Archive for July, 2011

by Barry Git

I was in the pub the other day with a few friends discussing the relative merits of James Cameron’s blockbuster masterpiece, Titanic, when a good mate of mine, Barry Bollocks, brought up the subject of the Irish in it.  “How,” he postulated, “it is that everyone has a go at the James Cameron, the Bearded Nemesis who created Titanic, for stereotyping the Irish as bunch of big trotting Murphy’s drinking copious amounts of amazingly watery Guinness, being chirpy in the face of danger, jigging about at the drop of a hat every time someone whips out a violin and generally acting like some mental cases idea of what the Irish must have been like back in the days of yore?”

“Well, Bollocks,” I told him.  “That’s because they’re not stereotypes, and it’s all true.  James Cameron is a very intelligent man who wouldn’t knowingly represent a country of people on screen without a great deal of research, so back in those days everyone from Ireland danced a jig, drank brown water, and died on the Titanic.  It’s obvious, innit?  I was watching a film by that bloke, Ken Loach, the other day, and it was about a bunch of grim Northern people having a pretty tough time, and I thought, ‘yeah, that’s right, because everyone up north is really grim and has a hard time and all that, because it’s all true.’  See, Bollocks, everything you see on the film is a representation of what goes on in life.  If you bugger off to Hollywood there’s a load of prossies over there and they’ve all got hearts of gold, and if you’re a down and out who’s been stitched over by some posh Wallstreet geezers for a bet they’ll help you get yourself back on your feet.”

“Yeah, but Titanic was set in the olden times,” said Bollocks.

“That’s where Hollywood can teach us all stuff about history,” I tells him.  “Don’t believe what that bloody Simon Schama geezer tells you on the non-car chase programs about talking, because it’s all bloody lies!  F’rinstance, he’d have you believe that it was some Spanish Geezer what discovered America, when we all know it was actually Gerard Depardieu.  And the USA wasn’t build by a melange of foreign types who emigrated there and an enslaved population, but – as we know from that masterpiece Far and Away – America was actually forged by Californian midgets with strange accents and floppy hair.”*

“I thought the Brits did it?” said Bollocks.

“Well, that’s another story,” I tells him.  “Basically the Brits did almost everything in the known world, but mainly the evil stuff.  But that’s only when we were in America.  Over in Blighty it’s a different story.  F’rinstance, as we all know from Four Weddings And a Funeral, when soft Southern shandy drinking big girl’s blouses aren’t stuttering about trying to get into the pants of wooden objects disguised as women they’re living in mansions and big flats and going to massive parties full of posh arseholes.”

“But I don’t live in a mansion, Barry,” said Bollocks.

“Never mind that,” I carried on.  “After watching that programme on the telly which they always show at ten o’clock with the people who sit in front of desks and say stuff at you and then it cuts to something else and then they have a nice bit at the end about the Queen or some kittens hang gliding or something –“

“The ITV news?” says Bollocks.

“That’s the one.  Anyway, after watching that drama many years back I was under the impression that Notting Hill was full of none-Hugh Grant types, but when I saw the film I had to reassess my knowledge of the place.  It was full of white people who all had money and that, and they all had Welsh friends who were a bit whacky, and loads of women film stars with huge gobs hung about and talked shit there.  And wheelchairs are the only form of transport.  Which brings me down to people with disabilities.  The world outside of that big place where they show the films would have you believe that people with disabilities have it tough, don’t get enough help, and can sometimes even be bitter about the condition they’re in.  But we know from Richard Curtis films that everyone with any disability whatsoever is always a spunky type who’s there for their mates, and they don’t mind not having any legs or no arms or being deaf or any of that, because they’re all lovely people and everything’s nice in the world.”

“But, Git,” said Bollocks, “I have an epistemological question.  How come all us brits are lovely and stuck up and live in mansions and posh flats and stuff, and I live in a toss-pot of a council house with a fridge on the front lawn.”

“Because you’re obviously living in the wrong part of the country, Bollocks,” I tells him.  “Either get yerself a mansion or a posh flat and a mate in a wheelchair or piss off up north.  The only types who lives down here are posh toffs and geezers who get involved in all kinds of dodgy deals and mockney capers.”

“I nicked that tube of toothpaste once,” said Bollocks.

“Then you’re a typical mockney scamp, Bollocks,” I said.  “You need to get yerself involved into a bunch of risky situations with hard bitten gangster types and learn cockney.”

“But I am somewhat discombobulated, Git, old mate,” said Bollocks.  “If stereotypes are real and they all exist, what about all those films with giant robots hitting each other and orcs and wizards and all that?”

