Some really excellent things have been wibbling in front of my droopy eyes in the last week. Some not so excellent things, as well. An example of the latter: the new Aero bubbles advert, in which a "hunk" (and if there was a way of shouting quote marks in print, believe me, I would be doing it right now) drones on and on in a supposedly erotic fashion about the melting point of chocolate. Oh, but here's the thing. It is the single most unattractive thing that has ever seared itself inexorably into my visual cortex. OK, so my taste in men may err more towards the gawky, socially inept, grumpy malcontent end of the spectrum (with apologies, Mr Ed, you are of course the exception that proves the rule) but I can't be the only one who looks at this smug, towel-wearing, gurning, greased-up, grotesque man flailing his bare feet everywhere and thinks one thing - "that's just unhygienic". Anyway, everyone everywhere knows that the only way to sell chocolate is to just film it melting and undulating and pouring into moulds and being all gooey. See? Now you all want some chocolate, even if you have a fatal lactose intolerance. Goo!
Onto the goodness. Firstly, there is Mr Biffo's book, which is a hoot, a hoot, a hoot and a half, half a hoot, and exactly no more hoots. It reminds me of the much-lamented-only-by-me Bubblegun, which I think has vanished from this here internet parish, but could probably be thoroughly googled, if you had the time, which I most certainly do not. Bonus extra: my good friend made me a t-shirt featuring one of the top ten lists from Bubblegun (the one about the shoe shop, fact fans) and it was one of the most loveliest things I owned, but then the letters started peeling off and it became less funny, although hopefully, translated into something offensive in some tiny minority language. Plus, the reading of the t-shirt would necessitate a person kneeling in front of me and myopically squinting at my chest for ten minutes, which is something I savour only in certain, private, disgusting situations.
The other thing of excellence: Children Of Men, a film so bloody good that I kept having to pause the DVD in order to shout "THIS IS SO BLOODY GOOD!" at the dog. The dog's not real. That's how much this film messed with my head. Christ, I can't even tell you why it's so good without honking hysterically. Go and look up a Guardian review of it or something, that'll explain everything. In fact, I just have done that very thing, and it does that very thing. The Observer one even mentions allegories. Just for you, the tav.
So there you go: a chocolate whine, pervs online, and a film that's fine. Ba-dum!