I think my fear of queues comes from more than just being British.

So, I just got back from a week at the Edinburgh Festival which, for the record, was absolutely amazing. The place was buzzing and I saw some great shows – granted there were a few that made me want to rip out my vital organs, but pish posh.

Anyway, something happened while I was there that made me question much of what I’ve learned over my life. It left me confused and, honestly, slightly scared.

I was waiting at the venue for the Russell Kane show that would be starting in half an hour or so when suddenly, I felt my bladder was getting a little overwhelmed.

(That wasn’t what “confused and, honestly, slightly scared me”, don’t worry.)

I headed off in search of the toilets , only to find a few people waiting. “That’s fine”, I thought and stood there to wait also.

TIME FOR A SUB-STORY

What happened next put me in a sticky position…more people came in and joined the queue. The queue that it now seemed I was not a part of. I had been isolated from my fellow toilet-goers.

I had ignorantly assumed that it was a mental queue in operation and so stood, blissfully unaware, as a physical queue began to form. I found myself on the opposite side of the corridor to all of the other women: segregated.

So there I was, completely unaware of how to get myself back into my rightful place and it was getting closer and closer to my turn (or what would have been my turn had I been in the queue).

I muttered encouraging words to myself and in an odd and ungraceful motion did what can only be described as a pirouette-minus-the-ette into the line, mumbling an explanation and an apology to those behind me as I went.

Needless to say, it was an uncomfortable few moments as I waited for the cubicle to be free once again.

END OF SUB-STORY

Once I’d finished relieving my bladder, I headed back outside to find that people were getting ready to go into the show. I hurried up the line to inform those I was with of this so that we could join our fellow comedy-seekers.

Suddenly, I realised the line was moving, quite rapidly, forwards. I quickened my pace so we would not be left at the back, stuck seeing nothing but the particularly tall person in front’s dandruff.

This is when my world lost any form logicality it still possessed. I walked past a couple of members of staff, one of whom seemed quite distressed, and heard a little snippet of their conversation.

WHERE WERE THE PEOPLE AT THE FRONT GOING?!

If the queue was moving forward at such a rate (which it was, I assure you), where were all the people going? I honestly can’t get my head around this.

Was the reason this worked purely that everyone in the queue was really eager to  ‘get to know’ whoever was in front of them? Were those right at the front being made into pancakes right before the eyes of onlookers? Or was it something slightly more sinister?

I have my suspicions…

I really don’t want to have to eat Jeff.

Right, time for a bit of a rant and probably a great deal of cynicism, so to keep the mood nice and jolly, here’s a picture of a unicorn to start us off:

There, now that we’re all feeling magical, back to the point.

Life’s thrown something at me which I just can’t not moan about for any longer. It may seem silly, but what’s turned me into a premature grouch is this…

…and anything similar.

I just honestly can’t understand why anyone would say, “Oh look, I have a daughter who I kind of like. I know, let’s buy an annoying little sticker that tells everyone else on the road that we think our child is a princess.”

Just don’t do it. If the kid’s called Diana, then I can understand a bit more, but ‘little Jessica’ is not a princess ad never will be.

I don’t know whether these people think it’s cute or quirky, or whether they’re idiotic enough to think road-rage-fuelled drivers are less likely to ram into the back of them if they have one of these things.

Every time I see one, I want to grab the wheel and do just that.

To be honest, it’s just as bad as sticking one of these on your bumper:

Because seriously, if you can find me one fish-lacking person who, when sat in a traffic jam in rush hour, looks at the car in front to see that and doesn’t immediately think, “prick”, I’ll eat the unicorn.

Oh Look…Another Overused Pun.

Just My Luck I’d be bored one day, turn on the TV and there, brightening (ahem) up my screen is the one and only Lindsay Lohan. Hooray.

I find though, that Lilo is one of these people that I enjoy watching because she’s just so horrendously bad, that it’s incredibly easy to mock – and I like me some mocking. So imagine my joy to find that I’d stumbled across the film Just My Luck starring Lilo herself along with Chris Pine – aka. Captain James T Kirk (no complaints there, eh ladies?).

