Archive for September, 2011

Amadeus

September 17, 2011

Amadeus is sort of a film about the composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, but one that uses his middle name instead of his forename or surname, like a freshman undergraduate who is trying out something a bit different for a change, but lacks the courage to adopt a new name altogether (such as Pee-Wee, Robo-Muffin, or Daniel).

Everyone knows Mozart was a young Austrian with a gift for the ladies and a taste for potted beef. But what else is there to know? Only the following:

Mozart flops up, out and onto the podium, smacks the pianissimo bang across its snout (a pert al pugno), and hoists a petard (his own) just to prove that he can. He is cocksure. Real cocksure. Yes, there’s no denying it. Mozart is exceedingly sure of his cock, like a gynaecologist who won’t take no for an answer. This is an unorthodox entry but the judges cannot deny that he has something special. For Mozart, you see, has supped the buttercup’s sap of musical inspiration. Jeez, has he supped. You can practically see the yellow snot coming out of his eye cracks.

Mozart squeezes the far end of the piano with a pronged pincer. It makes a sound no-one has ever heard before. As a direct result, a Pope dies. But a new Pope, taller, sleeker and faster, rises to take his place. Mozart does a teasing tinkle on the other side of the piano – just a little flirtatious finger-twizzle for the ladies. They like that kind of stuff, the ladies. Next he comes on hard and piratical in the middle of the keyboard, pump, pump, pump, like a pneumatic Nordic loveboy massaging a sentient German blob. The symphony has begun in earnest now. A billion notes leave Mozart’s ten fingers at once. His thumb alone hammers out enough symphony in a minute to feed the population of Luxembourg for a week.

 Think about that for a moment. No, don’t think about that. You think too much. That’s your problem. One of your problems anyway. Don’t think. Give yourself up. Throw yourself athwart the thunderous plinkety-plonk of unadulterated symphonitude. Climb among the stars like a galactic dwarf. Plunge into the amniotic fluid of musical rebirth. Dance. That’s right, do a dance. Not a big one. Just a little one. Do a little dance. And make love. Not loads of love. Just a love. A little love. Make a little love.

GET

DOWN

TONIGHT!

You have your instructions. Now get to it.

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Rise of the Planet of the Apes

September 2, 2011

I’ve not seen the new Planet of the Apes film, but I heard a brief synopsis the other day and it sounds quite sad. It reminded me of Albert Camus’ The Outsider and inspired me to write a short story.

My name's not Jim and who you calling a pansy?

Cocker of snooks

He cocked a snook and yucked a yuck. He bounced in and flounced off. He was full of piss and vinegar. They took him with a pinch of salt and said he had a chip on his shoulder.

They smirked when he got irked and called him a berk. He dug deep and came off shallow. His field of dreams was fallow.

They played ideas tennis and he was the ball-boy. They jammed freeform while he played chopsticks. He fell from grace and lost face. They put him in his place.

And now he’s one of them.

Spy Kids 4D

September 1, 2011

 

 

Hairy Spy Kids are Watching You!

Spy Kids 4D is an espionage thriller for our post-Wikileaks times. Starring the 2-year old Timberlake DuFont as Binky, an old-school (spy code for pre-school) CIA agent, and the 2-and-three-quarters -year old Princess Snortums as Ruthy, his fast-talking, incontinent partner, it offers us a terrifying opportunity to listen in to the baby monitor of modern-day spydom. Here is a little poem about it.

Peppa Pig Colouring Books

(Ah! How I remember delicately

Dragging a stubby pink crayon

 Across the inky borders of

Peppa’s regal concave snout

Back before it all got out of hand),

Donkeys, ice cream,

Hopscotch, dolls

-That shit doesn’t cut it anymore.

These days you ain’t nobody

In the nursery

Unless you can hold your own

In the high-stakes game of

International espionage.

Binky surveilled that fat man

That fat man, you know him,

That fat man with a funny broken mouth

And the dogs and the car

That goes ‘zoooom’

Passing a mysterious piece of paper

To the newsagent.

24 hours later he was being waterboarded

In an unspecified former-Eastern Bloc state.

Watch what you pass to newsagents.

That’s all I’m saying.

The kids are watching.