I am delighted to announce the opening of my new art gallery. Please feel free to visit: entry is free for Lego people.
Some of my greatest pleasure in life comes from the 1- and 2-star reviews of the Guardian film critic, Peter Bradshaw. The man’s inventiveness in the field of destructive criticism appears to know no bounds. I am therefore delighted to present the Blogrot Worst of 2006 Film Quiz. The object is quite simple: match the exquisite put down to the film at which it was aimed. There’s one 3-starrer in there too for good luck. All excerpts are taken from Peter Bradshaw’s reviews of 2006.
- It is the biggest case of miscasting in history. Anyone, anyone, would have been better in this part. Steven Seagal would have been better. Janette Krankie would have been better.
- This story could go on for 104 minutes or 104 aeons and it would make no difference.
- One of the funniest and most astringent books of recent times has been turned into a film so embarrassingly awful I felt like putting a brown paper bag over my head and emitting a high-pitched keening sound.
- Her final moments in this film are so hammy that any vegetarians present will come out in a rash. The prefix “over-” in “over-acting” doesn’t quite cover it. Her shriekingly tragic fate was something that I certainly won’t forget in a hurry. Many people in the audience had to be helped out of the auditorium, given a cup of hot, sweet tea and covered with those Bacofoil blankets. I myself will need years of therapy to get over it.
- This treacly second world war drama is the sort of flaccid silliness that you’d expect to see on television with “ITV4” in the corner of the screen.
- There are some films so awful, of such insidious dishonesty and mediocrity, that their existence is a kind of scandal. […] Just thinking about it gives me a headache.
- These thesps look like the most terrifying water-based situation they have ever actually faced is when the Jacuzzi isn’t warm enough in their suite at the Four Seasons. XXXX, in particular, could do with a pair of waterwings, and he gives us every reason to suspect that his tummy scrapes the bottom of the pool when he assumes a horizontal position.
- Chased for days and days, they do not need to eat or sleep or use sentences that ordinary human beings would use.
- As the film continued, I personally began to bow my head in humility and self-knowledge. My pen slipped from my nerveless fingers and hot teardrops fell on my notepad, like a pure and cleansing rain, blurring the vindictive remarks I had scribbled. I was ashamed … ashamed … that I had ever given this incredible idiot anything approaching a good review.
- One per cent of your time watching this may be spent being startled by some vivid and disturbing images. The other 99% will be spent thinking: what the hell is going on?
- Never has a title been more horribly at odds with the way you’re actually going to feel while watching the movie.
- Embarrassingly, she is made to say “loo” to show off some real limeyspeak. Perhaps she can be grateful she wasn’t given bad teeth.
- Enough to make me want to put a brown paper bag over my head and whinny like a tormented pony.
- As Sigmund Freud once said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and sometimes a film with the silly but entertaining title of Snakes on a Plane, is just a silly but entertaining film about snakes on a plane.
- The Aryan Couple
- The Black Dahlia
- The Da Vinci Code
- The Devil Wears Prada
- A Good Year
- The Grudge 2
- The Guardian
- Lady In The Water
- Perfume: The Story Of A Murderer
- Stay Alive
- World Trade Center
- Snakes On A Plane
There are no prizes, obviously. It’s the taking part that counts. For answers see the first comment.
Spent an exhilarating day out on the rob today. Boxing Day is traditionally a great day for breaking and entering, as houses are chock full of brand new gear and people are out visiting relatives. Technically, of course, burgling with crowbars is now illegal, outlawed by a control-freak government as part of its risible class war. But the law is an ass, and far too blunt a tool for killing a passion handed down over generations from man to boy. Loopholes will always be found and exploited. Blair will never understand our ancient city ways.
A Happy Boxing Day to you all!
Just part of the magnificent haul we liberated from an end terrace in West Kirby today.
Went to see the infant school Christmas play this morning. The director was clearly a classic surrealist in the tradition of Dali. Anyone who can introduce Mr Incredible and a team of scorpions into the Christmas story without so much as flinching has to be some kind of genius.
Not that I’m taking anything away from the performances, mind. The guy who played Scooby Doo really made the role his own.
Ho Ho Hobgoblin! Santa on his sleigh as re-imagined by Year 2
It’s a tricky one this one, but I am assured these are two different shots.
As predictably as night follows day, our friends north of the border have got their knickers all in a twist again about England going to the World Cup while they get to stay at home and mope.
“Aye, the English, they’re so arrogant,” said one chap on Five Live last week. Another one said something else but how am I meant to understand them with those silly accents? They don’t even make an effort.
Meanwhile, sales of mangoes were reported to be up four-fold in Scotland in advance of the England v Trinidad & Tobago match, on account of the number of Carribean-themed party nights that were planned. It actually made me feel a bit sorry for them, having to find other under-achievers to root for when their own under-achievers under-achieve so splendidly they fall right out the bottom of the barrel. Simon Hoggart put it rather succinctly in yesterday’s Guardian:
I feel quite sorry for those Scots who detest England so much. There can be nothing more galling than to loathe someone who in return regards you with benign tolerance. Inevitably the anti-English brigade become like children shouting “I hate you, I hate you!” while the parent smiles and says, “I think he’s over-tired”.
Don’t get me wrong, mind: many of my best friends are English.
UPDATE: I take it all back, they’re right behind us.
That’s right, blogrot is commemorating the World Cup by offering you the unique opportunity to win a Signed England Shirt!!
The shirt (pictured) is one of mine from Tesco (in England) and bears not one but two signatures (Johannes Brahms, and Agnetha Faltskog from Abba).
To claim your chance to win this unique memento of Summer ’06, simply e-mail your name, address, credit card numbers, National Insurance number and approximate times you are out of the house to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Regular readers (ha!) will be aware that I’ve been suffering from a nasty bout of conjuntivitis lately. Understandably, many of you may have been concerned about this affecting my ability during the World Soccer Cup when it “kicks off” later this week.
Well worry no more. Doctors in Manchester have today confirmed that my eyes are definitely back to “match fitness”, and should be capable of watching one or two “games” a day, no sweat. It’s a huge relief as nobody loves soccer more than me, and I look forward to cheering our boys on with both eyes when they “go out to bat” on Sunday.
Either way I’m clearly not doing my job properly and must be driven from office immediately.
Photo: A croquet fan looking glum yesterday. Not only has the reputation of the beautiful game taken a “hammering” in recent days but it is also banned on trains in the UK, even first class. Not even a bacon butty and a female companion can cheer this fellow up, such is his love of “shooting hoops”.
It was silly season for nonsensical punditry this morning after the Arsenal’s defeat in some football match yesterday. I don’t pretend to be some kind of sports expert, but I do like to think I know bullshit when I smell it.
“Arsenal will come home knowing at least they’re a team who pass the ball,” said one eminent thinker asked whether there was any consolation in getting roundly thrashed.
“It’s a double disappointment,” commented another. “They’ll be disappointed for themselves, but also for their team mates, and also for the fans.”
“The ball went up in the air, and then it came down again,” said a third (or in football parlance, a second). “It went forwards and backwards too, and sort of sideways a bit, and at least three times it went in that net thingy.”
OK, the last one was me, just as the bastards at 5 Live hung up on me. But the rest were actual experts on football, not that you’d guess.