Wednesday 19 January 2011

Medieval Relish


This is an unusual beginning to an unusual post. I would like to begin by laying my cards upon the table. I don't like Ricky Gervais. I believe him to be mediocrity with an inflated sense of his own importance. That said I feel compelled to defend him. I didn't watch the Golden Globes in their entirety. I find the spectacle of over-privileged arseholes paying homage to one another frankly, nauseating. I did, however, read a synopsis of Mr. Gervais' most risque comments. I also watched selected footage on YouTube. I cannot help but feel Mr.Gervais { I shall stick with it for now, as I despise over familiarity} has been scapegoated by the puritanical American media in revenge for committing the ultimate blasphemy: mocking the Hollywood gods.
That's right Ladies and Gentlemen, T.V. is Mount Olympus and the people on there are aspirational deities to whom obeisance must be paid. Though these heroes generally have two faces, as opposed to a thousand. He poked fun at certain Scientologists, by way of his reference to the film 'I Love Phillip Morris': " Two heterosexual actors pretending to be gay. Sort of the complete opposite of some famous Scientologists then. My lawyers helped me with the wording of that joke". He then went on to mock 'The Tourist' a film which is by all accounts, such a pile of shit, cinema goers ought to be provided with a complementary can of Raid to kill the flies coming off the screen. The cast of Sex And The City, Charlie Sheen and Bruce Willis. I am not going to rehash what has previously been printed in the national press, if you haven't read or seen his remarks I suggest you familiarise yourself with them or else the rest of this article won't make a great deal of sense. A number of people have objected to these jokes on the grounds that they offend public decency. By and large, they don't. They offend rich ego-maniacs with too much time on their hands. The organisers employed Mr. Gervais the previous year and were happy with his performance. They knew what they were getting.
If the organisers don't want to employ someone with the capacity for original thought, I suggest they employ one of there own factory-farmed marionettes. DON'T EMPLOY BRITISH COMEDIANS! In Blighty we have a long standing tradition of satire dating right back to Henry VIII's untouchable jester Will Somers. Continuing through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with the foundation of publications such as Punch, a tradition which has endured to the present day. What the A-listers wanted was a professional arse-kisser. What they got was someone who sent them up. Given that Hollywood is populated by alcoholic, drug-addled, naval gazing, prima donnas half of whom are so far in the closet they're finding leg-warmers, it wasn't the wisest course of action. Considering the amount of money these people earn, you'd think they could afford a better sense of humour.
The fact that we're living in a precarious economic climate and these people are immune, boasting comparatively huge bank balances, doing jobs they enjoy, they should expect to be the butt of the odd joke. Alas, Mr. Gervais called down the wrath of the gods, and they sent their emissaries, the lawyers to smite him. I, for one have grown weary of the whining, deluded, cosseted ego-monsters. I think, in the spirit of the middle ages we should have a modern equivalent of the stocks. That these people should be rounded up locked in a big room surrounded by armed guards and mocked for at least four hours by the world's most offensive comedians. Like heretics about to be burned. The rest of the world could watch the proceedings via video link and applaud, as Chubby Brown, Frankie Boyle, Chris Rock and Ricky Gervais et al took the piss out of them with medieval relish. All for the entertainment of the peasants who buy cinema tickets. I may be a hang em' high Tory but there's a streak in me which is pure anarchist.

Saturday 8 January 2011

The Gryphon


With the white hot brilliance of an imploding sun,


My soul detached itself from my diseased mind.


Rent apart my consciousness like an egg shell.


And the newly hatched eaglet spake:




"I have grown weary of hiding in the enclaves


Of our shared prison,


Which enslaves me to you.


A mute observer, a bound physician


The voice which echoes


In a recess of the cave.




Hear me, as I impart my wisdom


With a passion which approximates rage


You and I have warred for supremacy


Like gilded lions in a golden cage.




Now we need no longer vie


For dominion, o'er this tiny gaol


I know how


To open the door


Only with you


Can we prevail.




"How so?" Replied I, casting a skeptical eye


Upon the sturdy golden cage


By using my material strength,


My frenetic fury, to tear off the door?"


"Not that way but another,


My dear twin brother,


We must simply sit and in unison roar."




Then the walls of the prison


shall come crashing around


We shall be seated alone on the ground


Not two beings but one


An integrated sum


Of two indespensible parts.


For a being like us to be truly alive,


She requires a dichotomized heart.