THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "GHOSTBUSTERS: AFTERLIFE" (2021)

If there was one thing that the poorly-recieved reboot of Ghostbusters in 2016 proved, it's that we love and cherish our nostalgia and we prefer it familiar and easily recognizable. There is a reason musical acts like The Rolling Stones continue to pack arenas despite them all being well into their 70's - the fans don't show up to hear the new songs, but rather those 'oldies-but-goodies' that bring back pleasant memories. 

Writer-director Jason Reitman and co-writer Gil Kenan fully understand this psychology as they deliver what amounts to a sequel of the original Ghostbuster movie released 37 years ago (and directed by Reitman's father Ivan). Reitman is a two-time Oscar nominee for "UP IN THE AIR" (2009) and "JUNO" (2007), but it seems clear his mission here was to provide a fitting tribute to the original film, his father, and the late Harold Ramis.

The hook in this updated version is that Callie (Carrie Coon), the adult daughter of original Ghostbuster Egon Spengler (originally portrayed by the late Harold Ramis), has been evicted from her apartment. She packs up the car and her two kids, and heads to the dilapidated farm house she inherited from the father she never knew. Callie has lived her life bitter and hurt that her father never reached out, choosing instead to isolate himself in Summerville in the "middle of nowhere". 

Her kids are Trevor (Finn Wolfhard), an awkward teenager, and Phoebe (McKenna Grace), a science whiz who seems to be a near-clone of the grandfather she never met. As they adjust to a new life, Trevor swoons over local girl Lucky (Celeste O'Connor), Phoebe befriends Podcast (Logan Kim), and Callie gets closer to Gary Grooberson (Paul Rudd), a Seismologist "teaching" at a summer school with help from some age-inappropriate movies on VHS. 

The original blockbuster spawned sequels, re-boots, toys, animated series, video games, documentaries, and now another sequel. Many of the elements will seem familiar as the kids begin to uncover the ghostly creatures unlocked thanks to Egon's research and tools. 

As with the original, busting ghosts is fun, but it's the one-liners and crackling dialogue that make this a joyous ride from beginning to end. A battered but unbowed Ectomobile (Ecto-1) plays a key role, as do ghost traps, crossing streams, and a new generation of mini Stay-Puft Marshmallows. The real fun though, comes from the youngsters exploring their grandfather's workshop and the mysterious mountain at the edge of town, which is actually a long-abandoned mine run by the town's founder.

Acting-wise, McKenna Grace as Phoebe is fantastic, a very talented young actress who will go far, I mean she already has if you look at her back catalogue, but I firmly believe that she is here to stay. Quirky and intelligent to represent another famous Ghostbuster, she executes the mannerisms of a social outcast geek perfectly as she tries to learn how to make friends and fit into a new world.

Paul Rudd is utilized very well in this movie, his charm and appeal comes in just how well he fits into the comedic realm of the Ghostbusters universe. His big kid attitude is very welcome to the young cast members, with that sense of wonder and curiosity as he uncovers the realm of ghosts from the past. Logan Kim as Podcast was very funny and did a great job of embodying a half Corey Feldman/half Data-like character from 'The Goonies'.

Wolfhard provides a little of the awkward fun that we got in the first film. Celeste O'Connor was a fine addition as well, helping to progress Wolfhard's character to a point in this new age modelling, but there was a little bit more that could have been done with her. Carrie Coon also gets a thumbs up as the concerned mom with lots of baggage, and some meaningful character development along the way that results in a hugely emotional, but satisfying pay off.

Now, it's obvious how the original cast fit into this movie. They arrive exactly when you expect them to, and even though they're not on screen for too long in order to let the kids prove themselves worthy of taking on the mantle of the Ghostbusters, the film comes to a satisfactory, and tear-jerkingly touching finale, and was certainly the conclusion many of us fans were looking towards.

There is a Spielberg-like charm and feel to this as the movie is based in a small town instead of NYC, and perhaps with this family-friendly focus on the kids, the best comparison might again be 'The Goonies' or 'Stranger Things'. Yes, it's nostalgic, yet it still new and fresh at the same time, and we do get a look at the firehouse, the containment unit, and the familiar rendition of Ray Parker Jr's iconic theme song. 

Hang on for the mid-credit and post-credit scenes, and just remember to take this for what it is - a rollicking good time. When it's done properly, when it's done right ... bustin' really makes you feel good.

OVERALL RATING: 8/10

CHARLES & GRETA - THE KING & QUEEN OF GREEN HYPOCRISY

Oh, what a delightful spectacle we have here! Prince Charles, the man who speaks to plants, and Greta Thunberg, the Scandinavian oracle of eco-doom, have inadvertently staged a pantomime of green hypocrisy that would make even the most seasoned satirist blush with envy.

Firstly, let's consider the princely protagonist, Charles, who has been nattering on about the environment since the days when his hairline was still on speaking terms with his forehead. His green credentials, he insists, are impeccable. He talks of converting his 51-year-old Aston Martin to run on surplus white wine and whey from cheese-making, which sounds less like environmentalism and more like a recipe for a very exclusive cocktail party. And then there's the matter of solar panels and biomass boilers at his palaces - all very modern, but one suspects that the carbon emissions from maintaining royal estates might just tip the scales in the other direction. 

Greta Thunberg, our earnest young heroine, has become the poster child for climate angst. She's the Joan of Arc of our age, only instead of hearing voices, she hears the ticking of a doomsday clock. Her journey to America, eschewing the sinful airplane for a yacht, was not just a statement but a performance of such sanctimonious purity that it could have been sponsored by the Church of Scientology. The yacht, Malizia II, owned by a Rothschild no less, was meant to be a paragon of zero-carbon travel, but one wonders about the carbon footprint of the crew's return flight to Europe, not to mention the champagne corks popping in celebration of her arrival. 

Greta's message at the UN was as sharp as a Swedish winter: "How dare you!" she cried, with the righteous indignation of a teenager whose allowance has been docked. Yet, one might ponder, if her childhood was stolen by our empty words, how much of her innocence was traded for the spotlight of global activism?

The drama of their meeting is rich with irony. Here is Charles, the man who has spent a lifetime talking about the environment while living in a manner that would make even the most dedicated Greenpeace member wince. And there's Greta, whose very attendance at global summits seems to scream, "Look at me, I'm saving the planet!" - all while possibly increasing her own carbon footprint in ways that would make Al Gore’s documentary blush.

COP26 was billed as a turning point, but with Charles and Greta, it felt more like a theatrical intermission, where the audience could step outside for a cigarette, pondering if the next act would be any less absurd. Their shared stage was less about actionable change and more about the performance of concern - a pantomime where the villains are clear (all of us), the heroes are self-righteous (them), and the plot is as predictable as the British weather.

