Charlie on Flirting

Charlie Brooker in today's Guardian talking about flirting. High-larious.

24/7

Official UK trailer for 24, season 7. It looks like it may be a real return to form! And how hot does Tony look?!

Dumb and Dumbsey

Surely, SURELY even by Fianna Fail's laughably, abysmally low standards, Transport Minister Noel Dempsey's position just isn't tenable after the provisional licence...what's the word? Joke? Debacle? Fiasco?

Whichever one you pick, this man should not be in office by the end of this week. The Taoiseach should fire him, and not even allow him the chance to resign.

But what are the chances? As the Taoiseach himself has more than proven over the past year, he nor his ministers nor anyone in Fianna Fail don't do accountability. Incompetence is consistently tolerated and, indeed, rewarded by Bertie Ahern. But then, who's he to adjudicate on what constitutes fitness for office anymore considering what he's been up to?

Bounce

This Life column from Day and Night in today's Irish Independent

Guess what my pick is for movie scene of the year. The awesome Dunkirk panorama in Atonement? The pants-wettingly intense Waterloo Station segment of The Bourne Ultimatum? Every single frame of Ratatouille?

No, no and no. I'm plumping for that scene in Knocked Up where Leslie Mann unleashes a tirade of abuse at a snotty bouncer who won't let her character into a nightclub. When I saw that, I nearly had to be strapped down in order to stop me from jumping up in the middle ofthe film, and sassily shouting, 'You go girl!', all while making animated snapping movements with my fingers.


We all have had our run-ins with rude and obstinate door staff and bouncers. Show me someone who goes out on a regular basis who hasn't had at least six infuriating experiences with bouncers and I'll show you someone who obviously drinks so much that they've blocked out the said encounters.


People point to George Dubious Bush or Vladimir Putin as examples of how absolute power can corrupt absolutely. Well, we have mini-Bushs and Putins on the doors of every bar and club on earth. Granted, there are some bouncers who wield their power benevolently, but there are twice as many who go insane on their power trips, the ones who cackle maniacally while stroking a cat as they watch mile-long queues form outside their superbars or clubs for no other reason than to make the place look more popular and fabulous than it really is.


That kind of petty behaviour I can just about tolerate. It's the rudeness that I can't stand. And I think I found the all time champs in that regard while on a weekend away to London a fortnight ago.


Our nightclub of choice that night was hosting a major girl group so we expected there to be crowds. The queue was manageable, but when we got to the top, some lovely lady with a clipboard barked at me, 'How many in your group, love?'. 'Five', I replied, presumably in some rare Inuit dialect thatI didn't know I possessed, because she glowered at me and repeated very slowly, 'How many in your group, are you deaf?'


Now if it had been an episode of Ally McBeal, that would have been the point where I fantasised about biting off her head and then using it as a sled to ride down the side of a craggy mountain. Instead I patiently repeated, 'Five' and she rolled her eyes and growled at us to go around the corner into another queue.


Except there was no other queue. It was more like an enclosed pen for grazing cattle, which, it turns out, is the best metaphor for our general treatment that night. We were herded inside, and literally pushed along by an army of staff who prodded us like cows at the mart and bellowed orders at us all like we were the fresh meat arriving on our first day at Shawshank.



When the gig ended, we went out for a cigarette, and were again shouted at for daring to ask for a stamp to get out. But when we all got out, they wouldn't let us back in, saying the club was too full!


I could go on, but space and rising blood pressure are constraining me. My point is that this club was a perfect demonstration of what happens when a place becomes successful: inevitable complacency and arrogance. Why bother treating people as humans anymore? We're just commodities afterall. Move along now cattle. Moo!

I tell you, that whole experience was so traumatising that I had to double my vodka intake once I got inside. So like a mindless bovine, I played right into their hands and was milked for all I was worth.

Did Brokeback change anything?

Interesting article in Entertainment Weekly looking at the cultural legacy, if any, of Brokeback Mountain and why TV is leaving Hollywood in the shade in terms of gay related projects and characters.

"In the weeks before the 78th annual Academy Awards, Brokeback Mountain producer Diana Ossana already suspected what few outside Hollywood could imagine: Her film was going to lose the Best Picture race. ''Several people told me they knew a lot of Academy voters who just refused to see the film,'' says Ossana, who also co-wrote the screenplay with Larry McMurtry...

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Are you a phoney liberal?

Just getting round to reading the Sunday papers today (I know), and came across this in the Sunday Times. It's a test to gauge where you stand in the culture wars and what your true political philosophy is. Fun/disturbing.

