‘Anyone throwing American footballs will be ejected from the cinema’ – The Room, Prince Charles Cinema

You just know it’s going to be a good night when that’s up on the screen don’t you? And it was.

This is part recommendation, part review, part attempt to make sense of one of the most bizarre and entertaining evenings of film I have ever witnessed.

First the basics. There’s this film called The Room. It’s hands down the worst film I have ever seen. Ostensibly a romantic drama, it’s so poorly executed it has been retrospectively labelled as a black comedy by writer, director and ‘star’ Tommy Wiseau, even though that’s clearly bollocks.

Words can’t describe how bad this film actually is as a film, so here’s the actual official trailer:

There are more gems like that all over Youtube, check them out.

Even this brief glimpse of the film gives you a fairly strong idea of the level of acting, dialogue, plot and set design you’re in for with this.

There are so many, many faults with The Room that it would be a fool’s errand to list them all here, and other sites do a pretty comprehensive guide. As a taster, some of the key themes are:

– Characters who turn up in the film and are never introduced

– Throwing American footballs around in cramped and unsuitable spaces

– The above but in tuxedos

– Eye-wateringly bad sex scenes. There are three; the first two are the same scene re-hashed because the actress involved allegedly wouldn’t do two takes. The third is so long you can comfortably get a beer and go for a wee while it’s on

– Spoons

– People not shutting the fucking door

Bring lots.

Bring lots.

Why would anybody give this flick a chance?

Well, it turns out that the good folk at the Prince Charles in Leicester Square do, and so should you.

They show it about once a month, and it seems to be a sellout (300 people or so) quite regularly. The film has gained such a cult following that people show up in Tommy Wiseau fancy dress toting footballs, and the supply of plastic spoons in London must be put under severe strain as people turn up with bags of them.

Why plastic spoons and American footballs? To hurl at the screen of course.

What results is pure, unbridled hilarity for 99 minutes of cripplingly awful cinema with a long list of ‘rules’ and a properly devoted fan base. One bloke even dressed up as main love interest Lisa, which seemed extreme.

The rules are various and almost always involve shouting. When the picture of a spoon, clearly a stock photo that cam with the frame, is on screen, shout ‘Spooooooooooooooon’ and hurl your plastic cutlery. You have not lived until you’ve seen 500 spoons gracefully arcing towards a cinema screen.

When nobody closes the fucking door in the film, scream at them to close the fucking door.

When another random character comes in and isn’t introduced, enquire as to who the fuck they are.

When the two random characters who aren’t introduced come in and start making out, tell the man to do the face. He’ll do the face. You’ll wish he hadn’t done the face.

When another framing shot of San Francisco comes up to remind us that we’re still in San Francisco, remark on the fact that we’re still in San Francisco.

When the camera pans across the Golden Gate bridge, shout encouragement. Celebrate wildly if it makes it all the way across.

When the camera unfocuses, as it does regularly, shout ‘Focus!’.

When the sex scenes kick off, scream ‘Unfocus!’.

Observe a hushed reverence for the flower shop scene, as this is the acting zenith of the film and also one of the best things you will ever see.

Be prepared to scream ‘You’re tearing me apart Lisa!’

Be prepared to have a game of American football outside the cinema afterwards.

Be prepared for the football to be confiscated after your gangly flatmate overcooks his throw again and almost puts it through a restaurant window.

Be prepared to get significantly drunk beforehand.

Have a celebratory scothka afterwards.

These are only a very few of the rules. A more comprehensive beginner’s guide can be found here.

If you’re a complete newbie, don’t worry – about 75% of the audience seem not only to know the film but to know every chant, callout and spoon-throwing moment therein. You’re in safe hands.

So, yeah, basically, go see it, you won’t have more fun in a dark room.

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Women resigned to long, tough month

5 days into Movember, the harsh reality of half the country toting moustaches has crept up on the nation’s women like poorly thought out facial hair on a man’s face.

Otherwise normal, well-adjusted men are sprouting itchy, disturbing mouth toupees, partly to raise money to fight prostate cancer and to highlight men’s health issues, but mostly because they think that moustaches are ace.

Men across the world are paying undue attention to the mirror, convincing themselves that ‘it’s really coming through well this year’, while their wives and girlfriends roll their eyes and reach for the nearest wine or absinthe, only pausing between gulps to say ‘Yes darling, it looks great’ through gritted teeth.

