Movember!

Hello there. Those of you that know me may be aware that I like to do my bit for charity. I'm a giving guy, and always have been. I'll hold my hands up to that. Over the years I've done various things, but this Movember I faced my toughest challenge yet. Along with my work colleagues and thousands of men around the world I have been attempting to grow a moustache in aid of the Prostate Cancer Charity. Whilst some gentlemen may find such a challenge fun, stimulating, or even easy, this was not the case for me...

The one thing I was fairly confident I wouldn't have to worry about was the actual growing process. If you're lucky enough you may have witnessed the 'forest of love' that is my stomach you will know that follicley-challenged I am not. But this was far from my main concern.

When you think of Sam Priddy you think of two things: sexy football and sexy women. I was confident that my football would not suffer. If anything, I mused on a rainy late-October afternoon, my hirsute lip might strike fear into opposing defenses. I was more concerned, as ever, with the ladies. When you have a face like mine certain things are taken for granted, and adding a furry accessory could jeopardise my entire reputation. Whilst Movember has so far seen a continuation of the scintillating soccer that scouts across the world are used to seeing from me, the line of women that used to greet me outside my house every morning has dwindled, nay, stopped altogether. This has been a very hard time for me, and so any money you could donate to this fine charity would certainly help to cheer me up. I’ve done the math, and if every one of my Facebook friends gives just a pound we will have made £1,346,899. And people think that popularity is overrated…

In all seriousness though, whilst this explanation must have convinced you of my idiocy, the cause is most definitely one worth supporting. This charity works to provide support and information on prostate cancer, as well as funding further research into the causes of the disease. All the information you need to know can be found at www.prostate-cancer.org.uk, and if you want to know more about Movember head to www.movember.com.

To sponser me go to my justgiving page - www.justgiving.com/samgetshairy. Thanks.

Work Bonus

Got a new job which was nice. It's not bad either, pretty interesting work and my desk overlooks the River Thames (in London). If I crane my neck to the right I can watch the London Eye spin its way merrily through another day in the capital. And as I'm packing up my things to leave I'm greeted with the actual Waterloo sunset, the one the Kinks were always going on about. It's also paying for my amazing adventure around the world in January. So I should be pretty happy.

Alas things are not so smooth. Someone had the genius idea of creating a shelf and filling it full of books that hadn't been sold so that employees could have them instead. It has the intimidating name of 'the Pulp Shelf' and it is the bane of my working life. Don't get me wrong, at first I was over the moon at such a prospect. The people all around me told me of the old classics they had picked up, and I was worryingly excited when I managed to acquire a copy of that essential bedside reading 'The Fabric of the Cosmos' by Brian Greene. (It had a nice vintage cover).

For the last five days however I have dreaded going to the Pulp Shelf. Everytime I head down on the lift I allow myself to dream. For a few seconds there is a tiny glimmer of hope that all the best books haven't already been snatched up, and then, in a horrifying instant, it is shattered in the most humiliating fashion by Fern Britton's smiling face. She looks down at me from her autobiography and she mocks me. Every morning. It's a horrible way to start your day.

Moon

Popped along to the cinema with Little Girl Clark the other night and to our pleasant surprise twas 'Bargain Tuesdays'. We watched the Sam Rockwell film 'Moon', and I must say it was pretty darn good. If I went into any more detail it would wreck the entire plot.

But Kevin Spacey plays a robot.

Twilight

The teenage girl inside me had been bugging me to see this film. It seems to be all that anyone had been talking about for ages and so, when I spotted it in the sale at HMV I bought a copy, bowing my head in a feeble attempt to hide my face from the guy at the checkout. To his credit he showed no scorn whatsoever.

I was intrigued as to why there was such hysteria over the film. All I knew before I watched it was that it had a good looking vampire boy who falls in love with a human girl. Not exactly groundbreaking in terms of originality, but my sister had assured me that the tension between the two leads was unbelievable. Someone else had informed me that there were lots of luscious shots of woods, which was far more to my liking.

