Hear Me Roar

Essex has long been associated with a number of things. White stilettos, fake tan and an average IQ across the population of about -12. But thanks to this Bank Holiday Weekend's premier news event, the good folk of this fine county have dispelled one stereotype and reinforced another.

Not everything has to be 'leopard-print' and we have a cracking sense of humour.

I am of course talking about the Essex Lion, who is now a close third in the list of 'World Famous Lions', behind only Mufasa and The Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz in the rankings.

From the tone that many newsreaders were taking when reporting the story, you'd have thought they were simply not aware a man-eating creature was loose. Many were talking about the story as though a light gust-of-wind was nonchalantly blowing its way around Essex, such were the smiles etched across several news anchor's face.

Or like everyone else bar Essex Police, they knew this was the most preposterous thing to come out of the county since Jodie Marsh's six-pack.

Lions are not particularly common in this part of the world. It is unlikely I'll be stopping the car driving along Southend seafront anytime soon so I can take a picture of a lioness wandering around the arcades. There's probably about four in the whole county and they're all behind a cage or busy napping on a rock in view of many trained animal holders. Therefore I'd like to think someone would know if one of the beasts was missing before a dog-walker or holiday-maker had the misfortune of running into one.

Incase, like half the population of Essex, you were unsure of what a lion looks like, I have provided a handy image.

Yet this weekend, a police operation consisting of 25 police officers and two helicopters, one fitted with thermal cameras began in the hope of hunting down the rogue cat that was spotted by residents from a nearby caravan park.

I couldn't start a police hunt with 25 officers and two helicopters if I hijacked a tank, screamed 'Death to the West' and blew up Basildon.

Yet it turned out half of Essex's police were merely looking for a 'large house cat'. I'll remember that next time I go and put up 'Missing' posters for next door's runaway moggy.

I'm not sure that such a fuss should be made over one man's claims that he saw a lion, especially one from a caravan park. Have you experienced the fumes when visiting the tank containing all of the park's urine and turds? They're so hallucinogenic I'm surprised the man didn't see Jimi Hendrix riding a polar bear made of daffodils while reading 50 Shades of Grey. I would've sent all the police out then.

The next step the authorities should've taken is to phone a nearby zoo (say, Colchester Zoo, which is a few minutes down the road) and request they check all of their lions are accounted for. You don't have to have watched every episode of the Really Wild Show to know that a lion's natural habitat is not Clacton-on-Sea. A simple check of owners of exotic pets in the local area would identify a) if anyone owned a lion and b) if any of them were mental enough to take them out for a walk without a leash. If both of these admittedly quick investigations failed to back up caravan man's claims he had a staring contest with Simba the Apparently Stationary Lion, I would've filed the whole thing in the drawer marked 'Funny Bank Holiday Hoaxes'.

But no. Everyone in a 40 mile radius suddenly feared for their lives, people were told to stay indoors as though the 10 Plagues of Egypt were making an ill-timed comeback and everyone outside Essex sniggered, placing bets on which TOWIE cast member would find themselves mauled by the big cat first.

Of course now, the idea that it was a lion is absolutely ridiculous and the people of Essex appear just that little bit more stupid. Some are even claiming that the sighted creature was named 'Tom', a clear indication how wrong we were to hunt down something that sounds so pathetic.

What can we learn from this highly entertaining episode? Many of us need to learn that lions and domestic house cats are related. It is pointless starting a massive police investigation because someone says Mary-Kate is robbing a jewellery store when it could very easily be Ashley. Even if they produce a grainy photo which instills so much doubt that even Elizabeth could become part of the equation.

(For future reference, this is the last time I'll use the Olsen siblings as an extended metaphor)

I thought over-zealous policing was an American exclusive. While you can imagine the law enforcements of New York hunting down a 'lion' with a SWAT team, helicopter gunships, tanks and a camera crew to put together fly-on-the-wall documentary 'On The Hunt for a Maneater', I thought the British police were a bit more reserved about such things. Apparently not.

Maybe they were all a bit bored after a relatively quiet Olympics. The first sniff of a case where they could save the lives of thousands of innocent Brits obviously triggered the part of the brain where policing suddenly becomes a Hollywood blockbuster. How long will it be before such a saga is translated to screen with poetic license and Jason Statham as the leader of the investigation?

Not long I imagine.

