I've found my home

'snot sunday - 'tis monday

The alarm doesn't go off. Last night This morning we went to bed at 2am. I open my eyes and glance at the alarm clock. It reads 4:22am. That's got to be wrong. The sun is shining outside. I look at my wrist watch. My eyes are too blurry to make out the hands. I press the button at the side of the watch and the digital display is illuminated. Through the fog of sleep I can make out that it is ten-something. Carefully, so as not to wake Maria, I get out of bed and head towards the bathroom. From there I wander into the main part of the flat. The computer has reset, the answer phone is blinking, the microwave's clock is reading [blank]:[blank]. We've had a power cut.

The computer boots up as I smoke a cigarette on the balcony. I check emails and then head off back to bed. I slide, carefully, into my side of the bed, making sure that I don't disturb Maria, and open my book. I read for an hour until Maria stretches and rolls over. We kiss. We talk. She gets up and showers. I wander out on to the balcony again. I go back to the computer as she dries and dresses. Suddenly she is beside me, telling me to get dressed, telling me I have no time for a shower, asking me if I know the time, telling me that we have to get going. We have worlds to conquer, things to do, and it is past midday.

We head out to the paper store, we need legal sized paper which is a bit bigger than A4. The store is closed and that plan is wrecked. We decide to head across the border. The line for the Sentri is long, the line for walk-overs is long, but they are moving. It takes only thirty minutes to get out of Mexico and into the US. Twenty minutes later we are in Borders trying to decide which living with IBS book to buy. I flick through a book, laughing out loud, scaring people, at Banksy's audacity and sheer gall. Maria finds a film that she has been looking for.

We go to a mall to look at sunglasses. I've had this pair for two years. They are bent and when you clean the left lens it falls out but I love them. Love them so much that I was wearing them while playing football in the last week of school. Unfortunately I headed the ball, which flew in one direction as my glasses flew n another. The right lens is now so scratched that it is messing with my vision. Time for new glasses. Unfortunately we can't find anything I like. I know what I like, the pair that I am wearing, but nothing else calls out to me. We move to another mall.

Four more shops that see sunglasses and I still find nothing that grabs my attention. So we end up buying an identical pair to those I already have. We also get a hard case for them, instead of having to shove them in my pocket, where they get bent. Into Macy's for a new watch strap and then onto Target. Oddly, to me, the first thing I should be doing to combat my stomach problems is eating more. I have always spent my time avoiding putting food into my body, working on the principle that with nothing in my body - there will be nothing to expel. However, I am now supposed to "snack" all day instead of shocking my system with a huge intake in one sitting. We spend over $50 on rice cakes, health bars, baked crisps, and other things that (according to the book) my body won't reject.

After eating a rice cake in the car park, thus warning my stomach that food is coming, we head over to Chilis for a meal - it is now just after 5:30pm. A meal of chicken and shrimp doesn't cause any particular problems and a conversation inspires me to make our next move. Two nights ago we watched Street Kings and felt unfulfilled. This led to a discussion about The Departed, which moved towards American Gangster, and finally settled on The Untouchables. I wanted to get Maria a copy of Torso, Elliot Ness's next case after his time in Chicago. Unfortunately when we get to the comic shop we discover it is closed, closed because it is now after 7pm on a Monday evening.

We decide we will go to the cinema and head to anther mall. However, our timing is out and there is nothing we want to see about to start. We wander the mall and I buy Maria some pearls, two strings of them. They are not real. We step into another Borders and walk out with two books (I read my comments). We set off home and realise we need petrol. We end up in another Target buying hair dye for him and her. Then home.

We settle in front of the television and watch (and enjoy) "Home for the Holidays". It finishes at midnight. A quick check on my mobile phone tells me that I have walked 9.4km, which might explain why I'm tired. We go to bed.

And this was a Monday. A Monday! The first day of the holidays. It was Monday and I didn't have to go to work. You know, I could get to like Mondays.

as we fall asleep

Could we get a hippo?

Would I be a hippo?

What?

You just said: "Would I be a hippo?"

No I didn't.

I know you didn't. But that is what it sounded like.

Damn. Did I say it out loud?

What?

I thought I'd said it in my head?

What did you say?

Could we get a hippo?