No Barack, don't do it!

Seems like Democratic presidential hopeful Barack Obama will campaign with just about anyone to close the gap on frontrunner, Hillary Clinton. Disappointing, Barack.

Life Goes On

With Claire Danes' new movie Stardust now in cinemas, how about revisiting the TV show My So-Called Life which made her name back in 1995 (yes, if you watched it on TV then, you are old!!!). This is an interview from the new Entertainment Weekly with Wilson Cruz who played Ricky Vasquez on the show. Bless. I really must dig that show up on DVD.

Rowling outs Potter character...

Harry Potter author JK Rowling has outed one of her characters from the books. Which one is it? Find out here.

Writers Strike Back

It looks like the much-feared Hollywood writer's strike is inevitable. Read about it here - and then store up on DVDs for the months and months of TV repeats and substandard dreck that will hit movie screens because of it.

On the market

This Life column from Day and Night magazine in yesterday's Irish Independent

Did you know that a certain swanky food market on the southside of Dublin is now one of the top three pick up joints for single people in the capital? I have it on good authority – you know, rumour – that people on the lookout for love deliberately target this food emporium hoping to pick up something sweet while buying a bag of sugar, or bag a beefy hunk while perusing the meat counter (best double entendres on a postcard please).

Joking aside, I for one welcome this development, if for no other reason than it shows that we Irish are finally thinking a bit more laterally about how we meet potential love interests, and are perhaps no longer relying solely on those fickle temples of temporary self-esteem (or pubs as they’re known elsewhere) to expand our romantic horizons.

Of course, supermarket cruising has long been a feature of single dating scenes elsewhere. A friend of mine was in Australia a few years ago for Valentine’s Day, and she took part in a singles event called Cereal Dating. Those taking part turned up at a designated time in the cereal aisle of a food market and picked up a brand that best summed up their personality. It was the perfect icebreaker and a huge hit.

I think it’s only when you meet or go out with someone not from Ireland that you fully grasp just how big a part pubs and clubs play in Irish hook-ups. Being something of a natural born diplomat with a flair for foreign tongues, I’ve stepped out with several non-Irish guys in my time, and each one has expressed their utter fascination/horror at this phenomenon. Where they were from, it was all about the dinner parties, meeting people through friends and – the major thing missing here – just approaching someone they like anytime, anwhere, even on the street.

My own favourite non-pub hook-up story was at the baggage terminal at Dublin Airport. We’d both been on the same flight and he’d apparently seen me on it. I then spotted him while we were waiting for our bags. We kept making eyes and eventually got chatting. Of course, as it turns out, carrying baggage around ultimately proved to be suitably metaphorical for that whole brief affair, but it’s still a pretty nice story.

One of the first things I always ask couples is how they met each other. And yes, many did meet in bars and clubs, and they’re perfectly happy. But that can be risky as we all know, what with the personality “enhancing”/transforming nature of alcohol and what not. What’s more, bars and clubs are just not everyone’s scene, so some people must find more inventive ways of meeting others.

The good news is that there has been an explosion of such singles events here in recent years. One firm is dedicated to organising meals out where everyone in attendance has gone through a thorough vetting process, and were selected for their group based on compatibility with the other diners. And there are many others sprouting up, like singles dance lessons, fitness classes and tour groups. The gym seems to be a huge pick up joint anymore. My one certainly is – with a beer pump and slightly less sweating, it could well pass for one of my regular weekend haunts.

Of course, a spectre is haunting this article, and it’s the one avenue for singles that I haven’t mentioned thus far. Yes, I’m referring to the internet but, quite frankly, I don’t think I have the strength. That’s a whole other article in itself that I may return to should I ever summon the courage. In the meantime, I’m off to that food market I mentioned at the start, because it so happens that I’m all out of, oh let’s say, tea.

Another sucky week for the Church. Tee hee hee

Just when you thought the Catholic Church couldn't get anymore ridiculous... read here

Al Gore wins Nobel Peace Prize

Al Gore has won the Nobel Peace Prize. Who said there are no second acts in American lives? This is just the latest step in the greatest political comeback in American history. Go Gore! (Sorry Hillary).

The citation reads: "for their [Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) and Gore's] efforts to build up and disseminate greater knowledge about man-made climate change, and to lay the foundations for the measures that are needed to counteract such change."

