Why they should never make another Toy Story film/I’m a selfish old coot

Like pretty much everyone else in the world that wasn’t already going to see Inception, this week I made a trip to the cinema to see the long awaited third instalment of the Toy Story saga.

Having missed the actual release date on July 19, I had had the chance to read a bazillion glorious reviews’ of the film. This, with the fact that, let’s face it, I had been practically stewing in my own self loathing for the last 12 years to get a Woody and Buzz fix, meant I was filled with worry and apprehension. Would it….could it really live up to the media hype and the accolades of the critics? Would I still love Woody like my own friend? Would Andy have come out of the closet? And after finally pulling myself through puberty, would Andy’s Mum now be a Milf? To say I lost nights of sleep would be an understatement.

 Braving the queues I made my way to see Toy Story 3: The Breakout, in all its 3D HD Computer Animated Super Glossy Surround Sound glory. Excitement literally oozed out of every pore as I took to my seat. Even the fact that I had to wear my 3D glasses over the top of my already massive Nerd Alert glasses didn’t detract from what I was feeling.

Just call me double vision...

Then it started. Now, it’s not that I didn’t enjoy the film. I did, it had it all, tension, action, humour, romance, tears and the built in Disney message of love, hope and friendship that we have come to expect. Yet, walking out of the theatre I didn’t feel consumed to talk about the film. I wasn’t filled with fuzzy nostalgia or excitement and my dreams were not infiltrated. If anything I felt a little bit…empty. Empty because this is, or at least it should be the end of the road for Woody and the gang and in part my own obsessions.

You might think that I seem consumed with my own self importance when I say this and even scoff, “It’s a kids film quiffhead, who cares?” and rightly so. On paper, I am probably not the films major demographic. On paper.

The first Toy Story you see, hit our celluloid screens 15 years ago when I was 6. It was the first film to ever be fully computer animated and nobody had ever seen anything like it before. It changed the way that we view CGI and paved the way for pretty much every single Disney movie since. When I first saw the film I was completely sucked in, the characters were real, the plot, to an infant mind, completely believable and Andy, the rarely seen central force of the film, a relatable and accurate reflection of my then self. In Toy Story 2, I watched the characters and the plots grow alongside my own developments. These films were the film ‘soundtrack’ of my childhood. Then it stopped, they didn’t make another film and I thought that this was it. The end, I moved on and forgot about it.

 Now, 12 years later, they release a third instalment, aimed, rightly so at another generation of fans and yet, when I went to the cinema and looked around I did not see one person below the age of 20 and many were even older. This was the audience that truly cared. A new harem of children could never be affected like we would. They had films like, Shrek, The Incredibles, Bolt and Up to enjoy. They would snigger at the graphics of the 15 year old original and never see why the film was such a big deal.

Throughout the films running time, I would look around and see the faces of the audience, watch how they were taken back and indeed note an air of sadness. We were all grown up now and, like Andy, moving out, finishing degrees and getting jobs. Clinging to a childhood film like we were, if anything seemed a little perverse, a little sad and even a little like exploitation on behalf of the filmmakers.

 Personally, I think that the film should never have been made. 12 years is a long time to wait for a film, no matter how much you love it or think it’s going to be utterly mind numbingly brilliant. Only Axl Rose would argue otherwise. The film should have ended with us and our childhoods. Like Andy, we have moved on and the films should now stop for good. Instead, the films ending, left obviously open, left me cold. An obvious effort from Disney to open the film up for a few more sequels, stretch it out and make some more money. Much like the whole, 3D thing. Just another cash in. This wasn’t a film to entertain and enchant or push boundaries, it’s a money making franchise playing with our nostalgia and cruelly rebranding itself for a new audience. Disney has take one of its finest exports since the 50s and raped it like everything else in the modernised version of the famed company. The film is simply a means to an end for them and no longer the labour of love it originally seemed.

Don’t get me wrong, the film is great. Funny and enjoyable and all that, it’s just no longer ours anymore. Enjoy Toy Story 4, 5, 6, 7 and Buzz’s spin off TV show people. I’ll be at home watching Toy Story 1 and 2 on VHS and crying into my cowboy hat.

