2011 in Film - Highs and a Low

2011 has been a vintage year for movies. Even though it seems every other release has contained a superhero of some kind, there have been some genuine classics that have blessed multiplexes over the past 12 months. For me personally, it's been the first year where I've seen most of the major releases what with my exposure to press screenings and red carpet premieres, somewhat falsely giving me a sense of entitlement that I can compose a best-of list. I've narrowed it down to four and put them in order. Agree/disagree/keep your views to yourself.

4. Super 8

Proof that virtually everything J.J Abrams touches turns to gold, this homage to Spielberg movies of old is a great science fiction film with a touching relationship between two young teenagers at its heart. Following a group of young teenagers who are filming their own Super 8 film in the late '70's, their mini-blockbuster leads them to a local station where they witness a huge train crash (one of the great spectacles this year), releasing a dangerous creature into the town.

Having teenagers at the centre of a plot means the child actors have to be good enough to carry the narrative. Fortunately, Joel Courtney and Elle Fanning give two mesmerising performances; Fanning's in particular exuding a maturity of someone far more experienced. Between them, Courtney and Fanning bring tenderness and affection to adolescent life giving Super 8 an emotional depth that many summer blockbusters think they can do without.

With Spielberg as producer, Super 8 always feels well paced, barely pausing even when the slower more heartfelt moments dominate the screen. The visual effects are outstanding, and the final act where the army decide enough is enough and begin their assault on the creature is an incredibly thrilling sequence.

If you think this all sounds quite like War of the Worlds, then you'd be half right. Especially when it comes to the ending, because like Spielberg's update of the H.G. Welles classic, you can't help but feel short changed by Super 8's ending. It's a shame, but I am prepared to forgive it's dismal outcome, purely for the fact that the proceeding 90 minutes are so strong.

3. Source Code

Those who thought Jake Gyllenhaal was merely a pretty face should really take a long hard look at Source Code, an action-packed-techno-thriller from Duncan Jones. The film tells the story of a army helicopter pilot who wakes up on a commuter train unaware of his surroundings. Suddenly the train explodes, but rather than waking up in front of the pearly gates, he wakes up on the train again, and works out he must repeat the same 8 minutes in order to find the bomber.

Jones, son of David Bowie handles a multi-layered and intricate story with aplomb, keeping the film hurtling along at the breakneck pace of the film's train. At only 90 minutes, it's a short sharp blast with no excess flab. There are plot twists in virtually every scene, and the narrative unravels in a manner that reminded me of Christopher Nolan's Memento, which in my eyes is one of this milennium's great masterpieces.

Which brings me on to Gyllenhaal. Whilst he was rather good in Brokeback Mountain, he was always in the shadow of Heath Ledger (which given the subject matter of the film is a poor choice of words on my part). Yet here he leads the line brilliantly, with a compelling yet haunting performance.

This has been a year of action films punching well above their critical weight. Fast Five, Thor and MI:4 have all had critics retracting thoughts about the quality of blockbusters. Source Code is the best one of the lot. For thought provoking story and explosions, you can't go far wrong.

2. Submarine

No end of year best-of list is complete without an obscure film that many people are unlikely to have seen yet you wish they had. Submarine is the debut feature film of The IT Crowd's Richard Ayoade and is based on the novel of the same name by Joe Dunthorne. It's a coming-of-age comedy-drama focusing on teen sex, but not quite in the same ballpark as films like Superbad. Instead this is wonderfully stylistic, with Tarantino-esque sections and self-aware narration.

It tells the story of Oliver Tate, who falls in love with the cheeky and straight talking Jordana Bevan. From there, Ayoade explores all the trials and tribulations of a teenage relationship, set in a fabulously bleak mid-eighties Wales.

But it never becomes a lesson in style, because like Super 8, there's a lovely little romance right at the centre of it. And once again, the performances of Craig Roberts and Yasmin Page are just fantastic and enormously likeable. Then there's the brilliant supporting cast with the likes of Noah Taylor and Paddy Consadine meaning we're not longing for the teenage couple when they're off-screen.

It says a lot about my partiality to a coming of age story that two of them grace my list. And when there's a style reminiscent of Wes Anderson holding it all together, it gains a direct line to my heart.

1. Drive

We've seen many things in the cinema this year, but it turns out what we really wanted was to see Ryan Gosling crush a man's skull into a bloody pulp with the sole of his boot.

This film ticks about just every box. Classy and stylist direction. Cars. OTT violence. A strong male lead. A stonking electro-pop soundtrack. Carey Mulligan. Evil Jewish gangsters. Retro '80's detailing. I'm nursing a semi just thinking about it. No, that's just Cliff Martinez's score thumping through the subwoofer into my abdominal area.

Drive tells the story of an unnamed Hollywood stunt driver - played on the limit of mannered and madness by Ryan Gosling - who moonlights as a wheelman for criminals, offering a five minute window before his skills become obsolete.

The first half is the Mulligan and Gosling show, with a charming chemistry that is played out through actions, with very little dialogue between the two. The subtle movement of Mulligan's lips and Gosling's deep blue eyes say so much more than reams of dialogue.

