Film review: Rise Of The Guardians

So I still got some ideas after declaring I was empty. Last week I ran out, and I turned to the news to prattle on about something... then I turned the fuck right back around and walked away. Fortunately, over the weekend I made a trip to the cinema and saw the new film by Dreamworks, Rise Of The Guardians.

It occurs to me without my lovely and very patient girlfriend this sort of film would be denied to me. Like Dreamworks previous outing, How To Tame Your Dragon, I was highly aware if I, an alleged adult who's just about closer to thirty than twenty, went into this film alone I would be led out in handcuffs and banned from ever going nearer than fifty feet from a school playground as a precaution. However, like before, I could grab my aforementioned very brilliant and patient girlfriend and bring her into the cinema with me, all the while going, 'SEE, THIS IS DATE NOW, I CAN GO IN, IT'S ALL GOOD, I AM NOT HERE TO RE-ENACT SAVILLE, GO ABOUT YOUR DAY.' Which is good, because when I saw this picture...

Coal? Nah, Naughties get beatings

...I had to see it. A gangland tattooed Santa voiced by Jack Donaghy? Hells yes.

Before we go any further, a brief discussion of the ads in the cinema they made me watch. That bloody dust-filled-empty-cinema-due-to-filthy-pirates advert. Ah. No. I saw the returns for Avengers Assemble, Dark Knight Rises, Skyfall and the heaving queue for the Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. I also saw how much you were charging for food. You're doing fine. Shut up.

The Rise Of The Guardians plays it's plot relatively simple; a group of folklore staples (Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Sandman and Tooth Fairy) learn of the return of a old evil and they must band together with new member wild-child who has a mysterious past. So bloody mysterious even he doesn't know it. Elaborated some more, we have Jack Frost (voiced by Chris Pine,) playing the winter trickster. He's the Jack Frost of folklore I barely remember; he nips at your nose, paints windows and creates fun around him. However, he's not all sunshine and rainbows as he cannot interact with the people of the world bar with his powers, even the children whom he spends a lot of time ensuring they enjoy themselves. He knows of other folklore figures, in a nice hint this world is bigger than what this film will get into, but holds little interest in them save from messing with them. However, Pitch Black, (voiced by Jude Law) a creature of nightmares returns, and North, (Santa Claus, voiced by Alec Baldwin) is instructed by the Man On The Moon to assemble the rest of the Guardians. So that introduces us to the silent Sandman, as well as the Bunny and Tooth (the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy, voiced by High Jackman and Isla Fisher respectively.) However the Man On The Moon further instructs them to take Jack. Jack begrudgingly goes with them, originally only because the Man On The Moon said so, who created Jack Frost, but later further motivated by the chance to get his memories back.. From there, it's a running battle of wits and swords as Pitch Dark seeks to create a world of fear by striking at the root of the Guardian's power; the belief of children, by sabotaging what the Guardian's are meant to provide. So, let's say you wanted to see Santa covering for the Tooth Fairy. They got that. They got that down.

From here in, it may get a wee bit spoiler-y, so... you've been warned. So. No bitching.

In terms of the plot, I went into it knowing it would be simple, and wondering if the novelty of Santa swinging a sword in each hand would get old. It doesn't. It's awesome. Santa Claus. With a sword in each hand. Awesome. Whilst staying out of major spoiler territory, there was the cliché 'new guy with troubled past is mistaken for betraying the group' scene which I hate, but it passed briefly enough. Also, minor niggle. Funny little flashback at the end of a scene we'd seen ten minutes early, tops. We didn't need that. Okay fine, it's targeted for kids, but the words enough would of sufficed. So yeah, a little predictable in places, but nothing offensive, and it's the characters and world that more than compensates.

Let's talk about the voice acting. I am not a fan of Chris Pine, who you may remember as Kirk in the recent Star Trek reboot, who bounced from wooden to a Kirk caricature. So let me be the first to say; he did a phenomenal fucking job. The opening monologue of his (even through a small child's shrieking behind me) was perfect, capturing the right mood of sombre, wistfulness and cheek, and he doesn't let up the while way. Brilliant and bravo. In fact, the whole cast deserves mention. Alec Baldwin goes nuts with a ridiculous accent for North which is very enjoyable (which I award bonus points for remembering that Santa isn't American.) Hugh Jackman seems to dial up the Aussie accent rather pleasingly for Bunny, giving him a distinctive lilt. Whilst I've mentioned I dislike the cliché 'new guys mistaken for traitor scene,' when Bunny vents at Jack... it's very clear he's venting, not truly meaning what he says, but is a person suffering a tremendous loss. He follows up with quiet, reflective monologue as he calms down really sells it. And when we come to Jude Law's Pitch... His best delivery is in on, scene, with one line. It's one word. 'No.' It's outstanding. No, no sarcasm here; with one word he displays so much about his character it's chilling. Hah! No. Wait. I meant ugh. Though he seems to be channelling Loki from the Avengers a bit. Not a problem, but I honestly thought I was listening to Tom Hiddlston for a while.

The world, as you would expect, is beautiful and interesting, with the team constant returning to North's workshop... because it's Santa's bloody workshop and while his film's time is set just before Easter, it's Christmas now, so yeah. Why not. The characters are such a joy to be around. North stands out with his accent, permanent enthusiasm and lack of indoor voice. Alec Baldwin is having the time of his life and it's infectious. He swings around two swords and lives in a toy shop crewed by yetis and useless elves, and in a joyful moment, acknowledges that they are bleedin' useless. He would be my favourite, apart from the fact Sandman is here. He's a mute, so he communicates with expressions and crafting sand into images. More importantly, this little guy?

Look at him! He needs cuddles! Yes he does!

Yeah. You don't fuck with him. Ever.

It won't end nice.

I will say however whilst each character gets their moments, there was a loser of the bunch. Tooth, unlike the others, I feel she didn't get enough defining moments. As the first to be weakened she was damsel-ing it up for a lot of the film. I don't ever remember a particular fighting style or big moment of badass, which was disappointing. The biggest 'Oh, cool!' moment for her wasn't even about her really; I really dug the idea that she collects teeth as they contain the best memories of childhood, and she keeps them safe to return later should adults need them. Very sweet and a nice twist, but ultimately, that's about what she collects, not about her. Sometimes Pitch's character confused me, as it was hard to gauge how powerful he was. It was strange to consider it felt plausible that all five together could pound him flat, but he had 'Can't Touch Me' annoyance powers and dicked around weakening everyone whilst he built up power, so he entered the final As Unto A God.

What left the cinema with me was mainly a memory of lots of little moments, lots of character interactions and reflections. With Jack it was the all details of his voice work, watching the sand come down at night and seeing his satisfaction that the children will sleep well tonight, or his brilliant come back proving he helps children, 'I make snow days.' For North it was booming compliments to his elves as they fuck up. The whole gang's face as they realise they took teeth for Tooth yet forgot to leave money. Sandman's conjuring of a little bowler hat so he can doff it in greeting. So. Many. Scenes. That I will not talk about, as you need to see them, so I won't ruin them for you.

Wrapping up? I really can't do better than Movie Bob's 'Like the Avengers, but with Santa' summary. It's a pretty film, with interesting, vibrant characters if a standard plot. I, an alleged adult, highly enjoyed it, and I recommend it... as long as you're not allergic to kids. Yeah. The ending will annoy you in that case. It feels like they want to make a franchise outta this, and I say go for it. I saw it in 2D, so I can't comment on the 3D.

That being said, you're probably going to skip this in favour of the Hobbit. Which is fair. But pick this up on DVD at least or you're missing out.

