I....sleep.

This is because housemate needs luck, distraction and..... well, just look at him.

Part One...

Dirus the dragon was the monster high on the mountains who kept the villagers of Cornville shuddering in their beds at night. His roars shook the buildings on the main street. His giant flames firing from his nostrils crackling and snapping in the stained night sky so loudly that the townsfolk had taken to wearing ear muffs after 6pm.

Every five years the village would call on heroes far and wide to come and attempt to slay the dragon; if they were to succeed their bravery would win them a life of luxury in the castle on the mountain that lay dormant as it was too close to the mouth of the dragons lair. The palatial dwelling shone in the moonlight as the marble swarm above the village- an untouchable halo.  For fifty years it lay in wait for a new master, as the village waited for its king and hero.

The Dragon battle took place every five years, on the shortest day of the year. The 21st of December was blisteringly cold, howling winds, grey dark skies- which made the sun seem like a fable the towns children read about in school. And every five years 35 men fought and failed to succeed in slaying the dragon.

One by one they met their end, and with the bones of the fallen soldiers the Dragon cleaned, shaped and moulded the bones to fit a macabre keyboard for his grand piano which stood proudly on the mossy banks of the cliff overlooking the village. He played it in triumph and mocked each soul as he laughingly tapped the bone keys he had created. For hours his music swam around the air, haunting the inhabitants of Cornville, even after he had long since finished playing.

One child, Matthew, watched from his bedroom window while the dragon taunted people with the death song for the tenth time that night and he wondered, if his father- who had fought the beast when Matthew was a baby was part of the terrible sound drowning out dreams for at least 50 miles.

He swore that some day he would fight and win. And the first thing he would do would be burn the dragons body on top of that cursed piano.

Hello Lover....

Once upon an imagination...

I've taken to sort a gorilla imagination test this week. Let me explain....

Basically, the idea that ones imagination could just up and leave came into my head at the start of the week, and in a train of utter panic I worried about this occurring. It's like anything else in this world- if you stop practising it when its become second nature and you've taken it for granted then it will leave. Maybe by giving my imagination such a sassy personality I should have realised I was probably okay.

But I started taken the words or phrases everyday and creating a story from it- if it was up to scratch then I'd leave it exist on the history of my iMac- if it was loose stool water.... well, I'd flush it.

The first day I chose a mango, a bucket and a group of history students. They became pirates on a weekend field trip, brought with them a bucket full of ripe mangoes and ended up lost in a cave in West Cork. What they didn't know was that their parents (obviously had staggering trust issues by the way...) had left a track device in the inside lid of the bucket and making sure their children were safe they all had a fun weekend two miles down the road and collected/ 'rescued' the kids in time for Sunday dinner.

It wasn't a great story but I was satisfied that things were alright in my head- well, in so far as my imagination was concerned.

Sometimes when you worry about the fact that your job is in no way creative and that all you do all day long is repeat yourself it's good to do something different.

Like take your camera, walk around a graveyard taking pictures while listening to Miles Davis....

That might seem overly specific, but it's effective.

it's fashery (cough..... i'm trying to put a pun on bravery)

I always wished I was taller, thinner, longer legs etc. Then I could imagine myself in an Alexander McQueen sparkly champagne christmas tree creation- but alas, it is not to be. Florence Welch is to be my muse in that regard.

Some complained about it- too weird and with no structure there was no way of showing the design of the dress. But if there was structure and it was more normal.... they would have bitched about it being boring.

You're damned if you do, you're damned if you don't- and hey... at least she didn't look like....

Just saying'....

Albert (MAKE IT END) Nobbs

Rodrigo Garcia decided to annoy me lately by compiling all the cliches of contemporary Ireland and then throwing whatever broad accent that could pass for Irish into the mould of some dead behind the eyes actors- oh, and Brendan Gleeson.

Albert Nobbs (Glenn Close- from here on in shall be called the founder and punisher of boredom- FPOB, for short) is a shy and unassuming butler working in a holier than thou Dublin Hotel in 19th century Ireland. The plot never thickens... it's a thin soup from the minute the Atonement soundtrack begins (you know they use it for all "Big House" drama's now...).

The basic story is....

