While it was no secret that Roman Polanksi was a fugitive child molester, I’m repeatedly shocked at the number of people in The Business who are this week happily holding their hands up in support of the guy now he’s finally been arrested. I just found out that Gael Garcia Bernal is the latest in a long line of rape apologists. GAEL! GARCIA! BERNAL! What a fucktart he turned out to be.

Check out the current list of pro-rape morons. See what kind of pockets you’re lining with your cinema tickets and DVD purchases. Think about how paying to see anything these people have made means you’re basically saying, “You’re alright, you. Sure, you think it’s okay to rape a 13-year-old girl and then make a break for the border before you have to serve real time for it, but hey, your film looks good. I’ll forgive you for your sickening loud-and-proud support of a child molester.”

Alternatively, you can just keep shovelling popcorn into your gob and forget that all those people think raping a child is basically a-okay because gosh, it was so long ago. One option is far easier than the other, but I’m not so sure anymore that enjoying films involving any of these people is worth the knowledge that I’m basically supporting their fucked moral compasses with my dollars and cents.

Which means I’ll never get to see Fantastic Mr Fox or find out who killed Laura Palmer. FUCKING HELL.

Like I said, it’s easier to enjoy stuff and ignore the moral implications, but sometimes the bigger picture is much more important.

Did everyone watch Derren Brown ‘predict’ the lottery numbers last night? It was fantastic. I never care how he does things, just that he can. I don’t care if it’s fake; I only care that he’s able to fool us. That is a skill in itself. Pure entertainment, that man.

Of course, looking at the Guardian blog on the show is just depressing, with pages and pages of miserable fucking eejits telling us the obvious: that it wasn’t for real. IT’S DERREN BROWN. Saying what he does isn’t always real is like saying the sky’s blue and expecting shock and awe in return for your revelation. You have to be a boring, cynical cunt not to get a little bit of pleasure out of the man’s work.

How can it not fill you with a childlike glee? Don’t these people remember that wonderful feeling of watching something magical as a kid and having no clue how it was achieved? That’s how Derren Brown makes me feel: like an awestruck, gobsmacked kiddie. I know he’s all about misdirection and suggestion, but the fun is letting go of your cynical adult sensibilities and just being entertained by his skill and wit.

I loved it. I love him. I will watch the show on Friday and find out how he did it, but I will treasure that Christmas Eve-feeling of giddy excitement I got last night far more.

Nick ‘Don’t Have Nightmares’ Ross – he of Crimewatch fame – was interviewed on BBC breakfast news this morning in order to promote his made-for-two-pence documentary about (you guessed it) crime in the UK. Early on in that interview, he made the most baffling set of statements I’ve ever heard at that time in the morning.

There was a lot of discussion on the news in general about CCTV cameras, telling us yet again that we, the United Kingdom of Great Britain, are the most watched country in the known universe. Fascinating fact: the Shetland Islands, home to seven windswept fishermen and a lonely cow, have more CCTV cameras in operation than San Francisco. Insane. The London borough of Wandsworth has more than about 4 major world cities combined. (As an aside, one of the BBC presenters described it as “leafy”, a claim that some police dude from the area denied vehemently. Looking quickly at the map, Wandsworth includes, or is right next to, Roehampton, Wimbledon, Richmond and Parson’s fuckin’ Green. It’s so leafy it makes Hyde Park look like Pripyat.)

Since Nick Ross has all that Crimewatch experience, the BBC has clearly decided he is now an expert on crime in the UK. Y’know, after presenting something rather than working in the police force or one of the related government agencies or whatever. With that in mind, they asked him his opinion on the amount of CCTV cameras nowadays. His answer? I paraphrase slightly, but here’s the gist:

“They’re making it too easy for police. If someone’s running away, they can just see where to cut him off now, and it’s preventing them from thinking laterally.”

So that’s how you deal with crime in 2009! All along, they thought the frankly terrifying amount of technology we have sellotaped to street corners was helping catch the baddies, but really what it’s doing is slowing the intellectual faculties of police. When they have to run through the rainy streets of some depressing English town on a Saturday night, pursuing whichever goon’s just glassed someone for looking a bit funny at their missus, taking directions from a CCTV operator on where to cut them off, what they should be doing is solving a particularly tricky Sudoku puzzle and plotting the results on a complicated graph. THANKS, NICK ROSS!

They showed a clip from his show. It’s basically how I described above: Oxford, weekend, brawl, repeat to fade. In the clip they used, some guy legged it from a fight; when he was caught, he drunkenly wailed, “But I’m a TEACHER! I’m a TEACHER!”

