"Do you fancy going to the cinema on Saturday night?" asks Louise.
"Yeah, sure." I say. "Is there something you fancy watching?"
"Not really. I just want to be out when all the bloody Trick or Treaters come round."
That's my girl!
Here's a song by an artist I haven't listened to in too long...
Morrissey is not well. I could see it on his face last night in Leeds, in his bedraggled former quiff, in the way he kept his banter to a minimum and ploughed through the songs. Reading the reviews and reactions online, I’m surprised no one else seemed to pick up on this; one fan at the gig even managed to entice the mic from Moz’s hand to tell him “you’re looking and sounding great – please take care of yourself, we love you”. Morrissey seemed genuinely touched, and determined to put everything he had into the songs as he always does, but it’s clear he’s not completely recovered from whatever caused his onstage collapse on Saturday.
His current set list is an interesting one - a mix of b-sides from his new Swords compilation (“the lowest chart placing of my career,” he mourned at one point; he really should stop worrying about such irrelevancies), a few tracks from Years Of Refusal, the obvious songs from his 21st Century renaissance (Irish Blood and First Of The Gang never grow old, though it was great to hear The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores again), and more Smiths songs than I think I’ve ever heard him play in one gig.
Opening with This Charming Man seems a typically contradictory move from the man who remarked live just a few years ago “I’ll never sing that song again” in response to audience requests. How Soon Is Now appears to have replaced There Is A Light… as the classic in his repertoire; personally I’d prefer the latter, but there’s no denying the power HSIN holds as Moz informs us “I’m still the son and heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar”. Is It Really So Strange, Nowhere Fast, Death At One’s Elbow (it’s almost like he was responding to my post of yesterday), and best of all, Cemetry Gates, which I’ve never heard him sing live before, but which has always been a favourite.
His latest live band isn’t a favourite though. They bring a harsh, almost industrial rock sound that doesn’t allow for a lot of melody in the instrumentation. It’s quite a modern sound, true, but it’s cold, and about as far from the jangly warmth of Marr as Moz could possibly get. It doesn’t bother me too much, his voice is still on fine form, and that’s what we’re really here for, but a live sound that was closer to his recent recordings would be preferable. Likewise, climaxing with I’m OK By Myself is a typically perverse move on Moz’s part. It’s a fine song but no show-stopper, despite the best efforts of his band to make it sound like one.
But the one track that sticks in my mind from last night’s gig came mid-set, and seemed to sum up most where Morrissey is right now. Let’s hope he returns to his former vitality soon.
Always be careful
When you abuse the one you love
The hour or the day, no one can tell
But one day goodbye will be farewell
And you will never see the one you love again
You will never see the one you love again
I have been thinking, what, with my final brain cell
How time grips you, sliming, in its spell
And before you know, goodbye will be farewell
And you will never see the one you love again
And the smiling children tell you that you smell
Well, just look at me
A savage Beast with nothing to sell
And when I die, I want to go to Hell
And that's when goodbye should be farewell
One day goodbye will be farewell
So grab me while you still can - goodbye
So here we at, at the end of the countdown, slightly later than scheduled - hopefully your Tivo / V+ / Skyplus box won't chop off the end of the countdown as a result.
Before we begin, here's the rest of the countdown in full...
The Top Ten Tens
The Top Ten Nines
The Top Ten Eights
The Top Twenty Sevens
The Top Ten Sixes
The Top Ten Fives
The Top Ten Fours
The Top Ten Threes
The Top Twenty Twos
Collect them all and get a free Gilbert O'Sullivan flashlight.
Now there's a reason I was so reluctant to tackle the number one - there's just too damned many of the things! Plus, putting the digit '1' into my music player's search function came up with so many listings it was impossible to even begin wading through all of those... which is, of course, the only reason you won't find Spandau Ballet's Chant No. 1 (I Don't Need This Pressure On) listed below... though it would have given me an excuse to mention Billy Bragg's marvellous parody song title, I Don't Need This Pressure, Ron.
Entering the word 'one' into the search engine opened a similar floodgate. To cut down the numbers slightly, I decided to avoid any reference to Anyone and No One... but even then, there were thousands I could have chosen. Then I forced myself to drop a few of my favourite One Songs that I've written about here before (such as One Week by the Barenaked Ladies and One Night In Bangkok by Murray Head). But even then, I found a large number of artists with not just one one, but two, three, even four of the buggers. And believe me, if I were to start listing runners up, I'd be here all night. Too much choice can be a bad thing. Anyway, here's my selection - pick them apart as you will...
