Once again, I didn't think I'd be WeNiSing this week, mainly due to the fact that the weather was being batshit crazy. One minute it was a gorgeous sunny day and I was lunching in the sun in Regent's Park, the next there was thunder and lightning.

I was working late and decided to make an on-the-spot assessment at 7.00 to see how the weather was holding up. Storm clouds were definitely gathering, but apparently the skate was still on so I took a chance and headed down. Hyde Park was ramming with feds and peds, and the distant strains of Supergrass in the background clued me in to the fact that there was some kind of concert on. Most of the cops were apparently unaware of the WeNiS, and seemed to resent our massive gathering at Hyde Park. Listen, Johnny-come-latelies: On Wednesday night, the Serpentine in ours, festival or no festival. Get with the programme. One of you, five hundred of us. That's democracy in action, baby.

There was a neat bit of instant karma during the WeNiS: I'd worn a shirt over my t-shirt to ward against the cold, but after thirty minutes of hard skating slog ...

[Did you know? That for the first twenty minutes of aerobic exercise, your metabolism is still in 'rest' mode, which means you're buring glucose (blood sugar). Apparently the 15-20 minute mark are the hardest because you're running low. But after twenty minutes you shift into fat-burning mode, and suddenly everything feels easier because fat is 18 times more efficient than glucose. This is very useful knowledge, because you feel that if you can just break that 20 minute barrier, you're not only going to find things easier, you're going to be losing weight, as well. Yes okay most people know this already but I was only told recently so I must say I've found it to be a really practical fact.]

... you get a bit hot, so I decided to take my shirt off. Ruff!

"Mike! I'm going to put my shirt in your bag! Skate straight for an emergency midair refueling." I said as I skated up to Mike's backpack, still on his back.

"Oi! Geroff!" Mike waved his hands behind him to prevent me from hijacking his bag.

"Oh it's like that then, is it?" I said as I started to spin the shirt round itself, preparing a towel-like device with which to snap on Mike's legs.

Unfortunately, before I had the chance to do any snapping, one of the arms of the shirt got wrapped around one of my wheels, chewing up the cuff of the shirt and jamming my wheels, sending me careening off out of the skate. I managed to disentangle my wheel and reach the last warden before the WeNiS got too far away, but Mike was still laughing away to himself by the time I caught up with him. Which was excessive, I thought. I mean, it wasn't that funny.

I love instant karma, even when I am the victim of it. The best example of IK I can think of is this one time in Greece, me and my brother had gone to this beach where the sand supposedly had healing properties. You were meant to slap this mud all over you and it was good for all sorts of ailments, so we both covered ourselves in dark, wet sand and sat about in the water. After an hour or so of this, it was time to clean off the sand.

Jeremy said: "Hey Daniel, I think there's still some mud on my back, can you wash it off?"

Heh heh, I thought, thrusting my hands deep into the mud to grab an extra big handful of it to slap on Jeremy's back. Unfortunately I also thrust my hands into some kind of extremely sharp shell or shard of glass, completely tearing open my middle finger. It bloody hurt and bled for ages.

Karma's a bitch, baby!

A while ago, when I was at the younger end of the teenage spectrum, I used to fantasize about a band that would release an album that would be 'cross-genre'. As in, they'd do a rap track, then a heavy metal track, then an easy-listening track, then an opera track, then an instrumental, and so on. I used to think to myself: "If I'm ever in a band, that's what I'd do."

Gorillaz isn't that band, and Demon Days isn't that album, but listening to 'DARE', a sort of eightie-esque pop song (sung by Neneh Cherry, no less!), which follows a hard-rockin' grunge track (with heavenly choir breakdown), and is followed by a creepy spoken-word story/song as read by Dennis Hopper; I certainly found myself thinking of that idea more than a few times, and this album comes closer than any than I've heard since the heady days of PWEI-zation.

While I bought and enjoyed the first two Gorillaz singles, I've never heard their first album, and never even considered buying it, mainly due to the odd PR campaign staged by Gorillaz themselves. They were mainly promoted as a 'parody band'. I believe Damon Albarn's exact quote was: "We realized that most bands ended up as cartoons of themselves anyway, so we thought it would be interesting to start the band as a cartoon." That's not exactly the sort of quote that lends one to thinking that they've actually put together a decent album. I figured they were a singles band- just like the bands they were supposedly mocking. (in addition, the singles were mainly promoted through their high-energy remixes, not the trip-hop original versions, which made me think the entire album would be a bit slow).

I've since been told this impression is erroneous and I was so impressed by the single that I made it a point to buy the album to check it out. I was not disappointed- it's a great album.

"Hey Dan, great presentation, thanks for that."

"Ah, no problem. I got your e-mail on the changes you wanted. I made most of them, but uhm, some of them were a bit, ah, vague?"

"Which one?"

"Well, I had a bit of trouble with this one here."

"What's wrong with that one."

"Make it look better?"

"Yeah. Y'know, spruce it up a little."

"I don't suppose you could be a little more....specific on that?"

"Uhm, yeah, you know, just, sharpen things up. Bit more....modern."