Cut back to the studio and Ross sighing heavily at The State of Things Today. “That man was a teacher,” he moaned. “He was clearly very drunk and ran away from the police. Can you imagine someone like that being allowed to teach in our schools twenty years ago?”

Aaah, twenty years ago. The halcyon days of 1989, when tight-knit families sat around the wireless to listen to a crackly broadcast of Neighbours and everyone got together to have a great big cuddle at Hillsborough. And they knew how to prepare for a recession back in 1989! They put all our pre-economic collapse street parties in 2007 to shame!

It was just a better time. A better time we’ll never get back. *wipes away single tear*

Nick Ross for Prime Minister! The campaign starts here, right after I’m done punching the TV screen.

Of late, the budget airlines have started spamming customers a while before they are due to fly. I have had mailings from Easyjet, Ryanair and Sterling recently, all with helpful reminders of my flight times and such a few days before the trip.

Sometimes, though, they’re just weird in their offerings. Take the spam I had from Easyjet yesterday, for instance. I’m flying with them to Amsterdam next month (still another three weeks away, mind), and they were kind enough to let me know I could still spend more money with them if I cared to. The exact text (with all the emphasis their own) was as follows:

Imagine arriving at the airport, using a dedicated check-in with a shorter queue and getting through the gate first so you can all sit together….

Wouldn’t that be a more relaxing way to start your family holiday?

Yeah, that sounds alright. Nothing to get excited about, but if you have seventeen brats and an incontinent granny to haul onboard I suppose it makes sense. Luckily, I’m neither laden with sprogs nor lacking in bladder control; and since I’m only travelling on a 45 minute flight, should I be separated from my two companions for that heinous length of time I’m sure I’ll just about cope without having a nervous breakdown.

As a result, I went to click ‘delete’ immediately and forget all about it. But the following line caught my eye before I hit the button:

Don’t just dream it, do it.

Is that what passes for a dream on Easyjet these days? The idea that you might be able to spend an extra fifteen minutes on their stuffy, cramped plane in order to sit next to people you know on a short-haul flight (which, in my plebeian boarding experience, has never been a problem, anyway)?

The only legitimate copy this line could have preceded without incurring my immediate scorn is as follows:

Imagine not being charged extra to check in a bag which you can’t carry onboard because of legislation hoping to prevent terrorism mid-flight. Imagine not having to fly at 4am because you can’t afford a flight at a reasonable time. Imagine not having your eyes assaulted the entire flight by uniforms in a violent shade of orange usually only worn by clean-up workers at a nuclear power plant post-disaster. Imagine not having to pay extra to avoid a violent scrum at the gate when boarding opens. Imagine never having to go to Stansted or Luton fucking Airport ever, ever, EVER again.

Ah, the power of dreams…

To celebrate her birthday, a good friend of mine recently organised a trip to see Romeo and Juliet at the Open Air Theatre in Regent’s Park. It’s a beautiful location to see a play, even though the nature involved sent my hayfever crazy and I nearly suffered an untimely death by drowning on my own snot.

It was obvious a lot of people had attended a show there before, since they were smart enough to bring picnics to enjoy on the grass before everything kicked off. It was all very Pimms o’clock. At one point my boyfriend heard someone exclaim, “Xavier’s here!” Of course he is, and he’s jolly well bringing stuffed vine leaves for everyone!

The play itself was really very good, marred only by the people sat behind me. One of these days I’m going to be rich enough to go all Kermodian and buy all the seats around me so I’m never bothered by the general public. This time I was treated to a wonderful family of American tourists – a teenager, a mother figure and the dreaded Small Child. Oh joy.

They annoyed me from the off by chattering to the sprog about what was going on. I lasted about ten minutes before I couldn’t gnash my teeth any harder without grinding them to dust and turned around to shush. I found myself nose-to-nose with the Small Child, who was leaning forward in his seat. He received every last drop of my bile as I ordered him to be quiet. His eyes widened, and his mother nodded violently, pulling him back.

Luckily, this seemed to do the trick, and the sproglet sat in silence for the rest of the first half, but when the interval arrived the teenager decided to wank on about where they’d got to in the play. I was treated to what seemed like hours of his nasal musings because it took forever to get out of our respective rows. “We’re, like, at Act Three, Scene Two… No, maybe, like, Act Two, Scene One… No, like, I think it’s Act Four, Scene Three… Or it could be…” At this point I roundhouse-kicked his head square off his shoulders and we all agreed to disagree.