10. Johnny Cash - One
The idea of including any U2 song in any kind of greatest hits compilation is anathema to me, but really, it's the band I hate more than their songs. I'll admit it once, and deny it ever after, there are actually some U2 songs I like. Angel Of Harlem? Good song. Desire? Good song. Beautiful Day? Not bad. Even that one about a lemon. It's the singer, not the songs.
One, however, wouldn't ever have been my pick of their catalogue. It's pretentious and worthy and smug and everything I hate about Bono. Or it was, until Johnny Cash wrapped his throat round it and reinvented it completely.
But if you still can't handle it, have this one from JC instead...
One Piece At A Time
9. Suede - The Wild Ones / The Beautiful Ones / My Insatiable One
Three great ones from Suede. The Beautiful Ones is probably their biggest hit, My Insatiable One is the one that even Morrissey liked, but my favourite - and probably the song that turned me on to this band in the first place - is The Wild Ones. Could these be the best lyrics Brett Anderson has ever written?
There's a song playing on the radio
Sky high in the airwaves on the morning show
And there's a lifeline slipping as the record plays
And as I open the blinds in my mind I'm believing that you could stay
And oh if you stay I'll chase the rainblown fields away
We'll shine like the morning and sin in the sun
Oh if you stay
We'll be the wild ones, running with the dogs today
I recognize the look
In my eyes when I see you
It's the look of one who loves you
Who wants nothing except to be with you
It is not the look that often
Gets returned in kind
Due to an infestation of flies at our usual Lake District retreat, we were forced to find an alternative for our October break. Sadly this involved spending money (Louise's Dad's caravan is free!), but luckily we managed to get a last minute deal at a cabin in the grounds of a big hotel on the shores of Lake Windermere. We arrived after dark, so didn't realise until the morning just how "on the shores" we actually were. 
On opening the curtains we discovered the lake took up most of our view. Just a few short steps through the trees we arrived at a jetty leading out onto the largest natural lake in England. It was like a scene from Harper's Island or Friday The 13th, minus the serial killers. In their place we found birds. Lots of them. And you know how we like birds.
Beyond the ducks and a particularly friendly swan (he'd eat out of your hand - but was less friendly with his wife, driving her away whenever we were feeding them), we found Canada geese (I always want to call them Canadian), cheeky seagulls (they'd catch the bread we threw midair, then squabble amongst each other if it fell in the water), a persistent robin who followed us on a walk round Rydal Water (where Wordsworth made his home), a mighty hawk (sadly not pictured - I'd like to tell you it was an eagle, but you probably wouldn't believe me), even a spooky metal owl. 
Every day we went out on the jetty, watched the boat trips go by, and fed the birds. I felt honoured to share the Lakes with so many beautiful, intelligent, funny and charming companions. Although it did feel a little like a scene from Hitchcock when we turned to find the seagulls lining our way back like malevolent sentries. Cheeky blighters. 
So I return to work after a few days in the Lakes (photos to follow, because I know you're all dying for holiday snaps) and nothing has changed.
I wake up early after a restless night, partly due to the clock going back (my internal alarm doesn't yet realise that 5.15 is no longer 6.15) and partly due to stress over whatever might be waiting in the dark and horrible place. At least I get to listen toAlex Lester, the insomniac's friend. If you know of another DJ who'll segue from Nothing Else Matters by Metallica into Forget Me Nots by Patrice Rushen into I'll Come Running (To Tie Your Shoe) by Brian Eno, then do please point me in their direction.
The biggest aggravation about returning to work (though bear in mind I'm writing this before the working day actually begins) is the thing I've most been looking forward to - getting back to my writing. When you write every day, it's easy to get caught up in and carried along by the slipstream of the story. After a break though, I often end up diving back in only to sink under the weight of doubt and uncertainty. Is it any good? Am I just wasting my time? Will I ever produce a story people want to read? The same old same old, you'd think by now I'd be used to it. But there's no escape. So I write this blog to get those feelings out of my system, then tomorrow I'll return to the water and try to stay afloat. Because I'd be more unhappy not doing, so I don't really have any choice.
The title of this post comes from Soul II Soul's 1989 charttopper, a record I never had much time for, and one I had even less time for after songwriter Jazzie B sued Paul Heaton of the Beautiful South for paraphrasing / parodying the title in My Book, a song that champions failed ambition thus:
If my lips start smiling and my knees start a-knocking
I'm a failure
You are, you are
And if I seem half-hearted, it's because I'm broken hearted
I'm a failure
You are, you are, you are (I am)
This is the play, it was I who wrote the script
Terry meets June in 'Tales from the Crypt'
It was going to be a film but the camera person slipped
They later found him scolding a banana
Diary entry 10th of April '89
The world is going mad but me I'm doing fine
I'm doing fine
Back to bed, back to reality
Just fine.
