Richard's Online Journal
[22/03/09] Spoiler Warning
Scholars have recently uncovered this lost canto from Dante’s Inferno. Here, Virgil takes the narrator on a short-cut to avoid rush-hour on the River Styx. It is unknown why this didn’t make it into the accepted version, although the fact that the primary source was apparently written on a McDonalds napkin may have something to do with it.
From the fith bridge, came we upon a smaller pit easily missed. “These wretches are the Spoilers,” my ears heard my Leader impart, smiling ever so slightly as we witnessed this fresh horror. Here lay the sinners, bound in ropes of script pages and celluloid, forever condemened to the pit of Too Much Information. As I watched, one of their number, bespectacled and with an odour of Cheetos and Dew of the Mountain, was freshly shackled in front of a fine steak, staring miserably at a slideshow of photos of a happy cow in a field, and a step-by-step tour of the abattoir. With sound effects.
“Great Pogonophobia,” said my Leader, dispassionate as stone. “Impart unto us the art of this, Inferno’s most justified punishment.”
The hairless monster of whom he spoke - oh that I could forget its blubbery countenance and obsidian-plated laptop computer - didst turn and say “Wotcha. Well, see, first we ram one of these spikes up their bums, then-”
“Ahem,” chided the Leader.
The demon Pogonophobia stood, chastised. “What I meanteth to say,” he tried, “Waseth that here, sinners doth reapeth whateth they hath… look, you do know nobody’s ever spoken like this, right? I sound like a bloody Muppet.”
“It matters not,” I cried. “Tell me of these wretches’ crimes against God and man.”
“Glad you asked,” grinned Pogonophobia, indicating. We turned to see one of the hairy ones, face impossible to see under a forest of brusing and dried in blood. “This one took his fun from ruining the entertainment of hundreds of fans at once, showing up at midnight book signings to bellow spoilers at the waiting crowds. He’s a right one, eh?”
“A foul fiend indeed, no offence,” I agreed. “What punishment awaited him in this, the darkest of the Stygian pits my eyes have thus far witnessed?”
“An eternity of being smacked around the face and neck with the final Harry Potter novel,” grinned the demon Pogonophobia, as once again, the heavy volume found its fleshy target. “Ooph! Should have stuck with comic books. They’re thinner.”
My Leader hesitated, fighting some dark vengeful instinct. “Is that… all?”
It was the demon Pogonophobia’s turn to hesitate, but he was compelled to be truthful. “While being read extracts from Eragon,” he admitted, holding up a signed copy.
“Oh, now steady on!” I cried. “Even the abode of damnation must know some mercy!”
The demon Pogonophobia smiled a waxen, blackened smile. I barely saw him gesture to a demon around the back, who didst put away a copy of “The Iron Tree” in favour of jamming a poker up the canticle of a tormented soul who sighed and sizzled in blessed relief. “Any more for any more?” he asked, hurriedly moving us on.
My Leader nodded imperceptibly, or so he later vouchsafed. He had to nod more perceptibly before either of us noticed, and would sulk about this all day.
We strode past the tormented damned, past lakes of sucking black oil and the wails and lamentations of a thousand fanboys moaning about something called ‘Firefly’. Finally, we entered a dark cave, round and carved of the unholy rock. It was filled with foods of every type, but all the twenty-one tormented souls chained around the edge wanted right now was the single cake that sat on a plinth in the center. The rocks groaned with desperation as they strained on their chains, reaching out to touch it.
“They’ve been looking forward to that for what feels like forever,” uttered the demon Pogonophobia, passing us each a Coke from the nearest vending machine. I expected some dark trick, but no. The can was not filled with blood, nor bile, nor - oh, the mere thought - Pepsi, but sugary nectar from the halls of Empyrean itself.
“Ah,” I cried, pleased to contribute. “So, it’s a bit like Tantalus, right?”
The demon Pogonophobia glared. “No!” snapped he. “Everything here is totally original, you got it? We was getting mortals shoving rocks up hills for all time before them damn Furies was out of nappies. Kindly Ones, my bum. The stories I could tell...”
“We are on a schedule,” warned my Leader.
“What happens here,” continued the demon Pogonophobia, pretending not to hear, “Is that all these people have been told they can have the cake and eat it, if only they wait patiently until Tuesday like good boys and girls.”
“A false hope, no doubt,” I nodded.
“I’m a demon of my word,” said the demon Pogonophobia, grinning. “But watch...”
We did not have to wait long. With a shriek of metal on stone, one of the damned broke free and snatched up the cake eagerly. Eyes glowing red with hunger and lust, ignoring the desperate howls of his unlucky fellow souls, he bit down into it.
“Well, that was disappointing,” he announced, licking his fingers clean. “I wouldn’t have done it anything like that. They should have used milk chocolate. I was expecting milk chocolate, or maybe some lemon frosting. Sure, it was obviously going to be chocolate, but if I’d have been in charge, I’d have used lemon. Lemon would be far more in keeping with what we were promised, and I’d have put more jam in there too. What kind of idiot spends all day making a cake and forgets the jam. Seriously, if I knew how to bake, I’d have made a much better cake than this. Morons.”