Seriously, it really was Just My Luck!

Yes, that was me pathetically pushing for that pun to go further. I’m thinking I may have worn it out now though. Just My Luck!

The film, is literally 103 minutes of advertising for McFly…with a few smooches thrown in for good measure.

(Has anyone noticed how I like to imdb runtimes of films and mention them during blog updates so as to sound knowledgeable?)

Just My Luck is about a girl (Lilo) who has incredibly good luck all the time. And then there’s the boy (Capt. K) who has – yep, you guessed it – incredibly bad luck…all the time. The two kiss, McFly members banter, switch luckiness, McFly members sing a song, live their lives, McFly members flick their hair, and finally fall in love, at which point McFly becomes big and famous and, fittingly, sings another song.

A riveting plot wouldn’t you say? Particularly because Lilo is throwing a tantrum throughout while Capt. K lopes around wearing a leather jacket and a duct tape enhanced backpack being a general Spiderman-before-Spiderman-Peter-Parker-male-lead (you know, the whole “I’m a nerd, hot, not a player and care about children and old people – yeah, you’re awake” vibe).

I do have a couple of questions about the film though;

1) When they were casting it, did they just jump in and hire every every single actor who has ever been on ER?

2) Did it not become obvious to them during the filming that Samaire Armstrong (short, blonde best friend of Lilo) was allergic to whatever was going in her coffee in the morning? I mean, seriously, the flailing should have tipped them off a bit.

Just My Luck is an amusing little romp though. Not a good film, but entertaining enough. Especially if you’re an up-and-coming Olympic hair flicker and fancy checking out the competition. I’d say Dougie’s the one to watch, he’s got all the Russian neck movements down.

It’s a shame, I really thought I had a chance at London 2012.

Ah, Just My Luck.

MJ v. JB

Whoa, check out the number of abbreviations in the title of this!

Yeah, abbreviations FTW!

Are you impressed? ty.

 

When you walk past people who are talking in a rather animated fashion about some unknown topic (that, or a subdued one – so basically just talking) do you feel that unexplainable urge to know said topic? I do. And I think most people would feel the same. It’s the natural curiosity that comes with having more brain cells than a squirrel. But the fact is, despite the lack of context, those few lines one picks up when drifting slowly past a conversing group of unknowns tends to spark a new conversation, whether with someone else or yourself in your head. Of course if you’re me, with yourself out loud. Or the unknowns out loud. Not the unknowns in your head though.

There is a point to this tangent, I promise. And, it ties fabulously in with the earlier abbreviating.

I realise that by saying that I’ve given any unfortunate  reader something called ‘expectation’. Bad idea.

Anyway, I was walking past a group of girls (about thirteen years old if I had to guess) who were discussing – or maybe ‘debating’ would be a more fitting description of what they were doing – a certain tattooed(?), floppy-haired teen heartthrob. Yes, that’s right; Justin Bieber.

Now, I’m not here to share my opinions on him because to be honest, I have none. I couldn’t care less what he does and doesn’t do. I’m not his mother.

Or his boyfriend*

So, as I was walking past, I chuckled quietly to myself at the subject over which they were arguing, That was, though, until I heard something that made me come to a horror-struck halt. One of them had the nerve to say this…

“Well, at least Justin Bieber can sing! Unlike that Michael Jackson!!”

OMG, I was horrified.

I couldn’t ignore the comment.

So, I turned round and forcefully joined their debate. I argued strongly and passionately, sending them into a bit of a stunned silence. Though, I’ll admit, that may have been to do with the fact that I had jumped spontaneously into their conversation at all.

I honestly don’t understand how they can compare the two, let alone say that JB beats MJ. WTF?!

 

Hey, I just realised something. JB is a white sixteen-year-old who got invited to the black music awards. Identity crisis? MJ was a black child who grew into a white man. Identity crisis. And both can somehow be blamed on the world’s intolerance.