“Don’t be stupid, Bollocks.”  I took another swig of me genuine cockney lager.  “Those things don’t exist.  You don’t have dragons and talking fish or any of that lot.  But what Hollywood and films and all that are TRYING to say is this – if such things ever did exist, then that’s what they’d look like and act like.  Except Optimus Prime.  He’d actually play drums for Sting.”

I think at this point we’d already had a few pints too many and the conversation degenerated into who would win a fight – Wall-E or the spaceship from Close Encounters, and by the time we left the pub I’d forgotten everything we said, so this whole column might have just been made up and never actually really existed.  So forget everything you’ve just read.

I was reading in some lefty newspaper the other day about how we should raise up our bottoms to Michael Bay in supplication to his mighty beard as he’s not a skanky old pro-right Government lackey but rather an genius of the modern day art form of turning shit into gold. The lefty paper was The Guardian and the writer was John Patterson. J’ACCUSE, PATTERSON, YOU BIG TWAT!!

Now, I enjoy a big pile of old cheesy helmets as much as the next deranged killer, but I’m afraid at no point ever in the entire running time of Transbellends; Dark Side of Arse, is there ever any spark of anything which wasn’t chewed up and spat out by the bastard machine that is the Hollywood Turd Maker. The plot, for a start, is about as original as being kicked in the knackers at The Knacker Kicking Society, the characters go beyond the cardboard into an entirely new sort of cardboardy texture which hitherto has been unknown to man, and every single facking shot in it comes straight from the Ridley Scott school of advertising.

And talk about rampant knobbing great offensive stereotypes. I mean, blimey, you’d think after all the fracas over the two racially stereotyped robots in the last Transformers film they’d have tried a bit harder to kick out the old Steppin’ Fetchit Bots, but no, the ‘comedy double act’ of Cockit and Spunkmonkey (or whatever the bloody robots are called, I couldn’t be arsed to check) are so witlessly stereotyped you’d think the cock ring who wrote The Klansman would have rejected them for being too offensive. Cocks! And they’re not even the worst characters. Shia LaBouffant has stopped saying ‘no no no no no NO NO’ in rising panic now as his substitute for acting, and has now started going ‘stop stop stop STOP STOP!.’ Great range, there, kid. Torturro belts out his usual ‘please, just give me the money’ desperation and all the other characters are just shit, basically, but not as shit as Rosie Huntingdon-Weatherington-Cockmunchy-Smythe, or whatever her name is. (Editor alert: Trousers will now attempt a joke – readers should be aware that this may cause them permanent mental damage.) No wonder she’s an underwear model, right, yeah, right, because her acting, right, yeah, WAS PANTS!! Hah! See what I did there. Underwear model. Acting. Pants. I’m a facking genius, I tell you.

 Anyway, that’s not really the point of this. The main point is, everything Michael Bay ever touches or has anything to do with is a load of old rectal bleachings, but then again everyone expects that. It’s not like it’s Terence Facking Malick or Andrei Facking Tarkovsky, is it? It’s not art, or good films or anything like that. People expect it to suck. People expect it to have no sense whatsoever and probably feature a car chase with big things falling off the back of a lorry or something, while some wise bollocks actors spout spasming cock lines of the most cretinous pulchritude. They expect that. That’s why they go and see it.

BUT THEY SHOULDN’T. “Oh, Trousers, it’s only a bit of fun.” No it’s bloody not. It’s rotting your brains from within, don’t you see! Every time you get exposed to the witless jabbering lights and noises that keep you slack brained for two hours it’s a further nail in the coffin for your intellect. You find yourself spending more and more time watching this crap when you should be doing something else, like reading a book or hiding the bodies! But one steaming great pile of old yak’s knackers isn’t enough. You crave more and more! Suddenly Fast and the Fattiest 5 is ‘a good laugh.’ Suddenly Big Mommas Fatty Bastard Bollocks Shite 3 is ‘funny.’ Well, no actually, nothing in the world would ever make anything that walking ego Martin Lawrence did funny. Maybe if he just went away and didn’t bother the cinema world again – I’d laugh at that.

 Anyway, that’s beside the point. The main thrust of this is Michael Bay is a load of old cock and Transformers 3 is rubbish. Except for the bit where the big worm robot turns up and starts smashing stuff. And that bit where the robots have a big fight and turn into cars and things. And the bit where all that stuff explodes. And the bit where we see Rosie’s character on the screen for the first time which is basically just a massive close-up of her arse. And the bit where…

 Smeggy Trousers 3 years old nephew writes: I like Transformers 3. It had big explosions and cars and robots fighting. It had shouting in it. I wish Michael Bay was my dad and then we could fly on a robot to the moon and kill stuff.

