Star Wars Pocket Models

I think I might have discovered the perfect trading card game, having bought a couple of packets of these in the last week (well actually Cathy bought me one). In each pack you get six game cards, two styrene sheets of model spaceships for you to assemble (with a minimum of four ships in each pack), and the smallest dice in the world ever.

I’ve always loved stickers/trading cards ever since I was a kid. I think it’s the excitement of no knowing what you’re going to get in any given packet. I also like model kits, especially ones you can put together without too much hassle. So, I have more Kinder Surprise toys than a 31 year old should, a shelf-full of Zoids and B-Damans and a cupboard full of Lego.

But Star Wars Pocket Models ticks all the boxes. You get the mystery element, the ‘something to build and play with’ element and it’s all Star Wars themed. I’m not sure there’s any way you can improve on that really. The only downer is that it claims the game is ready to play straight off, when it blatantly isn’t. The set up guide says you need to start with thirty cards, or five packs’ worth, which is a bit naughty really.

But as the packs are only £2.99 each, I think I’ll accrue thirty cards before too long.

Waiting for the fatwa

The NSS put me on to this video from Pat Condell. Brave man!

"Ooh, go on then, just a gnurt"

I saw this letter in the Times yesterday and it made me smile:

Hard cheese
Sir, My father, being of Orcadian stock, would use the word “gnurt” (silent G) to describe a small piece of food . To be precise, a gnurt was the exact quantity of cheese required to cover a buttered oatcake.
MAGNUS K. MOODIE
Edinburgh

Definitely a word to drop into conversation...

Simpsons movie

The big-screen debut of Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie, starts with Homer objecting to pay good money to see a film version of a cartoon (Itchy and Scratchy in their case). Homer ‘stands up’ in front of you, turns to face the paying public and calls them suckers. It’s an attempt at irony which falls flat because after watching this you begin to suspect Matt Groening and his compatriots really do consider their fans to be suckers.

The main problem with the movie is that it feels like an overly long TV episode, admittedly with a few bits that might be considered ‘too hot for TV’ (Bart’s naked skateboard ride for example). But this isn’t one of the TV shows from the earlier (good) years of The Simpsons. Yes the jokes are funny, but they’re spread thinly. Most of the minor characters just pop up to say their catchphrases and that’s it. The best laugh is right at the end when Mr Burns tells Smithers that he doesn’t approve of suicide, but he might cheer up watching Smithers attempt it.

Overall, the film's themes have been done before by the Simpsons writers, and done to death at that. The script revolves around toxic waste and pollution, a storyline featured in at least one episode per season. Government intervention is lampooned, but the only new satirical angle is the monitoring of private conversations under the new anti-terrorism laws – a reference which is comical, but parochial. Nobody laughed in our cinema when the scene played out, although it might have killed in America.

And many of the sub-plots were left unresolved. Bart develops a pseudo-parental relationship with Ned Flanders, which you’d expect to end in humiliating rejection for Ned and all his barmy Christian ways. But that never comes. And perhaps that’s what missing from the whole film. The original Simpsons got away with being cruel and made you wince at its satire sometimes. This movie is soft in comparison, and suffers as a result.

Jongudmund’s rating: Not bad, but if you miss it your life won’t be any poorer. 6/10.

“Best of” compilations

I’ve been buying Garbage’s records since they first came onto the scene in 1995, even though their output has been inconsistent (stunning debut, uninspiring follow up, interesting third album, mediocre fourth). Along the way they recorded a Bond theme and released several funky limited edition singles.

There was a time when I bought their singles religiously, on every format. When I ripped them onto my computer I ended up with over an hour’s worth of ‘exclusive’ tracks (b-sides to those of us who still remember b-sides). But I have to admit there was a time, round about their second album, when I was a) a bit skint, and b) less than impressed with them, so there are a couple of gaps in my collection.

So when they recently sent me details of a ‘Best of’ I was mildly interested. But, apart from a new single there was nothing on there I hadn’t already got, and the remix CD which came with the limited edition version of the album was full of old remixes off singles anyway.

The additional problem, and this is always the case with ‘best ofs’ is that any ‘greatest hits’ compilation usually means a collection of singles, not the genuine ‘best’ stuff. When I put together a Garbage playlist on my computer about half of my favourite tracks were album tracks.

I expect, being the canny marketers they are, sometime in the next year or so, Garbage will release a ‘live album’ (aka a second version of a Greatest Hits album), and possibly an album of ‘rare and exclusive’ tracks. In the meantime, instead of buying the album, I went out and bought the new single, a sweeping orchestral track which sounded more like their third album, Beautiful, than their last album.

But better than the single, and kind of proving my point about why singles aren’t always the ‘best’ stuff to put on a ‘best of’, is the b-side (sorry, exclusive track) called ‘Betcha’. The lyrics are similar to the Pussycat Dolls ‘Don’t cha’, which it is obviously spoofing. But when Shirley Manson snarls “Betcha wish your girlfriend was a slut like me”, it feels like their first stuff again.

Finnside Jokes?

I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a children’s book for some time, or at least that’s my excuse for reading kids books (but not Harry Potter and the Phnub Phnub Bleerr, or whatever it is).

Over the past year I’ve read four of the Moomintroll books, including a couple I hadn’t read as a kid. Maybe it’s just they haven’t aged well, or they’re in translation, but how weird are those books? It feels like you’re reading something in code.