When the play began for the second half he once again forgot how to behave in public and spent a minute or so talking over the actors to explain what was going to happen to the sprog. Not just, “Oh, and now Juliet’s going to be ordered to marry Paris. Let’s see how that turns out, ho ho!” but a SYNOPSIS OF THE WHOLE PLAY FROM THAT POINT ON, from the proposal of forced marriage to the death of our heroes. I tried to have a sense of humour about it and muttered, “Aw, what? Spoiler warning!” The people next to me giggled, and I felt validated in my wrath.

Safe in the knowledge their idiot child knew exactly what was going to happen, they stayed silent till the end (which, incidentally, borrowed a little too much from Baz Luhrmann’s version but brought tears to my eyes regardless). Romeo had poisoned himself in a dramatic fashion and Juliet had shot her pretty little brains out. They lay draped over one another, their families wept and the Prince made his dramatic, “Now look what you’ve bladdy well gone and done!” speech. The Teenager clearly found the performance somewhat lacking, and at this final moment felt it necessary to start reciting the lines in a stage whisper, saying them just before the Prince did. Oh my god. OH MY GOD. And to add insult to injury, he got them wrong.

I’m still not sure why I let him live. Actually, I’m annoyed at myself for not having turned to him afterwards and told him that he’d ruined the end of the play for me. Because he did. Totally. I should have said something, but I just clung to my boyfriend and tried to let my anger disperse in a non-violent fashion.

I understand that my fury is probably disproportionate to the various crimes, but that said:

1) If your child is too young to understand or be entertained by Shakespeare, take him to see the fucking Lion King. That’s what it’s there for.
2) DO. NOT. TALK. DURING. A. PLAY. With it being outside the ambient noise was distracting enough (planes, a random air-horn, kestrels going WAGH! WAGH!), and I didn’t need twunts like you pulling me even more out of it.
3) If you know the play well enough to recite it, good for you. Save it for the home times, the special secret sexy times. No-one is impressed that you can quote Romeo and Juliet. Like a lot of people, I know great swathes of the play by heart after studying it at GCSE, but I didn’t feel the need to show off. They are the actors. You are the audience. Know your FUCKING place, dickhead, and shut the goddamn hell up.
4) I hate the general public.

It shouldn’t come as any surprise that I love Big Brother. It won’t be the same without the lovely Dermot O’Leary on BBLB every evening, and Big Mouth has never really recovered since Russell Brand left, but I’m still entertained beyond all belief by the main show.

The contestants went in tonight. Here are my earth-shattering and ridiculously judgemental first impressions.

Dennis, a 23-year-old dancer, is this year’s Token Gay. He looks like a bloated Pete Wentz. He combines his sexual preference with being exceptionally loud and smug. As such, all the women in the house are taking turns to drape themselves all over him so he can squeal how “hot” they are and how he’d totally snog them if he liked girls. I bet a fiver they’re showing him their tits by Sunday – it’s okay, you see, he’s gay. I bet another fiver he’s not actually gay.

Dale is the Token Misogynist. In his intro film he said, “If there’s fanny in there, I’ll nail it”. To be blunt, he’s the kind of guy you wish knob-rot on within minutes of meeting him.

Michael is the Token Disabled. Being blind, people are invariably dragging him around the house to make themselves look good or asking in braying tones if he’s “touched things with his hand”. I hope that he grows weary of this treatment and starts touching everything in far more antisocial ways, just to see how far he can push their tolerance. I especially look forward to the day he wipes his knob on everything, starting with the toaster and finishing with Dale’s horrible little face. Loses points for coming dressed as a goat herder. There’s no excuse for a poncho, not even profound blindness.

Darnell is the Token Psycho. His entrance to the house was, quite frankly, terrifying. He stomped around the walkways like a furious toddler denied a multipack of Yazoo at the supermarket, flinging his belongings at the crowd. I give him four days before he smashes the place up.

Kathreya is the Token Wacky Foreigner. Dressed as she is in a hot pink lamé romper suit and gold stacked trainers, she looks like a demented baby from the planet Disco. She carries around a jar of cookies everywhere and everyone seems to be avoiding her. She seems all right, apart from the fact she’s clearly a lunatic.

Then we have the Token Idiot Women. Jennifer, Rachel, Sylvia, Alexandra and especially the vomit-inducing Stephanie are the type of girls that make you ashamed to be female. In fact, they make you feel ashamed to be human. They all think they’re eminently fuckable and their smugness hangs around them like fuggy clouds of yuck. Dale has already ranked them in shag order. They all want to shag Dale.

