londonmark searching for intelligent life in camden town (the search now continues in new york city)
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Minority retort
Here is the current shortlist of taglines for my title bar. I am still inviting new suggestions, and you will notice a few themes emerging from the contenders below.
If your name isn't Kate, you're not winning (D/Kate)*
If your name isn't David or Pete then you're doing well (D)*
I have a few favourites out of the list above, but of course I would never name names (Karen, Pix, Krissa and Vaughan, you're doing well), but I would like even more suggestions, so that I can ensure my decision has been based on the widest possible catchment area of cheap puns, character assassination and gross personal slurs. Set to it.
Update: new suggestions are included and marked with an asterisk, not an Asterix.
Update update: I've decided that the lines will close on Friday, so you have a few more days to mull over, cogitate, ruminate and something-else-that-sounds-clever-ate on your suggestions until then. Big announcement of winner on Monday.
Some advice When playing pool against a one-armed man, don't ask him if he's seen Dr Richard Kimble. This will make your eventual defeat and humiliation even more shameful.
Stop that right now When waiting in a meeting room for Mr Big Boss Man (whose nickname, behind his back, is 'The Brain', so fierce is his intellect), it is not the best idea in the world to say "I've been expecting you" the minute he walks into the room. He will look at you in a strange and not very good way but not mention anything. This may harm your 'career' chances when he marks down in your personal file that you are a complete loon.
Adaptive verbs
The English language is, let's face it, pretty fit. If the English language were, say, a lady, she'd be wearing a nice top, a shortish skirt and tall boots and you would be trying to buy drinks for her in the hope that she and her cool friends (French, Italian) would speak with you. You would try to admire her professional manicure as a way of further ingratiating yourself. Unfortunately, language is not a lady, so the analogy falls down immediately at the end of this, the first paragraph.
The English language is, let's face it, pretty sexy. If the English language were, say, a car, it would be a Jaguar XKR convertible. It's sleek, it's powerful, it's elegant. It's everything that a bit of metal on four rubber wheels that travels oooh, really quite fast, is meant to be. It costs a lot to insure. Unfortunately, language is not a car, and so this failed analogy brings not only the end of the second paragraph but also the end of my analogising.
One of the joys of the language is the ability to adapt words to suit your purpose and to soften potential self-criticism. A situation may be described three times and though each time the facts are the same, the interpretation put upon that situation gets increasingly harsh depending on, let's face it, how much the narrator likes the other participants. Herein I would like to bring you some 'adaptive verbs' to illustrate the girly carness my point:
I sip, you drink, he/she binges
I pay homage, you borrow, he/she plagiarises
I chat, you rabbit, he/she babbles
I cope, you flap, he/she panics
I agree, you crawl, he/she grovels
I understand, you confuse, he/she misconstrues
I enjoy, you party, he/she overdoses
I groove, you step, he/she flails
I dine, you feed, he/she pigs
I observe, you look, he/she gawps
Take 3: The English language is, let's face it, pretty good. If the English language were, say, a weblogger, they'd definitely be … okay, okay, I give up.
M'aidez I need your help. No, not psychiatric help, thank you very much. I need your help in a completely different way. The strapline 'londonmark : from camden with love' has been in the title bar since I started this ramshackle place. And frankly, I'm sick of it by now. So, I would like suggestions, please.
In contrast to Hydragenic's Slag me off now, please competition, this is not an invitation to vent spleen at me, so I'll thank you not to do so. Funny descriptions are obviously preferred, but bear in mind that if they are too funny, you'll be ruining the rest of the site for new readers.
The LondonMark Guide to Football
It's the beautiful game. It's a game of two halves. It's football, which for half the male population of the United Kingdom is one of the main reasons for living. In England, Scotland and Wales, it's also one of the arguments for the existence of God: nothing as beautiful as football could have evolved by itself; it shows a design, an elegance, a majesty beyond human capability. What higher power could have created football? (Insert the necessary logic bit here.) Therefore God exists. Therefore stop fucking about with the offside rule.
Football is not a funny old game. Let's get that clear right now. Football is very serious indeed. It has the power to reduce grown men to tears for the only time in their lives. It has the power to turn decent, rational, shy men into absolute gibbering Neanderthals, capable only of grunting, howling and pointing. It has the power to make men believe that a pair of socks which have been unwashed for twelve years have some kind of 'magic' or 'lucky' properties. Serious.
Let's get something else clear as well. This guide will refer to football fans and players as 'he', 'him', 'men', 'blokes' and possibly 'muppets'. I do realise that many, many football fans are women, as indeed are the players at the World Cup currently happening in America. One of the most knowledgeable and passionate football fans I know is a woman. Unfortunately, she's a Manchester United supporter. Even more unfortunately for me, a Newcastle United fan, she's my sister. All this is a roundabout way of saying: if you are a female fan, don't whinge about the fact that I've used masculine pronouns throughout. Please.
So, on with the guide. Are you mystified by football? Can you never work out why the players are doing what they are doing? Do you care? The answers to these questions, respectively, are: (a) good, you're in completely the wrong place, but please stay and enjoy the facilities, (b) you must be a Newcastle United supporter, you have my fraternal sympathies, and (c) if not, give up now.
Brief version: there are two teams, each containing eleven players, competing against each other for a total time of 90 minutes (divided into two 'halves' of 45 minutes each) on a pitch. If a player propels the ball into the net (of which there are two, one at each end, also known as the 'goal') without using his hands or arms, he has scored a goal. After 90 minutes, the team that has scored the most goals wins.
FUN FACT: The legendary German player Franz Beckenbauer managed to score 14 goals (one of them with his backside) in one game when he played a demonstration match at Crystal Palace in the 1960s. His nickname was 'Von Pele', a reference both to his Pele-like ability and to his startling resemblance to Max von Sydow, of The Exorcist fame.