Christmas shutdown

Hello everybody! My updates until January will be sporadic at best. This is due to the business of this period, and not the complete lack of ideas that results me talking about a hat I don't wear for like a thousand words.

Honest. Really busy.

Busy busy busy.

Maybe a little lack of ideas.

Look, I'm down to talking about Mass Effect 3. And that'll hurt. Don't make me talk about Mass Effect 3. Please.

Oh thank god I have a tonne of shit to do.

The most important thing this season. Maybe.

'Tis the season where we celebrate a foreign national invading our borders and commencing the biggest spree of illegal breaking and entering we see from one person, before he departs sniggering into the night, leaving behind a horde of suspicious packages. Or at least, it will be, once I submit those words to any tabloid and have them decide that it's time to start a real War On Christmas, but from the other side. 'He breaks into your kid's bedroom at night with stockings, the sick freak! He also is morbidly obese and a drain on our NHS! Disgusting! And did you know, did you know, that Jesus is not from around here!?! Ahrglebargle it's health and safety gone mad!'

I've gotten into the spirit of things by picking up the seasonal cold, so I've actually spent some of my sick days this year. It does mean that for once I will not to giving my co-workers my cold, which could be taken strictly speaking as a selfish act, because now I'm not going to give them anything. Well, expect perhaps a minutia of trivia regarding Avatar: The Last Airbender but I think I may have got that for them last year and they didn't appreciate it then.

I've noticed Christmas music this season more so than ever since my trusted MP3 player took a short swim in my water glass, before deciding to take a long nap it has yet to wake from. Now I'm assaulted by the same bloody songs over and over, or worse, the same songs re-done in a slightly different way that ruins the original. Which I already disliked. I miss being able to drown them out with Miracle Of Sound. Not that I want to go on a complete 'Oh god, not Christmas' rant, but has that music ever encouraged a sale? All I see is a sea of shoppers with a twitching left eye hissing curse words about it being the seventeenth time today they've heard that song. Besides, I don't mind Christmas. I have a birthday coming up, and I have a special breed of narcissism that enables me to believe the whole world is decorating itself up for me.

My true rant, the true crime, however, is about my hat.

It's important.

Look at it.

I got this in true British fashion; in London, in a tourist trap booth ran by a nice Chinese lady whilst meeting up with my university friends. Not only do I like the design, but it's long enough to cover my ears. This itself in unusual, as every beanie I own is too small to do that. So it's a hat that both keeps my ears warm and drowns out evil shop music.

There is a small problem with it. Look at again:

LOOK AT IT.

See it? Yeah, there's your problem; it's a giant Union Flag. For those of you not from Britain, (and I apologize for you stumbling upon my nonsense) it makes me look like a BNP member. Or to pronounce it properly, the B-N-Bloody-P. I've referred to them before disparagingly as the 'British Nazi Party' but that's Godwin-ing it very early in the day and sadly that's something they'd probably aspire to. (Ahem. For legal reasons, let's addendum an 'allegedly,' there.) Every time I look at Nick Griffin's face, I see a man who most likely watches Nazi documentaries in his underwear touching himself inappropriately.

I once saw my reflection in a train window, late back on a long trip. Tiredness made my expression haggard, laziness allowed a meagre band of stubble to creep around my jaw, the dim lighting threw my person into shadow, I was drawn into a battered leather coat for warmth... and I still looked like a colossal geek. I wear one of three hoodies out and about (I mean, wearing more than one would be ridiculous); a Space Invaders hoody, an Essex Uni hoody and a Mass Effect hoody. Truly, I am an intimidating sight, with my video game related clothing and glasses. But when I used to wear this hat, people crossed the street to avoid me. Me. Good old geeky me. Even when wearing a university hoody that had explicitly banned the BNP from ever turning up on campus; which was a shame, because that would of resulted in some awesome heckling. Wearing the Union Flag is difficult with the recent associations it carries. It's not a sign of patriotism any more, or even a sign that you found a hilarious kooky hat to ambush on your friends, nope, not anymore. Wearing on your person marks you out as a homophobic, Islamaphobic, hygiene-allergic, illiterate thug, who wants nothing more than to, how would they put it? 'Geeet the daaaarkies outta my country.' That flag will mark you out as someone who's debating language and ability to akin to a chimp jumping up and down a sandbox screeching 'Mine! Mine!' whilst flinging their own shit.

So with a sigh of relief I've noticed as the weather gets colder the BNP's influence wanes. (LINK Graph of BNP seats http://extremisproject.org/2012/10/the-rise-and-fall-of-the-bnp-in-one-graph/) They've been getting less and less popular recently, even Nick Griffin's recent flumblings on Twitter got him national mockery as well as police attention. As a protest vote, people are seeking others. As a outlet of aggression, the more active EDF or whatever are stealing their limelight. Finally I can wear my hat in peace, free of thuggish, brutish guilt by association...

What.

OH GOD DAMN IT.

OH COME ON GUYS. Seriously. My ears are cold.

So, there's been a change in Belfast from flying the Union Flag everyday when they feel like it, special occasions and the like. Well, some people felt that this change wasn't right, and others felt... that there isn't enough things on fire today. The sad thing is that the protesters over the change in flag policy were 99% peaceful, but it's that bleedin' 1-bloody-percent that's gotta make everyone look bad. I'm pretty sure the most people who want to keep the flag realize that trashing the place and setting everything on fire is not exactly the best way to promote your ideals. It's basic opportunism (from what I've lazily glanced over) from a small group and it's pissing in my cereal. It is admittedly a little amusing I can't wear my British flag hat because of something that Ireland's doing. And once again, my hat must go back in the draw.

Goodbye, hat.

Don't these people realize what they're doing to my ears? Assaulting them with shitty repeating Christmas music and cold. I couldn't tolerate being tarred with the BNP brush, how am I going to cope with the riot brush? Monsters. They are actually going to force me to go out and buy another hat for this year. It could cost me up to, like, a tenner. That's a lot of doughnuts. Cold and abused ears or no doughnuts? A tough call. See my existential turmoil!

So in answer to your unasked question, no, I don't really have anything interesting to talk about this week. Sorry.

Give me my petty dictatorship, please

So the Leveson Inquiry is wrapping up now, and whee, has it been fun everyone! Anyone? No? Yeah, it's been kinda boring, only spiced up once in a while when they told us about something particularly vile the press did. I mean, there wasn't a single A Few Good Men reference. Yawn.

For an inquiry about the press being unmitigated assholes, the press sure liked taking about it a lot. In a way it made perfect sense. Newspapers are anywhere between twenty-four and forty-eight hours behind at the best of times, and they have just not been able to keep up with the frantic pace of the internet, hence the move to more opinion pieces. And also possibly phone hacking. So when there's an inquiry about the press, it's a perpetual story, of the press reporting about the press in one horrible incestuous ball of sleaze. Besides, the tabloids love an 'orrible scandal combined with falling standards, regardless of the source.

Then the covering got quiet as they stopped talking to people who couldn't remember anything at all ever, I wasn't there, I was sick that day, the dog did it, honest – and the press moved onto more pressing matters, like I'm A Celebrity and X Factor. I mean, they're clearly both being fixed! And there's breasts! IN A BIKINI! IT'S VITALLY IMPORTANT WE TALK ABOUT THIS WHILST SHOWING PICTURE AFTER PICTURE OF THESE BIKINI ENCASED BREASTS.

Then it exploded again, because it was time for the inquiry's recommendations, and the press realised, oh shit, we could get our balls legislated off here. And so we've had to deal with page after page of pleas, whining and tub-thumping, decrying the death of free speech. Hey, look, freedom of speech is one thing, but you have to realise; we left it up to you guys to regulate yourselves, and you've sort of done a terribly shitty job of that.

