Sympathy for the Devil

So, you'd think a film about Margaret Thatcher - a unqiuely evil human being birthed in the infinite void itself - would probably wind me up. I watched The Iron Lady on Sunday, a film about her* and her despotic rule.

Thatcher polarizes opinion in the UK. You either love her or you hate her, so it was always going to be a bit difficult to approach the topic politically neutrally, but the producers have, by some rare miracle, managed to do just that*. Or they've managed to approach it in a manner that I give it gruding approval, which probably isn't the same thing.

Now, both the left and the right have been whinging about this film for awhile, and not everyone is happy with the way Thatcher is portrayed in the film, so I was a bit miffed when I saw it myself and found that it isn't even really about Thatcher.

Wait what?

Alright, I only saw half of it, but that was pretty much the first ten minutes and the last forty-five minutes. And what I took away from it was this.

It's a film about mental health. A very dark film at that.

Earned a nickname on the strength of her will. Then got dementia. Irony, huh?

Streep's performance is excellent in particular, although the film overall is well put together with a decent cast. It does a fantastic job of chronicling Thatcher's premiership in a series of flashbacks. The use of stock footage of the Miners Strike, Poll Tax Riots and Falklands War are used in an artfully haunting way, often playing out in the background as Thatcher (either as PM or in present day) justifies her decisions with characteristic Tory rethoric. In scenes of her time in office, the Iron Lady herself remains aloof and indifferent to the suffering and discomfort of people around her. Her famed drive and determination, evidenced through harsh speeches and tough choices, are portrayed in such a manner that, subtlely and without making any political judgement, the audience is left wondering how much of a line exists- and which side she falls on - between stubborn confidence and complete madness.

Jumping between the past and present, Thatcher narrates a lot of her decisions to husband Dennis. All the famous issues are represented, although not always in chronological order. You might thinks stock footage of people being brained by cops or ploughed down by horses is grim. You might find the footage of the aftermath of HMS Sheffield to be pretty upsetting. But that isn't really the point of the film, and in my mind, certainly not the worst bits.

The dark side, without giving too much away, comes in to play when it is revealed that Dennis is dead, and the person Maggie spends a lot of her time talking to doesn't actually exist. That's where it really gets you, and it is those scenes where my shrivelled, misanthropic heart gives a single beat.

I would advise skeptics to go and see it, but most people are going to have preconcieved notions - as I did, I suppose - and this will ruin the film beyond a shadow of a doubt. The cruelest irony, I suppose, is the right say it is a poor representation of a national treasure, and the left write it of as a biopic of monster. Its a big film, but I can't really see it hitting the Christmas DvD listings. I'd still encourage people to see it though, even if the end result is that it upsets you on every single level.


*Or it, since Hells minions are probably genderless.
*I expect, as Americans, they're not intimately familiar with her tyranny and thus can afford to be relatively objective, I suppose.

The Tenth Circle

Following my birthday, in which the steady footsteps of uncaring fate dragged me closer to the grave than anyone realistically wants to be, I went to the Lake District for what was conceived as a romantic weekend away. And while there was a certain degree of romance, as is charitable at this time of year, there was an impressive amount of undiluted hell.

Readers of the classical book The Divine Comedy, by Dante Alighieri, or avid players of the video-game Dante's Inferno*, will know that in the ninth, final circle of Hell, Lucifer screams in eternal torment and flaps his wings, freezing the ice which binds him to the Pit. This is, obviously, only half the story. Because beneath the frozen glaciers of the Ninth Circle, which Dante could not penetrate, lies the Tenth Circle of Hell. This is owned and operated by the National Trust. Membership is about eighty quid.

Treading in sheep dung. Possibly more upsetting than having your dead wife molested by Satan.