The stories themselves are stream-of-consciousness narratives which don’t seem to follow any thought-out plan. But it’s the characters which feel most like an inside joke, with you the reader firmly on the outside of the humour circle.

There are several instances where it seems a character exists only to poke fun at someone Tove Jansson knew. The Muskrat, for instance, moans a lot and likes to think deep thoughts and not be disturbed. I imagine him as being a caricature of a cantankerous, bearded uncle.

In my minds eye I can picture Jansson reading out her stories in family gatherings with everyone collapsing in fits of laughter when the philatelist Hemulen starts going on about his precious stamps, or the Snork Maiden almost falls over a cliff because she’s primping her hair, or whatever. It’s funny when you don’t know the people she’s sending up. It must have been downright hilarious if you did.

In Comet in Moominland, Moominpappa’s obsession with recording his life in his journal – to the point where he feels he has to go out and do something so he’s got something to write about – reminds me a bit of my own dad, ringing me up to check how many football matches I’ve been to last season (and where). Maybe it’s a common trait of dads. Certainly, I’m willing to bet the loving, resourceful, wise, distracted Moominpappa, and the knowledgeable, caring, permission-giving Moominmamma are basically Jansson’s mum and dad in (moomin)troll-suits. (And the thought occurs that Moominpappa would have made an interesting blogger.)

So where is the author in all these trollish happenstances? Is she the boyish hero Moomintroll, or his noisy, messy, small chum Sniff? Or is she the cool and detached Snufkin, watching and going along with the plans of Moomintroll? It seems everyone else she knows is in there somewhere. She must be in there too.

Not so special offer

Sky TV keep mailing me with their special offer for live football, broadband and phone calls. And it seems very special until you read the small print and find you need to pay for a BT line as well, and a one off payment for a box, and phone calls at certain times, and so on.

And then there’s the bigger objection, which is Sky TV are bastards who, by giving money to the biggest clubs have made top flight football virtually unwatchable. Every season is billed as the most exciting yet, but the truth is the Premiership is about as formulaic and processional as a Formula One race. The biggest hype is reserved for the end-of-season rush for the last Champions League slot, which could go to anyone, but will inevitably be either Liverpool or Arsenal. Since when has finishing fourth been at all important, in any league, in any sport, in any country, ever? Since Sky.

Such are the diminished ambitions of the majority of football clubs - don't win anything, just get into the Champions League and earn enough money to fund next season's unsuccess.

Of course the Champions League is yet another example of TV money ripping the throat out of football and gorging itself on the still-warm blood of pseudo-competition. The European Cup it replaced used to be a contest of champions. Now it’s various big clubs from around Europe cashing in, regardless of whether they’ve won anything in their domestic league or not. The last “British” (don’t get me started) winners were Liverpool, who have never won the Premier League and were top English team most recently when Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister. In what way do they qualify as champions?

So, Sky TV, stop sending me junk mail. You’ve ruined football. It’s a boring soulless affair and I hate you for that. Why don’t you sod off back under a rock and get your clammy, undead hands off things that matter.

Missing moobs

I was asked, as my newest alter ego Kev, to write a short piece on self-worth. And I did, using an old blog post as a launch point.

But between submission and publication the word moobs was changed to boobs, with no ‘man’ placed strategically in front of them. So I think I have achieved two firsts.

1) Professionally, to become the first person in my esteemed organisation’s history to have something published with the word 'boobs' in it, referring to breasts; and

2) Personally to somehow alter gender in the hands of a, presumably well-meaning, editor… and not only that but become the kind of woman who bares all on the beach and feels no shame in letting people know about it. Which, if I was a woman, I suppose is the kind of woman I’d like to be.

Another day for sleep

Cathy told me I would be unwise to go back to work today and I think she's right, given I rang in sick and then slept till gone 1 'o' clock. I hate ringing in ill. There's that feeling that in your weakness you're disappointing people who are counting on you, and always that half-accusing unasked question 'how ill are you, really?'

My dad rang to see if I went in and when I said how bad I felt told me: "You can always do work when Jesus comes." I'm not quite sure what he meant by that.

There is a (cynical) school of thought which says if you leave doing anything for a week, most 'urgent' things sort themselves out. There's a grain in that. A number of times I've responded to an urgent call to action, only for minds to change and my work to lie unused.

Cathy has printed and stuck a label on our monitor: "The reward for work well done is the opportunity to do more." Perhaps this is true too: the reward for not treating anything as important is the realisation of what truly is important. All very Zen, I know, but hey, I'm post-viral and not really with it.

Going post-viral

The tonsils are shrinking back to their normal size and I can swallow without feeling like I'm swallowing a razor blade, but I feel shattered. The good news is the white blood cells have done their stuff and fought off the infection. Now I just have to build up my strength again.

But that leaves me in the 'how-soon' zone. If I go back to work too soon, my body won't have recovered enough and I'll be vulnerable to another illness. If I leave it too late the work will mount up, and stress my defences out anyway. And on a wider note, should I feel more morally obligated to wait until I'm fully recovered to limit the chances of infecting my colleagues, at least one of whom is very prone to illness because of their ongoing post-viral syndrome?

When other people come into work ill and spread their germs around I curse their selfishness. So, should I take my time and recover fully?