You asked if we could get a hippo?

In my head.

You said it out loud.

Didn't mean to.

And, no.

No?

No. We can't get a hippo. They need to be kept in water, otherwise their skin cracks and they open up. We couldn't have a bath big enough for the hippo in this flat. It makes no sense.

So, no hippo.

Nope.

I knew you'd say that. Which is why I didn't want to ask it out loud. Just wanted to ask it in my head.

Goodnight.

G'night...g'night non-existent hippo.

the yiddish policeman's union

The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Michael Chabon

The book opens with a hungover detective having to deal with a dead body that has been discovered in the flop house he is sleeping in. The plot twists and turns and builds. The solution to the crime, the events that surround it, are brilliantly hidden and very little is obvious. That said, it isn't a case of "I didn't see that coming". The pace of the book is just right, information is left laying around to help you build the picture.

However, the actual murder/mystery part of the book is just a driving point for the story. The real story is the lives of the detective and those around him. Mr. Chabon has built a whole new world with its inherent problems. The book is set in Alaska, in the present day. But it isn't a world that we readily recognise. The Jewish occupation of Israel in 1948 failed, so instead they have settled in a small section of Alaska, and built their Israel in Sitka. However, the Americans didn't given them the land in perpetuity, and the time for the Jews to leave is fast approaching. With the threat of expulsion in two months hanging over the populace, the police authorities decide to close as many cases as possible, to leave a clean slate for the incoming Americans. The killing of a junkie in a flea-ridden flop house is not even worth opening a file on and the detective is told to ignore the case. Except...he doesn't.

The writing is wonderful, Chabon even invents a whole new slang for his book. When I got to the end I discovered that there was a glossary of the terms used. However, the wrting is so vivid and descriptive that I understood all the invented words. I love the way that he introduces the changes in world history subtly, letting the reader discover the changes, rather than sledgehammering the facts in there.

And I don't really know what else to say except: A really enjoyable book.

just in case

One of Spike Milligan's last wishes was the epitaph on his headstone. He didn't get his wish exactly, it wasn't written in English, it was written in Gaelic:

Duirt me leat go raibh me breoite

Which translates as:

I told you I was ill

According to Fox 6 News (your station for balanced news), three weeks ago, there were reported cases of salmonella in San Diego.This was news that I ignored and treated with contempt at the time. The reason? Tomatoes! According to Fox 6 (balanced) News, the outbreak had been traced to tomatoes. Now I had one major difficulty with this (apart from the obvious statement that the newscasters can't pronounce the word tomato! It's tom-ah-toe not to-may-toe), I lived through BSE scares (mad cow to you) and Edwina Curry telling me that I could eat an egg...so long as I boiled it for six hours and then finished it off in a microwave. I know, know for a fact, that you can only get salmonella from eggs and chicken. Those fools at Fox 6 (balanced) News know nothing! They are just scaremongering. You cannot, categorically cannot get salmonella from a tom-ah-toe!

Fools!

Except...it appears you can. Bugger!How stupid do I feel? Well, normally, I would have said, not very stupid because obviously I haven't made a thing about this at all. I mean, I wouldn't have been at a Souplantation two weeks ago, talking in a very loud voice, demanding tom-ah-toes, criticising Americans for being frightened of fruit (it's a fruit donchu'no). No, if I was the sort of person who stood around the salad bar explaining I'm more worried about my prostrate [sic] (they're really good for your prostrate, I've heard, and at my age I have to think about things like that) than catching salmonella which is impossible to get from a TOM-AH-TOE!

Thank goodness I am not that sort of person!

However, if I was that sort of person, I'd certainly feel a bit stupid and start listening to Fox 6 (balanced) News a little bit more carefully.