Commu(ting)nism

Many of my parents' weekends off would be spent wondering how to entertain their eldest son. I didn't do much as a child, which would probably explain why, at the age of 3, I had a face like a Fatbooth photo. Had I been born a decade later, my face would've been slapped across the front of the Daily Mail with headlines screaming for me to be taken into care with a campaign calling for me to be put on some sort of crash diet.

One thing I did enjoy was trains. So, my parents often had to find the nearest attraction that was based on such transport. National Railway Museum, ride-along Thomas the Tank Engine, classic train collections; chances are if it travelled on rails, I'd visited it before the age of 5. Fuck knows why, maybe it was the sense of security that travelling by rails provided. Or maybe it was the fact my childhood hero was a bright blue train with a massive face. Although looking back, Thomas' face is absolutely terrifying.

So I've always had some sort of strange love affair with trains. I took a weird interest in the London Underground, concluding that trains travelling underground was either sorcery of the highest level or some sort of transport nirvana.

But just like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes' marriage, all good love affairs have to come to an end. Whether the trains have been practising an offbeat 'religion' that centres around stories made up by a man with Aspergers syndrome is another matter. Naturally my divorce lawyers will be looking into it.

For the past two weeks I've started 'proper' commuting. This is where one rises out of bed at a time that in many cultures is considered illegal, gets onto a train packed tight with fat bankers and attempts to smile as your spleen is crushed as more and more desperate souls throw themselves onto the tight cylindrical radiator.

Many have tried commuting, only to come to the realisation that beating yourself round the face with a spiked club is infinitely more preferable than having to sit next to a man who smells like a vomit-covered ball of faeces. On many of the less-well maintained train carriages, these vomit-covered shit balls can be found dotted about on the floor, leading many commuters to wonder a) why has no one cleared them up and b) where on earth did this writer come up with the idea for such a dastardly concoction?

Alas, having spent what feels like half a millennia riding on these steel dragons, I've observed the British male and female transform into their neanderthal counterparts in front of my eyes. The life of a commuter is far more primitive than any Amazonian tribe, and were there not so many security cameras, I strongly believe commuters would descend into cannibalism so as to survive the two minute wait for the next tube.

So when they're not throwing spears and humming a series of intimidating chants, the commuter is staring at the regular human being with a look of complete abandonment. I'll admit, I've developed such a hatred of those not sprinting around the station that some of the thoughts running through my head is quite frankly, worrying. I fear that next time a person's Oyster Card is rejected at a ticket barrier, I'm going to spiral into such a fit of rage I might roundhouse kick them in the ear. A small punishment for delaying a busy human by seven seconds.

It's a wonder anyone gets any work done. I seem to spend my whole day thinking about trains and their prospective timetables. "If I leave now I can get this train," I might conclude at a totally unacceptable hour to leave work. "If the Central Line is delayed, how will I get home? Will other lines be busy, or will I need to ride on one those awful rickshaw things?" Travel-related stress is a killer, the BBC needs to consider creating a Sport Relief-style fundraising event to combat it.

In many ways, like the poorly constructed title of this post suggests, everyone is equal when it comes to trains and commuting. Normal social barriers are deconstructed as barrister and bricklayer combine to wedge themselves into any last remaining orifice of the train.

And that ladies and gentlemen, is where Britain's next social revolution is going to come from. At some point, people will stop tutting and start throwing bricks. Then we'll be able to say, it all started with a bright blue train with a creepy face.

#bullshit

Row Z - A Left-Field Look at Euro 2012

Most of this is just nonsensical guff, but there is some logic in my predictions.

It seems an admission of homosexuality to possess a penis and a grasp of the English language, and yet refuse to put some words to page about this year's European Championships. So to prevent any misconceptions about my sexuality (although sometimes they are fully justified), here is my slightly different take on the summer's premium football tournament.

We find our attention drawn to Poland and Ukraine, something that hasn't happened since 1939, although a better and more friendly outcome is wanted by all. Once again the Germans appear to be the favourites, despite half of the squad coming from Bayern Munich who managed to lose the Bundesliga, the DFB Pokal Cup and the Champions League Final all within the space of 20 minutes. They even got lost on the way to Poland after joining up with the national squad a week later, forcing coach Joachin Löw to concede the Bayern players were having a very 'un-German few days'.

