Goodbye you utter, utter bastard.

It was always going to take something big to inspire me to come back to this blog and write something new.  I just didn’t know it was going to be something so downright crap.  On Monday I was doing a spot of writing when I had one of my frequent attacks of procrastination so I went for a mooch around Facebook for a bit.  I’d been scanning the news feed for about thirty seconds when I noticed a headline posted by a friend that made my heart go cold.

Rik Mayall Found Dead.

The denial began immediately.  No this can’t be right I thought, I bet it’s some sick bastard pulling a hoax.  I’d already had a fright like this at the end of the nineties when he had that quad bike accident that almost killed him so I clung to the bag of salt that I hoped the story contained in the vain hope this was all a load of bollocks.  I began to search for the article on the internet that would prove that it was another one of those death hoaxes. 

Only it wasn’t.  It was true. 

One of the greatest performers I have ever seen has gone.  And far too early.  Fifty six years old.  I was expecting that to be about the age I’d be when we started to say goodbye to the generation of comic performers I grew up with rather than the one I loved the most out of that group going first while I’m barely into my forties. 

Rik Mayall, along with Ade Edmondson have had more influence on me and my sense of humour than I ever realised.  Of course I consciously took on expressions, turns of phrase and quotes from Rik and Ade but it wasn’t until a number of years back when I started to revisit other work they’d done, - like the pant wettingly hilarious Bad News album or the hugely underrated Comic Strip Presents episode Mr Jolly Lives Next Door that they starred in with another comic legend, Peter Cook - that I began to uncover the true extent to which they’ve become absorbed into my personality.  There were quotes I use in everyday situations that I’d forgotten came from Rik (well that’s just effing marvelous) and mannerisms I’d unwittingly picked up, it was a surprise to see how both he and Ade affected me subconsciously as well as consciously. 

This realisation struck me again about five or six years ago when my girlfriend bought me the box set of all three Bottom TV series for Christmas.  I spent a lot of time watching episodes I hadn’t seen for a few years and was gobsmacked to realise I was quoting them almost word for word.  Same thing happens when I watch The Young Ones – especially Bambi. 

Rik Mayall was at the heart of many of my favourite comedy moments of all time.  From The Dangerous Brothers right up to the sadistic Dad in the recent show Man Down, Rik was always someone I was excited to see in whatever it was he did, even if it was a more serious turn without his comic partner, Ade.  Remember Dancing Queen from 1993 that he was in with Helena Bonham Carter as one of the Rik Mayall Presents series?  If not go check it out, you get to see what a cracking actor he was as well as comic genius. 

Rik Mayall Presents: Dancing Queen - Trailer from Greenroom Entertainment on Vimeo.

Rik was part of a movement that was my generation’s version of the Monty Python.  In the 80s when I was a metal kid he was the (crap) bass player in a band that mocked us and reminded us not to take ourselves too seriously.  He taught me how to deliver knob jokes and gave me a true appreciation of ultraviolent slapstick and puerile toilet humour.  He was funny in a way that seeped into my soul and helped form my own sense of humour.  One of my favourite things in the world to watch is a Richie vs Eddie fight in their crappy Hammersmith flat, especially when Ade slams Rik’s head repeatedly in the fridge. 

I could go on but I’d only be indulging myself.  I’m truly heartbroken at the passing of one of my heroes but can find solace in the massive (ooer) body of work (double ooer) he’s left behind. 

So long, Rik you utter bastard.  Try not to get caught having a cheeky wank in the queue for the afterlife, eh?  And may I say, what a smashing blouse you have on.

Hack & Slay

In the last fortnight we’ve been witnessing the spectacular unravelling of one of the largest media corporations on the planet and the exposure of the gutter practices of certain sections of the British media. But let’s face it, we’ve known about this all along haven’t we?

I’m not going to bore you with background because what with the saturation in the UK press recently if you don’t know even the basics of this ever growing story you must have been living on Mars or something. The thing I want to look at is the reactions of not only those at the centre of the scandal but those around it as well.

First up, the Big Cheese himself, Rupert Murdoch. The once untouchable media baron who held the British Parliament by the short and curlies has almost overnight been transformed into what looks like a frail, troubled old man. I’ve seen him on TV recently and he’s almost resembled a human being. Now of course I know this is most likely a crocodile tears act to try to salvage something of his empire, but I’ve had to snigger derisively seeing the once god-like Murdoch reduced to grovelling apologies.

