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I’m handing out some awards. You don’t need to bother putting on a frock or a suit, it’s not that kind of occasion. But you could at least have made some effort with your hair you scruffy git.
Award for Film I’ll Never Understand
Terry Gilliam for Tideland. I watched this last night. Like the fevered dream you’d have after knocking yourself unconscious with a copy of Alice in Wonderland in one hand and Deliverance in the other, I understood precisely four minutes of it, and that includes the credits.
Award for Cowardice Beyond Measure
The shopkeeper who, upon having a knife drawn on him and the contents of his till demanded by some Brighton thug, pointed at my friend who was also in the shop and said;
“She’s probably got more in her bag than I have in here. You should be robbing her, not me.”
Song Most Likely to Bowl Me Over Every Time
Summer Babe by Pavement. Every time.
Person I’m Most Likely to End up Hurting Physically
My boss. I don’t have a violent bone in my tiny body but he is the singular most frustrating and aggravating individual I’ve ever met, and I’ve known a few.
This is the order I would do it; Chinese burn, knuckle rap with a ruler, slap across the face, that thing where you bend their fingers back, Chinese burn again and a roundhouse to the head that would make Chuck Norris proud.
i went to the cinema on tuesday to watch ‘häxan – witchcraft through the ages’ - a danish black & white silent film made in 1922 which was, on it’s release, immediately banned. Accompanying the eerie images was geoff smith, who had composed an original soundtrack on the hammered dulcimer which he proceeded to perform flawlessly alongside the film.
bear with me.
i’d never heard of a dulcimer, hammered or otherwise, and was mildly surprised to discover it’s appearance is that of a horizontal harp, the strings of which are hit with small hammers, instead of being plucked. the resulting sound is a malefic resonance which, combined with the images of satan floating around on screen genuinely put the frighteners on me.
however, there is something intrinsically funny about silent movies, and a proportion of the audience were laughing when, for instance, the camera panned to a shuddering shot of the devil seemingly masturbating furiously. i practically scalded myself with hot coffee when a monk hoved into view who looked identical to david st hubbins from spinal tap…and i defy anyone to sit beyond the subtitle ‘satan penetrated every nun in the convent’ without a ribald laugh.
however the girl next to me (trendy haircut, oversized glasses) was huffing and puffing with indignation each time the audience was provoked into muffled sniggering, at one point turning to her boyfriend and saying ‘for god’s sake, this is an ARTHOUSE film.’ (it wasn’t). her boyfriend incidentally looked as though he’d rather by anywhere –anywhere else – on the playstation, in the pub, under bella emberg - anywhere. the worse she got, (“i really don’t see what’s so funny about this”) the more juvenile i became…
…with this in mind, imagine my unfathomable glee when i spotted the above sign in the hippy shop in kemptown – this is, i swear, is a very real request, so should anyone know an unemployed warlock, send them here. genius.
I’m handing out some awards. You don’t need to bother putting on a frock or a suit, it’s not that kind of occasion. But you could at least have made some effort with your hair you scruffy git.
