetic Dennis Lehane fan. I've read most of his books and nearly did a backward somersault when I heard that Martin Scorsese, (arguably one of the greatest directors of our time), was adapting Shutter Island into a blockbuster movie. Just as I was slipping on my gymnastics leotard and rubbing talcum powder into my hands I then heard that Leonardo DiCaprio was to star.
It's not that I think that Leo is a bad actor, he quite obviously isn't, but he doesn't have the manly chops to pull off parts which require, gritty, tough and testosterone fuelled characters, which is why I had a problem with The Departed.
However it appears from the trailer that Scorsese has nailed the creepy, unsettling atmosphere of the book, but I'll reserve judgement on Ladyboy DiCaprio's performance for now.
Before you go and loop some plastic cord around your neck and genitalia in a seedy hotel room, you better make sure you leave instructions to your family that in the event of you going that little bit further this time, they can blame a secret society for your untimely and rather undignified death. It wasn't your fault you were found hanging naked in the closet with your special purpose bound up like a turkey at Christmas. Oh no, for you see it was the ninjas.
Boy do we have egg on our faces. After our light ridicule of the possibility of a swine flu pandemic
in the news, the virus has shown up right on our door step, infecting our little town and effectively creating a mass panic. Yesterday alone Dunoon's local police force had to maintain order at the town's hospital after a few hundred people descended upon the causality unit at the same time to get tested and inoculated. We are, at present, non infected which is mainly down to the fact that nobody here likes us and refuses to hang about with us, proving that being an arsehole does have it's advantages.
How did this epidemic happen? Well you can read about it HERE, but the short version is the swine flu spread after it was passed on to friends, family and work colleagues by a small group of Rangers supporters who apparently caught it from the bus they had hired. Rumour has it traces of the virus were detected in the air conditioning system of the vehicle. Since then two schools have closed and a whole year of students from the local grammar school have been sent home too, more are to follow suit this week. There has also been talk of a meeting by council officials to decide whether or not to close the town off for a week, which makes no sense to us at all as the surrounding areas like Glasgow and Paisley already now have the virus too.
On Sunday night only 11 people were confirmed to have swine flu in Scotland, five days later that figure now stands well over 100, with the majority of cases coming from Dunoon. What surprises us is the way this situation is being reported by the news and by reported we mean being ignored like a fat, ugly stripper. It seems the UK national news is steering clear of this story, we've heard nothing about the outbreak on BBC, Sky, Five or even Four and if there has been a mention it was extremely brief. Scottish news programmes covered the situation for only one day and then pretty much left it after that, opting instead to gloss over the growing situation here, with engaging stories about wallabies, sheep and machines which fill pot holes in the road. So here's a word to the wise. The amount of people coming down with the virus is rising daily and swine flu is set to spread further afield from Dunoon, so a smart person might want to sell his/her summer festival ticket(s), because the rate this virus is spreading we can foresee some major cancellations, not just in Scotland but around the UK itself. We'll keep you updated.
The Labour MP for Livingstone will today face a special internal party investigation following some rather tasty revelations in his parliamentary expenses. The Daily Telegraph published details of Jim Devine's expenses including claims he submitted receipts from a company that may never have existed.
Do us a favour, stop whatever else you are doing right now as you're reading this post. Put down your mug, stop listening to iTunes in the background and read over that last sentence once more.
"...he submitted receipts from a company that may never have existed."
This right honourable gentleman is to face a special National Executive Committee endorsements panel, (whatever the fuck that means?), who will then decide if Mr Devine should stand as an MP for Livingstone in the next general election. He currently hasn't been charged by the police for fraud, he hasn't lost his job or been forced to pay back the money which he allegedly stole. No, the strongest action yet taken against Mr Devine is a meeting to discuss whether he should stand as an MP at the next election, which could be more than a year away. What the fuck is going on?
You know, call us cynical but it appears they're getting off with this scot free.
N.B. Mr Devine throughout his political career voted strongly against an investigation into the Iraq war, voted strongly in favour of ID cards but has yet to vote on a transparent parliament.
The Queen won't be present at this year's D-Day event in France, which will take place next week in Normandy, to commemorate 65 years since the allied invasion during World War II. In fact not one single member of the royal family will attend. Apparently the Palace are spinning some shite about how the Queen never received any official invitation, but French authorities are denying they snubbed her and have explained that she and any other member of the royal family are more than welcome to attend. But even now that the obvious air of confusion has been cleared, the Queen and her posse aren't that fucking bothered, as the Palace issued the following statement:
"We would like to reiterate that we have never expressed any sense of anger or frustration at all, and are content with all the arrangements that are planned."