We should get into the specifics now. The eleven players in a football team consist of one goalkeeper and ten outfield players who can be sub-divided into defenders, midfielders and strikers. There are also three players who can be used as substitutes for any three of the starting players, in case of injury or for a tactical change. Let's examine the positions in turn.
Goalkeeper
The goalkeeper's job is to keep the goal intact, ie unsullied by the opponent's attempts to score a goal. He is the only player in his team allowed to use his hands to come into contact with the ball while it is on the pitch, although he is not allowed to throw the ball directly into the opposition goal and thus score. It's unlikely this would work anyway, as the other goalkeeper would probably catch it, and if he can throw a football over 90 metres and still score a goal then he's in the wrong sport. The goalkeeper is also allowed to wear gloves, because goalkeepers are girly and don't want to ruin their manicures.
If an opponent strikes the ball at the goal but the goalkeeper manages to deflect, parry or catch the ball, thus preserving the integrity of his net, he is said to have 'saved' the ball or 'made a save'. Hence, when a goalkeeper displays incredible agility or reflexes to keep the ball out of the net, all the supporters of that team will instinctively cry "Save!". This is not an exhortation for the goalkeeper to immediately redeem the souls of the other players, it is merely a recognition of the fact that he woke up in time to stop the ball.
FUN FACT: Many goalkeepers have been nicknamed 'The Cat' due to feline agility and reaction time. This may be why Mark Bosnich is known as 'The Polar Bear'.
Goalkeepers are usually very tall and really quite crazy. Their careers generally last longer than those of outfield players, mainly due to the fact that they do sod all during a game. If a team's defence are particularly good at smothering any attempt on goal by the opposition, then often the goalkeeper will bring a good book with him onto the pitch, in order to catch up with some light reading while the game is being played out. If they are a more active sort, they may well be telephoning their agent to see if anyone would pay them to let in a goal deliberately.
Goalkeepers are often referred to as 'netminders' or 'strikecatchers' by English fans attempting to confuse Americans about 'soccer'. This is a practice to be encouraged. Other useful terms, as practised by The Guardian, include 'eight-meter free-strike disc' for penalty spot, 'ref-charged' for being booked (see Discipline below), 'directional switchplay' for half-time, etc, etc, ad nauseam.
Defender
The job of the defender is… well, it is pretty self-explanatory, isn't it? In the English game, there are usually four defenders, hence the term 'flat back four' (see Formation below). For any team managed by Kevin Keegan, the emphasis is for defenders to move higher up the pitch away from their goalkeeper in order to aid the strikers, hence the term 'Keegan, you twat'.
It is vitally important for a football team to have defenders who communicate well with each other, in order that they may co-operate to deny strikers a chance on goal. This may well be amusing: footballers communicating. Almost oxymoronic, you might say. Don't worry; they don't have to use very long words or construct elaborately phrased or perfectly grammatical sentences.
Generally, these instructions will involve "Oi!" (Please don't pass the ball to Thierry Henry, he's rather likely to score a goal), "To me, to me!" (Please pass the ball to me in order that I might get it away from Fabien Barthez, that no-hoper), or "Square it!" (Please pass the ball in a straight line across the width of the pitch and, this time, aim it at one of our players and not the lad sitting in Row K with a Wagon Wheel).
FUN FACT: The word 'muppet' dates back to 1897 and derives from a little-known but vastly untalented defender, Maurice "Mo" Peters, who scored a hat-trick of own-goals (3) in a game for Nottingham Forest. The term 'mopeters' (plural) gradually made way for the more straightforward 'muppet' (singular) and so a new way of slagging off useless players evolved. It is believed that this is where Jim Henson drew his inspiration.
There are various different positions within a defence: centre-back, wing-back, right- and left-backs. These describe where the player is supposed to be. For England's national side, this attempt to make it easier on the player to remember what he is doing rarely succeeds, because generally the defence is all over the bloody shop. A more accurate description would be 'right-mess'. One of the centre-backs may well have the added responsibility of the team captaincy, such as Tony Adams did for Arsenal, because they are able to direct the events on the pitch, unlike, say, any of Wolves' defenders.
Midfielder
As their name suggests, midfielders play in the middle of the field. (Yes, this really is quite a simple game which doesn't demand complicated naming conventions.) Their role is to channel the ball from the defenders up to the strikers, often they must create goal-scoring opportunities for themselves, they will required to go back towards their own goal in order to help a beleaguered defence ('tracking back'), they aim to control and dominate not only the middle of the pitch, but also the rhythm and pace of the game, and also they generally take responsibility for free-kicks, corners and other set pieces.
And you thought it was just kicking a ball about.
FUN FACT: The highest goalscorer for the England national side is not a striker, as you might expect, but rather a midfielder: Sir Bobby Charlton. Although he and Jackie Charlton, the former manager of the Republic of Ireland national team, share a surname, they are not in fact brothers. Jackie Charlton is the first successful result of a cloning experimentation project started by Francis Crick and James Watson. They were said to be devastated that Jackie chose football rather than science as a career.
The qualities required of a good midfielder (or 'centrocampista' as the central midfield role is known in Spanish), other than the possession of an Alice band, are that they have a certain flair, an industrious workrate, they are team-minded rather than selfish and that they can pass the ball with great, great accuracy. By this explanation, it is hard to see why Robbie Savage continues to be regarded as a midfielder, when it is quite clear he would be more suited to a career as a hairdresser somewhere just outside Carmarthen.
No description of a midfielder's role is complete without mentioning St David of Beckham. So I have.