Kama – A warning of the bad things that happen to you if you upset your kamic balance by pouring a pint over a perfectly lovely and innocent girls head

For reasons unbeknown to me (though thoroughly welcomed) my course decided to hold a somewhat presumptuous graduation party before we actually knew for sure that we had graduated. Now for background purposes I think it’s only right to tell you that many of the people on my university course seem to dislike me. Not really sure why, they just do. It could be because I’m loud and joke a lot, it could be because I tend to do alright, it could be because I (shock horror) like and get along with my lecturers. It could also be because, as demonstrated in this blog, I’m an idiot who does really silly things quite a lot. Who knows. Fact is though, not many seem to like me.*
Subsequently, feeling like the elephant in the corner I decided to drink like George Best on a holy day. Steadily intoxicated I proceeded to generally embarrass myself and be drunk. Dignity fail number one. After a while the majority of my course decided to move onto a club. Taxi’s were booked, everyone left …I missed the taxi or was left behind by everyone depending on how you look at it. Not to be defeated though I thought it wise to walk into the centre of Newcastle and join them. I was accompanied by my coursemate (who I think likes me) Tom. We (and by this I mean, I) stumbled off on our way stopping and starting a lot as I talked crap about probably loving Tom a little bit.
Finally we arrived and it’s a Saturday night so the queue is massive, Alton Towers size even. But determined, we brave the cold and wait for our turn to enter the mystic and now very blurry club. When we are stopped.
“ID?” Bellows the nasty looking man in the black suit.
“Ok,” I say, quietly wondering how on Earth he can justify ID’ing me and my manly beard.
Tom shows his and ambles inside, I reach into my pocket and remove my trusty passport, which, as I am a failure in life that can’t drive, is what I tend to use for ID. I open it to the correct page and show the chap.
“Step out of the queue mate.”
“What..?” As I glance at my passport to see my brothers face. It seems that somehow, I had managed to get my passport mixed up with my brothers, how I do not know. But, as he is not me and I am not him, it is not what you can call a sufficient piece of identification.
I leave the cue and it’s blurry faces, my face stinging red. Then I remember that I know the girl who organise the night at the club, she can get me in! So I queue again. Get to the front and ask the bouncer to get Lucy who organises the night.
“No can do mate, can’t leave the door.” He smirks.
“Well maybe I could pop into the office and grab her?”
“I don’t think so, we aren’t stupid.”
“But I know her!”
“If you know her so well why don’t you call her ?”
“Fine..” I reach in my pocket to get my mobile to find the battery has run out. I slowly do the walk of shame out of the queue for the second time that night.

At this, I decide that it is time to go home but first I need to make a decision. Do I get a taxi home or do I get food and walk home. I can only afford one. I choose the food (fish and chips if you must know) and head on my merry but humiliated way. About 3 minutes into my journey I see a group of raucous young men approaching me and our eyes meet, I nod, they slap my food out of my hands. All of a sudden I am back at school again.
“Well you’re a prick,” I say, drunkenly thinking I’m tough.
“You fucking what?” Shouts Conan the Barbarian.
“erm…whatever.” I falter as I walk away sensing the danger that could have ensued.
Then, with my back turned, he runs up behind me and punches me in the back of the head. My glasses fly off, I try to catch them only to just bat them further away in a very uncool fashion. Luckilly (because I’m not stupid) I had invested in the scratch proof lenses so they weren’t damaged, unlike my dignity on the other hand. I then amble home with a throbbing head, no friends, no food and no fun. I wake up the next day to discover that I actually did have enough money for both a taxi and food. If only, I think. If only I hadn’t poured a pint over Sexy Sarahs head.
*Important side note here – if you are on my course, I generally like all of you. Except for Colin. He’s a bad man but he hates me anyway so it’s equal footing, in a sense therefore we could even say that that puts us all back on speaking terms. Anyhoo, if you’re not Colin, please like me. I like having friends and I’m not nearly as precocious or nasty as I seem.

The Etiquette of Flirting

Flirting. The act of making ourselves emotionally and physically appealing so that one day, we might get oily and freaky in a shower or visit some kind of weird S&M sex prison in Soho and rub shoulders with the Tories and Jamie Theakston. The road to sexy Nirvana.

To teach you something of flirting I have decided to share with you an example from my recent past. Involving a girl whose real name I shall not reveal (for code purposes we will say she is called Sexy Sarah).

Sexy Sarah is my friend. She is lovely and good fun and I had been practising my flirting on her for a good while before I felt ready to take my skills onto real girls that go to nightclubs and drink white wine in an Absolutely Fabulous fashion.