There are two great reasons to read Charlie Williams' novel Stairway To Hell. Firstly the high concept premise, that back in the 70s Led Zep's Jimmy Page was messing about with witchcraft when he swapped the soul of David Bowie (along with a few other slightly less famous names) with that of a newborn infant in the maternity ward. That infant then grew up to be a frustrated club singer called Rik Suntan, the narrator, and the other great reason to read this.
Suntan is a truly monstrous creation, an out-of-control egomaniac with inversely proportionate talent who makes £15 a night murdering Cliff Richard songs and reinterpreting the hits of today in the way they were meant to be sung.
So far, so funny. But somewhere along the lines, Stairway To Hell goes off the rails slightly as Suntan is dragged into a plot to reverse Page's spells, makes a deal with the devil for pop stardom (and then changes his mind), and discovers the difference between green urine and tequila. It all got a bit silly for me, and a bit confusing too - I'm still not entirely sure whether Suntan really was the Thin White Duke or not. Worth a read if you like kooky, music-influenced yarns. There are some genuine laughs to be had, especially in the first half... but if you do check it out, report back and explain the end to me, will you?
And so, the end is near...
And once again, there were far too many great twos to just list ten. So here's twenty. Better still, I kept my own biases at bay (well, somewhat), and avoided filling this list with my favourite artists. Don't believe me? I could easily have given you 2s from Morrissey, Bruce, Springsteen (not, that's not a badly placed comma - there are two), Elvis Costello, Queen, and... Chris Isaak. All great songs, and better than some of the tracks included in the list below... but variety is the spice of life and all that...
20. Big Audio Dynamite - E = MC2
Because I like a bit of a cavort.
19. Bowling For Soup - Two-Seater
If you've ever been dumped, and wanted to get your own back by trashing your ex's car, this is the song for you.
18. Richard Thompson - Two Faced Love
England's greatest guitar player, and a damn fine lyricist to boot.
17. Neil Diamond - The Power Of Two
If any other artist wrote these lyrics...
"We had ten time the power of one
We had the power of two..."
One can stand alone in the dark
Two can make the light shine through
There are times when a woman has to say what's on her mind
Even though she knows how much it's gonna hurt
Before I say another word let me tell you, I love you
Let me hold you close and say these words as gently as I can
There's been another man that I've needed and I've loved
But that doesn't mean I love you less
And he knows he can't possess me and he knows he never will
There's just this empty place inside of me that only he can fill
Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool
Lovin' both of you is breakin' all the rules
Previously on Meltham Is A Dangerous Place...
Like much of Meltham, the golf course is a place of eerie confusion and bewildering contradictions. If you enter from the Meltham side, you'll find handmade signs nailed to the silently screaming trees informing you that there's no public right of way through even the woods bordering the course, and that walkers are permitted only by gracious courtesy of the management, and therefore asked to keep well away from the green.
But if you walk up the Honley road to Wilshaw and enter the course through the fields there, you'll find authentic public footpath notices leading you directly across the fairway, and signs advising walkers to keep their eyes peeled for fast flying and unnecessarily angry golfballs.
Perhaps Meltham golf club only wants walkers from Wilshaw. Perhaps they're better behaved... or less inclined to dangerous ways.
Having found the Wilshaw entrance, I had of course to exercise my rambler's rights. Particularly as I knew my brother sometimes played golf here, and seeing the wealthless side of the family here would tee him off no end.
So I climbed over the stile and set off across the green. I didn't get far beyond the first hole before I heard the voice cry out.
"You!"
I turned expecting a fight, fully prepared to lead my accuser back to the Wilshaw entrance and show them the authorised footpath sign. I get bolshy about asserting my rights. But it wasn't necessary.
"Beware the Wood Man - beware the Wood Man!"
It wasn't an irate golfer at all, it was the old man of phlegm. The reason I hadn't recognised him sooner was the absence of his usual wheezy rattle.
"Oh, hello," I said, hoping to steer the conversation away from whatever frightening fantasy he planned on sharing today. "You're sounding a lot better than the last time I saw you. Clearing up, is it?"
"Expectorant!" he spat, quite literally; a huge great greeny on the green. "But there's no time for that, lad - the Wood Man's about. Beware the Wood Man - beware the Wood Man!"