Then, Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn comes into his own. Proving adept at mastering the human elements, Refn sets about making Drive one of the most beautifully crafted films of the year. From the helicopter shots of a rarely seen side of Los Angeles to the car chase segments that are left to play out rather than horribly spliced together like most modern action sequences, it's a feast for your eyes.

There's a real nod to films like Bullitt and Pulp Fiction, both in it's styling and content. Never does Refn feel like he's struggling with bringing all these elements together; such confidence in a young director is rare.

There's so much to like about Drive that it's difficult to put a finger on any negatives. It's been criminally overlooked by the Golden Globes, but leads the line in nominations at the London Film Critics Awards. Here's hoping it gets the recognition it deserves, because Drive is, by a considerable margin, my favourite film of 2011.

...and the Biggest Disappointment of the Year - The Hangover 2

It was a sleeper hit when it came out in 2009, but you'd be hard pressed to find someone who didn't find the original Hangover film a brilliant and original comedy. Featuring a cast of relative unknowns but in the capable hands of Todd Phillips, everything about it was funny. The set up was funny, each of the principal characters were funny and there were funny twists and turns. As this list suggests, the Hangover was funny.

The Hangover 2 took everything that was original (and funny) about the first installment and turned it spectacularly stale. It was like a bacteria that rapidly turns bread into mould. You can't just copy the plot of the first one, proclaim it's 'bigger in every way' and expect the audience to lap it up.

Unfortunately, the audience did lap it up. With over half a billion dollars at the worldwide box office, it guarantees there'll be a third installment of the drunken Sherlock Holmes-like series.

I had such high hopes for The Hangover 2. Especially as the principal cast and crew were all back in play, thinking they'd build on the original. Instead, they built next to it, but when stood next to the original, it paled into comparison. Wahh.

X Factor Final 2011 - LIVE BLOG

21:57 And so that's it for tonight's X Factor, and indeed for this live blog. Thank you for those that have stuck through it, I hope it's been a worthwile side dish to your evening's entertainment. It has bled me dry of similies and analogies so I'm going to refuel with a sandwich and some more manly television. Ciao!

21:54 The country's population of dogs winces as Little Mix and Tulisa celebrate getting through. Everyone else just sits there wondering if the sound on their telly has broken.

A clip show reveals that Amelia spent most of the time with her mouth wide open. Like a basking shark. With a pink wig. Interesting.

In tomorrow's final final it'll be a straight fight between Little Mix and Marcus. And when I say straight, I don't actually mean it. A poor choice of words on my part.

21:48 Marcus was pretty bloody awful tonight. His singing was as good Sander Westerveld's goalkeeping. Wouldn't be too surprised if he went out even though he is the so-called favourite. Short back and sides my good man?

21:39 Dermot revealing that the lines are frozen. I know it's cold outside but surely BT could install freeze-tolerant phone lines? Poor joke I know, but I'm pining for some negativity. I'm British, I can't function in an all-happy environment.

Michael Bublé is someone who looks like he was made for Christmas. He's like those seasonal shops that pop up around the middle of October selling wrapping paper for 13p a roll and other random shit you feel you need to buy just because it's the holiday season. Totally irrelavent for the rest of the year, just like our festive-only performer.

21:35 Reflecting on Leona Lewis' persecution of an artist she shouldn't be going anywhere near, I'm wondering what other strange covers we'll see tonight. Marcus covering Rammstein? Amelia Lily performing a Bach classic? Little Mix doing a medley of the hits of The Wombles? Anything is possible when Simon Cowell is in the mood to crush the entire music industry with his giant face.

21:28 When Leona won, and then Leon won the year after, I was hoping for a contestant called Leo to storm it.

I heard this earlier. For those of you who don't know, this is a cover of Johnny Cash's cover of Nine Inch Nails' song called 'Hurt'. Which is all about a cocaine addiction. You know, family-fun entertainment.

And just to clarify, it's absolutely fucking horrendous. The people who put together the song clearly have disregarded what made the song so powerful in the first place. Which is subtelty. Not a big sodding drum kit and a huge vocal. I hope they're giving Trent Reznor a skip full of cash.

21:20 Struggling to work out who is the mentor and who is the contestant as Amelia makes Rowland look like a poor man's Beyonce. Oh wait...

Rowland also showcasing her apparently under-reported case of Tourettes, whereby she keeps shouting 'come on' at random intervals. I'd love to know how that started. No, no I don't.

I think we're all forgetting here that Kelly on week one, effectively said: 'The act I'm ditching first is Amelia'.

And nice to see the Essex contribution to the show: downing a cocktail because of peer pressure. Well done Olly, let's keep that reputation nice and high.

21:18 Apparently Real Madrid have taken 22 seconds to go a goal ahead against Barcelona. Why oh why am I not watching that?

21:10 Tulisa proving that she's wasted by being the cream part of the Oreo-band that is N-Dubz. I'm not ashamed to say I'm bloody loving every part of this performance, especially Tulisa's legs which have been criminally hidden behind that desk for far too long.

Dermot addresses Tulisa as T, suggesting that not only can he not open a show, but he's also unable to talk 'street'.

