The patter of tiny feet

Morning, you. How's the wife and kids? Or the husband and kids? Or the significant other / lesbian life partner / crippling pain of loneliness?

As is well documented, I have no 'kids' and have no desire whatsover to spawn any. Having conducted a comprehensive range of mathematical simulations, I have concluded that they would be parasitic drains on my free time, finances and sanity. Ah, you say, but what about the joy they bring? And yes, they do seem to make other people happy, albeit in a rather annoying and tunnel visioned kind of way. Fair enough, you enjoy them. Just don't ask me to hold them or pass opinion on their attractiveness. Well, not until they are at least 18.

Liars, thieves and communists tell me that I'll 'change my mind', and that once I have children I will feel differently. I'll become all paternal and not mind at all that I suddenly don't have any money, time to spend with friends or perspective on the world outside the slobbering lump of noise and farting that now occupies all my time. I just 'don't know yet', because I haven't had the 'joyous experience'.

I wouldn't mind this attitude so much if it didn't so often come with an undercurrent of pity and superiority. Because I don't want children, I am incomplete; less alive, several squares back on the Game of Life. I may be living my life, but really, what is it for? I am, in essence, just pissing around until die, and when I do die my life will have been a failure, because I didn't leave any little versions of myself behind to annoy future generations. I don't really blame those who say these things to me, though. No, like so many things, this is symptomatic of a wider ideology - one which tells us how to be normal, accepted and 'right'.

I'm not just having a whine about this because it makes me feel different. It doesn't, really, except to occasionally irritate me. I'm nearly forty, and haven't change my mind yet. If I do end up changing my mind, that will be fair enough, and I'm sure it'll be lovely. But I have a problem with an ideology which seeks to ostracise anyone not producing the requisite amount of children for everyone to coo at. Firstly, it contributes to the subtle process of 'othering' which relegates same sex couples to the position of lesser human beings. And it makes those who are struggling to conceive feel not just sadness, but sadness and failure.

Also, it reduces the idea of conception - something which should surely be a privilege, a wonder and a miracle - to the level of a 'right'. Whenever I hear that someone feels they have 'the right' to have children, I feel profoundly uncomfortable. A right? Really? How odd. I can understand someone really, really wanting a child, and I can attempt to understand how painful it might be to be denied that. But to call it 'a right' kind of smacks of entitlement and selfishness. You may say that I can't really comment, as I have put myself outside the argument, and maybe that's correct. But... a right? To create life? Something about that just doesn't sit well.

And isn't it possible that while we're trying to preserve the environment of our little world, maybe a way forward is to have fewer children for a bit? To pause in our collective rutting and desist in filling the world with carbon producing oxygen thieves. Not to stop having them altogether, but maybe just to stop thinking of them in terms of a 'must have' accoutrement to the successful life. And to stop making people who don't have them feel like lesser citizens. That would be nice too.

Anyway. Rantings about ideology and the future of the human race aside, I have something to tell you. I am not expecting a child, of course. But I have something far, far better than a child.

I have Flimbleby. Here he is. Say hello.

Flimbleby is an Adipose. He is cute, loveable and fun to be with. Even better, he does not need food, sleeps quietly at night and can be left alone while we go to the pub. He has made us ever so happy since he came into our lives a few weeks ago, and I anticipate him doing for many years to come.

I recommend you get your own Adipose, to love and to cherish. In fact, I think that, until you do get one, you should feel a gaping chasm at the centre of your soul. Until you do feel this way, I will be sending you an endless stream of pictures of him and updates on his progress. Perhaps I'll even bring him to your house and make you admire him.

I know, you don't need one, You're fine without. But I promise you this. You'll change your mind. When you get older.

H based Star Wars trivia

Well, it's been an exciting few weeks. I went to Ireland, I didn't go to Cheltenham, I went back to work and I made a guitar go 'thraannng'. And thus I neglected to blog, of course. But now I'm back, and in greater numbers. For today, because Gav demanded it, here is some more of my comprehensive and enlightening Star Wars dictionary.

H


Han shoots first.

The surest sign of Lucas’ dithering descent into crapitude was his decision to change the coolest moment of Solo’s career – blasting Greedo in the nuts without warning – into a badly edited act of self defence. No matter what he did for the rest of the trilogy, it would always be viewed through a filter of namby-pamby cry-baby morality. Whereas before he came across as a super cool space cowboy who might just shoot you to see the look on your face. We can, I suppose, be thankful that we didn’t get the threatened ‘young Han’ in the prequels. No doubt we’d have learned that his dad, ‘Jim Solo’, used to beat him and that his sister was a stripper and that his only defence was blah blah blah.