The inquiry basically called for a new regulator backed by law, while mentioning that, whilst we're at it, let's say it nice and loud, that any new laws shouldn't give any government, let alone Parliament, any ability to interfere with what newspapers publish. After all, we have super-injunctions for that. There's been some predictable panic – the press has been free up until now, but I keep flip-flopping where I should be on this fence. On the one hand, the ability to call Nick Clegg the Traitor King and publicly shit on him and all he stands for is awesome. Also, blah blah blah, ability to freely investigate and expose any wrong doing, blah. On the other hand, dear god are tabloids full of utter shite. Biased, racist, vile hate from so many of them. But as much as that annoys me, what annoys me most is the stupidity. They're just dumb for the most part. For some reason, such blatant joy in stupidity and anti-intellectualism annoys me as much as hateful filth seeping from every pore.

But perhaps now I can be an assistance to them. Let me be the first to volunteer to sit on this to-be-created regulatory board. I will be fair. I will be non-biased. I will be pffffft. I couldn't keep a straight face typing that. No. Fuck it. I'll be honest.

Let me be on this board, and I will be a petty tyrant.

It'll be fucking awesome. Let's look at an average day in the office.

'Whatcha hiding there? Come on, hand it over, ah, AH! What's that? That's a celebrity story! I knew it!'

'It's a perfectly fair and valid-'

'No. Nope. No celebrity stories. They bore me. How many pictures do we need of Tom Cruise's daughter? Getting kinda creepy now. Anyway, who cares? I don't. And as far as I'm concerned, if I don't care, no-one does. Look, talk about the Mars rover for a bit. They said they found something for the history books. Speculate. And you said I wouldn't let you speculate anything. And where the hell are you going?

'Well, now that we're done-'

'Oh, we ain't done. This story on the NHS?'

'It's an exposure piece-'

'Ah, no. It's a fear-mongering piece. Look at that language. The revulsion. That lack of factual accuracy. I don't like it. If I look at it real close, it's a non-story you decided that under a weird twisted light was somehow a story about benefit scroungers killing babies. I don't even... ugh. And stop talking about what gives you cancer. I've warned you; only talk about statistics if you're going to explain the sample sizes and relative/absolute risk increases, you dick. Daily Mail you sit the hell right down now!

'Uh-'

'I said no LittleJohn. I fucking warned you about this. I ran out of red ink crossing out every piece of hate he wrote, so I'm just crossing out his name for now. Also remember that front page piece you wrote? Yesterday? Illegal immigrants doing... doing... oh what was it now?'

'Those scum were-'

'Ah, yes, I chased up on your source on that one. Which turned out to be the work experience boy typing on his lunch break. You lied. Again. Front page apology, same font size as before. You'll find plenty of time to correct it on the Naughty Step. Express? Telegraph?'

'Yes?'

'A Princess Diana story? Really? What part of 'rest in peace' do you not get? Just... just drop it. Please. No wait, I'm in charge. Drop it or I'll noogie you. Guardian? Where are you? Ah. How are your subscribers doing?

'Not so well. My mum's sick and didn't pick up a paper, so our revenue was down a third today.'

'Sucks. Anyway, F7. That's the button on your keyboard I want you to remember to press. It's a spell check. Use it. The Sun?

'Yes?'

'I saw your page 3 girl, and one suggestion?'

'...You want me to drop it?'

'What? No. I want you to stop those stupid little 'what the breasts say' thing you do. No one cares what words you put in their mouths. The Times? I'm going to be honest here. Your paper is massive and colossally boring, I spend like maybe ten minutes trying to get through an article when I had no idea what was it about, so I'm assuming it's all fine. I mean, Christ, I don't wanna read it. Huh.Hmm. Oh dear. What did I hit you for yesterday Mirror?'

'Being offensively stupid, sir.'

'Yeah. I did. Yet I couldn't muster the effort to read The Times. Okay, fine, you get to hit me back. No. Wait. Belay that. Bad idea. Instead, you get one pass at being offensively stupid. Eh, let's be generous. You all get one pass. One. Just one.'

Aren't power fantasies fun? Fair and balanced. In that I'll at least admit to being anything but that off the bat, and constantly.

Cactus to nightmare. It makes sense in context.

Returning from Tenerife I bought home three little cacti, whom I've yet to name, but I got a serious feeling that one of them is a Bertie. After a brief period sitting on the windowsill, it was decided to move the little buggers because with every twitch of the curtain they'd snag it and go leaping off the windowsill with glee abandon, spraying the floor with dirt. With no where else to adequately place them for the time being, they sit next to my deodorant.

It is, without doubt, a decision I am going to regret in the future.

I am fully aware that I am absolutely useless in the mornings - to the point of non-function. I once spent a good half hour looking for said deodorant when I had inadvertently moved it to my computer desk from it's usual position: a grand total of eighteen inches of movement. But it wasn't where it was meant to be! Sorcery! So I know, I know, I know, that at some point... Some not too distance point... Some not too distant point in the near future that I will stagger from my room in the early hours... shower, half dress, fall across the room... and grab the wrong thing and vigorously apply a cactus to my bare armpit.

It is only a matter of time.

Of course, you all realise that the simple solution is to a.) not be such a cockwomble, or b.) simply move the bloody cacti, but you forget: I am a royal cockwomble and will be addressed formally so at all times. Secondly, there is just no where else to put them. I spent literally one, maybe two minutes looking for an alternative space. That's a potential one hundred and twenty seconds just looking. For such a manly man that I am that is an incredibly long time spent just looking. Now they must remain there for all time. The domestic equivalent of a red coffee button next to the red nuke button.

My one spark of hope was that the fact that I didn't do so this morning may mean that this royal cockwomble has hope of abdicating into mere common nobility. In that I mean I grow to be less of an idiot. To not be one at all is either a miracle, an evil clone, aforementioned sorcery or a combination thereof.

Because this morning I awoke from such a nightmare that I'm impressed I got to work dressed at all, let alone correctly. I spent the first half of the morning so desperate for work to keep my mind of what I had dreamt that a stack of laptops to gut for parts was a godsend; simple work for the hands, yet just complicated enough to require constant attention because there's a fucking screw still in there somewhere. Somewhere. Look, it's gripping right here but there's no... fucking... screw. Maybe it's a clip? From what angle do I push? Ah! It is a screw! The fucker was underneath the sticker all along. Cunning bastard.

Because it turned out what my brain wanted this morning was a departure from the norm. Somewhere along the line, it went, 'God, mere horror. So bored of that. Huh, what's that? Physiological terror? Ohhhh. That sound's nasty. Let's do that.'

I mentioned this before, and I'll say it again; my brain can be quite the dick sometimes.

In my dream, I spent three weeks at a place that was a curious amalgamation of my university and college. It had the full and varied timetables of college (I had maths. The horror.) But it also had the scale and the communists of university.

(Small tangent here: America, stop using the word 'socialist' as an equivalent to the word 'evil.' Look. I knew communists. I've read the Communist Manifesto. Amongst the 'not work your employees to death' angle I approve of, I found it hard to take totally seriously 'cos of that one paragraph that denounced the bourgeois for constantly wanting to prostitute out their daughters and wives, and I could never look past that hilarious nit pick. Just... look. Let your children go to university, declare themselves communists, nod sagely at them... and fifteen minutes after leaving university and they discover the need to get employed for all the nice things materialism offers they'll get over it. It's just a phase. Except for the hardcore ones, and honestly, them seem to put themselves into a cycle of perpetual university course taking and thus can be safely ignored.)