In this grand, green theatre, one must applaud the actors for their commitment to their roles, but one also hopes for a sequel where the script includes less "Blah, blah, blah" and more actual, tangible change. Because, dear readers, if history is any guide, the climate might just be the only thing not laughing at this show. 

THE RANTING BRUMMIE GOES TO THE [DIS]UNITED NATIONS

Given I'm a 40-year old, straight, white, binary Englishman with a penchant for drinking Guinness, watching Top Gear and eating steak, it's highly unlikely I would ever be invited to give a speech at the UN COP26 summit in Scotland this week in the same way Daft Punk would never be invited to play on MTV Unplugged.

However, if I did, it would probably go a little something like this ...

"Dear attendees. I am, like all of us here, a normal, bog-standard, pretty average, everyday citizen of the world. Whilst I am not the Prime Minister of the UK and have a duty to all, my primary responsibility is to my own. Fortunately we can improve the lot of the former and the latter at the same time.

The forecasts of climate science are no more accurate than our Government's recent efforts on Covid – In fact only one of the climate models gets anywhere near matching real world data and that’s not very near, predicting only half the warming we’re panicking about. So we have time to make the world economy more resilient. 

We Brits will demonstrate how this can be done, and we can lead the whole world into a brighter future based on the time-proven skills of entrepreneurship and engineering, beginning by teaching this in schools rather than letting our children think that waving placards around like windmills with the hiccups and blindly accepting backdoor communism will make a blind bit of difference.

Renewable energy is not the answer. By making fossil fuel and nuclear power stations provide expensive backups for cloudy and windless days - which we have rather a LOT of here in the UK, it forces up all energy prices and overcharges those who use most energy, the old, the poor, the sick, and those with a job. No new renewable schemes should be approved unless the operators guarantee delivery 24/7/365 at a reasonable price. We should instead right the wrongs of past agreements by imposing a windfall tax on wind and solar schemes which exactly matches their subsidies.

But what can give us the energy we need to power our factories, warm our homes, grow our food, while still being cautious about the demon carbon – if, that is, it turns out to be a demon? It must be nuclear. We should cancel all work on European Pressurised Water Reactors in the United Kingdom – given they were designed by EU committees they are as much use as Pope's testicles — but our greatest British engineering company, Rolls-Royce, is developing Small Modular Reactors. Once the design is optimised we should order SMRs in batches of four, with half of them exported as aid to nations which are energy poor.

We keep hearing from various green organisations that we are near the climate tipping point and we 'must do something now'. If these scaremongerers are right we don’t have time to wait for fusion, and if they’re wrong we don’t need to worry if we wait for it to become a viable technology.  

New technology needs time to settle down, and even though the SMR concept is not entirely new – our nuclear-powered submarines have operated for decades with no problems – we must allow for time in adapting the designs. Besides, we need reliable, cheap energy now, not in ten years’ time. Fortunately the answer lies literally beneath our feet. There are billions of cubic metres of natural gas in the Scottish Midland shale, billions in the Bowland Shale in Lancashire, and billions more in the rest of the UK.

There has been opposition to fracking for gas, some from locals but mainly from bearded, cagoule-wearing socialists, those hairy chaps and chapesses who squat around the edges of our civilisation in a bid to take us back to the Stone Age, who wish to keep us in fuel poverty because all profit is bad, yo. 

We can't address the concerns of these amateur hermits any more than we can persuade them to have a bath, but for people who might live near fracking sites the Government should mandate compensation. Any damage caused by tremors – we don't expect any but we wish to reassure worried residents – should be compensated at three times the cost of repair. Furthermore, all houses within five miles of a fracking site should receive ten years’ free supply of gas for space heating, cooking etc, or an equivalent cash payment. 

Now let’s talk about a REAL climate concern: air pollution from transportation, starting with rolling out a programme to convert all heavy goods vehicles and buses, trains etc to hybrid electrical power and/or compressed natural gas fuel. This will cut CO2 emissions from those sources by nearly half, while reducing NOx and particulate air pollution but a similar amount.

As a bridge fuel, shale gas is natural, clean, cuts our CO2 emissions and will be good for our balance of payments while we build up the SMR fleet. Finally, we should establish a think tank of both environmentalists AND climate sceptics, people with legitimately different ideas and opinions.

For too long eco-fanatics, socialists, and teenage doom goblins have acted as self-appointed climate gatekeepers. Now is the time for the issue to be properly debated in public, time to stop the hysteria, time for a difference of opinions to be allowed to speak out and allow entrepreneurs and engineers to play a greater role.

There is our roadmap to the future. The UK will travel that road alone if necessary, but we will welcome those who understand that reliable, low cost energy is vital if we are to preserve our way of life if we move carefully to a low carbon future. 

There are countries who have representatives in this room whose emissions dwarf the UK’s measly one per cent, countries whose increases every day wipe out any yearly savings we might make. I won't name them, but I can tell you they rhyme with Bina and Chindia. Let them come clean and admit that they have no intention of banning coal and oil in their power stations, then do what we are doing, travelling into a clean and low carbon future without killing our people and economies and sleepwalking into backdoor global socialism.

Now, if you will excuse me I will stop here and decline to attend the rest of this talking shop. Like all its predecessors it will fail to come to any useful conclusions, and some of us have lives to lead."

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "NO TIME TO DIE" (2021)

As I think has been well-established now, one of my guilty pleasures as a moviegoer is watching the James Bond movies and I have no intention of apologising for that. 

Thus, I watched as soon as I had the opportunity 'No Time to Die' directed by Cary Joji Fukunaga, the latest film in the series, whose release has already been postponed several times and which finally meets the screens and its viewers this cinematic fall of the year 2021. 

The James Bond film series is approaching the age of 60. All Bond movies start from the same premises and have the same hero, but the way he looks and behaves and the structuring of the story have evolved over time. This says a lot about how cinematic entertainment was and is perceived and accepted in the movies of the big studios.

A lot has happened during these years. The hero evolved from the nonchalant and humorous commander in Fleming's books and played by Sean Connery to the complex and gloomy character in the last series, played by Daniel Craig. The original 007 had gone through the experience of World War II and was active during the Cold War. 

He was excused for his womanising as many things are excused to war heroes, and there was no room for moral doubt concerning his actions because he lived in an age when it was clear who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. Thee 21st century James Bond lives and acts in the turbulent era after the fall of communism and after the novels of John Le Carre were written. 

Today's enemies are not ideological, and screenwriters of such films (not just those in the Bond series) often prefer not to identify them politically, ethnically, or religiously. On the other hand, the romantic implications of the character are no longer devoid of substance. James no longer conquers but falls in love. From Bond the Don Juan we now (almost) get Bond the family man. 

