*even this blog title isn’t relevant or a statement or anything. I just had the song stuck in my head. Which makes a change from that mind-manglingly irritating Party Rock bollocks. But that’s a rant for another day.

He loathed this sort of thing. The bright lights, the overpriced drinks, the forced conversation, the wretched music. Why couldn’t he meet someone at a party? Was it honestly possible that none of his friends knew anyone single, attractive and remotely interesting? Oh no, it was always the same. Stuck in some clubland hell hole with one of his confirmed bachelor friends. Shoved in the direction of anyone remotely single-looking with a shout of “Go on then!” ringing in his ears. And, as always, some fumbling attempt to start conversation which either fizzled in seconds or struggled halfheartedly on through all manner of giant, flashing signs indicating that they were entirely wrong for each other until feebly admitting defeat and trailing off with a feigned excuse so as get out of there with some shred of dignity. Or as in this case, never even got past a timid opening gambit.

The girl he’d spoken to swiveled her bar stool to face him, her hair falling around her face a bit like Jacqueline Smiths does in the opening credits of Charlie’s Angels. Jesus, she was beautiful. ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ The light danced in her entirely too perfect eyes and he hated himself more than ever. This was torture. ‘I mean, it’s just so loud in here.’ And she wrinkled her nose slightly in annoyance. It might have been an affectation but it was so damnably cute, Helen of Troy would have tried to jealously emulate it.

‘Um, hi. I’m David,’ he stammered. ‘Debbie,’ she replied, ‘come here often?’ And she smiled mischievously.

Whenever any new pop tartlet surfaces, there’s always someone who feels duty bound to mention either the Monkees or (usually to get a rise) the Beatles – two bands you might have heard of – as it’s generally accepted that they (especially the Monkees) were ‘manufactured’. It’s a fair point but it’s usually just chucked out without much thought. As much as they were creations of managers and record labels, both of these bands could actually write, play [insert obligatory 'joke' about Ringo] and take much more of a controlling interest in the music they made as their careers went on. In the case of the Fabs influence on future generations, rather well it seems. I’m not sure that Rebecca Black or Justin Bieber will ever manage a ‘Rubber Soul’ or ‘White Album’. Although that does include ‘Revolution #9′. At least a video wasn’t made for that one.

Now, I’m not knocking these artists just for the sake of knocking them. I’ve no doubt anyone embarking on a pop career, no matter how trivial it appears, has their work cut out for them. Even if it’s not the long slog of learning your craft playing two or three shows a night in Hamburg for months on end, it probably entails an absurd amount of travel and PR appearances and, as is the way of anything popular these days, massive over-exposure before their star fades. What’s really changed is that technology has evolved to allow all this to happen much easier with little or no input from the ‘star’ themselves. Some might argue that you don’t even need the talent any more. After all, there are armies of writers, musicians, producers and engineers all there to do the work for them. And now there’s social media to do all the work of the publicity people too.

Because, let’s face it, that’s how you heard ‘Friday’ for the first time, isn’t it? You didn’t seek it out, you didn’t hear it on the radio. Someone sent you the YouTube link. And there’s nothing we love more than ‘car crash’ TV. Viral marketing worked so well in this instance, the parent’s investment has paid back in spades and made this girl an overnight sensation. If I was her, I’d be laughing all the way to the bank. Famous for fifteen minutes indeed.

“The Estate? Is that what we’re calling it now?” Replied Jason, tersely. “It’s a small two up, two down and some fairly meagre savings. It’s hardly Blenheim Palace.”

“I know that, I’m just reaching for something to call it.”

“You’re right. I didn’t mean to make fun of you. It just sounds so grandiose.” Jason leaned forward in his chair. It creaked slightly, as if it was a bit long in the tooth for such activity. He refilled his wine glass from the bottle of Rosé on the table and sat back, the last rays of the setting sun giving the liquid a hue that belied it’s bargain origins. His was not a refined enough palette to really care about the taste as long as it got him fairly tipsy.

“Dad really did like you, you know.” Angie knew this last might be pushing it a little, but she cared about her brother and knew that getting their father’s affairs in order must be taking a lot out of him. She stood up and walked through the French windows to the kitchen to fetch some matches. She wanted to light the scented candle on the table between them, as much to see Jason’s face in the dusk as to ward off the inevitable mosquitoes that would arrive as the summer evenings set in.