It has often been said, generally with table-thumping and deep, insane staring (when drunk), that it was a tragedy that George Best, who played his international career with Northern Ireland (a team that can best be described using the word 'moribund') was never seen at a major international tournament such as the World Cup. This has also been said recently of the massively talented Ryan Giggs, a midfielder with Manchester United and Wales. Wales' (thus far) successful campaign to qualify for the European Championships held in Portugal next year has gone some way to stop Welsh fans from harping on about this tedious subject for years to come.
Sadly, for the rest of us, Northern Irish fans have little chance of being able to see George Best ever play internationally again (a genuine tragedy), as he has instead forged a career as the favourite topic for page 15 of The Sun (not tragic), and so we will have to listen to the fans' Kilburn-accented dronings for years to come (Hamlet-level tragedy).
Striker
Put simply, the striker's purpose is to strike the ball towards the opposition goal. A successful striker is one who scores most of his attempts at goal. An unsuccessful striker is one who is Emile Heskey.
FUN FACT: As part of the promotional campaign for FIFA World Cup South Korea/Japan 2002™, Michael Owen was asked to take a timed run against a cheetah and a gazelle. If Michael or the cheetah won, they would be entitled to tear the gazelle limb from limb and feast upon its entrails. Unsurprisingly, Michael chose not to take part. Rivaldo did it instead.
Scoring goals is not the only task required of a striker (aka 'centre-forward'). They must also be capable of 'holding the ball up'. Essentially what this means is being able to keep hold of the ball – avoiding the attentions of defenders attempting to take the ball away from the striker and thereby clear the danger – until another player is in a position whereby they can receive a pass and get a clear short on goal.
Good examples of this art in the English Premiership are Alan Shearer and Teddy Sheringham. Who are both about 76 years old and yet still playing. Why? Because these kind of strikers rarely break into a jog, never mind run the length of the pitch à la Michael Owen, the lazy so-and-so's.
Despite a skill in being able to 'hold up' the ball, nevertheless the primary function of the striker is to score goals, otherwise the name of the position would be, to borrow a former nickname of Ade Akinbiyi, a 'misser'. Another recognised term for a striker is 'goalhanger' (fairly self-explanatory, I hope), used for those players who can't be arsed to do any running or passing or tackling, ie all those little things that make football a game.
So, there we have the basics of position. There are then the small matters of formation, skills and discipline.
Formation
As anyone who has played football in the schoolyard knows, the best formation is to put the fat kid in goal, the asthmatics in defence, the school bully as centre-forward and everyone else in what must loosely and generously be described as midfield. This is not quite the way that teams such as Real Madrid or Juventus are organised, but it does seem to be working relatively well for Chelsea so far.
English teams generally favour a 4-4-2 approach (four defenders, four midfielders and two strikers), whereas other popular formations include 4-3-3, 4-3-2-1 (the so-called 'Christmas tree'), 5-3-2, 3-4-3 and, indeed, any combination of 10 players in three or four lines. The schoolyard approach is best described as 2-7-1 and is not the most practical of formations unless you are eleven years old and are playing during lunch break.
Skills
Once the formation is settled, you have persuaded everyone to stick to it, and you have told the goalkeeper to stop running out of his area to get his packed lunch, then you can consider their skills. Strikers should learn how to hit the ball in the general vicinity of the opposing goal; it'll go in eventually, Emile. Midfielders should learn how to hit the ball so that other players can get it without needing a Zones 1-6 Travelcard. Defenders should learn the ancient art of 'hoofing'.
In order to hoof, you must approach the ball, whether stationary or in motion, close your eyes and kick it really, really hard in any direction; don't bother aiming, you'll just ruin the fun. Think of Martin Keown in the Champions League and you've got the idea. There are other skills as well, such as passing, dribbling, tackling, scoring, throw-ins, dealing with corners, showboating (ie outlandish tricks with the football), but really English football is at its best when one bloke scythes another bloke down just after he's hoofed the ball upfield randomly.
FUN FACT: In the 1966 World Cup when one of England's goals was actually offside but ruled to be legitimate by the Russian linesman, the linesman was in fact neither Russian nor a man. He was a chimp who had been trained for years by the English Football Association in order to make just such a decision. The chimp, Barney, later went on to have a long and successful career in Hollywood.
Discipline
Discipline can be explained simply: for an infraction against the rules (a 'foul', for example) of a minor or secondary nature, the offender is shown a yellow card. For misdemeanours of a more serious kind, the naughty, naughty footballer is given a red card and must leave the game from that moment. They also become ineligible to play the next three games.
When a player is shown a card of either variety, it is known colloquially as 'being booked', because their name gets written in the referee's little black book. I should emphasise that this is not so that the referee can telephone them in a few months, just after his girlfriend dumps him, and ask them out on a date. The basic rule is: the ref's in charge, don't screw with him.
So, there it all is, except for the insane and unswerving devotion that fans have for their teams, which can sometimes border on the religious/monomaniac. For that, there is very little rational explanation, other than the usual psychobabble about wanting to belong, channelling aggression, finding an individual identity in groups, blah, blah, blah. Personally, I think men like watching football because it gives them the opportunity to shout obscenities at a pitch or a television, without fear of getting beaten up. Just a thought.
Oh, you wanted me to explain the offside rule? Well, it'll take some time, but if you've read this far…
Conversation This morning, while walking up Lyme Street, I encountered one of the many cats that seem to live there. Being a friendly soul, and meeting what looked to be a friendly cat, we had a very brief conversation which went a little something like this:
Good morning, cat. Meow.
How are you? Meow.
That's good, but I'm late for work so I have to rush now. Meow.
See you tomorrow. Meow.