Encouragingly the film started well, as it followed a young girl as she moved to her father’s home in Washington State. The opening shots reminded me of an indie film, but unfortunately the rest of the film was fairly underwhelming. The main problem as I saw it was a severe lack of plot. I’m sure the Stephanie Meyer books are more complex, but the film was incredibly simple. The first half deals with Kristen Stewart’s character finding out about a vampire boy (and then falling in love with him) and the second half seems almost tacked on, as Robert Pattinson’s vampire attempts to protect her from another blood-sucker who has taken a shine to her.

The opening section is by far the better, as we learn about the vampire family (including a tour of their house in the woods) and love blossoms between the two main characters Bella and Edward. There are a few particularly nice touches: the vampires we meet are ‘vegetarians’ who feed on animals not humans, yet there is a tension between Edward and Bella as we are informed that, as much as he may love her, he also has a strong desire to drink her blood. Other interesting plot strands are brushed over, for example Bella’s relationship with her father (who she hasn’t seen for years), and the role of the American Indian tribe in relation to the vampires. Lots of angry glances don’t fully explain why the Indians have such power over the vampires.

A lot of the film is cheesy. The romance seemed inevitable as did the triumph over the vampire (who used to be in the O.C.) at the end. Whilst there are lots of great views of the woods, there are many more unanswered questions. Ultimately the film’s main problem is that it is the first in a series, and as a stand-alone film it doesn’t quite work.

Bloodbank

I’ve always been someone who is conscious of their role in society. My country looks after me and so, in turn, I feel I should give something back every now and again. In dramatic and brave fashion my gift to my society is my blood. One litre of it, every three months. And yes, I still don’t really understand why I’m not seen as a self-sacrificing heartthrob like that guy in Twilight. But I can put such shallow concerns behind me, and I did a couple of weeks ago in Brixton when I headed to the assembly hall to drain myself for the good of others.

I first started giving blood when I was seventeen, but I must admit I’ve been a little lax of recent. It doesn’t help that the previous two times I had attempted to give blood I had failed miserably: once because I was suspected of having some sort of North American bird flu, and the other time because they stuck the needle in the wrong place. This incident, which occurred up in Leamington Spa, was particularly embarrassing because I was trying to convince my then girlfriend to give blood, and she had come along with me.

As I lay back on the bed, with her looking over anxiously at me, I gave her a confident smile. The nurse then ever so quickly stuck a needle in me, whilst explaining how shattered she was from her day’s work. The pain was a lot greater than normal, but when I was asked how I was feeling I obviously said I was fine – I wasn’t going to seem weak in front of my girlfriend, especially as I was trying to convince her that the whole process was relatively pain-free.

It turned out they had missed my vein and stuck the needle into my muscle. Not only was this bad but first I was criticised (“Squeeze your hand harder, you’re slower than most…”) and then the nurse decided it was my fault because I had “small veins”. All the while I was trying to choke back tears . Of course, the whole error had nothing to do with the overworked nurse.

I put these past misfortunes behind me however, and the unsettling thought of actively volunteering to spill blood in Brixton, and marched down to the Lambeth Town Hall, little red donation card in pocket. I filled out the usual forms (‘Have you ever had sex with a man?; Have you ever paid for sex?; Have you ever had sex with a man who has paid for sex?’) and somehow managed to insult the woman on reception before eventually getting to donate blood.

Whilst lying down, squeezing my hand as fast as I possibly could (I’m not slower than most…), I encountered one of the funniest people I have ever seen.

A nurse was attending to the woman lying next to me when the patient’s husband walked up, a large man unsurprisingly clad in a Welsh rugby shirt. He paused, took a long look into the nurse’s eyes (a large Carribean woman who couldn’t have been more motherly if she tried) and then came out with the type of comic gold that would have been firmly at home on ‘The Office’:

“125 donations”, he said, leaving a moment for dramatic effect.

Then, with his eyes bulging he followed up with the killer punch – “Platelets”.

The nurse wasn’t really listening but he went on anyway, describing how there was a times when he had a needle in each arm (“pumping it out I was”). All the while his poor wife was lying next to him in silence. I was enjoying this thoroughly, when he managed to top everything by saying, “Once the doctors came up to me and said, ‘This blood is going to the children’s hospital, because it’s so PURE’”.