Yes, I understand being at this uni/college combo isn't quite 'nightmare' territory... but. I wasn't going back to university. According to dream logic, I had gone to university again. A new one. Right now.

I had left behind my responsibilities, my job, my rent payments (which I was aware were due and I wasn't earning anything to pay it) as well as my family and friends. I had left my girlfriend, whom I've lived with for over a year now, to only see every fortnight, and then not at all. In the three weeks I was there, I spoke to no people. I went to no lectures or seminars. I couldn't bring myself to look at my timetable, so I was constantly uncertain where I should be. Three weeks. Everyday I got up. Wandered the campus. Went back to bed. Everyday I had the knowledge that I wasn't doing the work I needed to do. I wasn't learning what I needed to learn. I was wasting the money I spent to get there, and debts were piling up at home that I could no longer pay. I didn't have the friends I met from when I first went to university, I was completely isolated from everyone I cared about. I was completely alone, of my own doing, gnawed at by the guilt of not doing any work, not able to muster the will to try, and that most damningly of all; I'd already been to university once. That even if I did this work it was utterly pointless, as I'd only achieve what I had already accomplished. I had made a terrible decision, and in keeping to it, I was completely and utterly wasting my life.

Also there was lightning surrounding the campus so I couldn't leave.

Did I not mention the lightning? Yeah, that's weird, but I had enough reasoning whilst asleep to note the redundancy of my situation and my failing of my responsibilities but not enough to question the lightning. Dreams, right?

I was so depressed in this nightmare I can see on waking that I was getting to the point of suicidal. Now here's the thing – have you ever dreamed someone you know has died? That you have done something truly awful? When you wake up, even though it was a dream, it wasn't real, you know that, you're still sad throughout the day? I spent the morning with a whole heaping dose of the '|I have made a terrible mistake, my life is pointless' and Je-suss, where the fuck did that come from? I haven't suddenly signed up for uni for a second time. I haven't made that mistake, it never happened. I don't feel like I'm wasting my life at all (at least not to that strong degree.) But I did this morning. It didn't go away. For something I didn't even actually do, I felt completely dejected.

Bwwaaaaaah. Thanks brain. Thanks for that. That's what I wanted. Not a fantastical dream, hanging out with Captain Sisko while we battle Daleks in the fields of Middle-Earth while Miracle of Sound plays Sovngarde Song in the background? Not an intensely realistic sex dream with, I don't know, ANY of the many pornstar's I've seen in porn cluttering around my brain, presumably saved over the 'Advanced Mathematics' section? Wanna pick half a dozen, make it a party? No? Look, I'd settle for a dream of me actually defeating my younger brothers in any video game – intentionally - just once? No? Not once? No? You want me to spend some of the day questioning my point of my worthless existence until I stop fixating on it and realise that's not me at all? That's... that is what you want to do? Really. Really? Really? Captain Sisko just started punching Daleks out here and lo and behold, a support squad of pornstars are charging from the north on the dawn of the third day as the riff kicks in! No? No? But... but... oh, come on!

Fine. Personal self-inflicted psychological torture it is, then.

You know what? Fuck you brain. I'm getting a cider and watching an Uwe Boll film tonight.

That'll learn ya'.

Prick.

Idle hands make idle posts

I have had so little I could muster myself into talking about recently. There was the woman in Ireland dying over being denied an abortion... and I decided that, no, I don't want to talk about that, because that's really depressing. There's still the Saville story doing it's rounds – they've arrested his old driver, which sounds understandable because I read an article where he talked about being told to knock off for a couple of hours every time Jimmy got a young girl into the back of his van. Way to appear innocent, numbnuts. Also that story is depressing. Let's check the news and oh no. In fact, many stories are depressing. Please can someone start a news channel just dedicated to reporting nice things all day?

So as I was thinking recently, I realised something. As, you know, hardly anyone reads this blog, I can talk about whatever I like with barely any repercussions. So today, I will start by discussing... the police commissioner elections!

Okay, so the potential repercussions of this topic avoided... was less about the controversy and it's fallout and more about having avoided people leaving on mass in boredom because there is no mass of people in the first place.

Sort of how Norton Antivirus prevents you from getting virus's from the internet by preventing you from getting on the internet.

So the police commissioner elections were today, and if that's new to you, well, that's kinda not your fault. On the face of it I think it's a pretty bloody stupid idea. Call me weird, but I kinda like the idea that cops are, ya know, cops. I don't want political cops. Nope. It's bad enough that we have the blurring of lines when it comes to cops and actual politicians, where they tread lightly and with a lot of deference, and the 'Well, we are investigating you, and you'll be doing us a big favour sir if you come to the station now – oh, yes, we can wait. We'll come tomorrow. Please don't destroy any evidence in the interim sir,' we get whenever have to sheepishly get up to arrest an MP. Now that 'plebgate' row may have shaken things up a bit, (and certainly the ill-feeling over harsh budget cuts hasn't helped) but if I call back to my praise-heaped review of Snuff – I really like a cop modelled on Sam Vimes. He'll arrest the bloody Patrician, his tyrannical leader. He'll arrest the gods for doing it wrong. True equality; everyone may get a truncheon to the head in the course of conducting inquires.

So a person controlling cops playing party politics fills me with dread. But hey, it's happening, it's happened, deal with it. But as I went to vote today, I noticed something. No one was there.

There were two people manning my station, the public hall, and a quick inquiry told me that out of fifteen hundred on the electoral register only eighty three had turned up. They said they were hopeful more would arrive as work ended (I voted at half five, so a good five and a half hours left to go) but they didn't deliver that news with much conviction. One of the major problems was firstly: no one cares. Regardless who is voted in, it is generally believed that there'll be little change. The second problem is that no one knows anything about this damn election, or the people involved, or that it's happening. Some of the most politically minded people I know were scrabbling for any information on this election, when I'm used to them being a fountain of politically informed bullcrap.

This is kinda a problem. Firstly, it does matter. On my slate, let's pick on two candidates; one believes that being a mother solely qualifiers her in some away, the other is a member of the English Democrat thing, which can basically be summed up as 'ignorant racist bellends.' (Ahem. I should of prefixed that with something safe, like, 'in my opinion are...')

So there. Slow claps all round there. Secondly, this thing has barely been promoted. The only information I got was a link provided on my polling card. That was it. No radio announcements, no adverts, no leaflets, or at least none that really penetrated. This is certainly a problem because we still have a generation or so of people with little to no access or understanding of computers and this really puts them in a lurch. At the polling station they mentioned many people aged fifty and above – one of the most active voting groups, mind – expressing their frustrations over how little they knew and how little this election had been promoted. Clearly they weren't turning up much in response. Hell, the only things I saw in the tabloids, our news for the people! ...was a begging plea of The Daily Mirror to vote Labour candidates to try and protect coppers form another round of budget cuts. Which was done today. On the election day. So if you weren't registered you're too late now.

Well done Daily Mirror. Way to push a campaign there. Slow claps all round.

For my votes, I chose a retired cop and then the public-cop liaison person, who were incidentally the most qualified candidates by a considerable long shot, and the independent candidates to boot. Yay! Let coppers be coppers! Also loving the way this was not done by First Past The Post. So it's not good enough for party leader elections and now our police commissioner elections, but it's still good enough for our general elections? Heh. Thank you Clegg, Traitor King. I'm still cranky over that, but don't mind me; if you disagree, take comfort we won't be discussing electoral reform seriously for another thirty/forty years. Deep joy.