Now, you may think that this is a perfectly pleasant conversation between man (me) and cat (the cat). However, sitting on the Tube travelling into work, I suddenly wondered what exactly the cat had said. After, 'cat' is a foreign language which I don't speak, a bit like every language other than English (which I'm not brilliant at) and French (passable, yet inaccurate). So, the conversation between myself and cat could easily have gone like this:
Good morning, cat. Good morning, man.
How are you? Fine, thanks for asking.
That's good, but I'm late for work so I have to rush now. Well, I suppose you'd better hurry then.
See you tomorrow. Bye bye.
Yet it seems more likely, knowing what cats are like, that it went a bit like this:
Good morning, cat. What? What are you saying? Eh?
How are you? I'm eyeing up some pigeons, you dimwit, get out of my way.
That's good, but I'm late for work so I have to rush now. Oh, keep your voice down! Oh, hang on … great, they've all flown away now, you idiot.
See you tomorrow. Thanks for nothing, you git.
The LondonMark Interactive Guide To Writing Your Own Action Film (LMIGTWYOAF™) Action films, don'cha love 'em? How many hours have we all spent watching That Guy From The Other One running down an alleyway with a gun? Or unforgettable scenes like That English Guy Who Does A Really Bad Russian Accent talking to his Racial Stereotype Tattooed Henchman? Or just listening to The Cock Rock Band From Hell over the closing credits. Magic moments, I think we all agree.
Well, thanks to LondonMark, you can now get your own action film in a matter of minutes, through patented new technological and scientific breakthroughs. Based on equations, a slide-rule, long division, Venn diagrams and the very latest in GCSE Maths Lett's Revise Guides, we can bring you – exclusively – the real science that does all the hard work for you.
Tired of having to think for yourself?
Bored of actually writing things down?
Too lazy to bother stirring from your couch or orthopaedic chair?
Fear no longer. The LondonMark Interactive Guide To Writing Your Own Action Film™ is here!
There are five very important things you will need in order to get your action film ready to go. These are:
Plot
Characters
Locations
Set pieces
Dialogue
Over the course of this guide, we'll be examining these all in turn. Each section will take you through your new and exciting film in the form of questions. Write down your answers, and at the end of the guide, you'll be able to find out how your film is developing, and what its chances of success (both commercial and critical) are likely to be, on a sliding scale with Die Hard on one side and Speed 2: Cruise Control on the other.
So, let's look at the plot. Before we start the questions, I can tell that some of you are saying, "But, LondonMark, why do we need a plot? Hudson Hawk never bothered, so why should we?". It's a good point, but you'll find your chances of becoming the next Michael Bay significantly enhanced if you at least consider some of the basics. Here we go.
Question 1. Where is your film set?
The tough city streets.
The World Federation's recently completed Mars Orbital colony.
A secure US military establishment at an undisclosed location.
A normal building on a normal day.
A series of covert locations across Western Europe, Russia and the Far East.
Question 2. When is your film set?
1970s.
1980s.
Present day.
Next week.
2342 (also known as WorldDate 163.2).
Question 3. How would you sum up the film in six words or less?
The good, bad and ugly cops.
Futuristic prisons can't hold innocent men.
Wrong guy, wrong place, wrong time.
Only one man can save us.
Intrigue, suspicion and a semi-naked Russian woman.
Okay. You should have three letters written down or, if you are particularly clever, memorised. Let's move onto the next section: Characters. This is where it gets a bit more involving. Your characters should be memorable and engaging, a bit like Armageddon should have been a proper film rather than written by 15 lazy monkeys with only one typewriter between them. You should pay special attention to your hero. How else will you persuade Wesley Snipes to sign on the dotted line?
Question 4. Which of the following is most important to your hero?
His job.
Truth, Justice and The American Way.
The memory of his dead wife/child/parents.
The defence of Earth and humanity as we know it.
Clearing his tarnished name.
Question 5. Which of the following does your hero have to aid him?
His partner.
A beautiful and mysterious semi-naked Russian woman.
A loyal but stupid dog.
Quakgar IV, the very latest in cybernetic protohuman technology.
A Swiss Army knife, a two-way radio and a lot of luck.
Question 6. What must your hero overcome?
Dr. Maximilian Valentine, the evil megalomanic genius with designs to take over the world.
The drugs cartel who, several years ago, killed the hero's best friend and partner.
General K'Ktar, the leader of an alien warrior race intent on destroying humanity.
A renegade faction of the CIA.
A terrorist unit trying to take contol of a military complex deep in Utah.
Good, we seem to be progressing nicely. Now your letters tally should have reached six. If any of them are the letter 'F', then you should probably go back to the beginning of this guide and start again. Otherwise, you're doing really well. You might be asking yourself at this point, "LondonMark, will my film be as successful and critically acclaimed as, say, Eraser?". The answer to that, my budding little Alan Smithee, is to wait and see. Let's move along. Locations are all-important in an any action film, so let's try and establish some basics.
Question 7. The hero's base is where?
On the streets, where he is most anonymous.
Habitation Quarters 47 Delta, Section 9.
A small apartment somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, which is about to be repossessed.
Hiding in an air-duct, hoping he won't be heard.
In the arms of a beautiful, mysterious and intriguing semi-naked Russian woman.
Question 8. The villain's base is where?
An abandoned warehouse by the quayside.
Langley, Virginia.
A space station orbiting the Earth, invisible to radar.
The planet Ks'win, of the Imperial Star Union.
A ranch on the borders of Mexico.
Question 9. What is your hero's principal method of transportation?
His beaten-up old car, with a razor in the glove compartment and a baseball bat on the back seat.
Whatever he can beg, borrow, steal or hot wire.