“I do wish you wouldn’t talk about him in the past tense.” He called after her. “It doesn’t look great, I’ll admit. But all this paperwork and lawyers and so forth is just being thorough. I’m not saying I’m not trying to prepare myself, I’m just not willing to accept he’s gone just yet. As for him liking me, I know that. We didn’t always see eye-to-eye and we’ve both got a bit of a temper, but I don’t think we ever hated each other.” Jason sighed as Angie returned with the matches. “Look, a lot of people – apparently, you included – think me and the old man never got on. That’s not true. I just wanted to get out and do things for myself. I wasn’t running away from him or Mum… or you.” He took a moment and looked away, summoning his thoughts.

Jason loathed this type of familial introspection, Angie meant well but it seemed like she wanted the type of family that ‘other people’ had. Like other people’s families were any different. They all had their strengths and weaknesses, their little dysfunctions. Theirs was no different.

Angie struck a match, lit the candle and sat down slowly in her chair. Her face showed concern and not a little bit of pity. “But you fought so much…” She left the statement hanging. Hoping it would draw Jason out, get him to open up a bit.

“Because we were so similar.” Jason stressed the last word, hoping it would have some impact. He knew what Angie was doing and he didn’t mind too much. He just worried that the answers she was looking for – if there were any – weren’t his to give.  “It took me awhile to realise that. Besides, I was in my teens when we really used to go at each other. Who doesn’t fall out with their parents at that age?”

“I suppose you’re right.” Angie let out a resigned sigh. This hadn’t gone at all how she’d hoped and she sat back into a gloomy silence.

“Look, I know you want some type of resolution to things but I, for one, don’t think life affords us that comfort. We just have to make do with the way things are.” And Jason sat back himself, unsure of what point he’d just made but not willing to carry this on any further.

They both stared out at the countryside, alone in their thoughts, the only sound the occasional gust of wind through the trees and the faint buzzing of insects.

The true magnitude of what was happening to them, to their family, had only recently begun to manifest itself in full to the pair of them. They had a lot to do in the coming days and weeks. He could do without the navel-gazing for now. There was time enough for that. At least, he hoped there would be.

And I’m dealing with a doozy right now, to boot. Now, I know I’ve mentioned before that I’m prone to have my imagination fired when I’m hungover, drunk or tired but, like a couple of the other numbers on this list, that is often also the problem. I rarely get any wild ideas for writing when I’m just drifting off with nothing more on the agenda for the following day than some errands or (hey!) some writing. Oh no, I get reams of prose rattling around in my head when I’m yearning for sleep at 2AM and have to be up at 6AM for the biggest match in the history of everything ever. And when the wind of reason from being fully awake (and just getting the word that we are getting tonked 4-0 by Wolves. At half-time.) blows the wooly-headed, idealistic and romantic notions out of my mind, I’m often struck with the realisation that that ‘clever’ wording was just pretentious.

#4 The Internet

I would love to write for Cracked.com. Their articles are the perfect blend of geeky reminiscence and childish humour that pushes my buttons. And that’s the problem. I often ‘fall down an internet hole’ at their site and don’t resurface for hours. Doing ‘research’ (and I use the term lightly) for some of my reviews/rants often finds me browsing away entire afternoons on IMDB, Wikipedia, YouTube, etc. And so much of it hyperlinks to even more stuff I’m interested in. I didn’t know, for instance, that noted cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond worked on “The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies”. Thanks to the glory of the Interwebs, now I do. And so do you. I am strangely compelled to remember utterly useless trivia and little of any real importance, so this kind of thing is like Catnip for me. It’s a vast, almost unending, goldmine of stuff that links to other stuff and it doesn’t take much effort to get hopelessly lost in it and miles away from where you started. Probably because I might be:

#3 OCD/ADD

Whatever you want to call it – and I stress I’ve never been diagnosed with either and I’m not about to take the piss – but I will be on my way to write, notice a dust bunny and spend an hour tidying up/cleaning. Not that my apartment is spotless, mind (see #’s 5 and 1).