The weather has turned, actually the weather turned a couple of months ago, it is hot. The thermometer doesn't drop below 28 and spends most of its time hanging around the 34 mark with quick bursts towards the 40 mark. It's hot. There are solutions to this, of course. Most of these solutions involve nekkidness, fans on full blast, swearing sweating profusely, swearing profusely, opening all the windows/doors, and drinking copious amounts of liquids. There is one major drawback to these activities - and it isn't visiting the toilet regularly because the sweating tends to deal with the excess liquids - mosquitoes. All the windows have screens but our doors don't. This means that, during the day, mosquitoes come into the house, find a place to hide and sleep during the heat of the day, come out late at night, find themselves trapped in the flat, decide to punish their prison wardens. Every morning Maria and I wake up to discover that our my bodies body are is covered in mosquito bites (it should be made known that the only time Maria gets bitten is when I am out of the flat. If a mosquito has a choice between biting Maria or me, they pick me). A quick check of my body, as I type this, reveals 27 bites! (Oh, for those of you who are worrying about the nekkidness, I would never post nekkid - I feel that I am talking directly to you as I write and I would never talk to you nekkid, so I post clothed. You can relax.)

And now, finally, I arrive at the point of this post! According to Fox 6 (balanced) News there are recorded incidents of West Nile Virus. Here in California! Well, there in California! But California is exactly five miles over there, as the mosquito flies! The West Nile Virus, again according to Fox 6 (balanced) News, is carried by mosquitoes! I have been bitten by mosquitoes!! I could have West Nile Virus!!!

No, listen, I watched Fox 6 (balanced) News and they told me that the symptoms include:

fever, headache, weakness and drowsiness

That's me, that is. I'm really hot, I've got a bit of a headache, I am struggling to open bottles of coke, and I keep falling asleep in front of the tele! I've got West Nile Virus! The worst thing is that Maria, who is normally very loving and very caring, is convinced that I am making this up. She tells me that I don't have a fever, that it is just hot. I have a headache because I keep refusing to eat, moaning that "it's too hot to eat". I can't open coke bottles because I keep coating my hands with sunblock, paranoid that I will burn and die in the heat. And I keep falling asleep in front of the television because I always fall asleep in front of the television. Maria is convinced that I don't have West Nile Virus. Of course, she never gets bitten, so I don't think she is taking this seriously! And look what happened when I didn't take Fox 6 (balanced) News's Salmonella scare! I was wrong!!

This might be my last ever post. I feel a bit weak. I feel a bit drowsy. While I've been sat here, at the computer, for the last five hours, I can feel a headache coming on. And I think I might have a fever, I'm definitely hot and sweaty. I have West Nile Virus. I'm going to lie down. Bye.

random thought

I'm trying, really trying, to write.

I love writing. I love telling stories. But I just can't seem to get the words out of my brain, down my fingers, and on to the screen.

There's this one idea that is bugging me, driving me to distraction. I think it's a good idea but I just can't run with it. There has to be a good post in the idea, there has to be a good story in the idea. But, try as I might, I can't get a decent handle on it. I can't find the way to start, can't find a middle, can't find an end. Actually, now I've written that, I've realised it might not be a good idea at all.

However, I'll give you the idea, feel free to run with it, write a comment, write a post, or just nod wisely and ignore the whole thing altogether:

Pluto.

Seriously, what was the thinking behind Pluto? And, more importantly, how screwed up must Pluto be? It isn't the fact that his owner is a mouse. That isn't the real problem facing Pluto. The main problem in Pluto's life, his grasp of reality, his sense of worth, has got to be Goofy! As if it wasn't bad enough being the only non-talking animal in a world populated by talking animals, there's a fucking talking dog!

Maybe I haven't had enough sleep yet but this is really bugging the bejaysus out of me.

about last night

You missed the moose.

I missed the moose?

You missed the moose.

What moose?

There was a moose outside the house last night.

There was a moose outside last night?

Yep. Last night. A moose. Outside. In the street.

There was a moose. Outside. In the street.

That's what I said.

Was it a sexy moose?

Strange question to ask.

This is a strange conversation.

True. Can't think of any conversation that has included a moose before.

So?

So?

So, was it a sexy moose?

It was wearing a kilt.

There was a moose, outside, wearing a kilt.

There was indeed.

Why was there a kilt-wearing moose outside in the street?

Come all the way from Canada.

Why was there a Canadian, kilt-wearing moose outside in the street?

It was following a mating call.

This is about my snoring again isn't it?

Maybe.....

an apology

I can't post. Tried to start three different posts and failed miserably. Can't get the sentences to join. Can't get an idea to flow. Can't express what I want.

