Market Schlepping in Bangkok

So the new "business adventure" has included doing quite a bit of research around town, sourcing genuine vintage clothing, and also looking for unique new patterns and stylishly made clothing. It has been a hot, sweaty and a sometimes disgruntling experience. 

We tracked down the internet's advice on where to go (and decided who ever wrote that crap was on crack). The worst, absolute worst experience so far has been Wang Lang Market. Now any one that has been to Bangkok and travelled around, must know it's not the easiest place to navigate, even with Iphone's internet service and google maps. Mainly it's to do with the 'lost in translation' side of things i.e: you are pronouncing the romanisation of a Thai location incorrectly; this is true 99% of the time. Actually, it's probably 100% of the time. Also hard if your Thai is shitty, like mine is. 

For us, Wang Lang was our Waterloo of "Vintage Markets". What we thought would be a relatively easy navigation turned into a very expensive affair, for butt fuck nothing rewards. It was supposed to be – take moto to train, take train to river, take boat ten stops down river, 'hey presto': market. Ha, when the hell does that ever happen in this city? 

Yes to the first two steps, BUT get to the river, and for some reason unbeknownst to us (could have been anything really as I'm totally fucking illiterate in this country) ALL of the boats were out that day (possibly due to flooding... or something else, who the fuck knows). No public boats whatsoever. And a whole bunch of grifters telling us horseshit about why there are no boats (you would recognise the type: shady, greasy, dark and manipulative - enough english to try and cajole you into doing something you don't want to do - kind of like drunk slimy sex with someone you know, but not very well, and don't really like - you feel bad afterwards). 

So out of heat frustration and total abject laziness to look any further, we take a private long tail, which is about ten times the price of what it should have been, and even though they say they are taking us to where we ask, of course the grifters are lying sacks of shit, and drop us off at another tourist site far from our desired destination. We're then walking on a crowded street, in the mid day heat, and I feel grubby. But not as grubby as it's going to get. We walk, until we decide a bus may be better, and some busses are free. Which is fine, until we get on this dilapidated fifty year old vehicle, with open windows, and flies drunk on heat, meandering through the air. The interior hasn't seen a clean and the motor a tune up since possibly the 70s, but mid 60s seems more likely. You think it's going in the direction you want, but really, it isn't. Which totally pisses you off when you want to get out, and it's the first instance I've seen where the driver wont open his doors in the middle of the road whilst stuck bumper to bumper in traffic that is going nowhere. The driver insists on driving that extra five hundred meters in the opposite direction, from the point you indicated where you would like to alight. I figure it's because I'm white, and he's a spiteful cunt. 

Get off the bus, walk some more following the blue dot on google maps (man, I love that blue dot). Find the Pier which is across the river from where we want to be. Ask someone where the boats go from, he directs us. Here is another piece of advice, take Thai directions with a grain of salt. They are quite often, always wrong (the language is too general for specification I find) . It's not that his directions were wrong for someone sitting at an information booth, it's that, why the fuck didn't he know that boats weren't going from that location either. Walk to pier, get told boats aren't ferrying foot traffic across the river that day. Walk back to street. Give up, approach expensive moto. Two moto's. They'll take us, but they don't seem to understand where it is either. Patience shortens. Fuck it. Get on and wing it. End up on a four lane toll way, with no helmet. Feel slightly insignificant and that this could be one of those moments, or THE moment. Driver pulls to the side after all the four lane traffic business is finished, and gives me a helmet for the side streets, indicating the fact there is police presence around. Because getting a ticket is worse than having a dead farang, I'm guessing. But whatever. These decisions are rather parochial on day to day basis here.

Get to market. Discover market is more thrift than vintage, when it comes to the small amount of vintage it offers. The clothes are overly pedestrian, lack any style, are grubby and make you want to shower after handling them. Shops are situated over sewer drains, subtly* covered by awkward floor boards (*not subtle at all), and they can't mask the odour of smelling like shit. The newer clothing is crappier and more expensive than sourcing the stuff from somewhere closer, like Platinum or JJ market. 

