I don't really have a great deal to roar about at the moment. A life of doing essentially nothing, relaxing as it unquestionably is, does not great blog material make. I like to think that this blog takes its lead from my life, rather than vice versa - so rather than find things to do in order to write cracking entries about this, that and the other, I'm content to just leave massive gaps between very sparse entries. Beyond that I'd be a few short paragraphs away from transcripts of a few recent (and admittedly epic) Pro Evo matches.
My legs have just about recovered from the football marathon of Wednesday; I can stand up and walk around, without any pain. Miracle. It's only when I break into a brisk walk/trot/jog/sprint that I'm reminded of my pish physical condition. I am really into the idea of forming some kind of 5-a-side team and taking the lowest possible division of entry by storm. How long are 5-a-side halves? About 6 or 7 minutes I reckon. I think I could run around like a nutter with a decent first touch for about 4 or 5 minutes of the first half, and then 2 or 3 of the second. Which would be alright, then I could just sit at the back and mop up the opposition's sporadic attacks.
I suppose that it'd be all about assembling a crack team capable of going toe-to-toe with any other 5 people in the city for the full 12/14 minutes, with first touches to die for, impeccable vision, and biting tackles - and this assembly is the hard part, because I wouldn't make the grade. Standards must understandably be set somewhat lower: er, who fancies a game of football? Rob and Jamie for sure, and Joel would be an ideal impact substitute (with the impact reserved for the opposition's legs rather than the state of the game as a whole). I'd shout 'man on' a lot, and bring a few bottles of water. Which leaves a 'keeper and a few more squad members needed. And, crucially, a team name - a make-or-break factor for any amateur team, from pub quiz to 5-a-side leagues on a Monday night. But, you know, the season won't be starting until September or October, so there's no rush.
Some cinematicity: I saw 'Brick' last week, I can't really remember if I've mentioned it already.
It was really enjoyable, especially after last year's Film Noir unit. The dialogue was great, really rat-a-tat-tat, and the use of noir-style slang seemed to transcend its initially gimmicky feel because teenagers talk in their own parlance anyway. The film also made full use of the usual roster of American high school social groups, from the stoners to the nerds, and demonstrated the difficulty flitting between them (which most teen films suggest can be overcome through romance or sports). Joseph Gordon-Levitt was really, really good in the lead role, just like he was in last year's Mysterious Skin though in a completely different role. (It's a shame, though, that he doesn't seem to have aged since the third season of Third Rock From The Sun - the fact that he still looks like Tommy will probably not help his career in the future.
For no good reason, I reckon he'll be in some kind of big-FX blockbuster sooner rather than later, like Elijah Wood in Deep Impact and Jake Gyllenhaal in The Day After Tomorrow - and thenceforth slide back to relative obscurity.) Unfortuntately, the young femme fatale was not in the least bit threatening (a big no-no for any self-respecting noir) and the plot's myriad convolutions could not hide the fact that in the end the film was a bit hollow....
...which, now I've typed it, seems like a pointless accusation to level at a film that demonstrates the vacuousness of upper-middle-class American teen existence. It's set in San Clemente, which is very much O.C. country, just south of L.A. (in fact I know the town pretty well, having spent several months there in my year out living with an aunt and uncle. It's pretty vacant, next to a freeway, not much personality to it.) and the film contains more emotion and teen problems in its trim running time than The O.C. has managed in however many hour-long episodes. So, go and see it.
Watford are 3-0 up on Leeds in the Championship Play-Off Final - shame, that, I quite wanted Leeds to go up, a bit of Yorkshire solidarity (no such solidarity for Sheff U, mind - they're a bunch of bell-ends.)
Dr. Who: the worst episode of either series last night, I think. Big, big disappointment after such a fantastic set-up last week. In fact I'm so disappointed by it I can't really go into it. I was gutted. Totally gutted.
Deal Or No Deal: one of the oddest shows on TV. No skill to it, no possible strategy, no tactics - it's all about luck, all about luck. Does Noel realise it? Do the contestants realise it? I don't know. People win 10p and go away overjoyed at the experience of being on the show, which is quite a depressing thought....
....in our celebrity-crazed age, we've finally reached a game show in which the game itself is almost entirely superfluous to the 15 minutes (well, 45 minutes) of 'fame' bestowed upon the lucky contestant. Young or old, male or female, they really do form the focal point for a room filled to brimming with mass hysteria: an audience 'thinking positively' to help the random selection of random boxes; clapping hands and looking somewhat frantic in between phone calls from The Banker; and generally revelling the spotlight for as long as Noel will allow. Anyone familiar with Darren Aranofsky's fucking brilliant and fucking harrowing 2000 film 'Requiem For A Dream' probably remembers Ellen Burstyn's characer trying to dye her hair (it turns orange) and more seriously becoming addicted to diet pills in order to make it onto a similarly empty game show in which the audience yells "JUICE" (join us in creating excellence) in a slightly hysterical way.
I'm not saying that Deal Or No Deal participants are diet pill addicts, or totally freakin' obsessed with making it onto TV... but if you told me that some of them were, I'd probably believe you. After a week in which the head of Endemol (Big Brother's parent company) said that if a weekly TV show existed in which 10 lucky people are flown into the air with 9 parachutes and the promise of £1,000,000 on a safe landing then more than enough contestants would volunteer, it's just sometimes time to stop and wonder.... what the fuck is happening to our culture.
Shit, time's up.