Expecting The Dark Knight to be a little less broody after a childhood of Gummi Bears, Rainbow and Number 73.Wednesday, December 12, 2007
I'm as old as Batman...
Expecting The Dark Knight to be a little less broody after a childhood of Gummi Bears, Rainbow and Number 73.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Comic geekiness
For those that don't know, this is obviously Batman, cradling gently in his arms Catwoman's daughter, Helena.
Spain...it really does suck
It used to be true that Spain was a country that kicked the arses of the rest of world when it came to imposing their will on the rest of the uncivilised world. Let's face it, they practically wiped out South America.
Now though, they lick the arses of anybody and anything, backtracking and apologising, feigning stupidity and allowing the world to take over. Let's look at Christmas. Not something that Spain ever really celebrated. They're more into the Three Kings festival on the sixth of January. But of course, there's a buck to be made. So instead of fighting for their traditions, Spain eagerly laps up that most rancid of 'celebrations' and swallows its pride once again. Now, Spanish tele is as awash with images of Santa, glitter, reindeer, elves and cheap tat that you simply must have, as British television is.
Is there anything more indicative that displays the virus-like qualities of capitalism? Is there anything that makes the thought of Spain as a world power less likely? Spain is nothing more than a land of dust, dirt and dead dogs.
I want to leave, but the thought of returning to Britain makes me want to gag. How come Utopia isn't on the map yet?
Now though, they lick the arses of anybody and anything, backtracking and apologising, feigning stupidity and allowing the world to take over. Let's look at Christmas. Not something that Spain ever really celebrated. They're more into the Three Kings festival on the sixth of January. But of course, there's a buck to be made. So instead of fighting for their traditions, Spain eagerly laps up that most rancid of 'celebrations' and swallows its pride once again. Now, Spanish tele is as awash with images of Santa, glitter, reindeer, elves and cheap tat that you simply must have, as British television is.
Is there anything more indicative that displays the virus-like qualities of capitalism? Is there anything that makes the thought of Spain as a world power less likely? Spain is nothing more than a land of dust, dirt and dead dogs.
I want to leave, but the thought of returning to Britain makes me want to gag. How come Utopia isn't on the map yet?
Some good stuf to check out, while I contemplate my navel and consider just how well I've done today
Gotta say I'm loving this guy. If there was sound, he would be screaming, like every one of you fucks on a Monday morning.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
A night with Colin Fry
I was forced to go and see this psychic/spiritualist fuckwit...for some reason, I had to rewrite the review.
One night with Fry
COLIN Fry has made a name for himself as the genuine article. The psychic spiritualist who can genuinely contact the spirit world, briefly reunite you with lost relatives and pass on messages from loved ones who have passed beyond the veil.
Yet just walking in to the auditorium is a shocking show of desperate and painfully hopeful people. A large screen at the back of the stage is showing headshots from Fry's previous shows, as people give their heart-rending joys and miseries for the delight of the people in this new audience. They all want to be picked, they all want Fry to choose them, but with an audience this size, that simply can't happen.
It's already vomit inducing and ultimately depressing. Everybody is waiting, waiting, waiting, for revelation, for direction, for the chance of being conned. It's a shame, this desperation, but the audience around me are not exactly inspiring. The sludge at the bottom of a cup of coffee.
What are they looking for? What do they hope to find here that they can't find in the real world? Why are they flocking to see this man who has built up an entire industry around himself? And flock they do. The hall fills with the hopeful and the hopeless.
So what do I expect?
A scam, a con job. Some fancy psychological wizardry that will no doubt induce tears, misery or if you're lucky, a little bit of joy.
Good luck, suckers. The con job started before you even sat in your seat. You're missing the plants that are seated around you, standing beside you. Waiting to be called on if Fry starts to get it all wrong.