Nobbs (FPOB) is a miserly old woman, dressed as a man who is terrified that she secret will be revealed to the house when she is made share her room with the freelance painter Mr. Hubert Page (played by Janet McTeer). Page and Nobbs strike up and unlikely friendship and Albert learns to share the real person under the butler uniform. During this time the audience learn of Albert's love for Helen (Wasikowska) an in house maid, who doesn't reciprocate. She spends her time looming at the Dublin handyman Joe and ends up, non surprisingly pregnant. The rest of the story goes in a fashion that John B. Keane would be proud of.

The character I had the biggest problem with was the lowly wide eyed and bushy tail servant Helen (played by that one, Mia Wasikowska- if you think of it in terms of current events, she's like a Tesco Value Saoirse Ronan, they couldn't afford the real thing but then after trying the cheaper version out for a bit they just gave up ). If I believed for a second that she had a soul and wasn't the epitome of a gone off fig roll, I would elaborate further on her accent, the fact that she hurt my eyes with her fake tears and the idea that she has a vagina in which to entice men- it all seems very unlikely.

The bad guy- if there is a bad guy in this would have to be the greedy and loathsome hotel manager Mrs. Baker, played by Pauline Collins, who was Shirley Valentine back in the day and should know better at this point in her career. For some reason she was dressed like a withering mother from the Jane Austen era- and had a panache for lace gloves.

The accents varied from awful to down right prejudice on the scale of offensiveness- think Richard Gere in the Jackal then think about Paris Hilton's sex tape and then get a screw driver and push into your left ear- ignore resistance, then you're with me.

Janet McTeer was okay. I mean she didn't make me want to end her existence. Her character was a little more believable in terms of a strict routine in Ireland and a little less- pity me because I talk very little, which seemed to be Close's plan for the 17 hours the film went on for (it was that long, I timed it). Brendan Gleeson was dependable, but there was little he could do with the material given. It's like trying to get The Only Way Is Essex to act out Macbeth- it'll be fun, but in the end you'll feel sad that it ever happened- like that Paris Hilton sex tape.

The characters meld into each other at some point after the initial development of what Nobb's plans on doing with his/her/its life- Jonathan Rhys Meyers is still alive- I know this because he somehow managed to wander on set and piss me and the entire cinema off by pretending he is straight- I won't believe for one minute that the man was acting- An amoeba can't act, I know this because I did Biology in school.

I feel Gleeson really tried, so much so that I'm convinced if we were to freeze a frame during the scene where he is going down on Maria Doyle Kennedy you can see him mouthing "help me".... and just like the plot, no one can save him.

I've always liked the writing of John Banville, it was one of the main reasons I coerced my friends into going to see the film (they aren't my friends anymore...), but just like all his novels, it went on a bit too long- and what could have been said in one paragraph took a fortnight to stutter out. The most annoying fact is that there was such huge potential in this film- the star status of Close, along with her financial backing meant that people were going to sit up and watch. The fact that it was only released in January in the States and yet was still nominated for three Oscars (best actress, best supporting actress and make-up) also meant there was heavy anticipation where it was concerned. What went wrong?

There was a good point- I can assure you. It does end.

Eat (yawn) Pray (load gun) Love (BANG).... yes this aged review is relevant.

Ryan Murphy jumps off the diving board of Glee fame and belly flops into the pool of motion picture promise, to scrape together a screenplay. The ingredients of the man of the hour is priceless,  deemed for success with the likes of Javier Bardem, Julia Roberts and that cardboard cut out known as James Franco and charged me €9 in good conscious to sit for over two hours in front of a big screen. All the time I worried that Roberts massive “I can hold a whole wagon wheel in my mouth without crushing it” face could cause me some kind of untold damage. But it would probably be worth the risk right?

Most painful chick flicks have the ripped off bandage appeal that rushes us through the formalities of realising that our brains are rotting in our skulls- but not this little number.

Meet Liz Gilbert (Roberts), a married woman who realises one night that her marriage is in fact utter toilet water in consistency. Her husband is a fickle, career drifting post pubescent love sick puppy who stares at her longingly from across the pillows in the marital bed. After a painful divorce scene she decides to organise an around the world trip in order to “find herself”.