The ThrustPod Mark III.
An Aston Martin, with all the usual refinements.
His blistering and bloodied feet.
Can you taste the action film taking shape yet? That, my friend, is that taste of success. But you're not there yet. You have nine letters in your little sequence, but there's still more to come. Every action film worth its salt has Set Pieces, those five or ten minute scenes which every cinema-goer will speak about excitedly when they're leaving the multiplex. They're especially important if you're considering taking the Mission: Impossible approach of not bothering to write anything else between these scenes. We're going to take the old-fashioned, by-the-numbers, Don Simpson approach to this one, so get ready.
Question 10. It's the start of the film, what's happening?
The hero's ThrustPod is weaving in and out of an asteroid belt, actively pursued by Vektonic Torpedos and Ks'win Takfighters.
The hero is chasing two gang leaders through a deserted part of town, trying to control his car even though they've shot out the windscreen.
The hero is attempting to remain unnoticed by the enemy, who are taking over the compound by stealth.
The hero has detonated a bomb in the enemy command centre, escaped on skis, then parachuting off a mountain edge into an abandoned plane which catches fire, forcing him to land atop a one-man camouflaged submarine.
The hero is having a flashback to his first military engagement in the searing South American heat.
Question 11. It's the middle of the film, what's happening?
The hero is being presented with the choice to exchange his life for a civilian, who is about to be executed. One hostage will be executed every ten minutes until the hero surrenders.
The hero has been caught and is engaged in hand-to-hand combat with several guards, armed only with a machete.
Avoiding the Imperial Star Union guards in an epic laser-fight, the hero manages to disable the Zlavian X device, the key to the continued survival of the human race.
The hero has had to abandon the beautiful, mysterious, intriguing, alluring semi-naked Russian woman, while escaping in a tank and evading a private army pursuing him.
While rummaging through the villain's main warehouse, the hero trips an infra-red sensor and has to escape from the compound despite being under heavy fire from mercenary snipers.
Question 12. It's the end of the film, what's happening?
The hero decides that personal revenge solves nothing and prepares to take the villain into custody, until the villain reaches for his concealed revolver, whereupon the hero kills him without remorse.
Having ensured the safety of the numerous civilians he had sworn to protect, the hero asks the girl one last time whether she could ever love a man like him. Finally, she relents and the two go off arm in arm, to have sex (not shown).
Navy SEALs are called in to pick up the few remaining renegades whom the hero has not thus far dispatched. The President personally offers him a full pardon, but the hero simply wants to return to a normal life.
The hero is sailing away from the wreckage of the villain's boat-lair, accompanied by the beautiful, mysterious, intriguing, alluring and by now really rather semi-naked Russian woman, for sex (not shown).
K'Ktar's army have been completely defeated. The hero is being honoured by the World Federation for his valiant efforts. He has been promoted to HyperAdmiral.
Looking good, eh? It's all taking shape. Now, for the pièce de résistance: Dialogue. First of all, though, count up the letters you've been ever so patiently accumulating. Twelve? Good. We can proceed. Dialogue in action films has to be instantly memorable, so that your public can quote sections of it to people who haven't yet seen the film. Which was particularly important for all eight of the people who paid to see Daylight in the cinema. It's called 'word of mouth' and will be crucial to the success of your film.
Question 13. What is your hero's catchphrase or most repeated line of dialogue?
The name's Bond. James Bond.
Whose side are you on?
I'd give all the VarlCannons in the world for one old-fashioned phase-rifle.
I'm getting too old for this sh*t.
I'm just the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Question 14. What does your villain say when he captures the hero?
You and your kind are history, puny hu-man. We rule the galaxy now!
You've been living on borrowed time. And you'll see your partner sooner than you think.
I've been expecting you.
For one man, you've been busy.
It's not too late, you can still join us!
Question 15. What does your hero say when he triumphs over evil?
I would have gone to Hell with you, but looks like there's only room for one.
I think he got the point.
Just doing my job.
Yippee-ki-yay, m*th*rf*ck*r.
Our differences make us strong, that's why you'll never defeat Earth.
So, now you have a complete action film. That's right, you should feel proud. You have fifteen letters in front of you which will determine the course of your brand new script. It could be the next Under Siege 2, the next The Specialist, or oven the next Executive Decision. Excited? I bet you are.
You can now use those fifteen letters, combining them with the rest of the alphabet, to write an entire script using words, sentences and paragraphs, which you will then be able to sell to Hollywood and make your millions. Or if, like Steven Seagal, you find this too mentally taxing, you can pop your fifteen letters in the comments box, and the LMIGTWYOAF™ will calculate (based on proper science) the probability of your film becoming either a smash-hit box office success or Mercury Rising.
Blog Idol And browsing through to the fine, new, green Uborka, I see that I will be aiding Karen, Pete and Nick to judge for September's Post of the Month. I wonder which of the Pop Idol judges this qualifies me to be.
Supportive Semi-running through Victoria station, very late for work, smoking a cigarette, holding the newspaper, trying to find my security pass = a bad time to be required to provide IT support on my mobile. (With grateful thanks to that woman in the black suit and with the large wheeled suitcase in Victoria Plaza who simply would not get out of my way. Oh, and thanks M$ for your fine products which never crash for no reason ever, ever.)
A cigarette, a cup of tea, a bun At the moment, rather like wasps angry because their expenses claim has been queried, there are many things which seem to be buzzing around my head. So, until I have managed to calm the idea-wasps down (erm, this analogy has already fallen down, hasn't it?), here are a few fragments:
Isn't it pleasing when you just discover the harmony part in a chorus of a song which you've known for absolutely ages? Well, it certainly pleased me.