It seems like our government pushed ahead with this thing... before remembering they don't really like change. But they were committed now, so they made a token effort. Should have done a Clegg and just ignored what they said before (Boom! Fuck you, Clegg! I've decided you're my personal running joke now.) Hell, my experience with low turnout doesn't appear to be an alien one. With such low turnout, will these commissioners have any justifiable power? Yeah, getting twenty percent of a ten percent turnout; they'll have coppers falling over themselves desperate to listen to every word they have to say.

So, in summary, pointless dead election for pointless position is pointless. On the plus side, Three Mobile got back to me about my open letter! Email. Whatever. Okay, so it wasn't their CEO writing back to me. Okay, so they misspelled my name. And they asked me to give their customer service a call... so they either clearly didn't get the point I was trying to make or they believe I have a masochist fetish.

But! Progress! I have wasted someone's time!

Just like I did yours.

Sorry about that.

Open Letter to David Dyson, CEO of Three Mobile

Oh god. My week has been beset by a first world problem.

Mobile phone contract renegotiation.

Brrr. Needless to say that my week has been full of useless calls to bloody useless customer services over and over again, in a cornucopia of failure and misery. Three Mobile. You. Yoooooou. I call you to account. Your useless, thieving, lying... actually, no. I can do better. You see, when venting on Twitter, a lovely account CEOemail gave me, of all things, the email to Three Mobile's CEO.

He may have nothing to do with my experience's with his shoddy company. But his customer service wasted a hell of a lot of my time. So. I'm going to waste his.

(Incidentally, if you're on Three Mobile and are having problems, then I highly recommend giving ol' Dave an email. Maybe if he gets enough of them he'll find the incentive to get a customer service that doesn't actively fuck you over.)

Open Letter to David Dyson, CEO of Three Mobile

Hello David,

I'm writing to you today to explain why I have left your company and sought new providers for my mobile service. I figured you might like to know why because your customer services certainly did, seeing that I've been a customer of yours since 2007, but I got the feeling that, weeeell, they just weren't listening. No. They really weren't when it felt like the only way to progress the conversation off the loop they were sticking to was to mention that I had a lawyer and was willing to call him if it let me cancel my contract... but we're getting ahead of ourselves here.

Your prices are rubbish. I've been paying prices for two years that would have got me an iPhone – not the new one, I admit, but the 3G iPhone would have drastically outperformed my chunk of rubbish (Note: I don't actually want an iPhone, I just picked it because they're so damn expensive.) It doesn't help that on the eleventh hour one of your customer service representatives revealed that I barely use any of my allowance – why the hell did I go on paying for an allowance I wasn't using? Especially since I came to expect an extra fiver of costs every month to land on my bill. How does that happen?

Your unit measurement is a joke; minutes and texts are a singular unit. Look. We all know that texts cost you nothing. We all know that phones are constantly sending SMS messages to stay in contact with phone towers and texts just piggy-back off of that. So text equal a minute of air time? Good grief. No. Oh, and don't get me started on your companies constant goal post moving. Charging for delivery rates, charge increases: Look, the contract I agreed to, was the contract I agreed to. In a hypothetical and quite frankly outlandish scenario where I employed you and I decided on Tuesday to take away five percent of your pay for funsies and on Friday to take away your dental care – both which were in an agreed contract since the Monday; you would be pissed. My ass would be in court. But it's all legal with my phone contract. You reserve the right to change it at any time, don't you? Well guess what? It pisses your customers off. It makes your company look like slimy, scummy bastards. Sure, you'll probably get away with it, and you certainly did for many months in my case – but we remember. You aren't trustworthy to me any more. And believe me, I tell every person I come across nowadays to avoid your company. I see you as the too expensive, money-grubbing, liars option. You are reasonably going to protest that, that it may be unfair to tar you with that brush.

But that is what you look like to me.

Also your coverage is crap. Just putting it out there.

But on equal standing to your business dealings has to be your customer service. Please note I resisted the urge to put the word service in sarcastic quotation marks; is was very difficult not to. Your customer service. Just... just where did you get these people? What god-awful script are you feeding them? They once called me five times in a single hour trying to push deals on me. On the forth call I wearily said in one breath, 'No, I don't want a new phone, none of my friends want a new phone, I don't want to buy any internet or whatever service deals you're offering, leave me alone.' The brilliant bit came next – he got angry at me for not caring! Why should I be angry, who endured a complete waste of my life putting up with this crap, when I should fall over in gratitude for Three Mobile caring about me so much? Look. Let's be adults. You're a company. You exist to sell services. You ain't doing it out of the kindness out of your heart; you're doing it to make money. Don't pretend to me when you're calling me with an offer it's because you're so charmed by my great wit you want to make my life easier. The next call... did not go as well, and that was my fault. I will admit I may have ever-so-slightly lost my patience at the caller, but we all seemed to agree it was all for the best if we never spoke again and that was fine.

So a year or so later and I'm eagerly counting down the days of my contract so I can jump ship and I find myself in Chelmsford, about to buy a shiny new phone. But I want to keep my number. I've been using it for five bleedin' years now. I will never remember another one. So I give your customer service a call to ask for my PAC number and... ohhhhh. This is where we start having fun. What happens next is, well, in a word, uttershitcraptacular.

I get it at this point you don't want to lose a long time loyal customer, or what I call myself in relation to you; a loyal doormat. I get it that if a customer wants to jump ship because of mere price you're willing to work out a deal. I don't get hanging up on me. No. That annoyed me somewhat. It annoyed me further when they called me back... to hang up again. That. That was vexing, I'll admit. So another call happened and I must share this important detail with you; obstructing me from getting to my PAC number by refusing to tell me it until you've told me your 'great deals' is a dick move and god damn it I was meant to avoid using sarcastic quotation marks. Over and over again I said the line 'I wish to cancel my contract and keep my number, please give me my PAC number.' And. They. Wouldn't. Tell. Me. Half an hour of my life flashing away by a person's stubbornness. Hell, I told them a short version of paragraph three, that I wasn't trying to play hard ball, that I'd happily pay more just to get away from you and yet they wouldn't cough it up. What was it he said when I insisted on the PAC number? Ah, yes, 'I never said I wouldn't give it to you, just that if you'd listen to my offers...' NO I DON'T WANT TO LISTEN YOUR OFFERS. MY AUDIABLE RISING HOSTILITY HERE IS MAKING IT QUITE CLEAR A SALE IS NOT GOING TO TAKE PLACE. If I was a shop owner, and proceeded to act contrary to my customer's stated desires at every turn I would not be surprised if no one brought anything, resulting in me ending my days at the bottom of a bottle as I die alone and unloved on the streets, covered in lice. So I threatened to call my aforementioned lawyer – also, not a good sign if I feel it necessary to have to start looking up Citizen's Advice when your customer service is actively preventing me from cancelling my contract – and he relented by putting me on hold for twenty minutes. Which I feel only happened because I didn't let him wow me with bollocks. Twenty minutes later I get assurances they'll call me back later that day. That was Sunday.

On Wednesday, with now four days of calling behind my belt and the same promises each time I tried again. I'm actually really polite – they're beaten the anger out of me temporarily. However, as I repeated for the billioneth time, 'No, I must insist you give me my PAC number right now and I have no interest in any deals,' something happens. Not that I make up a riduclous deal on the spot, I was tempted, but your customer service had treated me so badly I couldn't muster the effort (A Samsung Galaxy S3 with 500 minutes, unlimited texts and 1GB data cap at £20 a month with a free case I was musing on spitting out, but I stalled at the possibility of ever having to deal with your customer service again. That and your broken promises.) In the middle of another wearied pointless exchanges, my lovely girlfriend, driven to despair over hearing the same thing over and over for fifteen minutes or simply dreading yet another bitching-fest about your company later and – I love this – she snatched the phone off me, and refused to give it back until they gave her my PAC number. She held me hostage from you. It was beautiful. At this point they revealed that the PAC number was automated and would come by text later tonight in the hope she would return the phone, which she did, and I immediately hung up.

