The Indian Job

This is one of those posts that could go two ways. It could either be insightful and witty coverage of a recent news story that caught my attention. Or (and probably more likely) it could turn out to be a horrendously written piece with strong racial undertones and I could be shot at dawn by Gurkhas (I know they're not Indian but ignore some cultural ignorance and go along with the joke). I think my lawyer should be aware that I'm writing this before I start...

The Italian Job! Everyone's favourite British comedy crime caper set in a time where us plucky Brits felt like we could conquer the world. We'd just destroyed Germany at Wembley with Lieutenant Hurst and Corporal Moore, exported a little band called The Beatles to the world and were just generally awesome at life.

Now, the Indians want to have a crack at remaking this timeless classic in their own unique Bollywood style. Hollywood had a go a couple of years ago, and well sort of bombed it. It wasn't a bad film but to give it the same title as the 1969 masterpiece was slightly ambitious. One it wasn't set in Italy, so it should have just been called 'The Job'. And as its the Americans, they'd never do the job properly, so it should have just been called 'The'. If they'd have kept that name, much better film.

Apparently there's a sequel planned called 'The Brazilian Job'...sometimes I don't even have to try and write this.

Anyway, back to the East. I'm wondering quite how they're going to take something so quintessentially British and go all chicken korma on it. So, I'm going to try and second guess the producers and have come up with 'The Indian Job Required Factors to Make a Timeless Eastern Classic'.

1. Don't use the Minis. Please for the love of God, don't drive three Mini Coopers, new or old around some shitty slum town. It'd be like taking the Union Jack and dragging it through a load of elephant shit. Use something a bit more location friendly. I personally think a few pimped out Tuk-Tuks would be fantastic. Not sure about the luggage space for gold bullion (actually we'll come on to what they're gonna steal in a minute) but the scope for some close quarters driving is immense!

2. Location. Turin is a beautiful city with lots of awesome little features. Ideally, the Bollywood version would have to be set in Delhi. It's half posh (where they'd knick the swag from) and half shite (where they'd lose the insanely over the top Indian cops). Driving on the roofs of the slum parts might be a bit difficult as the roof would probably cave in and you'd end up with some malnourished child with a tuk-tuk on his head. And you'd be unlikely to recreate the scene where the Minis drive across the river. In Delhi you might either a) get stuck in sewage or b) drive into a dead body being sent downstream.

3. India's Culture. The local fixer/contact should definitely be a man who charms snakes. The police should definitely have swords. Somewhere in the climatic chase scene there should definiately be an elephant that gets in the way and sprays water at chasing policemen. There also maybe should be a political subplot about a tyrannical Sultan stealing from clever Indian children. The possibilities are endless.

4. A dance scene. Every Bollywood has to have a casual dance scene slap bang in the middle of the film involving every cast member and every single bloody extra. Hell, even the catering staff know the choreography. Doesn't matter if it's a film about rape or abortions, there's always room for a quick rumba or hand jive to explain the story in a more Indian way. Maybe they could steal...whatever they're going to steal in a dance routine. Would be absolutely fantastic. Throw in a bit of naan bread for a dashing of casual racism and you're onto a winner!

5. Don't steal gold. Stealing gold is not very Bollywood. Besides the tuk-tuks would have about as much chance getting up a set of stairs with a boot full of gold as a starved Indian boy dragging up an oversized bag of Bombay potatoes. If you're gonna make this film Indian style, fill it with jewels, or maybe a rare breed of snakes. Hell, make it super stylistic and have them stealing £4million worth of dreams from a sitar-playing guru. At least it's an original twist.

So there you have it folks. I've just written a very rough screenplay for what can only be described as the only casually racist Bollywood film to be nominated for an Oscar. Indian filmmakers are genuinely remaking The Italian Job, despite me not taking this at all seriously. Directors have claimed it is 'as good as the original'. Well I'm afraid unless they've incorporated all the ideas above, their claims may be a bit farfetched.

A Poultry Post

It's been a while since I went on a full-on, no-holds-barred rant about something. I'd like to think like a sedated pensioner, I've been fairly calm and cool about life (well, on this blog at least) for the last couple of months. Now I'm angry, and Daniel needs a target to vent his anger and frustration at. Like a very stereotypical shooting game, my crosshairs have ended up pointed at chicken.

Not just any old chicken. Chicken served in a Portuguese 'restaurant' smothered in Peri-Peri sauce.

What's known as 'cheeky advertising'...