When asked to describe their efforts, most men will describe their ‘taches, which they will invariably have named, as ‘cultured’, ‘refined’, ‘vigorous’ or ‘dapper’. When posed with the same question, women will respond with ‘creepy’,’creepy’,’creepy’ or ‘oh god, so creepy’.

It's coming through really well this year. I look like a dashing RAF pilot.

It’s coming through really well this year. I look like a dashing RAF pilot.

The Movember phenomenon has been a huge success in recent years, and experts believe that it is due to the unfathomable depths of self-delusion exhibited by all men. When you cut open any man’s brain, the part of his body responsible for emotions about facial hair and attempting to source chips, you will find only a small scroll, bearing three telling sentences:

  1. I look excellent with a moustache
  2. All women love men with moustaches
  3. Where are the chips?

Whilst the third line is what truly separates us from the animals, the first two are cruel evolutionary tricks designed to dupe the unsuspecting male into changing his appearance to resemble a rampaging sex criminal.

Studies estimate that the number of men in the UK who can actually grow a moustache worthy of the name is somewhere between four and seven, leaving 20-odd million deluded fantasists wandering the streets and creeping up the joint and wholeheartedly believing that they look like a dashing RAF pilot.

Other research indicates that the proportion of women who don’t mind moustaches is roughly equivalent to the proportion of women who are sexually attracted to cheese.

It’s not all bad news for ladies though – the end of November heralds the end of the ‘tache – usually after a relationship-threatening row after we become slightly too attached to our efforts – and then it’s into Christmas jumper and ‘putting on the winter weight’ season, where every man looks his plump, festive best.

P.S. I’ve definitely taken a slight run-up to Movember this year – it doesn’t usually look this good (and it still looks horrifying)

P.P.S. I might even provide regular updates and detailed, up close pictures.

P.P.P.S. You lucky things.

P.P.P.P.S. What does this link do I wonder?

“I’m taking off in this plane, but I’m not going to land in it…”

This is a very unsettling thought.

This is one of those thoughts that hits you like a sledgehammer in the heart and, of course, the bowels.

This is the exact thought I had at about 1 o’clock yesterday afternoon as our bumpy little plane trundled over the grass and took to the skies above Peterborough. The immediate next thought was: “Oh god, I’m going to die in Peterborough.”

If you don’t follow these pages too regularly, you can catch the build up to this event here. For those that do, hi Mum!

In short, I hit 26 and decided that the best way to mark this life event was to hurl myself out of a plane for charity. I needn’t have put that link in really, that sentence is equally informative and much more concise.

The day didn’t get off to a great start. We decided it would be apt to have a pre-jump pint the night before – one for the road in case anything went spectacularly wrong. By the 5th Jagerbomb it began to dawn on us that perhaps we’d had one too many.

I woke at 6.30AM with a somewhat groggy head, donned the nearest clothes and went to greet the day. Following my esteemed colleague Rose’s instructions to the letter, I arrived at King’s Cross at 7.30 and boarded the train to Peterborough. The day started at 8.30 sharp, so I was glad not to have missed my train.

After touring Stevenage, Biggleswade, Sandy and St Neots it dawned on me that the instructions given may not have been perfectly thought through, and I stumbled off the train at 9, primed for an 8.30 start.

A quick aside – why does every town now need a slogan? As you roll into Stevenage, past the abandoned factory with the broken windows, you’re greeted with a sign bearing the legend: ‘Stevenage – Where imagination takes hold’.

I can guarantee that nobody has ever arrived in Stevenage and been hit by sensory overload. “My god! This is a playground for the mind” has never been uttered or thought in association with Stevenage. If the council are going to go down the line of turning their town into a corporate entity, they could at least be more realistic. Three suggestions:

‘Stevenage – indifferently shit.’

‘Meh.’

‘Stevenage – at least it isn’t Slough.’

That isn’t a pop at Stevenage – I’m sure it’s fine. It just doesn’t need a tagline.

Anyway. Arriving at the dropzone a good hour late, I was bumped back to about 1 o’clock. When the moment finally arrived, I huddled into a particularly rickety plane with my instructor, reassuringly also the coach of the RAF Parachute Display Team, and a friendly couple jumping in aid of Pancreatic Cancer. Myself and the male half of the couple were laddishly slapping each other and making manly war noises all the way up to hide the fact that we were really very close to public defecation.

This obviously isn't me, but I imagine this is exactly how I looked.

This obviously isn’t me, but I imagine this is exactly how I looked.