Mario is the Token Dogger. His real name is Shaun and he wants his girlfriend Lisa (also in the house) to lose weight and have bigger tits. Oh, and to stop caring about her looks so much. Everytime I look at him I hear Alan Partridge in my head talking about the big barns farmers have that we’re not allowed to go into because they contain chickens with giant beaks. Mario looks like an experiment in the genetic modification of Matt Le Blanc gone wrong. He lives in one of Alan’s imaginary big sheds, confused, enormous and, because of his charming opinions on wife Lisa, utterly hate-worthy.

Lisa seems all right, as do Mohammed and Rex. BORING. Luke is clearly meant to be the Token Weirdo, but his I-Wear-Suits-I-Don’t-Drink wackiness is already tedious beyond belief. He’ll be out within a fortnight, as will Screamy Nutpiece Rebecca.

I bet all of you a shiny penny that Mohammed wins.

I love Eurovision. I do. I bloody love it. And not in a painfully kitsch LOL FOREIGNERS AND GAYS fashion, but in a tragic, treasure-every-second way.

I’ve missed the last couple of years, much to my distress at the time, but this year I switched over just in time to see the UK take the stage and bore the arse off the viewing public with some instantly forgettable disco number. Brilliant. When Terry Wogan announced that our singer, Whatshisname McThingy, had done an amazing job, I couldn’t wait for Tels to be totally confounded when we went home with nil points again.

Which of course he was. We managed to avoid the horror of scoring nothing, but we still did shockingly, coming right at the bottom, and as always Wogan decided to spout on about political voting throughout the whole thing, as if certain countries really do vote for one another to make some sort of statement. I was writing my dissertation the first year we scored nothing (for a momumentally cack performance from the ones that sang out of tune, Blondetits and Wankface. You remember them, right? It was 2003, I think). Anyway, after that debacle certain people couldn’t wait to blame it on Labour. Our culture had gone to the dogs under Blair, crowed a Tory politician! Like Eurovision has ever been anything other than shite where we’re concerned.

When it comes to certain countries voting for one another, the so-called political voting – I have another theory. It’s really fucking out there, but bear with me, okay? Here it comes:

Other countries take the competition seriously.

Let me explain. We’ve been doing this for donkey’s years; since 1957, in fact. We’ve won a bunch of times and we always get our entries in, even if they sucked, thanks to the big fat cheque we pay the heads of Eurovision every year. However, a lot of countries are new to this song contest lark. In the last five years alone no fewer than thirteen new nations have started taking part. And you know why they want in in the first place? Because they actually care about being in it, and they care about winning. We don’t. We couldn’t give a fuck, truth be told. We don’t want to be beaten by Moldova or somesuch, but we don’t really care that much otherwise.

So imagine that all the ex-Soviet and Balkan countries care about the contest. They take several steps to ensure they do well:

1. Fame. They know it.
They pick someone well-known to represent them. Russia’s winning entrant this year, Dima Bilan, came second in the 2006 contest, and he’s a bloody great big star in his homeland. This guy is one of Russia’s biggest selling acts. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that if he’s big in Russia, he’s going to be somewhat of a name in places like Ukraine, Georgia, Belarus, Armenia et al. In short, check out his bloody big ready-made walloping gallumpha of a fanbase. Those people already love him. Those people will vote for him, even if his song is a turd. He even roped in Evgeni Plushenko, a world champion skater, to slide around him on Saturday night, and some dead popular violinist. In contrast, we have Splatty Thingyjim and his backing band of nobodies. Who gives a shit about Splatty Thingyjim? No-one, except maybe his mum. Who’s going to vote for him, besides his mum? No-one. Because no-one knows (or cares to find out) who Splatty Thinyjim is. Which leads us onto…

2. Promotion. They use it.
This is a simple one. If you want people to vote for your song, it needs to have stuck in their heads. Our entry failed because it was instantly forgettable. Then again, I can’t remember the Russian one either. However, I’m willing to bet hard cash that Dima Bilan promoted his arse off in the run up to the competition. That song would have been on radio and television all over eastern Europe. Why? Because they take it seriously. We, on the other hand, employ some X-Factor reject and poke them onstage at the last minute before throwing a cheery thumbs-up their way and running away giggling.