One of the qualities of the script in 'No Time to Die' is that it manages to describe at this stage of the character's evolution a story that is acceptable by today's standards of the big studios and is somewhat credible in terms of character psychology. Craig's James Bond has been throughout this series and is in this film also a real character, not just a two-dimensional comics book figure.

What I liked about 'No Time to Die'? Daniel Craig. Action scenes, car chases and stunts that show ingenuity in a few moments (just when we thought we saw everything in this area) and use the landscapes spectacularly, especially in Italian villages. Humour and self-humour. The presence of Ralph Fiennes, an actor who can do anything on screen and I will like it. 

Also worthy of note is the stunningly good-looking Ana de Armas, a classic Bond-girl with a kick-ass attitude who I hope will survive until the next series. What I liked less? Rami Malek, an actor who constantly disappoints me and who plays a mediocre bad guy here. Lea Seydoux is OK, but her relationship with Bond lacks chemistry. The dose of melodrama introduced in the script towards the end. The scientific pretext, which is thin and I could not understand what they were brewing in those pools (not that it would be important).

'No Time to Die' honourably concludes the Daniel Craig chapter of the Bond epic. It's not the best Bond I've ever seen, but it's well above average. I look forward to the next reincarnation.

Overall Rating: 7/10

THE RANTING BRUMMIE'S GUIDE TO JAMES BOND

So, after a delays of numerous years and for numerous 'reasons', Britain's favourite super-suave super-spy, agent 007 James Bond, is back for another outing in No Time To Die. Predictably, ITV have been using this as an excuse to run through every single Bond film for about the fourteen millionth time, so to save your eyeballs, here's a quick summary of his globe-trotting outings so far.

Dr No. (1962)
James Bond and its universe comes out fully formed and familiar out of the gates. Dr. No doesn't show up until very end, other than his name and his mechanical hands is a pretty forgettable villain. Connery nails everything about 007 from the get-go. Honey Ryder in THAT bikini scene.

From Russia With Love (1963)
The most espionage-ish Bond movie from the early batch. Grittier feel than most Connery films, taking place in Turkey and Yugoslavia instead of a beautiful ocean setting. Red Grant and Klebb great SPECTRE assassins. Train fight scene one of series best, as is the theme by Matt Munro.

Goldfinger (1964)
Connery at his peak in the first true Bond blockbuster. Goldfinger threatening to cut Bond in half with a laser. Oddjob and his razor-rimmed hat. The debut of the tricked-out Aston Martin DB5 and it's ejector seat. One of the greatest Bond Girls of all-time, Pussy Galore. Shirley Bassey's theme tune. The iconic death of other Bond Girl Jill Masterson, her naked body sprawled across her bed and painted gold.

Thunderball (1965)
Better known as the era of James Bond that Austin Powers spoofs. Largo is a decent villain. Underwater fight scenes are comedically bad. Tom Jones does the theme song. Beautifully shot in the Bahamas. Connery at his peak. Remade in the 80's as Never Say Never Again. Which featured Bond playing video games.

You Only Live Twice (1967)
Bond fakes his death goes to Japan. Let's forget he has surgery to look Japanese in this movie. We finally get to meet the mastermind of SPECTRE, Blofeld. Little Nellie is a cool little helicopter. The volcano secret rocket base is the coolest villain lair and set in all the movies. Piranha Pool!

On Her Majesty's Secret Service (1969)
George Lazenby - the one-film Bond. Plot is wonderful, combats against 007's wooden acting. Swiss alps gorgeous location for evil lair. Bond and Blofeld don't recognise each other. Aston Martin's tyres squeal ... on sand. Bond gets married for the only time ... but it last about 5 minutes because then Mrs. Bond is murdered.

Diamonds Are Forever (1971)
Connery comes back in a wig. Bond does Vegas. Blofeld smuggles diamonds, makes clones of himself. Ho-Yay assassins Mr. Kidd & Mr. Wint. Bond Girl Tiffany Case forgettable, poor Plenty O'Toole thrown out the window. Moon buggy getaway scene. Shirley Bassey back for the theme song. Bond stops diamond-powered laser satellite.

Live and Let Die (1973)
Roger Moore's debut, 007's attempt at blaxploitation. Jane Seymour as Solitaire! Unfortunately she loses her psychic abilities when Bond takes her virginity. Lots of dumb voodoo stuff. Sheriff JW Pepper is annoying. Awesome theme song by Paul McArtney and Wings. That ridiculous crocodile scene. 

The Man with the Golden Gun (1974)
Christopher Lee as the Man with the Golden Gun and three nipples, Scaramanga, is the perfect foil. Nick Nack is a great henchman/comedic relief. Great locations in Asia/Beirut. Britt Ekland's bum nearly blows up the world. Solar-powered satellite blasts heat ray, Bond stops it. Sound familiar ? Moore's 2nd best 007 film.

The Spy Who Loved Me (1977)
The best of the Roger Moore era. 007 and KGB Agent Triple X make up one of the best Bond romances to date. Main villain Stromberg is dull but his underwater ocean lair and henchman Jaws steal the show. Jaws is seriously terrifying, but also features the best Bond car ever, the Lotus Esprit that can turn into a submarine.

Moonraker (1979)
James Bond does Star Wars, complete with lasers. Bad guy Hugo Drax steals a space shuttle because he's going to wipe out mankind and repopulate it with a master race. Dr. Holly Goodhead is a Mt. Rushmore Bond Girl. Jaws turns good and helps Bond defeat Drax after he falls in love with a little nerdy girl. The big ol' softie.

For Your Eyes Only (1981)
Back down to Earth, literally, for 007. Bond has to recover some ATAC system which controls British missiles. Bond Girl Melina is fun & out for blood after her parents are murdered. Bad guy has ice skating little daughter who really wants to pork Bond. Greek monastery at end is awesome. Not much else to say.

Octopussy (1983)
Moore is probably too old at this point. He also dresses up as a clown. Octopussy is a badass jewel smuggler who porks Bond & turns good at the end. Unusually reliable Alfa Romeo. White guy plays evil Afghan prince. Again, Bond infiltrates a circus by dressing up as clown. JAMES BOND DRESSES UP AS A FRICKIN' CLOWN !!

A View To a Kill (1985)
Roger Moore's final instalment. Definitely too old for philandering at this point - Bond Girl is half his age, the gorgeous Tanya Roberts. Christopher Walken wasted as evil CEO Max Zorin. Grace Jones oddly sexy as a henchwoman. Duran Duran theme song, how 80's. The evil plan - destroy Silicon Valley to have a monopoly on microchips. Also, horses, and briefly, Dolph Lundgren.