Then there’s his son, James. A man who had the world at his feet and now has nothing but a large pile of fetid shit beneath them. The look on his face during the interviews he’s given recently has been priceless; like a kid who’s been told he’s been too bad for Christmas presents, didn’t believe it and then has woken up on the day to find nothing under the tree. ‘Huh? What happend?’

Then there’s Rebekah Brooks. My god I better keep this short because I have so much venom I want to send that hideous woman’s way I could be here all night. This is the woman who, when she was boss at The Sun, ran anti-domesic violence campaigns and then was promptly arrested for assaulting her then husband, Ross Kemp. Yeah, the hard man from the tele. And again, when she backed Sarah’s Law – a controversial proposal to reveal the names and addresses of paedophiles to parents – which spectacularly backfired when innocent people were targeted by brain-free, tabloid reading morons. In the fallout of the hacking scandal did Mrs Brooks resign? Did she even apologise? Not as far as I know. No, instead she was kept on while Murdoch made hundreds of people redundant by cynically closing the News of The World.

Brooks eventually resigned, then was arrested by the police, and the statement she gave through her lawyer has to be one of the funniest and yet bizarre things in the scandal so far. In the statement the lawyer says that the police “will in due course have to give an account of their actions, and in particular their decision to arrest her with the enormous reputational damage that this has involved.” How arrogant is that woman? Does she honestly think that her reputation hasn’t been damaged already? Sheesh.

Then there was Tory MP, Nick Boles on last night’s Newsnight on BBC where he referred to the hacking of a murdered schoolgirl’s voicemails as, ‘a little local difficulty puffed up by Labour.’ What a callous bastard, who votes these disgusting people into office?

And in all this where’s David Cameron? In the wake of all this it’s almost been like a Where’s Wally book. Is our glorious leader in the UK answering questions about his dodgy relationship with News Corps or his employment of the disgraced former NoW editor, Andy Coulson? Is he leading the enquiry into phone hacking? Nope, he’s off round Africa trying to tell them how to run their countries, ironic how he can’t do that for his own. I heard the best description of Cameron I’ve heard so far earlier today. A friend of a friend apparently referred to him as looking like ‘a wanked off penis.’ Genius.

But best of all I’ve been following George Michael’s Twitter posts in the last couple of weeks. As you may well know, George has been on the sharp end of the tabloids in recent years due to him repeatedly making stoned cock ups in his car, culminating into him crashing into a branch of Snappy Snaps for which he was jailed. Since then he’s come back stronger and you can hear the glee in his tweets as he laps up the way the powerful are squirming in the face of bad publicity. If you’re on Twitter I suggest you follow him because he’s hilarious.

So, in the last few years we’ve found out that politicians are corrupt (expenses scandal), and more or less in the employ of the media. We’ve found that the Metropolitan police are corrupt (receiving payments from Media agencies for information) as well as killers (Ian Tomlinson) and are still institutionally racist (which began with the report into Stephen Lawrence’s murder in 1993). We’ve found that the tabloids are guilty of hacking the phones of celebrities, the Royal family (but those two don’t really count do they?) murder victims and dead servicemen among others. And then yesterday we hear that Sean Hoare, a former journalist for News Corps and whistleblower, has been found dead. The police are saying it isn’t suspicious. Of course, like David Kelly’s death wasn’t in the slightest bit suspicious in the run up to the Iraq War.

My question is, with all of our public institutions proved corrupt – the people who are meant to protect us, the people who are meant to represent us and the media that is supposed to unearth truth – why the hell are we still doing nothing? This should be a catalyst for whole scale change but you know what? I don’t think it’ll change a thing. So long as the British masses have Eastenders, flat screen TVs, cars and tits on page 3 nothing will change. And because of that I think we deserve everything we get.

Time Waits for No One

It’s been a hectic few weeks in my Small little world with another fantastic and memorable time passing into the annals of memory. I said annals there by the way if you read that wrong. It all began with a party, which is always a good place to start I’m sure you agree. It was to celebrate Charlotte and I being together for ten years and we were lucky enough to have many of our friends and family come to help us mark the occasion.

We had people living all over the place come along; Nottingham, London, Bristol, Madrid and even as far flung as Seattle. Our Seattle contingent, Stacy and Jerry, have been close friends of ours for over ten years. Whilst they were over here we spent a little time reminiscing about some of the amazing things and wonderful places we’ve been to over the years. From travelling around Washington state, camping in British Columbia, Canada, road tripping from Seattle to San Francisco and back, meeting up in Barcelona and Berlin, staying on a boat in Amsterdam, we’ve been lucky enough to have some fantastic trips and experiences with our Seattle friends.