I found this out for free, though, at least at the start. We were in the Lake District. The Lake District is in Cumbria, a place that summed up in three words would be 'Hills, Lakes, Sheep', and is impossible to sum up in any greater length due to the complete lack of anything really to talk about. Much like classical mythology, what will henceforth be known as 'That Fateful Day' began by us paying the ferryman to cross the lake, thus beginning our descent.

Crossing the Styx courtesy of Cumbria Council. It is 50p for foot passengers, and £4.50 for cars.

Upon reaching the far side of Windermere, we skipped out most of the infernal circles although gluttony (3), avarice (4), and anger (5) would all play a prominent role in our journey. Ignorant of the fact that we'd obviously been assigned a casual stroll through the nightmare realm, we set off following signs (courtesy of the National Trust) for Beatrix Potter's house. Because, you know, that's cute. And not possibly related to Hell at all.

We even met a helpful traveller, who we will refer to as Virgil, partly because we never caught his name, and primarily because he had the whimsical attitude usually associated with a dead poet acting as a tour guide for Satan. Having taken Virgil's advice we decided to tackle what can only be described as 'A Fucking Huge Hill'. If anyone thinks I'm being melodromatic, you are wrong. I saw the top of an RAF Tornado whilst climbing that hill. And it was flying.

Anyway, we set off in search of Beatrix Potter, who I adamantly referred to as Beatrice, bringing us closer to Dante's tormented vision than I first realised.

Before long we were shin-deep in quagmire and sheep shit, completely lost and screaming our curses to the unforgiving sky. Every now and then we encountered Virgil, perched on a rock, wall, or animal carcass. He frequently offered condescending advice or information on the type of people condemned to live out their days drowning in animal by-product in the Tenth Circle of Hell, their failings and individual sins. At one point, the grasping hands of the recently damned must have grabbed my ankle, because I fell down a hill, sprained my knee or something, and spent the rest of the day limping over rugged terrain with said knee clicking every three steps like an agonising pedometer.

After finding our way off the godforsaken mountain and back down into the valley, we encountered a pub. Sure enough, Virgil was inside, knowingly smirking at my limp and supping a pint of real ale like a smug bastard. He didn't offer any sagely advice this time, but disappeared, leaving us at the mercy of uncaring fate, which is not known for it's benevolence or sound advice. We left the pub after eating our own bodyweight in soup and chocolate, and set off towards the next village, which would reliably contain Beatrix Potter's house. Unfortunately, once again we fell into the trap of following signs placed by the National Trust, which at one point indicated a direction precisely opposite to that of our destination.

But we followed it, because we're not an imaginative couple. By this point it had taken just over five hours to walk four miles. For anyone bad at math or fortunate enough not to walk long distances, thats about three to four hours longer than necessary.

The consequences of following the National Trust signposts - despite their previous betrayals - involved fording a stream, crawling through mud and barb wire, holding back demonic sheep with a burning brand, and eventually performing an 180% turn and arriving, miserable and wet, at the village that was only just down the road from the pub we'd just been in.

We saw Beatrix Potter's house. As houses go, it was alright, apart from you couldn't touch anything, there were rabbits, and because some of the rooms were off limits the entire building possessed a maddening geography whereby it appeared larger inside than outside, and bigger upstairs than downstairs. The net result was a considerable loss of sanity, as well as costing eight pounds. If anyone thinks eight pounds is a lot to pay to see the inside of someone's house, you are right. It is. The National Trust employee, Guardian of the Tenth Circle, told us that if we signed up the benefits reaped were so amazing they might as well be paying us to do it. After all their deliberately misleading signs had put us through, I almost throttled her.

After Beatrix's house we took the road home, walking and limping and making a point of willfully ignoring any National Trust signpost for Windermere, which I'm pretty sure would have seen us eaten by river-trolls before the end of the day. Virgil was not with us at this point, presumably because being a virtuous pagan he is banned from entering heaven, and thus he did not accompany us back across the lake.

Tl:dr? We got the shit knocked out of us. By nature herself.