Olly and Caroline have found some interesting guests tonight, these two nutjobs being the highlight. The Mayor proclaiming that was their best song choice. Yes, because he looks so down with Jay-Z's back catalogue. And a woman who looks like she's been fed on a diet of baked beans for her entire life showcases her Little Mix tattoo. With their history of name changes, I'd have thought twice about doing that.

21:03 Quite clear this bit of the show has been sponsered by Kleenex, and not because teenage boys might be watching Little Mix alone in their room. Barlow and Marcus' duet sounds like it came from a particularly poignant scene in a Toy Story film. And how is this bit getting judged? I can just imagine Tulisa running around Wembley Arena proclaiming that she alone was 'sick blud'.

Barlow's biggest compliment to Marcus is that he listens. One, for a singing contest surely that's the opposite of what you wanted to be complimented for. And two, he's basically praising the fact he was born with ears. Well done Marcus, your fully formed anatomy will get you that record contract your features so deserve.

20:59 I'm still a bit lost for words after the world's first boyband science experiment unfolded in front of my eyes. Dermot informs us that after this commercial break the judges will sing with their acts. I assume the production team were confident that Louis Walsh wasn't getting an act through to the final, although I would've quite liked to have seen Walsh vs. Johnny Robinson emulating Robbie Williams and Nicole Kidman singing 'Something Stupid'.

20:51 So after the first round of performances, I think Amelia Lily was top, Little Mix second and Marcus third. Marcus proving after all, that he is just a hairdresser and turning Wembley Arena into Heathrow Airport is unlikely to help your performance.

Jobless Lowlife Scum and One Dickerection (yes they both have been trademarked by yours truly) take to the stage to perform one of the more unoriginal duets. Singing each other's biggest hit and then mashing the two together as though it's some weird animal hybrid. JLS and One Direction now resembling a centaur.

20:46 I can't believe it's taken her this long to do Aguilera. She has the same voice box as her, just bloody sing an Aguilera song! It's like if I was blessed with the vocals of John Lennon, I wouldn't sod about trying to sing Cee-Lo Green, I'd stick to my strengths and knock out a few Beatles classics.

Kelly looking as though she's trying to imagine Amelia with darker skin, bigger teeth, a terrible fashion sense and a surname that consists solely of the letter 'B'.

20:42 Right, if I had come out in the press and said I was bullied at school, the one place I would not go back to is school. But not Amelia, with her rejuvinated blonde locks she's back there quicker than I can say 'non uniform day'.

This film has highlighted something quite interesting. Is it weird for a young girl to shout 'I love you' at a girl not many years older than them? Either Middlesborough is full of case studies or we have a entire generation of lesbians.

20:37 Going slightly off topic, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo looks amazing. Will be in the cinema for that one.

20:31 Little Mix start off their performance with a weird chant, hoping to indoctriante as many innocent minds as possible into their strange cult where everything is an R&B/pop mashup. Housemate points out this is reminiscent of The Simpson's episode where Bart, Millhouse, Ralph and Nelson form the boyband 'Party Posse' which is actually a front to sign up people for the Navy. I'm inclined to agree.

Louis seems unable to provide a critical response without some kind of anecdote, like your average old person who is a few years away from sitting in an old persons home being fed liquified Werther's Originals through a drip. The air of positivity from the judges tonight is unnerving; it's more terrifying than walking through Madam Tussauds in the dark, which I can only imagine is shit-your-pants scary.

20:27 Tulisa still hasn't grasped the name change, insisitng on calling them 'Leetle Moofins' in a very odd Northern accent at every opportunity. I like Little Mix. It's like the UK's version of the UN. If Kofi Annan and Ban-Ki Moon dressed in hip hop clothing and routinely covered Katy Perry.

Little Mix's first UK tour see's them stop off at Romford. Good luck getting back on the tour bus, it'll have no bloody wheels left.

Seriously, these 'short' films are in need of some serious editing.

20:21 Marcus' performance resembles Come Fly With Me meets Dale Winton's In It to Win It. The vocals are, as many people from Essex would put it, 'all over the bloody shop'. No doubt Barlow will run around Wembley Arena in attempt to drum up support.

As per usual, the judging panel are totally blind to the lack of vocal talent, instead their cream filled head's are just fixed on the giant aeroplane. Tulisa is convinced that is a giant metal bird and Kelly is too busy making up a new catchphrase.

20:16 'The last boy, Marcus Collins!' Something very wrong with that sentence. I can't believe that his old school, which I assume is located in Merseyside is still standing. Surely it's been burnt down by freckly ginger thugs who have tattoos of Steven Gerrard on their face.

The X Factor has got a lot more middle class since I last tuned in. Gary Barlow sitting in a front room drinking tea and talking to old people, what is this? Modern day Downton Abbey?

Quite frankly, this 'short' film is rivalling LoTR: Return of the King for running time. Hurry the fuck up.

20:10 I get the idea of Little Mix singing 'today this could be, the Greatest Day of our lives.' But for Amelia and Marcus to sing it just makes them sound like paranoid schizophrenics. I'd like to think Marus' alternative personality was a deeply homophobic roofer who listened to thrash metal and drew portraits of old churches. No? Just me then.