What I am to do with the ever-expanding side bar you see to your right. There are still more blogs I want to put on, and Kate has already discussed the whole linking/delinking issue over at her place, but I can't quite get my head around it right now.
I'm wondering why I treat this place as though it's some private arena where I can say things that I probably wouldn't say in conversation, while at the same time knowing that it's accessible to any monkey with an internet connection.
Also, I'm deciding whether a new series would be an almost suicidally bad idea, whether I use the series as a way of not having to think of new things to say every day, or whether I should just shut up and start planning it.
Should I apply to be D's stalker? I mean, I know where he lives and everything, so I reckon I'm partly qualified, to say the least.
I'm getting very irritated by the sound of constant drilling by Victoria station, especially when combined with half-remembered lyrics running around in my brain: 'Rainy café, Kentish Town, Tuesday' being the prime culprit at the moment.
Warning: there may well be updates to this ramble throughout the day.
Real life is even more boring than reality television, and that's saying something Sunday morning. A flat in Camden Town. One twentysomething sits on a blue sofa. He can't find his book. Another twentysomething is padding about the kitchen, wrapped in a red towel. He can't find his mobile phone. The two occasionally speak.
"Were you drunk last night?"
"I think so."
"That pretty much means 'yes', usually."
"Okay, yes. Why?"
"Well, you were shouting at the TV in the pub a lot."
"That's because the England game was on."
"Oh yes."
"Why do you ask?"
"Half the time I can't tell whether you're actually drunk or not."
"That's because you're drunk too."
"Oh yes."
Silence.
"Have you seen my book?"
"Which one?"
"253."
"Oh, yes, I borrowed it. I'm nearly done."
"Okay."
Silence.
"Have you got any cigarettes?"
"I've got three left."
"Can I have one, then?"
"Sure."
The twentysomething in the towel abandons his search for his mobile phone, lights a cigarette and then goes back to bed to finish his flatmate's book. The other twentysomething remains on the blue sofa.
Tea Break To start off, our first café customer is Lyle who has requested a Black Russian and, to follow, a coffee. No problems so far, thank you for your order.
Next up, a Guinness with a Guinness chaser for Mr Hg. A man after my own heart, clearly.
Then we have some Earl Grey tea for Mike, though I had to warm the pot by my lighter rather than an Aga, dahling.
One mojito for D, though I think he might have already had enough. Keep an eye on him, someone. I remember Pete's appalling behaviour at my last tea break here and I don't want a repeat performance.
Here's a very large Diet Coke for Pix, but she can sneak over to Jane if she needs a shot of liquor. I don't think D will notice.
Let me see, who else? Oh, of course, apologies. Lux, here's your Stoli Cosmopolitan. And I must say it does look rather tasty.
Me? Oh, that's very kind, I'll join Mr Hg and have a Guinness Extra Cold, thanks.
And who's that sneaking in through the door? Hmmm, late, eh? Oh, alright then. For Kate (time difference is a valid excuse, I suppose) there is a Cape Cod (vodka, cranberry juice and a twist of lime) available.
Update: Goodness, it seems our transatlantic brethren are just getting here on time. For our favourite New Yorker, Krissa, there's a glass of Bailey's and a (nudge, nudge) 'cookie'. Enjoy.
To all of you, slainté and I hope you all have a very good weekend.
MIA If there is one thing that the blogworld has been missing for the past week, it's been the soothing posts of Uborka's Karen and Pete. However, we have also been missing tea, crumpets, macaroons, devilish cocktails, lagers, Guinnesses (Guinnei? Guinnui? damn these plurals) and maybe even the odd (whisper it, Pete might hear) pie.
So, this afternoon, there will be a tea break at the Café Londonmark. You may choose beverages of alcoholic or non-alcoholic content, and you may also pick some cakes or a p-i-e or just some bar snacks. Orders in the comments box before 3.00pm and you will served before 4.00pm, thus allowing you to enjoy your last hour of work kicking back and relaxing. Which, let's face it, most of you do anyway.
Fifteen-to-One: 2 Two people to whom "mad props" (oh, yes, I know my street argot) must go, as it is their fault that you are reading this drivel:
Sashinka: not only the world's foremost expert on British Gas and London bus shelters, but also a guru for modern living, as superbly shown by her advice on voicemail, how to shop, the rules of engagement, parking, gossip, and what to do in an emergency. All of this is written fabulously and in wonderful style, while also encompassing technological problems, Jewish identity, diet tips, film reviews, international politics, and her own excellent short stories. She is also a fellow North Londoner, absolutely charming in person, directly responsible for me now calling my local cinema the "Camden, Odeon Town", and the first blog I ever read.
Troubled Diva: The Shirt Off My Back project. Tops For Pops Decades. 40 in 40. The best Pet Shop Boys live review ever. Four very good reasons for envying the fact that he is a very good writer indeed. From the PDMG to his own line of merchandise, Mr TD (with occasional quotations from the mysterious K) is absolutely hilarious and compulsive reading, especially when taking on the really big issues in life, like … well, coffee: You lattay, I lartay. He also completely reassured me at the first blogmeet I attended that I didn't need to know much about the internet to write a blog (sorry to fulfil your prediction so accurately), one of the few other bloggers I have met who smokes (no longer a pariah), and the second blog I ever read.
Sorry. If you both hadn't been so readable, stylish, funny and thought-provoking, we could have avoided all this. You have no-one but yourselves to blame.
Fifteen-to-One: 3 Three things that would make my life so much better:
An army of evil squirrels: After much debate with D and Pix while they were sitting on a Google blanket and I was sitting in a tree (and no, I was not k-i-s-s-i-n-g, before your inner adolescent asks), it was decided that what would dramatically improve my standard of living was a legion of malevolent squirrels trained to do my nefarious bidding. They are not quite as exciting as Mr Burns' flying monkeys, but they could be just as e-vil, mwahahaha. I might have to save up for a bit, though; the training courses could be expensive.
