"How do you f**king think I feel?"

noreply@blogspirit.com (Clare Bear) — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 18:45:00 +0100

Just been to the cinema to watch Run Fatboy Run. A film with no punctuation.

The film itself wasn't great; being a reasonably trite, colour inside the lines, watered-down for Americans, Simon Pegg good idea gone bad type of thing. It was agonisingly predictable and lacked the furious satire that Pegg is best at. The only saving graces were Dylan Moran being a slightly less sweary version of himself and a couple of half funny on-the-hoof television reporter lines right at the end that made me crack a smile. For the most part it was distinctly average.

Which is fine. You can't win them all.

What made the experience completely terrible was the cinema environment. I don't know whether you've ever been to see a 12a rated film on a Sunday afternoon in an out of town entertainment complex with easy links to the local council estates, but it's not a particularly pleasant thing to do.

To be fair, only a few of the swarming spotty teenagers (who incidentally weren't accompanied by an adult and looked distinctly *under* the age of twelve) had the affront to wander in and out of the room chatting amongst themselves during the film, and there was only the one incidence of anyone carrying out a telephone conversation. What aggravated me the most was the ubiquitous fat slag sat in the chair behind me who felt the need to jiggle bits of herself mercilessly throughout the entire two hours of the film at a frequency of oscillation which I'm sure could only have been achieved through the act of violent (though thankfully quiet) masturbation.

The overall experience has left me rather disinclined to visit the cinema again for a while. I think I've certainly reached a point in my life that no 12a rated film, no matter how hyped, is worth two hours in a confined space with people I haven't pre-vetted.

The Neighbours

noreply@blogspirit.com (Clare Bear) — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 14:35:00 +0100

Such is the way of things these days that in order to buy ourselves a house, we had to pick one that was in a semi-dodgy area. Knowing this, we consider ourselves rather lucky that the owners of the house we're attached to turned out to be a very nice young professional couple in the same position as ourselves. It gives us someone to commiserate with when the neighbours on our other side exceed our expectations of their scummy, chavvy, lazy and ignorant natures by deciding that they want to clear their garden.

Fair enough, yes. It's nice to see a spot of home improvement going on, and it's high time they actually got off their fat collective arse and did something constructive with their time, rather than spending seven hours a day standing in their front gardens shouting at each other and eying us suspiciously as we come and go FROM OUR JOBS. Where we EARN our money.

Unfortunately, despite their best efforts, and chavs being what they are, the neighbours have decided that it's much more convenient for them to throw their newly cut down garden waste over the fence into the back of our garden. Under other circumstances, I could be quite blase about it and say that, well, our garden is rather an overgrown tip at the minute, they probably didn't realise they were dumping their rubbish on a part of our property. But having had them stand gawping at us as we cleared and shifted and hacked and hefted our own garden waste to the tip, I'm feeling slightly put out by it all.

Thusly, I'm now playing with the internet, looking at stuff like this. And this. Ooh, and I like the look of this.

All pretension of socio-political understanding I may once have portrayed has now been blown completely out of the window.

Bear blog - narky

"How do you f**king think I feel?"

The Neighbours