What this completely irreverent blog post is designed to do is predict some things that pundits and bookmakers have overlooked. Nobody took much notice when in 2006 I saw a vision of Zinedine Zidane head butting the Berlin Wall. While he missed the wall by a few miles, he did indeed plant a smacker right  in the chest of Marco Materazzi, although my claims that it is very easy to confuse an oafish Italian centre-half with an oppressive and historically-significant piece of architecture have been shot down.

POTENTIAL WINNERS

Croatia

Euro 2012 looks set to be swashbuckling coach Slaven Bilić's final tournament before he and his four-piece experimental rock band set off on a 30 day tour of Split and Zagreb. It is unlikely therefore that he and his team will be looking to go out with a whimper. It is quite possible if Croatia underachieve the majority of the squad will be used as pyrotechnics for opening night of Bilić's Croatian tour.

They possess a wealth of attacking options including Everton talisman Nikica Jelavić, who's apparent knack of scoring goals despite playing football in Scotland for two years has put defences across Europe on high alert. Croatia also have one of the best midfielders outside of Spain and Germany in Luka Modrić, who's startling resemblance to Master Splinter from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles has not hindered his ability to link up play from back to front.

Croatia are in the easier side of the draw and can only play Spain (outside of the group) and Germany in the latter stages of the competition. Of course they play Italy and could potentially draw France, but both teams have the capability of imploding in on themselves, a trait that is only seen in the training camps of Italy, France and the labs at CERN.

Bilić's band are said to play the hits of Daphne and Celeste with a thrash metal twist.

They're very good at tournament football and are at decent odds to go all the way. Back them, or Slaven Bilić might bring his travelling band to your front door.

POTENTIAL PLAYER OF THE TOURNAMENT

Tomáš Rosicky

Despite having more accents in his name than the Vietnamese city of Dien Bien Phu (see here for full punctuation), the Czech Republic star has had a startling renaissance in form of late, with some questioning whether Arsène Wenger replaced him with an android version of the Czech playmaker. Many have attributed his resurgence to fellow compatriot Petr Cech's magical healing hat, with the Czechoslovakian press claiming the cap was used to bring Rosicky's beloved cat Rufus back from the underworld. With his newly resurrected cat travelling to games with Rosicky, he has found the form of his Borussia Dortmund days.

In an underwhelming squad and a group so easy that many were surprised to learn that Hackney and East London Girl Guides U14 Team were not included, the little playmaker has a chance to shine.

OR

Aiden McGeady

Seemingly determined to spend his days playing in the world's most sparse footballing wildernesses, the Irish winger has something to prove when Euro 2012 will give him the chance to play in front of more the nine people. Traded from Celtic to Spartak Moscow for 12 tonnes of Chechnyan Rebel corpses, McGeady has hardly lit the world alight, instead leaving that to the Oligarchs on the Caucasus Oil Fields. Yet his talent suggests at some point the boy should come good. With the Irish lining up in the Tony Pulis variation on the 4-4-2 formation, with quick wingers deployed either side of two hatchet men in the middle four, the Irish could indeed provide a few surprises. Here's hoping the man with a name that sounds as if it was made for Scottish commentators provides the biggest one of them all.

This looks more like a candidate photo from the Apprentice

POTENTIAL GOLDEN BOOT WINNER

Aleksandr Kerzhakov

I'm hoping this is the last of the players I have to look up how to spell because this is getting silly now. But many are tipping Russia to do well in the competition, and I'd even go as far to say they're dark horses to win the thing (still unlikely to topple the mighty Croatia mind you). Kerzhakov has scored 23 goals in 32 games for Zenit this year, a ratio that puts makes him one of the most deadly finishers on the continent. Kerzhakov will be the focal point of the Russians attack in Poland (I realised it as soon as I typed it) after fellow countrymen Andrei Arshavin and Roman Pavlyuchenko suffered such alarming dips in form, the medical staff in Russia are asking the directors of sports movie Space Jam how they rediscovered the powers of the basketball stars in the film. Coupled with the fact you could finish top scorer in group A without the owning a pair of legs and I think Mr. Kerzhakov should be well on his way to a boot made of gold.

POTENTIAL DUD OF THE TOURNAMENT

Portugal

While some have a sneaking suspicion that the greasy Iberians might emerge from the Group of Death unscathed, I and my infinite footballing wisdom have other ideas, placing them firmly at the bottom of the group B. Below Denmark. Their focus on the enigmatic Cristiano Ronaldo is no different to the days of Portugal letting Luis Figo turn up for many of the games on his own. Indeed for many international managers, lining up against just Luis Figo was the cause of many tactical headaches, with opposition left backs questioning whether they should press or back off when Figo drifted into the goalkeeper's position.

