Jeff Fahey: A Prospective Glance

It was while walking downtown yesterday, adjacent to the ambulations of a medium-sized man who moved with the lanky posture of a much taller man, he should have been born six foot nine instead of five foot nine, and whilst a girl in a yellow mohair anorak walked past me mispronouncing ‘bourgeois,’ that I thought, “I wonder what Jeff Fahey is doing right now?”

The thought was like a javelin cast off from the mouldy fingers of Marduk himself, it pierced my hitherto relaxed mind with fury, breaking the reverie and startling my recessed senses. I felt suddenly very out of place, as people traversed around my now inert self. I moved to depart the area as quickly as possible, rapidly making the requisite motions past hoards of middle-management Human Resource cronies as they ingested their daily helping of tacos and schoolgirls. Reaching the traffic lights I was bade an awkward wait for our green friend as my fellow waiters and I were compelled to subjugate our gazes to the sky in order to avoid gawking at a collapsed octogenarian on the opposite side, the weight of the nearby coffee emporium oppressing the entire situation.

Once staggered in the door of my abode, I wasted no time powering up the eMachines. The jutting feeling of repulsion and dejection slowly lessened its reign on my mind as the cackles of the internet filled the room with a healthy aroma of information. I fired my browser in the direction of The Internet Movie Database, stomped the ethereal words ‘Jeff Fahey’ into the search contraption and let the wisdom engulf me.

Not only does Fahey possess the most spectacular and consonant of filmographies, as was already well-known, but it seems age is not slowing him down in the slightest. He remains as consistent with his output as though he was a young Jobe once again. Far be it for me to have the capabilities to shed luminosity on his art only just released or to be released soon, but I will nevertheless attempt some sort of previewing roundup.

Firstly there’s Split Second. The IMDB (and the entire internet for that matter) lacks any substantial details on this flick, so I will assume it’s a tongue-in-cheek remake of the Rutger Hauer film of the same name. A film I never saw incidentally, but while Hauer might have some pretty blue eyes, obviously Fahey outstrips him in the blue department. And with ease at that. It’s almost a joke to even offer Hauer up for comparison; Blind Fury may have been pretty cool back in the day, but how does The Hitcher compare with Sketch Artist 2: Hands That See?

They don’t even compare, that’s how.

Next we have Only The Brave. The official website proclaims it “a searing portrait of war and prejudice,” all about the quandaries surrounding Asian-Americans during World War 2. Very well, but why is it that Fahey has no credit in the trailer? Mark Dacascos has one, and he never even spoke once during that flash of snippets. Yet Fahey, who gets to give a heartrending thanks to a lowly sergeant, gets less than nothing. It’s a snub of epic proportions. The website might have a cast page dedicated to Fahey, featuring an image where Fahey seems to be emitting the electromagnetic waves of light solely from his face, but it’s too little too late. Jason Scott Lee won’t attract the cinephiles, neither will the late Mr Miyagi. The filmmakers here are playing with fire, and are going to be burned by flaming meteors of Fahey if they do not rectify this injustice.

Fahey also does not seem to have a character name, so I can only assume that he is the eponymous Brave.

Absolute Zero has Fahey starring as Dr David Kotzman, a scientist who discovers that a second ice age is beginning in Miami. As the snowy weather envelopes the Floridian city, Fahey and his peons find themselves trapped and, unknowing whether the rest of the planet is suffering this same malady, and are forced to duel with the elements.

Now I know what you are thinking, it even crossed my mind a few times as I researched the project: does Fahey have to fight a vicious Ice-monster? Does Fahey surf the icy surface of the strip in prolonged combat with a heinous stalactite beast? Is Fahey relegated to having a fistfight with an anthropomorphic ice-pop?

The truth is I don’t know. But I can’t wait to find out; this is perhaps the most exciting of the coming Faheys. We can only hope that it’ll blast itself onto a bottom shelf somewhere as soon as possible. Rarely do such original premises materialize in the film industry, this is one of them. Although, admittedly, it does sound a tiny bit similar to that Dennis Quaid film from a few years back, what was it called? Oh yeah, Innerspace. Remember that scene where Martin Short gets half-frozen in the meat truck? What a great film that was.

A very interesting standout in the Fahey filmography is Diablita, which apparently is still being made in 2005. This shows just how much of a professional Fahey truly is, not even the passing of years can prevent him from doing his work. Well this flick concerns a screenwriter whose filmic idea is taken over by some rowdy execs and turned into a madcap escapade, lots of guns, fast cars, and, according to the website, it is “T&A laden.” Now on this last point, from browsing the production stills, I can verify that there are indeed some very pleasant ladies involved in said production.