This ad break has given me inspiration to who I want to vote for. The owl in the Yeo Valley advert. A truly inspiring performance. What's it's number?!

20:07 The finalists take to the stage, being lowered down in a lift that could've easily come from a megalomaniac villain's secret lair for lowering enemies into a shark tank.

Have to say, fairly sure Marcus will triumph, with Little Mix in second and Amelia Lily in third. This has all been typed through gritted teeth, I'd much rather see Marcus lowered into a shark tank.

20:02 These Dermot O'Leary desctions are getting out of hand. Normally he just used to show up, pronounce the contestant's names right and go home. Now he has to have an entrance that reminds me of Kurt Angle's entrances at Wrestlemania.

O'Leary then informs us that the alumni of X Factor will be performing as 'special guests'. More and more does this show remind me of one of those invite-only clubs for the socially unstable.

And just incase we didn't know, Louis Walsh uses the final to put to bed the debate about his sexuality with a full velvet suit.

19:58 So prior to the X Factor final we were all treated to an hour with Justin Bieber. I must be an anomaly amongst the human race, because I can bare him. Although he did sing 'Santa Claus is coming to twon' with such conviction that it sounded like he might believe his own words.

Here we go! Cue black and white styling, claims of a new generation despite Barlow and Rowland being so far past it they're still trying to sell cassette tapes and general over exaggeration that would look out of place in a Michael Bay film.

With the vaguely successful live blog of this year's Eurovision song contest, it's time to turn our attention to another singing contest with questionable acts and tactical voting. Yes despite the lack of Simon Cowell and obvious talent, I like every other year, have sat through 21 episodes of absorbing television and find myself here, on a Saturday evening, in front of the telly. So, instead of me sending through a barrage of tweets and alienating half of my followers, I thought I'd repeat the what I did for the Eurovision song contest. So, sit back, grab a drink and a brick to throw at the telly and hit refresh to ensure you have the most fun watching the X Factor!

Bass Theory

Times were much simpler back then.

In my alternative view of reality, I'd like to think that Thomas Edison came about the idea of a lightbulb with a lightbulb appearing above his head, like every other cartoon epiphany ever conceived.

In a similarly whimsical revalation, I too have come up with my own earth-shattering thesis by simply looking upwards towards the top of my head.

Or more specifically, what lay on top of my head.

I've had my Beats by Dre Studio headphones for nearly a year and they are by far the coolest piece of audio equipment I've ever owned, surpassing my previous favourite item which was a small plastic harmonica I got in a Happy Meal many years ago.

The Beats by Dre headphone range have done for 'cans' what the iPod did for portable music. There's the recognisable branding with the giant 'b' emblazoned on the side of the oversized drivers; the red wire that has to be a hint to Apple's own coloured wiring; and the extensive range of colours that echo the San Francisco technology giant's decoration of the first generation iPod Mini. The success of these headphones is represented in smartphone manufacturer HTC's decision to pay $500m to buy the Beats by Dre brand, and HMV's recent shift in their business model away from CDs to 'music technology' (i.e. every pair of headphones under the bloody sun).

Enough of a business lesson, lets get back to the story.

The Beats headphones have named this way because they smash your ear drums in with stupid amounts of bass at every opportunity. Whilst listening to Ed Sheeran's album '+' (which tops the Laziest Album Title of the Milennium league table by a mile), it was clear the headphones were becoming restless at the lack of ear-thumping bass being channelled along the bright red cord (yes I am aware I gave my headphones the characteristics of a family pet). So as the first note of 'Small Bump' began playing the headphones burst into life. As soon as that one thump kicked in, a relaxing acoustic album suddenly had the sound properties of Will.i.am's farts. It's just the nature of the Bea(s)ts.

Scrolling through my music library it occurred to me that in the time period I'd owned these nuclear warheadphones, my music had become, dare I say it, a little more black.

There are R&B and hip-hop artisits on there like Kanye, Jay-Z, Tinie Tempah (I know I'm not gonna be heading up DefJam Records anytime soon but for me this a dramatic departure). Dupstep and electronic/dance artists like Example, Skrillex, DJ Fresh and Afrojack. The sort of stuff that the Daniel of a few years ago who when asked to describe music would have probably just said 'BIG FUCKING GUITARS' and would denounce these new artists as 'shit'.

And that's when the lightbulb appeared.

As the one hit wonders Puretone once proclaimed, I'm totally addicted to bass.

Wahowahhho.

You only have to look at the current charts to see virtually every other song has got some kind of sledgehammer-like thump. And the rise of cartoony and over-the-top headphones only seems to vindicate the idea that we as a generation are bass addicts.

Are we really so easy that providing something goes thump thump thump to the point where the contents of our skull dribble out of our earlobes like diarrhea, we don't really care what else is on a track? I've already admitted that I can be suckered into a song with bass over something that hasn't, but has it really become a nationwide epidemic?

It used to be an exclusive domain for the Burberry-wearing neanderthal or the 'homies' who pretended that Dagenham was the Bronx. Now every Dick Tom and Calvin is under the spell of low frequencies. What is it about bass that makes it so addictive? It used to be because it was bloody annoying, but with the advancements in headphone tech you can no longer anger everyone on the 355 service to Brixton with your 'massiv choons'.