I couldn’t believe this man, and it was enormously satisfying to hear the nurse follow up his ridiculous boasting by asking him why he wasn’t giving any blood right then. He shrugged and explained he was diabetic, before going on a tirade against the blood services because he had once found out his blood was going to private hospitals. God forbid a dying person in a private hospital gets treated! The nurse correctly showed how stupid his argument was, but all he had to say was, “I’m not for sale”. I left the donation session with the conclusion that someone should give this man his own television show.

In the meantime give blood.

District 9

It is always easiest to criticise films, as opposed to praising them. Such films also allow me to get out my trademark biting humour. Because of these factors it is somewhat disappointing that the first few films I should see as I start writing my blog should all be rather good, and District 9 is no exception.

The film ran a rather good marketing campaign, and for the last couple of weeks or so I have been bombarded with ‘For Humans Only’ adverts on bus stops. I was also aware that Peter Jackson had produced the film, which no doubt helped getting it so much exposure, especially as it was a South African film with a previously unheard of director (Neill Blomkamp). I had no real intention of seeing it however, for whilst I thought the alien/apartheid metaphor was a neat idea the trailer had made it out to be a crude horror film in which I presumed the aliens just massacred the humans due to their maltreatment. I cannot admit to being a particular fan of horror films, but I was luckily convinced to go by a friend.

Parts of the film are shot like a documentary, supposedly some time after the events took place, and this gives a ‘realistic’ feel to what otherwise might have simply been a simple sci-fi action film. It is on the whole well acted, and the fact it is in South Africa immediately distinguishes it from most Hollywood alien films. What surprised me most was the plot. I had been expecting a tense build up until the first glimpse of a horrifying alien, but in actual fact the audience are shown the aliens wandering around from almost the first minute. The fact that they are also vaguely human in shape also means that, as the film progresses, it is easy to feel sympathy for them (a point Blomkamp has admitted was necessary, even if it was not what he originally intended them to look like). After the initial explanation of events (an alien spacecraft appeared over Johannesburg in 1982, and the aliens were subsequently detained in the grotty ‘District 9’) a gripping thriller begins as a human is infected by the aliens and has to team up with an alien to save himself, whilst the alien tries to find a way to return to his mothership. It all sounds a bit run-of-the-mill sci-fi, but the realistic character development, as well as the fast pace of the movie mean it is a step above most films in this genre.

Unfortunately the film leaves a lot of unanswered questions, and was obviously developed with a sequel, or indeed prequel, in mind. Here are just a few niggling thoughts that filled my mind when I left the cinema:

• Why did the spaceship come to rest over Johannesburg in the main place? (PREQUEL)
• Why are all the aliens so ill? (PREQUEL)
• If the spaceship is no longer capable of moving, how does it manage to hover above a city? (this question is more to do with alien technology logistics, but still irritated me a little)
• Why do human rights groups campaign for the aliens?
• Why does the lead character sound Irish every time he says the word ‘fuck’?
• For a film that takes its inspiration from apartheid, and especially the relocation of black people from District 6 in Cape Town in 1966, why does it portray Nigerians as criminals, prostitutes and witch doctors? (In fairness I do not believe this was intentional xenophobia on the part of the filmmakers, but is nonetheless unfortunate).
• Why is the child alien so smart?
• Why does Wikus (the main character) insist on calling the main alien Christopher Johnson, when the humans gave him that name?
• Does Christopher Johnson (sorry…) save his race? SEQUEL
• Does Wikus ever turn back into a human? SEQUEL

Even with all these hanging queries I found the film to be highly enjoyable, and would most definitely recommend it. Hopefully the next film I see will be awful…

Pukkelpop!

No one has ever heard of Pukkelpop, no one knows where it is, and no one has ever been. Yet myself and a few friends (Henry, Slutty, Ed and his little brother Alex) found ourselves at this obscure Belgian musical festival near the city of Hasselt this August. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. First of all I had never been to a music festival, but I was aware of the likes of Glastonbury, Leeds, Reading and Bestival. Even Exit in Serbia. This however, was a trip into the unknown.

When we arrived sweating on an overcrowded bus and were dumped in a dusty lay-by, my optimism over-shadowed the sense of dread that I should have been feeling. There were literally thousands of people everywhere. The Belgian police struggled to contain them as they spilled onto the four-lane road that handily dissected the festival from the camping area. As we queued to get into the dirty field that would be our home for the next four nights (a rather annoying ritual that would be repeated every time we wanted to go back to our tents) the sun bore down on our backs and by the time we could finally relax all of us were soaked through from our exertions.