While we were getting all nostalgic, looking at photos and laughing at how much thinner I was and how young we all looked it struck me that the last ten years has flown by. It seems like only last year that Charlotte and I got on a plane and went to Seattle together for the first time when in fact it’s been the best part of a decade. The older you get the faster time passes it seems.

While I think using the phrase carpe diem can sound a bit pretentious, there is certainly a lot to the meaning behind it. There’s shitloads of stuff I still want to do but I’m more than easily led down the path of indolence by the likes of games consoles, alcohol and a general tendency towards procrastination. I want to write music, write a book, go travelling, lose weight even, but I need to get onto these things soon because at this rate I’ll blink and be sixty next week.

These feelings of not wanting my life to slip by without having a good crack at the things I want to do were made even more poignant today when I learned some shocking news. An old friend has been diagnosed with stage four cancer at the age of thirty‑eight. She’s a wonderful person I hung out with in my late teens and early twenties who made me laugh a lot, sharing my dark sense of humour and love of rock music, particularly the band Soundgarden. She’s staying positive and meeting the challenge of getting well head on, something that doesn’t surprise me about her in the slightest. Where I admired her before I admire her even more now, given how she’s dealing with things. I wish you well my friend and have all my available bits crossed you’ll make a full recovery. Kick that fucker into touch.

So one thing I urge you to do, as the saying goes, is don’t put off until tomorrow what can be done today. Time really doesn’t wait for anyone and before you know it you could be staring back at a life of unfulfilled potential or be hit by something that changes the life you know. Start that book you’ve always wanted to write, have those guitar lessons, learn that language you always said you would, or even just stop shovelling someone else’s shit for a while and take time for yourself. We’re not here long, some have less time than others so we really should make an effort to do the things we aspire to do. And remember to make time for the people you love, don’t put things off until next week, month, year, it may be too late to by the time you get around to it.

To quote the character Chip from the Taco Cart Productions film Girl Trouble, ‘you gotta take this bitch by the balls.’

Re:cycling

Well it’s been a while since I posted but that has a lot to do with me actually getting out there and having a life rather than slaving over a hot keyboard and waffling on about the nonsense that I think about for the five or six people that bother to read this stuff. But the urge to talk bollocks is not a thing I can turn off that easily so I’ve succumbed to my keyboard’s siren song once again to bring you another slice of my inane bullshit.

As you probably know I live in Brighton, which is a fabulous place to live. But as you also probably know it’s the kind of place that eats money quicker than one of those obese Americans who scoff hundreds of hot dogs at one of those weird eating contests. Getting around town can be bloody pricey too, the bus company here charge such extortionate fares that even a hardened mafia don would blush. And having a car would cost so much that I’d have to take out a mortgage to run one around here. That or stop partaking of the excesses I’ve become accustomed to over the past decade, like smoking gold plated cigarettes and drinking saffron infused beer out of my diamond encrusted goblet in the shape of the Royal Pavilion. I can’t help it, Brighton just turns you into a ponce whether you like it or not.

As well as the usual inflated costs involved in running a car – tax, insurance, general running costs, outrageous petrol prices – you have special Brighton taxes thrown in for good measure. Nowadays it is damn near impossible to park anywhere, and I mean anywhere, without being shafted with charges. So on top of everything else it would also cost an arm and a leg to get a residents parking permit and then even if I did have a car the roads get so congested, especially in the summer, that I could walk anywhere in town quicker. Kind of defeats the object doesn’t it?

But as Brighton (& Hove) is a relatively small place geographically you can get from one end of town to the other on a bike in about half an hour tops. Suits me fine because I’ve been using a bike as my main form of transport since I was about eleven. And it affords me some exercise because if I didn’t ride my bike to get places I’d be even more of a cheese addicted fat bastard than I already am.
Brighton has cycle paths everywhere so you can move around on a bike in large parts of the city without having to brave the roads and the murderous arseholes who fly round the place in their metal boxes on wheels. Well, in theory at least. The reality is at times I’d rather chance my arm with the cars by riding on the road because the cycle paths are surprisingly dangerous places.

My main route to work is pleasant enough - again in theory - because most of it runs right along the seafront. On a good day when there’s little wind and the sun’s out I think it’s probably one of the most enjoyable rides to a workplace anywhere in the country. But then the problems start. Riding on the cycle path between the two piers is a nightmare in summer thanks to the multitudes of moronic holiday makers and dodgy day trippers shambling around like Romero zombies. I swear most of them have a subconscious death wish the way they throw themselves like Lemmings into the path of oncoming bikes. I mean it’s not like the cycle path is camouflaged and difficult to spot, it’s made of different coloured tarmac, has big white lines either side of it and has bicycles painted on it at regular intervals. But still they wander onto it while shovelling their over-priced fast food and cans of coke into their faces, oblivious of the danger they’re putting themselves and cyclists in as they womble around the seafront.