And what of Fahey? He’s there, suited out and looking big. It’ll be a blockbuster for sure. This could be the big one for our Jeff. People mocked, people said to give up on Fahey, “move over to C. Thomas Howell,” they spouted, “he’s got a buncha new lower shelf fare and TV movies coming out for you to salivate over.” But no, Diablita will make The Lawnmower Man look like Darkhunters. Don’t be surprised to see Fahey swishing dollar bills in a wine glass next to Johnny Depp in a chic L.A nightclub this time next year.

I leave you with a reminder to never forget the wonderment and compassion of the man, he is an aegis for us all. Jeff Fahey is the cascading grass in Onibaba, the bare bosom of Emmanuelle Beart in Manon Des Sources, the use of the word “intercrural” in Will Self’s Greg Matter, and the cheeky, drug-addled grin of Jennifer Connelly in Requiem For A Dream all in one.

In Hell

Jean-Claude Van Damme does a fine impression of Dolph Lundgren. He brilliantly captures the Swede's oeuvre, that sparkle in the man’s eyes that send out mass frequencies of artistic credibility every time they are open. What was once suspected of being cataracts, was in fact glimmer. Not glimmer as in The Glimmer Man with Steven Seagal (that would just be stupid), but the glimmer of deluges of resplendent grandeur.

A microcosm of being lies in those vortexes, and often it stands up and walks around the cornea, sometimes even going to the vestigial eyelid to pick up a paper. It’ll sit and read The Independent draped over the iris, its own limbs dangling down into the pupil. As it peruses the intricacies of South American politics (it regularly wears a badge with Hugo Chavez’s face etched on it), it will intermittently sip from a nearby mug of steaming caffeine, bought first thing over by the ciliary. It knows little of what’s going on in Big Brother, it cares not an ounce for the scandals erupting in the vicinity of those footballing chaps, those money joy-riders hopped up on blondes with exponential chest cavities, autobiographies shipped off to press before the morning of their 18th birthday. “Give them the money,” says the tabloids, “and while you’re at it, here’s the sort of attention that’d make De Sade blush.” And blush he would, despite those prosodic adventures he was nevertheless one to turn a fluorescent crimson when the topic of male and female organs uniting in a vibrating blob of lust was raised. Sure he’d say, “aye, let me take a fine close and detailed inspection of what precisely is entering what here.” But deep down his disgust was rife, his plasma cells were known to group together and have protest marches just south of his pancreas over the inherent filth being broadcast all over the show. Beanies, denims, and placards that read: “Less sex, more James Woods.” Alas the flaws in this are overt, the ambiguities chucked their naked torsos all over those boards.

This is what Van Damme conjures in his famed impression of Lundgren. In many ways he creates something unique, something that wasn’t there before, a new paradigm, a new perspective. In many ways his impression defines Lundgren, it straightforwardly decries Lundgren’s lanky musk. It shoots him down in an explosion of muscle tinged with warm lemonade.

Van Damme is known for captivating his audience’s attention in this way, whether he is cranking out the humour on set, or pulverising our glands on screen. In Hell is one of his more recent excursions into the straight to DVD world, an outing mysteriously receiving much rejoicing amongst those who like to sample the odd cinema every now and again.

In Hell has Van Damme living in Russia, but when his wife is murdered and he subsequently kills the perpetrator he is sentenced to a lifetime of good times in a harsh prison out in the wastes of rural Russia. This prison has a rather nasty warden who likes to have the inmates fight each other for his pleasure. And, I must say, the pleasure of the other inmates too; what an egalitarian he was under that shifty exterior.

So there you go, Van Damme’s in there and must fight people. But what is this? He turns out to be an extremely lame warrior, often getting a pummelling by big Russian men, and then sent into solitary, to presumably think about that beating he just received. While in this isolated environment, he is visited by a CGI butterfly that ignites a number of psychedelic flashbacks featuring his wife and her bikini. Eventually Van Damme gets sick and tired of his feeble ways, and during quite a long spell in the old solitary (assuming from his long hair growth and big beard it was upwards of a year) he decides to train up. And thus we get the training montage, a staple of the genre. Watch him pull up, and push up, and other ups. It pales in comparison to Kickboxer’s tree shindig, but then again so does everything.