We decide the people positively reviewing this market on blogs, are totally full of shit. They make it seem so exciting and full of lost treasures... Pffffft. Don't believe the delusional hype. This market caters to idiot tourists who don't mind paying exorbitant rates for shitty clothing, or think thrift clothing badly made five years ago, is vintage. We buy two things, more out of sheer determination to not have had the whole day go to waste than anything else. 

I should mention that going to these kind of places without food, in a hypoglycaemic state is also a bad, bad idea.  It amplifies your grumpy. We grub about for an hour or maybe a bit less, become increasingly unsatisfied, with the quality we see. We decide finally after much ado about grumble, that we should leave. Taxi's ignore us, or are otherwise taken by local thai's who push into line. Fine, whatever. It's not something that I'm not used to. We approach Moto's again, just to get the hell out of Waterloo-Dodge quickly. We agree to an exorbitant rate from the moto. Be gone, is all we want. We're hot, grumpy, ill nourished, disappointed, and feel like a bath in Clorox is mandatory. An unhappy exit is compounded by the fact that the moto driver smirked when we agreed to his exorbitant rate. 

I still feel like an idiot tourist outside of my comfort zone in Bangkok. It's because I have no prior experience of spacial awareness in new locations, and cannot gauge how much distance is worth the fee and therefore cannot negotiate. 

TLDR: my twitter update of our odyssey to Wang Lang. Never Again - Some bits of Bangkok weren't made to be seen. 

I hate my fucking Neighbours.

I haven't met them, and I know no personal information about them; my feelings of loathing come purely from my keen observational powers.

Reason number 1: They are the type of people who will drive to the front gate of the house (yeah we live in gated compounds in Bangkok - must have something to do with the occasional rioting or biannual coups) at any time of day or night (more commonly late at night - like late late) and honk the horn incessantly, expecting their maid, who has probably worked a 12 hour day or more and been up since the crack of dawn, to rise from her slumber and open the gate for them. The horns are loud and annoying and at intervals of every 30 seconds to a minute, while the maid choosing to ignore them (and rightfully so) fails to appear. Why are they so fucking lazy that they cant even open the car door, walk 5 feet and unlock the gate for themselves (rhetorical). The energy wasted on waiting for someone to appear, whilst getting resentful in the car must be huge. There is 6 cars parked in their compound, and all are nice 'label cars'. Ones that denote social status - hiso. And every owner of those cars does the same goddamn thing. Cars are expensive here too, like 300% of the price of any normal country. Fucking lazy entitled fucks.  I am admittedly and irredeemably low class, and even I think this is the epitome of rudeness. 

Reason number 2: they have guard dogs. Dont get me wrong I dont hate the dogs, I hate the owners. Now these type of dogs are treated as such, like dogs. They aren't cherished and spoilt molly coddled members of the family, hand fed from the table like ours are. They are guard dogs, kicked around, swatted with a broom and left outside to their own pitiful existence. I imagine they lead pretty miserable lives. But hey, they guard the house for some shitty food everyday, and are probably pretty loyal, gauging by the snarling barking sounds they make every time someone walks within 20 feet of their vicinity. The other day I noticed their larger dog has what looks like a prolapsed asshole, or the front hole, not sure which. It's a red flesh wound hanging all about on the outside. It looks like an exploding innards volcano, pink, molten and vomit inducing if thought about or looked at for too long... and just no good at all. It disturbed me, I mean it really fucking disturbs me, still. Like take your fucking dog to the vet to have it fixed for fucks sake, you lazy careless fucks. People that dont look after their animals really disappoint me as human beings. 

So the last couple of nights, I thought they may have gotten a new puppy, who cant stop barking to broadcast the inevitable that is coming (you know inside flesh cant hang outside for too long without some kind of infection or bacteria starting to eat away at it, not in the tropics of Asia anyways). When I checked tonight which dog was barking, it's actually the other dog. The male dog. I looked over at them, and he is lying at the feet of what I think is his beloved, yapping at her at what I think is understandably heart wrenching distress. As in "yap yap, come save my wife you fucking entitled fucks, she's going to die". My annoyance of the yapping noise level over the last 5 nights kind of subsided into sympathy. This was until, whilst closing the window to shut out his noise, he has roused his bitch up, after hours of harrassment... and is actually just trying to fuck her prolapsed hole. FML... really. Is he doing this out of stress of her possible mortality, the old eros and thanatos debate reduced to beasts. Or is he just another cunty dog  trying to screw his bitch over when she is in obvious, unmedicated and untreated pain (again, rhetorical). 