Did I have a good time?

Yes, I did.

Am I going to try to be a better human being in order to avoid the Hell specially designed for amatur walkers?

You bet I am.



*You can only speculate which category I fall into.

Curriculum Vitae

In an attempt to finally find lasting employment, I am putting my CV out there for people to comment upon, hopefully helping to streamline the data and highlight my potential.


Dear Sir,

I was very pleased to learn of a vacancy in the putrid mire of corruption that passes for your company. My enthusiasm, spurred by depression, alcohol abuse and financial ruin has led me to apply for the advertised position. Please find my attached CV.

Kind regards,

Citizen Stevie.

Profile

I am experienced and decorated veteran of several retail chains. I saw action in the filthy pits of several grim northern towns, an experience I am assured is not entirely unlike Beirut. I have great interpersonal skills so long as the rest of the workforce shares my ignorant hate-fuelled opinions. My core strengths have been further supplemented by my University education, which involved high levels of critical analysis, selective reading, arguing with morons and a willingness to perform degrading acts of dubious morality with members of the teaching staff.

Education
University of Self-Importance: BA in Studies of Dubious Academic Merit (2010).
Dole Dodging Inner City College: Generic Studies (A),  Politicology (B), Cynicism (B) The Depressing History of Communism and Fascism (C) and English Literature (D) 
NCPLH Training (2008)
Fire Extinguisher Training (2011)
First Aid Training (2011)

Work History
 
General Retail Work - Supervisor 2007-2010
After demonstrating my superiority over my fellow vermin, I was promoted to Supervisor. The core skills in petty middle-management I developed included.

• Delegation of pointless objectives to people below me.  
• Demonstrating my honesty by not stealing from work due to a lack of opportunity
• Innovation by stealing things that were never missed
• De-escalation of conflict and crisis management without recourse to physical violence on over 60% of occasions.
• Disapproving stares, petty quibbles and mean spirited comments

I also performed general administrative tasks obviously designed by a malicious orangutan. I frequently interacted with varying levels of management, all of which were dicks, and helped lead a diverse team of trusting and vulnerable innocents into the very mouth of Hell in the name of corporate greed.

DO YOU WANT A BAG WITH THAT?

General Retail Work 2006-2007
As a general retail worker, my duties included robotic task repetition, cleaning,  humouring peasants and counting enormous piles of other peoples money.


Warehouse Worker (2005)
As a warehouse operative, I learned the value of efficiency, punctuality and hard work. This initial enthusiasm was quickly killed and buried under the patio by the cold reality of the working environment, the goal of which is to do as little as possible and blame everyone else.

Recycling Old News

Quite literally old news. I was supposed to post this in December and honestly cannot remember why. Maybe because it's obviously half arsed filler material? I don't know...

Watchdog Suggests Substituting Policemen with Firemen.

A study carried out by London School of Economics and The Guardian has found that anger at police helped fuel the riots that gripped Britain in August 2011. In an effort to prevent this from happening again, a Watchdog has suggested the introduction of riot tactics, which include replacing the popular hate figures with generally nice firefighters, effectively trained in the use of heavy fire suppression units and watercannons. The group - Watercannon All Natives Knowingly Exercising Rights [WANKER], has suggested that using watercannons to blast people off their feet with hundreds of gallons of foul liquid would minimise injury and protect the public. Unfortunately, they cost a lot and have to operate in pairs to guarantee flaying the skin off people.

So safe you can break-dance.

Police Crack Down on Illegal Do-Gooders

Police in Orlando have arrested several members of a group distributing food to homeless people. A spokesperson for the police said, "With the season of good-will upon us already, we need to be extra careful. Homeless people defaecate on local buildings, damaging brickwork with their highly acidic stool. They're a public nuisance and cost thousands of dollars in pest control. Feeding them will only encourage congregations of homeless people to gather in places." Before adding, "We're not against a bit of charity, in moderation, but people should remember not to take the piss when it comes to helping others."