"Well, I used the standard company template. That's generally how we do presentations."

"Yeah I know, but the standard template is so old, isn't it? I really want this presentation to be cutting-edge."

"So...you want the background changed?"

"No, the background's fine."

"You want...a different font?"

"No, I like the font."

"So you just want it to be..."

"...better."

"Uhm...okay...then. Well...let me work on that and we'll see how it goes, yeah?"

"Great! Thanks!"

[flash]

...one
...two
...three

[BOOM]

Three seconds.

It's not raining. This isn't rain. It's walls of solid water, falling from the sky. It's outdoor swimming with little pockets of air floating around. I don't think there's a part of me that isn't wet. Hmm- my crotch is the only part of me protected by two layers, maybe that's still dry. I roll my hips. Nope, that's wet, too. Lightning forks its way across the sky.

Two seconds.

Thunder resonates across the park. Someone is tearing open the gunmetal grey coulds with giant machines, making a tearing, wrenching noise as they rupture their watery contents all over us. It's close. It could come raining down on us at any moment, electrical fire arcing across the park. Death by kerauno. I start looking round for metal objects to avoid. Pete's wearing glasses- best stay away from him. Jayne's got an umbrella- I'll avoid her. Do I have anything metal on me? I check my pockets for change. Nope, I'm good.

"Shouldn't we get out of the lightning?"

"Don't worry about it! You've more chance of winning the lottery than being hit by lightning."

"Surely those statistics take into account the fact that most people generally get out of situations in which they might be struck by lightning?!"

One second.

Oh, no. Of course I've got metal on me. I've got a great big hunk of silver right through my nipple. Right over my heart. I'm ground zero for lightning strikes. A mental image flashes through my mind: I'm lying on the ground. My hair has been vaporized. My shoes have been ruptured by the strength of the blast, my blackened feet protruding from hunks of torn fabric. For some reason I imagine that my teeth have all come pinging out of their sockets. That probably wouldn't happen. I have this thing about teeth. People are gathering round me in the aftermath of the blast, "Are you okay?"; "Don't touch him, he may still be electrified!". I'm paralyzed. I want to speak but I can't. I want to get up but I can't. I want to say: "The lightning has super-heated my nipple ring to 200 degrees (celsius!) and it's burning into the second most sensitive part of my body from the inside! Get it out!" But I'm trapped inside my own head. Just me and the pain. Shocked through the heart, and I'm to blame.

Zero seconds.

It's right on top of us. I'm getting out of here. I start running for the nearest line of tree cover. Hang on, lightning loves trees. Does this help me at all?

"Oi! Get back on the field! They'll take possession!"

Ah well, I think as I jog back to the goal- I did say I would make the most of the summer.

Kung Fu Hustle is just a joy. I can't remember a single moment in the entire film in which I wasn't grinning like a loon.

This is kind of odd for Kung Fu movies. Having watched, oh, I don't know, a hundred-odd Jackie Chan films, the formula seems to be: Fight scene, 20 minutes of "wacky" (Lord, preserve us from wackiness) comedy and some strained plotting, another fight scene, rinse and repeat. It makes for a lot of fast-forwarding. It's a bit like porn, really.

Kung Fu Hustle follows more or less the same formula, with two rather important exceptions: The comedy is actually funny (and continues consistently throughout the exposition and the action), and the action scenes come a lot faster and a lot more frequently. Yes, the film is just as shallow/empty/pointless as every other Kung Fu film every made, but the goofy smile you get from watching insane, witty, thoughtfully constructed action sequences is sustained for the entire running time.

The effects, though ambitious, are pretty terrible. But you know what? It doesn't matter. The movie somehow sells them to you anyway. It seems to say: "Yeah, I know they're useless, just go with them and you'll enjoy yourself more." And you do, because they're fun. To dislike this movie on account of the effects would be churlish in the extreme. In fact, who couldn't love a movie this genial? Sure, it's derivative (there's a classic Spiderman reference at one point) but also like nothing else you've ever seen before- where else do you get to see the (performs quick mental calculation) nine greatest Kung Fu warriors who ever lived battle it out for supremacy?

This is the best comedy since Top Secret. Go see.

It occurs to me that blogging is really good at capturing some emotions, and not quite as good at capturing others. Joy is one of the ones it?s harder to pin down afterwards ? it?s like sticking a pin through a captive butterfly and wondering why it isn?t as beautiful as when it was fluttering crookedly in the sunlight.

"It's here!" Paul screamed from the the rise of the hill.

"What?" I yelled from below.

"We found it! It's right here!"

I started jogging away from the rest of our little group of explorers, up Parliament Hill towards the rise that Paul was standing on, sillhouetted against a sky of impossible blues and reds. I permitted myself a healthy skepticism- this was the third time Paul had yelled that he'd found it this evening. Both other times he'd been kidding, but this time, something in his voice told me he was serious this time. My pulse quickened.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! It's awesome!"

I finally reached the rise, panting a little, and looked down into the valley below us. There it was, huge and blazing in the light of the setting sun. Strange to look on, at first. It seemed both very close and very far away at the same time, as though you might reach out and sit down on it with one hand, while tiny figures milled about its legs, as small as your fingertips.