A buff, and hairy, Van Damme emerges from this enforced detachment ready to take on that big guy who likes to rape little American idiot boys. Can he do it? Has he trained enough? What about that hair, surely it’ll get into those optic orbs and cause him to be without sight at the most vital moment?

These are the questions that propel the narrative. They run alongside the carriage, dragging its mass via the attachment of leather roping. Some bunch those questions are, I bestow a multitude of praise on them.

Van Damme proves he can still stand about in a movie and kick people in the jowls when prompted. He’s lost none of his previous vigour in that department. Yet the age is beginning to show. Sure he could kick my ass and your ass, and maybe even the drummer from Julie Laughs Nomore’s ass, but he is a shell of his past self. He’s dying inside. And it pains me to say. But I do like to view him as some sort of cocoon, and eventually he’s going to rip open and a vibrant Van Damme butterfly will issue from the rotting remains and take elegant flight off into the sunset. At least that’s how I imagine it, there might be more pus in reality, but it’s bound to happen. It is a constant cycle. It’s just that he’s currently getting into that chrysalis stage where he’s going to be a bit crap.

But back to the film. In Hell, taking advantage of a plethora of stereotypes left over from the old Soviet Union days, paints a wonderfully horrid picture of the Russian penitentiary. Although it is nice that they all speak English, that’s always something. I think I could overlook the urine beside my bed if only I could talk to someone about the merits of Jeff Fahey.

One particularly joyous scene has Van Damme being introduced into his new cell that he must share with a large American who has killed his last four or five cellmates. Although he doesn’t kill Van Damme. Probably Van Damme tells better jokes than his predecessors.

The highlight of the flick comes when our freshly invigorated hero must do battle with a member of the Russian mafia. The back and forth progresses for a while before the Russian begins to mount an advantage, and ends up beating down Van Damme, even giving him the old legs between the metal pole skit. But unexpectedly Van Damme recovers in four seconds and launches a vicious attack, one that ends by him biting a large chunk of Russian neck. The scene ends with Van Damme lying on the ground, blood around the lips, screaming spasmodically with some slight writhing to and fro. The image is complete with his massive hair forming a frame for his expulsions.

In the end it’s no Kickboxer or Bloodsport, but we mustn’t forget the current status of Van Damme. Soon Van Damme’s wings with sprout from beneath his blemished skin, and you’ll be lucky to see him doing anything near the bottom shelf ever again.

The Dean Cain Retribution - Part 1

Diane stood still, peering down into the frame of solace gripped between her digits. Salty canals juddered down her cheeks, rapids of melancholy sucked by gravity’s warm indignation. Those eyes in the frame stared solemnly back at her, each brown swirl in the iris almost motioning her to towards consolation. After a moment she put down the encased photograph and sat on the bed. It had only been one week since the news broke, the world’s media had been spasmodic in their coverage; there was no doubting as to the truth. But yet, somewhere deep inside Diane, possibly adjacent to the gall bladder, Dean Cain was still alive.

Diane sat pondering this, when Lewis penetrated the room with a sudden jubilant bark. “I’ve found it, I’ve tracked it down,” he excitedly informed her, “turns out there’s a monk near the old monastery who has it in his barn.” Diane, roused out of her trance of Kent spells and bouncing Perry Whites, sprung up and, grabbing Lewis’ arm, thrust both of them out of the room.

Diane had long been a fan of Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, ever since one day she was nonchalantly throwing Pez at the television dial and one of them inadvertently caused the channel to commute from My Two Dads to that Dean Cain noumenon. She, in her simple mindedness, put it down to fate. She found many likeminded fans on an internet message board, even meeting her future husband Lewis on there, who she concedes she was only attracted to because his name was rather akin to Lois, although he had a smaller penis than Teri Hatcher.

Since those alarming news stories began circulating, Diane and Lewis had found themselves embroiled in the sort of caper that’d have Dan Brown dancing pirouettes in his snakeskin jimmy-jams. Pynchon’s heroine may have cried however many rivers, tributaries, brooks, or whatever, but she never knew that a true caper must be transnational. Only where a narrative spills out into the streets of Mumbai, where a ragged traveller hooked on PCP wanders in and out of cafes wondering where the hell Bombay went, does a story really grow the feathers of a caper. And this one had feathers, so many in fact that a few actually had to be removed professionally by a plumage expert.