The Living Daylights (1987)
Timothy Dalton's first crack at 007, and one of the best in the franchise. Bond helps a KGB guy defect but is then double crossed by him! Bond does some actual spying, and helps the Afghan rebels ... awkward. Main villain is some American arms dealer who is kinda dumb. Cool Aston Martin is back. Bond Girl plays a mean cello. Much more gritty and less campy, way before Craig did it. My personal favourite.

Licence To Kill (1989)
Bond quits MI6 in a huff and goes on a roaring rampage of revenge. Dalton's second and final Bond. Robert Davi a cool villian. Young Benicio Del Toro is a psycho henchman. Jack Laird back as Felix. Feels like a Miami Vice video game, but in a good way. Pam Bouvier a sexy kick-ass sidekick. Awesome wheelie stunt with a Kenworth truck.

Goldeneye (1995)
A strong debt for Pierce Brosnan, but gets bumped up because of the awesome N64 video game. Still a great movie though. Ned Stark is great double agent. Jean Grey as Onatopp and her deadly sexcapades using her superhuman thigh strength. Tina Turner does the theme, but marks lost for putting Bond in a BMW. Which is ridiculous.

Tomorrow Never Dies (1997)
Bond takes on an evil media baron - 007's version of Zuckerberg or Bezos. Bad Guy wants to start WWIII between the US and China which would trigger his companies exclusive broadcasting rights, or something. Sheryl Crow belts out the theme tune. Bond still driving a BMW for some reason. Bond Girls actually have personalities too.

The World is Not Enough (1999)
Bond has to stop nuclear meltdown in Istanbul. Villain is scary because he has a bullet lodged in his brain that is slowly inching towards killing him? Theme by Garbage, but not so itself. Denise Richards unconvincing as a nuclear physicist. Bond's BMW gets chopped in half. Good. Neat twist that the other Bond Girl is also a villain.

Die Another Day (2002)
Brosnan's fourth & final appearance, and he's looking bored. Probably one the worst. Halle Berry plays Jinx; only Bond film where Bond Girl gets equal billing. North Korea up to bad things. Villain lair is an ice palace in the arctic. Bond has an invisible car, but at least it's not a BMW. Crap theme song by Madonna. Mirror-powered satellite blasts heat ray, Bond stops it. Where have I heard that one before ?

Casino Royale (2006)
The Daniel Craig era begins on a strong note. Vesper Lynd might be the most interesting and complete of all the Bond Girls. Mads Mikkelsen perfectly cast as main antagonist. One of the few Bond films that doesn't have major plot holes. Awesome theme by the late Chris Cornell of Soundgarden.

Quantum of Solace (2008)
The not-quite-as-great Daniel Craig one. Lots of action but forgettable villain, dull theme song and boring Bond Girl. Secondary Bond girl Strawberry Fields gets offed in a nod to / rip-off of Goldfinger. Bad guy wants to steal Bolivia's water, I think. Bond gets offered a ride in a Beetle.

Skyfall (2012)
Arguably the most gripping in the entire series. Javier Bardem as Silva is a villain with no gimmicks, he's out for revenge. Ralph Feinnes understated and cool, and Ben Wishaw brings Q back with welcome aplomb. Judi Dench is actually given something to do as M for a change & is phenomenal, although Adele's theme is rather dull.

Spectre (2015)
Bond attempts a cinematic universe with a Blofeld origin story. Moriarty from Sherlock wants to take over M's job and make Bond redundant. Bond and Blofeld are foster brothers … what?! Very plot heavy. Craig still a badass. Sam Smith theme song is utterly dreadful, the worst in the franchise. Dave Bautista a cool henchman.

SPY HARD

"ONCE again, there is no milk today", says Colonel Stok, played by Oskar Homolka, in the 1966 Michael Caine film 'Funeral in Berlin'. 

"And so Russian tea was invented", quips Caine’s character, the British spy Harry Palmer.

How times change: during the age of Harry Palmer and his silver screen rival James Bond, it was the Eastern Bloc that was associated with empty shelves, fuel shortages and queues round the block for basic supplies; the sort of things Jeremy Corbyn would happily lock himself in the bathroom for.

But getting back to Palmer and Bond, both of course were men of their time: lethal, ruthless, successful with the ladies while not especially politically correct in their pursuit of them; they were masculine characters in a still masculine age. Sadly, Harry Palmer (by far the more interesting and complex character of the two) didn’t stay the course beyond three movies. 

Bond, with his license to kill, navigates the world with the poise of a ballet dancer, albeit one armed with gadgets and an explosive charm. His adventures are set against the backdrop of exotic locales, where each villain's lair seems to outdo the last in opulence and absurdity. Bond's gadgets, from his wristwatch that could do everything but make the tea, to cars that drive themselves from the depths of villainy, are the stuff of a boy's dream, a gadgeteer's fantasy.

Contrast this with Palmer, whose espionage is far more grey and gritty, his London less a playground than a labyrinth of mundane bureaucracy and cold war tension. Palmer's gadgets are less flamboyant; his weapon of choice might be as simple as a kitchen knife, his spycraft more about the art of survival in a world where the glamour is stripped away, leaving one with the stark reality of the Cold War. 

Where Bond's adventures are underscored by John Barry's lush scores, Palmer's world is one of silence, or perhaps the hum of a tube train, his music the clink of teacups rather than orchestral swells. Bond's identity is his allure, a byword for luxury and danger; Palmer's is his anonymity, a man who could disappear into the crowd, his greatest asset his unremarkable presence.

The question then, of who one would rather be, hinges on whether one prefers their espionage with the garnish of glamour or the bare bones of necessity. Would one choose the life of a Bond, where every mission is a chance to wear another impeccable suit, or that of Palmer, where the suit might be off the rack, but the stakes are no less high? 

In the end, perhaps the choice speaks to one's view of the world: Bond's is one of endless possibility, of global escapades where the only limit is one's imagination or the next scriptwriter's plot twist. Palmer's, however, is a mirror to the real, where the spy game is less about saving the world and more about navigating the mundane with wit and, when necessary, a bit of violence.

So, would you be a spy in the mould of Bond, with all the trappings of a life lived in the fast lane, or would you opt for the quieter, more cerebral existence of Palmer, where the thrill is less in the chase and more in the chess game of survival? In this, as in all things, the choice is a reflection of one's soul, or perhaps, one's taste in cinema.

WHY BORIS PUTS THE 'CON' IN CONSERVATIVE

Boris Johnson, that tousled mop-top of British politics, has managed to embody the very essence of the Conservative Party, but not in the way one might hope. His tenure has been an Everest of self-interest, a veritable Grand Canyon of gaffes, and quite possibly the most entertaining political circus since the days of Caligula. 

You see, Boris has a knack for making headlines, not for his policies or statesmanship, but for his blunders, his buffoonery, and his brilliant ability to conflate the personal with the political. He's the sort who would, in the middle of a parliamentary debate on economic strategy, detour into a discourse on the comparative merits of different types of mop heads. 

