Iron Filings

Its a bloody miserable day outside. One of those days where the weather has decided everything needs to be in more shades of grey than a film noir piece. Unfortunately it hasn’t added any of the spy suspense or intrigue of such a piece and instead everything just seems boring and mundane. Its like a constant version of parliament TV. When its been sunny, but then gets like this, that’s the worst. Much like Janet Jackson sang ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till its gone’, which is what Joni Mitchell thought after she’d sold the rights for those lyrics. No Q-Tip, Joni Mitchell isn’t ‘in the house’, merely her song lyrics and basic tune are, but what you have done, is generally butchered them. I would dispute that if Joni was indeed ‘in the house’ she’d probably be screaming ‘Why have you killed my metaphorical baby?’ a lot. (I’d like to point out Q-Tip is a legend of things, just not in that track). But I digress. Basically, today is shit. I’m so pleased I get to stay indoors all day and not go outside or do any sort of of outdoor festival today. What? What’s that you say? I’m doing two gigs tonight and one of them is an outdoor festival? Ten types of fuck sticks. I’m sure they’ll be much fun, but right now I’m eating leftover pick and mix for breakfast, having a temporary lobotomy by watching Alexa Chung on T4 talk and act as though she’s having a constant stroke, and playing Angry Birds on my iPhone.

This morning’s goodness follows yesterday’s day of fun. The Camden Crawl was pretty good. I felt a tad braindead by the end, but generally the crowd were brilliant and included a band we created called the Honey Frakker Bollocks, a man who was sure all the original Sugababes were dead (a theory I hope is true and I have decided that they keep changing because, like genetic clones, they only last 6 months before rotting), and someone who’s job it was to make ‘safe flooring’ as opposed to floors covered in bombs. All the acts were awesome and the afternoon ended on a Rufus Hound shouting about cock sucking, which, I think you’ll agree, is how afternoons should probably always end. But after the fours hours of compereing, I felt more than a tad braindead. This was the perfect mindset to go and see Iron Man 2 with my friends.

I’m not going to put any spoilers here, but lets just say that the ending of Iron Man 2 means I can’t wait for the many sequels, Iron Manatee, Iron Mango and Iron Manflu. Arf. Seriously though, its a bit bloody good. There was much discussion in the car after about bits of poor scripting, plot holes etc, and I began to wonder when that happened to us as people? I was fairly sure I’d enjoyed it all, why did I find myself in a car with three other men complaining about a film that contained all the elements we should be happy with? Dudes in robot suits attack things with an array of weaponry, Scarlett Johansson is in an increasingly brilliant array of tight fitting revealing clothes, Robert Downey Jr is brilliant and Samuel L Jackson wears an eye patch like the coolest pirate on earth. What’s not to like? Well, if you’re going to be picky, then there are a few bits, but I’m going to try not to be. If I was 8 years old, it may well be my favourite film ever. Saying that though, it is a 12A, so I may not have got in. But when I was 8, I didn’t have the knowledge or insight into films that means I now can’t just watch and enjoy. I blame our A Level media studies teachers who told us all about mis-en-scene and juxtapositioning and other clever words. Sure they were meant to teach us that as per the curriculum, but from then on, a film was no longer just a film. Instead it involved lots of other things and factors and suddenly every film became judged on lots of different levels.

Its a plus point in some ways. I think its very nice to tell you exactly why I hated a film, but it also means I don’t think I’ve ever really enjoyed a film since. I can no longer enjoy others stand-up as I over analyse it, I tend to look far too heavily into who’s produced what music and get very picky about writing techniques in books. Is this some sort of sliding scale whereby by the time I’m 40 I will not be able to enjoy anything properly again? Meals will get critiqued to the very last herb, my cats will be subject to constant reports on how they are eating and mieowing and I will wake up every morning and give my night’s sleep a score out of ten based on position, length and dreams had. Really I should be looking at today’s shit weather and saying ‘well hey, it means we won’t have a hose ban this summer’ before dancing down the street with a brolly doing my own version of ‘Singin’ In The Rain’. Or, on second thoughts, perhaps its better I just get miserable and don’t act like a prick before getting pneumonia.

Oh and nobody got the competition right yesterday, which is lucky as I didn’t have a prize. The ones I made up were:

Twelve Kinds Of Ankle
Eat Your Brain and Sick It Out
David Arse
Stylistic Henry and the Timelords
Bark Off
Elephantitus
Raaargle Spaaargle
Oooh Danone

Which means all the others were real. Yes, That Fucking Tank are real. I really regret not going to see them now, as judged on that name, they must be brilliant. I also really think that if you are in a new band with no name as yet, then you should probably be called Twelve Kinds of Ankle.

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