 

So yeah…G2G.

 

*Just as a side note/disclaimer to save myself from hate mail, I know nothing of Justin Bieber’s sexuality and I’m particularly impartial towards it. This comment was not based on opinion, evidence or anything as staple. Purely on other people’s opinions and jibes that I felt the need to bring up here due to an incredible opportunity. I couldn’t exactly pass it up, it’s like the joke wrote itself.

Inception

Ok, so I went to see Inception the other day – you know, the film that’s been getting pretty much all round amazing reviews and and has been described as “like The Matrix mated with Synecdoche, New York — or a Charlie Kaufman 007”. I think it’s safe to say the critics like it.

And, if I’m honest, I can’t help but agree with them. Obviously, as with most films, it had its flaws (the continuously prominent, and somewhat overbearing, brass section that made up the soundtrack being one point). I mean, I hate to agree with people, but I loved it. It was on of those films that you can walk out of feeling all high-and-mighty because you’ve gotten in touch with your ‘inner philosopher’. And due to my horrendously large ego, I love my inner philosopher. There’s something so satisfying about a film that makes you feel as though you’ve actually gained some sort of insight into the working of the world, no matter how untenable said insight may be.

The details of the film were it’s greatest strength and it’s most textbook weakness. The fact that there were so many vital points thrown in as nonchalantly as a you like makes the film a difficulty for those who find a trip to the cinema as a chance to not have to think. The fact that the film requires strict concentration throughout paired with the - in my opinion, all too frequent - car chases, explosions and fight scenes, makes it a struggle to understand quite what is wanted of yourself as an audience member before the credits roll.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve said I loved the film, but I think that the psychological depth to it could have been further explored. Leonardo DiCaprio plays his part superbly and alongside Marion Cotillard, it’s impossible for anyone to not feel the pain and confusion along with them. The constant fighting took away from this and wasn’t needed. Large action scenes tend to drive viewers into a state of half-watching where they’re observing the action, but not processing the happenings and throwing twists into the middle of these brought on a whole new level (no pun intended) to the term ‘juxtaposition’. One that can become a little too much at points.

Overall, however, despite my mocking and critique, I know for a fact I will most definitely be watching Inception again and enjoying it as much, if not more, than the first time around. Christopher Nolan is the very essence of creativity and the way he binds together the science fiction with the thriller creates two hours and twenty-eight minutes of excitement, suspense, and more than anything, a dream-like escape from reality.

Where’s Wally? …mocking me.

I have a theory.

I have established that the ability to find Wally in the books ‘Where’s Wally’ (or for those Americanised souls among us, Waldo in ‘Where’s Waldo’) slowly but surely deteriorates with every year we live.

I say this because I used to be great at it, but I find that as I grow older, it takes me longer and longer to find that annoyingly stripy little man. Now I know you may dismiss my troubles, putting it down to lack of interest or something else just as, if not more, trivial and ordinary.

But, this is wrong. For a start, I’m incredibly competitive so when my seven-year-old cousin challenges me to a game of ‘who can find Wally first’, I want to win. Forget the fact that as the older and wiser (clearly not when it comes to finding Wally though) of us I should be nice and let her win so as to avoid upset - something I often do, yet am always happy knowing in my own little mind that I’ve won, an idea from which I get a worryingly large sense of pleasure. But this time, I just couldn’t find Wally! And when I handed my baton over to my brother, he had even more trouble than me. The book was then passed from person to person within our family; uncles, aunts, sons, grandmothers, the whole shebang. Through the careful observation of these many different people of many different ages attempting to find Wally, I have come to the conclusion that the older one is, the harder the quest for Wally.

And that, is why Wally always wears that smug little grin that you only begin to notice once you pass the age of thirteen and becomes more and more obvious and more and more mocking with every year you age.

And to be honest, the hat’s just silly.

Why do people say, "Ta very much"?

Is that not just saying, "Thanks a lot very much"?


Double emphasis anyone?
Crazy!