Is it that weird sensation of feeling like you're being beat up by sound? After a couple of songs at full volume with my headphones, it does feel like I've done a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson. Brain scrambled, ears ringing, the urge to dunk my head in a bucket of ice. It's easy listening to this type of music.

In 10 years time when technological advancments in bass production have become so great that we've started earthquakes with a couple of plays of Rihanna's latest album, leaving our biggest cities in a crumbled ruin, we'll all look back at this post knowing it could've changed the world. This is my Edison moment, and if you've already seen something on the internet along these lines, then keep it to yourself so I can fully bask in my self-imposed glory.

Mickey MouseTrap

I'm scared, and you should be too.

As a kid I was very easy to parent (or so I've been told). Whenever my parents wanted to keep me out of trouble they plonked me in front of the telly, put on a proper old school VHS and then left the room, knowing that when they returned in a few hours or so, I'd still be sat in the same place, mouth wide open gazing blankly at the T.V.

Although this sounds like I was somewhat retarded as a toddler, little did I know that everything I watched ended up having a profound effect on the rest of my childhood. By about age nine or ten I'd seen the James Bond and Star Wars films countless times. And I mean all the James Bond films. Could even say I was a bit of an addict.

But it's the Disney films that have always held a special place in my heart. I was born around the time most film critics have called the 'Disney Renaissance'. This is a period between the late '80's and late '90's where some of Disney's most iconic movies were released. The likes of The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, The Lion King and Aladdin all came out just as I was at the prime age to enjoy them.

But not to understand them.

Over the last few weeks I've found myself watching The Lion King and The Hunchback of Notre Dame for the first time in years. They're still just as enjoyable as they were when I was a kid but there's a side to the films I never knew existed.

Take Hunchback. It's arguably my favourite Disney Renaissance film and it's also probably one of the darkest films ever to have been released under the Disney brand. Dealing with kid-friendly themes like Hell, prejudice, social injustice and damnation, I can sum up the film in three words: Absolutely. Fucking. Terrifying.

Watching it back now I wonder how the hell I ever slept easy after having Count Frollo's evil face burned on the back of my retinas. I wonder how the hell I accepted Quasimodo as your bog-standard hero when he looks like battered liver. I wonder how the hell I didn't turn into a raging pyschopath after being brainwashed by all the evil undertones.

Frollo, who's face looks like the shrivelled skin around your elbow is a creepy old judge who spends most of the film lusting after the young gypsy Esmeralda.

Lusting.

In a Disney film.

Then there's the lengths Frollo goes to to hunt down Esmeralda. This eventually leads to burning down the houses of those suspected of 'housing enemies of the state'. Now as a bright-eyed and optimistic child I'd never have thought anything of it. Now that I've studied the Second World War and the tactics of the Nazis during their persecution of the Jews, I can't help but see a slight overlap.

In The Lion King during one of Disney's most underrated songs 'Be Prepared', the hyenas march in a way that's too similar to the marches of German soldiers in WW2 to be a mere coincidence. Then there's the way Scar stands upon an elevated rock and looks over his hyena army; as though he's about to order them all to attack France.

But Disney can get away with it, because all this Nazi propaganda is cleverly hidden under an assortment of cutesy characters and a host of upbeat musical numbers. As a result, you're bog standard toddler is too engrossed in the magic to notice.

So where the hell were my parents in all of this? I asked them about it the other day and their response was "Oh you're looking too hard at these things, you're trying to find something that isn't there."

And that ladies and gentlemen, confirms that my parents were more than happy to leave their eldest son in front of a set of terrifying movies that warped my fragile little mind. And that explains a lot.

Do all kids programmes have to have some kind of propaganda as though Josef Goebbels is the head of animation? Is Dora teaching us all Spanish because in 20 or so years we're all going to be enslaved by a man called Pablo? Are the Power Rangers trying to teach us to abandon our parents and go and fight crime? Is Spongebob Squarepants a marketing ploy by sponge manufacturers to make people go and buy more sponges?

These are all eminently possible, suggesting that the real war is not in the Middle East, but at the doorsteps of Nickelodeon, Disney and CBBC. So next time you find yourself watching entertainment designed for children, be on high mental alert because you could find yourself stabbing someone an hour later just because the fluffy little onscreen rabbit said so.

Yeah this got out of control pretty quickly.

Tinker Tailor Soldier...Journalist?

Good evening...Commissioner

It was this time last week that I was stood on the red carpet for the Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy UK premiere (at least it was when I started this post). Such an anniversary has prompted me to finally sort myself out and upload my thoughts and audio interviews from arguably the biggest British premiere of the year.

With the prospect of meeting the country's finest acting talent I stood in the designated press pen full of excitement. This was the first time I'd ever been to one of these events, let alone standing on the other side of the guard rail away from the general public. With the press pass around my neck it felt like I'd been given the key to the city.

Well, it did to start with. As I arrived at the British Film Institute headquaters at Southbank, I was ushered to the start of the red carpet. Feeling like a star in my own right, I strolled up to the bouncer waving my pass who then pointed me to the 'business side' of the guard rail. It was about quarter past three, around 90 minutes before any of the stars were scheduled to turn up, yet the crowds had already assembled. The fabled positions at the front had been taken by fanatics, holding homemade boards that wouldn't have looked out of place in the crowd for the TV show Gladiators.