The PAC number. Was automated. Your insufferable customer 'service' (damn it, sorry) kept this from me as a means to keep me on the line to keep me with you. A lie by omission? Well, either way, NO, I DON'T CARE, THAT IS NOT ACCEPTABLE. Hours of my time wasted dealing with their crap.

Which brings me labouringly to my point. I'm not here just to vent at you. I'm writing this today because at the end of the day, my time was wasted. In reading this inane dribble, I hope your time is wasted.

Yours in eternal spite,

John L

P.S. Also my phone was crap. Maybe not totally your fault, you didn't make the thing, but I'm into irrational hate here and every time I saw the phrase 'Unexpected Failure' I was tempted to learn how to code phone OS's so that I could replace that phrase with 'Expected Failure,' before setting light to an effigy of Three Mobile's logo.

Book review: George MacDonald Fraser's Flashman

Last week I buggered off to Tenerife. An enjoyable time was had, but this isn't an article detailing my holiday pics – I don't want to drive away the, hmm, three people that come here. But as we know, for a beach holiday you need books. Many books. I did not quite have many books, so perusing the duty free I noticed this book, and picked it up. I remembered that the Commissar Cain series was often referred to as Flashman in space, so hey, gotta be good right? So let's review George MacDonald Fraser's Flashman.

I could of done a better picture, but this book didn't deserve it.

Now us Brits like us some unpleasant characters. Look back at The Young Ones, Blackadder, and today The Misfits and the returning Red Dwarf are all great examples – and for that matter, series. I really enjoy the Commissar Cain series by Sandy Mitchel – a cowardly commissar in the grim dark future of the 41^st millennium where the norm is terrible, terrible war. So I'm quite comfortable about spending time with flawed characters – a certain charm and wit will make them enjoyable.

Flashman is none of these these.

I regret giving this author my money. I regret that I can't stop reading a book when partially read. I regret spending time with such an odious, despicable character. I regret the fact I will have the memory of what I read echoing around my head for quite a while. I regret so much.

The titular character is Harry Flashman and fuck this shit of a human being. Okay, it's written turn of the century, so I was expecting a moral compass more tuned to the times regarding many aspects. But... no. Whatever the age, he is an unfunny, cowardly, bullying rapist.

Comparing him to Commissar Ciaphas Cain? Bullshit. Cain is smarter, more charming, more brutal on himself, has a sense of duty, and oh yeah: Not a rapist. But let's backtrack. Let's list Flashman's crimes.

• He is a bully. Joy.
• He cheats out a duel via bribery, and laughs and taunts at his accomplice when he comes looking for his money.
• Beats his father's mistress because she wouldn't sleep with him a second time, chortling to himself that she'll never forget him now.
• Names his horse after said mistress. Classy.
• Coward of an unfunny degree. Anything happens around him and he instantly bolts. In danger he constantly weeps, begs and bribes for mercy.
• Beats his servants because.
• Man slut. He should be full of syphilis by now. Once he sent a soldier on a highly dangerous mission just to separate him from his wife long enough for him to fuck her.
• Back to the man slut; gets intensely jealous at the notion his wife is having an affair when he spent the last six months putting his dick into anything willing – and also unwilling.

There is more, but I refuse to re-read this book to continue this list. Not very professional, but sorry, I'm not suffering any more. The sad fact is that he tries to justify things. Like the rape. He says he doesn't like doing it. That makes it okay, right? Well, no. Not ever. Double no if he kidnaps the woman who he had raped previously, and to get revenge for her husband whipping the shit outta him and her intention of cutting off his dick... he tries to rape her again.

You. Utter. Scum.

Let's compare him to Cain for a minute. Cain's not a rapist. Or a sexist. Or a racist (speciesist, in fairness.) Cain would laugh at his cowardice. When the shooting starts, Cain dives for cover, assesses the situation, and if it's too hot, slinks away. Flashman's first instinct is to bolt. Hell, Cain would laugh; that's a good way to get shot in the back if you're not careful. Flashman hides in a tent. Cain would do his duty and be seen by the men. Flashman is passively part of a disastrous retreat from Afghanistan to India. Cain would trample on his own reputation to get into the leadership's circle and make it work. Cain is funny, witty, charming, and brutal in his own assessment of his own behaviour, as he flees danger into a bigger danger. Flashman waves away his behaviour by saying 'well, I said I'm a coward, so it's fine now I've said it.' In the face of imminent death, Cain puts on his false hero face and banters and snarls in defiance. Flashman weeps, shits himself, begs, offers money, weeps some more. Oh – no wait, he never shits or wets himself. Bully for him.

I wanted this shit of a character to die. I wanted him to die at the aforementioned whipping; oh, he realises the powerlessness he feels is the same as what he put his victims through. Well great for you. You don't do anything about it. I wanted him to get his dick chopped off and stuffed in his mouth. I wanted...

Oh, shit. I am reviewing a book. Allegedly. No more hate-tangents. Er. Side characters! He gets married, and as the whole book is written first person (see? Reviewing!) we get to learn that one of the most attractive things about her is her stupidity oh fuck this book. Fuck this author. Fuck this series.

Plot: A prick get kicked out of school, joins the army, fucks a girl, gets sent to India, then Afghanistan, then goes home, being a prick the whole way. The end.

Don't buy this book. Buy Sandy Mitchell's Commissar Cain series. Or if you want funny British empire IN SPACE try Space Captain Smith by Toby Frost.

Purchasing information:

Flashman is out in many book stores and probably on ebook but I'm not providing any links here because you shouldn't buy this terrible book. Don't give the author any money. Instead look at Sandy Mitchell's Commissar Cain series, available in book stores and sometimes at Games Workshop starting here and available on ebook here. If you're not a Warhammer 40K fan, than please look at Space Captain Smith also available in book stores, found here and as ebook here.

FTFV: How to shop for Christmas; a sensible method vs. my own

By the time you read this, I'll be on holiday. Go me! Without internet. So I won't be able to write or publish anything. But because I am an alleged professional, I am using my awesome powers of scheduling posts I present to you, from my Facebook vault, an old note comparing and contrasting Christmas shopping habits: something we're going to have to look into soon anyway. Sure, Halloween hasn't even started yet, but if I go by shop stock, a Christmas article has been overdue for about a month now. This article been edited slightly from the original (mainly corrections and removing personal references) but is nevertheless the same. It was originally written in December 2009.

How to shop for Christmas; a sensible method vs. my own 

I am not particularly incensed at this moment, making for poor rants. I blame the green tea I've recently taken up. Before I write out an funny angry tirade on employment, I mellow out, and the resulting first draft of my rant is in fact three pages of juvenile cursing that I don't feel like finishing. So in the interim of me running out of green tea, I have written a handy dandy guide to Christmas shopping. And because that alone would be frankly condescending to all you intelligent people, who would totally not walk into the shower wearing glasses (twice in two days now) I have contrasted that with my actual method of Christmas shopping.

Sensible method: Use the internet

You use the internet and get it done. There. You finished. Skip to the end.

My method: Do not use the internet

Click around pointless for a couple of hours and realise that you have in fact ordered a bunch of crap for yourself, and reached level 136 on Mafia Wars. Sigh wearily when you realise that your sisters want nothing from iwantoneofthose, only you do. Take sword from it's place beside your computer, in preparation for interaction with people. Eww.

If this first step is not an option (most likely because you live in a post-apocalyptic world with no internet) then you must take my method of actual human interaction. I pity you.