#2 Video Games

Especially Half-Life 2 and Pro Evo/FIFA. Anything that involves winning the Champions League with Forest* or the wholesale slaughter of Aliens, Nazis or Tangos with ever more exotic weaponry. I can while away hours on such stuff. I don’t play RPGs, Management Games or Sims though, because of #3. Naturally.

*This has actually happened. Twice. Except in those days it was called the ‘European Cup’ and you actually had to win something first to enter, as opposed to coming fourth in a four horse race. I will never tire of telling you this.

#1 I’m Lazy

Often, astonishingly so. I felt a bit peckish, so I thought I’d make some soup. This involved the arduous task of washing up a saucepan. So I skipped it. Want a cupboard/door closed with a foot? I’m your man.

I swear I’m going to write something tomorrow. It might even make some sort of sense. But don’t hold your breath. Either way, this nonsense is over 500 words, so that’ll do for now.

A list of random nonsense that either just happened or just popped into my consciousness. A vain attempt to write something down as I just can’t get this short story going. A bit like my sporadic but ongoing status update/tweet meme ‘Likes:’

During lunch I balanced a feta cheese cube on a bit of falafel and crammed the whole thing in my mouth. I said ‘it was worth it’ with my mouth full.
My parents must be so proud.

When I’m walking home from the pub I sometimes like to pretend I’m a zombie extra. If I’m really drunk I try to do that mournful moan they sometimes do that looks like they’re trying to talk. It’s probably good that I’m not usually in a hurry. Not on my own, mind you, I’m not that mental. Good friends are the ones that try to out-zombie you, I reckon.

I often get into ‘brrr-ing’ contests with my girlfriend. That noise you make with your lips that’s louder than humming and you don’t have an instrument handy and you either don’t remember them or there aren’t any lyrics. Anyway, I always seem to end up sounding more like I’m trying to impersonate a trumpet. A bit like Hugh Laurie at the end of ‘A Bit of Fry and Laurie.’ But not as good. The theme tune from Sanford and Son (Quincy Jones’ ‘The Streetbeater’) is nigh on perfect for a good bout of brrr-ing. As evidenced by Turk and JD in Scrubs, although they ‘na na na’ a bit more. Which gets you disqualified by my rules. That I just made up.

Anything I find remotely ‘more-ish’; Twiglets, Crisps, olives,  peanuts, etc. General party hor’s d’oeuvres and that, are the bane of my existence. It’s like I need something to do and it’s the best way to keep occupied. I have to either remove them or have them removed or I’ll just keep going. Far, far beyond ‘full’. ‘The meal isn’t over when I’m full, the meal is over when I hate myself.’ – Louis C.K.

I don’t know if stuff like that counts as ADD but that and the fact that I started writing this while I was trying to watch Portlandia and then form thoughts enough to hold a conversation has me a little concerned. I like to pretend I’m multi-tasking. I know I’m not.

I just put my mouth into the mug I was holding and tried to lift it by suction alone. Although I was partially successful (my beard affected the integrity of the seal) my delight was tempered by the knowledge that there was still tea in the mug. Not the best idea I’ve ever had. But not the worst. In the running for that one would be the time I put my boots on first, couldn’t be bothered to take them off again and then tried to pull my jeans on over them with the aid of pliers.

I just did an impression of the yellow one of the Angry Birds. My favorite. Just the face, obviously, I didn’t hurl myself across the room or anything. Apparently, it was ‘alright’. I’ll take that.

Although I’m now a massive fan of music and have tried my hand at creating it, I used to hate music lessons. On a test at school, I defined ‘Allegro’ as ‘Car made by British Leyland’. Dad thought that was hilarious. Listening was my favourite bit. As soon as the diagrams and numbers came into it, my head started to hurt.

While I was visiting family in New Zealand for my nephew’s Christening, my Dad asked me whether I ‘was going to get one anytime soon.’ Just now, I was on my way into the bathroom to shave. Struck with sudden, overwhelming, hunger I decided to make myself some lunch. At 4.30 PM. My lunch consisted of a couple of fake mayo, turkey bacon and crisp sandwiches followed by a caramel rice cake with some maple syrup on it. All eaten while walking around humming. Half dressed. The polite way of answering my Dad’s question was ‘I know you’re never properly ready to have kids but I’d like to be a little more ready.’