Finally, strapped to another human being, I was shuffled to the door of the plane, which was dangerously open in my view. One thing they don’t really mention is that the instructor has to sit on the edge of the plane. This means that you are very much dangling out of a moving aircraft for some time.

I have to admit, the whole thing is a beautiful experience. Helpfully, I couldn’t see the ground – we were at 13,000 feet and well above the clouds, so I was surrounded by bright blue skies and a fluffy pillow of cloud to jump onto. It’s hard to describe the jump; I went through half a second of absolute and unbridled terror as we rolled out of the plane – the same feeling you have when you wake up and think you’re falling. I cannot tell you how surreal it is to look up and see an aeroplane gently moving away a few feet above you.

After that it’s just sheer pleasure all the way down. The freefall is mad – you’re doing 120mph but feel almost static. I think we fell for about 40 seconds, but it felt simultaneously like 10 hours and 2 seconds of flying. I will never forget that.

Hitting the clouds is quite odd – it seems obvious but I wasn’t expecting to get wet…

Pulling the chute brought out a whole new set of fun. You’re still 5,000 feet up but get to see the whole wide world around you. Peterborough looks quite nice from that high up, I have to say. We engaged in some light-hearted extreme spinning of the parachute, turning tight circles and making the ground spin like a roulette wheel. I was this close to being violently ill. Then we landed, and I gave the ground a steamy, tongue-heavy kiss it will surely never forget.

All in all, that was a brilliant day. If you get a chance to skydive, just do it. If you can raise some cash for charity whilst doing so, more’s the better. Ahem.

A massive thanks to everyone who’s sponsored me so far, I’ve raised over £350 for the Brain Tumour Charity. About 12 of us jumped over the weekend, so we should be looking at 4 or 5 grand overall! And thanks to the BTC lady for actually coming down and supporting us – much appreciated. And a big thanks to my instructor for not letting me die. I’m really pleased about that.

Happy Sunday!

 

5 comedy shows to see at the Edinburgh Fringe

So I’ve just got back from the Fringe. I mean literally just. I’m writing this in the 15 mins I have before my frozen chicken pieces are ready for me to consume.

I love the Fringe. I’ve been there twice now so I’m a bona fide expert on it and as such my words should adorn posters and be stapled to flyers so that potential showgoers might learn from my large repository of objective wisdom.

Hitting the Fringe is a confusing experience. You head there, you’re looking for a show, you don’t really know what you want to see. Helpfully, on the Royal Mile and lurking down alleyways/in bins are thousands of students being paid a laughably low amount to explain why so and so is the best show ever whilst looking at you with their sad, dead eyes.

Top tip for the first-timer – Every show at the Fringe has a 4 star rating from somebody.

I could walk down the Mile and receive a 4 star rating from at least one press outlet or blog. So when people start shouting, “4 star show” at you that doesn’t mean you ought to be going there. It could very much still be shit.

So it’s best to have a little context. Here are my 5 faves from this year. Why is my opinion worthwhile? It isn’t.

1) Tim Key – Work in Slutgress (Progress)

Err, don’t be put off by the title. I’ve always quite liked Tim Key – he’s a mix of comedian, poet, actor, tramp, with a flair for finding fun in the most absurd places. His Eduburgh show is a very short run and isn’t listed in the brochure – I think he’s covering for somebody else who didn’t show up. The upshot is nobody knows it’s on so it will likely not sell out. Whatever the circumstances, the show he’s putting on is genuinely brilliant. Key surrounds his poetry with cheap gags, anecdotes, recurring jokes, physical theatre, clever staging and a complete comfort with the audience which results in a wonderful hour. He sort of swore us all to silence on the contents at the end – but take my word that it’s well worth a watch.

2) James Acaster

I first saw James Acaster at a 5 quid new material night in London before Christmas. He was on for about 5 minutes and I’ve only just stopped laughing. Tall, languid and dressed head-to-toe in M&S garb, his jokes are so well-crafted that I want to frame them. We saw him twice at Edinburgh in separate compilation shows (more on that later) and he delivered completely different sets each time, both tear-inducingly funny. He’s also brilliant off-the-cuff, breaking off into a long section on candle wax and blu-tack in one show which had the audience in stitches.

Acaster plays on his slightly awkward image, a bit of an anti-lad, and the result is hilarious. The group of meatheads at the front of the second show we saw him in, probably not his general demographic, were pissing themselves laughing throughout. It’s difficult to see how he can improve on what he’s dishing out right now, a definite must-see.

