Archive for April, 2010

Dr Rasczak or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Gore

Monday, April 12th, 2010

Dr Rasczak

This blog is a tribute. A loving, heart felt testimonial to a film that gave me so much and asked so precious little. It brought a lost child from the darkness to the promised land in which he now proudly presides. The film I refer to is, of course

My saviour

Yes, it’s Starship Troopers. Paul Verhoeven’s brilliant brilliant brilliant feature film retelling of a book I haven’t read (go figure). I’m sure the book is delightsome. I watched it again recently and felt it prudent to write down why it means so much to me.

Now, I treasure this film because it taught me something, something I needed to be taught. All of Verhoeven’s great films have a core message, they’re a sci fi tilt on an underlying idea. Robocop, Total Recall et al were very idealistic films which complimented his visceral style with a strong commentary on a given subject, I thought so anyway. Whilst Starship Troopers has a great commentary about the folly of human’s brute force approach etc, it wasn’t about that for me, not when I first watched it anyway. Let me take you back…

When I was a kid, I had a problem, something I could not overcome and lead me to miss so many great things growing up. Now this wasn’t any kind of depression, anger issues or any of that stuff. My childhood was a delight. No, my problem was something a lot more silly and baseless.

I was terrified of gory movies

I could not stand them. They very idea brought me out in cold sweats. I would avoid situations when there was a chance people would want to watch them. Terrified.

A good example I distinctly remember would be a Cub Scout 24 hour charity darts marathon. How could you forget something like that? It’s the scene, man. During this event the Cubs had conspired to watch Nightmare on Elm Street {insert number here}. My gore alarm went off big time and I fled like a fleeing thing. I’d never seen the Elm Street films but I’d heard enough to know that it wasn’t for me. I only remember seeing a bus teetering on a mountain. I now know the key to the problem could be found in this sentence

“I’d never seen the Elm Street films but I’d heard enough to know that it wasn’t for me”

I’d never seen it. None of it. I had no experience to base my opinion on, so the idea I had formed in my brain was that if I saw some gore I would die the death of dying. This is how the irrational fear, a phobia if you will, was built. It was the product of an overactive imagination.

I’m ashamed to say this quite daft situation I found myself in lasted till I was about 14-15. I would take steps to avoid seeing anything remotely gory, I even shyed away from playing Mortal Kombat II. It was a sorry state of affairs.

I also remember looking at a book in the library about cinema, in particular a picture from Robocop. It was Alex Murphy just after he had been shot to bits. I was looking at it, it wasn’t very gory but I was thinking, “I can never watch this, ever”. Even films like Terminator 2 and Jurassic Park were a no go. Looking back now it was all very very silly.

My lowest point came when watching the film Glory, a 1989 film about the American Civil War starring Ferris Bueller (Save Ferris!).

My lowest point

It was a school History class and there were roughly 40 of us sat in a small room on a blazing summer’s day. I was already a bit shaky when someone’s head was blown up by a cannon when it happened. A man was having his leg amputated, screaming and shouting, the whole shooting match. Then it happened, as a shower of blood hit the curtain there was an very loud *bang* in the classroom.

I fainted

The bang was the connection between my head and the desk. Oh what a silly billy I felt. Imagine feinting whilst watching a film about the American Civil War. It still shames me now, but all was not lost. From my squallid pit of baseless fear, I had a presto chango revelatory moment.

I remember it like it was yesterday. My dad, my mate Rich (who was the complete opposite of me gore wise) and I settled down one evening to watch Starship Troopers. I’d never seen it, heard of it or about it before. Little did I know my self respect was going to rise like a Phoenix. The film started and after the first little propaganda splash, this happened

The Moment

Suddenly everything, everywhere, was gore gore gore. The thing about Starship Troopers for those that haven’t seen it (shame on you) is it, so gory, so quickly that you don’t really have a chance but to watch it. Well I say ’so gory’ it’s not that bad really. But that’s kind of the point, I saw it for what it was.

As the film went on. I learned what movie gore was all about. Moments like this

Sunshine

this

Lollipops

and this

Rainbows (they sucked out his BRAINS)

I think it’s Verhoeven’s visual style. It’s quite exaggerated but and feels almost comic like in it’s application. Moments in Total Recall and Robocop are quite the same, it’s really fierce but so overblown that it makes it hard to take it truly seriously. The brain sucking bit still creeped me out but hey, dolly steps.

The main thing was the immediacy. It was as if someone had strapped me down like Alex in A Clockwork Orange and forced me to face this thing. When I saw it in the clear light of day, saw the limbs flying everywhere, I realised there was nothing to be afraid of. It’s just effects. I was free. Free as a bird who’d just watched Starship Troopers. I think we can all agree, that’s pretty fucking free.