“But-” I began. The demon Pogonophobia raised a finger. I realised. All the chains had vanished. The lucky cake-eater suddenly found himself alone, surrounded by a circle of his former peers. Each glared with an anger borne of never being permitted to enjoy the taste on their own terms, unsullied and not made bitter by the greed of their fellow wretch. Whether they understood the irony mattered not, not as the circle closed in, and each found themselves holding a blunted fondue fork in one hand.
“Know what the best bit is?” said the demon Pogonophobia, as the sound of shrieking and splattering died away. “I only went and had a wee-wee on the bloody thing.”
We left him there, hurrying away until the laughter was but a remembered echo. Whatever horrors awaited on the next level could only be an improvement, or so I believed at that moment. Even so, there was one question I knew had to be asked, if I was ever to understand what I had seen in the demon Pogonophobia’s lair.
“How could these people be so cruel as to take pleasure in ruining fellow fans’ hard-earned entertainment with such spoilers?” I asked the Leader.
“I do not know,” he vouchsafed, striding towards the stairs to Cocytus and fresh torment. “But I do know this. EVERYONE DIES IN BATTLESTAR GALACTICA.”
[19/02/09] Dumbest Zombie Survivor Ever
People in horror movies do stupid things, but I think House of the Dead 2 has to win a prize for this one. The story so far: You’re trapped in a rubbish sequel to an even worse movie. You’re a trained zombie-killing commando scientist from an organisation that exists specifically to kill zombies. Their blood is so infectious, even a humble mosquito can zombify you if it recently fed on one. If anyone on your team even scratches themselves in a funny way, everyone is instructed to spin round and blast their head off, just in case they go all ‘brains brains’ or start posting YouTube comments.
And then, in a three-on-one situation in which all three are human and armed to the teeth, with enough distance from the newly zombified target to wheel in a Sherman tank… you do this. Zombiedom’s too good for you.
And this isn’t even the dumbest part of the movie…
I’m not a big fan of Left4Dead, but let the record show: Zoey would never pull this kind of crap. That’s why everyone likes playing as her. Well, it’s one reason, anyway. There may be others. I (cough) wouldn’t know about that other stuff…
[17/01/09] Bath. City Of Culture
Once again, conclusive proof that the only difference between insanity and entertainment is whether anyone takes a collection when it’s finished.
[03/01/09] Doctor WHO?!
So, Matt Smith is going to be the Eleventh Doctor...
What? Who the hell are they kidding? Who is this person, and why wasn't he strangled at birth? Just look at him! With his face... and his nose... How dare he even pretend he can replace the last Doctor everyone thought they were going to hate?! This is even worse than when Daniel Craig became James Bond, and we all know how THAT one went down, don't we? I don't need to see a single frame of him in action to know I'm going to hate him and be on the internet within minutes of his first appearance registering my hate. Boo! | Oooh, interesting choice. I've never heard of him, but that's definitely not a problem - when you're talking about a character as iconic as the Doctor, having some genuinely fresh blood is probably a good idea. Not what I expected, which isn't what I expected at all. However he does in the role, about which we really don't know anything except that Moffat's in charge, that's a pretty brave decision and exactly the kind of thing that makes me want to watch the show in the first place. Looking forward to seeing it. Yay! |
In short, I'm waiting to see. We know that Moffat can write the arse off most TV writers, even after the BBC asked him not to keep littering their offices with fallen derrieres, and it's not like any Doctor ever hired has leapt up and made everyone go 'Oh, yeah, awesome'. The thing I like about the show is that every creative team working on it gets to put their own unique stamp on things, for better or worse, and if that's a younger Doctor than normal, it's hardly sillier than an intergalactic hobo, or a spoon-playing Chessmaster, or a man who pins his lunch on his lapel.
Besides, what's the worst that could happen?
[26/12/08] Random Christmassy Thoughts
Whipping Santas: Why don’t these exist? They’d be perfect on Boxing Day. Grizzled war veterans - this would most likely be a prerequisite - don the great red suit and assume the position in the same grottos that kids came to tell Santa what they wanted in the run-up to Christmas, only this time their job is to field questions about what the hell happened. Why didn’t little Billy get that Xbox? Where the &^$% were the batteries? The Whipping Santa’s job is to take these and other questions on the chin… literally in the case of beard-yankers… while the parents hit the sales.
Presents: Boo! Still no suitcase nuke…
Recession: For more information about this one, please consult all the magazines I write for. Subscriptions are available. Buy subscriptions to all of them. Buy three! You know you want to!
Christmas Specials: As if you needed any more proof that My Family is the laziest show on television. Hint: If one of your main plot points is that the main characters can’t go on holiday because it clashes with something, you can’t still have the others squabbling over who’ll get to go while said event is happening. As for the others, a terrific Doctor Who this year. Probably the first truly excellent Christmas special since the show’s rebirth. Transformers! Robots in dat-guise… Really looking forward to the new Jonathan Creek too. Loved that show back in the day.
Acid Reflux: Curse you, obscene amounts of chocolate!