First though, Murphy, not happy with the idea of clichéd mid life crisis pre menopausal women, decides to subject the world to the “acting” of the human being formally known as James Franco. I have watched paint dry with more emotion, I’ve watched “reality television” segments with more convictions, hell I think Robert Pattinson might have a career after all this Vampire seduction now that I have endured Franco on screen.

The chemistry between himself and Roberts is nil. Probably due to the fact that the script is terrible and never allows for the audience to see what the characters truly meant to each other. The book- which, yes I did read was far more substantial in conviction. The idea that a woman would need to escape from herself is far more real to me as I read through the chapters rather than watching Roberts sobbing on the floor while her toy boy boyfriend lies on the bed. There was no concrete reason given on screen for the start or fizzle out of their relationship.

The most important thing to consider while watching this film is that Gilbert’s is told at the very beginning that she will lose all her money during the year (she gives her whinging husband the majority of her assets- probably because the dialogue was terrible and the camera man was nodding off). Yet here she is travelling around the world- never wearing the same outfit twice and never mentioning the fact that she is supposed to be now destitute.

I am not cynical- a lot of the time. But as I sat through this film I waited for the amazing moment Oprah promised me would come. The ravings about this book come “cinematic experience” made Britney Spears Crossroads the Schindler’s List of the last decade.

Bardem, an Oscar winning actor- hottie from Spain, the man who knocked up Cruz, my future second or third husband... he sucked too. The only time I didn’t mind his awkward persona on the screen was when he was teary eyed in saying goodbye to his son as he bade off for college. I can only assume the tears were real as the actor realised as soon as his “son” leaves he would again have to trash out another love scene with Roberts.

And that’s another thing; when a man like Bardem takes the book you are reading out of your hand and tells you “it is time” and nods in the bedroom direction with those sex steep eyes you run. You run hard, you run fast and you let the camera’s follow you so the audience at least have the chance of seeing Javier topless. This film did nothing to save itself.

I think she is what is wrong with the world.

Most of the time I find I get irrationally angry and once I simmer down, I realize I was the one being ridiculous- but having read the entirety of this article last night.... I still want her slapped. In the face. With an ESB bill.... From an article in the magazine of the Sunday Times last weekend.....

“James and I both have Range Rovers for running around, but he’s also got a black Lamborghini and a black Rolls-Royce, and I’ve a white Ferrari and a white Rolls-Royce…I’m bored with designers like Dolce & Gabanna. I hate it when you know what label a person’s wearing – it doesn’t say luxury, it feels a bit Russian and cheap…I don’t live in a bubble though… I clear out my clothes every few weeks and send them to Croatia…Our bedroom’s actually more like an apartment, with its own kitchen, bathrooms, lounge, dressing rooms…”

—Petra Ecclestone, keeping it real in The Sunday Times (“It’s not easy being this rich‟).

Ah Yes.

During the height of its controversy, in 1966, harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird was removed from the shelves of schools of the Hanover County School Board in Virginia. Once Lee was made privy to the situation she responded perfectly with:



 Monroeville,
 Alabama,
 January,
 1966


 Editor, The News Leader:

 Recently I have received echoes down this way of the Hanover County School Board's activities, and what I've heard makes me wonder if any of its members can read. Surely it is plain to the simplest intelligence that "To Kill a Mockingbird" spells out in words of seldom more than two syllables a code of honor and conduct, Christian in its ethic, that is the heritage of all Southerners. To hear that the novel is "immoral" has made me count the years between now and 1984, for I have yet to come across a better example of doublethink. I feel, however, that the problem is one of illiteracy, not Marxism. Therefore I enclose a small contribution to the Beadle Bumble Fund that I hope will be used to enroll the Hanover County School Board in any first grade of its choice.

 Harper Lee

Everything has gotten whiter and fancier on this website- I'm not sure how I feel about that.... but I think I will change the look of my blog, then vent and complain about it for a week, then forget to write in this thing for an additional six weeks and come back and start the cycle all over again....

What big teeth you have....

On my way to work today I saw a wolf in the clouds, chasing after the morning sun, opening it's mouth wide and trying to swallow it whole. I almost missed my stop because I wanted to see who would live to see the afternoon.