You’d think dealing with the suicidal tendencies of the average tourist was bad enough but they’re nothing compared to other cyclists. And I use the term cyclist lightly when I refer to these people. Now I’m pretty good on a bike if I do say so myself, I tend to be fairly aware of what’s going on, which is probably why I haven’t crashed into a wall or one of the abundant groups of hyperactive French school kids on a jolly to Blighty. Now I’m hardly one who is a stickler for rules, especially if they’re stupid ones that can be broken to comedy effect, but I know the rules of the road, how they apply to me as a cyclist and I understand that they’re ultimately guidelines that to keep me and other people safe more than anything. I think I’m in the minority there though because many of the cyclists I encounter seem to treat the rules of the road like a black bloc twatarchist, thinking that they’re only there to keep us subjugated by The Man and should be smashed.

There are a few types of these moronic cyclists. Firstly there’s the idiots that can barely ride a bike in a straight line let alone at a speed worth riding on at. Small point for these people, if you can walk faster than you travel on your bike, do me a favour and fucking well walk and make sure you do it away from the cycle path because you probably walk like you ride; like a drunken, slow, directionless dipshit.

Then there are the infuriating Brighton types who are like the Modern Parents in Viz and think that it’s jolly funny to allow 2 year old Tarquin to ride his little bike with stabilisers on, weaving like a whirling dervish on the cycle path at 5 o’clock in the evening just as half of Brighton decide to ride home after a day’s work. And you know who’d get the blame if the little snot got run over don’t you? Of course it wouldn’t be their fault for allowing Tarquin on a busy cycle path when they can barely speak let alone ride a fucking bike.

Which deftly brings me to the next - and my most despised - type of cyclist; the ones most likely to crush little Tarquin under the gleaming wheels of their outrageously expensive bikes. These are the ones who think they’re ‘proper’ cyclists simply because they buy the most expensive kit and clothing and then think that they’re Lance fucking Armstrong. These pretend pros tear-arse down the cycle path as though they’re in the bloody Tour De France without a regard for others, causing all kinds of dangerous situations. And the most laughable thing about these pseudo cyclists is that they can be some of the worst riders imaginable. I take immense pleasure, when the path is a bit less congested, in letting them pass me and then tailing them at just the right distance so that they know I’m keeping up with them. You should see how crestfallen their little faces are when some big, bearded bloke with a shaved head wearing a Techno Sucks shirt and camo shorts just won’t piss off no matter how much they huff and puff in their ‘proper’ cyclist uniform to try to get away from me. Just because I’m not trussed up like a prize twat doesn’t mean I can’t ride a bike. Newsflash dickheads, clothing and kit do not make the cyclist, it’s all about how you ride the bike you dullards.

Before I go I want to point out one last thing that does my noodle in with some people who ride bikes. If you’re on the road and you’re approaching red traffic lights, you’re not exempt from stopping at them just because you think you’re so fucking important. Having an inflated sense of superiority won’t shield you from harm if you’re slammed into by a fast moving metal box on wheels, regardless of how indestructible you think you are. Surely cutting your journey time by six and a half seconds isn’t worth getting yourself injured or killed, is it? Then again maybe I should ignore this little point, because essentially what’s happening is the equivalent of natural selection for cyclists. And who am I to stand in the way of evolution. If these kinds of riders kill themselves by being idiots then there’ll be more room on the roads and cycle paths for me.

Then again, maybe I should just stop letting this stuff get to me and calm the fuck down a bit. That, or become CycleMan, a two wheeled vigilante who travels round in a mask and dishes out bikey justice to fools. I should probably go for the former but the latter seems like so much more fun.

Four Lions

Originally posted on Taco Cart Productions site.

Posted by Small Paul

Chris Morris has to be one of the most cutting edge British satirists of the last two decades, being responsible for classic media send-ups, The Day Today and Brass Eye, both of which were no strangers to controversy. If you haven’t seen them I urge you to seek them out, be it on DVD or online because I simply don’t have space here to go into how razor sharp and dangerous Morris’s satire is.

After extensive work on TV, Morris then turned his talents to film, culminating in his 2010 offering, Four Lions. If Morris’s previous outings into dark humour were contentious, this movie has a theme no one has dared touch with a ten foot pole before. Four Lions follows the fate of a group of radicalised British Muslims intent on turning themselves into suicide bombers and thus martyrs to their cause. Hardly pure popcorn stuff huh?