Sensible method: Preparation

Resist the urge to go charging out, debit card a-blazin'. Formulate a list of things to buy for everyone you care enough about/see regularly enough to be unable to ignore/people you desire to have sex with, or continue to have sex with. If you do not have a specific present in mind write down some quick notes of their likes as you will get stumped later. Appoint the places you wish to shop, ideally areas where you can get everything at once.

My method: Go

Just fucking go already. It's what, 9.00AM? Fuck. Whatever. Wallet. Check. Sword. Check. Gone. I'll wait for the bus and fuck fuck fuck forgot my jeans oh sweet lord no my keys are in my jeans and I closed the door already. It's cold outside.

Arriving at your destination, now it is time to explore.

Sensible method: Shop around

Don't buy anything yet. Whatever you want, doubtless over shops sells, and because of the recession making shops bust faster then a Catholic priest in a (Edit: Joke too soon. Also, eww.) There is serious competition out there. While we're not shopping on the internet, it's still crashed shop prices. If they don't have it on stock, maybe someone else will. Why are there two Waterstones in Chelmsford anyway? (2012 Edit: Not any more!)

My method: Stop caring

You have it. Great. What am I humming? Dammit. It's that 'Domino's' song. Fucking Radio 1. That's it. I'm smacking my head against the wall until I forget it. Fuck. Off. Stupid. Song. Ow. Okay. Feelin' wooooozy. I taste... blue? No. That's blood. Okay. Got it out. And maybe some childhood memories, fuck it. Probably weren't any good anyway.

It is now time to purchase your gifts.

Sensible method: Organise the order of your purchases

Start with the least heavy, and work your way through, or the most direct route out. High popularity items should also take precedence, as well as gifts on sale.

My method: Wander aimlessly

Why the fuck did I come here with no idea what to buy? I HAVE WALKED FOR HOURS. I am checking each bloody shop in turn. I'm in a shoe shop. Why? Keep walking, something may just leap out. Hey, when people notice the blood on my face, they avoid me, and give me space. Nice. Point to me. Ohh. Chocolate. Good backup choice. They are... they are... little chocolate penis? Huh? Where am I? Shit... I'm in Ann Summers ABORT ABORT. Why have I only managed to buy one present, the heavy one? And what's this bag? Tonight's vegetables? WHY AM I CARRYING THAT? Maybe mum would laugh at the chocolate penis.

You have bought your gifts. Go home.

Sensible method: Go home.

I can't exactly stretch this one out.

My method: Fuck this noise.

Next time, it's the internet. And preparation. Gah. I'm done. DONE. DEE. OHH. ENN. EEE. You know what? The people who I missed, and didn't get gifts for? FUCK THEM. I never liked them much anyway. I mean, I was willing to go into this... this... maelstrom of people to buy them some cheap trivial crap to be swiftly forgotten or Ebayed. If they truly knew me, they should feel honoured that I would at least make the attempt for them. Going home. Oh hell, there's more of them! Get out my way. Get out my way. Why did you stop walking... in the middle of the pavement? Please get out my way. Stop pushing. Stop pushing. I SAID GET OUT OF MY... Oh bollocks. I pinned a bloke down and bit out his jugular vein. Again. Jesus, that's why I brought the sword after last year. And the year before that. So that I didn't have to pick bits of skin out my teeth tonight. Gross. Urgh. Well, small blessings; dramatic trauma plus face disfiguring blood does not a good witness statement make. Mental note; buy mouthwash.

You are now done. Prepare to bask in the love of you friends and family, or the rather burly arms of Dave 'The Spooner' at the police station.

Book review: Terry Pratchett's Dodger

When we look at the news today it's all Saville scandal this and Turkey trouble that, so this week let's have something a little different as we review a much appreciated distraction to all this bollocks: Terry Pratchett's new book, Dodger.

Let's see it we can get my shitty camera working...

My god, that is a shitty picture

So Dodger is another foray by Pratchett outside the Discworld series. However this book will lead many readers into familiar territory as Dodger is the story of a young scavenger getting increasingly involved in a big crime in Dickensian London. Very literally Dickensian London in fact as Charles Dickens turn up in it.

Quick synopsis without spoilers: we follow our main character called Dodger. He is a scavenger, particularly of the sewer kind, known locally as a tosher. Witnessing a brutal crime, Dodger intercedes the good old fashioned way (...which is another phrase for 'heavy application of a crowbar in a not originally intended for manner.') His good deed is in turn discovered, and Dodger finds himself not able to walk away to continue his fate as another tosher marching to an early grave, but drawn to using all his street smarts and wit to investigate, reveal and prevent a much bigger crime. Along the way he's assisted by not only the aforementioned Charles Dickens, but from his mentor and incredibly awesome Solomon, their pervasively smelly dog Onan, and a whole slew of other historical figures.

Of course, a character in it's own right is the Dickensian city of London herself. As obvious Discworld comparisons is obvious, let's get them out the way here. Readers of Discworld will definitely be on happy ground here as Pratchett has been writing about old age London for ages with Ankh-Morpork and there's a definite comfortableness with Pratchett writing here. In fact, once or twice I noted something that I felt I had read to a previous effect in earlier works – comments about angels and their similarities to that what was said in Going Postal stood out to me, for example. While I liked spotting those match ups for some that may be a step too far, but to get to that point I imagine you would have to read a lot of Pratchett whilst not enjoying it and why would you do that to yourself? 

Unless you're me who read the entire Da Vinci Code in a fit of rage, but hell, I stopped at that book.

Paragraphs are happily spent building vast tracts of imaginary land and time – while enjoyable, stylistically here Pratchett's writing is a little heavier than Discworld as it's heavily littered not just with detailed loving descriptions of the city but also with researched slang. Those footnotes we all know and love appear not so much to inject further humour but almost Pratchett going, 'Right, crap, I just realised you probably haven't researched this time and place as much as I have. No worries, I'll explain here. God, isn't this era great to write about?' While a couple of paragraphs had me spinning my eyes in pure vocabulary shock it was just my own experience expecting a easier read more akin to his previous work and me reading quickly like a bandit rather than slowing down. I found myself appreciating the several historical figures that popped up in another light as it helped me ground the story away from Ankh-Morpork because at times I found myself expecting Death to turn up.

As for the living cast; Dodger is a protagonist I'm built to love. He's a man who'll be great through confrontations using smarts and wit, yet if worst comes to worst he'll back it up with a swift kick to the nadgers and a swing of a crowbar. A valiant scoundrel, a... you know, if I keep going on about him I'll get mushy. I love me a well written scoundrel with quick wits yet the brains of an absolute bastard at times. 

Of course, next in line we have Solomon, who should be in every book ever. A craftsman who's been in and subsequently out at great speed of nearly every country on the planet, who regularly talks to God in such a way that he makes very clear he not only expects a response, but it better damn well be the reply he's looking for or to hell with you, buddy. I also love Solomon. At the end of the book Pratchett wrote about some of the research going into this book – a habit I noticed him starting with The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents and I implore him to continue doing so as it's truly fascinating – that Solomon was a creation at first to make sure Dodger turned into a character not hampered by malnutrition and terrible hygiene; but since that start he became the character that I most wanted to get to know more. Hell, I would buy a book all about his earlier exploits. 