3. Music. They like it.
Terry Wogan, eh? What a funny chap. ‘Oh ho!’ he crows, ‘This is going to be rubbish!’ over every single slightly ethnic sounding track. I’m quite happy to giggle at the utter rubbish some countries send into the contest – Spain excelled themselves this year with new levels of bonkers arsewankery – but on occasion his commentary borders on xenophobia.

Take the half-time entertainment this year, for instance, provided by the amazing Goran Bregovic. If you love a little eastern European brass madness, go buy some of this guy’s records. I had no idea he was due to appear, but I was delighted when I heard his name. It was such a brilliant addition, and such a surprise – one comment on YouTube phrased it perfectly: “I didn’t expect to see him there at all. Brega playing in Eurovision is like Stanley Kubrick showing up at your high school’s amateur film festival”. I may well have clapped my hands in delight. Wogan sneered at it all, of course, but I expected him to shut up after a few seconds. He didn’t. He talked over almost the entire thing, and even when he wasn’t sniping, he had the sound turned down, so we couldn’t hear the music either way. I was so frustrated and angry I wanted to cry.

Thanks to the wonders of YouTube, I’ve been able to watch Bregovic and his band back at my leisure, and it was bloody worth it, I tell you – check it out for yourself:

The point is, what the fuck does Terry Wogan know about music from this area of the world? Nothing whatsoever, if he chose to talk over Bregovic. And really, most of us won’t be familiar with the trends of the music industry in every country in the world, unless we’re a bone-fide expert (or, probably, Stephen Fry). So he can talk over the entries all he likes, but I’m going to go out on yet another limb and guess that many of the entries are styles of music very popular with people from that part of the world. They like it. They vote for it. They’re less keen on limp and self-consciously camp disco from the UK. They don’t vote for it. It’s a simple system, and has fuck all to do with politics.

If you combine all of these elements, you’re onto a winner. Sorry Terry, it’s got nothing to do with Iraq. We’re just shit at this.

As a side note, my favourite entry was the ridiculous song from Bosnia & Herzegovina. The version on the night was much weirder – no chicken, but a washing line and loads of brides – but this one still delights me. I found myself genuinely liking the song, and it’s the perfect example of why I like Eurovision so much. Who knows what utter weirdness is going to make it onto your iPod?

A friend of mine works in the art industry and takes me to openings now and again. The opening is usually a prelude to a night in the pub, and despite my complete lack of art savvy I’m usually happy to tag along. To her credit, the friend in question never outwardly shows her embarrassment at my scrunchy faces and whispered But-I-Don’t-Get-It protestations. She just lets me chug down the free booze and smiles benignly at my idiocy.

Last night she took me to see an opening at an old fire station in Marylebone. The place was decrepit and dark, decorated mainly with signs saying ASBESTOS! DEATH! DOOM! But it did have a pole, which somehow made up for the poison lurking around every shadowy turn. I don’t know why.

One of the artists had brought in a couple of mediums. They seemed like nice enough ladies, cuddly middle-aged delusionals who spent a lot of their time blessing people and telling us about protection spells they’d put around the place. Fred West and Hitler wouldn’t be ruining this party, no siree.

The medium session was rather fun. They announced a spirit wanted to make contact, giving vague enough details for it to have related to pretty much anyone in the room and then using all those Derren Brown-esque body language techniques to move things along once some sucker stuck their hand up.

“I have a woman. She’s a sister.”
*silence from room*
“No. She’s like a sister. She’s sisterly.”
*silence from room*
“Anyone?”
*silence from room*
“She wants me to talk to you (points at woman in front row). Had you a sister, or anyone who might be considered sisterly?”
“No.”
“Well, she says she felt sisterly towards you, so there.”

That was the general progression of things. Eventually they’d hit on something that rang true enough and they’d run with it till their luck disappeared (sorry, the spirit ‘moved off’). Brilliant.

Later on they held a séance in a tiny room downstairs. It was suitably creepy. The door creaked, they’d turned the lights off in favour of a lamp with a red bulb and there were a couple of flickery candles. There were even spooky noises floating through from the room next door, thanks to another artist’s piece that featured people in fire-fighter gear bumbling around a room and breathing heavily.

They were joined at the table by some right keenos who clearly believed very much in the whole thing. They laughed heartily at every nervous joke the mediums made to try and cover-up the fact nothing much happened. The planchett spun around a bit, the names Flnp and Tojgy were spelt out, and that was about it. Not exactly the ghostly experience I expect most people there (myself included) hoped might happen.

Let’s face it, if you go and check these things out there’s only a tiny part of you that doesn’t want something to happen. A ghostly visitation is far more exciting than watching a couple of mums bullshit about non-existent orbs and portals for an hour; we all like to be spooked, whether we choose to rationalise it afterwards or not.