Apparently 180,000 people visited over the three days we were there, which is not surprising. There were enormous queues for everything: the toilets, the showers (we only managed one the whole time we were there), and obviously to get into the arenas. The camping area was unlike anything I had ever seen. Tents were literally built on top of one another. It was so hard to find your way out of the tent city that had been hastily erected that every time we attempted it one of us would have to ‘run point’, picking a suitable route for the others to follow. All of us, needless to say, were useless at this and so there were numerous incidences of us stumbling over other tents and people, typically couples. One particularly funny moment saw Henry, as one of the elder statesmen, explaining to the somewhat naïve Alex that sometimes all you needed to do was to jump over the tough-looking stretches. This was inevitably followed by him attempting to do so, landing in a pool of mud and falling flat on his back. Whilst I am not a fan of camping, this ordeal was a small price to pay for the overall fun that we had at the festival. Here is my verdict on the acts we saw:

• The Maccabees – I found myself surprised by how much I liked their music. Special points for enthusiasm to the guitarist (Felix White) who threw himself about the stage like he was headlining Glastonbury despite actually playing to about 300 hungover people at eleven o’clock in the morning.
• The Twang – entertaining, but for all the wrong reasons. I must admit I had actually bought a song by them before, but I don’t think I’ll be doing it again. I had thought they were a young indie-pop group, but they were actually two mental, fairly old guys from Birmingham who thought they were the Gallagher brothers. One of them couldn’t sing and kept on doing the ‘come and ‘ave it’ gesture, whilst the other one retired at one point to get a whisky. They weren’t good enough to justify such rock’n’roll behaviour.
• Bon Iver – I had to drag my friends to this one, and was thoroughly rewarded. Justin Vernon’s voice is just as pained live as it is on the record, and it was amazing to see how all four members of the band harmonised. Henry got particularly emotional when the crowd repeatedly sung the line ‘What might have been lost’ from ‘Wolves’. Lovely stuff.
• Dizzee Rascal – we struck grimy gold with this one. The London MC followed Bon Iver meaning that all the indie fans couldn’t get out of the arena fast enough and we found ourselves at the very front. To make things even better he climbed on top of Ed and we got to touch his torso whilst he sang one of his hits. He is also an especially entertaining performer who had the entire crowd jumping throughout, despite the fact it was said to be somewhere in the region of 38˚. The best act we saw at Pukkelpop.
• La Roux – went down a right treat with the Belgians. Elly Jackson didn’t even attempt to sing the chorus of ‘Bulletproof’. She also smiles a lot more than you would expect, and looked genuinely touched by the adoration of the Flemish public.
• Faith No More – Alex quite literally dragged us to this one. We’d never heard of them but apparently they used to be quite big. Fairly average, but there was one entertaining moment when a fan got onto the stage and jumped off straight into a barrier. Someone should also tell the lead singer not to wear a peachy shirt and trousers combo. Their songs were so dire that we instead started singing along to Alicia Keys’ ‘Falling’, to the annoyance of the Belgian rock fans around us.
• The Ting Tings – worked the crowd well and impressed me with their playing of various different instruments, often at the same time. Better than I thought they’d be, but I still don’t know what her name is.
• Snow Patrol – the lead singer graciously chatted to the crowd a lot, but there was something quite irritating in the manner with which he did it (as if he knew they loved him). THEY DIDN’T PLAY ‘RUN’.
• Jack Peñate – a brilliant performer. He also has more hits than I’d realised. And he spat on us!
• Rusko – Henry’s dubstep recommendation. Great fun, but mostly because it was in a tiny heaving tent where we all got split up (I climbed up into the stands whilst Henry and Ed were carried away by security).
• 50 Cent – dire. Also, the members of G-Unit swear too much.
• N.E.R.D. – can’t actually remember much of this. I don’t think I was too impressed though.
• Arctic Monkeys – I really wanted to like them, but they were atrocious. Firstly they were awful performers, not saying anything and just standing there strumming their guitars. They were really, really boring and the majority of the songs they played were b-sides or ones from their then yet-to-be-released album. I think they were probably good if you knew all of their songs, Slutty certainly enjoyed it. People have since told me that they’re just shy and don’t like performing, but to me it looked like they just couldn’t be bothered to make an effort. It was a shame they were the last act we saw.