Hari: Gay bashing should not be a hate crime

Johann Hari from the London Independent 11/10/2007. Thought-provoking stuff. Still not sure if I agree or not though...

"It's always strange and sad when you have to disagree with people who have purely good motives and purely good goals. Over the past week, I have smacked into disagreement twice with friends and allies in the fight for equality for gay people. Both times, the rows have boiled down to one core question: should the people who hate and detest us just because of a trivial and irreversible biological fact – homosexuality – be subject to extra criminal sanctions?"

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Club Life

This Life column from Day and Night magazine from today's Irish Independent

Like many people, I haven't spent an entire night out in town or in a club ever since that Centra TV advert dictated a few years back that "staying in was the new going out". Of course, what that catchy phrase really implied was "go out all you want, but not before stocking up on our high quality but cost friendly plonk, getting nicely toasted insomeone's house before inevitably stumbling your way into town after midnight to do your bit for our apparently whimpering Tiger economy by making some much-needed investments in social capital". And being easily prone to advertising, that's exactly what I've done ever since.

However, a fortnight ago there were a handful of birthdays within my consigliere so we decided to break with our weekly tradition of having a tipple at home first and spend a whole night out in a club to celebrate. Our group arrived in town uncharacteristically sober at the ungodly hour of 8pm on the Saturday night and by 10pm, we were tottering off to our club of choice.

I hadn't been in a club that early in a long time, but it didn't take long to become reacquainted with the rituals and patterns of the nightclub experience. For your edification and mine, I've compartmentalised the night into distinct time segments (kind of like an episode of 24) that I think covers just about any club experience in its entirety:

The PG-13 Phase (10pm-12am). It's early in the night so most of the arriving revellers around you are clear, upright, coherent, even classy. It's all pretty dignified. You're loosening up, you're chatty and witty. Your focus is on your friends. There's that one nutter upon a stage on the dancefloor, bopping away on his lonesome in his own crazy little world. But, as midnight approaches, and the glasses pileup around you, the atmosphere changes, ushering in…

The Witching Hour (12am – 2am). The focus shifts more and more to mating rituals. The group fractures as friends wander off for little stalks, or pair off to form pulling tag teams. The dance floor gets progressively busier and suddenly that sole crazy dancer is a hero amongst men. Speech, though less coherent, is bubbling over as you hold forth on some topic and marvel at how these brilliant, philosophical points and arguments keep spilling from your mouth. Shot glasses appear. You alternate between dancing, shouting in friends ears, infiltrating the smoking area and marking your territory around an object of your affection, until your watch points out that it's now approaching…

Desperate O'Clock (2am - ?). All bets are off. The dance floor isjammed as everyone's inner Shakira breaks out and we all collectively flap about like a bunch of epileptic seals. Those who have scored already are slinking away, leaving the rest of us to dart our eyes around and throw our most seductive – for want of a better word –looks around. The music stops. People boo. Bouncers arrive on thefloor like stormtroopers and manhandle you out onto the streets. The smart people decide to go home, but the rest lurk around outside, refusing to admit the night's over waiting for friends, scouring for parties,. Before you know it, it's 4am and you're perched on a windowsill on Dame Street with pizza that materialised from somewhere with your new best friend with whom you bonded in a queue somewhere…

And this is where it always gets a little blurry, but you all can insert your own ending at will. As for me, while it was fun doing an epic, old-school club night, I was back to my Centra-fied social existence the following weekend. My bank account was clubbed to debt by that night out, and I'd forgotten that that lightweight gets crippling hangovers.

Go Jimmy!

Former US President Jimmy Carter lashes out at Darth Cheney.

Nobel Prize in Literature

Doris Lessing has won this year's Nobel Prize in Literature. Philip Roth ignored YET AGAIN.

Lessing's Nobel citation describes her as: "that epicist of the female experience, who with scepticism, fire and visionary power has subjected a divided civilisation to scrutiny".

Lovely. Roth was still robbed.

Gore for Peace

After an Oscar and Emmy win, can Al Gore add a Nobel Peace Prize to his honours haul? He's the current joint favourite to win for his climate change campaign. If he wins the Prize on Friday, can we expect a presidential announcement on Monday? It could change the whole dynamic of the Democratic race next year.

Silver Tongue

She sure aint everyone's cup of tea, but there was a good interview with comedienne Sarah Silverman in last Saturday's Guardian. I think she's highlarious. YouTube her vicious Paris and Britney routines at various MTV bashes. Or her wistful abortion sketch. Green Day's Time of Your Life will never be the same.