When I first moved to the States, among many other mental lapses, I wondered how the preppy, butter-wouldn’t-melt, girl-next-door collegiate cheerleaders became the tanned, airbrushed, pneumatic, go-go dancers of the NFL/NBA. As if there was some sort of draft system to go along with their sporting counterparts.

I notice the tumble dryer is still going. The laundry. That will kill some time. I take the warm clothes out and start folding them. Badly. Marvelling at how warm in particular jeans get in the dryer. I am not thinking about writing. There’s a twist-tie mixed in with the clothes. I can’t imagine how it got in there but it doesn’t look like it did any damage. A few more precious seconds of not thinking about writing.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as bad as homework used to be. I’m okay once I get going. But the getting going takes a bit of a push. I toss her sort-of folded clothes on to the pile at the end of the bed and cram mine into my chest of drawers. They don’t quite fit, so the bottom of the drawers pops out at the back, so you have to go through this ridiculous routine of trying to get it back in so the whole thing closes properly. As usual, I ham-fistedly force it all together so it holds. For now.

I walk past the bathroom and idly muse about the toilet paper. I just grabbed some off the shelf in the store and it’s not as good as the last stuff. It’s perfectly serviceable, just a bit institutional. Like the type you’d find in a petrol station or a bar. I mean, it’s not that weird baking sheet stuff we had all the way back in primary school or anything. I doubt they even allowed that in prisons. Kids don’t know any better, so we can make them put up with all sorts of little hardships. I worry that these type of thoughts are getting perilously close to the laziest kind of stand-up, ‘Hey! Remember Tizer? Didn’t it taste weird?’ [guffaw] I try in vain to think of something remotely profound.

The trouble with that is that a whole lot of people got there first. A whole lot. And the overwhelming majority of them cleverer, more successful and highly regarded than I could ever hope to be. Still, I can at least try. I sit down and stare at the screen. I will not start reading stuff on the internet. Fall down one of those holes and it could be hours before I pull myself out. Random, utterly-useless-in-everyday-life, trivia and facts are so appealing I struggle to tear myself away. The Armadillo is one of the few known creatures other than man that can contract leprosy. Don’t even think about surfing ‘for a bit’, I might never surface. I do some more staring. Some more thinking.

I put my hands on the keys. If I can just make it to 500 words.

Bit of a rant, so apologies if this is unfocused nonsense. I’m just venting.

This clip has been doing the rounds for the last few days and has (rightly) attracted much complaint and derision. It’s pathetic behaviour and thankfully nothing came of it that would seriously change the match. Unfortunately, this sort of thing is rife within the game and should be punished far more strictly than it is. Now, I’m not about to go on some rant about how this sort of gamesmanship, see also: diving, should be stamped out (it should) as that’s been done to death and until FIFA grows some and starts booking offenders or punishing them retrospectively, there’s not a lot that can be done about it.

No, what’s got my goat about this incident is the seemingly endless supply of commentators who come out of the woodwork every time someone tries to con the ref by rolling around a bit too much. And the number one thing they all start out by saying it ‘See this is why soccer will never be a mainstream sport in the U.S.’ And, frankly, it’s utter, utter bollocks. Not because it’s necessarily untrue, but because it’s a lazy, knee-jerk argument that doesn’t really hold up to scrutiny.

I’ve no problem with pointing out that such play-acting is pretty pathetic and does tarnish the sport. But it’s as if soccer is in some way a threat. That the people that trot out such mindless drivel are worried that somehow soccer might become mainstream like it is in the rest of the world. Why, honestly, does it matter? There are at least four major sports in the U.S. And many other countries have alternate sports. It’s not like you get a finite amount and then close up shop and find reasons to bar entry to any other sporting activities. But that’s exactly what it sounds like.

In all honesty, it seems to be some bizarre attempt to rationalise how a sport can be so popular everywhere else, just not here. But, again, why does it matter? If you’re not keen, move on. I have never been able to get my head around watching the NBA but I’ve never railed against it with even an ounce of the venom some people spit at that evil influence, soccer. As if, somehow, it will corrupt the youth or something.