I'm going to blame fatigue. The academic year finished yesterday. Last week was a long wind down from the Lion King, through graduation, academic post mortems, to a last day meeting. Last night I had a very enjoyable evening out in the company of friends - five hours that felt like one. Physically I just want to sleep, mentally I need to detox. Writing posts seems impossible.

Have read Housekeeping vs The Dirt (excellent) and Lucifer:Crux (so-so). Dipped into Engulfed in Flames (luvverly and funny). Tearing my way through The Yiddish Policeman's Union (genius).

Listening to the new Coldplay album (learning to love it) and rocking away to the new Weezer album (brilliant).

Seen WALL-E (fantastic) and Wanted (awful).

Worrying about the finalists of Hell's Kitchen and So You Think You Can Dance (I have become this shallow).

Started a new diet in order to control my IBS which has flared up again.

But most of all I need to sleep. I need to rest. I just don't have the words.

I am still alive, still happy, still madly in love, still in Mexico.

Regular service will be returned once I've recharged.

graduation time

Not that it particularly interests you but, this is my blog,so I'll publish and be damned.

Today is graduation day for the sixth grade. I will be giving a speech. This is a copy of the speech. Be glad that you are not sat, in the sun, listening to it.

Ask the question Olaya.

For those of you who didn’t hear the question, during most lessons, at some point, Olaya will raise her hand, and ask: Are you happy? Today my answer is YES. Obviously this should come as a bit of a shock – this is not supposed to be a happy occasion. In fact, according to the instructions I normally receive, this is supposed to be the moment I should cry – or at least I should make some of you cry.

However, and there is still a chance that one of us might cry, and it might still be me, I AM HAPPY. Let me explain. My job as a teacher, our jobs as educators, isn’t just to fill your heads with knowledge; it is to prepare you for the world outside. Moving on to Junior High isn’t all about being able to answer the question paper; it is also about being equipped to deal with life. It’s a bigger school. It’s a different school. In two months time you will be entering a brand new world. For some of you, who have been here at the British American Institute for over six years, it will be well removed from your comfort zone. For all of you it is going to be scary.

There are, probably, four questions you are asking yourselves:
Will the work be much harder?
Will the teachers be horrible and nasty?
Will I make new friends?
Will I survive?

Let me answer them.

Will the work be harder?
Yes – except you will find that B@I has prepared you well for the challenge. I know for a fact that most of you are going to find the maths easy and all of you are going to find the English lessons very, very easy. But, in other subjects, you will also find the going not as difficult as you imagine. In three months time you will want thank your teachers, here at B@I – by then it might be too late, today might be the day! Before you leave, for the final time, find a teacher and thank them.

Will the teachers be horrible and nasty?
Yes, of course. ALL teachers are horrible and nasty! Except they aren’t. Take it from me – and let’s face it, I have known teachers from all over the world. ALL teachers have the one same aim – to teach. If you are willing to learn, they are willing to teach. Try to go to war with a teacher and you will find that it isn’t a war you can win. Learn to respect every teacher, learn to work with a teacher, and learn to treat each teacher as an individual. We all have different rules – learn those rules and you’ll get on fine.

Will I make new friends?
Yes. True, some of your new friends won’t be from Rosorito. Some of your new friends won’t be irresistible. Some of your new friends won’t want to play Power Rangers with you at recess – in fact, as a tip, don’t ask anyone to play Power Rangers on your first day at junior high…at least wait until the second day. But you will make new friends. That said; don’t forget your old friends. Look around you now, at the people sat beside you, in front of you, behind you. The people sat with you will turn out to be amongst some of the best friends you ever make. Take the time, today, to thank them for their company, their support, for their friendship. In twenty years time, yes twenty years time – believe me - you will be telling your children about these people. It will be terrible if you don’t thank them now for the joy they have brought you.

Will you survive?
No. Oh, hang on, that was my answer if you had left in the fifth grade. The answer now, as you leave as sixth graders, is, emphatically YES! Yes you can! Think back to those early days in the fifth grade. Think about the children you were. And now, now think about the young adults you have become. You have all changed so much in the last year. You have become taller, you have become more beautiful (or handsome), and you have become more intelligent. However, and much more importantly, you have become better, much better people. True fact, when you were the fifth grade, you were hard work – every.single.lesson. Then, when Miss Lilian asked me to teach the English – waaay back in 2007 – my first reaction was NO! But now, now it is completely different. You are completely different. Now, you are a joy to teach. I enjoy teaching maths, the English – hey, even Values and “Soup for the Soul of a Teenage Chicken” is fun! Yes, you have changed. Yes you will survive Junior High.