Made only slightly better by the ineffectual ‘simultaneous shooting’ re-edit in the DVDs, which Just. Looked. Like. Toss.


Hoth

Hot shower? Not advisable.
Or you’ll melt the bathroom
There’s probably not much to do on an evening
Hunt the Wampa, anyone?

Not being talked about

Morning world. My, you look virile.

Anyway, today I finally got around to replying to an important email, so this blog is number two on my 'List Of Things To Do - Urgent!' Number three is to phone a solicitor, so I'm not looking forward to that, and number four is to phone the council and shout at them for ignoring my bins.

To digress temporarily, the council thing is really annoying. They keep not taking our recycling. So I emailed them and said "Oy, bitches. You know you sent me a letter the other week demanding we leave our bins out at very specific times and in very specific places, and how you;d be really cross if we didn't, and oooh, the penalties? Well, I did what you said and look - it's still there, and still full of cardboard. You dicks.'

Well, this made me feel all victorious. And then they emailed back, saying 'Well, we came the next day to take it and it wasn't there! So what can we possibly do? Yours sincerely, Some Moron'. So I did a dance of rage, because, right, they'd told us not to leave it out except on the day of collection! So why were they surprised it wasn't there on the day after? Why? Why, reader? Why?

So anyway, I have to phone the cretins and explain their own system to them. Which I'm not looking forward to. I might make that number five on my 'List Of Things To Do - Urgent', and make number four 'Have another cup of tea'.

So. This important email, which was important thing number one, and which is what I'm really here to talk about. A few weeks ago someone I used to know emailed me to apologise for all the times he'd talked about me behind my back. He said that some of these were probably justified, but some weren't, and he wanted to get it off his chest.

I was - well, am - quite touched by this. I would never have found out that he'd been doing this, and I'm unlikely to ever see this person again. So it was a totally honest, redemptive act. And it makes me feel better about this person, and for some reason about myself. I think maybe because it restores my faith - a little - in the ability of humans to be candid, and fair, and decent.

For various reasons I do appear to be one of those people who get talked about a lot. Occasionally the most frightful lies get back to me, and occasionally, more worryingly, frightful truths. The part of my brain devoted to making me feel bad spends hours inventing the terrible things people might be saying about me, and whispers them constantly into my mind. It imagines scenarious akin to the following:

Person A:  I say, do you hear what that ghastly Rob Reed has done now?

Person B:  Something lewd and blasphemous no doubt?

Person C: Oh, do tell!

A:   Well, people do say he keeps the company of several midget ladyboys, whom he beats and abuses for his vile entertainment.

B:   That is the kind of thing he'd do.

C:    I hear he is often to be seen in the town's most disreputable places, smoking tobacco and pleasuring himself with intoxicants.

A:    Whilst shouting 'All hail Bealzebub! For you are mighty!'

B:     This would explain many things I also hear.

C:    Namely?

B:    It is said he stands atop the churches of Wakefield on a nightly basis, naked and urinating!

A:    Yes! Urinating the fires of Hell themselves! So that Satan might be manifest upon the Earth and rip asunder the Holy Kingdom of the Lord God!

C:    Ooh! And! And, do you hear who he might be going out with?

B:    Do tell!

Enter Rob

Rob:    Hello good friends whom I trust!

A, B and C:    Hi buddy!


So that's probably what happens. In my mind. Which, as I said, is hell bent on making me feel inadequate, pathetic and villified. And so all the actual horrible, selfish, nasty things that do manifest themselves in my life, become amplified by guilt and suspicion. And I find it just that bit harder to believe in myself as good, or worthy, or redeemable. Or forgivable.

Or - worse - I get superior. And I think "Everyone except me is an idiot and a liar! I've never once summoned Satan while urninating, naked, atop a church! I am totally justified in ignoring any criticism anyone ever makes of me, for clearly I am the misunderstood hero of this age. Where are my whores, my heroin and my lubricant? There's work to be done!"

Both these equally unhelpful responses are partly the fault of my stupid, over-imaginative brain. But not entirely. No, I reserve some blame for you. And me. For we make all this possible by our unreserved embrace of character assassination.

We talk about each other, all the time. We spread nonsense and lies, or distorted truths, for the sake of amusement, or maybe to make ourselves feel superior. We invent moral scales that suit the context of our gossipy conversations and that  - conveniently - leave us untouchable and situated on some mythical moral high ground. And we destroy those we talk about by doing so, in ways we can't imagine.

I have never stood atop a church, urinating the fire of Satan. But I have sat among friends and subtly spread false ideas about those not present through my hilarious and unassailable wit. I'll try and stop. You need to stop too.