Before the whole thing began, the mediums asked if anyone could feel their hair being pulled or their nose itching. If so, spirits were letting you know they were there. This was a fun little ruse, but surely everyone knows the power of suggestion when it comes to itchiness. You put the idea of an itchy nose into someone’s head and the nose will immediately become itchy. It’s just one of those things. They also said that there would be fluctuations in temperature, fluctuations that only the mediums themselves felt when they happened, strangely enough. I scoffed internally every time they whispered about feeling hot or cold. And then, right out of the blue, my own temperature began to rise.

At first I just cursed the room for becoming stuffy. Then the hot flush spread over my whole body. I started to tremble, my knees became weak, and things started to ripple in my vision. Nausea took over and I wondered what I would do if I did actually need to vomit.

Seconds later it passed. I felt normal again, if a bit shaky. Phew.

I realised straight after that I could read it two ways. Had I spoken up, no doubt the sickly spell would have been put down to some sort of spiritual intervention. Had I been a firm believer, I probably would have swallowed it and remained spooked forever. After all, on those ghost hunting shows there’s always *some* member of the crew who has a funny turn. I was haunted, right? My body was haunted. IT WAS DEFINITELY HAUNTED.

Except it clearly wasn’t. In truth, I had been stood very still for a very long time. It was getting on towards 9pm and I was tired. The room was very dark and it disorientated me briefly, helping the nausea, and the strain on my eyes from the poor light affected my vision. There was no way I could slip out without making a scene, adding to the edge of panic the feeling of imminent puke gives by default. And I’d only eaten a packet of prawn cocktail crisps all day. Oopsie.

It’s safe to say I came away from the experience even more aware of how suggestible a person is when they put themselves in that position. Derren Brown would have had a field day, truth be told. In fact, I went to see his show in London a couple of weeks back, and the second half was devoted entirely to old-school séance techniques. He did a bit of table tipping and it was bloody brilliant watching it float. I have no idea how he did it, but the whole thing was clearly not real. It was an illusion, an example of how easily people would have been fooled back in the day.

With my near-puke experience I can only thank my lucky stars I was able to rationalise the entire thing as it happened and not allow myself to get carried away with all the occult-dabblation* (which, admittedly, is a lot of fun when you’re a dirty cynic and can watch with a sardonic expression on your face and a ‘pfft, yeah, right, whatever’ in your head).

Otherwise, I would have looked like a right tit. And, as we all know, there’s no bigger tit than a tit at a séance.

*I think I made this word up. Feel free to take it and use it. It’s a gift from me to you. Enjoy!

Channel Four screened Brokeback Mountain last night, and despite promises to myself that I wouldn’t watch it, I sat through pretty much the whole bloomin’ thing.

My failure annoyed me because Brokeback Mountain is a film that falls into a select category in my mind, one that has been named Films That Make Me Weep For Seven Years Every Time I Watch Them. Even though  I’m one of those pansies who’ll cry at adverts when no-one is looking, this remains a very exclusive club. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind goes in without question – If I’m not bawling my eyes out when Clementine murmurs, “Come back and make up a goodbye this time… let’s at least pretend we had one”, there’s something not right in the world. Likewise, if I’m not fighting back the tears when the Hungry March Band storm the titular club in Shortbus and Severin starts screaming the place down, the world is all askew. 

(note: this video probably isn’t work safe, unless your work don’t mind you watching the beginnings of an orgy).With Brokeback Mountain, the opportunities for a little sob are numerous. What about when Alma catches Jack and Ennis kissing? Wah! What about when Ennis finds the bloodied shirts hidden away? Mew! What about that very last scene where Ennis mutters, “Jack, I swear…” For Christ’s sake, there’s snot everywhere.

Nothing quite compares to the last trip to Brokeback, however. The squabble that ends in bitter recrimination and weeping always leaves me a wreck on the sofa. Whose heart isn’t stamped into itty-bitty pieces when Heath Ledger’s face squinches up and he spits out a defeated, “It’s your fault I’m like this… I’m nothing, I’m nowhere…”? Bloody brilliant stuff.(As an aside, I tried to find a clip of this scene on YouTube, but I couldn’t see for the lake of fanvids. I’m too trepidatious to open them, but from the stills and the titles I’m going to guess they’re montages of Jack and Ennis having a little cuddle to Ronan Keating songs and that one by Aerosmith. Soz. )

So I started off this post insisting I didn’t want to watch one of my all-time favourite films, and the reason is simple: advertising. The last thing you need during a film like Brokeback Mountain is a noisy ad break every twenty minutes, the emotional rollercoaster pulled to a grinding halt so you can be bombarded with jaunty images of delighted pensioners licking the lid of life, or puppies letting you know how best to wipe your arse. No, no and thrice no. I want my misery UNINTERRUPTED, okay?