Content? What does that even mean? You are happy to sit at home while the rest of the world pays tribute to the thousands of men and women who spilt their blood on the beaches of Normandy, for their country and their Queen, because you didn't get an invite? Make yourself a fucking invite. Get up off your old, wrinkly royal arse and find some card from the palace stationary drawer, throw some glitter over it, pritt stick an old war picture on the front, post it to yourself then put your default, bland, non-descript ceremony frock on and shift you and your Nazi husband over there double time, you sour-faced old cow!
This little old, white haired, lady should be a shining example to us all. For some reason I can't help but imagine she has a cat named Sylvester. Carpe Diem, people. Carpe Diem.
Album art can either make or break the sale of a band's latest endeavour. Through the ages there have been some classics, which in fairness have been more memorable than the songs and some have been downright awful, which neatly links us to this fucking eyesore.
Hulk Hogan's mega rich daughter is a tad confused as to what to do with her life, so just like all the other rich kids in America she's launched a pop career and here is the artwork for her second album. As you can see Brooke has plumped for a cover which would look more at home if it had been airbrushed onto the side of a Californian paedophile's converted van or the bonnet of some mid-life crisis suffering 65 year-old's Trans Am. Not to mention the fact that she obviously sees herself as some hybrid belly dancing angel with white hair? Classy, subtle, understated, just like her vest wearing, perma-tanned old man.
The racist bitch you can see in the video in the previous post below, who told Channel Nine news cameras exactly what went down on the streets of Sydney following a shooting outside a nightclub, is a big, attention seeking liar! Turns out 19 year-old Clare Werbeloff didn't see a goddamn thing and her whole testimony is complete nonsense, lucky for her detectives will not be pressing charges, but there's also a bit of a twist here too. Miss Werbeloff became aware of her global viral attraction, with t-shirts being sold online with her face and the phrase "Chk Chk Boom!", within hours of the video going up on You Tube, so she hired a publicist and apparently isn't contractually obliged to speak to any media outlets except for Australia's Channel Nine. She will however tell all about her reasons for talking shit on Channel Nine's Current Affairs programme on Monday night. So basically, to recap she lied on national television about a serious crime which left a young man fighting for his life, signed a contract with a news agency for a sum of money to keep her racist gob shut, so that she can get her own exclusive airtime explaining how the ordeal has effected her. Is it me?
What happens when today's narsissitic, twitter, facebook obsessed youth wittness a serious crime. A crime so serious it leaves somebody fighting for their life? They see the whole thing unfold in front of them and the only way of expressing how they feel about the terrible crime is to a TV camera. Cue racism, action movie sound effects, inappropriate smiling, total lack of humanity and the use of the word "awesome". Sadly it appears the wrong person has been shot here although Carol Thatcher will be proud.
We are huge fans of the national Scottish news programme Reporting Scotland, but for all the wrong reasons as it leaves us in hysterics every night. We shouldn't laugh though as BBC Scotland have brand new, state-of-the-art, multi million pound offices in Glasgow's Pacific Quay, so you would assume that their flagship news programme would be a big, sparkly, finely polished affair. That couldn't be further from the truth, over the past few years this programme has become progressively worse, it sometimes feels like the only thing holding it together is some blu-tack, masking tape and week old chewing gum. The production is practically non-existent, the reporting is woeful and the story selection is fucking hilarious. That's why we love it though, it's become a ritual at HMS Friday's HQ to sit around the television, buckle ourselves in and watch the car crash unfold.
But tonight Reporting Scotland televised something very special, a landmark incident, an indelible mark on the history of broadcast journalism. This event was so awesome it left our mouths open and our ham and cheese toasties on the floor and it had nothing to do with the full five minutes of silence which had happened earlier in the programme, due to a problem they were having with the sound. No, tonight we watched a female reporter interview a dog. How did she do this? How on earth did she manage to interview an animal? Well she basically approached the dog in the street and asked it a question. Simple as that. The "news" item she was reporting on was about Susan Boyle and the singer's chances of winning the Britain's Got Talent grand finale. During this segment the reporter "hit the streets" of West Lothian to gauge public opinion, (vox pop), and spied a dog on a lead with it's owner, but instead of interviewing the human she used her skills as a journalist to shake things up, she took broadcast journalism outside of the box, as she approached the dog with microphone in hand and shouted at the canine "Are you supporting Susan?" The dog, fearing for it's life, barked at her, the reporter laughed, the dog's owner laughed and our necks back home went bright red, as we looked at each other in a silent shared and cherished moment of total disbelief.