Gotta love some Charlie

Charlie Brooker, the funniest writer and TV presenter in the world (prove me wrong people), is on flying form in today's Guardian, tackling David Cameron, fat and incontinence caused by slimming pills. You can read it here.

And his peerless Screen Burn TV column from last Saturday can be viewed here.

Get Lost in Showbiz

If you're not reading Marina Hyde's Lost in Showbiz column every Friday in The Guardian's G2, then shame on you. Seriously, go stand in the corner facing the wall, I can't even look at you.

Here's the link to today's brilliant instalment.

Ex-pert Advice

This Life column from Day and Night magazine in today's Irish Independent

I have a pal who's chronically fixated on remaining friendly with his exes. In fact, he becomes positively, genuinely miserable if the break-up doesn't lead to a new acquaintanceship with his erstwhile flame. And to my utter horror/wonder/envy, he manages to pull it off.


This guy is obviously a student of that freakish Bruce Willis-Demi Moore school of keeping the ex in your life, whereas most of us — notice how I'm grouping you all with me? — would go the Jennifer Aniston-Brad Pitt route of totally ignoring one other, and, if called upon, communicating solely and passive-aggressively through the tabloid press (admittedly not an option for most of us).



I've written about the topic of keeping exes on the payroll before, but feel compelled to return to it, as it's becoming harder and harder to avoid these days. The exes are everywhere of late: there they are starting in your office or moving into the apartment across the way. And look, there’s two of your exes hooking up in a club. Aren't they cute? What's that now? An ex is now marrying into my family? How wonderful! I'm just waiting for my Empire Strikes Back moment when an ex reveals to me that he is actually my father (welcome to the dark recesses of my mind. I should remind you at this point that there are no refunds).



So considering all of this, maybe my friend is onto something by strenuously maintaining diplomatic relations with former squeezes. The world - nay, Dublin - is too small a place to accommodate any major wars between exes and their respective allies. If you localise such 'Exes of Evil' conflicts to the infinitesimally small gay scene, you can get total carnage.


However, I’m not a total disaster in this field, having managed to keep on good terms with a few exes over the years (while still photoshopping others out of existence). I even have one shining, unqualified success story. One of my best friends in the world also happens to be an ex. We saw each other for a little while about three years ago. It ended, but we got on really well, so after a few months, we got back in touch and here we are today. It was one of the best things that ever happened to me.


So, as much as I joke about it, it is possible to salvage something fantastic from a break-up, but certain conditions needs to be met first. The most crucial ones are:



1) There has to be a time gap between the break-up and the start of friendship. Even if it was just a casual fling, there still needs to be a respectful period where you don’t see each other, where whatever feelings that there were can be played out and where you won’t throw a hissy fit if you see that person scoring someone else. We all know that last one in particular stings. This hopefully will then lead to a situation where…



2) There is zero attraction left between the two of you. This might seem thunderingly obvious, but very often two exes decide to go the friends route when one party still fancies the other one rotten. This is a recipe for disaster of immense proportions (which is why you can never really be friends with someone you have a crush on either). When it comes to my best friendly-ex, I know that in terms of attraction he sees Maggie Thatcher when he looks at me, and vice versa. But until you reach that stage, successful friendship is out, out, out.


Believe me, it can work. But as for the next major diplomatic push – establishing détente with the sour-experience exes – I’m not sure I’m fully there yet. There’s being friends, and then there’s just being plain stupid.

Delicious. No other word.

I saw Disney-Pixar's Ratatouille yesterday morning and I can safely say that its rave reviews (96% critics average on Rotten Tomatoes) are thoroughly deserved. Breathtaking animation, eye popping set pieces and laugh-out-loud humour are souffled into a funny, thoughtful, moving and, most importantly, entertaining movie.

And what a great, dare I say it, inspiring (and inspired) message: Remy, the sophisticated rat who wants to be a chef, is a deceptively simple stand-in for every dreamer and artist out there. Some of us are in the gutter - literally in Remy's case- but we truly are looking at the stars. I'm man enough to admit, I even cried during it.

In terms of what cinema is capable of doing, and what it should do, this is as close to perfection as you could hope to get.

Medellin - it's for real!

Entourage fans out there (and why aren't there more of you? You don't know what your missing) will be interested in reading this art imitating life imitating art story here

Yes, I'm unpatriotic. Sue me.

Okay, I know he led the onslaught against the Irish rugby team yesterday, but look at him! Juan Martin Hernandez everyone.