Of course, I too was there about 90 minutes before anything happened which gave me a chance to observe my surroundings. If you've ever been to BFI Southbank you'll know the entrance to the building is underneath Waterloo Bridge directly on the riverbank, which created an interesting atmosphere for the premiere. Rigging and lights had been fitted to the underside of the bridge and Tinker Tailor motifs were adorned on any spare surface.

The press pen for the national press (and moi) was at the far end of the red carpet. I was initially upbeat that we'd get all the stars as most of the photographers were positioned next to us, although slightly apprehensive that there was a row of TV cameras between us and where the talent was arriving. Setting myself up between a writer from Empire Magazine and a critic from the Evening Standard, I got my notepad out and started thinking up questions for Messrs Firth Oldman Hardy and others.

The first recognisable face to turn up was in fact Lizo Mzimba, the BBC's Entertainment Correspondent. Here was a man who whilst at Newsround, translated all the 'adult news' and made it understandable for world-curious children like me, essentially turning himself into an all-time hero in my eyes. He and the BBC team had set further down the red carpet, right next to recognisable face number 2. I'd worked with Steve Hargrave during my time at Sky News on what actually turned out to be one of his last stories before he became Daybreak's entertainment correspondent. Hargrave, Mzimba and the BBC and Daybreak teams were down one end of the red carpet, I was down the other end with my Edirol and notepad starting to think I was going to struggle.

After getting a good few interviews with some of the cast and crew (which are dotted around the post) I was still worried I hadn't got anything with the big four (the acting talents that are Gary Oldman, Colin Firth, Tom Hardy and Benedict Cumberbatch). Worst still, I had only seen Gary Oldman, who had spent about an hour chatting to Mzimba and Hargrave.

It wasn't until about 45 minutes before the screening was about to start that I spotted the hulking frame of Tom Hardy lumber down the carpet au rouge. Following closely behind was the more vertically built Colin Firth who was attached to his wife like they were siamese twins. And finally, the wispy-blonde hair of Benedict Cumberbatch came into view, with his piercing glare sending the riff-raff into a screaming frenzy.

Like a set of starved hyenas, the photographers abandoned their position next to us and made their way towards the talent. And with that, my chance to interview any of these juggernauts of British cinema went up in a rather British puff of smoke. Mzimba and Hargrave held onto the four of them like they were parts of their soul and the several dozen PR people could only shrug their shoulders in response to our cries of 'WE WANT HARDY'.

Cries turned into groans as a set of nightclub bouncers appeared (by day ushering filmstars, by night fighting with Sambuca-fuelled scallywags) to point the stars still on the red carpet in the direction of the door, ending my first experience of a red carpet premiere on a rather bum note.

As I made my way back home struggling to shift a feeling of disappointment, I had to keep reminding myself it was my first experience of a red carpet premiere and to be thankful for the opportunity. Most of the other journalists in the press pen were anything from late twenties to late forties, yet not even they had managed to get the amount of interviews I'd got. Even though they were all from national publications, I had jumped in front of them all with Edirol to get a few cracking little interviews.

Of course, these things are always about learning from the mistakes you've made. I've made a list, so take note.

1. Take a video camera. Those with a camera and a microphone were given preferential treatment in getting hold of the stars than those with old school equipment such as a pen and paper. It seems that if the stars make the effort to look good, they're going to want you to see it rather than describe it.

2. Don't expect to follow the talent into the cinema. Prior to the premiere I hadn't actually seen the film meaning coming up with questions was a challenge. But no matter, I thought I was going to see the film in the next few hours. Wrong. No journalists at the premiere are allowed into the cinema and if you want to watch the film you have to attend the press screening which can often be a week later. I did eventually get round to seeing the film and surprise surprise, it was magnificent.

3. Establish a good spot. One of the advantages of getting there a whole hour and a half before anything happened was that I was right up against the guard rail in a nice position. It did mean that as soon as someone famous walked past a whole host of dictaphones were thrust either side of my face, but that was a small price to pay for getting some good interviews.

I'm hoping to put these lessons into practice at the Happy Feet 2 European Premiere in November that I've been invited to where Hollywood A-Listers like Elijah Wood, Robin Williams, Matt Damon, Brad Pitt and the rest will come under fire from yours truly.

The Apprentice Final 2011 - A Look Back

In a similar manner to discussing the best night's out, it seems appropriate to discuss the final episode of the seventh series of The Apprentice the morning after. For many of us, the last twelve weeks have been one long drunken night out, with a series of characters performing acts one only thought possible after racking up a bar tab that'd make Amy Winehouse go a bit pale.

Yesterday's final had me shacked up in front of the box armed with a child-hating Frenchman and a selection of Emergency Biscuits, with a manner of excitement that hasn't been seen since Vincent watched The Three Muskateers for the first time and realised he wasn't alone in this world.