And let’s not even start on the snide comments to the effect that somehow the sport is less than manly. Frankly, that says more about the insecurities of the detractor than any sport ever could. Especially when the vast, VAST majority of people espousing such views haven’t played a contact sport lately, if ever. I could trot out a myriad of ham-fisted, ill-thought out reasons why the NFL, Baseball, tiddlywinks will never be a major sport in the rest of the world but I just don’t care enough and I’m mystified as to why anyone else would.

Like every sport ever, there is gamesmanship, there is barefaced, underhand, blatant cheating. ‘Twas ever so. People just do that kind of thing in the name of competition. Steps can be taken to remove it, but no system (so far) is perfect. But that’s not what that comment’s about, is it?

I guess what I’m saying in essence is: if you’re not interested, just shut up. There’s no huge desire from the average soccer fan to make it the number one sport in the U.S. Personally, I just want the team I support to do well and enjoy watching it and I like other sports just fine, it’s not like one has to be best over all others. You don’t like it, don’t get it? Don’t watch. You don’t care, I don’t care. By all means express your dislike for the sport if the occasion calls for it, but this strange desire to hunt out reasons why and then shout it from the rooftops as if you’ve just discovered some hitherto unknown, life-altering fact (HINT: you haven’t) is a bit perverse, no?

First up is one of those benchmark movies that helps define the genre: ‘Cleopatra Jones’. I’ve wanted to see this film for a while now as I’m a huge fan of ‘The Kentucky Fried Movie’ – that early Zucker-Abrams-Zucker effort that lampoons all manner of 70s TV and film – which features an ad for the fictional ‘Cleopatra Schwartz’. (NSFW) ‘Cleopatra Jones’ is probably most notable for it’s lead, Tamara Dobson, a striking 6’2″ model who plays a sort of female James Bond but who – with her size, glamorous looks, style and Custom Corvette with personalised plates (CLEO) – sticks out in a crowd more than Bond ever did. This is typified by the scene early on where she returns to the U.S. Hoping to ambush her, the ‘baddies’ are confronted by Cleo standing on the baggage carousel and getting the drop on them with aplomb.

The tone set, this is a fairly run of the mill cops and robbers type film with an ever-so-slight espionage twist – we’re not, for instance, ever told exactly what branch of Government Cleo works for other than she’s an agent for the President. But, like the vast majority of these films, that’s looking at it from a 21st Century perspective. A black, female heroine that helps break down both racial and sexual prejudices must have been fairly radical when this film was made. Especially as it was produced by a major studio (Warner). True, that does mean the overt sexuality and violence prevalent of other entries in this genre are toned down severely, so it’s a little less umm.. ‘sploitation-y’ if you will, but it still paints a picture of a society where Blacks, Whites, Men, Women, Rich and Poor can all work together.

Centering on the battle to keep drugs off the streets, Cleo has enraged drug baroness, Mommy (Shelley Winters), by supervising the destruction of drug crops in Turkey. Mommy attempts to get rid of Cleo with the help of her assorted flunkies and corrupt cops (including Antonio Fargas and Bill McKinney). In the middle of all this is Cleopatra’s boyfriend, Reuben (Hollywood stalwart Bernie Casey), who runs a halfway house for drug addicts and provides the love interest for Cleo and some social background. Tamara Dobson is a decent enough actress but doesn’t have the presence of someone like Pam Grier and the material doesn’t do her any favours by feeling a little slight even if it does deal with some weighty themes. Shelly Winters, on the other hand, has little to do in this film but with such scant screen time, she almost outdoes Shatner in ‘Wrath of Khan’ for sheer, scenery-chewing, shouty goodness. Ranting at the drop of a hat and providing a dowdy, unattractive counterpoint to Cleo’s calm and elegance. There’s a fairly obvious dig at the Women’s Lib movement here, which I found a bit odd considering the overall theme of tolerance and cooperation, obviously the movement was none too highly thought of, you can read a bit more about it here.