Referred to as a ‘jihadist comedy’, this movie has got to be one of the funniest and yet poignant and relevant things I’ve seen in recent years. The central performances of the potential bombers are essential to this film working and the actors don’t fail to deliver. The script and story are pant wettingly hilarious even if I did spend a large part of the time wondering whether I should be laughing at all and watching it through my fingers. Readers Stateside may have heard of the film as it premiered at the Sundance Film Festival back at the start of 2010 and while unfortunately it only had a limited theatrical release in the US, it was released over there this month on DVD.

Highly intelligent, extremely well researched and played to perfection, Four Lions has got to be one of my favourite films of recent years and I recommend you grab a copy as soon as you can. But be warned, this isn’t for the faint hearted.

Monsters

Also featured on the Taco Cart Productions site.

Of all the films that I’ve seen recently Monsters surprised me the most. The premise sounds exciting enough: NASA probe that went off into space to investigate signs of life returns to Earth, crash landing in Mexico, bringing with it alien life forms. The aliens spread which leads to the eventual quarantine of northern Mexico, the US builds a huge border wall to keep the aliens out and the military forces of both countries are routinely in action with the new inhabitants, be it in border skirmishes or air strikes in the ‘Infected Zone’. I pressed play and got ready for a thrill fest of explosions and heroics but that isn’t what this film is about at all.

The movie follows Samantha Wynden (Whitney Able), the daughter of a wealthy businessman and Andrew Kaulder (Scoot McNairy), a photographer employed by Samantha’s father. Ordered by Dad to escort Samantha safely back to the America, Kaulder reluctantly heads homeward with his new companion, inevitably forced to do so via the Infected Zone.

A little clumsy in parts, this is nonetheless a fantastic, super-low budget film by debutant British director, Gareth Edwards. I’m not sure of the exact budget, Wikipedia says below $500,000 and the IMDB says approximately $800,000, but whichever way you look at it, that’s a tiny amount of money by today’s standards.

The movie is slow paced, focusing less on the aliens - it’s a bit like Cloverfield in that you don’t see a lot of the monsters, although that’s about where the similarity ends - and more on Kaulder and Samantha and why they find themselves where they are.

Both Able and McNairy give great performances in that even when a scene seems a shade contrived they still come across as genuinely likeable characters. A large portion of the film is shot guerrilla style using people who aren’t professional actors as extras and incidental characters, giving an edgy, more realistic feel. The stunning wilderness of the Infected Zone is shot beautifully and the development of Kaulder and Samantha’s characters make this an intriguing film.

I don’t think Monsters is a movie for everyone but despite it not being anything like I expected, or indeed was in the mood for, I enjoyed it and it stayed with me when it finished. Certainly a recommend, if only so you can make up your own mind.

By Small Paul

New Direction

I know things have been all quiet on the Small Tales front for a couple of months but I’ve been formulating plans for world domination. Okay, so the plans have been more specifically about how to make this blog more than just a monthly offering of general articles, piss takes and rants than taking over the world but you’ve got to start somewhere, eh? So as well as the usual nonsense, I’ll be posting reviews or articles on two of the things I love: books and films.


You may or may not already know that I write about films for a website called Taco Cart Productions. Taco Cart is an independent film making crew based in Seattle USA that I’m associated with who currently make ‘beer budget’ short films and have had some success at indie film festivals over the last few years. Check out our site because Taco Cart’s Debut short, Girl Trouble can be seen on the Taco Cart site HERE in full and you may recognise the voice of the radio broadcaster heard during the film and the end credits. Also keep an eye out for Taco Cart’s second offering, the excellent Vampire Hunter Hank.

Any reviews or articles I post on Taco Cart will be posted here on Small Tales as well with a link to the Taco Cart site so you can check out my fellow Taco Heads, Jerry and Don Chile’s contributions, which are excellent.

Finally I can bring you news of a new exciting project I’m going to embark on very soon. Inspired by my friend’s fantastic website in Seattle, aptly named Seattle Rock Guy, which I occasionally contribute to, I’m going to start a music blog for all things loud and filthy here in Brighton called appropriately, Brighton: Loud & Filthy. But where Seattle Rock Guy obviously focuses its attention on rock and metal, I’ll be covering both guitar driven and electronic music as I love both - and a lot of stuff in between.

The main thing is to get more interesting stuff to read here rather than just an occasional article and to try to establish the music blog to keep you in the know about what’s happening in Brighton.
I hope you enjoy it!