I’m going to start a campaign to have all films of an emotional manner screened solely on the Beeb. Channel 4 and ITV can have what’s left: teen comedies, films about fast cars and any that feature unrelenting and depressingly vivid violence.

There was a point to all this, actually. Are you ready for it?

Excellent.

The reason I’m wanking on about the wonderful Brokeback Mountain is because watching it in the wake of Ledger’s untimely death left me thinking about his acting legacy.

When he and Jake Gyllenhaal signed up for the film there was a lot of discussion about whether the decision would ruin their careers, and the ‘bravery’ they were showing by taking on such roles, like they were planning on doing a non-stop sponsored wank until all world debt had been eradicated or something. Bravery? No-one would call it bravery if two female actors had signed up for the lesbian version. Then it would have just been front page news on the cover of The Sun with the headline ‘PHWOAR! HOLLYWOOD STARS KNOCK KNOCKERS’ attached. But that’s beside the point.

Regardless, I’m sure it would have taken a lot of thought on their parts. But say Heath Ledger hadn’t signed on and made this film? I think it’s fair to say that it’s the performance of his life, that he was robbed of that Oscar… but what else would he have been remembered for? A Knight’s Tale? Ten Things I Hate About You? Unlikely.

You see, the discussion that went on around their employment focussed on whether the pair would be cast in anything ever again after playing gay in one film. Would their careers suffer? Would it be worth it? No-one knew that Ledger would be dead three or four years down the line, that this fine performance would be the shining moment of his professional legacy.

So all I really wanted to say was this: it’s a bloody good example of carpe diem if ever I saw one.

If you had a vote yesterday I really hope you took some time to read the mayoral manifestos on the London Elects webpage. I did so last night, realising I had no idea who to award my second vote to, and it was both terrifying and hilarious. Here are some of my favourite political jackasses.

Matt O’Connor
English Democrats
First off, this is not a man. This is a creation. Somewhere in this world, Dr. Fox has secured the funds to build a lab deep in the earth’s crust, and in that lab he built a man based on his own image. Foxy gave him a rudimentary history lesson, made him angry about kilts, named him Matt and released his creation into the world.

This is what the leader of Dr. Fox’s master race has to say about things:

“We all remember a country we called home. A green and pleasant land that gave the world the English language, Democracy, the Mother of Parliaments and the Magna Carta.”

Seriously? That’s his political angle, to make people feel nostalgic for the days of the Magna Carta? This particular piece of English legislation hasn’t crossed my own mind since I studied it at school circa 1992, and I struggle to think of the last time it came up in any sort of conversation.

…apart from when Hugo, Toby, Rupert and I went boating at Toby’s divine family estate and discussed all manner of bloody brilliant English things over ginger beer and hard boiled eggs. We made a top ten. The Magna Carta came third, beaten only by cricket and the Queen. What ho!

Matt is also Very Angry About Scotland. You get the feeling he’d start stabbing the place up if you so much as offered him a piece of shortbread. He probably spends his days writing letters to the ASA complaining about that Wine Gums advert.

Alan Craig
Christian Choice
Say hello to your friendly religious fundamentalist candidate! I don’t know about you guys, but in a diverse city like London we DEFINITELY need the person in power to bleat on about Jesus. You know, just to bring the community together. Well, the Christian community, anyway. Just ignore the fact London is made up of Muslims, Sikhs, Buddhists, Jews, Rastafarians, Atheists and more religions than I have time to think of. In short, there’s loads, and the vast majority don’t give a toss about Luke or what he had to say in 22:26. For that reason, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that ‘Jesus said “The leader is the one who serves”‘ has no place in a political manifesto. Also, if it’s a direct quote Luke had poor grammatical skills. Wanker.

Beyond that, here’s the first three points on Craig’s winning manifesto:

The Christian Choice priorities:
- Promote marriage and stable family as a long-term solution to youth crime, educational under-achievement and child poverty
- Stop the mega-mosque at West Ham near 2012 Olympics proposed by a controversial Islamic sect (MegaMosqueNoThanks.com)
- Champion London’s most vulnerable – the unborn, the elderly, the refugee

Which essentially translates as:

- Continue to blame single parents for all the crime on our streets.
- Pretend that racial and religious diversity doesn’t exist in London. Also, ensure even more hostility between The Good Guys (henceforth known as ‘Us’) and the Muslim community (henceforth known as ‘The Terrorists’).
- Ban abortion.

