Pardon me if this week’s editorial is a little less upbeat and optimistic than usual: it’s bad enough coming back to the office after lunch, never mind following almost two weeks of inactivity and conspicuous consumption, where the most strenuous activity was probably opening another bottle of beer. Or, rather, asking someone else to do it for you. And I discount the three days spent at work (including January 1st), on the grounds there was so little to do that even I’m feeling faintly embarrassed at handing in my overtime claim for the period.
To tide me over the culture shock of my employers asking me to do stuff, I have resorted to comfort eating, aided by the Christmas supplies of junk food conveniently to hand: a brief trawl through the waste-paper basket reveals my entire nutritional intake for the past 48 hours (sorry if this is a bit like the dire Bridget Jones!):
Most of a 400g bag of Crunchy M&Ms
An entire tub of Spicy Twiglets
Two large hot chocolates
One bag McCoy’s Flamegrilled Steak crisps
A Crunchie
A tin of Chocolate Slimfast, consumed in a miserable, failed attempt to stop me ploughing through the above.
I know there was another chocolate bar, but no trace could be found in the bin, and it was eaten so fast I can’t even recall what it was — I may simply have consumed the wrapper as well. But I’ll get over it, providing the vitamin deficiency doesn’t kick in first. Still, I shall live on the pleasant memories of home, and in particular of a week with “the missus”, culminating in a New Year’s Eve when we didn’t even cross the doorstep: she saw 2000 arrive in an evening dress, while I wore just a pair of novelty slippers. Sure beat waiting several hours by the Thames for the ‘River of Fire’ (snigger), before enduring a nightmare journey home, thanks to London Transport’s gross (and entirely predictable) ineptitude. Turning up to such an event counts as a self-inflicted injury, I’m afraid.
Highlights of the post-millennium leisure time included a trip to The Sound of Music. But not just any Sound of Music, this was the karaoke version, at the Prince Charles here in London. Take one battered print of the movie, add projected subtitles to the songs for community singing, provide the customers with a bag of more or less appropriate props (plastic edelweiss, foam nun, throat lozenges), and get drag queen Candy Floss to introduce it all. This could well be the next Rocky Horror show, with the advantage that everyone knows all the tunes already — they’re part of some collective genetic memory. I need say no more than “Doe…”, to get you started.
There was also an excursion to Wimbledon, to introduce Chris to the delights of panto — attempts to explain it to her (she’s an American) usually caused her eyes to glaze over round about when I got to the Principal Boy who’s really a girl. Thus it was off for Peter Pan, with Leslie Grantham as Hook, Bonnie Langford as Pan, and squeaky-voiced gonk Joe Pasquale as Smee. While the last-named would be utterly irritating anywhere else, he was perfect for the role, with jokes that aimed low and still fell short i.e. he comes on wearing antlers — “I put too much mousse on my hair”. Gawd bless the British panto, and Chris bought enough souvenirs to guarantee what I’ll be costumed as, come next Halloween.
How can the delights of office life compete? Simple: they can’t. Which is why I’ve been scarfing down enough sugary, E-numbered goodness to sent an entire battalion of toddlers bouncing of the ceiling. At least it was only a two-day week, but believe me, that’s more than enough for me! Pass the cheese footballs…
As I write this, it’s 08:42 on New Year’s Day, and I’m sitting at my desk in the office. As yet, the Y2K bug has failed to materialise which is thanks, of course, to all the hard work and long hours put in by all of Microsoft’s staff and our many colleagues in information technology worldwide over the past ye…oh, hell, who am I trying to kid? As both you and I know, the whole Y2K bug things has had everyone in the computer industry sniggering into our highly-caffeinated soft drinks over the past couple of years, and has succeeded in making us all (and particularly me) a great deal of money.
As you should already be aware, there never actually was a Y2K bug. Operation Chicken Little, as it was reverently named, began life a few years ago, with a bunch of unemployed consultants up here in Seattle. Sitting in a Starbucks, tossing around ideas for employment, they came up with an idea which was breathtakingly elegant in its simplicity: “if there aren’t any problems, why don’t we cook one up?” They came to me, I put the word out to our terrorist cells (as I like to refer to our overseas offices — it freaks the Justice Department out). And lo, the Y2K bug was born, swiftly spread by word of email round the globe.