Now there are other characters; Simplicity, the newly named woman rescued by Dodger doesn't nearly get enough screen time - but she is recovering from a horrific beating so it's to be expected she has to sit out a lot and recover. What we do get to see of her is a cunning mind, able to aptly play situations by knowing when to play the fool and when to push, but she's sidelined for a lot save for some charming scenes with Dodger. Without going too much into the myriad of side characters (it's Pratchett, okay, there's a lot of them and they're greatly distinctive regardless how long they'll be in the book for) I'll pick Mrs Scruples as one of my favourites. Once again, we have a character that seemed nasty but was revealed into something else – I noticed the same trick in I Shall Wear Midnight and I remember being annoyed that my character I enjoyed hating was not a one-note villain but a complicated, fearful human being with depth... before hanging my head in shame of realising I was pissy because I wanted a one-note to despise and whoops, great writer coming through here boy, got places to be, better plot and people to write you could ever dream up boy! Charles Dickens is great fun to be around, full of mischief and sparkle. Between Doctor Who and this I wonder if he ever realised how beloved he'd become in recent media not just for his work but as fictionalised representation of himself? Other side characters of note are also that – fictionalised representation of real world people and I won't spoil their introduction because the historian in me went giddy when another big name rolled around that we got to interact with. Needless to say, Pratchett does a wonderful job by the end of the book of making you want to start Googling these names.

My gushing aside, how did it hold up? Well, let's be honest here. I am biased as all fuck. I love me some Pratchett, and am a vicious collector of his Guard's series, and am expanding into his Witches series after coming in from the back end from the Aching novels, and I am desperately awaiting a third Moist novel. So I can assure you that if you like those previous stories you'll like this. If you're not a Discworld fan some of the silliness has been muted for some darker overtones – some, not all, but it's still an enjoyable read. If you cannot stand Ye Olde English slang and descriptions more then a few words long before it smacking of purple prose to you... yeah, you probably won't enjoy this. But once again, I'm one biased motherfucker who loves him some Pratchett so you should get this. It's all good.

Now that I've done a swimmingly good review for free maybe Pratchett will repay me by writing the next Moist book you dick.

Purchasing information:

Dodger is out in all good book stores now. I got my copy with £8 off at Waterstones, (where they're selling £30 super special awesome sauce edition that there was no way I was shelling out for. It's also available on ebook from many places.

Political suicide - we can only hope

So this week we go striding past politics straight into controversy! Yay!

So Jeremy Hunt is back in the news again. For those not in the know, he's the UK's Health Minister. With his track record of success, we can confidently predict the death of nearly every person in the UK by 2015. Which is one way to attempt to solve our unemployment figures, I guess. Anyway, he's back in the news for wanting to reduce the time available for abortions from 24 weeks to 12 weeks.

Now, you know you've entered crazy land when even the tabloids don't follow you, and they hate women. If they're not slut-shaming, publishing nip-slips or vomiting in disgust over a woman putting on a half pound (the fat heaving bitch!) they're betraying their own women journos. Anyone remember that woman who women hated because she was so beautiful -which was interesting because her publisher took great delight in picking the worst photo they could find of her before throwing her under the bus. Of course, most are calling for the reduction of abortion time limits because of... I dunno? Sluts? Misrepresenting scientific evidence? Whatever.

This whole debate to me is, in a word, odd. Odder still that Jeremy, bless his cotton socks, claims this 12 weeks is backed by scientific evidence. Huh. You see, what made me write about this subject today is that I remember a little while ago (okay, fine 4 years ago, but I still remember it) our parliament was debating changing parts of the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Bill, and one part specifically was the abortion time limit. Now the reason we have it currently set at 24 weeks is based on survival rates. In a nutshell, babies born before 24 weeks have such a small rate of survival as to be deemed statistically insignificant. In May 2008, it was debated whether this should be changed as since the Bill's original creation back in 1990 infant survival rates before 24 weeks had increased. Now here's the important point: yes, there was an increase, but once again, a statistically insignificant one. Oh, and deep joy, every tabloid focused on the word 'increase' rather than the prerequisite 'insignificant.' So it strikes me, if back in 2008 we had many, many, MANY qualified medical professionals telling MPs that survival rates were crap all before 24 weeks and that should be the limit, did medical science explode forward since then? Have we had an utter revolution of medicine that has completely passed me by? Please tell me we invented super power serum. Ah, no. No real change. So Jeremy Hunt is, once again, speaking out of his arse. It begs the question: is he an idiot, or deliberately masquerading his personal view as a 'scientific' one?

Look, this is very simply about publicly stating an opinion on abortion. If you want to, there are two questions to answer. First, determine if you have a medical opinion or a personal one. So...

Are you a medical professional?

If yes, you are allowed have a medical opinion on abortion. Congratulations! That view is enforced by peer-reviewed science, and is subject to change according to improvements in technology, treatment and medicine.

But what if you don't have a medical qualification, but have a personal view? Well, next question to ask yourself is...

Do you (or have you ever had) a uterus?

If yes, go nuts. Say what you want. I ain't stepping to that.

(Unless, you know, you're trying to restrict other women's access to one should they need it, like Nadine Dorries, you heartless shit of a human being. I mean, have your own opinion, but have the right one. Which is mine. Uh. Wait.)

If you don't have a uterus, well congratulations fuckwit! You, along with me, have no opinion! Nope! Not one! What you get is a pre-approved one I have right there somewhere... where is it... ah, here it is:

“In my opinion a woman has the right to choose and have the ability to receive an abortion in an appropriate medical facility when required according to law.”

And. That. Is. It. Basically, no uterus, no fucking opinion. I am aware this actually renders this whole article moot according to my own logic but some people need to listen. This simple rule keeps the J-Hunt away (unless he keeps a uterus in his desk like Jack the bloody Ripper) and also handily keeps the Catholic church at bay as well; which has shown time and time again it has no fucking business butting in on this topic. If you must have an opinion, keep it the fuck to yourself. I ain't even capable of getting an abortion, so where would I get off assuming I have the right to tell women to only use their bodies as I command? With no medical qualification?

Look, I get that this is a hot button topic. At the end of the day I am not going to discuss whether it's ending a life or not here; it's my blog, and I'll cowardly duck out of subjects I don't think I could adequately express myself on. I will say that no woman who ever opts for an abortion is unaware of that debate. If you seriously think many women enter in to this with a light heart, I'm sorry, but you have to do some major re-evaluating of your life. And this 24 week limit? It's not the end all – abortions can happen beyond that limit if the continuation of the pregnancy holds serious risk to the mother. And if you actually think that the death of both mother and foetus is a better result than an abortion then... then there are no words. No. I don't understand you. I don't want to.

I wrote this article now because of a question I'm not getting an answer to: Why is this shit still coming up? Seriously. It has been nuts recently. This crap. Legitimate rape bullshit. Women called sluts for campaigning for birth control to be available on insurance. It's... it's... are we getting worse? I know that society is not a linear progression towards awesome but, wow, does it seem like we're sliding back on women here. Since racism isn't cool any more we switched to misogyny instead? Or are we noticing this shit more when before we didn't question it? Are we seeing the last members of a generation of men who believe they have the right to dictate their beliefs to others?

For the most part, I'm not massively worried about Hunt suddenly slashing time limits. Davy Cameron doesn't agree with him, which is usually a good indication of a Tory MP gone too crazy (or is Boris Johnson, or both.) BUT. He has voted to reduce the time limit to 20 weeks – once again, I repeat, with no medical backing, so it's not a great indication that it'll stick. I mean, sure, you may have your own feelings about this topic, but it worries me when people decide that their feelings have more weight than all the opinions of the people in the British Medical Association, the British Association of Perinatal Medicine, the Faculty of Sexual and Reproductive Healthcare, the Royal College of Nursing and the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists and finally the British Medical Journal because it seems to me that they'd know better.

Just a hunch.

Now excuse me. I've just read what I've written and I must go hide, because quite frankly the anti-choice side terrifies me, and I fear for my safety.

Laters!