Exposure.

The elements are missing out these days. They're not getting to work on anyone, bar the homeless and lost.

Has anyone considered the plight of the elements?

They're under-employed, left to weather the rooves of houses, the windows of churches, and the carcass of cast aside couches. They never get to work on US any more. That's sad. And it's a shame.

I don't think I'm alone when I say that the elements harp back to the real days. Back when people were killed by exposure. Those were romantic times. Now it's like a game. They've got to get up early to catch us as we dash to our cars, busses and trains. We dart from shelter to shelter for fear of discomfort. And that must suck for rain hail and shine. It's like the weather is a slightly overweight kid at school, and when you play chasey, if you can't catch anyone else, you just cop out and tag him. Now, the slightly portly child that is the elements has no chance. We agile young things sprint away, leaving him without so much as a sniff. Occasionally it gets boring not being "It". So we go on holiday. We let the fat kid catch us, we feel what it's like to be caught by the elements. Just for a week or two, maybe somewhere sunny, maybe somewhere cold, we go there, feel the gentle wrath of our weather of choice, and then come home. Safe and sound.

I think it's much the same way we have learnt to deal with the video store. Remember the wealth of variety we used to have at the video store. Ten thousand different films, from all different directors and different genres and different times. The DVD killed that. The video store took the opportunity to streamline our choice. Minimise loitering time by reducing choice. Now, you go into Blockbuster, and it's two thousand copies of five different films. And even then, they're all the fucken same...

Character A and character B could not be more different. But as they travel form point A to point B they discover something important about A. Themselves and B. Each other. Mwahaha, four stars, what a film!

Fuck off. Give me shit 80's psuedo-porns. Give me poorly written, clunky action films starring Dolf Lundgren. Give me hilariously bad horrors like Demonic Toys. Give me tripe. give me tat. Give me all the bad imitaions of Steel Magnolias. Give me Chris Farley. Give me bad sci-fi. Give me Rick Moranis in far too many sequels. Give me Snow, give me sleet. Give me baking on a bus or freezing on a train.

If we don't even get to deal with exposure to 40 years worth of b-grade films, how the fuck are we gonna cope when we have to deal with the elements?

Coz one day, the bus won't come. You'll wait and you'll wait in the sun or the rain until you whither and die of exposure. All because you never experienced the abrassive comedy of the Earnest series or the pointed plot turns in anything starring David Spade.

Sundays Offering-The Horse

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Very true, I imagine. I've never actually tried, but it's one of those sayings that's been around for so long, it becomes true.

Also, you can dress cool and go to cool places, but you cannot become cool.

Last night I went to a late-nite bowling lane in Shoreditch, East London. It's an establishment that screams "I'M COOL." The-American themed diner, the shortage of dunnies, the facial hair of every male employee. C. O. O. L.
A large proportion of those in attendance seemed to be pushing the same vibe. Our collective weight is fuck-all. We spent bloody ages getting this "I don't care what I wear" look just right. We're here. We are Hip-by-Proxy. ooh shityeah.

There is a unifying sign to the wannabe hipsters. Luckily, as I'm not in the circle of edge-cutters, I can identify this. Its cameras. Or more specifically, the giant SLR numbers "for the perfect shoot" They hang round the skinny necks of the indie tragics as they constantly scour the scene they're on for that identifying shot. Oh look! There's a can in the gutter! It looks so sad! Lets adjust the aperture to really bring the sadness out. Wow. That's inspired.

To be fair, everyone likes to take a good photo. It's just no-one likes to show they're ready to take that album cover like the malnourished wannabe trendsetters of East London.

Not that I can talk. My camera is disposable. My haircut is conservative. My attendance at the bowling lane was also an attempt at Hip. I am the gutterball of cool.

Spewing.

The finer art of costume.

I'm about to spend the next two weeks dressed as a giant tooth. Not a big tooth. A giant one.

I like dressing up. I love dress-up parties. I love 'em coz you can pretend to be anything. My favourite thing to go as is a stable member of society without trust issues and social anxieties. Or a pirate.