This video is memorable for two reasons: 1) It's simple premise and 2) The ending. Even if you don't like the song or can't remember the name of the band, you will almost certainly remember the video, which cost next to nothing to make.
I haven't seen the critically acclaimed movie The Wrestler, nor do I have any great ambition to do so, movie actors with IRA tattoos turn me off a tad or any terrorist organisation based ink for that matter, but I do want to see The Calamari Wrestler. Only from Japan would they make a movie about a giant squid who wrestles for a living. Below is the trailer for this deeply moving tale of a cephalopod who can manoeuvre out of any wrestling hold, but his personal life and sporting career clash as he prepares to take on a Mantis Shrimp called the Squilla Boxer. If this movie doesn't make you laugh, cry or make you tad bit hungry, then you are dead my friend. Dead!
Sitting watching the news as sweaty, mealy mouthed politicians skirt around the issue of their outrageous expenses for the maintenance of their pools, moats and tennis courts, I could only think of one man - Howard Beale. Network was made in 1976 yet the mad rantings of Peter Finch's character still ring true today. We've had the global financial meltdown, the greedy rich bankers, the illegal wars, the rising unemployment, the continued ignorance over global warming, the heavy handed police, rising crime and the implementation of ID cards and now the realisation that parliament is nothing more than a collusion of politicians working together for themselves, against the people. I think it's time to get out of our seats...or we are fucked!
As the threat of swine flu hangs heavy over us all it's worth noting that this recent panic, this recent tsunami of widespread fear and impending doom, is more than likely a right royal waste of fucking time. Take Keiji Fukuda for example, the World Health Organisation's flu expert, this merchant of doom recently stated that two billion people could be infected with the swine flu if the outbreak turns into a pandemic lasting two years. He then went on to qualify this shitpantingly scary claim by saying: "Please do not interpret this as a prediction for the future." So why make the fucking statement in the first place?
Vader's apprentice then went on to reveal that: "It would be a reasonable estimate to say perhaps a third of the world's population would get infected with this virus." But asked if this number was a reasonable prediction he replied: "We don't really know."
That's right the World Health Organisation's head honcho on viral diseases came forward to strike panic into everyone and pigs, by suggesting that swine flu could mark the end for a large number of us and that in just two years a third of the world's population would suffer from the virus. He then paused briefly to fill his mouth full of cream cake, shrugged his shoulders and sounding like Scooby Doo mumbled: "mmmmidon'tknow."
As I was sitting on deck last night watching the evening news on the British Broadcasting Corporation's channel number one, I realised something quite disturbing. BBC weather broadcaster Jay Wynne's voice has completely changed along with his accent and mannerisms. For months Jay has been popping up on my TV to tell me about low fronts and depressions with a distinctive gravely, sometimes hoarse sounding voice. When I first heard it I assumed the poor fellow was suffering from some sort of throat infection but as time rolled by and Jay continued to forecast I realised this was not the case. Then last night the Wynnemeister comes on and just like a beautiful song bird eloquently chirped through his forecast with a silky, soft new voice. But not only that the man is now devoid of his slight accent and actually looks and behaves like a completely different person. I cannot have been the only one who has noticed this remarkable change. If you think I'm crazy then check out the before and after videos below and tell me then that you can't hear a difference. Are the BBC running some sort of Stepford Forecasters style project behind the scenes?
It's no great secret that Hugh Jackman's new Wolverine movie is a crock of shit but what is a surprise is the trailer for the game, which is ten times better than the film and it's only a minute long. You be the judge.
Forget Star Trek, Transfomers 2 and Terminator Salvation because Slaughter Shack is going to be this summer's blockbuster. Just check out this clip and tell me that is not the best fight scene ever committed to celluloid.
I'm not employed by the F.B.I. but if I was employed by the F.B.I. you can be fucking sure I'd be watching this guy very closely. I'd be hiding in his garden staking out his house with a pair of night vision goggles waiting for him to reveal his torture dungeon, filled with kidnapped high school girls and lamp shades made from human skin. Maybe that's harsh but confessing shit like this online to an audience of millions really sets off the old alarm bells, that and the fact his girlfriend is a blow up doll called Ivy, which you can see in his other award winning videos. Is that Goodbye Horses I can hear?
Preparing for the end of mankind is important, after all there are now three, yes three, new cases of swine flu in the UK and as I type this post there may now be three and a half. At this alarming rate of progression we'll be lucky to make it to the weekend which would be a real bummer, because I still have to find out what the other four Pussycat Dolls do. Are they singers? Are they just backing dancers? What are their names? They mesmerise and confuse me.
