Stolen from Dave (who talks better than what I does).

Your Vocabulary Score: B-

You have a zealous love for the English language, and many find your vocabulary edifying. Don’t fret that you didn’t get every word right, your vocabulary can be easily ameliorated!

Have been getting to the pictures quite a lot recently. Managed a staggering three trips to different cinemas last week which I don’t think I’ve managed since I was living in Brum and was known to see multiple movies in a day. Spoilers lay in wait so beware.

This time last week I took in Babel. What an absolute hoot of a movie that was. I realised I’d made a terrible mistake several minutes after the thing had started when all the performances were sickeningly noticeable because everyone was trying so hard to be understated. It was a wearisomely earnest and melodramatic affair that was so utterly devoid of humour (except in several bizarre and inexplicable moments) that I did almost burst out laughing at points because I was aware I was half expecting characters to become sudden victims of ridiculously exaggerated bursts of violence just because their impending (real or mataphysical) doom was being thrust down my throat ALL THE BLOODY TIME. The stars, all of which have given very decent performances in other things, were uniformly awful and indiscriminately wasted in what must have been literally minutes of screen time (which was probably for the best as they were the least interesting things in the movie) and the piece built to a kind of anti-climax where the director stole his main piece of score from a real movie made nearly ten years ago and whose memory sustained me to the end of this overstretched tower of nothing more than utter wank. I had been very interested to see this because I still haven’t caught Amores perros and 21 Grams but I’m suddenly not so keen now.

Wednesday saw me weave through the couples to my seat for Hot Fuzz. This wasn’t quite what I’d been expecting and did slightly smack of trying too hard but was nonetheless tremendous fun. The sheer amount of talent being displayed was almost unseen in a British comedy in years and year and years (including Shaun). The amount of original jokes and puns and affectionate references that were actually laugh-out loud funny was staggering as was the pacing of the substantial narrative which still gave time for the great performances and boat loads of cameos which added to the effect rather than stole the show. It left me feeling quite dizzy and I was still chucking for many days afterwards. I saw a trailer for Run, Fat Boy, Run also starring Pegg. The trailer makes the film look great fun so I hope it follows in the footsteps of Hot Fuzz rather than last year’s Big Nothing which I haven’t actually seen but didn’t have to to tell that it’s a bit lacking in, well, everything really…

Friday night and to Tewkesbury for Pan’s Labyrinth. You know that I really want to see something when I have to resort to travelling to the next county because nowhere near here is showing it! I’d been a fan of Hellboy and so had a vague idea of what to expect and appreciated the ingredients here but not the blend. It reminded me of The Road To Perdition and The Cell (don’t laugh). The Cell is actually not a bad film and, despite having Ms Lopez in it, is a very striking and visually stunning adventure that thrusts its use of stylized visuals to the fore to play out the battle of wills between a sort-of psychotherapist and a serial killer with the twist being that it plays out in the mind of the killer (the scene in Pan’s Labyrinth with the banquet table was particularly reminiscent of the representation of the killer’s id in The Cell). In The Road to Perdition Tom Hank’s murderous father manages to rescue his son’s soul from eternal damnation by slaying Jude Law’s assasin before the son, who is actually prepared to do it, has the chance (you can tell Law’s supposed to be evil because he has bad teeth). The similarity of the themes in Pan’s Labyrinth to those in Mende’s story are perhaps more obvious but I mention these two films because they do what they say on the tin. With Pan’s Labyrinth it’s the classic problem of using certain elements in the promotion of the movie to make it more appealing (in this case to draw in lovers of that delicious brand of dark fantasy) and although these elements are very much present, this film gets the mix wrong and the result is too much missed opportunity and left me with a very bitter taste in my mouth. Not only is it a deeply unhappy ending but there’s the feeling that the fantasy world, far from being helpful, has actually contributed to the outcome and the heroine has only been hiding from reality (or using it to cope) rather than learning and using her world to achieve anything. For me this story was how The Shining might have ended if Nicholson hadn’t perished in the blizzard and how La Vita è bella might have ended if little Giosué had been discovered by the Nazis, i.e. all that gone before had been in vain.

The year of the pig has arrived. Also known as the year of the boar, this year is supposed to be an especially good year to have a child as they will be blessed with good luck both in fortunes and in relationships. I do know at least one couple who are expecting their first so this bodes well for them. It’s also meant to be a good year to get married too and I know at least one couple who have recently announced that they’re tying the knot which also makes me happy.

What makes me really chuffed though is that I can say a firm good bye to the bitch that was 2006’s year of the dog. Although the year wasn’t entirely without merit (I did get to initiate and develope a number of personal projects aswell as pack in some travelling) much of the year for me was a frustrating, sluggish, dispiriting, depressing and basically a horrid affair across all areas of my life. I’m glad to be able to draw a line under it and move on. Apparently this year is supposed to be good if you’re a sheep/ram like myself so I’m looking forward to a reversal of fortunes (or if not a reversal then an upswing). I hope it’s a good one for you too!