Someone cried 'fore!' and a golf ball went hurtling through the space between us.
"Erm... you don't mean the Tiger Wood(s) Man?" I said with a smile, still trying to keep things light.
"Bah!" he shouted, waving a crooked hand like he was swatting a persistent bluebottle. "There's no telling you young 'uns, there's no talking to you!" Then, crouching over his knobbly walking stick, he stumbled down into a bunker and headed off towards the club house. The sand sucked at his feet but had no stomach for the taste.
"Oy, granddad!" shouted one of the golfers, "that in't your sandpit, y'old bastard - the footpath's up there!" He pointed in my direction, but the old man just waved his stick, growled, and carried on his way.
I grinned, shook my head, and set off in the opposite direction. I was still chuckling as I followed the path through the rough and into the shade of the trees.
I was walking through the woods that led back to Meltham when I saw something ahead that stole my breath. A shape, glimpsed in the sunlight through the trees. The figure of a man, yet tall as an oak...
A gaunt giant, all gouges and knots, weathered and woodwormed, with a thin-grained moustache chiselled under his nose and a tiny, twisted fingers held tight to his sides. He was naked too, though it's fair to say he had little in the way of wood. I stood and stared, but daren't get any closer. He paused and looked straight at me, and in that moment I felt true dread. Then he turned and faded back into the trees that had shaped him, like bigfoot on that infamous cinecamera, and at last my breath returned.
"The Wood Man," I gasped, the old man's words returning, "b-beware the Wood Man. Because M-Meltham is a d-dangerous p-place..."
If you were just starting the third year of high school (or Year Whatever-They-Call-It-Nowadays) and you went along to your first chemistry lesson of the new term to find any of the four current members of Half Man Half Biscuit as your new teacher, you wouldn’t be at all surprised.
Guitarist Ken Hancock would be the sort of teacher you’d ride roughshod over, and learn fuck all about neutrons in the process. He's the most unlikely looking guitar player ever, but there's something very cool about that.
Drummer Carl Henry is the chemistry teacher you'd take the piss out of for looking like a younger Gordon Brown. Being a little kinder, you might say he looked like the actor Jim Carter. You'd listen when he told you about solubility curves, but you wouldn't take much in.
Bassist, and founder member, Neil Crossley is the chemistry teacher you'd dread. He probably teaches PE as his second subject, and if he didn't bounce your head round the sports hall like a basketball, he'd happily take a bunsen burner to your toes... and no one would stop him.
Lead Biscuit Nigel Blackwell would be the chemistry teacher you'd pray to get. The cool, sarcastic teacher who could cut any troublemakers down to size with his caustic wit and make you want to devote your life to the periodic table. The perfect frontman then... for a band of chemistry teachers.
I saw HMHB last night for the first time, at the Leeds University Student's Union. If I spend a little time moaning about the one way system and extortionate parking charges in Leeds, plus how difficult it is to find the Union building, that'd be perfectly appropriate for a Biscuit review - it is, after all, exactly the sort of thing Blackwell writes his songs about.
Although I couldn't stay till the end of the gig (late night, early morning, shit location for a venue, the aforementioned traffic nightmares to face on my way home), I saw enough of my favourite Biscuit songs to make the evening worthwhile. Restless Legs, For What Is Chatteris, Took Problem Chimp To The Ideal Home Show, The Trumpton Riots, National Shite Day and Bob Wilson Anchorman were all given and airing, not to mention my personal favourite, Twenty Four Hour Garage People...
I fancy I’ll open a stationer’s
Stock quaint notepads for weekend Pagans
While you were out at The Rollright Stones
I came and set fire to your shed
‘Cos you probably work at an all-night garage
You probably work at an all-night garage
You probably work at an all-night garage
With Talk Radio on
And you curse my soul if I don’t want petrol
Curse my soul ‘cos I don’t want petrol
I only came down for a tube of Pringles
…Sour Cream and Chives
Because you gotta get up off your fat arse to go and get my crisps and you gotta go around the counter and it’s really inconvenient; and when you come back, you toss them into that sliding metal tray device thing that separates us and you say: “One pound thirty-five”, as opposed to: “That’ll be one pound thirty-five please, sir”. This is of course done to annoy me but has the opposite effect of amusing me no end, because suddenly I’ve got other things to buy…
“I’ll have two Scotch eggs and a jar of Marmite,
Two Scotch eggs and a jar of Marmite
Two Scotch eggs and a jar of Marmite
…what sandwiches have you got?”