I equate the feeling to like having just had a really good vomit. It is such a load off. You don’t feel great but you know everything is going to be ok.

It was the beginning of a remarkable transformation. I now find all that I had feared as completely hilarious. During the Devil’s Rejects, I laughed like a loon when the woman got hit by the truck. Sweeney Todd, I was crying with laughter every time someone’s lifeless body crunched in a heap when dropping into the cellar. Most recently watching Kick Ass I guffawed as the gizzards flew. I might have a problem.

A good one to look out for is

Dead Snow

Dead Snow, a Norwegian film about Nazi Zombies and the glorious gory dispatch thereof. It’s not so much a film as a showcase for new and innovative dismemberment. Suffice to say I laughed more than I should have done. You know it’s going to end well when a guy has his head torn in half.

I still shy away from some gore, but it’s all to do with context. I’m not interested in films like Hostel and Saw which equate to torture for me, it’s uncomfortable to watch and tend to avoid it. Though saying that, I’ve been forced to face it in films like 28 Weeks Later and Sympathy for Mr Vengeance and I’ve come out the end having enjoyed it. So I guess I should learn from my own experience.

The point is, a whole new world of cinema was opened to me by Starship Troopers. I watched it a couple of nights ago and whilst the violence seemed a bit tame compared to some stuff I’ve now seen, I still loved it to bits. It shall stay with me forever. It opened my eyes to the glorious fountains of corn syrup and red food colouring, showing me that it is nothing to be scared of and for that I am forever thankful.

The Tale of Amazing Fantasmical Sinking House

Monday, April 5th, 2010

Welcome weary traveller, you have ventured far and suffered much. You look like you could use a story….What do you mean no? Look I’m the guvnor here and what I says goes. Right? Good. Now please, rest yourself a while whilst I tell you a tale of mystery, intrigue and plumbing problems.

Now I am not a wise person. I hope to one day have some degree of wisdom. It’s easy enough to gain perceived wisdom, this can be obtained by smoking a pipe and rocking a rich, full beard. That’s not to say those with pipes and beards are not wise, this is usually indicative of wisdom. But wisdom can be faked with these trinkets also. I wouldn’t want to betray people’s trust by adorning myself in such a manner until I am wise enough. I digress, I apologise. As I say I am not wise. I have not travelled far, I haven’t met many people, but if I have learned nothing else I have learned this

Estate Agents are weasels

Vile little beasts they are. Slithery, pointy faced, contemptible vermin. Writhing across the land in a Smart car with a twatty haircut and ego that can be seen from space. Providing a front for house owners obviously too evil to conduct business with us blameless, lovely, superstars of, well, pretty much everything.

I find it’s no coincidence that of all the land lords/ladies I have had in my time, all of the cool ones have either cut estate agents out of the loop after we moved in or didn’t use them at all. Only those of questionable valour used the Confederacy of Weasels to do their dirty work. Together they make quite the allegiance of douchebaggery.

Allegiance of Douchebaggery

In summation, they have a WKD side. Anyone with a WKD side is an intolerable, unbridled wanker.

Our particular pack of weasels were a company called Roberts. They have the monopoly on student housing in Bournemouth which gives them the ability to be completely feckless mugs at all times and get away with it. A shower of cockholes. All my housing woes have involved them in some way. I was convinced Robert was a vampire, I called him Count Robert. Count Robert and his horde of leathery skinned goblins.

I’m sure we all have our own horror stories, I have a few of my own. Some of the fun things encountered during my time

  • Inexplicable “Admin Fees”
  • Leaking bath causing a bedroom ceiling to cave in
  • Double charging the deposit for a broken bed
  • Leaking bath causing porch to cave in
  • Washing machine that blocks if you use washing powder

Oh the fun I have. Maybe I’m being too harsh on Estate Agents. Not all of this is really their fault directly, but dealing with them to get it fixed is always such a chore. Helping you get this stuff sorted is always the last thing they want to do. After getting you to pay staggering amounts of money to move in they just don’t care anymore. When the guys bedroom ceiling caved in they replied “well we’ll call the Landlord and let you know…” and that was it. We went for a few days without anything being done about this gaping hole in the guys room. Useless turds the lot of them.

I realise at this stage I haven’t told my story yet, but part of the story hinges on another story which I will tell quickly as it also sets the stage for the main tale. This is going on a bit. Anyway. The story concerns the last house I lived in whilst at University. I won’t tell you the address as you’ll all be going there with cameras, knocking the door and annoying the current tenants. You’re a nightmare you are.

The guys I was moving with are my best friends to this day and we all go under the collective noun of “The Sandcastle”. This derives from the house they lived in before we moved into a house together. The house as you can see

The Sandcastle!