3) Marcel Lucont

My second favourite comedy character after Alan Partridge. Actually a bloke from Reading, but so convincingly stereotypically French that people don’t believe you when you tell the otherwise.

Outrageously funny to the point where I actually slapped my own knee with mirth. Hugely arrogant but endearing at the same time. Finished one hilariously ropey poem with the line “You are correct to applaud. That was…superb.” You’ll have to catch him at a compilation show or bid on an hour of his time, seriously, but if you can work out where he is go and see him. Haven’t yet met anybody who didn’t find him hilarious.

4) Piff the Magic Dragon

A man dresses as a dragon, comes on stage and performs card tricks with the aid of a chihuahua, also dressed as a dragon, and an assistant who hates him. And a goldfish. Good card-based magic is the foundation of the show but the whole combination is unforgettable and brilliant. Piff (no idea what his real name is) has worked out that as good as your magic show can be, you ned a bit more to engage the audience. The guy is actually a brilliant comedian – world-weary and with a proper flair for comic timing with a few really good gags. Something very different from straight stand-up, and very, very good.

5) Spank!

If you’re stuck for things to do at midnight at the weekend then head down to the Underbelly on Cowgate for Spank!, three hours of comedians, shouting and gratuitous nudity. On the plus side, you’ll get some incredible acts. The’ll list them on the day so see who’s on, but we got top-class, extended sets from James Acaster, Marcel Lucont, David Morgan and April Macie (who isn’t even at the Fringe but just happened to stop by).

On the down side, you might see the compere dip his penis into the mouth of one of the lads in the front row. This did actually happen. So it goes.

Honorable mentions

Daniel Simonsen – Awkward, awkward, AWKWARD Norwegian kid. Pain and pleasure in equal measure. I think he’s brilliant, so did the majority of our group, but if you don’t get him you won’t enjoy it.

Bo Burnham – American Youtube demi-God. Would probably have made the list except I didn’t see him. Friends who did rated him as the best show they saw.

PC, Mac and Me – One for the geeks, and FREE! Dan Willis is pretty accomplished, and some good computer-based funnies. Very good for no pounds.

Abandoman – Irish comedy improv hip-hop. Caught about 10 mins of this at a best of show and it was amazing.

 

 

 

An Englishman’s Guide: Mallorca Part 3

Another July, another trip to Mallorca. I’m nothing if not original. Here are part 1 and part 2 in case you missed these. Last year. Which unless you follow this blog very closely is highly likely.

Anyway, here are a few more bits and pieces to do and see if you find yourself in Mallorca and not in Magaluf.

Beaches and cliffs

The Spanish seem to take a very lax approach to private property, and as such you’ll have to jump over walls or fences to access at least two of the four. Nobody I spoke to seemed to think this was a problem.

Also you’ll need a car.

First up is Es Marmols, which looks a little like this:

It's pretty damn shiny.

It’s pretty damn shiny.

 

Marmols is a secret beach which, in general, only Mallorquins know about. Until now obviously. So keep it quiet. It’s an absolutely gorgeous little spot, but it takes some getting to unless you have a yacht.

If you don’t have a yacht, rag your hire car out towards Santanyi. Once you hit Santanyi, follow the road towards Es Llombards and Ses Salines. After a mile or so there’s a sharp left on a right hand bend which you should take. Head about half a mile down the road until you go past a big locked gate on the left, and park up on the right.

Now break into somebody’s land.

Jump the wall (easiest to do this by one of the trees), then jump the second wall by the crumbly bit (you’ll understand). Fuck your legs up scrambling though the brush to the left til you find a road, and follow that. At the fork/house go left then head right when the path diverges and follow the path down to the beach.

That sounds rough but it’s genuinely worth it – people just don’t know about this place. If in doubt about the route, follow a Spaniard. If they find this somewhat concerning, make sure you have this dog with you to put them at ease.

Solves all kinds of problems

Solves all kinds of problems

 

Oh also, it’s nominally a nudist beach, but don’t feel obliged to get your bits out. If you do, suncream. Lots of suncream.

For an evening of sunshine, you’ve got two good options both of which result in the kind of sunsets that make people go ‘aahhhhhh’. If you have a significant other look into each other’s eyes and consider how lucky you are to have each other. If, like me, you don’t, make snide comments instead to make yourself feel better.