Well now you become quite irate and your voice becomes louder, and you start to sound like Leadbelly at the Depot…
“I got ham, I got cheese, I got chicken, I got beef,
I got tuna-sweetcorn; I’ve got tuna-sweetcorn…”
“I’ll have ten Kit-Kats and a motoring atlas
Ten Kit-Kats and a motoring atlas
And a blues CD on the Hallmark label
– that’s sure to be good”
Oh he went to play golf on a Sunday morn’ just a mile and a half from town
His head was found on the driving range and his body has never been found
Stolen from Kaz, because I haven't done one of these for a while...
Feel free to have a go yourself..jpg)
1) My mother once: baked two suet puddings at the same time - one apple, one steak and kidney. She put sugar in the steak and salt in the apple, then when she'd realised her mistake said, "don't tell your father - he won't notice".
2) Never in my life: have I not wanted to punch Bono in the nose. Repeatedly.
3) When I was five: I discovered Spider-Man. He's been with me ever since.
4) High school was a: hundred missed opportunities.
5) I will never forget: the lyrics to Born To Run and There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.
6) I once met: Nick Heyward. Nice bloke.
7) There's this person I know who: (se) brother was in The Quarrymen.
8) Once, at a bar: I actually managed to get served before closing time.
9) By noon I'm usually: bored of my tiny mind. (But only if I'm at work.)
10) Last night I: watched the Legion episode of Smallville. It was better than expected.
11) If only I had: more confidence.
12) Next time I go to church/temple: I'll wonder what I'm doing there.
13) Terri Schiavo: I'd wanted disconnecting too.
14) I like: "things that don't change - because the more something changes, the more it stays the same". 
15) When I turn my head left, I see: a Spider-Man mask.
16) When I turn my head right, I see: M, writing a script, not giving me any decent conversation material.
17) You know I'm lying when: I say I'm busy that night.
18) In junior school: I was Huckleberry Finn, Willy Wonka, and Mr. Beaver.
19) If I was a character written by Shakespeare: I'd be Hamlet. That may sound pretentious, it may sound obvious, but there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
20) By this time next year I: hope to have achieved more.
21) A better name for me would be: Peter Parker.
22) I have a hard time understanding: sales people.
23) If I ever go back to school, I'll: make them all pay. Oh yes.
24) You know I like you if: I leave a comment on your blog.
25) If I won an award, the first person I'd thank would be: my mum and dad.
26) I hope that: one day, I'll be proud of my achievements.
27) Take my advice: don't work in radio.
28) My ideal breakfast is: full English, no beans.
29) A song I love but do not have is: Why Don't Women Like Me?, a song I only ever heard Morrissey sing live. As far as I know, he's never recorded it.
30) If you visit my home town, I suggest: you watch out for bleeding rainbows.
31) Why won't anyone: tell Simon Cowell to just fuck off? (No, I don't watch X-Factor, but Louise does, and I catch enough of it to want to stick a pen in his face every time he's on screen.)
32) If you spend the night at my house: beware the cats.
33) I'd stop my wedding: if Billy Idol was the bride.
34) The world could do without: Tom Hanks.
35) I'd rather lick the belly of a roach than: watch another George Lucas movie.
36) My favourite thing is: hope.
37) Paper clips are more useful than: iPhones.
38) And by the way: have you bought my comic yet?
39) The last time I was (really) drunk: I was (really) ill afterwards. So ill I haven't touch a drop since.
40) My grandmother always: said, "red shoes, no knickers".
I'd never read any Christopher Brookmyre before, but the reviews of his latest novel proved just too tempting. Not only the plot - a secret military installation in the Scottish highlands tears open a doorway to hell and unleashes demons who escape to attack a party of unruly school kids on an outward bound holiday - but also the promise that the book rose above its horror film roots through intelligent plotting and three-dimensional characterisation. I've got to admit, it all sounded a little too good to be true... but damn it if Brookmyre doesn't pull it off, delivering a funny, thought-provoking romp full of monsters, action, and surprises. Best of all, the author handles his sizable cast with style. (Why do I shudder at using the word 'aplomb'?) The kids quickly rise above their stock roles (surly jock, prudish god-squadder, lonely goth, etc.) to bring charm, wit and depth to the story.
Like the best Stephen King, I was enjoying the pre-horror interaction of these characters so much, I almost wished the demons would remain at bay. Though to Brookmyre's credit, the monsters aren't just here for purposes of blood and gore, there's a serious subtext about the war between science and religion, and about the perils of believing too passionately in either side of that debate, plus also the usual 'horrors of adolescence' type stuff. There's even an inspired spin on the old "who's the real monster here?" cliché that's weaved seamlessly into the plot.