Rumours began to get bounced around in that fateful message board, talk of the fatal remote control having a history of homicide stretching back to the heady days of Ancient Greece. There was talk of Pythagoras biting the metaphoric bullet of that Panasonic monstrosity, of Aquinas getting the cursed object stuck in his robe, of Cervantes, upon finishing Don Quixote, reaching to take a bite out of his muffin, only to find a rectangle chunk of plastic in its place. It is thought that Proust and the remote control worked together to write Remembrance of Things Past, but at the last minute Marcel, that sneaky chappy, cut out all but his own name from the credits. Soon that infra-red wraith had Proust hanging upside his four-poster, begging for forgiveness. But the remote control knows no compassion.

So all this hearsay collated inside the filters of the message board, with various snippets percolating into the minds of its visitors, all with little vigour. Until there started the bubbling ferments of action, of retribution, of revenge, of verbs emitted without restraint. It became known (using a very broad definition of that term) that there was a way to kill it, a way to terminate its massacring dispositions. This in check, it was down to finding the infernal entity. Diane and Lewis opted to carry out this task. Such was the immensity and global reach of the baneful anathema, that they travelled to both Chile and Cambodia, Canada and Chad, Columbia and Costa Rica. In the heat of the quest they never even realised the absurdity of visiting only countries those name is initiated by a C. Both were draw up inside the nascent body of pursuit, a voluptuous and young essence that transported them from one destination to another.

In the end, as that intrusion near the beginning intimated (remember, back in the day), it was on the outskirts of town all along. So they gathered their corporeals and took off in their old hippy van. On the way to the Barn of Doom, as Lewis jokingly dubbed it, a joke that evoked much chuckling in the primitive humour nodes of Diane, the pair stopped off to pick up two compatriots from the message board. However this dyad proved to be so anonymous as to be virtually absent of names.

Parking across from the country house, the monk skirted down to them almost instantly. “By Teri Hatcher's jangly gonads! What took you so long?” yelled the monk, “I’ve got the thing trapped in the barn, but it won’t hold much longer.” From their angle they could see the barn already cascading in skews of diagonal vapour. The group rushed from the confines of the van, like some pseudo-Scooby gang, and headed off towards the barn. In Lewis’ clutches was that elixir they were told would render the remote control inanimate for a few hours, a suitable period of time to transfer it to its final place of destruction.

The nameless duo launched themselves in the side door in a moment of strategic, but also obtuse, thinking. They were the first wave. They were also, inevitably, the first fatalities.

Diane and Lewis stood on edge waiting for the final fragment of vertebrate to spout out the side door. Via a quick discussion they decided the best way to outsmart the rigid intellect facing them was to have Diane sporadically run past the door, slowly enough for it to see her, but also quick enough to avoid death. This would hopefully draw the beast out of it’s nesting area, where Lewis would provide himself as a projectile vessel for the elixir to reach its target. Lewis looked posed for some debate as to the particularities of this plan, one that’d inexorably result in his bodily demise, but it was too late, Diane was already sprinting in rhythmic pattern alongside the side of the barn.

Lewis saw the consumer electronics spectre meandering its way closer and closer towards the door. Once at the frame, it curiously peeked beyond the edges, and just then a frightened but vengeful Lewis launched himself Anime-style through the air and collided with jutting precision into the thorax of the fiend.

Once the cloudy miasma lifted, Diane went over to the doorway and found an inert remote control lying lifeless on a bale of hay. But Lewis was nowhere to be seen, he had indeed sacrificed himself for the good of the world; all that remained of him was a note that read: Thank you Dean Cain.

Diane wiped away a pearly drop of eye-brine and picked up her nemesis. She shot it an indefinable sneer and inserted it into a large black bag. She knew instinctively that only one part of this fable was over, she even smirked to herself at the thought of those readers whose preconceptions told them that that was it, things were resolved, all is back to normal, she’ll do her thing and that’ll be that. Stifling a guffaw, she imagined those same people watching Ringu, and thinking those same thoughts, oh that guy’ll be fine, just look at that there woman, she was ok, what could happen to him? Nothing I’m certain. Look at that beard for fucks sake.

But no, as she drove over the rural landscape she knew to prepare herself both mentally and physically for anything. Could a bored housewife from the suburbs, one so enamoured with the creaseless thighs of Dean Cain, really put a stop to the most powerful force of malediction that the world has ever seen? Was it truly possible? As she thought this over, the gentle stirrings of motion were birthing in her backseat.

Coming soon: The Dean Cain Retribution - Part 2 - Diane does epic battle with the remote control on top of an erupting volcano.