So what happened? Well, in short, Tom won. All the business plans had about as much potential as News International selling pay-as-you-go phones. Suzie demonstrated a similar lack of judgement that plagues many deceased stuntmen. Deep down inside Helen is a party-mad alter-ego trying to escape through an armour of efficiency. And Jim is the scariest thing to come out of Ireland since the IRA.

Series over? Time for some Emergency Champagne.

In my post that ushered in the new series, I proclaimed Tom as my favourite candidate ever. But did I ever think he was gonna win? Not a chance! It would have been as optimistic as the parents of a paraplegic wanting their child to scoop a record haul of medals in the Summer Olympics. The man has the hindsight of Mystic Meg but the get-up-and-go attitude of Johnny Vegas. A combination I doubt Siralan had pinpointed as his 'ideal candidate'.

Yet somehow, in a manner that only a true mad scientist would know how to do, he stumbled his way through 12 weeks of intense scrutiny and somehow made it out the other end with his glasses intact and an ingenious idea. Siralan proclaimed Tom's idea of a chair that eliminates backache would need 'tweaking' but there is potential. I don't think Siralan hired Tom because of the chair. He hired Tom because somewhere, in that brain amongst all the misspelled words and ideas of traffic light apps, there is an amazing idea that could be massive. The same couldn't be said for any of the other three finalists.

One of whom, Jim, the tough-talking Ulsterman who could probably solve the Middle Eastern crisis with an umbrella, totally lost his mojo in yesterday's final.

The man revealed to us all, that he has a heart. It was just the wrong time to do so.

Watching Jim reel off his idea of taking e-learning into schools was very similar to the moment when I watched Luke Skywalker take off Darth Vader's helmet amidst the Death Star's destruction at the end of Return of the Jedi. Underneath all that power and mystical aura, there lies a human after all. Developing a heart and simultaneously trying to lick the faeces out of Siralan's bottom was ultimately Jim's downfall. But not to worry, he'll bounce back during the Clone Wars.

He probably thought he was applying to be Darth Sidious' Apprentice.

Then there was Helen, who has got progressively better looking as the weeks have tumbled. There's a strange attraction in the way she plays down talk of a social life and just seems to tease you with the fact she does nothing all day apart from work. Her idea of starting up a nationwide concierge service was in terms of stupidity, on par with News of the World inviting BT into their offices to check their phone bills. Such was the madness of it all that Siralan was forced to forget that Helen was arguably the strongest Apprentice candidate ever and threw her body onto the mass grave outside the boardroom marked 'rejects'.

There was a moment during last night's final where I thought Suzie had it. Siralan had ripped seven shits out of this woman, yet there she was, still sat at the table with that permanently confused face she wears, in with a chance of winning. Her childish attitude towards business mixed with last night's interviews was TV gold. Her interview technique is best visualised as her riding on an albino donkey, throwing marshmellows to fend off a group of Velociraptors. The verbal undressing she received from Apprentice veteran Claude Littner (who is so evil if you were to cut him he would bleed spiders) should have been censored by the BBFC. Yet she had survived it all, right up until the point where she turned into an Oriental Del Boy and announced she was going to make a million quid in year one. And with that, Siralan pointed her in the direction of the Early Learning Centre and that was the last we heard of Suzie.

So congratulations to Tom and I genuinely wish him a long and successful career, whether it's working with Lord Sugar or on his own (the proposed synergy between him and Suzie that was discussed on 'You're Hired' was quite frankly a disaster waiting to happen). It's nice to see someone who is so utterly charming and bought up with manners win a competition like this, where shouting and swearing are more often than not rewarded.

As Dara O'Briain yelled on You're Hired last night, 'it's a win for the nerds!' In a society that so-closely resembles a school playground's ethos of cliques, it's not often something you hear, so big Chewbacca thumbs-up from me on that front.

Wimbledone

It's not often I write about sport. I spent most of my childhood and teenage years playing the thing and will happily slob in front of Sky Sports for hours yet when it comes to putting sport-based thoughts into words I've never really had an urge.

UNTIL NOW.

Like many other middle-class people, I have enjoyed the Wimbledon fortnight. Armed with pheasant sandwiches and tomato juice (just kidding) I've watched the British quest to emulate the success of Fred Perry disintegrate into anti-Scottish extremism for the umpteenth year in a row. It's great fun watching people's opinion of Andy Murray swing from being the best thing since Hawkeye to him then being as Scottish as Billy Connolly reciting the script of Braveheart eating a deep-fried Mars bar while simultaneously prancing along Hadrian's Wall in a tartan kilt.

But enough of Friday's disappointment, today saw the crowning of a new champion. Novak Djokovic out-Nadaled Nadal essentially. It was a fantastic display from the ice-cold Serb, as he made Nadal play every point, something Nadal probably doesn't expect when he whips his devilishly accurate cross-court forehand on every other point. The second set was a masterclass from Djokovic, racking up 13 winners on his way to putting one hand on the trophy. It's often not particularly pretty from Djokovic, who is usually quietly efficient in the way he dispatches his opponents, yet today he came up against someone in a similar mould and stepped up when it mattered. It was a fine display, and it is a rivalry I look forward to watching for many years to come.

Djokovic's bear hug was a particularly useful method of beating opponents.