Never ones to rest on our laurels the HMS Friday crew have made all the necessary precautions to avoid infection from the swine flu by purchasing one of these bad boys online. The JL421 Badonkadonk Land Cruiser/Tank is a snip at just under $20,000, has a top speed of 40mph and can carry up to five non-infected persons.
When the pandemic wipes out the majority of mankind we'll be slowly rolling through the deserted streets in our Badonkadonk with the HMS Friday flag flying high, if you see us just raise your infected withered arm and wave but don't bother to try and hitch a lift, we'll have chainsaws.
Turns out my runaway imagination isn't so runaway these days, as pop culture in Britain has hit such a serious low that plans are now afoot to turn Jade Goody's life story into a genuine west end musical. Not just that, oh no, why stop there when so many more avenues can be exploited for profit with such wonderfully rich source material. As well as the musical a TV show is also planned, a reality TV show where you the public can watch as lucky hopefuls audition for the lead part in front of a panel of judges. Mmmm I wonder who would judge such an event....Oh how about whatshisface? Max Clifford. Yeah he'd be great, because after all he made a fucking ton of money knew Jade best. STORY HERE
Remember when everyone rushed home from work to watch the televised invasion of Iraq and we all oohed and aahed as Bush rained missiles down onto Baghdad, killing countless innocent men and women while we ate our dinners? No? Well don't worry because now you don't even need to leave your computer to keep up to date with the Swine Flu pandemic, which is sweeping the world and will eventually wipe out the entire human race. That's right you can continue to shovel your face full of crisps and chocolate right over your keyboard while Google Maps informs you of how fast the flu is spreading, how many people have died, how many people have it and how many more are suspected of having it. Isn't the Internet great? Better log on and have a look...while you still can. MAPS HERE
I trained like a beast this weekend out in the desert with my girlfriend and young son. They have to understand that this body of mine didn't happen by accident, it took hours and hours of slapping sand and yelling at rocks to obtain this chiseled physique. Thankfully this time I remembered to bring a bowl of salad to wash my hands in. Look out for my special desert, training, Al Fresco workout DVD in shops soon.
A few posts back we introduced you to Scotland's next top model, Ross something or other, and here he is again this time without all the slap and neon leg warmers. I'm not suggesting for a second that television is trying hard, I mean trying so very, very, very, very fucking hard to dumb down viewers by turning them into self- obsessed, narcissistic strokers, but programmes like this do make you wonder. Och I'm just being silly now, me and my runaway imagination. I'll be telling you next that at this rate they'll be turning Jade Goody's life into a west end musical. What am I like?
These pics were taken from a collection entitled Cardiff Nights Are Great, which isn't really fair on Cardiff, as we all know these pics symbolise exactly what every city/town centre looks like on a typical Saturday night. So with that in mind we hope these pics inspire you to go out and enjoy yourself this weekend in a typical British fashion. You can see the entire collection of these failure piles of human flesh urinating, bleeding, vomiting and practically copulating on the streets of Cardiff HERE.
Oh yes you can, in fact compared to that talentless lump of overpaid, over priviliged ass flesh you have the voice of an angel, sent straight from heaven. Still don't believe me take a listen. God bless Howard Stern.
And the water gets murkier and murkier. More questions are emerging about the death of Ian Tomlinson during the recent G20 protests, now that Channel Four News plan to broadcast new footage tonight of the 47 year-old being abused by police, while showing no signs of resistance. In yet another twist to this tale, it has emerged that the IPCC, (Independent Police Complaints Commission), tried to ban the footage by taking an injunction out against Channel Four, thankfully a judge refused to grant the court order.
Mr Tomlinson who was making his way home from work, with his hands in his pockets, was struck by a police baton first before being violently pushed to the ground. The newspaper vendor later died of what was first thought to have been a heart attack, but a postmortem later revealed internal bleeding led to Tomlinson's death.
This blatant move by the IPCC to cover up further damning evidence is a major blunder and will only lead people to assume that they have something to hide. You know you substitute the police uniforms for jeans and hoodies and you have a pretty solid murder case on your hands.