Fuck Chuck Norris - A Polemic

Jeremy and Timmy sat in the bask of the computer, seeped in the glow of a thousand transistors. Jeremy poised himself in his leather recliner as if he were a monarch, a half-eaten sandwich saturated with cheese gripped in one hand, his other in dominance over the oppressed mouse. Timmy humbled before his companion on a low box-like object, less a chair and more a stack of cereal containers, and with eager eyes stared into glow. Enraptured glances followed every click, every scroll. The midday sun blistered through a nearby curtain, but no attention deferred away from the on-going perusal. Focus discharged towards every hyperlink, every refresh.

Off to some Geocities website awash with pictures featuring the heads of well-known actresses on the bodies of lesser-known actresses. A fine stop-off at a roadside Lycos page trying to sell Descartes thongs. Visitation cast upon the lowly urchins of ‘The Steven Seagal Appreciation Boys of Dublin’ homepage. Spears and hatchets rocketed deep into the heart of the web world, two young males on a care-free expedition, a journey of dreams, of cleansing and clarity, and the occasional glimpse at an erect beaver.

Feeling the shakes of a urologic temptation, Jeremy exited his throne and bade decadence a fine fling as the masses (Timmy) parted in applause and shameful indolence. Once the individual exodus was over, Timmy took his chance and snuck sneakily into the king’s quarters. In one great leap he flew over the AOL disc lying on the floor and annexed himself to the fantastic and gothic overtures of the throne. “Tell me dear computer,” he pondered aloud, “would one be deemed cheeky were one to dare to ask of such a fine creation as yourself to take thee to the nearest page where one could gaze at a ginger beard and ginger kicks?”

Timmy stared at the computer for several seconds before dispatching his arm toward the mouse. With clicks brought Google, with Google brought cultism, with cultism brought woe and dementia. There sat Timmy, no more than fifteen years in age demographics, a future wife, a future gleaming with the fresh shells of hope, a future amok with the joyous and the fulfilment, brightness and potential gusting in his pupils, there he sat on the ‘Top 100 Facts of Chuck Norris’ webpage.

With the room shaking of Egyptian-themed strings and needless raw lust, Jeremy emerged at the entrance. His countenance had been usurped by sheer terror as writhing morsels of libido coalesced with his pores in a steaming mass of coitus. Timmy attempted in the tiny crack of time between arrival and retribution, to brave the steep cubic parameters of the back button. But his undertaking proved too late, as before that click made the half-millimetre dive down to sanctity, a riotous Jeremy jettisoned his half-mangled body directly into the ambit of Timmy and computer.

The resulting collision mauled itself into the framework of the house, it oozed treachery and reprisal in a mound of gelatinous flesh. Parts of the computer monitor sporadically flickered showcasing Timmy’s contorted facial expressions, while Jeremy’s once-energetic limbs sparked in unison with the coruscating keyboard. Pain and despair diffused onto the carpet as nature’s newest monstrosity slowly extinguished its affliction of a life.

This is just one example of the drawbacks to the recent Chuck Norris revival. Hours and days are spent by adolescents philosophising the geometric certainties innate in Norris’ biceps. Little are they aware of the dangers such an activity can brew, young Timmy was certainly ignorant. Nothing good can materialize from the sort of kitsch respect now bestowed on Norris, his ginger beard brings with it no promise of sanctuary. A recent Gallup poll suggested that eight out of ten encounters between him and young western males end in disaster. It bodes even worse for females; a government report concluded last week that there is a ninety-six percent fatality rate in Chuck Norris-related experiences amongst girls aged fourteen to twenty.

So c’mon people, wise up. Norris is no figurehead, no natural idol, no glorified spectre. The reification of his silly beard, stupid movies and idiotic posture must end here. And in the end, we all know that Jeff Fahey is better!

Hitchens and Fry yack a bit on blasphemy

Guardian Unlimited (the digital counterpart to UK daily newspaper The Guardian) published a very interesting item on their ‘Culture Vulture Blog’ on Monday. It was a recording of a debate that took place at last year’s Guardian Hay Festival between Stephen Fry (comedian, actor, writer etc) and Christopher Hitchens (journalist, writer etc). Debate is perhaps too strong a term, discussion is probably more fitting. Their topic: the bill about inciting religious hatred bouncing about in the government at the time. But they go beyond that into general issues of religion and free speech.