The easy option is Sa Foradada – head up past Valldemossa and go right as you leave the village (towards Deia I think…), then veer wildly off the road after a couple of miles down to Sa Foradada, which I think is listed as a restaurant. Park up in the car park. There’s a nice bar at the lookout point, and if you’re looking for some daytime fun the walk down to the point and back is a good way to while a day away. The sunset you see will look something like this:

People actually clap when it goes down.

People actually clap when it goes down.

Option 2 is to go out to Cabo Blanco. Head towards Llucmajor and then follow signs for Cap Blanc. Park up by the gate and break in to more fenced off land. Head towards the lighthouse but be aware that you’re walking into Cicada Alley. Walking with your arms flailing is a strong tactic, and keep your mouth very, very closed unless you want a flying cockroach in your mouth. Sit out on the cliffs to the right of the lighthouse. It’s a lot quieter and more remote here, and you also get to watch the sun go down behind the mountains which is quite pretty.

This view comes with a 90% chance that is cicada is mating with your hair

This view comes with a 90% chance that is cicada is mating with your hair

 

I should also mention that Cala Varques, which I mention in one of the previous posts, has gotten really popular. It’s now pretty packed but still worth a go. Swim out and round the left hand cliffs round to the next bay to find some really cool caves to play in.

Eating and Drinking

Don’t try and get breakfast. Spaniards do not understand breakfast. Spain, much like the District Line, is closed on Sundays, struggles with mornings and doesn’t really work. You can sit in a cafe in the centre of Palma at 9.30 in the morning and you’ll not see a soul. You can do what we did and drive out to a mountain town (Bunyalbufar) and try in vain to find anywhere open at 10.30 in the morning.

Embrace the Spanish lifestyle. Don’t get up before 10.

The best Mallorquin eating and drinking happens in the evening – during the day you can stop off anywhere for a pastry and a beer, maybe a little bocadillo to tide you over. If you’re really hungry go for a Menu Del Dia, but don’t trust anywhere that charges over 10 Euro.

For evening munching, I’d recommend Cafe Antiquari or Bar Espana in the middle of Palma – you can get a few beers and some good, homemade food for very little cash, and the atmosphere is lovely in both. For a more serious meal, I like Don Caracol up by Plaza Espana – a proper Mallorquin restaurant that’s not over-priced and does good hearty food. You can also sit down at midnight, which is fun.

Outside Palma, head up to Alaro in the mountains (drive to Bunyola, then signs to Castell de Alaro). There is an amazing little lamb restaurant in the middle of nowhere which does gorgeous lumps of fire-cooked lamb and pork. You can also walk up from the restaurant to the Castle, which has specatular views over the Tramuntana. It also has nothing in the way of safety fences, so impress your friends by leaning out as far as possible over the 500ft drops. They’ll think you’re really cool.

All the rocks.

All the rocks.

 

Misc

Train to Soller! Train to Soller! At 19 Euro it’s a bit steep, but a nice day out. You take the old 1912-style trains through the mountains from Palma to Soller. You can stand outside like a real cowboy and take in the views, and also try and steal oranges or lemons from passing trees like the filthy tourist you are. Warning: may result in broken arms.

Then at Soller you can walk down the tram track to the Port de Soller which will take around an hour. There’s a path which takes you past a minor piece of cinematic history in the form of the hotel from The Inbetweeners Movie, which is actually an abandoned shithole full of graffiti and probably crackheads. It’s still a nice find, especially if you start shouting ‘cum on me bastard tits’ repeatedly to recreate the highbrow gags in the film.

"You shit on the floor, fifty Euros"

“You shit on the floor, fifty Euros”

At Port de Soller you can laugh at all the people who chose to go and stay there, as they’re basically trapped, and walk around the bay to some viewpoints up above the cliffs. Don’t bother getting the actual tram at any point, a taxi is 8 Euros compared to a crowded tram at 5 Euros each.

Useful Phrases

My Spanish hasn’t improved much past the inappropriate chat up lines, but here are a couple of extras:

“Si y no” – “Yes and no”. Typical Spanish answer to any question/observation. “The sea is over there.” “Si…y no.”

“Perros no” – “No dogs”. I like to throw this in to every conversation at least once.

“Esperamos por los huevos” – “We are still waiting for the eggs”. Useful in bars when they forget the eggs.

“Tengo sueno” – “I’m sleepy”. You will be. It’s well hot.

“Gorda/gordita” – “Fatty/little fatty”. Give your female friends a complex with this apparently endearing term.