I just finished watching one of the best TV series I've ever had the pleasure of following. Breaking Bad aired on channel FX late last year with hardly any fanfare at all, resulting in many people missing out on it's deliciousness, it nearly went under my radar too. Without spoiling the series Breaking Bad basically deals with the Jekyll and Hyde lifestyle of placid chemistry teacher Walter White, played by Malcom In The Middle's father Bryan Cranston, who discovers he has terminal cancer. In a bid to make as much money as he can, to leave for his family when he dies, he embarks upon a life of crime by cooking up crystal meth with an ex-student of his and selling it, while still maintaining his roles and duties of loving husband and father. If you haven't already sampled the delights of Breaking Bad then do yourself a favour and seek it out, apparantly the new series starts sometime this year on FX, but that's about as much clarity as you're likely to get when it comes to programming in the UK.
With all the crap floating about on the Internet it's hard to find something of real value but this short film directed by Adam Berg is simply amazing. It basically features a stand-off between police and bank robbers in one single second of frozen time. Confused? Just watch the film.
If you want to know how they made this short film then head along to Carousel's main websiteand watch it there. While viewing it small pop up prompters will appear for you to click on so you can see how each part of the film was shot.
Unless you live under a rock you'll know that the star of Dirty Dancing and Ghost has cancer and is deteriorating fast. This picture pretty much proves how ill the 56 year-old actor is and how much weight he has lost due to his treatment. In true Swayze style though the man is still working on his new show The Beast and taking chemotherapy at the weekends. Legend.
We really have lost our way as a race, blindly crashing around in the room of life desperately hoping that we accidentally discover the answers we are looking for.
You just know his old man wants to slap the fake tan right off his fucking chops.
I have no idea who in the f**k Tamara Mellon is except that a) she is mega rich, b) she knows some guy called Jimmy who makes fancy-dan shoes for her and c) she makes me physically ill. She is also the girlfriend of Hollywood actor Christian Slater, is completely devoid of any morals and is a total hypocrite. In the following MTV Cribs video, (a programme I despise: "Hey losers look at the cool expensive shit I own and you don't and never f**king will."), Tamara casually gives you a tour of her modest pad exhibiting her range of fur jackets and snake skin purses and handbags. That's right PETA, if your reading this, her name is Tamara Mellon. Just to be sure now that's T-A-M-A-R-A M-E-L-L-O-N. A little hypocritical moment later we see her opening her fridge and proudly announcing that she only ever buys organic produce. So skinning baby seals and polar bears for jackets and slicing and dicing up snakes for bags and purses is cool, but eating non-organic food is like totally unacceptable, like totally? She also suffers from another excruciating disorder very rich people have of name dropping at every possible opportunity: "This is a picture of me having dinner with the Queen", "This is where I keep my original Andy Warhol", "My daughter Minty was a bridesmaid at Liz Hurley's wedding", "These dresses were worn to the Oscars and to Elton John's white tie and tiara sex fuelled orgies". She also informs us she was Woman Of The Year twice over, for what exactly I have no idea, except maybe for her expert baby seal, snake and polar bear hunting/trapping skills, and that her daughter is called Minty, you know like the ice cream flavour. Which reminds me, if ever I become rich and famous my first child will be called Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough...the Third. People like Tamara, materialistic, mega rich, ignorant, hypocritical, baby seal, polar bear and snake murdering people like Tamara, who we all should, in some sort of sick MTV way, aspire to be like, dress like and live like, make me yearn for the end of days. I can't wait to embrace the zombie apocalypse, the bubonic plague, the war to end all wars, the landing of an alien race intent on wiping out mankind. Solely because as I'm loading up my pump-action shotgun, pulling on my tight, (non-cowhide), leather biker trousers, adjusting my pirate eye patch and lighting up the world's largest cigar to single handedly save the human race, Tamara and people like Tamara will turn to me and my son, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough the Third, for help and I'll just casually shake my head and walk away in a cloud of non-organic cigar smoke. Pick yourself a f**king matching outfit for that day, bitch! Seriously though, this video will make you ill. Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to archive my underpants, so my future son can use them...in the future.
A 59-year old costume shop owner in Rhode Island has successfully managed to ruin my Easter weekend, by scaring the be-Jesus shit out of me. Like something from a John Carpenter horror movie Ann Bruno dons a scary mask in her shop while she's being interviewed by a television reporter about her arrest and subsequent charges of harassing and cyber stalking a local competitor. Apparently police claim she signed her competitor up for various “inquires and questions, debt-relief programs, which resulted in her receiving endless telephone calls at her place of business.”
The most unsettling thing about this video is the woman's behaviour but the sudden cameo appearance of her assistant court jester also melts the weirdometer. If I was eight years-old and had watched this I'd probably be dead right now.