'Chase me chase me, kiss me kiss me!'

The problem with Portugal is they don't really have a proper striker. Sure Ronaldo finds the net more times than a fish with learning difficulties (different net, same image, LAUGH) but when he's rolling on the floor, screaming at the Portuguese physio team to apply more hair gel, there's no one else who is physically capable of scoring goals. Even the Danes have Nicklas Bendtner, who might be the most deluded man in world football, but he has a face to head the ball and a two feet to kick the ball, thus rendering him a more clinical finisher than the entire Portuguese frontline.

I wouldn't really put any money on these predictions. Although if you look deep down, you might see some logic. Or not.

Some randomly assembled words about a game where men dressed in blue kick a spongy spherical object really hard

For me, this tops off  an absolutely corking week.

21st February 2012. After a harrowing night in Naples, a dejected Chelsea team left the field fearing that their season was all but in tatters. A swashbuckling Napoli side had exposed serious flaws in the Chelsea setup, and the Andre Villas-Boas gamble looked as though it had backfired.

Fast forward three months and the impossible has been completed. Out-passed and for the most part out-played, but two prestigious trophies to add to the cabinet and what threatened to be a disastrous campaign has proven to be one of Chelsea's most successful.

Alan Hansen famously said 'you can't win anything with kids'. AVB seemed to adopt the opposite tactics. The old guard of Drogba, Lampard and Terry were cast into the wilderness as new blood was shoehorned in.

It didn't work. AVB came in too strong, trying to make too many big and bold decisions in too short a space of time. When Robbie Di Matteo came in, I was like many, speculative. Here was a man who's previous managerial experience had seen him slide down the league with West Bromwich Albion, who's own survival came courtesy of a man who resembles a nocturnal woodland creature.

But he has rejuvenated the old and the new. Drogba is playing at a level I thought had been taken away by time. The sorry carcass of Fernando Torres has found that yard of pace and that swagger that made him the world's most fearsome striker only a few years ago. Even players like John Obi Mikel and Salomon Kalou seem to be playing in a way that I've only previously seen from their FIFA 2012 counterparts.

And last night's victory against Bayern Munich showed that effort, resilience and a huge slice of luck will always triumph over skill.

The performance at the Nou Camp in the semi-final was nothing short of heroic. Chelsea stopped the greatest attacking unit the footballing world has ever seen score for 45 minutes with a man light. So they sat back and defended. What were you expecting, to go out and get hammered 7-0 like Bayer Leverkusen had in the previous round? Chelsea have a team full of winners, a team of experienced pros who know when to knock the ball around, know when to play it long, and know when to dig deep and shut up shop. The world wanted to know if Barcelona could be beaten. The answer was given to them by 10 warriors in white shirts.

And so the greatest prize in club football, the one that had been the primary aim when Abramovich's billions came rolling into West London was once again in sight. In the way stood Bayern Munich, a team who I said at the beginning of the season had a real shout of winning the competition. I was hoping that I was going to be proved wrong.

Like the Barcelona game, Chelsea set up defensively. Bayern have scored 77 goals in 34 Bundesliga games. At the fabulous Allianz Arena, they have blown the opposition away at times, putting seven past a helpless Basel yet only conceding a handful of goals. It would take a manager of Alex McLeish's stupidity to risk trying to outgun the Bavarian side. The offensive lineup of Mario Gomez, Franck Ribery and Arjen Robben is formidable, and oddly, suspensions from previous Champions League games only served to add to the firepower, with Thomas Muller taking advantage of the more defensively minded Luiz Gustavo's ban.

When facing up to such a good team, managers often have to adapt their tactics to stifle the more dangerous players. RDM opted for young Ryan Bertrand, a player who as an enviable European games to trophy ratio of 1:1. His job was to help Ashley Cole stop Robben causing havoc down the right flank. On the far side, the consistently suspect Jose Bosingwa was up against Franck Ribery, with Salomon Kalou positioned marginally further up the pitch to do a similar job.