And, because I can answer YES to those four questions, because you can answer YES to those four questions – I am happy. My job is done.

Now, before I start to cry, I leave you with one other thought, and forgive me if my pronunciation isn’t perfect, because I’ll leave you with one thought, in Spanish:

Si se puede. Chipotle!

my dad

I've had a rough couple of weeks the last two weeks. There has been something bugging me, something that I couldn't quite get a hold of. You know, that moment when you can feel a shadow of a thought, just hovering at the back of your brain, on the left-hand side. But each time you try to creep up on the thought (by going round the right-hand side of your brain, staying close to the skull, creeping up on it) it has disappeared. A bit like that dream I had the other night. You know the one where there was a..oh what was it?...and I saw...something...and then I did...something else..and, damn! I can't remember any of it but I know it was important, it was the answer to life, death and the universe - but all I can remember was...I think there might have been a spoon involved, or was it a blue teacup? No, it was a...damn, can't remember the name of the thing now.

Anyhoo, there has been something bugging me, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The last two weeks have been taken up with the school play, so I've tended to think that, whatever it was, it was something to do with that. I reckoned that if I ignored it long enough, it would get frustrated and shout out its presence in a big way. I was right. It did. And it wasn't what I thought it was.

It was my dad.

I've been working on the school play "The Lion King". For those of you who don't know the story it's about a lion cub, Simba, who runs away from his father's death, leads a life of fun and frivolity (Hakuna Mutata), then returns to take up his father's role and kick out the evil uncle. (Yes, I know that it is based on Hamlet but this is what I've been working on.)

On Thursday I ended up telling stories about my dad to a colleague. Half way through the stories, as we were laughing away at the wonderfulness of the man, my colleague managed to splutter out: Wow, your dad sounds like a great man. I always thought you hated him.

Friday (s)wine left a comment on my blog:

You're not old. Shit has DEVOLVED. I never dug Monopoly, even as a child. Didn't understand the whole "need to buy" shit. Guess it stuck. Guess I'm a Socialist at heart. Don't know. I don't play cards either. What has happened to your dad financially since those days? What was the lesson learned? For him? For you? Questions. I suppose I'm not in a good frame of mind. On vacation in Ottawa, and on my 3rd martini at 0956. Sorry for being rude.

and Maria and I sat on the balcony and talked about it. It was then that the shadow, at the back of my brain (you remember the shadow? the thing I was talking about at the beginning of the post) decided to leap to the forefront of my brain. It was my dad. Oh, before I go any further I should say, you weren't being rude (s)wine, I love comments, I love your comment, it was (in retrospect) a fantastic comment because it opened up a whole world to me. True, it started off as a world of pain but it has ended up in a good place. Thank you.

My dad is dead.

Died seven years ago.

I miss him. I miss him more today than I have ever missed him before in my life. I love him more today than I have ever loved him before in my life. I think he is a better father today than I have thought of him before in his life. This is mainly because each day I appreciate him more. Each day, as I live my life, as I grow more aware of his influence on me. Each day, as I learn to love myself more (thank you Maria) I realise that I am who I am because of my parents, because of my father. Each day, as I grow older, I face the fact that I am my dad. And, the one thing that makes me feel good about this change is, I really, honestly believe that my dad was a good man. A good man in the full and true sense of the meaning of good.

Where to start? I dunno because I don't have the time to tell you everything about my father. I know who he was, I know it know, my shame is that I didn't know it then, I didn't know it when he was alive.

To answer (s)wine's questions:

What has happened to your dad financially since those days?