When I was a kid, I'd spend hours dressed a Raffaello for the Ninja Turtles. What defined me as Raf was the red bead on the end of the fondue forks I had in my belt. I like dressing up properly.

I went to my first 18th dressed as a breathalyser. I made it myself out of cardboard. I think a costume is like sex. So much more satisfying when you don't have to pay for it. That said, I have paid for some very satisfying costumes in my time.

The key to a good costume party is a theme that's either open to a huge range of possibilities, or is strange and specific, and takes a good deal of effort to find a costume for. My favourite costume-party story was my mate Jonno's. He was told the theme for their football club party was Seinfeld. As such, he went in tight jeans, sneakers t-shirt and sport jacket. Then when he got there, it turned out there was no theme, and he was stuck dressed slightly rudely. That's excellent for the prank itself, but more so for the fact that Jonno'd just not quite fit in. I am very excited to have a Seinfeld themed party. Although you have to make sure you're popular enough for people to make the effort, or else your party will be both ill attended and badly dressed.

My brother once had a costume party, and went as the Silver Surfer. An absolute mission, coz when we sweated it up on the dance floor, the body paint ran and his costume was ruined. Oh, the tears. I went as a Transformer, but couldn't make an accurate version of any one particular Transformer, so went as a traffic light that "transformed" into a robot. The fact I turned from something into a robot was enough for me. Not so much for everyone else though. Oh, how the well-dressed judge.

There are a few themes that you should never, ever have. Well, by all means do, but don't expect anything special in terms of original costumes.

These themes are...

-Pimps and Ho's*
-Heaven and Hell
-Sluts and Studs
-Doctors and Nurses.

Throw any of the aforementioned themes and the girls will look like hookers and the guys will buy crap costumes. If that's what you want got to a costume shop or Kings Cross.

I'm being very judgemental now. Perhaps too judgemental for someone who's gonna spend the next two weeks dressed as a tooth. And I didn't even make the costume myself.

*If you're after this kind of party, tune into a pirate radio station and you'll be able to hear someone yelling the address of one and a list of party stipulations over some poor music selections. You're welcome.

Service This!

Casino's are nasty places. They pump the oxygen in, making everyone feel good. People drink. People have fun. People look nice. The casino has a cousin. An ugly cousin. A cousin that magnifies the seedy side of casinos and uses it as it's own personality. The Services.

Each time you go into a services, the stark, unkind lighting pierces your eyes. Whilst there are no clocks in Casinos to know how much time is passing, in the services you can't help being reminded that time is moving on and one day you will die. You will die a sad, lonely desperate death. You'll be placed in a coffin and strangers will stroll by, seeing if you house any decent snack-based bargains.

I don't know if that makes any sense. This does. You know the guy that works behind the counter in the services? Malcolm? He's there when you roll into any of the numbingly identical services across the country. It's two in the morning. His dead eyes bore into you as you debate whether or not to spend an additional 50p and get free a miniature Cadbury's Cowboy that'll stick to your dashboard and sway as you slow down and take off. The sallow complexion and the chewed down fingernails of Malcolm the counter attendant make you feel uneasy. Like you want to run away. run away and never come back. The man you see before you is nothing more than a real representation of the debt-riddled casino punter. That's what he looks like on the inside.

Of course I mean no disrespect to Malcolm. He only works there as a means to an end. Back home, he's got a boat, a couple of kids and a dog. At the bottom of his garden he's got a little shed that he potters about in when he can't sleep. He's making a yacht. Not a real one, but a tiny one. He's not sure how it'll ever fit into a bottle. He's afraid to ask, in case someone thinks him a fool. Next to the shed, he's digging a hole. a big hole. "It's for a pool" Malcolm says. It's not. It's a shallow grave. Well, it'll be deep in time. Its for burying the bodies of people who linger to long at the Cadbury stand, pretending to ponder a further purchase, but really just judging him. It's not even his name tag. He's not Malcolm. He's Ray.

Champion of Words!

I have a fixation with the word "filter." Not its meaning. Not what it represents. Just the word. Filter. Good word, but not remarkable. It's a sticky little bugger, now it's stuck in my brain.