I was settling down the other day with Mrs Git to watch a slam-bang no-holds barred double bill of top quality horror entertainment – namely Piranha 3D and The Fog.  I’d already seen these two modern masterpieces of water-related mayhem but Mrs Git had been denied the privilege.  However, imagine my surprise when I realised these films weren’t the quality products I had originally viewed, with tasteful shots of knockers and half naked teens getting munched or skewered, but some old toss with a bunch of old people in them, walking around, talking and wearing old clothes.  Some of them even had the disgrace to have flares!

It was then I realised I had rented the originals.  Mrs Git was temporarily thrown into a small pit of despair before I managed to cheer her up with a dash of Get Carter (not the English one where that cockney doesn’t kill enough people, but the top notch modern day one where Stallone proves his acting chops by saying words and wearing suits rather than just blowing up foreign types whilst not wearing a shirt.  Magic!)

Anyway, it was then I realised that every single re-make in the world is much better than the original, and everyone who disagrees with this is probably a lefty and votes for The Flower Party or something.

Let’s face it – if you’re going to see a film about seven blokes defending a town against a load of bandits, it’s not going to be in foreign language where miserable looking people with no hair fight in black and white.  That’s boring.  Where’s the bloody explosions for a start?  They slightly improved the idea when they had a bunch of old blokes on horses shooting dodgy geezers in half the time it took that Japanese bloke to sort it out.  But the crowning achievement was when Roger Corman thought, “Bugger me sideways – it’s a great story and that with all killin and stuff, but what it really needs is a few spaceships and some bird with big tits.”  And he sorted out Battle Beyond the Stars which was brilliant and, ironically enough, got some bloke with a foreign name to direct it.  Sorted!

Look at the re-make of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  Old version – lots of people with dodgy hair and flares run about and no one gets any arms or legs chopped off.  I mean, sort it out, Hooper?  It’s supposed to be a bloody massacre, not a bloody critique on the domestic family and Vietnam, you Texan twat!  That brilliant Michael Bay gets his hands on the material (only producing, unfortunately) and suddenly – yes, we’ve still got the flares and the dodgy barnets – but this time we’ve got nutty big chainsaws taking arms and stuff off, with lots of blood and birds screaming and all that.  Brilliant.  A proper film.  Does what it says on the bloody tin, mate!

Rollerball.  Original – lots of knobbing about with social commentary (and still more bloody flares), a lot of yap, yap, yap and not enough action.  The remake was brilliant as it was modern, right, and they had the fantastic idea of having the actual rollerball arena as a sort of twisty crossover thing where bikes could smash into each other.  Bloody genius!  They never thought of that in the old days, did they?  And why?  Because they were all wearing bloody flares, that’s why!  Bloody flares ruined every film in the bloody seventies – even the ones that were set in the really olden days before television because, even though they lived in castles and stuff, you just knew the bloody actors wore flares once the filming stopped like the flare-wearing bastards they are!  BLOODY FLARES!!

 Anyway, here’s an idea.  They should re-make every single film I don’t like but give it a modern twist, just like that classic The Wicker Man.  (If you haven’t seen the Wicker Man  it’s basically this:  Old version – Welshman who’s never done it with a lady acts like a knobend for an hour and a half.  Re-make – genius Nicholas Cage shows his fantastic acting range by shouting a lot, hating women, and not being Welsh.)

Take Citizen Kane for instance.  The original was in black and white for a start, which instantly makes it shit.  It’s got some fat bloke in it being fat for a few hours while a bunch of reporters try and find out what Rosebud is.  Not one car chase, gunfight, dinosaur, giant robot, alien invasion or even a bloody explosion.  Obviously Orson Welles knew he’d buggered up when he made it, as he went on to do the voice of the planet for the fantastic animated Transformers: The Movie in the eighties, when flares weren’t about, obviously realising he’d missed a trick with the old Citizen Kane by not sticking any autobots in it.

Re-make the film now and you could start off with the mansion blowing up.  The reporters investigate, finding the word ‘Rosebud’ daubed on the wall in blood.  Then flashback to Orson gunning down foreigners in a big robot which flies and punches out flares.  There’s a load of massive explosions, a few car chases, and then Orson confronts the guy who blew up his mansion, a Russian or something, and then kicks his arse with the immortal line, “Suck on my boot, you Commie twat.”

Also, we get to see Rosebud at the start.  And it’s not a sled, it’s a bloody big machine gun, or a famous lost diamond which makes zombies turn kung-fu.  Something well smart, anyway.  And then we get Michael Bay and Stephen Spielberg to produce and Sylvester Stallone plays Kane.  And we’ll chuck a few superheroes in there as well because everything’s got to have a super hero in it these days.  I hear they CGI’d Magneto into the re-release of Last Year At Marianbed just to get the punters in.

Anyway, ignore all the originals and go and see the re-makes, as nothing improves on a classic like 2001 like not having flares in it.