My father was financially successful. Exceedingly successful. How successful? Well, in England, when I was of the age, if you went to University the government gave you a grant - you got money to go to University. However, this grant was means tested. If your parents had a high income then you got no grant. Knowing this, my father took the two years off work, before I went to University, so that his income would register as zero - thus, making sure that I got a full grant. He was financially secure enough to spend those two years not working. Instead, my parents spent the first six months cruising the world on the QEII, the second six months involved in charity work. The second year my father took on the role as captain of the golf club...and falling in love with another woman. Half way through the second year he left my mother. There were two side-effects to this decision. The first (the one that might interest you slightly) was that he become financially crippled. All of my father's businesses were Limited Companies - this meant that if anything went wrong with them, he would be financially vulnerable. In order to protect this vulnerability everything (everything) was in my mother's name. He gave up everything (everything) for the love of another woman. The second (slightly interesting point to you - very important to me) is that I walked away from the life that was planned out for me. In a whole fuck-you-I'll-do-what-I-fucking-want-to-do-because-you're-sleeping-with-another-woman moment I ran away from home. I didn't go to University, I didn't get the full grant. Oddly enough, though, when I finally went to University, I did get a full grant...as a student from a single parent family!

My dad survived, financially. He took a major cut in his wages, he took on jobs that would have been beneath his status before (instead of doing the books for multi-million pound companies he dealt with individuals) but, he bought his dream apartment - looking out on to the sea, at a port, so that he could follow the ship-to-shore movements - and then, when the time was right, moved into a perfect house with a manageable garden. My father was successful.

What was the lesson learned? For him? For you?

For him? I'm not so sure. Hell, I don't know what he learned from the event. For me? Well, I learned several things. Several things that I didn't notice at the time but now, looking back, I learnt things that have stuck with me, subliminally and overtly.  The first thing I learnt was not to play games with people better than me unless I was willing to lose. This has stood me in good stead. I don't gamble - actually I do, except I gamble to lose. I work on the principle that the house will always win, the house always wins. This means that when I gamble I work on the basic fact that I will lose my money, Often I don't. Often I come out with more than I went in with. This is nice. But I never (never) gamble with the expectation of winning. The fact is there is always someone out there better than you.Don't get me wrong on this, I don't have an inferiority complex, I don't think that everyone is better than me. My parents loved me (maybe they didn't show it physically but they showed it verbally) and they believed in me. They were the first to say that I was good, I was great, I was clever, I was brilliant. However, they were also realists. They knew I would never be number one, there would always be someone out there a little better than me. I was targeted and aimed at the number two slot.

Every Christmas, Father Christmas (Santa Claus) left a present, under the tree, for the whole family. It was always a game, a family game. On Boxing Day (the day after Christmas), after lunch (cold turkey!), my father would open the game and read the rules. He would read the rules and make notes. We would then gather around and play the game, making sure that we followed the rules carefully and explicitly. My father was very much a man who followed the rules. I don't break rules. I push, I moan, I complain, but I don't break rules. I know exactly how the game is played and I follow those rules. True, I some times use the rules to my own advantage, but that is because I know them and know them well. If you know the rules, really know them, and follow them then you can win at the game. There's a life lesson if ever there was one.

I'm not sure that this post tells you much about my dad, it doesn't tell you as much as I'd like, but I don't have the time (and you probably don't have the interest) to tell you everything about the man. You can probably pick up a couple of facts and see a reflection in my life. Yes, there is a moment when I gave up everything for love. Yes, I made that move just after my father died (as he did). Yes, I follow the rules but I know and understand the rules. There are many other things about me that I get from my father - my love of literature, my love of Sheffield United, my liberal tendencies (and yes, I get my whole socialist view from a man who voted Conservative all his life), my belief in non-violence, my ability to tell a good story, my need for alcohol, my dependency on pain relief tablets, my mannerisms, my hair colour.

I spent way too much time in my life trying to impress my father, trying to be the son I thought he wanted. I then spent too much time fighting with my father, trying to be my own man, trying to get out of (what I perceived as) the mould he wanted me to fill. I now realise that I want to be my father. A man I loved, then hated, then ignored, then accepted as a friend - now I know he is my role model. I want to be my father. And as I look back on my life, at this point, I realise that I have followed his path very closely.

Honestly, if I achieve what my father did, if I do what my father did, if I live the life my father lived, if I leave behind me the legacy my father left (for family, for friends, for those who came into contact with him), I will die a happy man.

