One problem…
…I have with anyone seriously reviewing anything to do with
one direction (and with take that, robbie williams, manufactured boy bands,
manufactured girl bands, wet, wet wet, and wet wet wet, wet wet and wetter, manufactured
solo artists, etc.)…
…is that they don’t merit the time. Like My Little Pony, with
maturity, they’ll naturally fade into irrelevance.
The Guardian and the New Statesman reviewers have taken a
strange approach and have applied a quasi-serious line to a frivolous idea – a one
direction film they slag off as being what it is, superficial, pointless,
designed to part consumers from their pocket money.
Both call the film bland. Bland is what they, by definition,
are: one direction, Madonna, all those X-factors and pop-idols and Coles and
Walshs and Cowels and…
…the beat (or lack of it) goes on.
Here’s one for the defenders of the beeb:
The BBC banned the Sex Pistols’ God Save the Queen, ensured
it didn’t hit number one, and thereby nailed their colours to the mast. If you
conform, tug forelock, fail to rebel, there you go. There’s your national
broadcasting bods, working to uphold the status quo. Enjoy your Dr Who, your
Emmerdale, your Albert Square ,
Casualty, Holby, your Corry, whatever. That’s why I won’t have anything to do
with it. Reverent bowers and scrapers, rubbish of the lowest order. Whispering
royalists bang on about babies and weddings and birthdays and all that crap at
my expense and I want none of it. Please make it voluntary so I no longer have
to pay the license fee. The right may distrust the BBC, but anyone with a
rebellious streak must distrust it more – an establishment, tax paid, yessir
nossir lapdog.
Celtic
The right Glasgow
team are through to the Champions’ League proper. Great game, great result. Two
nil down, they won three nil at home. Anti-football opponents. I’ve played in
the past for a number of big, horrible, physical teams that, in terms of
footballing ability, over-achieved. By being what we were: big and horrible and
physical and fit and working hard and having a nasty streak. However, I’m not
sorry to see the back of the eastern European long-ball up and at them Tony
Pulis-types. I knew he’d left Stoke, I didn’t know he’d gone off to salt mine
country.
Tomato juice…
…last night: half a pint of tomato juice, six shakes of
Worcestershire sauce, three splashes of Tabasco
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