Assholes, the whole lot of them. 

I feel sorry for the bitch though. I wish they would just take her to the vet and get her fixed or put down. But even now, she's still guarding their house, while her fucktard hubby keeps barking at her. She, fortunately, has the good sense to only emit noise at perceived danger. Dogs don't have a very long life in this country, and there is no RSPCA. Any dog adoption shelters are generally set up out of donations and the kindness of peoples hearts (usually white people, and what I think is some hard core obsessive animal loving - but not the sexy kind). 

Oh the humanity.  (But what I really mean is - fuck you, you fucking fucks)

Niceties Don't Make My World Go Round

In the effort and spirit of "you have to let it go" and other general feelings of acrimoniousness, disdain and contempt... NB*this was written quite a while ago, but I'm in the mood to vent.

Dear Friend: I hesitate to call you that since our friendship seems to have dissolved quite some time ago (years in fact), I find it somewhat offensive that the minimal amount of contact you have made in the previous few years has been for the sole purpose of finding you employment.

Yes, I admit, that perhaps I haven't been the 'best behaved' friend in the world but in regards to that, well, for someone whose perspective changed (meaning you) to "niceties make the world go round" – your niceties fucking suck.

Lets start with the girlfriend (now wife). after shacking up with the lawyerly scholarly type your behaviour seems to have warped into "pudding and paying off the mortgage". I thought she was a nice, relatively sweet girl to begin with. But then I realised it was just a guise to hide her hideous North Shore ways, and her faux upper middle class English attitude.

Really the friendship ended when I had no where else to go and asked to stay on your couch. A relatively small favour I thought after subsidizing your rent and paying a fair share of your bills, whilst you were trying to land back on your feet after the ending of your last codependent relationship. Two nights I thought wouldn't be a big deal. Fuck was I wrong, couldn't have been worse really, and I barely made it through.

After trying to stay out of your way (in a bachelor apartment) when your girlfriend's "proper" female peer came over, and me eating the food "too quickly" you had spent so long cooking (half hour tops), and not bestowing enough praise upon you, not thanking you effusively about how wonderful it was, like your girlfriend's friend did (or possibly not thanking you at all wanting to give you some space in 20 meters squared), I will never forget the words out of your mouth:

"You are the worst guest I have ever had" followed by the overly pompous and totally self righteous "It's niceties which make the world go round"...

1. the fact that I ate the food so quickly should tell you (from previous experience of sharing my house together in your time of need) that the food was more than edible, it was good. 2. When the fuck did niceties come into it you fucking hypocritical medicare money scamming piece of shit.

Don't worry, I will never forget those words of yours as long as I live.

So after a year or two that goes by, I haven't heard from you, and had left a box or two stored in your moldy garage space. I also learn that you have done some short course (3 months) in a well regarded film school. I figure, I'm not really a bad person, and hey you're totally under skilled, but I will sing your praises to my husband and maybe he can help you get a foot up into the highly competitive world you're trying to enter. Not to mention one which is dominated by young idiot savants and social retards in their early 20s who have been in their bedroom doing this shit since they were like 7, coupled with the fact they are about a million times better than you already. And in reality, if you've really not made it by the time 30, well, you're not really going to make it.

Newsflash niceties boy, you're 30 (well mid 30's now) and just beginning your career. But hey, whatever, I will try and disregard the bitter feelings of disloyalty I have come to regard you with and help you on your way.

Congratulations Dumbass, you got a job. You can thank me later for helping you. What, no thanks? I thought it was niceties which made the world go round.

I guess you did say thanks for letting you and the Cankle (sorry, for want of a better word I cannot for the life of me think of another, as her lack of ankles totally distracted me every time she spoke to me), for letting you guys stay in our home while you found your own abode so you could relocate for your new job I so kindly helped you get (admittedly mainly through connections, it is who you know etc). A job that fuck all people, especially people like you, have the luck of getting after a 3 month trumped up purely money making course, without sucking some serious dick.