My own island: It doesn't have to be a tropical paradise, it doesn't have to have the best weather, it doesn't even have to be a particularly large island. Just a little island where I can build my own house and then live there free from the cares of the world and away from anything, anything that even resembles commuting. Naturally, it would help to have some kind of lair in which I could train my evil squirrels and this would save substantial amounts of cash: some kind of 'home teaching', rather than sending them to expensive private schools.
One hundred billion dollars: Actually, a couple of hundred grand (sterling) would be enough to keep me in a style to which I am not accustomed: in the black. Not being a profligate soul, all I need is money for rent, bills, booze, smokes, the occasional meal, maybe the odd CD every other month and a supply of evil nuts for my evil squirrels' sustenance. Hardly a tall order.
Fifteen-to-One: 4 Four things which make me wish I had stayed in bed this morning:
Arriving at work (late) to hear the words, "Oh, Mark, [Very Senior Person] has been looking all over for you". Damn.
Being asked by Very Senior Person about some work I did a while ago and finding out that, effectively, I had completely wasted my time on the original work.
Very Senior Person's inability to let me actually get on with things uninterrupted for longer than about 10 minutes. "Just checking to see how things are going on …" is etching itself into my skull right now.
With Very Senior Person's new project, I have already told her that I have no idea what I am doing, yet she is completely ignoring this because I am far more junior than her and therefore am required to do this, even though the end result will be absolute tosh.
'Actually': how redundant. There's very little difference between saying "Is it?" and "Is it actually"? A possible influence for this may have been the Pet Shop Boys' second proper album. I am pleased to note, however, that it is not only my problem, but is even being celebrated in celluloid by Richard Curtis with his first film as a director being entitled Love, Actually.
'Well': the classic thought-pause when asked a question. It can also be said on its own to signify disapproval or indignance or with another word to communicate that something has been done, er, well. Vastly overused in my vocabulary and often used as a substitute for actually committing to anything. It is never, ever used by me in phrases such as "that was well lush", because such things are crimes against language. Also, it's not the early 90s any more, all you cool kids.
'Sorry': this appears to be one of the first and last words out of my mouth most of the time. Somewhere inside the gaping black hole where other people keep their brains is the notion that I have to apologise for my entire existence. Although even I occasionally subscribe to this point of view, there is really no need to apologise for absolutely everything ever. It's a very irritating habit, which I know annoys other people, and for which I would like to say 'sorry'.
'Quite': I use this in a similar way to saying 'well'. 'Quite' is one of the fantastically handy little words in that it is short, easily understood and can mean virtually anything depending on one's intonation. Also, I can say 'quite' to mean 'well, that's because you're a complete moron' whereas the other person will interpret my 'quite' as 'Mark is in complete and utter agreement with me here, on my very reasonable point of view'. How terribly handy.
'Ocelot': I think I may have made this one up. But it is a rather lovely word, isn't it?
Fifteen-to-One: 6 Six things which lead me to believe that today will be a very bad day:
I wake up late and then have to spend twenty minutes looking for my Travelcard. Twenty sodding minutes.
On my walk to Camden Town station, I am asked for spare change twice, offered a Big Issue once and strong-armed into the road because someone isn't looking where they are going once.
The Northern line is, of course, delayed. I am already late and this is making me even more late. The reason given is something to do with blah, blah, blah, we couldn't be bothered, we know we say we run a public transport service but in fact this is just someone's personal train set and they'll run it when they like, thank you very much.
I visualise hacking fellow commuters' limbs off with an axe due to their complete inability to "let passengers off the train first, please" and their utter selfishness with incredibly large and incredibly yellow rucksacks. This may be due to the fact I'm briefly re-reading American Psycho at the moment, a book ill-suited to someone irritated and on a tube train.
Victoria station is packed to the rafters with morons.
All the people at work want to stop me and talk to me while I'm trying to slip in unnoticed. I get a cheery "Good afternoon!" from one of my 'funny' colleagues. I visualise the axe again and decide that it's time for coffee: our coffee machine is out of order.
Fifteen-to-One: 7 Seven things I wish I had learned when I was younger:
Confidence: I wish I had a bit more confidence, particularly in social situations, ie meeting people for the first time. If there is a party where I don't know anyone, I'm likely to be close to the wall/wine, gently and very slowly introducing myself to a small number of people. It can't be genetic, as my sister and father both have the ability to walk into a roomful of strangers, announce their presence and – within 5 minutes – have the entire room loving them.
How to read a map: I've already expatiated about my lack of geographical knowledge, but it really is frustrating at times. Case study: while still at school, my (now) flatmate Mike was driving some friends and I to a house party in Watford. Not being on first-name terms with the Watford ring road one-way system, I sat in the front with the map: expedition navigator Mark. After about 10 minutes, I had no idea where we were but managed – with some small success – to hide this fact. Until we got to a T-junction with a queue of cars behind and Mike asking "Left or right?". After a few moments of "Hang on", "I can't hang on", he asked in all exasperation, "Mark. Left? Or. Right?". To which I replied in all sincerity, "Yes". I'm not entirely sure he's ever forgiven me.
Dealing with emotions: Although only half-English, I seem to have inherited/adopted/had instilled a 'stiff upper lip' mentality when it comes to dealing with annoyance, guilt, triumph or calamity. It's a hybrid between the coping attitude of making sandwiches for the funeral reception when you should be crying your eyes out and the 'not in front of the ranks' discipline of holding feelings tightly inside; the 'wait till I get you home' school of thought.