Series 2 of Life on Mars kicks off tonight and I’m actually quite looking forward to it. This is surprising because I hardly watch any TV (let alone get excited about it) and also because I said I wouldn’t bother with any more because they didn’t wrap it up at the end of the first series when they had the chance and I hate those TV shaggy dog stories that drag on and ultimately disappear up their own behinds. The first series was excellent. The scripts were mustard, the casting inspired and the performances and direction much better than anything else around. Besides this the early seventies were so well realised and the amount of nostalgia and loving in-jokes was perfectly balanced with the story and the issues raised. That and the soundtrack was awesome. This is promised to be the last series and so I’m going to absorb myself once more in the Manchester of 1973 and the masterly partnering of John Simm and an “…overweight, over-the-hill, nicotine-stained, borderline-alcoholic homophobe with a superiority complex and an unhealthy obsession with male bonding”.

I was born on a rainy Saturday afternoon and, as the nursery rhyme goes, I think I’ve worked hard for things generally, even if sometimes this was because I didn’t know how to work smart. Case in point is my current situation. My latest temping assignment sees me working for Aiim Europe (yes, I know they can’t spell). It’s a telemarketing data-cleaning gig that requires me to work my way through a lot of old contact information and check to see if it’s still current and goes a little something like this; “Hi. My name’s James and I’m calling from a company called Aiim Europe. We’re updating our contacts and I was hoping you might be able to tell me whether the following people are still working for you…?” [x 100 each day]. The person on the other end of the line will either respond by saying “Yes certainly, what are the names?” or (more often) “I’m afraid I can’t give you that information because of data- protection/our company’s no-name policy” or  (most frequently) “Let me put you through to someone who can help…” (you can imagine where that leads). This is only a natural response because either the person answering the phone doesn’t have access to this information or they don’t want the responsibility of leaking a colleague’s details in this age of deception and fraud.

Now it’s hard work maintaining enthusiasm and keeping going when you aren’t getting much co-operation, there’s little or no variety and the work is less well paid than anything I’ve done for years. I can’t claim it’s the worst telemarketing job I’ve had because I’m not actually selling anything, the day does actually go by quicker than you’d think and it is probably the kind of challenge I need. My boss did say that this job is a bit of a company joke as in they take bets on whether or not the temp shows up on day 2. My showing up this morning either means that I’m determined to get to the end of the job to prove to myself I can do it, I’m desperate for the cash, I’m a masochist or that I’m daft. Which one? Let me put you through to someone who can help…

So my blog’s rapidly approaching its first birthday (first post March 1st ’06) and since Rob’s just finished doing a lot of work moving it from one server to another and tweaking various settings I thought it would be a good opportunity to thank the man for all his hard work, to remind him how grateful I am to even have a blog, and for all his patient advice. So here’s a big thank from me for all the Jam!

Jip in Human Traffic goes wild about the potential of the coming weekend, dizzy at the prospect of having 48 hours off from the world and the chance to blow steam out his head like a screaming kettle and the Milky Bars being on him, and it’s fair to say that I felt pretty much that way for every second of the 3rd and 4th of Feb 2007. The Year of the Pig is very much on its way (haven’t read anything about it yet – except a bit of blurb in ‘Nuts’ about piglet racing in a few of China’s provinces to usher in the new year…) and things are picking up nicely. I’d had an invite to Ms Davenport’s birthday on the Sunday afternoon so had planned to gad about the capital and make the most of the opportunity to see things, and to see them with my eyes. It was a cold start on Saturday, and so it was onto the train for a glaring and brilliant dart through Glos, Oxon, Berks and into Greater London before racing to The South Bank for a bite to eat and a catch up with Benj and Ros. After food and a brisk stroll around and a brush with Industrial Strength Café Mocha and Gruyère I wended my way to Richmond to meet Rae and watch the delightful and resounding thrashing of Scotland by Wilkinson and Co in a wonderful pub called The Sun in Richmond that was stuffed with people which made you feel Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Box but lended the proceedings such a pulsating and rowdy atmosphere (whilst at the same time being quite gentile). We were actually entrenched by be-kilted Scotsmen who were great sports and bought us a drink by way of a forfeit. One of these guys (who was actually called Scot), who had been trying valiantly to chat up my sister throughout, was decked out in a solid black kilt. Rae was convinced it was a girl’s gym skirt but Scot The Scot tried to convince us that it was to do with the Jacobites’ battle dress at The Battle of Culloden and a clever form of camouflage for nocturnal skirmishes. The idea of a Scots ninja was hit upon seconds before my third pint (a cider by this time, that had had WKD Red added to it for a laugh, like) was upset by The Celtic Assassin who then proceeded to look very embarrassed before claiming that ‘…[his] work here was done…’ and shuffling off. I had no dinner plans beyond getting back to Reading, to stop over, through such romantic holiday spots as Feltham and Staines so I left Rae to her pre-planned girls night out and hopped it. This gave me the chance to meet Rae’s housemate of more than a few months, Aussie Dave and my sister’s new buddy Helena (who will be following Dave into the spare room in March when he moves on). A great Chow Mein was had and my trousers were relieved of their cider/alcopop sheen. Dave and Helena looked after me well.