Hollywood actor and "music historian" Billy Bob Thornton is in some sort of band called the Boxmasters, who play some sort of music. That's really not the interesting part of this post, what will hold your attention is Mr Thornton's behaviour throughout the filmed radio interview he and his band gave recently on-air. I defy anyone not to squirm half-way through this car crash as the actor is coaxed out of his mood by the hard work of the DJ, almost like a spoilt child would be coaxed out of his/her tantrum by an exhausted parent. Actors, don't you just love em'?
Here's the red band, (that means the not safe for work), trailer for Sacha Baron Cohen's new movie Bruno. It's been three years since his highly successful film Borat and three years of listening to annoying twats shouting "It's nice, no?" But a friend of mine, who watched a sneak preview of this film, confessed that it's even funnier and far more offensive than the one with the man from Kazakhstan.
Just punch in your date of birth before viewing. Month/Day/Year.
Todd Phillips is a director who came to prominence after his films Road Trip, Old School and Starksy And Hutch and now it looks like he's onto another winner with his latest offering The Hangover. It stars three largely unknown actors who are forced to piece together the night before in order to find out where their friend, (and groom to be), has vanished to. I of course have no idea what the morning after the night before feels like or what alcohol even tastes like. Drink is, as everyone knows, the devils' urine.
Apparently the British press have managed to get their collective panties all up in a huge bunch over Obama's wife breaking 'royal protocol' when visiting Bilbo and Frodo, her Majesty and the fun-sized Nazi. The first lady behaved in such a manner that the air was filled with horrified gasps and some people had to be treated for shock. The outrageous incident involved Michelle placing her arm around the Queen's shoulders and giving her a hug.
On a side note Obama was also instructed only to shake hands with the Queen only if she offered, (one must certainly touch the Queen if the monarch offers her hand though you should return this not with a firm handshake but just a touch), and that a bow or a curtsy wasn't necessary as Americans aren't the Queen's subjects, as the USA is independent from British rule. Yes, you read that last bit right.
You know this is the year 2009, in case anyone has forgotten, by now we should all be whizzing around on jet packs and using teleportation devices to travel the world in split seconds. But no, we're stuck in the middle ages with a wild hair up our arse about someone hugging and touching the Queen.
British TV is crap. There is no denying this with every channel hosting banal, lightweight, reality TV based programmes, unimaginative game shows, (Hole In The Wall, anyone?) and soul sucking soap operas. As a viewer searching for programmes of substance, like a Lion searching for prey across the sun baked Serengeti, I am starved. Imagine my delight when I heard that BBC 2 had bought up the rights to show the critically acclaimed crime series The Wire. Overjoyed and anxious I then discovered to my horror that BBC 2 will be airing the entire five seasons of The Wire, with an episode a night, at the prime time of 11.20pm. Who the f**k is going to stay up every week night to watch each episode at that time, unless you have some fancy-dan technological recording device. British TV has arsed about for over four years to air this brilliant series and now they have it, they shaft everyone by giving it a wholly unreasonable time to show it. Well done British telly, well done.
Scotland had their arses handed to them on Saturday evening against Holland during a World Cup qualifier and I find myself in all too familiar territory. That's why I've decided to give up watching my home country perform in televised sports. I can't endure anymore of the mediocrity and pain which comes from hoping, beyond all hope, that maybe, just maybe Scotland can win, not even win just hold out for a draw, a single point which may, or may not, secure a place in the tournament, competition, qualifying round or championship, after some long winded mathematics. But it never happens because what does happen is...well, nothing. Yes, they may pull off the odd shocker against France (footy), or England, (rugger), but it still never amounts to anything. I've been cheering on my home country since I was wearing short trousers and I've yet to think of any major wins, (except for the Grand Slam in 1990), which has left me feeling satisfied as a sports fan. Watching the game on Saturday night I didn't feel any butterflies of excitement, didn't feel the need to chew my nails down to the quick. I just sat there and watched the whole sorry story unfold like some sort of stereotypical and all to obvious script. We are worse than ever as a sporting nation in both football and rugby and my memories these days of watching my home country compete, comprise of a horrific slide show/montage of near misses, fumbles, mistakes and howlers. It's just not fun anymore, it's boring and uninspiring. Some over-fed and over-paid sporting journalists are so arrogant that they will be calling for manager Goerge Burley's head if Scotland don't beat Iceland, Norway and Macedonia, the so-called "minnows" of our group, those countries which play football on a lower level than us. I personally don't rate Burley but for Christ's sake those journalists have really short memories.