I remember the first time I went to Nandos. It wasn't exactly like the first time I heard The Beatles, but it came fairly close. The fact there were no sodding waiters you had to empty out the coppers in your wallet just to scramble together a meaningful tip for; unlimited amount of soft drinks so you had the sugar levels of a psychotic diabetic and very nice chicken-themed food.

In the same way I practically blew my load the first time I played on a Wii, I was in love with a new place to eat. However, the Wii has been sat in the corner of the room collecting dust for months now, and like Nintendo's shiny white exercise machine, I have fallen out of love with Nandos too. Why you may ask? Well, prepare for a barrage of unsupported reasons and a shit load of unnecessary metaphors.

As far as stereotypical American university-campus cliques go, the preppies have to be the worst. Flashing cash, wearing rugby shirts when all they know of hookers is what their mother does after she's finished making dinner out of a pheasant and gold-plated potatoes. They're just god awful people. I've never come face-to-face with a hardline extremist preppy, but I've seen enough Super Sweet 16 to know they're spoilt twats with far more money than sense.

And this is what Nando's feels like. It feels preppy. But accepting preppy. Not like the Bullingdon Club at Oxford where you have to be a Tory with a chequebook bigger than Margaret Thatcher's nose. Accepting of everyone. In other words, the worst type of the worst clique going.

It's fucking KFC for fucks sake. Its taken me a few goes at Nando's to realise, but it is just essentially posh fast food. The way the waiters and waitresses glare at you if you're sat around at your table longer than is necessary to finish your over-priced chicken, the way the menu comprises of three different items, the way you're sat so close to other people you feel like a battery hen. Oh look, more fucking chicken.

The first two times I was blinded by sheer wonder and didn't really notice the prices. I callously shoved my card in the machine and that was it. The other day I had a chicken wrap (it was the size of a 50 pence piece), some chips and corn on the cob. ELEVEN POUND. For the privilege of not having wrapped in a KFC wrapper. The day I have to reach into my wallet and get more money out because a Tenner is not enough for chicken, chips and bloody sweetcorn is the day I start buying shares in poultry. The word ludicrous doesn't even come close.

And now we have all these 'wannabe-preppy' food outlets popping up all over the shop. Gourmet Burger Kitchen, or as it's more commonly known, McDonalds without the wacky colours and creepy mascot. The only time I've ever been in there was earlier this year. I sat down, observed the menu, realised chips were not included in the biblical prices and so swiftly left before the waiter could steal my entire bank account asking what we'd like to drink.

I hate these stupid sorry excuses for food outlets. I refuse to call them restaurants because they aren't. They're just fast food outlets wrapped in fancy buildings. It's like taking a teen from a council estate and chucking him through a high-class fashion chain like, I dunno, Burberry. A once-well respected fashion outlet is now as chavvy and low-rent as the Ford Escort-driving scallywags who wear it. And with Nando's it's the same. Once a very nice chicken-themed place to eat. Now a food outlet where there is just as much grease on the customers as there is on the food. All in the name of profit margins. Well done chicken men, you've sold your soul to the devil and sealed the deal with a peri-peri chicken wing.

Despite all this, my god is the food bloody tasty.

Help Me Obi-Wan Kenobi...

It's not just the fact that she's literally the only woman in Star Wars that Princess Leia is a sex symbol to thousands of people who live in their Mum's basement drinking Mountain Dew. Whilst there may be an Ewok who does the cooking and cleaning or the idea that Boba Fett might even be rocking fake eyelashes and foundation underneath the helmet, Leia is the sole piece of eye candy in the Star Wars films. And while some may find the 'croissant to each side of the head' hairstyle worthy of arming their own lightsaber, it's the fact that the girl from Alderaan can wield the odd bit of space-age tech that really sent geeks into outer space.

Whilst that first paragraph might have been an exercise in the use of Star Wars innuendos and knowledge, there is a serious point. Well, when I say serious, I meant I came up with an idea of how to start this post and now not sure if it's actually working. Lets struggle on in the same vein as Jabba the Hut getting strangled.

The point is that Leia was hot because she fired a laser and messed around with all sorts of funky technology. And while it's unlikely we're going to be able to have Leia adorned in that metal bikini in our households anytime soon, we may be seeing a bit of technology that Leia pioneered hit our lounges very soon.

