If you aren’t familiar with it, it’s basically using more words than you need to, to express the same thing, or when one word makes another one redundant. E.g. ‘A free gift’ or ‘a true fact’. So anyway, this word perhaps saved my life. It was about five years ago, and my pyscho ex-girlfriend had […]
Felix: What’s your favourite film?
Ian: Uhh… I’ve got two.
Felix: Well, what are they?
Ian: One’s Top Gun and one’s Armageddon.
Felix: … Those are both… Awful. Why? Armageddon?
Ian: Yeah, it’s kinda funny.
Felix: Funny? What’s funny about Armageddon; there’s not a single joke in that film.
Ian: It’s humour…
Felix: Okay… So, so why Top Gun? That’s pretty homoerotic.
Ian: It’s just… It’s a movie… It’s a movie I watched with my babysitter when I was fifteen and she was twenty… … three.
Felix: How does that impact on the film?
Ian: ‘Cause I remember I went to see it, I was into aeroplanes at the time. So I watched the movie Top Gun.
Felix: Well, why does it matter about the babysitter?
Ian: ‘Cause she were to… Mah… The babysitter were babysitting me when I wanted to watch the movie.
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Sherlock Holmes has been given the Hollywood treatment once again, and like his first outing, this adventure proved to have disastrous consequences for Mr Holmes.
Not the character in the movie, of course… I mean, it had disastrous consequences for the well-loved, British institution devised by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle one hundred and twenty five years ago; it had disastrous consequences for the credibility of one of the most famous fictional characters ever devised, and it had disastrous consequences for the entire reputation of British classic literature.
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FELIX: Do you believe in life on other planets?
IAN: Probably… If I saw a ship, then yes. Little green men on other planets, yes. Esstravesstra.
FELIX: What? I can’t write this down if it doesn’t make any sense.
IAN: Esstralestious…
FELIX: Are you trying to say ‘extraterrestrial’?
IAN: Yes.
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As someone who has worked in the bar trade for a while, there is a specific breed of customer that I have learned to dread. Often misinterpreted as a friendly novelty, I speak of the ‘beloved regular‘, in essence, a person who frequents the bar on an almost daily basis. I do not speak of the voluptuous, mysterious New York bombshell, who sits in a dark corner with a martini and a book, dolling out snide, off the cuff witticisms to dispel the hopes of any would be suitors as we see in so many films. No, I’m talking about the British regular… The overweight, over-the-hill, miserable, lonely alcoholic.
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