Truth and nonsense, 24 times a second

My recent filmwatching, summed up briefly so as to give you more time for other activities, such as listening to improvisational jazz, mastering the art of self pleasure or perhaps preparing a fine and noteworthy sandwich.

The Day After Tomorrow

Not-so-dreadful-as-people-said apocalypseathon, set in a world where character comes a poor second to great big tidal waves smashing everything to pieces. Good for talking through and occasionally shouting "Go Donnie Darko! Save the world!" Also features wolves!

Dead Man

Black and white Jim Jarmusch film that has languished unopened on my shelves for many months, waiting for 'the right mood'. Surprisingly funny, visually gorgeous and featuring Johnny Depp exercising his 'subtle' brand of weird, as opposed to the 'annoying-twat-on-a-stick' brand he has favoured of late.

District 13

Exciting and unusual French thriller-come-jumparound, featuring amazing stunts, sharp dialogue and brutal political commentary. Extra points for the confusion it will cause if District 9 ever gets to its fourth sequel.

The A-Team

By no means great, but still vigorously enjoyable update of 80s playground fodder. My childhood analogue Murdoch superbly playedy upcoming and brilliant Sharlto Copley.

Down With Love:

An entertaining script and great actors don't quite pull off the intended homage, but it passes the time in much the same way that stroking one's own thigh does. Why isn't Ewan McGregor quite the star he should be?

Lolita ('97):

Well acted, slightly overlong adaptation of dodgy paedo novel I haven't read. Moral: don't have relationships with under age girls - they are really irritating.

Donkey Punch:

Effective Brit thriller where almost believable characters get naked and then accidentally kill each other in a variety of sexy ways.


Hope this has been of help. You may now resume your life.

Eclipsed

Well by Jimminy, Toy Story 3 is good, isn't it? I mean, really, properly, moving and beautiful and made with love. Two great films in two weeks (the other being the mighty Inception): what is the world coming to? Sadly, I have doubts that The A-Team will complete the trilogy of cinematic joy, but I intend to watch it anyway.

Anyway, I still need to see Inception again, I think, though I have lots of ideas about it. But I want to do a spoilery review, so I think I want to wait. Anyway, that's not really why I'm here. I'm here because... well, ultimately because of the folowing factors:

i) My parents met, while working at a brewery. The close proximity of alcohol clearly invested my conception with some mystical power, meaning that the more I drink, the funnier and cleverer I become.

ii) My attempts to escape my hometown of Bradford to somewhere good, like Cambridge, Cardiff or anywhere else at all, were thwarted by my ultimate lack of intelligence. So I was banished to Wakefield, where they let anyone in.

iii) Despite occasionally pretending I'm going to leave Wakefield, it has proved impossible, due to a bizarre collection of very good friends. Also the fear of finding another town with such a close wine shop.

iv) I've found a leaflet I want to share with you.

While doing my big clearout last week I found many things. My odd pictures from the past you have already seen. This is a cinema programme I have kept, for whatever reason, since 1995. Normally this would have been destined for the 'why did I keep that?' pile, and thrown away, but I decided not to.

Just recently I was bemoaning the paucity of choices available to the modern cinema goer. Currently, at Wakefield Cineworld, with its 9 screens, you can see all of the following:

Toy Story 3
Twilight: Eclipse
Inception
Shrek 4
The Rebound

That's your lot. And if you look at the Showcase up the road, which has seven more screens, you can add just six more films.

It's not a massive selection, by any standards. The tendency to fill the screens with the most obvious hits leaves out any room for smaller, more interesting films. Of the 41 screenings today at Cineworld, 17 are accounted for by Toy Story. Much as I liked the film, I'm not sure it needs to be shown 17 times in one day, at the expense of... well, virtually everything else. The only non blockbuster here is The Rebound and that gets a massive 2 screenings.

Now, back to my leaflet. If you went to the Showcase that same week as me in 1995, not only would you have seen my cool pony tail, you could have watched any of the following films:

Natural Born Killers
Star Trek: Generations
Leon
Pulp Fiction
Interview the the Vampire
Shallow Grave
The Lion King
Forrest Gump
The River Wild
Andre and Stayout
The Jungle Book
Black Beauty
The Road to Welville
The Specialist
Stargate
Time Cop
Pagemaster

Unbelievable, isn't it? I would easily put 3 of those in my top films ever, and there's some good solid smaler stuff too. And some crap.

The cinema is doing fairly well in Britain, despite the recession. But it really saddens me to compare what is on offer today with what we could see fifteen years ago. It's not that films have got worse - they are probably better, if anything. It's just that cinemas have given up being adventurous or interesting.

Anyway. If you haven't seen Inception or Toy Story 3 yet, go do so. I also have high hopes for Scott Pilgrim. See you soon.