Anyways, I digress (I usually do). Time passes, you now live in the same town, but I figure Cankles has never really warmed to me so not much point in trying now.

Maybe she thinks I'm a bad influence. I did drag you to that swingers club that one time remember. Paid for you to get in, made you drink my worths of alcohol and tried to get your miserable ass laid. Now wasn't that the water cooler gossip of for the day.

A few more years go by. Little contact is made, particularly on your behalf. No emails, a brief facebook chat before you had to dash off to complete whatever important job it was you think you had to do at the time (I kind of know this is a lie too - there was no work on).

Then you find my husband online. In 4 years you've what, contacted him twice, (me once), and both of those times you were looking for jobs. Mere minutes of these "niceties" you speak of and immediately you are asking for a job again? Naturally he says no, out of being purely offended. He is not inclined to help turds a second time round.

These "niceties" you speak of, well personally I think you're full of shit. You can take these middle class aspirations you have been brainwashed with by your ever so enlightened Cankles and shove them up your faux middle class ass.

I mean you barely have any idea of what i have been through in the last 5 or 6 years, or what I have experienced, because it's not like you have given a shit. We're just some fucking job network for you? Seriously, get fucked.

More to to the point, do you even know what happiness entails? Lets speak about happiness in about 10 years, namely yours. Once you and Cankles have been together for 16 or 17 years.

Of course she will have ballooned out to a healthy size 18, (lets face facts, she was heading that ways anyways) especially if right now is any indication of the future. She might have pushed out one or two "nice" puppies by then. Maybe working part time, trying to save the children and all the other "do worthy goodness" associated with the aspiring middle upper class she thinks she is, who have nothing better to do with their lives, (lucky her mother married into money).

Right about the time you're going through your mid life crises, because your life didn't turn out exactly how you wanted it to, nor did you ever reach the heights of your capabilities, mainly because you were relatively mediocre in the first place. You will maybe be getting sex once a month, if you are lucky, and your passively dominant wife will have by that time (if she hasn't already, and I truly suspect she did years ago) totally severed off your balls, or what ever you had which passed as balls, a long time ago, and served them to you with a nice Chianti.

You'll get that felling, some where along the line, it will be a reflexive relisation devoid of humour. You'll plod along your very average life and it will all be about "pudding and paying off the mortgage" – good luck with the asbestos, congrats on the cheap deal on the house though. It's a real a hip suburb, for the upwardly mobile.

This is where "niceties" that you speak of get you. So you can take your "niceties" and I reiterate shove them so far up your arse they tickle your prostate gland and you orgasm. Because that's about as good as it's going to get for you.

Me, I'm a working class girl. A realist, a humanist, niceties barely work for me, because I figure they are covering a facade of shit waiting to topple down and crush you.

I do believe in treating people with humanity and respect. Somehow these highbrow middle class "niceties" you speak of and the humanity I speak of, seem to be mutually exclusive. One is shared by polite society who feed each other lines of polite conversational weather bullshit to survive on a daily basis. While the other accepts people for who they are, the mettle in their character and appreciates we're all just here to survive.

Initially I thought you had this mettle. But gradually I realised you only had it by proxy. You really are a weak willed man who feeds off those stronger women you have been with. You are now just a second half, a sucubus if you will. You've just become a watered down version of Cankles. A nice veneer with a shitty interior. Trying to cover it up by saving the children and paying the mortgage.

By the way, thanks for the wedding invite (sarcasm, I seem to have lost my touch in a country where there isn't any). And don't ever bother asking my husband for a job again you pedestrian, unexceptional twat.

Ahh, couple years coming, but I feel better getting that off my chest.

Sanitary Napkins, not really one for men.

What the fuck is the point of sanitary pads? Can somebody please enlighten me?

Arguably, for known reasons, they do have a use, I guess.

I know when I have had an operation "down there" and have been probed by horrible steel pointy things, where I had absolutely no concept of the extent the horrific-ness was, until I saw the full length home made dvd version the doctors made, (the drugs were really good, so was the price tag)… Granted, the pads are useful then. Being that there would be no way in hell, after a gynecological invasion, with unfamiliar tools shoved inside your 'wimin's bits' you would want to stick a tampon up your twat.