The queue for the bar, where I inevitably head, is long and slow. The con continues, with a little stand on the way selling copies of Fry's new book. It's been published for only three days, so you can be one of the first (and only) people to own it. As an added incentive, Fry will later sign copies, and sometimes (the saleswoman whispers) you get a personal message as you meet the spiritualist. The believers whip their cash across the counter and the coffers of Fry jingle heavily with the raked in cash. Every little helps.
You hear the same thing in the queue as you're going to hear all night. “Do you believe?” Like it's a religious cult I'm signing up for here. Sorry dude, I only believe in Yoda and the Force.
The answers to “Do you believe” are only two. “Oh yes, I'm a believer,” or “Oh no, I'm a sceptic”. Everyone is chatting about previous encounters with Fry, or other scamsters.
Would a sceptic pay out money to come and see this fool? I didn't. I have a press pass.
So, convince me Fry. I'm really ready to be convinced. I'd love it. Which brings us to the statement that is the mystic's favourite. “If you don't believe, it wont happen.” Very convenient.
Judging by the queue at the bar, the general consensus seems to be get drunk and go along for the ride.
The show begins, and it startles me to find that Fry is actually a nice guy. The sort of man that grannies like. He's amusing to the point of being funny, a dry wit that covers the varied age groups of his audience. I even found myself doing as I was told and uncrossing my arms. Don't want to block out the negative energies.
So is he real?
No, he's not. It's a skill, what he does. He must do a lot of preparation, and write a lot of scenarios. But what he's actually doing is making a lot of generic statements so that as many people as possible feel as if it might be someone they know who is trying to communicate. He looks to the victim for the clues, talks about things that are vague enough to be anybody.
“Did they like chocolate?” Come on Fry.
How many people are there? 5 maybe 600, all of them dying to be picked, all of them mentally screaming Me, Me, Me. All of them hating the 'victim' that's the current focus of Fry's attention.
As the victims plod along, I remain unconvinced. He's a good entertainer, of that there is no doubt. He'd make an excellent stand-up comedian for old people to chortle at.
“It's you, it's you.” They all whisper to each other, “That's your nan.” No, it's not. It's a vague statement about a tough old lady that could be anybodies nan. When you start talking about grandparents, it is easy to be vague. How many grandchildren know the stories from their relatives past?
Not a lot. It's easy to imagine what old, dead people might have done when they were young, “Yes, that sounds like him, the old bugger.” They chuckle.
Fry is a good night out. He's funny and the audience are even funnier, especially the ones who wave their hands and Fry has to tell them he's looking for someone else.
When someone is picked, a few more generic statements clarify in their minds that it's them that the message is meant for. After a while, when Fry has wasted a lot of time on them, it's obvious that they're too embarrassed to say “No, it's not me after all.”
The problem is that it is so easy to be vague with an audience that size. Perhaps he would be more convincing in a smaller audience, but for me, this is just another example of people searching for answers. Perhaps Fry can provide those answers for some, but for the many, they wasted their cash.
I fucked off during the interval.
One night with Fry
COLIN Fry has made a name for himself as the genuine article. The psychic spiritualist who can genuinely contact the spirit world, briefly reunite you with lost relatives and pass on messages from loved ones who have passed beyond the veil.
Yet just walking in to the auditorium is a shocking show of desperate and painfully hopeful people. A large screen at the back of the stage is showing headshots from Fry's previous shows, as people give their heart-rending joys and miseries for the delight of the people in this new audience. They all want to be picked, they all want Fry to choose them, but with an audience this size, that simply can't happen.
It's already vomit inducing and ultimately depressing. Everybody is waiting, waiting, waiting, for revelation, for direction, for the chance of being conned. It's a shame, this desperation, but the audience around me are not exactly inspiring. The sludge at the bottom of a cup of coffee.
What are they looking for? What do they hope to find here that they can't find in the real world? Why are they flocking to see this man who has built up an entire industry around himself? And flock they do. The hall fills with the hopeful and the hopeless.
So what do I expect?
A scam, a con job. Some fancy psychological wizardry that will no doubt induce tears, misery or if you're lucky, a little bit of joy.