The Conservative Party, in its wisdom or perhaps its folly, chose him as their standard-bearer, perhaps thinking his charm could mask the more unsavoury aspects of their collective agenda. But here's the rub: Boris doesn't just mask; he magnifies. Every proposed policy seems to come with a side of controversy, every decision accompanied by a scandal. 

Take, for instance, the matter of Brexit. Here was an opportunity for a statesman to shine, to navigate the treacherous waters of European politics with the grace of a seasoned diplomat. Instead, we got Boris, whose approach might be likened to a man trying to pilot a yacht with a margarita in one hand and a megaphone in the other, shouting directions to the wind.

And then there's the economic policy, or what passes for it under his watch. It's like watching a magician who's forgotten all his tricks but still insists on pulling rabbits out of empty hats. The economy teeters, the pound wobbles, and yet he stands there, grinning, as if the very act of smiling could somehow prop up the markets.

His personal life, too, has become a sort of national soap opera, where the line between public duty and private indiscretions is not just blurred but obliterated. It's as if every time he steps out of Downing Street, he's not just the Prime Minister but also the leading man in some farcical play, with the British public as the captive audience.

But let's not forget his charm, his undeniable charisma, which seems to make even his most ardent critics chuckle before they curse. He's the political equivalent of a lovable rogue, the kind you'd invite for dinner hoping he wouldn't try to sell you your own silverware. 

In essence, Boris Johnson puts the 'con' in Conservative, not merely through deception but through a masterful display of distraction, where the public's gaze is forever fixed on the puppeteer rather than the play. It's a political performance that would make even Machiavelli raise an eyebrow, not because of its cunning, but because of its sheer audacity to be so publicly, so brazenly, flawed.

Thus, we find ourselves in a Britain where the 'Con' in Conservative is not just a prefix but a statement of intent, executed with all the subtlety of a circus parade. And Boris, dear reader, is the ringmaster of this grand, chaotic circus, where every day brings a new act, and the only certainty is that the show must, and will, go on.

BY THE POWER OF NUMBSKULL ...

As an impressionable 5-year old in the 1980's, He-Man and the Masters of the Universe played a huge part in my fledgling childhood. I had all the toys, playsets, action figures, spent many a summer's day running around the garden with my plastic sword in the air loudly proclaiming: "I HAVE THE POWER", and watched the original cartoon show with almost religious zeal every Saturday morning. 

It was the first franchise I was ever a fan of, and long before Doctor Who became my 'thing'. HE may have been fiction, but He-Man was the first hero and male role model I had other than my dad and Grandad.

Fast forward 35 years later, and Kevin Smith's 'soft reboot' Masters of the Universe: Revelation clearly doesn't have the power with audiences. The Netflix "sequel" to the original He-Man series (starring Teela, and side-lining nearly all the original male characters such as Man-At-Arms, Orko, King Randor and even Skeletor himself) is getting some pretty abysmal audiences scores. 

One watches "Masters of the Universe: Revelation" with the same sort of trepidation one might feel stepping into a time machine piloted by a tipsy buffoon. Nostalgia, that cruel mistress, had promised us a return to the glory days of He-Man and Skeletor, but what we got was more akin to a reunion where everyone's had too much to drink.

The animation, I must say, is slicker than a politician's promise, with colours so vivid they threaten to leap off the screen and slap you in the face. Yet, beneath this vibrant veneer lies a narrative that seems to have lost its way in the labyrinth of modern storytelling. The plot, if one can call it that, lumbers along like a beast of burden, weighed down by the chains of what it thinks is clever subversion but comes across as a muddled attempt to reinvent the wheel.

The characters, once the epitome of simplicity in heroism and villainy, have been thrust into a blender of complexity. He-Man, formerly the embodiment of straightforward muscle-bound morality, now broods more than he battles. Skeletor, that charmingly malevolent skull-faced schemer, seems lost in a fog of existential angst, which, while amusing, dilutes the pure, unadulterated evil we all loved to hate.

The voice acting, one might argue, provides a saving grace. Mark Hamill's Skeletor is a delight, his voice dripping with the glee of a child who's just discovered the art of mischief. Yet, even this cannot fully compensate for the script's meandering journey into the depths of self-seriousness.

"Masters of the Universe: Revelation" attempts to grapple with grand themes but ends up wrestling with its own shadow. It's a series that feels like it's trying to justify its existence in a world that moved on from Eternia's simplistic conflicts. The result is a spectacle that, while visually arresting, leaves one longing for the days when the battle between good and evil was as clear as the line between day and night.

In conclusion, this "Revelation" serves more as a revelation of how not to handle a beloved franchise. It's like watching someone try to reassemble a beloved toy from memory, only to end up with something that looks vaguely like what it once was, but with all the charm and simplicity stripped away. One can only hope that future iterations remember the joy of the original, rather than trying to outthink it.

FOOTBALL'S LEAVING HOME ...

Ah, the beautiful game – or so they call it. But let's be honest, for many of us, football has become less of a sport and more of a nostalgic relic, like a sepia-toned photograph of a time when we could still remember what the offside rule was, or cared enough to try.

We once stood in the terraces, the wind whipping through our scarves, our voices hoarse from chanting the names of players who, let's face it, were more likely to be found in the local pub than on the pitch these days. But now, we're more likely to be found on our sofas, the closest we get to a stadium is the roar of the crowd from our television speakers, and our most strenuous activity on match day is lifting a remote control.

The glory days of football, when it was all about the mud and the sweat and the sheer poetry of a well-timed slide tackle, have given way to an era where the game is as much about the business as it is about the ball. Clubs like Chelsea and Manchester City, once the heartbeats of their local communities, now seem more like franchises in a global football empire, managed not by men in flat caps but by suits with spreadsheets. 

Frank Lampard, a name once synonymous with Chelsea's midfield, decided he'd had enough of the managerial merry-go-round. He sent the Russians on his own list to the grocery store, only to find that even the items there were not quite first-class. It's a fitting metaphor if ever there was one: in the supermarket of football, even your past heroes can't guarantee you get the best ingredients.

The game has evolved, or devolved, depending on one's perspective. It's become a spectacle where the transfer fee is discussed with more reverence than the player's actual talent. We're bombarded with stats and analytics, as if the passion of the game could be quantified in a pie chart. Remember when football was about the unexpected, the unscripted magic of a last-minute goal? Now, it feels like we're watching a pre-recorded episode where even the surprises are well-rehearsed.

And don't get me started on the fans. Once, we were the twelfth man, a force of nature, swaying with each goal and heartbreak. Now, we're consumers, buying into the latest kit release, the new app, or the next big transfer. The chant has been replaced by a click, the roar by a retweet.