Finally, finally, finally there is now a full length trailer online for Spike Jonze's new film Where The Wild Things Are. I had this book as a kid and although I don't really remember much about the plot, I do recall it was a firm favourite throughout my childhood and I used to dream about owning a jump suit just like Max's.
Obviously I'm not the one asking this medical conundrum it is in fact an actual query found on Yahoo Answers. Some young lady who was concerned at the sight of steam emitting from her bajingo while she was on the throne decided to detail her predicament, not to her local doctor or close girlfriends, but instead to the entire global online community. Of course there are no prizes for guessing what happened next. You can read all of the responses HERE.
The reggae superstar, (Give Me Hope Joanna, I Don't Want To Dance), is 61 today and here's one of his greatest hits to get you through today. I remember first hearing Electric Avenue when I was a wee boy running around in short trousers and everytime I hear it now, it reminds me of care-free summers, sunburnt arms and necks and riding about the streets on my BMX. Good times, good times.
Ok I'm ashamed to admit it but this video below made me laugh. Obviously it won't be to everyone's taste as it lampoons the whole Josef Fritzl, (Austrian pervert who kept his daughter in a dungeon), scandal. But hey, if you can't find any humour in these things, then life would be one big downer. Besides it's in claymation. Score!
This weeks films - Push & Anvil:The Story of Anvil.
by Frisbee Dog
Push is pretty much OK, until the last fifteen minutes when you realise that its 'the first part in a planned trilogy' which, due to this film being not that much cop, will never be made. Now I'm not going to cry into my post cinema Creme De Menthe, which Luigi my drinks waiter has kindly and expertly prepared, over the loss of Push 2 and 3. But I could probably have done with knowing this at the beginning, which would have informed on my choice to waste 2 hours of my time on a story that won't end properly. On a more positive note director Paul McGuigan again sees fit to litter the film with his own personal trademark, that of really terrible wallpaper....everywhere. This cat is a bargain bucket at Homebase's wet dream. And a warning for those of a perverted nature, wear your industrial sandpaper kecks - Dakota Fanning is not yet pedo bear approved.
Anvil is what would be referred to as 'a triumph of human spirit against the odds', except no one really triumphs. It is however funny as fuck and proves that however much you believe in yourself you will still be shit if you are. Also rock/scat fans should however look out for the painting scene which is the funniest thing I've seen all year. Maplethorpe would be proud.
Just discovered that Steve-O, he of Jackass fame, is a competitor on Dancing With The Stars, (the American version of Strictly Come Dancing), and I feel a bit cheated as I won't get to see it. I don't watch programmes like this, usually because I'm busy out robbing banks and seducing supermodels, but I'd actually set aside time to watch this character, because deep down something tells me he may be the next Fred Astaire.
A few days ago we posted up details of how Jane Austen's novel Pride and Prejudice had been totally trashed re-written by some geek who thought it would be uber clever to include zombies, (I mean really, are we still flogging this undead horse?), re-naming it Pride And Prejudice And Zombies.
Just when you thought this premise couldn't be any more pathetic Sir Elton John wheels himself and his piano into the ring by announcing that his film company Rocket Pictures is to make a science fiction re-imagining of...yes, you guessed it.
Pride And Predator, (*standing up and applauding enthusiastically*), will tell the story of an "alien dropped into the middle of a costume drama, where he stalks and slashes to horrific effect". David Furnish who will produce the film, while his husband Sir John Elton will supervise the music, told variety magazine: "It felt like a fresh and funny way to blow apart the done-to-death Jane Austen genre." RIP imagination, we knew you well.
Thirteen year-old dad, Alfie Patton, has joined Fathers For Justice. Members say that although little Alfie doesn't quite understand the politics behind the group's aims, he is really made up with his new Spiderman outfit.
This trailer is awful, make no bones about it. I'm reliably informed that James Cordone and Matthew Horne are brilliant in Gavin and Stacey, but this effort reeks of shit. Entitled Lesbian Vampire Killers it looks like a direct rip off of Shaun Of The Dead, only this time the gifted writers have taken that premise and turned it entirely on it's head by substituting zombies for....yes, lesbian vampires. Genius. Really, is this what we are prepared to sell our cousins across the Atlantic? Is this all the British film industry can come up with, Guy Ritchie London gangster films and now comedy/horror/ Laurel & Hardy style romps? At this rate it won't be long before we start re-making the Carry On films...wait, we already tried that.