All in all though it was a thoroughly enjoyable few days and it was with sadness that we arose at five in the morning, after a couple of hours of sleep, to drive back to Bruges. To his credit Ed only fell asleep at the wheel once.

Cultural Lads on Tour: Bruges, Belgium

Belgium is a country I have never before considered going to. In fact, prior to my trip there last week, I lived in a state of blissful ignorance with regards to all things Flemish. The reason for the trip then was absolutely nothing to do with me, but it turned out to be a highly fulfilling experience. The architect of this little week-long adventure was my good friend Lawrence ‘Slutty’ Mason (a well-earned if slightly ironic nickname). For a while my friends from school and I have wanted to go on holiday together, partly because we were getting sick of London, but also somewhat because of desires to emulate other people of our own age who have been going on ‘lad’s tours’ since they were 15. We decided it was time to break loose from our self-imposed chains and actually attempt to do something fun in someplace other than our well-traversed small section of South East London. Whilst most people our age are heading to Ibiza, Magaluf and other such Brit-friendly destinations, it was decided almost immediately that Belgium was to be the location of our holiday. The ultimate aim of our journey was to reach a music festival with the catchy title of Pukkelpop, but Belgium was also an obvious choice because Slutty’s mother is Belgian, and his dad handily happens to write tourist guides on the country.

Before the festival we decided to spend a night in Bruges. This, it has to be said, was almost entirely due to our love of the film ‘In Bruges’, but it nevertheless happened to be a wise choice. Arriving at the train station it is apparent from the start that Bruges is very touristy, but is also a city with an incredibly relaxed feel. Furthermore, if you venture anywhere outside the immediate centre (around the Markt and the Burg squares) you are hard-pushed to find anyone other than a few gently strolling locals and the odd swan. It was safe to say we were impressed from the start.

After dropping our belongings at the youth hostel we had booked (the American-themed ‘Charlie Rockets’) we set out into the heart of the town accompanied by our pocket student guide and an eastender named James who was staying in our room (he had been abandoned by his travel companion in favour of a visit to a girl in Rotterdam). After the journey from London we were all fairly tired and so decided to leave to majority of the sightseeing for the next day whilst we sampled that famous Belgian speciality – beer. We visited several recommended bars and pubs (including De Garre, which made its own 9% beer), had some 3 Euros spaghetti and eventually settled in Brugs Beertje, a pub with 300 different types of Belgian beer. The night progressed so well that at one point we were having a heated discussion with some English ex-pats who lived in Cyprus about the merits of various beers, including ‘Kwak’, a strange-concoction that came in a weird test tube-like glass. This was absolutely ludicrous considering normally I find it hard to distinguish between a Carlsberg and a Guinness, but it was most definitely a lot of fun. I can however now refute the laughable promises that Belgian beer doesn’t result in a hangover.

Before we had to get the train to Hasselt for the festival I made three crucial observations about Bruges that would prove, mostly, to also account for Belgian as a whole. Firstly Belgian beer is not anything like English beer. It comes in much smaller glasses, but it is far stronger than anything I had tasted back home (with the exception of Special Brew). At one horrific point we found ourselves drinking an 11% concoction. Secondly, like the Netherlands, everyone speaks fantastic English. This was helpful for us, but did leave me feeling a little guilty at our own feeble grasp of foreign languages as a country. The third, and most important observation, was that Bruges was full of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. I was also surprised by how well-dressed they were, characteristics I would normally associate with the French or the Italians. Sitting in the train station resembled being at a fashion show, as beauty after beauty sidled past us. I realise this may sound a bit desperate and perverted, but it honestly was shocking to see so many pretty people in one place. Linked to this observation can be made the point that if you see a woman on a bicycle in Bruges she will, by definition, take your breath away.