For computer programmers are noted for senses of humour which are so dry that ‘Dilbert’ is regarded as hideously vulgar, and we all know that computer managers are such technological Neanderthals that they’ll swallow anything we tell them with a moderately straight face. Many were the meetings where we sniggered quietly, as prophecies of nuclear meltdown, Armageddon, and vending machine irregularity were bandied about. Full and profitable employment was guaranteed, for anyone who knew the right end of a mouse to push.
The great thing about it is that, like all good myths, it has a germ of plausibility in its core. Difficult it may be to believe, but there was (once upon) a time when computer memory was so scarce that writing 01/01/00 instead of 01/01/2000 was a good thing — albeit back in the days when you could give a ZX Spectrum agoraphobia by plugging in the 16K expansion pack. However, even any entry-level PC has a mere 130,484,000 bytes or so to play with; on such a machine, no real programmer would be a) conscientious, or b) bored enough to bother faffing around with a couple of bytes here and there. We’re far too busy turning Word ’97 into bloatware by inserting hidden features involving Pamela Anderson and/or Scottish llamas.
So, for the past couple of years, we’ve been pretending to “fix” the problem: hell, they want screens to say “2000” instead of “00”, it’s no skin off our noses. Naturally, having made the changes, we had to document and exhaustively test them (now, that was a stretch, since we never do that normally…actually, if any of our customers bothered to read Microsoft “documentation”, they’d realise we haven’t done it this time either, but don’t tell them that). Cue overtime! Cue weekend work! And, the piece de resistance, the millennium weekend. We sent in our most foreboding prognosticators, to stand and deliver Nostradamiacal forecasts of floods, famines and plagues of locusts. Net result: we all get two weeks wages for four hours work. Oh, how we laughed.
Now, it’s important that we continue our deception: as the opening paragraph suggests, the stance we’ll take to the outside world is that all our work has paid off, with the transition proving smooth and almost trouble-free. Hell, we actually had to introduce a couple of bugs, it’d have been just too suspicious otherwise. An additional bonus is that is reminds the general public that we professionals are still the masters, the high priests of high-tech, no matter how luser-friendly their Internet provider may be. But God forbid they ever find out it was all a big joke, with them the suckers. They might start buying Linux.
And if anyone has any more ideas for how to screw more cash and/or adulation out of the general public, my number’s in the book.
This is the last editorial of the millennium. And yes, I know it’s not really the millennium, but just tell any complaining pedant that Christ was actually born in 4 BC anyway. Failing that, a witty shout of “Fuck off, arsehole” usually does the trick. Regardless, this area will be update-free, since I’ll be busy getting into the Christmas spirit — not to mention the Christmas beer, and at least two helpings of the Christmas dead animal too. I thus won’t be able to reach the keyboard until about the first weekend in January.
We’ve come a long way in those thousand years. Back in 1000, the Internet consisted of a bunch of monks desperately trying to copy out illuminated manuscripts (of Ye Paemaela Andersonne, no doubt), and getting them donkey’d across for a squire to hold them up in front of the user. And you think lag-times are sometimes a bit bad now. But even a lot closer to our present era, the Internet arrived more or less unpredicted: even William Gibson reckoned cyberspace would be full of sleek data cubes, round which we would whizz at the speed of thought. Or at least, he never mentioned it would be full of people arguing about who would win if Buffy and Xena had a fight [the answer, incidentally, is that Buffy has superior martial arts skills, but Xena’s weapons give her the edge there]. I guess he’d forgotten that the street will find a use for technology…
Thus, where we’ll be in another thousand is anyone’s guess. Hell, where I’ll be in ten days is anyone’s guess: quite possibly reduced to my constituent atoms by an errant ex-Soviet ICBM. At least that’ll save me from having to go into work on New Year’s Day — yup, 0900 on 1/1/00, I’ll be at my desk, ensuring that no matter what chaos and anarchy may befall western civilisation, you’ll still be able to buy shares from HSBC, first thing on Tuesday morning. I trust you are all appropriately grateful. This will, of necessity, slightly limit my plans for seeing in the triple zero, though they were never exactly apocalyptic: Chris is coming over, so she and I have agreed it’ll be far better just to curl up on a comfy couch with champagne and watch it all on TV. Who could ask for anything more?