Electrics: I really would have liked some practical lessons on exactly how to sort out cables so that, for example, I can plug a TV into a video into a cable TV box into a DVD player without running the risk of (a) electrocuting myself, anyone around me, or the entire postcode, (b) ensuring that the only channel we will be able to receive is BBC Parliament, (c) the whole damn lot just packing up and refusing to work.
Self-control: this one speaks for itself and I'm not going to incriminate myself further.
Piano: I had piano lessons when I was much younger and I wish that I had continued with them, because the noises I manage to strangle out of a piano deserve to be prosecuted at a war crimes tribunal. I wasn't terribly good and that was probably because, although I practised, my piano teacher was absolutely rubbish at teaching. Great at piano, appalling at communicating that to me. By contrast, a few years later when I wanted to learn a few basic pieces, I went to my friend's mother who was a piano teacher. Within a few weeks, she had me playing these few pieces like a pro. Unfortunately, I've forgotten them now.
Latin: because I was given Winnie ille Pu ages ago by a very dear friend and it's a real pain reading through it with a dictionary. Even though certain parts of the translation are fairly obvious: Heffalumpus = Heffalump, Ior = Eeyore, Porcellus = Piglet, Pu = Pooh, etc.
Fifteen-to-One: 8 Eight things I think I'm alright at:
Tolerance: I don't really mean tolerance here, I think, perhaps instead I mean acceptance. You have a viewpoint. I have a viewpoint. That's good. We can debate. I'm not going to dismiss your argument simply because it doesn't correlate 100% with my own. That's difference. Which is interesting.
Crosswords: I'm just an addict here, I'm afraid. I don't know why I find them engaging, funny, curious and compelling, but I do. And fortunately, I seem to do fairly well at them. They're simply great fun.
Listening: In true Frasier Crane style, I'm listening. I get genuinely interested and concerned when other people are having problems and, truism of truisms, other people's problems are always (a) a relief from your own, and (b) easier to deal with than your own.
Pool: although some way off brilliant, I am slightly above average at playing pool and occasionally, just occasionally, I can play some good shots. Let's just say that I wouldn't disgrace anyone if I were playing pool in a doubles team with them. Unless it was Steve Davis.
Calmness: I very rarely get angry. I'm not really one for throwing plates, vases or hissy fits. Exasperated, yes. Irritated, yes. Towering-inferno-of-rage, no. And I think I know why, and you can try it at home if you like: repression.
Storytelling: I just really like telling funny stories, whether they are jokes or just situations from my past which people might be able to relate to. In the same way that giving presents is often better than receiving them, I think that although telling stories against yourself is often embarrassing, it can also be a stepping point for other people to open up.
Adaptability: like the frog in a pan of cold water which is heated to boiling point, I can get comfortable in most situations (even a hedge) and with a fairly wide group of people. I think this comes from my father and my godfather, both of whom can speak on terms with both paupers and princes. I hope that I do so half as well as they do.
Diplomacy: by this I don't mean negotiating peace treaties between implacable enemies. Or perhaps I do. Certainly negotiating expedient compromises between parties with separate viewpoints and axes to grind. A lot of the time it's about 'losing face', ie making sure that nobody has to. Besides which, it's a useful skill being able to talk someone who is about to start a fight into buying you a drink.
Fifteen-to-One: 9 Nine things where I "must try harder":
Keeping in touch: I am a sporadic correspondent, where the word 'sporadic' actually means 'crap'. I must note that keeping in touch with someone on an accurate basis means more than simply sending one email to China every three months or so.
Remembering accurately: as a bear of little brain, I am hopeless with names, birthdays, directions, times and all those other minutiae which make up life. I must start to listen to people when they introduce themselves, rather than focus on getting my own name right. Remembering my own age and birthday would be a beginning, also.
Moderating drinking: alright, this is a bit unlikely, but there are only so many headaches and blackouts that anyone is entitled to, and I think I've done more of my fair share. I must learn to say no, especially to the killer pint before last orders.
Being where I'm supposed to be: When people say 'Primrose Hill', they may well mean 'Regent's Park'. They may actually mean 'Primrose Hill'. It's a good idea to check beforehand rather than randomly turning up in a park in North London and hoping. I must remember to check with people where the hell they are, and take a map, before I leave the house and wander through leafy NW1.
Swearing less: apparently, the subsitution of curse words for normal adverbs and adjectives is the sign of a lazy mind. F**king right. I must think before I speak and only swear when it is absolutely, positively necessary, such as when describing traffic wardens, the Northern line or my annual bonus.
Exercising properly: to be honest, exercising at all would be great progress. I must look at an hour's worth of football every month as inadequate exercise rather than 'going mad on that whole health thing'.
Learning sincerity: one of the beauties of the English language is tonality – the word 'really' can be spoken so as to mean about twenty different opinions dependent on the previous sentence. I must begin to use words in an interested and sincere manner rather than treat the entirety of the language simply an opportunity for sarcasm.
Spending less: see point 3 for corroboration. I must learn to stop worrying and love my bank balance.
Dressing appropriately: at some point, my work place will decide that a tatty black t-shirt, some cords and a pair of Nike ACGs is not suitable dress for a grown-up to wear to the office. I must stay one step ahead of them and occasionally wear a proper shirt or something.
25 things
i was born in 1977 and lived in mill hill until the tender age of 17, whereupon I went up to oxford for my degree. two years of varying success later, i left (degreeless) and wandered the tide of mediocre jobs while living in, variously, new marston, brixton, finsbury park, camden town, notting hill and greenwich village. i'm six foot tall, thin, i wear glasses, i work in an office, i drink in nyc and i live in hope.