Cunt.

Finally, let’s go see what everyone’s favourite neo-Nazis have to say.

Richard Barnbrook
BNP
You see this chump? See his wistful face? Guess what he’s thinking. I’ll give you a little time to construct an answer.

…

If you said, ‘Our wonderful party is so inclusive! YAY!’, you’d be wrong.

If you said, ‘I hate it when people think we’re racists. It makes me have sad face. ‘, you’d be wrong.

If you said, ‘I think I’ll have a wank over the Stephen Lawrence thing later… no matter how much time passes it still makes me stiff as a board!’, you’d be closer, but still wrong.

What this absolute cockend is thinking is:

“Remember London the way it used to be? Clean, friendly and safe.”

No, Richard. No, I don’t remember that. What you’ve done, right, is confuse London, the sprawling capital city of our dear nation, with a rural idyll somewhere in Cornwall. You know the one – it’s where all the nice, non-threatening white people live.

London has never been clean, London has never been friendly, and London has never been safe. It’s a fucking capital city. It has eight million people living in it, not to mention all the commuters and visitors. Nowhere this big, this busy, this exciting will ever be clean and safe. As for friendly, why not try being a little less terrified of anyone who doesn’t share your dour pallor? It helps breed the wacky things like friendship you crave so much.

You know, I could lay into this asshat for days. Look at some of his policies!

- British jobs for British workers

British jobs? What exactly is a ‘British’ job? Tea maker? Yorkshire pudding chef? Stout landlord at the local free house?

- Build a better NHS

That’s something for the MPs of the House of Commons to deal with. Unless you have something to say about LON-DON, get off my land.

- Scrap the congestion charge

YEAH! DOWN WITH ENVIRONMENTAL CONCERN! Fucking PRICK.

- Better education for all our people

Again, not your fucking concern, matey. And don’t think for a second that any of us are stupid enough to miss ‘our people’. That’s right, keep the immigrants down where they belong – uneducated and too underqualified to do anything but sweep our dirty, dirty streets. That’s progress, that is. That’s what it’s all about. Ooh, I’m feeling rigid.

What do things like ‘build a better NHS’ and ‘Better education’ mean, anyway? They’re just words. We all want our free healthcare to survive – it’s a wonderful ideal. But you can’t just say it, you have to say how you’re going to do it. Or don’t, since, y’know, it has no place in this election anyway.

The worst thing the BNP does is use quotes from people ‘just like you’ to try and convince you it’s okay to be a racist these days. Here are the ones they picked this time:

People Like You Voting BNP

HOUSEWIFE – Lorraine Henry
“I’m terrified about my children’s future. Knife and gun crime are out of control and paedophiles are released back into the community. Only the British National Party have policies which keep our children safe.”

BUILDER – Ken Seager
“I vote BNP because I’m proud of my country and our heritage. We should celebrate things like St. George’s Day and other Christian festivals like St Patrick’s Day instead of other festivals such as Ramadan and Eid.”

STUDENT – Samantha Winter
“I’m voting BNP because I’m Irish and the BNP are the only party that cares about the indigenous peoples of these islands. Our jobs are under threat from economic migrants and only the BNP will protect our interests.”

Now, these are clearly made up. Any halfwit can see that. But doesn’t it make your skin crawl? Take this fictional Ken Seager character. His major concerns when it comes to governing a city is whether or not we celebrate St. George’s Day. He doesn’t want to be celebrating Ramadan and Eid. I can’t even summon up the words to describe now sick this kind of rhetoric makes me.

Oh, and notice the insidious inference in the title? People Like You Voting BNP. Read it again. Poor grammar? Bad English? Maybe. But you can read it two ways and both offend me.

So what did people have left? The UK Independence Party, another right wing wankathon that’s desperate to remind us how bad Europe is; Left List, whose candidate seems fine and dandy with a solid background in feminist and anti-racist political work, but clearly has no hope of winning; and Winston McKenzie, an independent with a grainy photo and no manifesto.

Then there are the real front runners: Ken, Boris, PC Brian and the lovely Sian Berry, representing the Green party. When you look at his competition outside of those three (and Left List), Boris almost seems like a warm, fluffy option.

How terrifying is that?