I had to read this story twice, in fact make that three times, just to make sure I hadn't made a mistake, even now I'm still not so sure. I won't spoil it for you but it's basically about a woman in Ohio who "exercised" her husband to death. Just in case you thought that was the weird bit wait till you get to the second last paragraph, it's almost like M Night Shyamalan wrote this piece. STORY HERE
I constantly come across moments in my life where I find myself thinking: "Ah right, now I get it." These moments usually centre around trivialities, but I love the little sense of satisfaction and achievement I get whenever it happens, like I've just solved an ancient mystery of life. For example, I was watching an old movie last night called The Killing Of A Chinese Bookie directed by John Cassavetes. There is a scene in the movie where the main character Cosmo, played by the brilliant Ben Gazzara, is talking on the phone to his club's bartender and shouting: "Are there letters on the wall that say p-a-r? There's another card that says moon. Well, what's he singing? Like being hit by a bolt of lightening I instantly realised I had heard this phrase before and it wasn't long until I had figured it out. In the music video for David Gray's song Sail Away, (where David is staggering home from the pub during a typical Saturday night), there is a scene where a man on the street with a broken nose is talking on his mobile asking: "Are there letters on the wall which read p-a-r? There's another card that says moon. Well, what's he singing?" Since that video first aired I always wondered where that phrase came from and now nearly ten years later I discovered the answer. Just another little piece of the jigsaw.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona/The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button
by Frisbee Dog
I'm going to do both films at once for some good reason. Benjamin Button is brilliant, so brilliant in fact that after I finished watching it and was waiting outside for my driver Pepe to pick me up in the town Bentley, I could not for the life of me remember what the first film was that i went to see earlier that day. Eventually I rummaged around in my pocket and found a ticket stub to find it was Kinky Christian... or whatever. And the thing is, the first film featured Scarlet Joehansome gubbing into Penelope Pitstop and I had completely forgotten about it. Three choices 1) early onset mad cow, 2) brain penis blockage (see 1), 3) Benjamin Button is such a well crafted, magical, deeply moving, incredibly poignant film, that just steamrolled the best film Woody Allen has made since Deconstructing Harry, which features chicks winching. I'm not going to even mention the special effects, because after about half an hour you just forget they're there. Like Nazis always speaking English.
Word of warning - expectant fathers beware. Be prepared for a new nightmare, (to add to the legion of others), where your progeny is born a tiny old pruney dude.
I hope this doesn't sound like I'm blowing smoke up Benjamin Buttons ass, but it also happens to be part of a very rare breed of film now-a-days that actually knows how to end. The closing coda alone is worth the three hours and brings the film full circle in a way that just seems so right.
Much has been made of Hollywood actor Joaquin Phoenix's recent erratic behaviour, he quit acting, grew his hair long, grew a homeless man's beard and became a self-proclaimed hip hop artist. A few weeks ago it was revealed that all of this is nothing more than pretend, the change of career and drastic new look is for a mock documentary about him trying to break into the music industry, that he's been filming with Ben Affleck's brother Casey. And earlier this week he appeared on The Late Show with David Letterman in what has to be the oddest televised interview yet.
Now let's get this straight, I don't have full blown conversations to myself or launch into monologues. I have a habit of speaking out loud the words and sentences that are currently running through my head, and it only happens when I spy somebody I know. For example if I'm walking down a street and I see you up ahead on the other side of the street, I'll say out loud, to myself: "Oh look, there's whodoyamacallit whatshishersface." And then I'll wave over to you and if you don't happen to initially see me and wave back I then say, (while waving like a loon),: "Oh...oh...oh aye you never saw me there."(you do see me and you do wave back), "Oh no, no, no wait, aye you did. Aye there you go. Aye hello how you doin'?" At this point after we've finished waving at each other I realise I've been speaking out loud again and so I increase the speed of my walk or turn into a shop I have absolute no interest in, knowing full well somebody must have heard me and they're probably now convinced I'm on a special day out. But what I've just recently realised is that the people I know, the people that I wave to are sometimes close enough to notice that I'm talking to myself. They can't hear what I'm saying but they're close enough to see my lips moving and since I'm not with anyone they must be thinking to themselves: "Who the fuck is he talking to? Is he talking to himself? I bet he's waving over at me and saying to himself: "Look at that arsehole waving at me. I can't stand him/her. Aye that's right, wave over ya cabbage."" Needless to say I'm now putting a stop to it now. Talking to myself and swearing are now things of the past and my lips won't move again when I see you in the street. I promise. But I'm interested to know, am I alone in this matter?
At last! After months of procrastination we finally managed to record our very first podcast. Here's a few important notes about our first episode, which you can listen to in all it's glory below:
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