(I should leave out the pro choice bit here - as I'm pretty sure you would want to use a pad for that)

But seriously. Apart from the handy after the, operation bit… is there any other use? you can't tell me that a tampon doesn't preserve the hymen, because we all know it does.

As a serial tampon offender/user for most of my menstruating life, I can not tell you how fucking angry and despairing one feels, after checking into an airport, and going through customs, which I always encounter issues with, feeling like Pre menstrual shit.

At first thinking it's a tummy ache, then realizing it's cramps, and having a flight at a time when there is absolutely no shops open, bar some overly expensive duty free shop selling perfume, cheapish fags and shitty repackaged chocolates. The only other option being some shitty snack shop posing as a semi 7/11, but had no tampons to be seen, no where to even buy a pad. The airport didn't even have a doodad machine in the women's toilets which dispensed the nappy pad (must be terrorism).

Ok so, you start to bleed like a stuck pig just after they have called the plane to board (you're about 20 rows away at this point, it's all sequential you know).You have precisely two precious tampons left, but you know it's not going to make the 24 hour long journey you have to get home… you hope to whoever and whatever that there will be an 'appropriate' shop open which sells female sanitary products at some inevitable mid point layover on the way home.

So, after the first long leg of the journey pained with want-to-make-you-die cramps, you finally get to the transfer airport. You walk around in a somnambulist daze because you've had intermittent sleep, punctuated with bad adam sandler movies, or at best shitty interrupted sleep beside some fat white person who smells, takes up half your seat on the plane and wants to pee a lot. A plane which is pretty much designed for small people (it's an Asian airline - their staple diet is rice). On your slightly anxious way (mainly because you feel it's poor form to seep blood all over your hired seat), your first and foremost endeavor is to find someone who sells FEMALE SANITARY PRODUCTS on the layover.

In the transit airport, you lackadaisically steer your hand luggage trolley around with your copious amounts of carry on luggage (the heavy stuff you can't check, disguised in smaller bags they don't care about). In a fucked up vague, sleep deprived state (with many bad asian/english conversations that go nowhere) you eventually find a chemist/pharmacy/drug store… the only shop where they sell the 'products' to stem the fucking mass hemorrhaging.

I is overjoyed because so far the tide of red has been stemmed with the available choices on hand to soak up the blood i.e the chippy two tampons I possessed. Most pointedly, I did not want to resort to wadding great stacks of paper towels into my underwear to do the last 12 hours of the journey, as from experience, we know that never works.

I get directed to the chintzy shitty little beauty shop… I look around. For the sweet love of Jebus… they have noting but pads… oh thats right, you're back in asia. They have no idea what a tampon is. Tampons are for white foreign women, possibly fat people it seems, and and worst, loose if your'e puritanical. No one uses tampons in ASIA?

You buy the pad out of sheer desperation and necessity. Waiting till the very last moment, eventually, after having no other option you stick it into your underwear…

not only do you feel angry, grumpy, menstrual, shitty, sleep deprived, but now you're wearing a pad which within the hour just turns into feeling like you are wearing a sopping nappy full of blood. There is nothing quite as disgusting as having the fucking blood trickle down between your legs into your panty protector, and not feel like it's secretly pissing out every where Carrie style.

I just want to go to the toilet and wash everything away every time i feel some warm red gush. I mean it's not contained, not really. Sure it's supposed to go between the wings and shit - in a perfectly blue seepage stain poured from a grade 9 science beaker (it doesn't)… but it feels gross, I don't care how natural a fucking bodily fluid is.

And don't try and sell me that shit in some spiffy ad where there's water sprinklers going off and the girl is running through it, pirouetting, jumping outlandishly high, or doing gymnastics, double flipping utterly carefree, like she is having a good time. They aren't… and you, advertiser, are lying.

Women are actually under their grandmas crocheted blanket with a hot water bottle feeling sorry for themselves, watching ads which make them cry. And if not on the 'pill', taking copious amounts of iboprofen, or codeine or something.

Not only that but, when wearing the pads, my sense of smell becomes very suspect. Can people smell me? Because I think I can smell me. It's like the faint smell of iron mixed in with some cheap off the rack perfume. Yeuk. Just pure yeuk.