Now this starts a few weeks ago when we went to the beach. Now I must clarify that this wasn’t really a date (Sexy is very clear on this) as we are just friends but it was an outing, (some might call it a romantic outing – she wouldn’t) but the point is it gave me a chance to practise my craic. Anyway, details aside, we went on this pretty romantic date to the seaside, the perfect way to show my sensitive side and intelligent gentleman brain.

Rule number one then, when going on a date to the beach, do not take books with you. Apparently this might suggest that you are disinterested in your target and as my friend Aled The Mountain told me (see below for picture of Aled The Mountain) it is, “Nerdy as fuck and why you never ever have sex, you fucking nerd.”

Aled 'The Mountain and not The Snowman' Jones

Anyway, remember this, books are generally a big no no, unless maybe you have some outstanding at the library and the library happens to be on the beach in which case it probably makes sense to take them with you. Now, if you do insist on taking books with you (even though you shouldn’t), let them be something about poetry or art or maybe some travel guide of the Himalayas from when you (pretend) lived their once – “Oh…wow I didn’t realise that I still had this in my hand…..how embarrassing..you know I lived there once? Yeah amazing..we ate fresh goat everyday.”That would be cool because it would make you look worldly or sensitive and chicks love that shit.

So, it’s agreed then that if you must do books, art and poetry all the way. What you don’t want to do is take a book about the Victorian serial killer Jack the Ripper cos that’s creepy as hell. Again though, if you insist, at least keep it in your bag. Don’t get it out while you’re eating fish and chips near some pensioners as an icebreaker to show you ‘read’ before opening it to the ‘previously unreleased crime scene photos.’ Never ever do this.

[Fascinating read by the way available here, turns out Montaque John Druitt did it – I guess you never really know anyone do you]

Also as a quick side note,  not really sure of how appropriate it is to take a bag on a date if you’re a heterosexual male, I think it’s maybes a bit gay. Anyhoo, I digress, date mistake numero uno, don’t take books about serial killers and never ever talk about it or show the pictures. Got it? Good.

And now, drum roll please the final act of error. It begins with this.

We are in a nightclub called WHQ, dancing, joking and having fun. Earlier on Sexy Sarah had said the words, “Jordan, can I stay at yours tonight?” Admittedly she meant on my settee and not with me in my bed, but it’s a start and at least she would be in my lair –sorry home, and it’s not like she can stay awake forever, at some point she would have to sleep. At which, I would have had the opportunity to strike…”oh Jesus…I must be sleepwalking again…naked…yes it would appear to be a World War II gas mask…DVD?”

But yes, we are dancing and I turn away for a second and she pours her drink all over me. My head was wet, my shirt was drenched and my glasses had done that nerdy humid thing of getting a bit wet and then steaming up. So, because I am a child at heart, I turned, saw her glee and promptly emptied my very full drink over her head. She was livid. Personally, I thought she was over reacting slightly considering it was she that started it. Twat. Anyway, she was soaking and if the chafing I was feeling was mutual, probably really uncomfortable too. She then left the club and got a taxi home…alone.

Sadly, this is not the end of it. The next day in talking to her, I find that, it might not actually have been her that poured the drink on me and in hindsight, I never actually saw the pourer of said drink and simply assumed it was her because she was smiling and having fun. Basically, I assaulted a girl in a nightclub for nothing and probably ruined her night a little bit. I am not proud of this.

Worryingly this also means that there is someone in Newcastle who dislikes me enough to pour a full drink over me (and drinks in World Head Quarters aren’t that cheap, so that’s a lot of hate). Even more worrying is the fact that this is not the first time someone has poured a drink over me in a club but that’s a whole new blog.

So yes, in short. When flirting do not show pictures of dead prostitutes to your target and definitely never, I repeat, never pour a drink over a girls head. Its just dicky.

Jedwho?

So the utterly hilarious Jedward have been dropped from their record label Sony after failing to be the huge novelty ‘sell my gran for a quick one’ cash in the label had hoped. Gutted.

Speaking out after the shock move a label spokesperson said: “We tried our best to make the lads credible recording artists but punters just weren’t that bothered…They are great lads but haven’t got the greatest voices, so they’re something to see rather than listen to… I’m sure Jedward will be able to make a buck touring as a novelty act.”

