dark nights of the soul
Perhaps the most amusing thing in The Dark Knight Rises is 'the Pit'. This is meant to be the most hellish prison on Earth, but looks like a strict health farm. A pretty effective one too, since Batman goes in with a broken back and, shortly after his arrival, is doing press-ups. They even have a TV, until Batman smashes it in one of his notorious fits of pique. The selfish bastard.
When he finally (spoiler alert) escapes, all the prisoners cheer rather half-heartedly, like he's just won bronze in the long jump. Yayyy! Go Batman! Don't worry about us, stuck here in Hell.
If they wanted a real vision of Hell, they could have done worse than model it on Alan Carr's Summer Spectacular 2. This used the same format as his New Year show: shove a load of celebrities and members of the public into a hot, nondescript studio, pump them full of alcohol and Christ-knows-what-else, sit back and let the 'fun' develop.
The result was curiously sinister, like a kid's birthday party presided over by a sadistic four-year old. Everyone but Carr looked - or was it my imagination? - frightened, as though at any time and completely on a whim, Carr might have them dunked in an acid bath. And Carr had new glasses - not all that different from his trademark ones, just different enough to make you uneasy.
When Jonathan Ross was forced to climb on a table and endure a brutal massage, and it seemed that the air of clammy dread was about to blossom into full-blown nightmare, I had to turn off.
I can't take too much of this horror now that I'm - more often than not - alone in the house. Dave returns occasionally, stays a day or two, and then departs. After each visit, it usually transpires that an item of furniture or kitchen utensil has disappeared. This is no coincidence. He is slowly moving out.
As to where he actually is, in theory he is in Malvern with Claire. In actual fact, it isn't that simple. Clues as to his whereabouts occasionally pop up on Facebook, but they are not readily decoded. Recently there was a photo of some ducks followed a bit later by the statement 'RAMMSTEIN BEACH PARTY'. Beneath this last, Claire had written: 'ARE YOU LOST?' Perhaps he is on some drug-assisted journey into the depths of his own soul, where not even Claire can reach him.
Meanwhile I am left to cut the lawn. I never did this before; now, I have become obsessed with it. I stare at the grass for hours, waiting for it to grow, almost daring it to. People may think that it was wrong of me to rely on a one-legged man to cut the grass for so long, but they don't get it. Why should so-called 'able-bodied' people do everything? Just because I don't qualify as 'disabled', does that automatically make me competent? I refuse to be discriminated against in this way.
When he finally (spoiler alert) escapes, all the prisoners cheer rather half-heartedly, like he's just won bronze in the long jump. Yayyy! Go Batman! Don't worry about us, stuck here in Hell.
If they wanted a real vision of Hell, they could have done worse than model it on Alan Carr's Summer Spectacular 2. This used the same format as his New Year show: shove a load of celebrities and members of the public into a hot, nondescript studio, pump them full of alcohol and Christ-knows-what-else, sit back and let the 'fun' develop.
The result was curiously sinister, like a kid's birthday party presided over by a sadistic four-year old. Everyone but Carr looked - or was it my imagination? - frightened, as though at any time and completely on a whim, Carr might have them dunked in an acid bath. And Carr had new glasses - not all that different from his trademark ones, just different enough to make you uneasy.
When Jonathan Ross was forced to climb on a table and endure a brutal massage, and it seemed that the air of clammy dread was about to blossom into full-blown nightmare, I had to turn off.
I can't take too much of this horror now that I'm - more often than not - alone in the house. Dave returns occasionally, stays a day or two, and then departs. After each visit, it usually transpires that an item of furniture or kitchen utensil has disappeared. This is no coincidence. He is slowly moving out.
As to where he actually is, in theory he is in Malvern with Claire. In actual fact, it isn't that simple. Clues as to his whereabouts occasionally pop up on Facebook, but they are not readily decoded. Recently there was a photo of some ducks followed a bit later by the statement 'RAMMSTEIN BEACH PARTY'. Beneath this last, Claire had written: 'ARE YOU LOST?' Perhaps he is on some drug-assisted journey into the depths of his own soul, where not even Claire can reach him.
Meanwhile I am left to cut the lawn. I never did this before; now, I have become obsessed with it. I stare at the grass for hours, waiting for it to grow, almost daring it to. People may think that it was wrong of me to rely on a one-legged man to cut the grass for so long, but they don't get it. Why should so-called 'able-bodied' people do everything? Just because I don't qualify as 'disabled', does that automatically make me competent? I refuse to be discriminated against in this way.
posted by martin at 10:58 AM
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