"Let's go!"

Paul started running down the hill at full speed, and I started chasing him. The tall, dead-brown grass was knee high, so I couldn't see where my feet were landing. I kept my steps long and barely let the ball of my foot hit the ground before I bounded off it, into the next step. We ran faster and faster. Paul was pulling ahead of me so I started windmilling my arms like a kid to gain speed. Faster and faster. I hadn't ran this fast in a decade. I started laughing.

"I can't stop!" Paul yelled. I could barely hear him over the rushing of wind in my ears.

"Neither can I!" I said through my laughter and panting breaths.

"I've got an ideeaaaaa....." Paul veered sideways and into my path, dropping into a slide-tackle that sent me tumbling forward, rolling into the grass, over and over, tearing a huge me-shaped swathe through the foliage. I finally came to a rest on my back, gasping for dear life, staring at a streak of red cloud that cut viciously across the darkening sky. I breathed in sweet air, and felt happy in a way slightly different to every other happy that ever there was.

The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy is great. That is to say, the radio play, the novel, and the TV series are great. The film is mediocre.

Maybe this opinion is just a product of my own encyclopedic knowledge of Hitch-hiker's (when I was fourteen I read the first four books in one day), and I was simply judging the film from my own preconcieved notions of how the film 'should' be. Certainly no-one wanted this film to be good more than I. Although I actually wonder how anyone who hadn't read the books would follow this film at all- the friend I saw it with, who has a passing knowledge of the books, was often a little lost, and I can't say I blame her.

It's not out-and-out awful: there were plenty of moments that could have been cringe-inducing, but weren't. But it's not very good, either. I think the main problem is that it's very rushed. One of the wonderful things about the novel was how well paced Adams was. He was never afraid to take a little non-sequitur when he thought it might be diverting. Indeed, you might say that was the whole point. While the film does have the occasional wander through the pages of the book, the rest of the film feels like a mad rush from planet to planet for some mildly funny set-pieces in awfully contrived circumstances. You may say this rush was necessary to fit the entire book into one movie, and you may be right, but that doesn't exactly fix the problem.

Casting was good- Stephen Fry as the book is inspired and easily the best thing about the film overall. Sam Rockwell is the perfect Zaphod, although he spent most of the movie being less 'cool' and more 'insane'. Mos Def did a passable Ford but again, in comedy, timing is everything, and the timing just seemed...a little off. I mean, in the novel, Arthur and Ford are trapped in the Vogon airlock, and...

"So this is it," said Arthur, "we're going to die."

"Yes," said Ford, "except ... no! Wait a minute!" he suddenly lunged across the chamber at something behind Arthur's line of vision. "What's this switch?" he cried.

"What? Where?" cried Arthur twisting round.

"No, I was only fooling," said Ford, "we are going to die after all."

...see, that's funny.

In the movie, there really is a switch. Ford doesn't say "just kidding", he actually investigates the switch and discovers it doesn't do anything. That's not funny. And it shows a worrying misunderstanding of Adams' humour on the part of the film's creators that occurs repeatedly throughout the film.

It's amiable and has some good effects and some nice moments. It's just not that funny. (Loved those sighing doors, though)

While there haven't been any memos or discussions about it, the men in my office seems to have come to some kind of collective informal psychic agreement that ties are now optional (I'm assuming this is just for the summer months- presumably a similar psychic agreement will put them all back on when it starts to cool).

`twasn't always so. In fact, on my three month review, my boss said I was doing great, but that I had to start wearing a tie. I tried to tell him that it would interfere with my guillotining duties, flop all over my keyboard, dip itself into my tea, but my protests fell on deaf ears. Actually, I kinda wished they HAD been deaf ears, because then I could have screamed:

"What kind of IDIOT ties a NOOSE around his neck in a job that entails use of one's brain?!?"

without getting fired. Sadly, this was not to be.

Apparently (I looked it up, because Seinfeld already wondered who invented ties. Hear his voice with me now folks: "Who thought THAT up? Did some guy just have some extra curtain and say: I know, I'll hang it around my neck? What's up with THAT?") ties came into fashion when Louis XIV saw some Croatian mercenaries wearing silk scarves around their neck, and was impressed by the 'look' it gave them- his adoption of the practice was quickly mimicked and spread like wildfire throughout the courts of Europe. And, I'll admit, someone with a tie does look better than someone without. Whether it be for asthetic or cultural reasons, ties can and do look good. (Especially on women in white shirts and plaid skirts, which you don't see a lot of in the workplace, unfortunately. Ruff!)

But you know what? I'm not paid to look good. They didn't hire me as window dressing*. If I was a receptionist, maybe my appearance would be more important than having blood actually reach my brain. But I think, given the trade-off between, y'know, 'slightly more attractive' Dan and 'slightly more oxygenated blood in the head' Dan, I think they should definitely fall on the 'smarts' side of the equation, since they hired me for my brains (for which they're getting a truly sweet deal), not my looks (for which they'd be overpaying me somewhat dramatically).

d

* Ha!