Good luck, suckers. The con job started before you even sat in your seat. You're missing the plants that are seated around you, standing beside you. Waiting to be called on if Fry starts to get it all wrong.
The queue for the bar, where I inevitably head, is long and slow. The con continues, with a little stand on the way selling copies of Fry's new book. It's been published for only three days, so you can be one of the first (and only) people to own it. As an added incentive, Fry will later sign copies, and sometimes (the saleswoman whispers) you get a personal message as you meet the spiritualist. The believers whip their cash across the counter and the coffers of Fry jingle heavily with the raked in cash. Every little helps.
You hear the same thing in the queue as you're going to hear all night. “Do you believe?” Like it's a religious cult I'm signing up for here. Sorry dude, I only believe in Yoda and the Force.
The answers to “Do you believe” are only two. “Oh yes, I'm a believer,” or “Oh no, I'm a sceptic”. Everyone is chatting about previous encounters with Fry, or other scamsters.
Would a sceptic pay out money to come and see this fool? I didn't. I have a press pass.
So, convince me Fry. I'm really ready to be convinced. I'd love it. Which brings us to the statement that is the mystic's favourite. “If you don't believe, it wont happen.” Very convenient.
Judging by the queue at the bar, the general consensus seems to be get drunk and go along for the ride.
The show begins, and it startles me to find that Fry is actually a nice guy. The sort of man that grannies like. He's amusing to the point of being funny, a dry wit that covers the varied age groups of his audience. I even found myself doing as I was told and uncrossing my arms. Don't want to block out the negative energies.
So is he real?
No, he's not. It's a skill, what he does. He must do a lot of preparation, and write a lot of scenarios. But what he's actually doing is making a lot of generic statements so that as many people as possible feel as if it might be someone they know who is trying to communicate. He looks to the victim for the clues, talks about things that are vague enough to be anybody.
“Did they like chocolate?” Come on Fry.
How many people are there? 5 maybe 600, all of them dying to be picked, all of them mentally screaming Me, Me, Me. All of them hating the 'victim' that's the current focus of Fry's attention.
As the victims plod along, I remain unconvinced. He's a good entertainer, of that there is no doubt. He'd make an excellent stand-up comedian for old people to chortle at.
“It's you, it's you.” They all whisper to each other, “That's your nan.” No, it's not. It's a vague statement about a tough old lady that could be anybodies nan. When you start talking about grandparents, it is easy to be vague. How many grandchildren know the stories from their relatives past?
Not a lot. It's easy to imagine what old, dead people might have done when they were young, “Yes, that sounds like him, the old bugger.” They chuckle.
Fry is a good night out. He's funny and the audience are even funnier, especially the ones who wave their hands and Fry has to tell them he's looking for someone else.
When someone is picked, a few more generic statements clarify in their minds that it's them that the message is meant for. After a while, when Fry has wasted a lot of time on them, it's obvious that they're too embarrassed to say “No, it's not me after all.”
The problem is that it is so easy to be vague with an audience that size. Perhaps he would be more convincing in a smaller audience, but for me, this is just another example of people searching for answers. Perhaps Fry can provide those answers for some, but for the many, they wasted their cash.
I fucked off during the interval.
A genuine review
Some time ago I was asked to review Benidorm Palace. I wrote a very nice, bland article about the place, and then wanted to kill myself for selling out. So I re-wrote it. This is a lot more honest
30 years of a fucking shithole
THE most famous location in that shittiest of towns, Benidorm Palace is celebrating its thirtieth anniversary this year and celebrating with a series of events that will leave the audience shitting their pants in boredom. If you've never visited the Palace before then you're very lucky.
Opened in 1977 to an acclaim that overwhelmed the owners, since they fully expected to fall flat on their fucking faces, Benidorm Palace has three decades of experience in providing the shittiest, cheesiest night of entertainment that you can possibly find in the Costa Blanca. With a history of wannabe-famous names and tedious acts that have been the mainstay of the club, Benidorm Palace has always offered that little bit less than you'd expect, and that's why only the stupidest visitors come back for more.