There's chainsaws and shotguns and flamethrowers, explosions and entrails and evisceration ... yet none of it gratuitous. It's sexy, it's funny, and it makes you think. Pandaemonium left me itching for more, though by all accounts this is the author's first foray into horror. I'll have to check out some of his other work soon - great writing is great writing, whatever the genre.
Three Times A Lady, Knock Three Times, Reasons To Be Cheerful (Part 3)... many classic songs feature 3 in the title, but I only allowed myself ten.
Luckily, JC The Vinyl Villain got there first with three of his own, followed by another three to celebrate his third birthday. All of which are fine tracks, and could have been featured here, but for variety's sake I decided to choose some others. (Though Embrace's cover of Three Is A Magic Number almost made the cut, and not just because they're from Brighouse.)
Aren't you bored of these lists yet?
Still, only two weeks to go.
Or is there...?
10. Relaxed Muscle - 3Way Accumulator
AKA Jarvis Cocker and Jason Buckle; this bizarre side-project from 2003 cast them in the alternate identities of Darren Spooner and Wayne Marsden, "the sound of young Doncaster". Certain websites you might read on'tinternet claim that Richard Hawley was also involved in this project, but I can't find any evidence to support that.
I got a three-way accumulator
And now the race is on
So I think I'll see you later
With no panties on...
Once you would have kissed her gently on the cheek
Now she kisses you beginning with your feet
Roles that are reversing so misunderstood
Kids who think monogamy is a piece of wood
"Babe it's time we gave something new a try..."
There's only two songs in me and I just wrote the third
Don't know where I got the inspiration or how I wrote the words
Spent my whole life just digging up my music's shallow grave
For the two songs in me and the third one I just made
You say you want me.
I want another.
Say you dream of me.
Dream of your brother.
Oh, the stars shine so suspiciously
For we three.
"I poured it on and I poured it out
I tried to show you just how much I care
I'm tired of words and I'm too hoarse to shout
But you've been cold to me so long
I'm crying icicles instead of tears"
Back when I reviewed District 9, I called it the most original sci fi film I'd seen in ages. Others disagreed, some even thought it just plain bad. Which is fair enough, I'm not here to argue the point or change anybody's opinions. But if you want bad sci fi, I'll give you bad sci fi... I've seen three of the buggers just this week.
Pandorum doesn't have a particularly bad premise. The writer obviously had some interesting ideas about population growth, evolution, and longhaul space travel. Nothing staggeringly original, but there's enough intelligence on display to merit Hollywood throwing money at him.
Unfortunately, the director doesn't seem interested in making the script he has before him. Instead, he wants to make The Descent-in-space. Which wouldn't be too bad either - it's the best horror film of the last ten years - if he had a fraction of the talent of Descent director Neil Marshall. Unfortunately, he doesn't. In fact, he can't direct a fight or attack scene to save his life. So whenever his pale-skinned, cannibalistic, hugely derivative monsters attack, the screen turns into a blur of fast nonsense, flashing lights, and weird angles... and you're left scratching your head, counting the corpses, and asking "what just happened?"
Pandorum stars Dennis Quaid (who can often be very good; and sometimes be a poor man's Harrison Ford - guess which he opts for here), Ben Foster (Claire's wimpy boyfriend in Six Feet Under; Angel in X-Men 3 - hardly an action hero), and German actress Antje Traue (who's the best thing in it). 
Imagine you could live your life through a robotic surrogate - a sexy, confident, virtually indestructible version of yourself (apologies if you're already sexy, confident or virtually indestructible - lucky you) while your real body lies around in bed going to pot. According to Surrogates, pretty much the entire human race would jump at the chance. Fair enough, I suppose it's only like creating yourself an online avatar, then using it in the real world. As premises go, it's not unimaginable that you might be able to get a decent story out of this.
Sadly, the writers here don't use their imagination at all. Instead they set up the most hackneyed, predictable plot possible (if you can't guess the criminal mastermind behind the plan to destroy all surrogates by the end of the first reel, you must be asleep), throw in a couple of unexciting action sequences, and shovel on some preachy, worthy message bollocks that isn't worth the effort to type out here. Obvious, tedious, patronising, and pointless. Though you might at least gain a smidgen of amusement in such unanswered questions as:
1. If Bruce Willis can choose to live his life as the fittest, sexiest, most knockout version of himself possible - why would he choose such a REALLY BAD WIG?