A Bad Year for Dictators, People Observe

After the Arab Spring, 2011 was a bad year for wilfully malevolent people, someone has noted absently. The most recently departed leader is North Korean Premier Kim Jong Il, who finally passed away after a long battle with cosmic justice. A disbelieving world is still trying to make sense of it all. "Kim Jong is dead?" asked one bemused human, "I didn't even know he was Il."

But really, he was a monster.

The closed nation has called for a ten day mourning period, highlighting how much the departed leader will be Commumissed. Worried onlookers are wondering if it is possible for Karma to maintain its present level of ass-kicking, and if this is necessarily a good thing.


Reports of my Death have been Greatly Exaggerated, Says Bon Jovi


Bon Jovi has tweeted to prove he is not dead. This has made the news. We expect a statement from David Bowie later to deny allegations that he stuffed his tights during filming of the 1986 film Labyrinth. This follows a recent trend of celebrity clarifications which started back in June when Duchess Middleton admitted she could 'honestly couldn't give a fuck about the peasants' during Piers Morgan's Life Stories.

I'm not dead, just to clear that up.

Thieves Launch Damning Critique of Art

Thieves in Southwark, London, have made a damning critique of modern art by stealing a statue valued at over £400,000. The statue, entitled, 'Two Forms, Divided Circle, I Honestly Can't Believe You Think This is Art, I'm so Laughing at You', has been pinched by scrap metal merchants. People have been quick to condemn this, offer a reward for it's safe return and point out that it is worth much, much more the way it is than just as metal alone. Rational minded people everywhere have tried to draw attention to just how stupid this idea actually is. A source close to the thieves has knowingly remarked 'It wasn't worth £400,000 guv, but we did get a monkey from big Al.'

Surreality

Sometimes you have those moments where the world has just taken a turn for the surreal again. It's completely out of the blue, and renders any further attempt at comprehension completely pointless by the sheer weirdness of it all. This is the 'Ok... Wait, what?" moment, in academic terms. It happens all the time, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who notices.*  So here's a selection of a few strange things that recently left me speechless.

Twilight, Breaking Dawn: Part I.
No, I haven't seen it. Not all of it. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And the wrong place was work, and the wrong time was the bit where I happened to walk in on Robert Pattinson performing an oral caesarean on his pregnant girlfriend.

That's right folks, he eats the baby out of her uterus.

When the first vampire doctor starts freaking out over the blood - highlighting a really obvious flaw in that line of work - the pregnant Bella goes into complete meltdown and starts dying. The werewolf guy, whoever he is, won't perform the surgery because he is filled with existential angst, or something, so it falls to Edward to save his girlfriend's life by delivering the baby himself. He does this by eating at her stomach. Yeah, honestly. That's seriously what happens. I haven't witnessed anything so surreal as Robert Pattinson eating someones womb. Not in a film aimed at teenage girls, anyway. It'd be like Heath Ledger smearing the walls with faeces while chanting in Latin in Ten Things I Hate About You.

Stand back. I'm a doctor.

Period Features

I just read this in the Metro today during an extended train journey through just about every part of the country. Although it was initially reported seven weeks ago by the Daily Mail, which shows the quality of journalism these days. The only reason I can imagine it making the Mail is because they presumably thought someone would get turned on by it.

Norwegian boss makes women wear bracelets when on their period

I'm sure we'll all laugh about this later. Or not.

Newt Gingrich plans to Conquer the Moon

Don't make promises you can't keep.

Presidential hopeful, wingnut republican and Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse Newt Gingrich plans to build a base on the moon. Hopefully he can go live in it, and leave the rest of the sanity-loving world in peace. If this guy actually gets into office, my last shred of hope in humanity will be gone. Alright, I lost it ages ago, but still. America, I'm begging you, don't do it.


*Please God, tell me I'm not the only one.