That aside, this is a fun, if almost entirely unchallenging film with some great style and wit. A shame that for a supposed super-spy adventure most of the action seems to take place on L.A. side-streets and back lots and it’s over in a flash, but it’s a worthy entry into the genre and should have heralded greater things to come. But you know how it goes with sequels.

Next up is the Pam Grier starring ‘Black Mama, White Mama’. Sadly, title, plot and setting (an island in the South Seas) are never lived up to. Two prisoners, Lee Daniels (Grier) – a hooker who ran off with her drug-dealing, pimp boyfriend’s money – and Karen Brent (Margaret Markov) – a revolutionary trying to lead a revolt on the island – are new inmates on one of the islands prisons. While being transported to a new prison for interrogation, they escape when the convoy is ambushed by Karen’s rebel friends (I cannot resist a Star Wars reference, no matter how lame) and, chained together, must learn to work together to escape the government and the local drug lord and bring about a revolt.

Now read that back. Sounds like absolute gangbusters, doesn’t it? It even drops you straight in to the exploitation goodness with sex-crazed, lesbian prison warders and a fair bit of nudity. How, HOW, I ask you, could such utter genius fail? ‘Surely,’ I hear you cry, ‘it writes itself?’ Well, apparently, no one could be bothered. As soon as the ambush is over, the whole thing descends into a turgid mess.

Grier and Markov are fine as the leads and most of their scenes are well played as they realise the best way out of this mess is to cooperate with each other. Karen is in a hurry to meet up with the rebels, lead by her boyfriend, to take delivery of weapons that will help in their insurrection. Lee doesn’t have much time for a rich, white girl playing at being a revolutionary when she needs to get off the island. All the while, they’re tracked down by government troops and police, a hired-gun, Ruben (Sid Haig), a drug-lord, and Karen’s boyfriend and chums. There’s just so much that could have been done here and it’s almost all utterly wasted. Particularly Sid Haig’s hatstand cowboy mercenary. He has a couple of bizarrely amusing scenes but the character could have been so much more.

The film just lurches from clumsy set-piece to clumsy set-piece and doesn’t add up to anything approaching a satisfying whole, juddering to a halt with a pretty pants resolution. I know that exploitation films as a rule suffer from low budgets and barely legible plots and usually I’m happy to abandon myself to a couple of hours of sex, violence and not much else. But this really could have been a winner and it falls so very, very flat.

Finally, there’s ‘Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song’. Although it can be said to have kicked off the entire genre of Blaxploitation, it’s hard to say that this film is blaxploitation in the ‘traditional’ sense. For a start, it’s far more what would be called an ‘indie’ movie today; with it’s paucity of dialogue (particularly the lead), rough and ready style (shot on a tiny budget and cramped schedule) and auteur-like maker (Melvin Van Peebles wrote, produced, directed, scored and stars in the film). It also transcends the genre entirely as it is perhaps the first film to so blatantly stick two fingers up at ‘the man’ and do it in such an ‘arty’ (for want of a better word) way.

It’s not an easy watch, mind. I don’t know if there’s a decent copy out there but the low budget nature of the production is everywhere. Murky scenes and even murkier sound do little to make things easy to follow. But I enjoyed it, nonetheless. This is not to say that it’s not a well shot film, there are a lot of interesting stylistic shots and, like a lot of ‘indie’ film, it gets away with a lot that a big budget studio picture probably wouldn’t featuring frequent montages and jump cuts.

Sweetback is an adult entertainer, wrongly arrested by the police. While being transferred to the police station, he intervenes in the beating of a Black Panther member, beating up the cops and escaping into the L.A. backstreets in an attempt to reach the Mexican border. Along the way he meets up with bikers (including John Amos), friends and foes, all the while being chased by the police.

The soundtrack is worth a mention as it was scored by Van Peebles and features an up and coming Earth, Wind and Fire. Funk and soul are blended with Gospel-sounding interludes, particularly during the montage segments. They make for an interesting and sometimes unsettling blend.

This film is very definitely an acquired taste, meandering in parts, often explicit and with a message that’s pretty hard to miss. Dated but still powerful, it’s an interesting insight into the history of cinema – particularly black cinema – if nothing else. It’s certainly a long way from the other exploitation films I’ve seen, but it may just have kick started an entire genre.