Lawrence and I later returned to Bruges after the festival when we explored the medieval city to a greater extent. Whilst the main attractions (the ones that were also visited in the film) such as climbing the Belfry and seeing the relic of the Holy Blood were interesting, we were both in agreement that simply wondering around the canals was the most fulfilling way of spending our time. The area to the south of Bruges around Minnewater was the most scenic. Beautiful parks, a range of different bridges and stunning buildings assault your senses from every direction. The beauty of Bruges is also that it is quite small, so these attractions were a mere ten minute walk from the centre of town. Compared to the hustle and bustle of Ghent, Bruges is a far more relaxing and aesthetically-pleasing city with arguably more on offer to see than its larger sibling. Its size does however limit the amount of time required to make the most of it, but means that as a weekend-break destination it is hard to beat.

The Goal That Never Was

One of the talking points in English football this weekend was Crystal Palace’s disallowed goal against Bristol City. Whilst I would not normally take the time out to write an appraisal of the pros and cons of using touchline technology in football, this time was particularly controversial, because on this occasion it was my team that suffered.

In case you missed it this was not a case of the ball going slightly over the line, but of the ball actually hitting the back of the net. More precisely, when Freddie Sears volleyed the ball past the Bristol City goalkeeper it hit the stanchion holding the net in place and ricocheted back out of the goal instantly, thereby causing confusion. Footage of the ‘goal’ can be seen here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/eng_div_1/8204164.stm.

To add salt to the wounds Bristol City scored a winner in the 89th minute leaving everyone involved with Crystal Palace feeling pretty glum. On the upside however we found ourselves with a brilliant excuse as to why we lost. Such a distraction has been seized upon by the usually reserved Palace manager Neil Warnock and equally shy chairman Simon Jordan. Unfortunately the manner in which they have gone about their complaints has not been particularly dignified, nor has it always been well-aimed.

Certainly errors were made during the game. Firstly was the fact that four officials missed an incident that was blindingly obvious to everyone else. Secondly, and perhaps the biggest mistake by the referee and his assistants, was their failure to look at the player and fan reactions and use a bit of common sense. Sears and the Palace players wheeled away to the corner flag in celebration, whilst the Bristol City players and fans were obviously dejected. Do they really believe that a player would hit the post, or indeed put the ball wide, and then pretend to have scored? It seems incredible to think that this was the conclusion they may have come to.

Warnock was right in saying that the referee had not meant to get the decision wrong, but then somewhat foolishly turned on Bristol City. Feeling he had gone a little too long without making enemies he claimed that Gary Johnson and his players had “cheated” and “could have shown more sportsmanship because they knew it was a goal”. Whilst the Bristol players knew that it was a goal, it takes a very courageous person to admit such to the referee and volunteer to concede a goal when the scores were tied. For one thing they would incur the wrath of the home fans. It reminded me of the incident in a Manchester United and Tottenham match of a few years ago when Roy Carroll dropped the ball into his own net before scooping it out and pretending it hadn’t crossed the line. It may be bad-sportsmanship, but officials are there to decide what is right and what is wrong. Warnock was rightly frustrated, but he picked the wrong fight.

The main culprit in this case, as far as I can see it, is UEFA itself. They are the only organisation with the power to implement the type of goal line technology that is long overdue. This is an old and oft-mentioned argument, but if they can have touch-judges in rugby, and third-umpires in cricket, why on earth can’t something be done about football? Possibly it has something to do with the communist football organisation wanting to have everything uniform in the game of football. It would definitely cost a lot to implement such systems in every league in the world. Football however is the most lucrative sport on the planet, and it needs to keep up with the times. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to start introducing trial systems in certain leagues?

The fact of the matter is that goals are the most important aspect of football, and if they can’t be judged correctly then football can’t be conducted correctly. I’ve yet to hear anyone in England put forward an argument against touchline technology, and it seems somewhat hilarious the amount of times the same arguments are versed each season. Famously last season a goal was given in the Watford versus Reading match that hadn’t gone anywhere near crossing the line. Such goals change matches. In any case, if goal-line technology is yet to be introduced, why on earth is there a law that states that the fourth official cannot view a replay of events and then make the correct decision? It all seems a case of bureaucracy gone mad. In the meantime the referee in question, Rob Shoebridge, has been suspended and thus made the scapegoat until the next inevitable incident. Oh, and Crystal Palace have been offered an apology for his mistakes. It is not an apology that we, nor any other football fan, would want however. Something has to be done to prevent, or at least lessen, the number of these incidences that occur.