Yet Bayern have many weapons. By dropping so deep, Chelsea allowed Bastian Schweinsteiger and Toni Kroos to abandon defensive duties and move forward into more dangerous positions. Muller was able to support Gomez, with full backs Phillip Lahm and the usually hopeless Diego Contento to provide the width when the stifled Robbery combination moved in field.

Whereas Barcelona have one way of playing (admittedly it is quite useful and usually gets the job done), Bayern are versatile. They can play it on the floor, throw crosses into the box, and have a few excellent ball strikers for long shots. Chelsea's defensive formation would, oddly, be tested more against the German side than the Spanish giants. Yet last night they seemed incapable of breaching Petr Cech's goal, as though there was a mental forcefield on the goal line. Gomez suffered an inconveniently timed bout of 'Ade Akinbiyi Syndrome' whereby everything he touched ended up in row Z. For a striker who I'm backing to run away with European Championship goal records this summer, his acute illness in front of goal was startling.

Chelsea gave their opposition too much respect. It was almost as though they were second guessing themselves from thinking that Bayern would be an easier prospect than Barcelona. When Chelsea piled men forward, they look threatening against Bayern's makeshift back line. Had it not been for the tenacity of Bastian Schweinsteiger, who I believe put in one of the great Champions League Final performances (bar the penalty miss of course), I think Chelsea could've had far more attacking joy than they thought they could ever achieve.

Of course, there are those who will criticise Chelsea's tactics. These are people who have won very little in their time.

Sometimes you have to acknowledge the opposition in front of you are superior. Individually, Bayern were the better team. Chelsea had four first team players missing, important players in important positions. Two centre halves (Ivanovic and Terry) and two centre midfielders (Ramires and Meireles), compared with Bayern's missing centre back (Badstuber), left back (Alaba) and defensive midfielder (Gustavo). Even with a full strength team, I can't imagine Chelsea would've lined up too differently.

No English fan would've been too outspoken about the negativity displayed against Spain where a 1-0 victory was hailed by the Press as a tactically astute performance. The Battle of the Somme was hardly a pretty spectacle yet the Allies still came out on top. There is nothing negative about trying to win.

Winning ugly is just that. Winning.

Chelsea defended stoutly. Cahill and Luiz were magnificent, with brief lapses of concentration vindicated by block after block. Cole proved again why he has consistently been the best left back in the world. Robben had very little joy down the righthand side and when the centre of defence was breached, Cole was there to make a perfectly timed interception. And the fact I found myself shouting at Bosingwa less often than normal tells its own story.

Cech in goal was superb. In the first half his save from Robben, tipping it onto the post showed great reflexes. I've never really had him down as a great spot-kick keeper but he guessed the right way for everyone of Bayern's penalties, both in normal and added time. When the game moves into a penalty shootout, it is up to the keeper to be a hero. Cech did just that. And believe it or not the Czech giant is not even 30 yet. He'll be a top keeper for years to come.

So after two and a half hours of emotional torture for many Chelsea fans, the final piece in the Abramovich puzzle was filled. It may not have been beautiful, we may not be as a footballing population fawning over great passing or licking the telly in an effort to admire technical ability, but football isn't just about passing. Barcelona don't have the exclusive rights to the brand of football. It is played in a number of different ways and a number of different styles. But the aim is always the same, put more goals past your opponents than they do to you. Regardless of how you achieve it.

Make no mistake, on any other night, the German side take their chances, score 14 and waltz off into the distance with trophy held aloft. The German unit will come again. With the addition of Swiss prodigy Xherdan Shaqiri in the summer, they may well have added the creative touch to dominate Europe. Make no mistake, life looks good on the pitch for the Germans, both at club and international level.

But this was Chelsea's year. And they made sure they took it. Well done RDM, well done the players, and well done the fans. Chelsea are European Champions. Say it out loud and you might just believe it.

The Voice...of the Voiceless

Only Ryan Gosling in Drive or serial killers wear those gloves. will.i.am is neither, so take them off.

The pop industry is - and I obviously speak from vast experience - a fickle business. Nobody wants to buy a single made by someone who looks like Yoda's arsecrack, nor would they really care much for a rap single produced by Jay-Z, but performed by a 300 year-old woman with a wonky hip.

Talent is not everything in the pop world; anyone who gets the word 'slizzard' into a song is obviously not talented.