2. If the surrogate humans can leap tall buildings in a single bound as easily as Rahda Mitchell's character does in the movie's one half-decent chase scene... why aren't they doing it all the time?
3. If... no, I'm sorry, my surrogate has better things to do than write this.
Apparently Surrogates was based on a graphic novel. Either it wasn't a very good graphic novel to start with, or else the screenwriters have wowed us with the sort of hatchet job normally reserved for Alan Moore adaptations. If so, congrats on that.
"Vikings versus aliens - how can it fail?"
This was the question posed by my frolleague 'I' who was out-of-his-mind desperate to watch Outlander at the cinema earlier this year (his favourite movies are Predator, Conan The Barbarian, and The Thirteenth Warrior). Sadly it didn't show round these parts, so we had to wait for the DVD.
Thank feck for that!
Where do I start? The not very vikingy vikings? The ham of Hurt? (John, John, whatever happened to you?) The rubbishest CGI monster since Beowulf? (It looks like a dog crossed with a dragon, complete with Triffid-style tentacles, and headlights. Yes, headlights.) Oh, you get the idea...
Previously on 'Meltham Is A Dangerous Place'...
It had been a week since the bleeding rainbow and things were getting back to normal in Meltham. Or so they seemed.
Returning home from the Co-op one Saturday, I stopped to rest at the gates to the local junior school. The bags were getting heavy; you don't realise how much a few tins of tuna, a chunk of feta, and a 12 pack of toilet rolls weighs until you have to carry them through the village on a sweltering Indian summer afternoon. Or maybe I'm just a 13 stone weakling.
I took a swig from my water bottle as my eyes settled on something I hadn't ever seen before. I drive by this school every day to get to the house, but I keep my eyes on the road. If I'd noticed it at all, I probably thought it was just a gnarled old tree stump.
But it wasn't. It was something far more sinister, a kind of eerie pagan effigy carved from the trunk of a poor, molested oak. Strange swirls and exotic ridges, alien barnacles and fiendish tyre tracks slashed deep into the surface of the stump. The tree's two remaining branches had been transformed into crooked and knobbly appendages, eerily phallic, like an HR Geiger daydream. The tallest had a small child's face chiseled into its upper reaches, smiling like it'd been told to, trapped that way forever like a fading school photo from the 70s.
And then in the centre, the most disturbing aspect of all. The head of a ram, a deep scar torn into the flesh of its face, bulbous fungi sprouting from the cracks. The blank-eyed stare of the dead.
I couldn't help myself; I shuddered, despite the heat.
That's when I heard him. The wheezy rattle followed by the sharp, choking cough - part growl, part glutinous gargle. I turned to find the old man I'd met the week before, on the night of the bleeding rainbow. He was leaning over the school gates, hawking the yucks from his guts. I was just in time to see him spit a steaming green dollop of flob, all over the flower beds.
"It in't right, is it lad?" he said, once his vocal chords were clear. "Making the young 'uns dance round yon totem pole every morning before class, forcing 'em to worship at the altar of the diabolical brute - the bastard ruler of the foul flock - the sheep fiend of old Meltham town..."
I had to chuckle. This time he was surely pulling my leg. The sheep fiend of old Meltham town? What did he take me for, a city boy? I was from Slawit; I wasn't an idiot.
But no, the look in his eyes told he was deathly serious. That's when the laughter died in my throat.
"Don't ever trust any creature dun't take an 's' on its name when there's more 'n one of 'em. Fish are just as bad."
"They get 'em young round here, see," he continued, once it was clear I wasn't mocking him anymore. "They have been for years. Take a look at that..." He pointed to the base of the idol where someone had stuffed an old takeaway carton into the hollow of the trunk. "Even when they've grown up, they still leave their offerings at the shrine of the pernicious ram..."
I reached down and popped open the carton. A full lamb kebab, untouched.
"Accchh!" the old man cried. "It's worse than I thought! Now they're inciting cannibalism! Heathens! Heathens, the bloody lot of 'em!"
He didn't have anything else to say, he was too busy coughing up his intestines. I picked up my toilet rolls and headed on home, certain I was going to need them. The sun was still bright, but the day had lost all its warmth.
You see, Meltham is a dangerous place...
Those of you who read comics - or watch unjustly maligned Ben Affleck films - will know the character Daredevil, the world's first blind superhero who, as a young boy, was splashed with radioactive chemicals which gave him a super-radar sense that allows him to "see" the world in far greater detail than ordinary mortals.