Sunday saw me laze around before I got back to London and had a good stroll about, passing through Kensington Gardens, past The Albert Hall, through Notting Hill and along Portabello Road enjoying my tunes and togged up in chill-discouraging gear before I got myself over to Canada Water for the party. Now the invite had said (1987) after the title/announcement. This puzzled me because Alex was born in 1980. Turns out this was to be her seventh birthday all over again and one was to feel free to come along decked out in dress of the era (certainly we were treated to such musical delights as Living In A Box, T’Pau and Rick Astley). The sophisticated spreads that Alex and Co are renowned for (that usually include 7 different types of humous amongst other mouth watering delights) were radically altered and included crisps (KP Skips), chocolate bars and a bewildering selection of sandwiches that involved wafer-thin sliced ham and chicken fillings and the candy hundreds-and-thousands sort (which had apparently been a staple of Davenport children’s parties of yore). The food was actually terrific and just what was needed after my ramblin’ - the vodka jelly was particularly lethal however. Turns out we needed to be good and drunk because the party games followed. We had to pass an orange around from between one person’s chin and chest to the next, whilst simultaneously moving a balloon around from between one person’s thighs to another. Pin-the-lipstick-and-eye-shadow-on-the-face was another good one; I was blindfolded and had to tart-up a poor unfortunate. Finally there was time for a few heated rounds of Chubby Bunny before racing to Padington for my train home – or to Worcester, at any rate, as the train refused to go any further. Thanks for putting me up, Marc. I owe you a meal at some point soon, mon ami!

Naomi and I went to see Treats at Malvern last week. I’d wanted to see this production ever since I found out that Little Billie Pipsqueak was in it and that I’d get to be in relatively close proximity to her. Sigh. Didn’t really know very much about it but was interested to see what Ms Piper would be like on stage and as she was to be joined by Kris Marshall and Laurence Fox I was keen to see the three of them lock horns. The trio worked very well together and the dynamic was good over throughout the duration. The story concerns Ann who has used Dave’s (Marshall) recent trip to abroad to get out of what, for her, must have been an oppressive and chronically demeaning relationship and she has kicked him out of her apartment and installed well-meaning and amiable but wholly-inadequate Patrick (a fantastic Laurence Fox). Now, Dave is an absolute bastard. Adopting the divide-and-conquer approach he proceeds to be aggressively nasty to Ann and genial to Patrick (after having announced his return by punching him squarely in the face and apologised by bringing him flowers).  It’s clear that Dave knows he must win Ann back or face some sort of oblivion and the recurring theme was not so much his behaviour but that he knew it was an essential strategy he must employ. The continuing issue of Ann only responding to varying amounts of emotional blackmail, slander, verbal abuse and physical violence was the most disturbing (and compelling) aspect. Ann has the choice of Patrick’s sensible, if indecisive, and optimistic behaviour vs Dave’s self-loathing, sociopathic and spiteful tactics. Both men clearly do love Ann but it is clear that Dave needs her in a way that Patrick is not capable of. Certainly Ann tries to go it alone after she realises that she is only with Patrick on the rebound yet she still allows herself to be bullied back into the relationship and although it was depressingly predictable, you can’t help wishing she could find another way. The title referred at one point to break-up sex but also to the actual process of negotiating getting back together. I hadn’t realised, because I’ve never actually read it, but Christopher Hampton wrote ‘Treats’ while working on translating Ibsen’s ‘A Doll’s House’ (which I finally picked up a copy of recently). It seems Hampton felt that the issue of women (maybe men too?) trapping themselves in oppressive and hopeless (not to mention abusive) relationships was just as relevant in the 1970’s as it had been a hundred years previous and that maybe Ibsen’s play was too subtle and not shocking enough. Except that the wife leaves the marriage in Ibsen’s play which is arguably what was so exciting about it. This made me think of Joe Penhall’s play ‘Love and Understanding’ (again two guys and a gal) where despite the happiness of the couple at the outset (perhaps ‘contentment’ is a better word) and the obviously self-destructive personality of the third party the girlfriend is drawn to sleep with the newcomer as much by his manipulations as by the inability or unwillingness of the boyfriend to react in the desired way. Or was she? We all crave excitement and if things have gotten stale (read ‘stable’ or ‘predictable’) then you might well start looking around or, at any rate, become susceptible to being lead astray. In ‘When Harry Met Sally’ Harry is discussing his recently failed marriage with a friend. His friend nods sagely and says “Marriages don’t break up on a count of infidelity.  It’s just a symptom that something else is wrong.” Harry replies, “Oh really?  Well that symptom is fucking my wife.”