Yet the BBC has decided to spunk several suitcases worth of cash on The Voice, a hugely popular worldwide talent show format that prides itself on showcasing the talented. There was a moment during tonight's opening show where they played Noah and the Whale's 'L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N' (yes, I will punctuate it) as some poor, reasonably talented soul was rejected by a man with the same haircut as Astro Boy.

I thought the lyrics 'you've got more money than sense my friend' were rather fitting.

As the incredibly patronising intro proceeded to explain, each of the four judges has their back turned to the contestant (an obvious metaphor for the mass exodus of expectant fans later on in the series) and can only decide whether to take through the act based purely on what they hear. This means that all sorts of weird and wonderful creatures can stand on the stage, belt out a note perfect rendition of Aretha Franklin's 'Respect' through their third nipple and progress to future stages being told they could become a pop star.

If a judge turns round, they become the contestants mentor. If more than one judge turns round, the power is in the act's hand (Take Me Out) and they can choose who they want to work with (Dragon's Den). The judges then start boasting who's penis is the biggest in the hope they can woo the one with power (The Apprentice).

Obviously its very difficult for me to criticise a format which has been sold to so many countries even Madagascar is hooked on its own version. But I see a number of problems with The Voice.

Number one. The judges. There's Tom Jones. There's Jessie J. There's William (Noah and the Whale used up my quota of fullstops for this post). And then there's the guy from the Script. It's like the BBC hired three judges, remembered they'd be slaughtered in the House of Commons and The Daily Mail if they spent anymore of the taxpayer's money trying to get Slash, so just picked someone slightly obscure. Who was on the backup list? The lead singer from Scouting for Girls?

And then there's William. Quite dull. Silly haircut. Constantly wearing a golf glove. And will not shut up about Michael Jackson. Yet somehow worth £500,000 a series. If he turned up dressed like he was in Tron, then I'd perhaps let this fact pass me by. But he doesn't, so he annoys me.

Number two. Its a bit dull. Nobody really likes watching an hour and a half's worth of telly where everyone is better than you. We like reality TV because we get to watch the bottom rung of society's ladder make fools of themselves in front of the nation. Its a modern day colosseum. Audiences baying for the feeble to be humiliated as they cackle like hyenas, while Emperor Cowell sends reams of hopefuls to be executed. Now I mention it, I'd quite like to see William mauled by a tiger to the tune of 'Where Is The Love'.

...to Fame Academy with you cretins.

So to sit and watch a TV show where everyone is actually quite good isn't as entertaining as it should be. It was only when I watched Britain's Got Talent afterwards, observing a gender-confused German unwrap himself like a human Ferrero Rocher, did I find myself smiling. And laughing.

'I remember these emotions' I thought. An entertainment programme entertaining me. Who'd have thought it?

Number three. Why make such a big deal of aesthetics? At the end of every audition during The Voice, the judges asked them 'why did you come on The Voice?' It's such a cringey, egotistical question; it's like asking someone at the end of a candle-lit dinner 'why did you come on a date with me?' Just horrible.

Every act replied 'because you can't see me'. And each of the judges nodded, as if it say: 'Good answer, because if I'd seen you before, I'd have asked a servant to stand in front of me to shield my eyes from your horrendous face.' For a show that's only focus was talent, it didn't half bang on about looks.

The thing about talent shows is talent prevails. Regardless. A prime example was Britain's Got Talent tonight. As 17 year-old Jonathan Antoine walked onto the stage, with a striking resemblance to Hurley from Lost, you could see the audience's expectations disappear. Even Simon Cowell whispered 'just when you thought it couldn't get any worse.' But then he belted out a quite mesmerising rendition of The Prayer and all was forgotten. Now he's undoubtedly - regardless that its week one - one of the favourites to win the competition.

So why do you need a whole competition that makes such a big deal over this fact?

Pop music is not just about talent. There aren't too many unattractive pop stars out there and if it was just about raw talent, why does Susan Boyle now look like Susan Boyle's younger more attractive sister? Its naive to think someone who has a face shaped like a Quaver is going to become an international superstar. We like pretty faces, which is why I guarantee the person who eventually wins The Voice could've quite easily won The XFactor, rendering the whole process utterly pointless. And not half as unique as the BBC accountants want you to believe.

Although its presented by somone who's costing us half a million quid to turn up and swivel around in a chair. I suppose you've got to stand out somehow.

Comercially Viable - An Attempt at Topical Discussion Without Using Stupid Metaphors

I'll start this post by saying I like David Cameron.