Pretty far fetched, you might think. Until you watch this report on the BBC website. It's really quite marvellous. Next, I want a story about a geeky loser who gets bitten by a radioactive spider. And that boy's name has to be Rol...
Welcome to the workin' week.
Oh I know it don't thrill you, I hope it don't kill you.
Welcome to the workin' week.
You gotta do it till you're through it so you better get to it.
No preamble this week, except to say that my ban on groups with numbers in their names sadly excludes the Four Tops, Four Seasons et al... while I also refused to allow text speak (i.e. 4 used in place of 'for') so half of Prince's back catalogue was ruled out (did Prince invent text speak?), along with the otherwise excellent Something 4 The Weekend by Super Furry Animals.
Too many runners-up to mention, and you don't care anyway. You just want the ten. Well, probably you don't even want then ten. But you're getting them anyway...
10. Bromhead's Jacket - SRIs and Big Bore 4s
Part of the post-Arctic Monkeys Sheffield explosion, yet Bromhead's Jacket actually sound more like an indie version of The Streets thanks to their lead singer's southern accent. This is one of a handful of tracks available for free download on their Last FM page (follow the link above) and tells an amusing tale of teenage fashion and school peer pressure.
Apparently they recently lost their jacket and are facing the future as a two-piece named simply Bromheads. Their new single is available now to download free from their website. I haven't listened to it yet though, so don't blame me if it's rubbish. I'm sure it won't be.
9. Starsailor - Four To The Floor
I always think Starsailor are a hugely under appreciated band. This is one of their best, a stomping live favourite too.
8. Half Man Half Biscuit - 4AD3DCD
Ah, the genius of the Biscuit.
"I dream of occasional fanzine mentions
I've been to one too many David Lynch conventions
I play postal chess with a man who doesn’t know me
I’ve got a better frown than Tony Iommi
And I’ve got a 4AD3DCD
A 4AD3DCD
A 4AD3DCD
And I’m on a foundation course"
Two of us in a double-feature
I'm a rock and roller she's a science teacher
I send her looks they don't reach her
She does not know I'm in love with her
To me, coming from you, friend is a four letter word.
You came driving back to town in a beat up Grace Kelly car
Looking like a friend of Truman Capote
Looking exactly like you are
Yes, I know that's your charm
"Today's the fourth of July
Another June has gone by
And when they light up our town I just think
'What a waste of gunpowder and sky'"
Ever since we moved to Meltham (pronounced Mel-tham, not Melt-ham... it ain't no croque monsieur), we've felt there's something... strange about the place. Not wrong, so much as odd. As though it's the kind of village where things might happen... in ways they don't happen anywhere else.
Now don't get me wrong, we love our new home. It's a peaceful location with stunning views across the valley (too estate agenty?) - a majestic treeline of ancient oaks and sycamores that whisper secrets to each other in the wind. From our bedroom window we can see sheep, geese, chickens, and the lights of farmhouses on the moors. And when there's a rainbow, you can see the full arc of it, like a child's drawing; it makes you stop and stare. Never trust anyone who doesn't stand in awe at the sight of a rainbow.
But the other night, as twilight drew in, something happened to our rainbow. It started to burn into the horizon, all scarlet and crimson and plum. It looked like a sunset, yet it was happening in the east. It was beautiful and strange and I had to take a picture, even though I knew no photograph could ever do it justice. 
Still I was mesmerised.
"Where are you going?" said Louise.
I just wanted a closer look, I explained. I'd never seen anything like it.
I started up the fields towards it. This great burning wound, this raspberry dusk, this misplaced shepherd's delight, stumbling through the shadows as my eyes adjusted to the alien colours... and then I heard him. A hacking cough, a wet, phlegmy bark. I could see his silhouette against the gate, a hunched old man, leaning on the knotted wood and watching the sky with suspicious eyes.
"You don't want to go up there, lad. You'll keep away from that if you know what's good for you."
I asked what he meant. A cool breeze was blowing down the valley, raising the hairs from my skin; I wished I'd brought a jacket.
"Strange things go on round here on nights like this," he told me, "things the likes of you and me are better off not asking about."
I couldn't help myself; I asked anyway.
"Spectral exsanguination," he told me. "They're bleeding the rainbow... they won't be happy till they've bled it dry."
I gave him a look; he was having me on, surely. But when I looked back at the sky, I could see it happening. In Meltham, they really do bleed the rainbows...
I turned back to ask him how they did it. Why they did it. What they did with the blood... but the old man was already gone.
I'd meet him again soon though. Because Meltham is a dangerous place...
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