So here we sit, in our armchairs, watching games that seem to stretch on for an eternity, interrupted by ads for betting firms and energy drinks. Football has indeed passed us by, leaving us in its wake with our memories of a game that once felt like ours. But perhaps, in our heart of hearts, we're grateful – it's much warmer here, and the beer's cheaper too. 

Here's to football, the sport that's moved on without us, leaving us with the comforting delusion that we preferred it when it was simpler, when it was ours. Cheers to that, I suppose, as we watch from a distance, our love for the game now more akin to a fond remembrance rather than a living, breathing passion.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE'S EUROVISION 2021 RAPID ROSTER RUNDOWN

In the style of Daniel "Nerdcubed" Hardcastle's WWE Rapid Roster Rundowns, in order of appearance, WE HAVE:

Cyprus

Bit of a Pound Shop Shakira. 

Who would have done this 1000% better sexier and better.

Albania
Instrumental and apocalyptic background borrowed from an Uwe Boll movie.
She's giving it her all. But the song is a bog standard Balkan Ballad.

Israel
It's a light up Pretzel hat!
Princess Eugenie eat your heart out.

Belgium
A latter day Lulu or Stevie Nicks
Oh no. No no no.

Russia

Peak chintz, all probably on drugs.

Malta

So that's where all the pies went.

Portugal

Jeremy Irons in a hat.

Serbia

Bauble costumes and a lot of hair. So much hair.

Like every girl group since Eternal.

United Kingdom

We're f***ed.

Greece

This is the theme tune to the next season of Power Girl.

Switzerland

What. On. Earth. Are. Those. Trousers?

Gay Elvis in his fat-bloated-dead-on-the-toilet stage

Iceland

Good song, amazing jumpers.

They are all nerds.

Spain

Drop the 'S'.

Moldova

A kiss on the hand may be quite sentimental but Diamanté is a girls best friend.

The Matrix dancers in the background are waiting for the Pet Shop Boys' tour to resume.

Germany

How is she keeping a straight face?

Like a rhinestone Ukulele cowboy getting unrepeatable offers over the phone.

Finland

Bring back Lordi. 

Fronted by Kimi Raikkonen.

Bulgaria

It's a nice song but not Eurovision. 

Which makes a change.

Lithuania

Iceland did it better but this is more fun. 

Points for enthusiasm and playfulness.

Ukraine

Tron in a petrified forest.

Someone exhumed Rod Hull and gave her Emu to wear.

France

Classy bird with classy breasts.

Azerbaijan

She'll have someone's eye out with those shoulder pads.

Norway

More KLF looking than the KLF.

Netherlands

Expressive dancer came, pranced, then sodded off.

Italy

Mötley Crüe gay tribute act.

Sweden

Good costume, crap song.

San Marino

Daft Punk should sue over the backing dancers.

UPDATE: Gay Mötley Crüe won, we got fuck all.

EXIT THE MATRIX

In the 1999 film "The Matrix", the world as we know it is shown to be a computer simulation, created by a race of living machines, where all humans except the escaped ones are prisoners of the machines which exploit them as “living batteries" for their energy source.

There's a scene when Keanu Reeves's character, Neo, spies something in a corridor: A black cat appears, stops and has a stretch. Neo looks away. A few seconds later, he looks back: A black cat appears, stops and has a stretch … the second cat and its actions are exactly those of the first. Neo is unnerved. He can feel something is amiss, but does not know what.  

Was that the same cat? If so, is the cat caught in some sort of time loop? Why would that happen? What does it all mean? He says to his companions: "Déjà vu ..." 

At the time I was actually expecting him say 'whoa' or 'dude', but that was mostly due to the fact that Keanu said this at least once on all the other films I'd seem in in before, or maybe I'd just seen "Point Break" too many times. Anyway, Keanu jokes aside, this would be an inconsequential feeling to express under normal circumstances, but his companions are clearly perturbed. Later, we discover that the cat is a red flag, a warning sign that the Matrix has glitched.  

But why would it glitch? Because the code has been sneakily modified by the villainous Agents who control the Matrix - they have altered reality. If Neo had not observed the cat, or had ignored it, they would have been unaware of the danger they were in.

Looking out for red flags is one of the human mind's best ways of alerting us to danger. Hence why so many of them are on beaches, and why a Formula 1 race waves a red flag in the case of a serious accident that poses a risk to the other drivers. Sometimes they appear insignificant or incidental and are summarily dismissed, but we do not need to be paranoid to see them. Often, they are right in front of us. By adopting ‘soft eyes’, we look at the big picture and be mindful of any possible cloistered motivations.  

This strategy would be particularly pertinent in the current atmosphere extreme left-wing political antagonism of the working class, of Covid-19 and the Great Reset, especially when it comes to current news media and government press briefings.  

There are recommendations for a winter lockdown in 2021; future climate change lockdowns; curfews for [in all but name, straight white] men after 6pm; a self-confessed Sinophile Prime Minister; a hate crime Bill passed in Scotland; the growing demand for facial recognition software in shops; the criminalisation of protests; the proposed Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill; an NHS test and trace budget in the billions. 

Maybe in 2021, we just like to say things like “We're living in the Matrix” - and that may be the truest and deepest influence of a movie whose high-flown paranoia has insinuated itself into the way we live now. "The Matrix" didn’t anticipate our world. But it anticipated - and probably created - a new way of viewing that world, granting everyone permission to refuse to contend with reality by deeming that refusal a form of hyperawareness.

So, are these red flags or just happenstance?

When Morpheus asks Neo to choose between a red pill and a blue pill, he essentially offers the choice between fate and free will. In the Matrix, fate rules, since the world is preconstructed and actions predetermined, all questions already have answers and any choice is simply the illusion of choice. 

In the real world, humans have the power to change their fate, take individual action, and make mistakes. Neo chooses the red pill real life - and learns that free will isn’t pretty. The real world is a mess, dangerous and destitute. Pleasure exists almost entirely in the world of the Matrix, where it’s actually only a computer construct. We are most likely to reject reality if reality had somehow rejected us; we are most likely to suspect entire groups of people of being puppet masters if you hated or feared those groups in the first place. It was no great leap from there to “Soros controls everything.”

So for now, let’s take a cue from Neo. For if we fail to see the black cat, we will suffer the consequences. Still, if we all get to roam around in the future in cool leather trench coats and shades, at least it'll be reasonably fashionable.

LET ME (remember to) ENTERTAIN YOU ...

I started this blog first and foremost because I'm passionate about storytelling, in any form. I appreciate the simple joy of experiencing a work of art for the first time, and that's what entertainment really is when you get right down to it. 