Especially when the alternatives are a) lining the pockets of greedy venues (99 quid? Get out of here!) or b) freezing your butt off down by the Thames watching a “river of fire”. Was disappointed to discover this is simply a bunch of fireworks, I was hoping they would pour ether over the river and toss a match onto it. Hey, what price a few singed eyebrows? It’s only once every thousand years! Much as the latent pyromaniac in me likes the idea of 39 tonnes of explosives going up (never mind the irony of its location within a rocket’s distance of where Guy Fawkes almost pulled off the best bang since the big one), it’s not enough to drag me out. Part of me hopes it rains — this is not quite as cynical and malicious as it sounds, because I know of precisely no local residents who are planning to go, so the drenching will be reserved for well-deserving tourists.
Part of me wishes the 39 tonnes of explosives to “accidentally” go off too, so if I do go out, I’ll be the one standing by the river, flicking lit matches at the barges. However, I can think of far better places to be: warm, comfortable, slightly alcoholic and cuddled up next to my one true love. That is how to finish a millennium.
Have a good festive season, enjoy the extra-long break, and I look forward to the pleasure of your company in 2000.
That sound you hear is a venerable institution stabbing itself in the heart, repeatedly. At least, this was the feeling I got from ‘Sex and Death’, a one-off drama screened last week on BBC2, concerned with the dumbing-down of TV, the quest for ratings and sensationalism. Viewers are referred to The Player, a Hollywood movie about how evil Hollywood is, for another example of what is either irony, or self-immolation. Mind you, any quest for the moral high ground was abandoned in the opening sequence, a fake programme, also titled ‘Sex and Death’ hosted by Ben Black, a presenter played by Martin Clunes of Men Behaving Badly fame. I was rapidly hooked, perhaps because I’ve always had way more time for Clunes than, say, Chris Evans or Terry Christian, but more likely because it had an entire week’s quota of nudity, blasphemy and swearing inside ten minutes.
But it’s alright, because it was being “ironic“, see? And, taken as individual elements, there probably wasn’t anything you couldn’t find elsewhere – though Ulrika Jonsson’s split beaver shot was a first. It was the intense concentration of it which was overpowering, TV for those whose attention span is measured in BPM. The opening sequence of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet had much the same kind of exhilirating, hallucinogenic effect, not so much in your face, as playing the bongos on your tonsils. Fortunately, it then settled down.
Or, perhaps, UNfortunately, as Black began the predictable angst about what he was doing, punctuated by walks in the rain or through London at night (he was, as you might expect, an insomniac — no-one purveying this kind of thing is allowed to sleep soundly, naturally), problems with his love life, etc, etc. Slightly less predictable were his battles with his rival, a slimy, Jeremy Beadle-like (yes, I realise “slimy” is redundant there) presenter, played by Martin Jarvis, who specialises in setting people up. Their fencing provided most of the highlights, leading to a stunningly poor taste sequence involving double-crossing jailbait and a very dubious religious fetish. You could tell that director/writer Guy Jenkin had made his name with Drop the Dead Donkey.