A tribute to Iain Banks

Not something I usually do, but felt this one was important for some reason.

Today it’s been announced that my favourite author, Iain Banks, has died of cancer.

If you’ve never read any of his work, you might be surprised to learn that Iain Banks was two of Britain’s most successful authors. He wrote fiction under Iain Banks and sci-fi under Iain M Banks. In both genres he’s produced the best books I’ve ever read.

The first time I was introduced to his work was in the form of The Crow Road on a recommendation from my stepdad. I hated it. I can’t have got through more than 30 pages before ditching it and never returning. As a slightly unrefined Essex boy I couldn’t get my head round the distinctly Scottish style.

A few months later I was given The Wasp Factory and decided to push through and ive it a chance. It remains my favourite book. Banks has this wonderful ability to paint pictures. Few authors can actually make you lose yourself in the text to the extent where you can feel the wind on your face and taste the salt in the air as you read – a completely immersive experience. If that sounds horrifically pretentious then sorry but I can’t phrase it any better.

As well as a great writer of location, he’s a great writer of stories – particularly gruesome stories. I find it difficult to get sucked into books but The Wasp Factory has you gasping, cringing, laughing and shivering along the way. It’s a difficult read – certainly not beach material. In some places downright unpleasant. But Banks’ ability to write so vividly that brings the story so much to life – superlatives fail me. The ability to write an ending that will stay with you for years after is just another plus.

Under Iain M Banks is a whole tranche of novels – prolific would probably be an understatement – called the Culture Series. These things probably weigh in at about 1000 pages each but I’ve chomped through 7 of then in the space of 4 months. They’re all based around a futuristic human civilisation called the Culture, although the stories stand alone in themselves. They’re quite often referred to as ‘space opera’, and that’s not a bad way of describing them. Most sci-fi I’ve come across is either good at the space bit or good at the story bit but seldom both. The Culture Series combines both and in some style.

It’s a special joy to be able to read these books. Banks’ imagination is completely off the scale – he can construct mind-bogglingly rich worlds, excellent characters, twisting, thrilling stories, bizarre species, fantastic but believable technologies, all at the stroke of a pen. Sometimes you just have to take a step back and appreciate an individual who can build such amazing stories – on a completely different level to anything else out there. If I ever write anything half as good as him I’d consider it a wild success.

If you haven’t read any of Iain Banks’ books I’d urge you to do so; I feel very privileged to have been able to step into his worlds.

A truly massive loss.

“I’m never drinking again!”, declares man holding drink

As part of the UK’s ongoing commitment to total annihilation and an early, gin-soaked grave, millions of Britons have started 2013 by lying loudly about never, ever drinking again.

The absolute stone-cold fallacy comes in the wake of New Year’s Eve, where otherwise modest alcoholics traditionally attempt to drink a unit of alcohol for every year since the birth of Christ in a grim attempt to forget the horrors of the previous pointless lap of the Sun whilst wearing something nice which we always think won’t get ruined, but which always does.

Dry January is making this man want a quick nap.

Dry January is making this man want a quick nap.

This ritual of drunken carnage is, by law, interspersed with questionable decisions and at least one person wondering aloud why nobody has started kissing as soon as the first firework bursts over the London eye. In my own personal case our party strolled down to a nearby bridge to watch the side of the London fireworks. There was merriment all round in the large crowd, who began a good old-fashioned singalong. Sensing his opportunity, one of my more vertically impressive flatmates raised his arms and screamed ‘ORGY!’ to the crowd of families and young children. At least five hundred million similar incidents were recorded on the night.

Waking on New Year’s Day to be greeted by a hangover the size of France, questions like “Who am I?”, “Why am I?” and “Is that beer in the washing machine?” and, often, a bewildered moose shitting in the living room, 97% of people immediately forswear alcohol and vow to lead a quiet life of meditation, running and lying to themselves.

The moose has vowed not to get drunk again until May. It's lying.

The moose has vowed not to get drunk again until May. It’s lying.

I predict that this newfound sense of inner peace, in no way driven by shame and a throbbing liver, will last until roughly Friday, when Dry January will experience it’s first light shower – roughly coinciding with people realising that they really bloody love drinking. From this point, Dry January will be dry in the way that 2012 was dry and as such will likely result in the permanent ‘Atlantisisation’ of large swathes of the West Country. Hurricane Brandy is expected to make landfall no later than January 9th.

Pint?