I was going through my old computer the other day and found a story I'd started writing when I was about 15. It was a weird mixture of The Hurt Locker, 2012 and The Bourne Identity focusing on a worldwide terrorist attack set in the future. In it, I'd made reference to Prime Minister David Cameron, thus second guessing the future of British Politics by about four years. And before you ask, I will be offering my Mystic Meg insight to the upcoming American Election in November, so get your betting slips at the ready.

Anyway, back to the matters at hand. Today, after a personal tour of Pinewood Studios, the Prime Minister announced he would like the British film industry to focus on more comercially successful films instead of low budget critical darlings that the UK is more famous for nowadays.

Remember that fire at Pinewood a couple of years ago? After comments like that I'd wished the inferno had held off for a few years and treated the PM like medieval folk treated witches.

This was the alternate poster for Kiss Ass- I MEAN Kick Ass. Satire.

First of all, commercially successful movies cost money. Avatar, the highest grossing film of all time, cost an estimated $240million to make. Titanic, the second highest grossing film ever, cost $200million to make back in 1997. The latest installment of Twilight, Breaking Dawn Part. 1 cost $110million to make, although I'm sure it'd rack up serious box office numbers even if the filmmakers scrapped the original shoot and just held some kind of puppet show using knitted characters made by Tayler Lautner's nan.

Before the government scrapped the UK Film Council last year, it had an annual budget of £15million to invest in different films all year round.

I'm not saying dosh automatically equals more dosh, but when given a choice between the idiot-fuelled cash juggernaut Transformers and the lower-budget more thought provoking Tyrannosaur, most punters this summer plumped for the money option.

Unfortunately, such is the way of modern politics that the electorate of UK will hardly be too pleased if a £200million government funded big screen production of Doctor Who all of a sudden popped up at the Odeon. You can imagine it now, a local news report with a batty old lady complaining they've spent all the money that'd been promised for a new streamlined Meals on Wheels service on enticing Brad Pitt to be the new Doctor and George Lucas to create the special effects.

So there's that to consider. Then there's the other problem, which goes back to my what-at-the-time-seemed-irrelevant story about my prediction of David Cameron becoming British Prime Minister:

How do you predict a commercially successful film?

There is a reasonable formula for working out a sure fire hit. Big actors + big explosions + news-worthy budget + story based on previously popular work/sequel = $$$

But who would've predicted things like Slumdog Millionaire or The Hangover would've become smash hits? Slumdog Millionaire is a good example because it's a British film that'd been financed by the UK Film Council. Its a Danny Boyle film that is remarkably un-Danny Boyle (mainly because it makes you smile) about a boy from the slums of Indian who manages to win Who Wants to be a Millionaire because all the answers relate to flashbacks that make up the film's narrative (what are the odds?). It was a massive hit, helped by the fact it generated a serious amount of pre-Oscars chatter.

Its the same with The Kings Speech. Most of it's success is down to the hype around Colin Firth's and Geoffrey Rush's performances and the whole 'Britishness' of it all. No one was that interested in the history lesson about a King who had a stutter, just the fact Firth could pull off a stutter without...stuttering.

Two of Britain's most successful films in recent times then have been Oscar successes revolving around the central theme of personal triumph. Most films that battle it out for Oscars are rarely commercial juggernauts, instead they're usually more obscure pictures that come to the forefront of public attention due to their critical acclaim. They aren't necessarily commercial nor mainstream, but they are bloody good.

Maybe it's the fact Cameron is currently seeing Margaret Thatcher's face on the side of every bus in London like a miner's nightmare that has driven a little bit loopy. Britain makes good films, regardless of whether they're commercial or not. I'm more excited about seeing The Kill List, a low budget obscure British horror/thriller when it comes out on BluRay than any other film coming out this month. When Britain tries to make commercial bigger budget pictures, they tend to be horrible gangster flicks starring Ray Winstone or Danny Dyer that are a) shit b) offensive to our intelligence.

Politicians should stay away from the film industry, especially when you take into consideration the fact David Cameron has Armageddon on his DVD shelf (I did not realise he had special needs). Investing in the production of films is incredibly risky when compared to the investment in other commodities. But few other commodities are as loved as films. It's art, and art should not be told how it should be produced, especially by those who have no real interest other than pound signs.

And yes, this is a topical post from yours truly, I hope you've enjoyed the ride.