It turned out to be an interesting and compelling dialogue, lasting almost eighty minutes, with each man advancing their respective views, opinions and insights with intelligence and sublime eloquence. Fry put forth a liberal and witty position on the subjects, despite often being drowned out by Hitchens’ rather rude and obstinate interruptions. Fry ended proceedings with a wonderful humanistic tract, the sort that would leave Richard Dawkins (who incidentally does get a mention) weeping atheistic tears.

Hitchens was forceful and articulate with his own verbiage. Whilst I’d disagree with some of his viewpoints on international politics (luckily there’s little of that here), he proves himself a wise orator, and always worth a listen, even if you’d be liable to shun some of those attitudes into the bin marked ‘neoconservative.’ But this time he’s ranting on the human stupidity intrinsic to religion. Rant on I say.

Go and give it a listen here. And also, since when did Hitchens turn into Albert Camus?

Lamentation for a Generation

With scorn engraved around the circumference of my irises I pulled away from my eMachines, short intermittent flames emanating from inside the caverns locked under the scalp. Doves of veneration drowning in my tears of brine, carcasses ripped asunder by Osiris himself, screams silenced by an echo in the key of fuck you.

It had been an adventure, an exploration in how stretched boundaries can become; limits left behind on a bus heading for Copenhagen. “King Diamond,” shouted the travellers, high on coconut and symmetrical molars, “you broke the oath, you adjured nothing. Now we’re packing six and twenty, plus a sneaky fifty, each complete with monikers stolen from Mercyful Fate song titles.” They had Eddie Vedder tattooed on their knuckles and were last seen crossing the Belgian border.

Turned out it was Bebo all along, and Charlton Heston was not pleased.

Bebo staggered through the fogs carrying with it a large crate labelled 16 to 25. It rocked occasionally, and sometimes recognisable flutterings were heard from its interior. Desert rot had set in by the time it was deposited on my lawn, fungi copulated in its far-reaching corners, and a putrid odour graced the extremity. I had no idea as I searched for my crowbar what contents I expected to release. Connotations derived from Hammer Horror and Basketcase made me lean towards the negative, but I was curious. Never had such a monstrosity been in my possession; I was compelled by King Diamond’s imprudent oath, it had me by the jangleys rendering me helpless.

The Bebo crate took little labour to rupture, once its northern edge was splintered the rest sheepishly followed suit. Only the engulfing mass of Hades could have truly prepared me for the substances bursting forth, atmospheres of molten degeneracy seeped, no, streamed out from its residence. It attached itself to me within seconds; I could feel the perverse titillation stirring everywhere.

Inside that Bebo structure was the horror of a generation. It was those poor souls spurted out the wombs in the 80s, raised on Transformers and Mega Drives, now populating higher educational facilities across the western world. And what of them?

Hunter S wrote of the Generation of Swine, the money-hungry architects of Reaganomics and proxy conflict, now we have a generation of shit jumping up and down in our laps. Who are these persons? They are the vast majority of the inhabitants of Bebo, born generic and raised as monotonous drones, they rove the digital landscape posting comments about how much alcohol they consumed the previous evening, or how they’re bored and oh so mad. “Look at me,” they holler, “I’m just a big pile of frenzied insanity!”

Culture absent from all but the most rare individual. Music consisting of “oh, anything really, James Blunt, rap, dance, and stuff, I’ll listen to anything really.” Translated this roughly equates to “I don’t like music.” Film choices revolve around Anchorman, and those films by those guys we can’t talk about. Sport categories are often burgeoning with various throw, kick, hit games, what joy. Books? Well anyway. Usually these things are topped with “I do marketing at university, and it’s crap, and I can’t wait till I finish.” Far be it for me to suggest that there may be interesting subjects in the realm of tertiary education…I’ll leave it there.

Dancing effigies of Family Guy and shots of mass-produced alcohol were the last things to gallop their way out from the shadows. It was then I realised this is the new generation of middle management, drab and dull, feasting on trips to Ayia Napa, and discussing exploits so banal as to cause fissures in the anatomy of Coldplay themselves.

This May afternoon, with tea leaves burning my hands, and Pain Of Salvation orchestrals gushing from nearby speakers, I do nothing beyond despairing at these people, misanthropic atoms engulf my keyboard. Although I must let it be known that I’m mainly musing over the UK portions of this generation, what with them being the ones I’m most accustomed with. And also I should state that there are exceptions to this model, there are people who are interesting, witty and intelligent, and I praise them. Plus I’m aware that being my age puts me precisely at the centre of this generation; I can only hope that some football-loving jock somewhere is blogging up a commentary on pretentious culture-whores.