People nowadays send out distress calls via a telephone, Twitter or maybe even a letter depending on whether they live in the Third World or not. But in Star Wars, Princess Leia has a little fiddle with R2-D2 and voíla, she's sent out the coolest mayday call ever. A fully formed three dimensional human being in the palm of Obi-Wan Kenobi's hand with an audio track. A hologram. And like the lightsaber or the force, something we believed was only possible in the imagination of George Lucas.

Admittedly this post is a tad biased towards though who have a slight obsession with Star Wars. I'm gonna try and bring this back to the real world.

Scientists at the Universrity of Arizona have come up with a system that enables a holographic image to display in another place and update it in real time. The image won't be the terrestrial TV-like quality of Princess Leia's message. These new realtime holographic images will be the full 1080P HD experience.

The point of this all? For starters it's seriously cool. Sod Skype, sod Facebook Chat, sod Facetime, if you could have full-on holographic conversations with someone across the other side of the world using something that resembles a handheld mirror, think of the possibilities! You could teach dancemoves, communicate while running etc. Alright so you can do all of this with technology at the moment, but you can watch TV programmes on a TV, but that doesn't stop you going out and buying a new shiny one every few years. Plus as well the scientists in Arizona think the holograms could help with 3D modelling and complex medical procedures where scientists all over the world could contribute with advice. The sort of stuff that pales into comparison of being able to teach your friend in San Francisco the Macarena in 3D...

The other reason why this is borderline the coolest thing ever is that we seem to be technologically proficient enough to start producing gadgets from film. While it'll be a while before we start travelling around in TIE Fighter, how long is it going to be before we have watch phones? Oh wait, we do. A time machine perhaps? Travel to where I live in Gillingham and you'll feel like you're in the 19th Century. The point is over the next few years we're in for some seriously cool tech and if you're dying to know what sort of stuff we're going to be getting, just head down to your local cinema. Now, where did I park my DeLorean...

Teenage Dirtbag Baby

This was the second thing that came up when I typed 'teenagers' into Google Images. I don't think I've ever seen 5 teenagers jumping on a beach like that other than on Neighbours.

Today is my last 24 hours (23 now I've finished writing) of being a teenager. And that is a really, really scary thought.

When I think of where and who I was when I hit the terrible age of 13...yeah you're right, I've barely changed.

I spent my entire childhood waiting to grow up; wanting to hit 16 so I could buy a lottery ticket, hit 17 so I could drive and hit 18 so I could get a pint in a pub. I've never bought a lottery ticket, I've passed my test and crashed my car and got drunk too many times to remember. It's weird, and now I'm on the brink of losing my status as a teenager, I just want to go back and do it all over again.

Now I'm just getting all nostalgic and it's not healthy. But seeing as it's my last day before I might have to think about growing up, I think I'm allowed to have a little self-wallow in my own past.

Would I do things differently? Of course I would. Knowing all the wonderful stuff I know now, it'd be cool to start again with the cheat codes. On the other hand, if I didn't do all the stuff I did first time round, I'd be sitting here without a clue. Swings and roundabouts I suppose.

Anyway, this lamenting is all fairly pointless because the likelihood is I'll still act like the immature little shit I am until I'm getting served stale cabbage at an old people's home. The fact I can still get away with child bus fare pretty much says it all.

I don't know, I always thought hitting 20 was the start of 'adult-life', the point where you got sensible and traded in your Playstation for loft insulation. The time I was having these thoughts was around the same time I was convinced my day job would consist of performing car chases for Hollywood action films, so looking back I can see I was mildly disillusioned on both fronts.

But that's the weird thing. I had all these preconceptions about hitting 20 and now I'm here, it's sort of disappointing in a way. I'm halfway to my midlife crisis and yet I still look like I should be in a nativity play.

I probably didn't have the standard teenage life to be honest. I never sat in a park and drunk Strongbow till I needed my mum to come and pick my sorry drunken state up; was never in a band (particularly gutted about that one) and didn't spend my entire teenage years chasing after girls...

Take note of this. It's about as personal as I'm ever gonna get on here.

Quite frankly this is fairly silly. I doubt I'm going to start wearing suit and tie everyday after my birthday, I'm not going to go to bed at 9:13 every night and I sure as hell am not going to have an ounce of responsibility. When people ask my age, I might just lie through my teeth and say 16 just to see if they've got the bottle to question it. Or just say Twenteen and skip off into the sunset.

Either way, I'm going to stop this nonsense, put on 'Teenage Dirtbag' and have one more day of being hated by everyone who reads the Daily Mail. Then maybe find a park...