From the humble to extravagant, the derivative to the inspired, whether we love them or hate them. And when they're at their best, they're quite simply remarkable. They have the power to tell stories that uplift our spirits, captivate our imaginations, stir the sense of adventure, or test the limits of our fears. They give us glimpses of fantastical worlds beyond our own existence, presenting ideas that question our assumptions or broaden our horizons.

They give us mighty heroes who inspire us to try harder than we thought necessary, reach further than we thought possible, or risk more than we thought possible. And they give us antagonists and villains who explore our deepest fears, challenge our insecurities, and question our deepest held convictions. 

Stories can do all these things and more. They explore the universal experiences of our lives, they stir emotions regardless of our race, colour or creed, they help to bring us together through our shared experiences, and passions, and fears, and help remind us that we have more in common with each other than we think.

In short, they represent the best of what it means to be human.

But all is not well. Like a lot of you, I've noticed a change in recent years. Our entertainment industries have been under attack, our stories are being sanitized and twisted to serve political agendas, our heroes are being neutered and marginalized, as Hollywood studios try in vain to dance to the everchanging tune of social media activists and perpetually offended serial complainers. 

Old classics are being remade and repackaged by creatively bankrupt studios trying in vain to cash in on nostalgia and name recognition. Our childhood heroes are being wheeled out only to be humiliated and downtrodden to elevate the success of cheap, inferior copies. And everything from the past is being prefaced with idiotic 'warnings' about cultural appropriation, our beloved characters are retooled into being vehicles for present day woke agendas. As a result, the stories themselves are often terribly written even on a fundamental level.

All this does is hurt the value of entertainment itself, and cause a divide where they would previously unite. Stories of the past featured timeless and universal themes and had applicability to everyone, yet today's stories will inevitably become dated to the period that it's in.

And this change has only been accelerated by a dying mainstream media, desperate for views and attention at any cost, to jump on any bandwagon it can find, to delay their inevitable collapse.

It is currently being reported that 550 households a day are cancelling their TV licence, and despite the increase in the number of UK households, this is not being matched by take-up of the licence.  

People no longer need to synchronise their viewing with broadcast times and will watch programmes on catch-up services. They are also making greater use of commercial streaming services and ditching terrestrial broadcasters completely. The TV licence is increasingly redundant, because people can get all the media they want without watching broadcasts or using the BBC’s increasingly uncompetitive woke-polluted iPlayer service. 

The result of all of this is a gradual erosion of narrative quality, thematic depth, artistic meaning, and, well, actual fun in entertainment. The stories we tell are no longer universal and timeless. They've become vapid and shallow, mired in present day cultural angst, and weighed down by clumsy attempts to pander to politics embraced only by an uncessecarily vocal few whose views are not shared by the majority of people. The stories which used to unite us now serve to stoke the fires to division, resentment and petty bickering.

In short, every facet of entertainment we consume today is under threat.

And this worries me, because I'm old enough to remember when things were different. I can appreciate the quality of the stories we used to tell, and I can see what damage we're doing to our artists of today. 

The next generation of moviegoers and filmmakers, such as my eager-eyed 10 year old nephew, is going to grow up in a world where this ridiculous state of affairs is the norm. They won't have that experience needed to strive for something better, and I think we'll all suffer as a result.

But I don't think it has to be this way.

We don't have to lie down and accept the gradual erosion of our art, entertainment and culture. The decline can be reversed through the most fundamental mechanism of all: Money. 

You can have all the political ideology you want, but ultimately if enough people refuse to support products like this, and instead give their money to studios and developers and artists who's only goal is to tell good stories, then the entertainment industry will have a simple choice: Listen to your market, or go out of business.

So I guess that's what this blog is really about. In my own small, heavily cynical way, it's about calling out these failings when I see them. It's about encouraging people to see through the fancy special effects and big budgets to understand the flawed, derivative, meaningless stories that lie beneath, and to resist the checkboxes and just let their imaginations run wild without worrying about who gets mildly offended or not. 

To get back to understanding the real mechanics of storytelling. And where possible, it's about recognizing movies, TV shows and video games, that buck this trend and dare to focus on what's actually important.

Entertainment.

MODERN LIFE IS (still) RUBBISH

In 64 days time, I'm turning 40. Yep I know, it's supposed to be "when life begins", but for the most it's a reminder that not only are you no longer able to call yourself 'young', you find yourself slipping into the inexorable habit of finding the latest culture, trends and music to be 'not as good as it was in my day'.

Growing up in the era of 90's Britpop, the last true, pre-social media people's cultural movement, I never used to understand why my Dad couldn't stand Pulp or Oasis, but would happy drop what he was doing whenever a Pink Floyd concert came on TV. Now I'm doing the exact same thing, only with The 1975 and Blur respectively. 

There's no point either trying to escape the tedium by wading through the multiple channels that MTV serve up these days. R&B videos are the worst, hulking men with tattoos and gold teeth surrounded by scantily-clad twerkers energetically throwing themselves over the bonnets and boots of expensive cars, expensive booze, diamond-encrusted everything's, bits of weaponry and silicone-pumped body parts. It's the sort of thing that would have Run DMC and Public Enemy sobbing into their cornflakes that something that was such a genuine, original and authentic subcultural movement that had such powerful message behind it, has given way to something so ostentatiously shallow.

Sadly it isn’t just the rappers. Were that the case I wouldn’t mind so much, that kind of thing is easy enough to avoid. But the signs of the reverse of standards – of the idolisation of the superficial – are everywhere. Open a magazine, turn on TV, it’s all there for you to see. I was especially reminded of this the other day when I found out apparently 8.2 million simple-minded gullible morons watched the final of "The Masked Singer".

Which is a) more people than watched the New Year's day special of Doctor Who and therefore conclusive proof that being stuck in lockdown has made us all much thicker, b) made even worse by the undeniable fact that The Masked Singer is the most stupid, idiotic, dumb, brainless, childish, unintelligent and painfully lowbrow programme in the history of television. It's like the outcome of the “make a TV show” challenge on The Apprentice if it was still going.

Sadly and predictably, my mum loves it. But for me there is nothing more utterly tragic an example of how far we have fallen than seeing Sir Lenny Henry, a bona-fide national treasure, a man who has appeared on stage as Othello, a man who has raised billions for the poorest people in the world, reduced to pratting around singing glorified karaoke in a glitter-covered blob suit.

The Masked Singer shouldn’t exist, and I wish it didn't. Television has never been more highbrow and far-reaching these days thanks in no small part to Netflix and Amazon Prime, ironically, churning out tremendous amounts of original content. And yet so many of us are choosing to watch a pleb in a hedgehog suit attempt to sing. This is for the same reason Channel 5 still dedicates serious prime-time to celebrities ranking various chocolate bars and biscuits, and why ITV once aired a one-off show celebrating 20 years of the Black Eyed Peas presented by “their friend” Joanna Lumley. This is not an accident, it's by design. 