My dad - a man I admire, a man I love, the man I want to be.

the incredible hulk

I stopped reading comics at the age of 13. Up until that point my comics had always been delivered to the house with the Saturday morning newspaper. However, at the age of 13 I convinced my mother to give me the money to buy the comics myself, rather than have them delivered. Of course, once I had the actual money in my hand I didn't spend it on comics. I was 13! I spent the money of cigarettes and beer - ah, the joys of being 13 and living in England, where it is almost compulsory to start smoking and drinking the second you hit puberty. Although, now I think about it I was a late developer. I hit puberty at the age of 12!

Anyhoo, I stopped reading comics at the age of 13. It wasn't until I was 28/29, stood in a WHSmiths, flicking through the magazine rack, that I came across a copy of The Incredible Hulk. The reason that it caught my eye was because The Hulk, as pictured on the front cover, was grey. A flick through the magazine revealed that not only was he no longer green, he also talked. Talked in complete, cognitive sentences, as opposed to: "Hulk Smash!" I bought a copy. I read it and was intrigued. I visited a local comic shop and bought some back issues. I discovered that the Hulk had moved on from when I was a thirteen year old. I had arrived in the middle of Peter David's ten year run (over 100+ issues)  as the writer on The Incredible Hulk, and I fell in love with his writing, and the direction in which he was taking the character. I was hooked. My love of The Hulk led to me returning to comics, returning in a way that (at the height of my addiction) resulted in an 80 British Pound Sterling ($150) a month habit. True, there was a lot of dross in my monthly parcel but there were the few nuggets of pure gold. The Incredible Hulk (while Peter David remained at the helm) was perfect.

And yet, I never went to see the Ang Lee film: Hulk when it came out. I knew I wouldn't like it. I knew that it wouldn't come close to touching the magic that I found in the comics. The year before I had seen the first Spider-Man film, a film that had made tears of joy and wonder roll down my cheeks (the moment when he first climbs the wall). I knew that the same feelings wouldn't happen in Hulk. And I still haven't seen it. And (to over use the word and) I have no intention of ever seeing it; I haven't heard a good word about it, the clips I have seen make me shudder, the CGI looks awful.

So, there is a new Incredible Hulk film out (you may have heard the hype), do you think I'd go and see it? Hey, remember how I felt about Iron Man. Even with the love of Maria's life Robert Downey in the title role they couldn't make the film enjoyable. Obviously there was no way that I was going to go see The Incredible Hulk. No way. Nuh-huh. No way, Jose!

So, I went to see The Incredible Hulk and you know what? It isn't bad! It isn't fantastic, brilliant, hulktastic - but, more to the point, it really isn't that bad. In fact, it is quite good. Definitely worth the price of admission! The main problem that I have with the film is the fact that it needed to make money, it needed to appeal to the masses. At it's core, the way that Peter David dealt with the Hulk, is a very complex story. Once you strip away the whole "Hulk Smash" ethos you have the story of a man dealing with his inner demons. A man who sets himself adrift from his loved ones, alone, desperately trying to find a cure that will enable him to re-enter society. The first half of the film deals with this story and Ed Norton plays it wonderfully. The problem is that Ed Norton can only play the Bruce Banner role, the role of the Hulk falls to CGI. And no matter what the advancements are with computer graphics, at this moment, they cannot make me care enough about about, what is basically, an inanimate object. (That isn't totally true. I can cry during Lilo and Stitch and Nemo but that has probably something more to do with the loss of family/my father than the actual characters.) The main problem with The Incredible Hulk is Tim Roth, or to be more precise, Tim Roth's character. Tim Roth is a great actor! I love and adore him. But he would be somewhere near the last person on my list to play a crack SAS/Marine/Super Soldier type person. He can do psychotic, he can do nasty, he can do weird, he can do frightening, but he can't do "Britain's elite soldier". The final act of the film is just a big beat 'em up scene that left me cold.

However, I'm glad I saw it. I didn't feel that my money was wasted (how the fuck did I pay twice to go see Iron Man?) and I am actually looking forward to seeing what they do with a second film - if they make one...there were enough dropped hints and openings for a possible sequel.

On the whole a 7 out of 10. Although, a verbal report (rather than a mathematical score) would have to read: not as bad as I thought it would be. And that can't be a great recommendation, can it?