2007 offers to be one of the most depressing years ever for the Palace. With a selection of tedious dance routines, clichéd acrobatic troupes, comedians so unfunny that you want to shoot them repeatedly in the face and musical events that bring new meaning to the word 'scumfucking', visitors are guaranteed to have a night that will make them feel like they were in Blackpool. It really is that fucking shit. There is in fact a double celebration at Benidorm Palace this year, since the owners of the Palace, Christine and Vicente Climent, have recently had their first Grandchild spunked into the world, Laura. With the staff at the Palace having a decidedly incestuous theme, it is tentatively hoped that baby Laura will grow up to join the team, since her mother and uncle already nepotise at Benidorm Palace, ensuring that the quality and expertise are always at the lowest standard. At least the bitch will be cheap.
Christine and Vicente brought Benidorm Palace way back in 1990 for next to fuck-all: after all, who would want to buy such an eyesore? They instantly set about making some essential changes that have become the now-expected low standard at the venue. After introducing the element of cheap, nasty food and ensuring that only food that looks like vomit is always served, they have turned Benidorm Palace into the place that both scum, chavs and whores always flock to and return to at the earliest opportunity.
Although the shows are always a load of cheesy bollocks, there is the added bonus of the food that is served during the shows. Every night the tables are laid out as the chef carefully adds the finishing touches of his rotten smegma to the bland, ridiculously overpriced menu. With a dedicated team of specialists in the food trade, you know that what you're going to get is the very best of overcooked, mass produced McDonalds type prison food. All while you sit back, relax and enjoy watching a load of cunts prance about on the stage pretending that they're talented.. And with a wide choice of menu options to choose from, including human saliva and fresh donkey shit, everyone is catered for and nobody leaves the Benidorm Palace feeling good about themselves.
Currently on show at the Palace are the not at all famous acrobatic duo, the Peres Brothers, Ivan and Adans, who have bored audiences all over the World. These Portuguese brothers are the fifth generation of pikeys, who have carried on their family traditions in surprising way. After growing up in a family that was embroiled in the history of the circus, the pair attended the Circus School Egidio Palmiri in Italy instead of learning how to pickpocket, steal cars and beat their wives, although they're pretty good at that last one. They've perfected the act that is now on show at the Benidorm Palace performing their unique brand of dull, lifeless acrobatic exercises whilst combining the very worst of modern dance.
If you're in Benidorm or planning a trip to the tourist capital of Spain, then bad luck. If you do find yourself in the dull little hole, then Benidorm Palace is one of the places that is considered an essential place to visit. The shows are magnificent spectacles of the inane, packed full of tits and colour that combine the traditional english shite with the very worst of Spain, in a display of dance and showmanship that is at once a load of toss and so depressing that you'll want to either drink yourself to death or stab pencils into your fucking eyes..
Although the front of the Benidorm Palace is undergoing some refurbishments to the exterior, it's still going to look exactly what it is. A cheap, nasty shithole where the worst of Britain head for low-brow, cheap entertainment.
Whether you're a resident of the area or a visitor who has to pick and choose which of the terrible sights to experience in Benidorm, then Benidorm Palace should be second on your list of places to go. First is obviously the travel agent to find out how quickly you can get the fuck out of Benidorm. With a reputation for tedium that spreads more and more every year, Benidorm Palace goes from bad to worse, and with the celebrations plodding along for the landmark thirtieth birthday, there is every reason to ignore the piss-froth and shit scrapings that this low-brow palace of smegma provides.
30 years of a fucking shithole
THE most famous location in that shittiest of towns, Benidorm Palace is celebrating its thirtieth anniversary this year and celebrating with a series of events that will leave the audience shitting their pants in boredom. If you've never visited the Palace before then you're very lucky.