As Black teetered towards the edge of breakdown, this all builds towards the greatest episode of his show, opening with him hanging from a cross in a crown of thorns. Anyone familiar with religious iconography – or even the career of state treasurer Bud Dwyer, will have long been able to work out where this was going. The only question was, would they wimp out? Well, I ain’t gonna answer that, since I’m actually unsure. In some ways, it was a major-league cop, but thinking about it, there was a certain subversiveness, which also fitted in terribly well with the ongoing Christ metaphor. Though I freely admit the concept of Martin Clunes dying for our sins is frankly disturbing — whether he does or not…
“I don’t think it’s that far-fetched,” said Jenkin, and he’s right. So, how far would we go in the quest for entertainment? As far as we want to, I reckon: attempting to hold up the lowest common denominator is a futile exercise in a democratic state. “Sooner or later, we’re going to get blown away by some 15-year old who fucks his granny live on prime time,” laments Black at one point, and he’s right. But just because you don’t want to watch it, have you any right to stop it? Perhaps not, but what if it’s being paid for by your licence money? These are not easy questions, and credit to the BBC for at least posing them. And showing us Ulrika’s split beaver, too…
* It’s dead simple: name the following films. * No prizes, just glory, and immortality on the TC Site. * Entries by 2359 GMT, December 31st, 1999. * Answers to… Well, it doesn’t matter any more, does it? * Anyone suspected of using reference aids will be excommunicated. * The clue is partly in the question, partly in my film tastes i.e. no drippy chick flicks. Well, only a token one. 😉
1. We just cut up our girlfriend with a chainsaw. Does that sound “fine”? 2. My mommy always said there were no monsters – no real ones – but there are… 3. Greetings, my friends. We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. And remember, my friends, future events such as these will affect you in the future. 4. Kill him! A lot! 5. Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother. 6. Until mankind is peaceful enough not to have violence on the news, there’s no point in taking it out of shows that need it for entertainment value. 7. Boys, you got to learn not to talk to nuns that way. 8. Nuns. No sense of humour. 9. Ehm, look. Sorry, sorry. I just, ehm, well, this is a very stupid question and…, particularly in view of our recent shopping excursion, but I just wondered, by any chance, ehm, eh, I mean obviously not because I guess I’ve only slept with 9 people, but-but I-I just wondered… ehh. I really feel, ehh, in short, to recap it slightly in a clearer version, eh, the words of David Cassidy in fact, eh, while he was still with the Partridge family, eh, “I think I love you,” and eh, I-I just wondered by any chance you wouldn’t like to… Eh… Eh… No, no, no of course not… I’m an idiot, he’s not… Excellent, excellent, fantastic, eh, I was gonna say lovely to see you, sorry to disturb… Better get on… 10. Snakes. Why’d it have to be snakes? 11. I’m too old for this shit! 12. How sexy am I now, huh? Flirty boy! How sexy am I now? 13. Never take your eyes off your opponent — even when you bow. 14. Come quietly or there will be… trouble.
And finally, half a dozen imaginative uses of a certain word…
15. “Foul-mouthed”? Fuck you! 16. In two hundred years we’ve gone from “I regret but I have one life to give for my country” to “Fuck you!”? 17. Fuck like minks, raise rugrats, live happily ever after. 18. Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon! 19. To know death, Otto, you must first fuck life in the gall bladder! 20. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Do I look like Mother Theresa to you?
Answers can now be found on the far side of this picture, which happens to be from one of the movies…
Christmas is dead, the New Year has arrived, and all that’s left of the festive season are a couple of freezer packs marked “T/key”, and a few stragglers still rying to get home from the millennium celebrations. Which means it must be time for the answers to the Xmas Xuote Xuiz…
1. We just cut up our girlfriend with a chainsaw. Does that sound “fine”? Evil Dead 2. Though disturbing how many people put South Park…
2. My mommy always said there were no monsters – no real ones – but there ARE… Perhaps the best action pic of all time, Aliens.
3. Greetings, my friends. We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. And remember, my friends, future events such as these will affect you in the future. Plan 9 from Outer Space, the movie which also gave us classic lines like “He’s dead. Murdered. And someone’s responsible!”, as well as Bela Lugosi being body-doubled by the director’s chiropractor.
4. Kill him! A lot! Back before it was a very popular TV show, there was a Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie, with Kirsty Swanson (who she?) as the chosen one. The above line was delivered by Pee Wee Hermann. The film bombed.
5. Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother. As everyone got, this was Blade Runner, though I’m tempted to dock half a point from the smarty-pants who put ‘Harrison Ford’, because it wasn’t.
6. Until mankind is peaceful enough not to have violence on the news, there’s no point in taking it out of shows that need it for entertainment value. One of the many great lines from Clueless (I was going to put the one which described the menstrual cycle as “surfing the crimson wave”…). The movie is based on Jane Austen’s Emma, not that you’d know it…
7. Boys, you got to learn not to talk to nuns that way. Another one hundred percenter here, The Blues Brothers. Obviously, an icon of popular culture…
8. Nuns. No sense of humour. I’m pleasantly surprised no-one suggested The Sound of Music. It was the best film ever, starring a Frenchman pretending to be Scottish and a Scot pretending to be Spanish/Egyptian: Highlander.
9. Ehm, look. Sorry, sorry. I just, ehm, well, this is a very stupid question and…, particularly in view of our recent shopping excursion, but I just wondered, by any chance, ehm, eh, I mean obviously not because I guess I’ve only slept with 9 people, but-but I-I just wondered… ehh. I really feel, ehh, in short, to recap it slightly in a clearer version, eh, the words of David Cassidy in fact, eh, while he was still with the Partridge family, eh, “I think I love you,” and eh, I-I just wondered by any chance you wouldn’t like to… Eh… Eh… No, no, no of course not… I’m an idiot, he’s not… Excellent, excellent, fantastic, eh, I was gonna say lovely to see you, sorry to disturb… Better get on… As one entrant would have it, Four Drippy Weddings and a Drippy Funeral. Pardon me while I ring the dampness out of my keyboard.
10. Snakes. Why’d it have to be snakes? Der-de-duh-deh! It can only be, Raiders of the Lost Ark. And it is.
11. I’m too old for this shit! Interesting one: nominally, and frequently, in Lethal Weapon, but extra credit for those who came up with alternatives like The Rock.
12. How sexy am I now, huh? Flirty boy! How sexy am I now? Mallory’s approach to suitors (non-verbal violence also included), from the infamous (and still unavailable on video in the UK), Natural Born Killers.
13. Never take your eyes off your opponent — even when you bow. Ah, another pop culture icon (no, not The Karate Kid), with a funky 70’s score — Enter the Dragon.
14. Come quietly or there will be… trouble. Though Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels and Basic Instinct were both imaginative and interesting choices, they were also wildly inaccurate. Try RoboCop.
15. “Foul-mouthed”? Fuck you! Beverly Hills Cop. Whatever happened to Eddie Murphy?
16. In two hundred years we’ve gone from “I regret but I have one life to give for my country” to “Fuck you!”? The first of two from Dennis Hopper, the thinking man’s Scary Spice: Speed.
17. Fuck like minks, raise rugrats, live happily ever after. …not with Sharon Stone, you won’t. Michael Douglas gets overly optimistic in Basic Instinct.
18. Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon! It’s Dennis the Menace once more: Blue Velvet.
19. To know death, Otto, you must first fuck life in the gall bladder! Perhaps the most obscure of the films in the list, but far too good a line to waste: Flesh for Frankenstein. The original line had “death” and “life” the other way round — Udo Kier said it wrong, but the director preferred the fluffed version.
20. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Do I look like Mother Theresa to you? The berserk and totally wonderful world of Heathers.
And now, the winners… Leading the pack was Chris Fata — though being my girlfriend might lead some to suggest favouritism is at work, she simply has a better knowledge of my video tastes than most! Plus, I’ve probably quoted most of the above lines to her at some point… Second was Nic Barbano, who got the first one wrong (but only just — his answer was The Evil Dead) then stormed back to an almost-perfect score. Mind you, as a journalist and author of the highly-acclaimed Danish book, The World’s 25 Hottest Porn Stars, he is a professional in this field. The rest were, understandably, a little way back, but here are the top five:
Chris Fata 20 Nicolas Barbano 19 Glenn Pringle 8 Keith Tweed 7.5 Phil Brown 7
Well done to all of them, better luck next time to everyone else…