Yet another hopeful cast into the depressing sea of mediocrity that is the contemporary music scene. Sucked in and spat out by the machine that made them when they realised that the joke just wasn’t that funny after all. Game over. At least it should have been.

You see, one day later the annoying Irish lads were picked up by rivals, Universal Music Group and signed up to a reported three album deal. As the brilliant major label industry knows nothing quite says ‘hit’ more than two big haired massive headed ambiguously incestuous Irish twins doing Backstreet boys cover.

Tragically the public will probably eat this up. The boys already managing a number two single with the car crash cover Under Pressure will now embark on a national tour where they will hilariously rap and screech their way through covers and possibly a single called Jedward Time or Get Jedward. They will appear on programmes like This Morning and Loose Women where the daytime masses will coo and laugh at the luck of the fucking Irish as they make a fair amount of money being talentless nobodies. Eventually their musical career will drown and they will get TV jobs as the next Ant and Dec or at the very worse, Jed will die in a car crash and Ward will turn to heroin selling his, “My Hell and depression,” story to the highest bidder for the next three years. He’ll then pop up in sympathy roles in seaside pantomimes and make a tear jerking comeback on I’m a Celebrity... In other words the 18 year old twats are made for life and all it cost was their dignity and pride.

This it seems is what good old home-grown talent is all about. Exploitment and insulting attempts to capture the hearts of the nation with a joke rather than any true talent.

 Now for the really tragic part.

 The current big talk from major labels for their shockingly lack lustre efforts to ever sign any real talent is that they are cash strapped because of people like you and me illegally file sharing music. Taking money directly out of bands (vis a vie the record labels) pockets. At least that’s what they would like you to think. Yet no matter how poor a label will lead you to believe they are, there will always be a Zig and Zag, a Mr Blobby and a Crazy Frog. Not only that but these atrocities will undoubtedly do well because the music buying public is inherently made up of hypocritical morons that would rather spend £3 on buying a novelty CD rather than a new band that they can download for free on Limewire. Because of this, acts like Jedward get a three album deal that robs actual acts with integrity (like theses guys) a chance and we let them get away with it because it’s funny.

Public, you disgust me. Pull up your bootstraps before we have nothing left and stop buying into these cheap and intelligence insulting tactics. Start going to gigs, buy T-shirts, buy CD’s, bring back vinyl and for fucks sake stop talking about Arctic Monkeys and The Enemy as your favourite new band and discover something else.

A lesson for burglers everywhere…

So recently I was robbed. I had just moved into a lovely new house in the Sandyford region of Newcastle. The new house (actually a lower floor maisonette) is strikingly more middle class than my previous abode in that it has decking and cream carpets and my neighbours aren’t crack heads. It’s nice. But niceness has its bad sides and often according to the police, people like to rob nice houses. So I was robbed. The bastards smashed through double glazing windows, no mean feat the police and window fitters reassured me. They then went through the entire house, messed it up a bit and stole my laptop, two of my guitars and my housemates D&G watch. They also did a shit in my toilet without flushing it. I had ran out of toilet paper that morning though so, I like to think I had the last laugh. Bastards.

Anyhoo, being robbed is a terrible thing. Atrocious in fact. Unless you yourself have been burgled in the past there is no way of conveying the feeling of arriving home late to a cold draft as you cross the threshold of your raped home. Scanning across the mess before you, silently cursing your scruffy housemates then catching a glimpse of glass and pulled out furniture, the sudden realisation that you have been robbed. The surge of adrenaline as you rush forward to survey the damage then the panic as you think, “Shit, they might be still in the house. Double shit, they might have seen my weird porn….” it’s a horrible situation I can tell you.

Now, because one of our windows was destroyed I had to get a real working man round to fix it. Something I was dreading. The reason being that I am not a real man. I am boney bearded skinny jean wearing guitar playing former magician with a face to old for his girly voice. I know nothing about cars and my football knowledge is pretty dire. I am a dissapointment to real men everywhere, so the prospect of having to make conversation with a man that I could only ever aspire to be whilst he quietly judged me was not something I was looking forward to. At all.

But then, the time came and you know what, it went well. We talked about football, sports injuries, cars, at one point motorbikes(?!?) and we were genuinely having a good time. I began to like John the workman and I think he liked me, Jordan the pretend man. Then. Then the conversation took an interesting twist. We began to discuss other people we had known that had been burgled I mentioned friends, stories I’d overheard etc and John said this:

“I’v got a friend that was burgled recently actually, big lad..body builder in fact. But you know what happened?”