Elsewhere we saw a new star in the women's game emerge. I'd be interested to know the last time we had two brand new Wimbledon champions, so if anyone could find that stat for me, then it'd be rewarded with a virtual pat on the back. Petra Kvitova is going to be a serious force to be reckoned with. The way she hits the ball is Williams-esque, and what with Williams brothers finally reaching the status of mortality, there is definitely a space to be filled at the top of the women's tennis. Wozniacki is lacking in mettle and some of the European players like Clijsters and Schiavone are about as consistent as an old person's bowel movements.

We saw a huge improvement from Maria Sharapova in this tournament, suggesting her best chance of emulating her early success lies on grass. I just wish she would shut up. You'd have thought any kind of screaming coming from Sharapova would be erotic at least. Wrong. It's a sound you wince at, like the sound of a bear crying when it gets shot. Which is anything but sexy. And as for Azarenka, I thought noises like that only occurred during Halloween, but the howling Belorussian made me question my belief that banshees and other mystical creatures were merely the stuff of fairytales. Get some gaffer tape love, tie it over your face and be quiet so we can enjoy the tennis with the sound on.

Searching for Sharapova on Google Images is an enjoyable experience.

And now we get to Murray. Who like the mints he shares his name with is just a disappointment.

I don't really have a problem with the man. Sure he's said a few jokey things about England's World Cup opponents, but then several centuries of heads on spikes will pay testament to the frosty relations between England and Scotland. If we want Chris Hoy, we're gonna get Andy Murray too. And lets face it, who else have we got? Britain's number 4 is probably just some tramp who found a tennis racquet and enjoys beating pigeons with it.

On Friday Murray got completely schooled. He got a lesson from Nadal. He wasn't the first to be taught a lesson by the magical Spaniard and he certainly won't be the last. During the French Open and Wimbledon, Nadal has not played to his absolute best, a factor that will make the defeat even more difficult to take for Murray as many believed Nadal was there for the taking.

All seemed to be going so well. The crowd was excited, it'd been about four days since a Murray tantrum and Andrew Castle was practically calling the Scotsman a Wimbledon finalist. All it took to turn it all back into usual British disappointment was a missed forehand. He was 2-1 up at 15-30, when the ball bounced for an inviting and easy forehand. Instead, Murray sent it a few inches long, leading to long sighs, some tutting and Harry Redknapp making claims his 'nan could've done better'.

After that, we saw why there is still a gulf between Murray and the top three of Djokovic, Nadal and Federer. When Djokovic lost the third set tie-break to Jo-Wilfried Tsonga in the first semi-final despite having two chances to get to his first Wimbledon final, did we see him miss a string of forehands? Like hell we did! The Serbian came out in the fourth set, tore Tsonga a new arsehole and wrapped everything up as though the third set was just a figment of people's imagination.

If tennis fails, Murray is going to start doing impressions of Professor X.

When Murray missed an opportunity, it haunted him like he'd been cursed by a court side witch. It is encouraging to see significant improvements in Murray's mental game, but he still doesn't possess the steely resilience needed to make that final step and fulfil his potential. If he can sort this out like he's sorted out the tantrums, then he has the shots in his arsenal to get that first Grand Slam.

Because there's no shame in losing to a player like Nadal, who is probably the finest human being to ever hold a tennis racquet. The combination of athleticism, never-say-die attitude and a selection of quite frankly, ridiculous shots mean that only Björn Borg is in the same league as the man from Mallorca. While his performance today was fragmented to say the least, this is probably the first time in a good few years at Wimbledon that Nadal has wobbled. And compared what us Brits have had to endure over the last few Wimbledons, we'd happily sacrifice Greg Rudseski to Imhotep if we could have some of what the Spanish were having.

Away from the actual tennis, we saw a flawless performance from the ball boys and line judges alike. Well, I say line judges, fortunately for them they have a pretty swanky computer system to help them out if they turn up to the courts after a few too many Pimms. I've never understood why they ask old people to be line judges at these tournaments. For one, if I am to go by what my nan is like, then old people can barely see who's playing, let alone work out if that 130mph serve clipped the line or not. And another point, I often find myself cringing when some Eastern European powerhouse sends a supersonic serve arrowed straight for the middle line judge's forehead, only for said 60 year-old man to have to dislocate a hip in order to dive out the way of the ball. Why not just get a more mobile, better sighted set of judges and let the oldies sit in the shade so they don't wind up like over-ripe prunes.

And finally, how long is it going to be before the roof on Centre Court stops being the 'engineering miracle of the 21st Century' and starts being a roof? Everytime rain is threatened, I swear Sue Barker and co. start nursing a semi in anticipation of the roof sliding over Wimbledon's flagship court. It's as though the roof (which is so ugly the design team might as well have drawn a moustache on the Mona Lisa to finish off their quest to ruin everything beautiful) turns the BBC team into cavemen. I'm waiting for the day Tim Henman steps out of the commentary box and starts bowing before it, proclaiming 'IT STOPS THE WRATH OF THE CLOUDS AND TURNS NIGHT INTO DAY!'

It's a roof guys, honestly I know it seems farfetched, but most of us have had them since the dawn of man.