Opened in 1977 to an acclaim that overwhelmed the owners, since they fully expected to fall flat on their fucking faces, Benidorm Palace has three decades of experience in providing the shittiest, cheesiest night of entertainment that you can possibly find in the Costa Blanca. With a history of wannabe-famous names and tedious acts that have been the mainstay of the club, Benidorm Palace has always offered that little bit less than you'd expect, and that's why only the stupidest visitors come back for more.
2007 offers to be one of the most depressing years ever for the Palace. With a selection of tedious dance routines, clichéd acrobatic troupes, comedians so unfunny that you want to shoot them repeatedly in the face and musical events that bring new meaning to the word 'scumfucking', visitors are guaranteed to have a night that will make them feel like they were in Blackpool. It really is that fucking shit. There is in fact a double celebration at Benidorm Palace this year, since the owners of the Palace, Christine and Vicente Climent, have recently had their first Grandchild spunked into the world, Laura. With the staff at the Palace having a decidedly incestuous theme, it is tentatively hoped that baby Laura will grow up to join the team, since her mother and uncle already nepotise at Benidorm Palace, ensuring that the quality and expertise are always at the lowest standard. At least the bitch will be cheap.
Christine and Vicente brought Benidorm Palace way back in 1990 for next to fuck-all: after all, who would want to buy such an eyesore? They instantly set about making some essential changes that have become the now-expected low standard at the venue. After introducing the element of cheap, nasty food and ensuring that only food that looks like vomit is always served, they have turned Benidorm Palace into the place that both scum, chavs and whores always flock to and return to at the earliest opportunity.
Although the shows are always a load of cheesy bollocks, there is the added bonus of the food that is served during the shows. Every night the tables are laid out as the chef carefully adds the finishing touches of his rotten smegma to the bland, ridiculously overpriced menu. With a dedicated team of specialists in the food trade, you know that what you're going to get is the very best of overcooked, mass produced McDonalds type prison food. All while you sit back, relax and enjoy watching a load of cunts prance about on the stage pretending that they're talented.. And with a wide choice of menu options to choose from, including human saliva and fresh donkey shit, everyone is catered for and nobody leaves the Benidorm Palace feeling good about themselves.
Currently on show at the Palace are the not at all famous acrobatic duo, the Peres Brothers, Ivan and Adans, who have bored audiences all over the World. These Portuguese brothers are the fifth generation of pikeys, who have carried on their family traditions in surprising way. After growing up in a family that was embroiled in the history of the circus, the pair attended the Circus School Egidio Palmiri in Italy instead of learning how to pickpocket, steal cars and beat their wives, although they're pretty good at that last one. They've perfected the act that is now on show at the Benidorm Palace performing their unique brand of dull, lifeless acrobatic exercises whilst combining the very worst of modern dance.
If you're in Benidorm or planning a trip to the tourist capital of Spain, then bad luck. If you do find yourself in the dull little hole, then Benidorm Palace is one of the places that is considered an essential place to visit. The shows are magnificent spectacles of the inane, packed full of tits and colour that combine the traditional english shite with the very worst of Spain, in a display of dance and showmanship that is at once a load of toss and so depressing that you'll want to either drink yourself to death or stab pencils into your fucking eyes..
Although the front of the Benidorm Palace is undergoing some refurbishments to the exterior, it's still going to look exactly what it is. A cheap, nasty shithole where the worst of Britain head for low-brow, cheap entertainment.
Whether you're a resident of the area or a visitor who has to pick and choose which of the terrible sights to experience in Benidorm, then Benidorm Palace should be second on your list of places to go. First is obviously the travel agent to find out how quickly you can get the fuck out of Benidorm. With a reputation for tedium that spreads more and more every year, Benidorm Palace goes from bad to worse, and with the celebrations plodding along for the landmark thirtieth birthday, there is every reason to ignore the piss-froth and shit scrapings that this low-brow palace of smegma provides.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