I digress, kind of. What I meant to say is: in my personal opinion there is no point to pads, excluding gynecological operations or miscarriages/abortions, unless you are the type of person who likes walking around wearing a blood filled nappy, and don't mind spending half the day sitting in it.

Although thinking about it, I am sure there is a fetish for it. *goes googling*.

Fucking Films, Not Fuck Films, Just Films are fucked.

I think it's deplorable what money hungry accounting assholes who run hollywood have done to films. Mainstream films have become a vapid, soulless, in-transformative, un-uplifting experience, dumbed down with models who can do nothing but hit marks and deliver, sorry, repeat lines. I'm saying nothing original or new here, I know, *sighs*, thought I would complain anyways, as there is fuck all I see these days where I think the performance was something to get excited about.

I get worried when I have seen movies which have been reviewed well, but turn out to be an absolute pile of shite or worse even. Worried that we have been accepting mediocrity in films for so long, it is now the accepted norm. How do you educate the youth of today, that it wasn't always shit, when they don't even realise it is shit they are being subjected to.

Here is some vomiting of vitriol describing people in films I have seen recently.

Eliza Dushku, hot when stabbing vampires at 16, but can't play anything other than yourself, ever - The Alphabet Killer, what the fuck? You got old quick and look like you pumped out a footie team of kids, when you've had none. To say nothing of your counter part Buffy, her voice will always grind in my ears.

Other serial offenders include: Liv tyler - snooozefest, always the same, come to think of it I haven't seen anything with her in it recently, but always fucking etherial, naive and full lipped when I do. It's boring. Be a cunt for once.

Bradley Cooper, not done much, but consistently plays type A asshole. I did laugh throughout The Hangover, so props, but the last 3 things I have seen you in - *shrugs* ...Asshole.

Amy Adams, yeah you might be an 'emotional being' emoting with your eyes and all that jazz, but unfortunately I'm sitting on the fence until you do something radically different. Change the high pitch nicety of your voice for once you good girl. I'm yet to see Julia and Julia, but it looks like sitting through it will hurt my ass while I wait for the end. Sunshine Cleaning and Doubt, interesting films, not much character development from you, apart from a costume change, and I still eagerly awaited the end.

Jennifer Garner, same same, do you know how to play anything other than your cutsey, self assured, I assume what passes for your regular, everyday personality? Mathew McConaugh*hyuck hyuck*, put a fucking shirt on, and try to act for once. Both of you should be ashamed, remakes of Dickens's Christmas Carol a No No. Please spare us the eye raping.

Julia Roberts, I'm sorry but your day has come and gone, time to leave the building because you would be what is known as "long in the tooth". Suggestion after watching Duplicity: retirement and look after those babies you had with your paid for divorcee husband. You, like Tom Cruise, are watchable, but neither of you can ever really get past yourselves. True and ongoing transformative powers elude you for the star status you seem to claim. And the large corresponding pay check you insist upon - waste of money.

Jennifer Aniston, Puh-Lease, understand you can not, repeat CANNOT play Rachel in every role you agree to and call yourself an actress or, for that matter, have a burgeoning career. It's like feeding us shit on a plate and telling us it's Foie gras. Marley and Me – Rachel. The last 5 films you have been in – Rachel. I now, and for some time, try and avoid anything you have signed your name to, knowing I will be served shit on a plate. That is time I will never get back.

Keanu Reeves. Swallow the fucking pill already. Your face is looking strangely plastic Ted. You can't act can you? Not really. You look good in black leather circa 10 years ago. Go be gay somewhere else already.

Jim Carrey, you get older and do the same shit, but your co stars get younger, and it's creeping me out. Yes Man, Particularly your big fake white teeth, and the halitosis I imagine you have, while you stick your tongue down their throats, making me cringe, because there is absolutely no chemistry happening what so ever. Try drama for a change. It worked once didn't it?

It's not all bad news though, there a few films which have had either stand out performances, or combined efforts worth talking about. Here is some of the ones I can remember at this moment.

