Insta-Topical Reacto-Post

I have an opinion on current matters. It’s impossible for me not to have an opinion, and opinions always need airing in public forums, so this is a vehicle for the opinion to be expressed in a pithy/controversial/satirical/moderate/extreme manner.

The Opinion is sacrosanct. The Opinion is too big for a tweet, but The Opinion is not big enough for an entire book. And so The Opinion is here, and it is right and correct and worthy until the facts change and alter The Opinion. The Opinion will never be altered.

But more importantly, it is THE OPINION of me. And me type opinions are the ones that need most to be aired, expressed, shouted, bellowed, whispered, thought, or burped.

THE OPINION might make you angry, it might make you applaud, it might make you think, it might confirm everything you hold dear, or it might be counter to everything you think about everything. THE OPINION will never make you change your mind.

Ultimately though, THE OPINION is what’s important.

It is THE OPINION.

Ferris Bueller TV Series

Last night I watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off for the first time in a long while, and it was fun doing so with the view that the whole thing is going on in Cameron’s head as he stays in bed.

I thought the worst thing that ever happened to Ferris Bueller was the Honda Superbowl Commercial, but I was wrong. It was this:

The NBC television series, from 1990, starring Charlie Schlatter and Jennifer Aniston, followed The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and rightly got lost under its shadow.

If you can get more than a minute past the opening titles, you’re a more patient person than I. Don’t. Watch. It.

It opens with crap Ferris addressing the camera, saying he can’t change his life because the movie put it up on the big screen … and then immediately sets itself up as a prequel to those events. Hmm.

But what’s worst is that it takes a vicious stab at the movie whose success and goodwill the series is trading off. That, I believe, is called a Dick Move.

Imagine if the TV series of Buffy, instead of opening with a genre-busting moment that set up the tone brilliantly for the coming show, had Sarah Michelle-Gellar telling us she thought the movie sucked, and then said some unpleasant things about Kristy Swanson, before slicing through her cardboard cut-out with a chainsaw.

That this abomination got past the script stage is amazing, and that it ran for 13 episodes is depressing.

... it's Cameron - Ferris is a sociopath.

One of them’s a righteous dude …

 

Thought Vomit #138: ft. A Car Wash

I’m nostalgic for a car wash.

Of all the things to drag me free from the fug of a self-destructive whingegasm, a car wash is at once the most and least surprising.

When I was even littler than I am now, I used to drag my mother across the street, so I could hold her hand whilst we watched the mechanical behemoth. Its brushes span wildly, chucking water into the air, and spraying my beaming little face. It was the best thing in the world, with its giant blue foam rotary brushes and fading red metal frame.

And with each passing summer, new wonders were bolted to it; the wheel scrubbers, the wax hoses, and the air dryer that came down and miraculously followed the shape of the car trapped within.

But then I got a little older, and the wonder faded. I even began to resent it somewhat, especially if it sprayed me on my chocolate run to the shop.

Car Wash

It’s never as fun from the inside

A few years ago, I wandered past the car wash and saw a boy. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t quite a teenager – maybe about eleven or twelve. But he was stood by the car wash, alone, grinning wildly as it swished and swooshed around a nondescript Ford. And each and every time he was sprayed with the fine cloud of water, he bounced up and down, and clapped his hands with a loud laugh.

I kept seeing him there for the next few days, and his excitement and joy always made me grin.

That’s when a group of three boys, who couldn’t have been much older than him, maybe just a year, wandered by and saw him too. They jeered at him. It was upsetting to realise that I saw more of myself in their cynical sneering, than in his giddy wonderment. That feeling was only made worse as I watched his head drop in embarrassment, and his shoulders slump with a realisation that perhaps he was a little too old to be enjoying himself like this.

The surly teens slouched away, dragging his final throes of childhood with them.

It was horrible.

And then the car wash drenched him once more.

It would have been a fitting metaphor.

Except that the water shook him from his own fug, and once again he bounced and clapped and giggled.

The teens turned back and sneered.

He ignored them.

He stood and played there every day for the rest of the summer.

Good for him.

Thought Vomit #134: ft. The Milibandwagon

David Miliband’s decision to step down from “front-line” politics says nothing about his relationship with his brother, nor about their political differences.

But it does speak volumes about the state of political journalism.

That one of the best minds in modern politics feels he cannot be part of a much needed and effective opposition, simply because the meedja are unable to present a political story without resorting to soap-opera tactics of narrative is massively ridiculous.

Annoyingly though, he’s right.

Nick Robinson is a twunt

If only ...

With no sense of irony or self-awareness,  BBC News this evening cut from him talking about coverage becoming distracted by something easier to present than politics, they cut to his exchange with Harriet Harmon.

It’s a sad day indeed when we are deprived of someone who shaped Government for a decade, simply because Laura Kuennesberg is so facile she can’t get past the idea of a family feud. That the two brothers worked for opposing wings of the party throughout their careers doesn’t occur to her, because until now they weren’t on her radar. She had more important things to cover – like the feud between Tony and Gordon.

The embodiment of this vacuous journalism is of course Nick Robinson. He seems much more interested in getting his own face on camera than asking a pertinent question, or presenting a nuanced policy. Witness his interview with David Miliband this evening, in which his own head took up more of the screen than his subject.

I’m as guilty as the next person of drawing simplistic conclusions about politicians. Indeed, I can’t get past the fact that Ed Miliband sounds like a bowl of washing up; but is it too much to ask that the coverage of a party conference involve some of the politics and policies, and not just the psycho-drama fantasies of frustrated soap writers?

What’s more, the fact that David’s decision to slip away from the front-benches is seen by these reporters as some kind of resignation from real politics is remarkable. If it doesn’t go on within a few yards of their Westminster studio, it doesn’t count. Constituency politics is the backbone of British democracy, but the way they tell it, he’s off to dig his garden.

Tell me he doesn’t sound like a bowl of washing up …

Thought Vomit #116: ft. 12 Daysh Of Chrishmush

I’m getting quite militant in my anti-alcohol stance, and it’s not helped by the time of the year. Perfectly nice get-togethers are going to be plagued with Sloshologues and Slurrysations.

You know the thing; a half-baked ill-informed observation is bandied about by someone who can barely talk in a coherent manner, while people of equal disequilibrium respond without thought.

So far, so boring.

But Pissedmitribes don’t end there. With all three facts on the subject ejaculated from the frothed mouths of be-whiskied dicks, the original beered-ballbag makes his original observation again, this time slightly more vociferously, as if the extra volume lends added credence.

This is usually my cue to go home; but that’s not always possible.

Shanta

Shanta

So instead, the drunkomoans drone on, reiterating each of their one salient points with increasingly less articulacy, but more fervent vigour. It’s usually at this point I’m accosted by a clamping embrace, unable to make an escape from the alcoholic verbiage, trapped under the weight of a vodka-breathed man twat.

My sarcastic retorts to observations that immigrants are eating our children go unheard in the melee of the shittergasms.

Anyway, Christmas would be so much nicer if Santa wasn’t an alcoholic.

I shaid, Crishmuss wld be sho mush nicsher if …