In Bruges

‘In Bruges’ is a film that I had only heard good things about before I actually saw it. Experience has taught me that this is rarely a good thing. Sacha Baron Cohen’s ‘Borat’ was universally praised by critics and my friends alike, but by the time I finally got round to viewing it, a good three months after everyone else in the world, I was left with a mighty sense of disappointment. Of course it was funny, but I was expecting it to be, and all of the best jokes I had already overheard via my loud-mouthed fellow students. I did not find the naked wrestling scene funny, for example, because I had already heard it described in excruciating detail and it was therefore not as shocking as it must have been for the unsuspecting cinema-goer. Similarly I recently saw the stag-do comedy ‘The Hangover’ at the cinema. Whilst I did think that it was a very good film, the sheer hype that had grown up around it, as well as the brilliance of the trailer, meant that despite laughing almost constantly throughout it I came out of the Brixton Ritzy trying to pretend I wasn’t just a little bit disappointed it hadn’t been better. But maybe I’m just fussy.

With ‘In Bruges’ however, I found it to be a case of the film bettering my expectations. Everyone I knew that had seen it encouraged me to do likewise, and with good reason. The story follows two Irish hit men, played brilliantly by Colin Farrell (of Ballykissangel fame) and Brendan Gleeson, who hideout in the Belgian city of Bruges after a job in London. The cockney boss baddie is played by Ralph Fiennes (who you may know as the uncle of the child who plays young Voldemort in the Harry Potter films) with what struck me as a slightly over-the-top accent, in nonetheless a good performance.

The film provides many funny moments, despite its heavy use of swearing and graphically violent nature. Farrell is at the heart of all of the best parts, from his wide-eyed amazement at the sight of a movie about midgets being filmed, to his violent reaction to being threatened by a bottle-wielding Canadian woman. The plot cleverly weaves its way through a multitude of little incidences, many which have greater significance towards the end of the film, all the while using the picturesque Belgian city as a backdrop. The relationship between the two leads is particularly amusing, and is highly reminiscent of a typical family holiday as one character (Gleeson) attempts to soak in the medieval culture, whilst the other (Farrell) spends most of his time childishly complaining.


It is indeed the characters that make the film so watchable. Despite their murderous natures you find yourself warming to all of them, even Fiennes’ ‘Harry’. Director Martin McDonagh (whom I must admit I had never heard of before) relates his comic-book characters to ordinary life in a sophisticated manner that, despite who they represent, allows the viewer to relate to them. One moment that sticks out is Harry’s anger at finding out that Gleeson’s Ken has not killed Farrell’s Ray. As he slams down his phone repeatedly his wife reminds him that it is just an “inanimate object”, to which he instantly retorts, “You’re a fucking inanimate object!”, before apologising moments later. Such a confrontation, irrespective of what triggered it, could easily be an argument in any family’s house.

The film is not just a comedy, but deals with issues of guilt and redemption. Farrell’s character, we learn, accidentally killed a child in the botched assassination that has led them to Bruges, and this provides both the drive of the plot (the gangster boss orders him to be killed by Gleeson), and the surprisingly touching moments that litter the film. Farrell is plagued by sadness, but McDonagh does not allow the film to become overly sentimental. When Ken raises the issue early on in the film for example, an obviously-distraught Farrell remarks “Why the fuck did you have to bring that up?” And the subject is not raised again for a while. The most touching moment of the film, and also one of its funniest, occurs when Ken is walking up behind Ray to shoot him in the back of the head. However when he is about the pull the trigger Ray raises his gun to his own head, prompting Ken to prevent him from killing himself. The rest of the film concerns Ken’s attempts to help the suicidal Ray, despite all the obstacles.

The characters are weird and wonderful, yet to a certain degree believable, the setting seems apt and indeed plays an important role in the story, and the humour throughout the film provides ample entertainment. What makes the film really great however is the love of the characters, especially Ken’s towards Ray. We later find out that Ken holds a debt to Harry, yet he forgoes it to help the young, misguided man. It is haunting to watch Ken, bleeding at the top of the church tower, reach into his pockets for the four Euros ninety cents (that he had earlier attempted to pay for his visit to the medieval building) before dropping them down through the mist below to clear the way for his hurtling body, all in an attempt to save Ray’s life. I cannot wait to watch this film again.