“No, what happened,” I said in my deepest voice.

“He caught one of the bastards in the garage didnt he! Do you know what he did?”

“No, what did he do?” I said knowing full well something monumental was about to happen. Did this bodybuilding hero of a real man give the burlger what he deserved, did he fight him? did he ring his mum? did ring the police? what what did he do!?

“He shagged the bastard.” Said John with glee.

“Pardon?” At least thats what I tried to say. It probably sounded more like, “pffgurrflgelk,” as I spat my coffee everywhere.

“He shagged him.” He repeated.

“Is he gay?” I asked.

“No he’s married with kids.”

“But he did shag him?”

“Yeah, never came back did he, hah taught him a lesson!”

“Yes. I guess he did.”

Now in my mind I’m thinking. What. The. Fuck. Burglary is a horrible crime, but on scale of crime horrendousness, rape is…a lot worse. I think it would have probably been better if the, ‘bodybuilder’ friend had just killed him. Rape I think is probably worse than straight up murder. At least if he had killed him he could have just claimed he was so angry he just…killed him. You can’t really sit there and claim, “I was so pissed off I just well, I just undid my trousers and fucked him.” Doesnt really have the same ring does it. Neither would he afterwards I guess. (I’m going to burn for that one I know) But in my pathetic mess of a situation of trying to be a real man, I didnt want John to know I was shocked.

“Do you know what I would have done John?”

“What?”

“I’d have shagged him twice.”

And then I stopped making him cups of tea and locked myself in the bathroom. The new window looks great by the way.

London to Newcastle

On a train to Newcastle from King’s Cross.Been a mental morning. I got far too sweaty and stressy gallavanting from Balham which is sarrrf of the river all the way to Kings Cross. I met some nice french people who helped carry my bags and talked to me for a bit. Incidently one of them lived in Newcastle which was cool. They seemed interested in the whole Journalism malark and I was pretty interested in the fact that they were French and not wankers.

They are actually the most recent of a run of French people that I have met recently (lots of recents here) and kind of got to know and I genuinely think that in the past I have probably been a bit harsh and most French people are actually *gulp*…alright. I would like to use this, my first propper blog to apologise to the French. I was being harshly stereotypical.

People that aren’t that nice however, the staff and general wanky people of Kings Cross. For one of the biggest and most famous trainstations in the country it is probably the most poorly organised and staffed. Staff were not helpful, looked at me like I was shitting chickens when I asked where the platforms were, manhandled me a bit when asking for tickets and ignored me when I asked them what time my train was or if they would move out of my way etc. Unpleasant miserable people.

A woman in Kings Cross also barged past me and knocked my new laptop on the floor. Luckilly it still works. She also, in the process, ripped a bag that I was carrying. Which later at the worse possible moment completely broke and left me standing on Platform 8 with all of my things on the floor. It was shit. Subsequently I had to pile up all my things on top of my suitcase and have now discovered as I pass Peterbrough that my filofax full of contacts and my new, brand bloody new unread copy of GQ with topless Lilly Allen pictures are missing. This is very shit indeed. Hopefully King Cross’s lost and found staff won’t be as incompetant as the rest of them and find it for me and look after it untill I can reclaim it somehow. Failing that if any trampy people find it and steal it I hope you have fun harrasing my Z-list celebrity associates and ruining my life. Cheers.

Anyhoo, bored and stressed of this for now. I will post more about my 3 weeks at NME later and I’ll also try and keep all future entries from being this self absorbed and miserable.  I hope you will come back and read again.

Your beautifull and looking good and I love your shiny face.

Take care and enjoy your day/evening of X-factor crazyness! You mental case you.

Jordan

x

My Life So Far…

I was born. Started school. Got friends.Mum and Dad got divorced. Became Rotherham’s 2000th Beaver Scout. PLayed football. Did kissing. Did sex. Got good marks (grades). Started college. Found me. Got more friends. Started uni. Lost friends. Got more friends. Worked on ITV’S Tonight Show. Got a girlfirend. Got poor. Passed first year. Lived in squalor. Met John Snow. Passed second year. Did a placement with Hallam FM. Lived in a nice new house wiht decking. Got robbed. Did a placement at the BBC. Got a new laptop. Started a placemnt at NME. Started a blog.