Good Dick, not a fantastic movie but a one woman show – directed, acted, written by Marianna Palka, which for me was somewhat inspiring. I had to fast forward through the filler where stagnation happens (somewhat typical of a chick flick I find), and although I didn't entirely agree with the premise of the film, the overall ensemble performances where honest, and her work ethic astonishing. Even so, the film grossed $40 000 overall, so an effort all for naught really, as her IMDB page suggests she is doing nothing new, shame.

Tom hardy for performance - Bronson. A beautifully shot, and somewhat deranged film, boring in bits. I hadn't noticed this person before, but was amazed at his acting capabilities, Fucking awesome performance, no shitting you. A true character actor. Especially when looking at photos of him in different roles. I googled fervently after watching this film.

Michele Williams, the only one to make it out of Dawsons Creek alive. Incendiary - I believed you as a british slapper, east end housewife, the acting is good, even if you are the spit image of Billy Piper, but please pick better films, ones which have a point. Was it thriller, drama, comedy, love story? whatever it was, overall, there was no meshing.

Steve Coogan, haven't seen you for a while, but there has been at least 3 films in which it has only been half way through where I have realised who it is. I commend you. I recommend you, I would watch anything you are in... well nearly anything.

Heath ledger, fuck what a shame. Someone worth watching. I liked your gay cowboy eating chocolate pudding. It took me three years to watch the film, but it was worth it in the end. I put you in here, because the mother of your child reminded me of you. I don't think I want to see Gilliam's newest mess though, where you died mid film.

Christian Bale, highly strung, but extremely versatile. Has been for a while. I don't care how eccentric or abusive you get, your character adaptations make it worth while.

Robert Downey Junior, Sam Rockwell, Clive Owen, Gerard Butler, and sometimes Collin Farrel. All somewhat transformative, and what they lack in that, they make up for in manliness. So kudos there boys.

TV shows where the writing is good. Lets face it, TV is the writers medium, so most of the best stuff is actually being produced on TV. True Blood, Anna Paquin, I would have liked to see you play many other character types before committing to southern drawl Sookie in her short shorts. I'm concerned it might pigeon hole you. You are however good, and I have seen you change.

Sadly, it seems harder to come across female talent who don't have a problem with getting ugly, playing it real, or being horrid. Meryl Streep at 60 still seems to be outshining everyone else. Typical. Stop modeling women, modeling does not pass as acting, take a class already, get an objective, have an action, an activity, and fucking feel something already. Putting on a prosthetic does not mean you deserve an Oscar either.

Fuck me.

*For films I hated, I used Wiki links, believe me, you wont care about the spoilers. For the ones I thought watchable or *ahem* liked, I put the real links in so you're safe.

Dear Family Guests.

Dear loving family,

Living in the sticks, I realise you must be somewhat deprived of stimulus. But in enjoying our hospitality, please endeavour to not steal the books (plural) I offer you to read. I guess I would not have minded so much, HAD I EVEN READ THEM.

As at this time, I'm sure you can appreciate that, with fuck all money, no computer*, slow internet meaning no downloads, no television in english, and only one shitty game on my iphone to amuse me, books provide pretty much my singular form of entertainment. As you know, from experience I imagine, in being momentarily poor and needing an escapist reality, the genre of pulp fiction offers the solution of hours of relatively cheap fun.

What bothers me more is, that if I had to stay at your house, I would be specifically told to 'not steal the books'. An interloping act, if performed, one would never hear the end of... And more to the point, now I know why.

NB to self: must hang sign in guest bedrooms "Don't Steal My Fucking Books"

*computer situation rectified (obviously) by this point in time.

Dear Americans.

Dear Americans (god bless your souls),

Please refrain from using your shitty colloquial speech, in the attempt to make yourselves seem at least somewhat intelligent. Coined slang terms such as 'Off the Hook' belong in bad 90s sitcoms such as Fresh Prince, Moesha, or Saved by the Bell, and are not appreciated by the rest of the world.

Your insistence on using such terms, makes you look like some perpetual bong head, at some never ending keg party, who refused to mature.

In reality, the style conjured up is some middle aged man, sporting hair plugs, aping surfy greetings and advertising Ed Hardy for Christian Audigier.

Grow the fuck up.