Archive for January, 2010

An Ode to Hobbits – by Banjo Fett

January 28, 2010

Bilbo. Frodo. Odo. Bodo.
Samwise. Folco. Bungo. Mungo.
Grubbs. Tooks. Gamgees. Proudfoots. Bagginses. Pippinses. Brandybucks. Bolgers.
Fat little hairy-footed shits the lot of them.

Second breakfast, pot bellies, waistcoats and songs,
About every sodding river and tree in the fecking Shire.

If only Smaug had eaten that little smartarse,
On top of that mountain.
There wouldn’t have been a whole trilogy,
About midgets.
Going for a walk.
To put a ring.
In the fire.

Batman 3/The Dark Knight 2 SPOILER ALERT 2 part 1

January 26, 2010

As promised, here are some more spoilers for Batman 3/The Dark Knight 2 from Christopher Nolan’s dark realistic notepad. This stuff has all been verified as 98% likely to appear in the next Batman film, so drink it down batfriends:

The batmobile should be even wider and stouter, reflecting the stout economical production values of the Nolan (i.e. my) aesthetic. Long, twig-like batmobile = flimsy, unrealistic Schumacherism. Stout-ass tank = 16 tons of verisimilitude, sir!

The interior of the batmobile should look like the inside of an egg, implying Bruce Wayne’s preoccupation with his deceased mother, his lost infancy and the fact that bats lay eggs (do they? Better check this out).

What to do about the Joker/Heath Ledger? Think Hooded Claw from Inspector Gadget. We never see the Joker’s face, only his cat-stroking hand. The cat could be called Catwoman. Sweet Fellini, is there no limit to my powers of in-jokery (NB: no).

Batman could read a poem (out loud?).

Batman could drink some Gatorade and belch powerfully.

How should I solve the Robin problem? Robin could be a sentient computer program, called R.O.B.I.N. (Robotic something Boy something something). He lives inside the Batcomputer. ‘HOLY POP-UP ALERT BATMAN. THE RIDDLER IS TRYING TO KILL ME WITH RIDDLE MALWARE! RIDDLES RE-WRITING MY SOFTWARE. TROJAN RIDDLES IN MY MIND. NOOOO’ etc..

Robin could be a bubble-boy. A deadly bubble-boy.

Batman’s ears need to be longer, at least by a foot. Ideally they would extend telescopically like periscopes, or periscopically like telescopes.

The Hobbit

January 18, 2010

Has anyone else noticed all of the viral advertising that’s been doing the rounds for Peter Jackson’s upcoming adaptation of the Hobbit? I was sat at home the other morning trying valiantly to house-train 44 German Shepherds with irritable bowel syndrome (in many ways much easier to domesticate than their colleagues in the German Swineherding sector), when a magical leaflet came through the letterbox. I reproduce its contents below:

Far beyond the mountains of Grantooth, across the lake of Lundor and within the gargantuan cupboard of Crustybeard, there lives a dragon. He doesn’t get out very often these days. You see his employer failed to provide him with the proper protective equipment. So when a sturdy box of sprouts fell on his head in a warehouse it caused multiple cricking in his long majestic green neck. His employer initially refused to pay him compensation. That’s when we stepped in and took the employer to task, to the tune of 5 large. Have you had an accident in the last 6 months? If so, call Mordor Accident Claims and we’ll send a solicitor atop a fire-breathing steed to you post-haste!

Spread

January 4, 2010

Is Spread out yet? I’m not sure. Will I go and see it? ’Course not chums. Here’s my review:

Slumped like a roofied Eskimo on the hard glute of a humpbacked whale, Kutcher dog-ends his way through the twilit boudoirs and strip-lit bonkshops of the modern day 1950s. He funks up a semi-digested stomach twitter on to the cold kerb, lights a continental Yellowfinger and walks to meet his destiny. His destiny is Ms Destiny, a battered toast, butterless and down on her crumpet. But Kutcher knows how to twiddle her defribillators and send a pulse of arousal smirking through her bent old bones. That’s his talent, see. He gets the old geese jerking and fills his pockets when the post-coitum ozone of gratitude turns to green rain. He used to be a pretty boy, but Sandwich Jones fed him a knuckle toastie, and now the little boys blue down on the strip call him Breville Face: all melted cheese and crispy crust where the dishiness was. Still, the randy old penguins can’t get enough of him.

The title of this piece, Spread, works on many levels. For those readers au fait with the classical attitudes of lovemaking, it denotes a gesture of unambiguous hospitality. But it also refers to something that you put on an old piece of toast, which is of course what Kutcher is. And finally, it is what the police shout at Kutcher when, at the end of the film, he is found slinking off from the creped and garnished cadaver of a twisted tryst gone sour. He, of course, fails to comply and is showered down in a gunfire of hailstones.

On the downside, the film had the unfortunate effect of turning me into a hard-hearted womanising screwbum. My doctor tells me it might not pass for a month or two. Watch out the be-gizzard-ed: I got my Kutcher-vision on you.