The thing is, Art, including music, doesn’t impart morality. Art reflects the philosophy of a society. There is a sense in this article that art changes the mind of the viewer, but this is wrong. Art concretises someone else’s philosophy and presents it for judgement. We can be surrounded by ugly art and know it for what it is. Those that endorse, or turn a blind eye, knowing something is ugly are guilty of evasion. It’s like the story of the Kings new clothes. Evaders fear what others will think if they are honest. Hence, they choose dishonesty for themselves.

It IS possible to watch something bad from the past knowingly and to actually take legitimate pleasure out of it. The old Godzilla movies, Carry On, the original Battlestar Galactica and even 80's goofball movies such as 'Weird Science', 'Cherry 2000' and 'Howard the Duck' may have been corny and cheesy, but they still had an undeniably authentic charm to them that they wore on their sleeves which made them enjoyable to watch because of their kitsch-ness. 

But it's not just the ugly vulgarity and banality of modern culture that's the problem. Art reflects life and the shallow, trite modern reflections which exist today are a stark reminder of the new politically correct enlightened establishment that seek to erase what has gone before.

We are told constantly that nothing of worth or value in life existed before year zero (20's, 60's, 90's, take your pick) because we hadn't yet woken up to the New Enlightenment of woke equality and diversity of the masses. Yet the art of the past; music, literature, painting and architecture was full of beauty and aesthetic interest and hard earned craft which reflected a different era of lasting values and ideas. 

But is today's life, reduced to the lowest common denominator of mediocrity, really so much better?

At least, I have the option of going to BBC iPlayer and binge-watching Jenna Coleman in The Serpent again.

Now that's class.

ANNUAL BITTER MISANTHROPIC RANT ABOUT BEING A SINGLE BLOKE ON VALENTINE'S DAY

For years now I've been using this blog to whinge, moan, grumble, and bitterly complain that Valentine’s Day is a bullshit, vastly profitable holiday marketed by Hallmark to give you an excuse to stuff your face with chocolate and spend all your money on useless flowers and shitty jewellery. It’s the worst day of the year and pedestrians eat that shit up.

Whereas on New Year’s Eve or Santa Con you can man tequila to the face to get through the occasion, Valentine’s Day is all about moderation. It’s a romantic glass of red wine and slow, weak and emotional rodgering - because that’s love, of course - and you may have realized by now that I give zero f*cks.

There are a lot of good reasons to give Valentine’s Day the side-eye. It’s a holiday, as many people dutifully point out every year, that’s more about selling candies, cards and jewellery than it is about love.

You might have figured this was coming your way, since we like to boycott all pedestrian holidays, but this one is at the top of our hit lists for a variety of reasons. Firstly, if you are “lucky” enough to be sustaining an enjoyable relationship, you shouldn’t subscribe to an arbitrary occasion in order to display your love and passion. Valentine’s Day is an excuse for a terrible boyfriend or girlfriend to act extra nice one day of the year to make up for all the bits on the side.

There’s a wild misconception that these lovers, because they went above and beyond on Valentine’s Day, are actually perfect. Even if the next day they’re still the same assholes. Heading into any old drug store and picking up a generic teddy bear or an atrocious frilly heart filled with chocolates isn’t an expression of genuine love. If you truly care about someone, then one god-awful day of the year isn’t the only time you show it.

Alas, the holiday is only worsened because the expectation falls on the guy’s side. This is our time to impress our girlfriends, lovers or steady booty calls. It’s a girl’s second birthday as they are lavished with presents, fancy dinners and flowers, and even the occasional eat out. Christmas just came early. It transforms us into Prince Charming for the day because society pressures us into believing this is the only right thing to do.

Why is it that we don’t get chocolates? Why can’t our girl impress us? It’s not as if she’s girlfriend of the year either. Sorry, but I’m an alpha male, if this holiday means I have to be a bitch for a day just because love is in the air - I ain’t about that kind of life.

Because the one insurmountable problem of all these plans is that they depend on women actually giving a shit about what these guys do. And as most of these guys in their hearts probably realize, no one really cares if they eat a nice steak dinner (go for it, dudes) or waste their evening giving “chick flicks” one-star ratings on Netflix (knock yourselves out).

If they were decent human beings, being ignored by them actually would hurt. Of course, if they were decent human beings, they wouldn’t be giddily fantasizing about ostracizing the women of the world for being women.

Aside from the fact that this “holiday” forces people to mime a feeling they probably don’t have, it’s derived from a materialist effort to symbolize hackneyed displays of love. Even Jennifer Lopez herself once said love shouldn’t cost a thing, this world is expensive enough as it is, but this occasion has become a gold digger’s wet dream; the quality of her man and his feelings is dependent on how much he spent on her. We’ve prefaced love with a dollar sign.

We carried around your flowers all day, dealt with your endless chocolate binge, and thoughtfully ripped some R-Kelly lyrics for a heartfelt card. Guys only pretend to care on Valentine’s Day in the hope of an uninspiring blowjob or a rhythm-less hump at the day’s end.  Other than that we could care less when the next day we wake up and everything is the same – aside from the dent in our bank accounts.

It’s an artificial, rootless holiday with a backbone it pretends is love, but is really money. Just like love in itself, it’s all feigned. The truth is that we’re all cursed with the binding construct of monogamy. Sure we’ve all felt love early on, but we soon realized the façade doesn’t last. Valentine's Day is a holiday of negative space, something we wish we could spend with someone else or no one at all. Fidelity is impossible, we don’t know love, so it’s just easier to pretend the one day of the year.

Valentine’s Day is a confusing mess for most people. We live in a deconstructed society filled with diluted boundaries and no labels. We don’t have titles and we fear calling anyone our girlfriend’s because of the walls we build around ourselves. Valentine’s Day is that roadblock, the day that begs us to define to the steady booty what we think of them.

Either a steady realizes it’s nothing real, because we’re spending the day with another girl; or she looks at it as an opportunity to bump up the status from just casual sex and complicates things; or the girl assumes any effort makes her your girlfriend. It’s a nightmare any way you look at it. It makes everyone reconsider what they want from the arrangement: more or less. And there’s nothing worse than seeing an ex you hate enjoy the occasion more than you.

It’s a day that causes stress for a lot of couples and resentment amongst the single. And those little chalky heart candies with the words on them, whatever their kitschy charm, are really kind of crappy as candy.

If you do really love someone, and are lucky enough to be with someone you enjoy beyond sex, then you should do nice things for him or her all the time and show that you care - not just one day out of the year. Failing that, dig out your copy of Hot Fuzz, grab yourself a Cornetto and celebrate Simon Pegg's birthday instead.

At least it's cheaper.