Please, no more romcom!!

So, yet another romcom hits the big screen. Something about 27 dresses this time but I guarantee you it will be the same old crap with too many flaws to mention…but I’ll have a go. There’ll be the lonely, vulnerable girl; beautiful, intelligent, fully cashed up with daddy’s fortune. In other words, a bloke’s dream catch. So why the hell hasn’t she got a boyfriend already? It’s not as if she’s chosen to be single or is particularly career driven. She’ll work in a cafe or a video store and spend all day moaning about how ‘there’ll never be anyone for me’. The whole thing would be so much more believable (dare I say romantic?) if the lead lady was ugly, genuinely stupid and had actually tried to get a boyfriend before. Enter the bloke. He’s easy to spot. Good looking (but not dashing) innocently naïve, skint and on a run of bad luck that would make the bloke carrying the Olympic torch through Tibet feel wanted. He’ll cry a lot too (not the torch carrier…although we’ll see about that), usually about something she reminds him of. It’s a complete mismatch for Christ sake! And the story will never gain credibility because the plot will be transparent, the dialogue mush and the humor infantile. When are film makers going to realise that we can only watch what we’re given? Forcing us out on first dates to watch sloppy, ill thought out tripe just isn’t fair. Give us a choice once in a while. You could do a lot worse than to develop screenplays from edgy, original stuff like Recycling Jimmy, The Game or Truth or Bare. There is no excuse; the materials all out there.

Horne…one sick mother of that there can be no doubt but aside from the uncomfortable fact that UK citizens once more find themselves bending over backwards (no doubt digging into tax payers funds too) and being asked to tolerate a beast in their midst, something else is wrong here. Exactly when was it decided that Australia could start shipping criminals to us?

On a completely unrelated topic, the lads side of the debate closes today over on ‘Women Won’t Win’. Any late comments/opinions much appreciated. Ta

What does it take to make a girl happy?

Heather Mills eh, what a girl. ‘Nuff said….well almost. I mean, Sir Paul MCcartney must surely have been one of the most ‘romantic’ geysers on the planet. Imagine being woken up every morning girls by the chubby faced scouser’s soft tones, as he sits on the edge of the bed grinning and strumming away? And I mean his guitar! But no, in the end it all came down to money, as it always does. And there may be a clue here to what ‘romance’ actually is; a litmus test for how much a potential partner is prepared to give. Be honest, what’s romantic about train stations and wind swept hill tops? Absolutely no appeal what so ever apart from one thing: women know that if a bloke is prepared to stand in the pissing rain and wait for hours on end just to see you, then the chances are that somewhere down the line he’ll shell out for a big shiny rock. That’s what romance may be. A litmus test of a blokes potential and Macca had buckets of it.

Women Won't Win

Thought I’d let you know about a new blog just started up. It’s kind of a battle of the sexes thing; an exchange of ideas over a week or two centred around a specific topic that men and women don’t traditionally see eye to eye on. It was my girlfriend’s idea (a result of her growing fascination with blogging I guess) and it should be fun. Hopefully people will get involved because of they don’t, it’ll just end up being me and her trading blows in public! Have a look anyway, read the ‘rules’ and let me know what you think. I’m up first with my attempt to expose romance for what it really is……….or should I stop now and run for the hills?

Inspiration the Hemmingway

I’ve got a couple of projects on the go at the minute (both at various stages of frustration) so it was cool to have an excuse to close the lap top for a while. That excuse was a short trip to Italy, skiing mainly but with a couple of days travelling tacked on the end. After the snow, we decided that Venice could be nice at this time of year and we were right, a cool breeze having emptied the city of the smells and tourists that can make a summer visit here feel like a crappy fair ground ride. It was on the water taxi on the way to the hotel that I happened across a short article in the guide book inviting me to spend some time at Harry’s Bar.
‘Apparently Hemmingway used to drink at this bar, love.’
‘Oooh, Gucci!’
So it’s obvious from the start that my girlfriend and me have got different things to see and do but as we’re unpacking in the room I manage to convince her that we should find the bar and chill out for a bit before trying to empty the shops. The concierge explains where Harry’s is. Not far actually, just a quick stroll through San Marc’s insatiable pigeons, a right turn at the water front and a 100 yard stroll to the corner where the gondoliers meet. Italian men are worse than the pigeons when you’re with a beautiful woman and my plummeting confidence isn’t helped much by their laughter as I stop to ask where Harry’s is only for one of them to reach across with his oar and tap on the brown door behind me.
‘Grazie. Now come on love, leave the nice men alone.’
Inside the bar is small with not so much a sense of 1920’s chic, more a station waiting room some way down the track. The semi fine furniture is cluttered with jackets, umbrellas and confused, flushed faces. No sign of Hemmingway either and I’m beginning to wonder where I’m going to get my inspiration from. There are waiters though, more pigeons dressed this time in white jackets and I order a couple of Bellini’s from them. While I’m waiting I get a clue from the table next to us as to what Harry’s bar means today.
‘Er, excuse me waiter, but Martini is usually served in a cocktail glass isn’t it?’
The waiter smiles at the American gent with ridiculous contempt. He looks down at the short, stubby glass of gin and then back at the customer.
‘That is how Mr Hemmingway liked them sir’
Our drinks arrive as we’re laughing about this and finally I get the inspiration I came for, and not only to write but to market and sell as hard as I can too.
‘Forty five euros for two bloody drinks!’
The American gives me a knowing nod and together we finish our drinks and hum the theme tune to The Italian Job.