I don't think we give enough time to words. They're our fucking slaves, and we barely take time to acknowledge their hard work. They tirelessly and thanklessly transmit information to our minds, and we barely give them a second thought. It's like we're the head of some multinational corporation, and they're delivering sandwiches to the mail room. It's time these meek, mild-mannered minions were championed for the hard work they do. Jeez, sounds like the kind of campaign a tabloid would run in a slow week. "These unsung heroes..."

But seriously, the movement starts here with my favourite words.

Pyjamas. This badboy is number one. The close proximity of the three consonants at the start make just saying this word fun. When I'm in private, I like to really draw out that first A. Try it. Pyjaaamas. See? he's earned his place here.

Snorkel. What's not to love about 'snorkel'? It's fun. it's a strange object. it's got a K in it. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Rythym. Good word. Good meaning. Wish i had some. I feel like if I'm mates with the word, the ability will follow. Also, a splendid word if you want t win a game of Hangman. People will complain after you win that there's an 'E' in there somewhere. Send 'em to me. Or the dictionary.

They're my top 3. I'd be genuinely surprised if they were yours too. But at least you see where I'm coming from. If you'd like to nominate and unsung hero in your vocabulary, plus go in the running to win a trip for two to Little England in Southern Spain, fill in the form in this weeks Sun or got to http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/article296174.ece

Sensational Breath

My toothpaste purports to give me healthy gums, clean teeth, and sensational fresh breath.

I haven't got any problems with these.

They seem like nice traits to have.

In fact, my dentist has, on occasion, commented that I have clean teeth AND healthy gums. However, no-one's ever so much as complimented my breath. The closest I've got has been a girl saying "Oh, you've brushed your teeth." More an observation than flattery.

What am I doing wrong?

I brush. I rinse. I've flossed. Nothing.

I've breathed on all manner of people. In the street and at the pub. Nothing. In confined spaces like elevators. Nothing. Even on packed trains when they're an inch from my face and I know they can smell it. All I've got for my troubles is a court order.

Why can't my breath be sensational? Why not just amazing? I bet former Western Warriors captain Tom Moody has great breath. I bet he's got amazing breath. And even though he's so tall, it still permeates people's olfactory senses, and even if they don't say anything, they still think to themselves,"Wow, that breath is sensational."

I've decided to take a stand. No longer will I aspire to sensational breath. I'll forge ahead for a new compliment. I will have interesting breath. Complex, deep, bold, yet subtle. People will come together in a wooden cellar on Tuesday evenings to sniff my breath and discuss its body. Its texture. Its gentle undertones. One week I'll chew that blue PK that old sailors chew, and they won't know what hit them. Or maybe I'll chew on some coconut husk, see if that throws em. So many opportunities.

Yeah, I'm gonna put some serious time into my breath.

Or stop buying cheap toothpaste.

Snowbusters

Yesterday it snowed. It snowed, and London was happy. People talking in the streets, throwing snowballs at each other, generally having a good time. It was perfect.
The last time London was happy, was at Christmas. People chatting in the queue at Iceland, wishing each other seasons greetings, again, generally having a good time.

These two days had something else in common too. That is, the entire city shut down and was unworkable. No public transport. No one working. Businesses shut and free papers not being distributed.

That's how I know London can't work when people are happy. The two cannot co-exist. Like fire and ice. Times New Roman and impressive posters. Cocaine and funny conversations.

I think that London is alot like New York was during Ghostbusters 2. I think there's an ooze that runs the city, flowing deep below the ground, and when people get angry or pissed off, it becomes more powerful and flows thicker and deeper. When people get happy, positive and upbeat it grows weak and shallow.

That's why London needs to be the setting for the new Ghostbusters film. Sure, the premise would be alarmingly similar to the second film, but it would be great to get Bill Murray, Dan Akroyd, and the other two hitting the streets of downtown Penge. It may also give a much needed boost to the film careers of "the other two." And if Rick Moranis isn't available to play the nerdish neighour/sidekick/fifth comedy wheel, we can get Ken Livingstone to look a little more bookish and we're sorted. Same goes for Sigourney Weaver being played by Vinnie Jones.

Or maybe it could just snow more.