Looks like a sandcastle. What? course it does. Shut up. It was in the actual Sandcastle that my friends and me by proxy (I watched) experienced the true wrath of an Estate Agent and their evil dickhead overlord.

During their time living in the Sandcastle there was a leak in the kitchen the guys weren’t aware of . When they came to claim the deposit they got back precisely fuck all and the Estate Agent/Landlord wanted extra money on top to completely refit the kitchen. Now the guys admitted some liability but they were being made out that they’d done it on purpose, which they clearly hadn’t. It all got quite messy with courts and things. Our brave heroes eventually lost and had to cough up. But they fought the law and that was enough, honour had prevailed.

Now the main thing we learned from this was to report problems as soon as you see them. They might not get fixed but at least you’re not liable for prolonged damage.

This brings us to the Fantasmical Sinking House. The guys time at the Sandcastle was coming to an end as was my time in my house at the time (too many times in that sentence, ah well, must press on). The guys asked if I wanted to move in with them and I was all for it. We had a look and found this beauty

Spooky house!

This night shot looks a bit creepy doesn’t it? Here’s a daytime picture

Lovely house!

Isn’t she pretty? We tried for some time to find a new name as good as the Sandcastle but it just wasn’t happening. It became clear that the Sandcastle is more than a house, it’s a collective noun.

We are the Sandcastle.

A group of sexy heroes, battling for honour in a world of Estate Agents. The actual Sandcastle wasn’t the Sandcastle anymore, it was merely an orange house with a new kitchen built on lies. Fuck them.

With this established we moved in the new Sandcastle HQ. The Sandcastle’s ranks were as follows

Not pictured: Shaun

Pictured: Shaun

We settled into our new home, learned the houses ways, sussed out it’s nuances. Slugs visit in the night, the washing machine clogs the drain in if you use washing powder (call back), those cracks were here when moved in. Yes, you read that right, cracks. The front half of the house, my room especially, had more than its fair share of cracks running across the ceiling. The Estate Agent assured these were normal and for some bizarre reason we accepted this as perfectly reasonable. The Sandcastle is quite notoriously lazy and therefore we tend to let shit like this slide somewhat.

So we carried on with our lives. Getting up at 3pm, watching the Ashes and making mid to low quality cheap meals for each other with the agreement that the meal will be reciprocated. These were the general happenings of the Sandcastle at the time. I remember around that time the craze in the Sandcastle was Caesar Salad. Annoyingly our closest supermarket was Waitrose so we were compelled to go there due to it’s unquestionable promixital benefits. The frightening prices didn’t sway us for some reason, so we spent many a meal sampling the various different Caesar salad dressings they had on offer. We’re so cool.

After a few weeks of living in the house, something quite odd was happening

The front door was becoming increasingly difficult to use

What started with a tug to open, culminated in using a network cable through a hoop in the top of door to pull it open like a mighty Trojan army. We’re nothing if not resourceful geeks. Closing was similarly grief ridden. A solid shove eventually became a Street Fighteresque ULTRA SHOULDER BARGE. We knew there was a proper problem when Shaun managed to break the window when closing the door.

Now the lessons were had learned from the Sandcastle debacle were fresh in our minds. There was obviously a big problem as it was we all knew doors don’t get bigger, you tend to pick this stuff up quite quickly.  Therefore it seemed the hole the door lived in was clearly getting smaller. With this in mind we fired off a chain email to all our guarantors (our parents) with Roberts in the loop. I was able to rummage in Gmail and find the email, how exciting!

Dear Sir,

Please be advised that recently we have noticed some changes to the building which are of concern to us and feel they should be brought to the attention of the landlord and an early inspection by a qualified surveyor is, in our opinion, necessary.

The front door and the door to the first bedroom have become increasingly difficult to shut and open. The doors are jamming against the beam above and scraping quite considerably. There are cracks in the wall around this area where the doors are jamming, but they were detailed in the inventory before we moved in.

We have sent copies of this email to all guarantors involved for their comments and have also sent a copy of this email in the form of a letter to your office.

Yours Faithfully etc

Seemingly as a relief I also sent this to the Sandcastle, no idea why. As I have said, we’re so cool

the email I sent to roberts, have also sent an email to everyone but roberts explaining the situation

on another note….

O LRY?

YA RLY

Indeed. That was us free and clear. No matter what happened, we were not liable. Fuck you Count Robert and your goblin army. This doesn’t address what was actually happening to the house. Now it wasn’t really our problem beyond making the door work. The whole situation became quite funny really.

Our wise (pipe and beard wise, thanks Dad!) suggestion to get a qualified surveyor was taken up and a surveyor of qualification was sent round to inspect the problem. You can probably guess what the problem was…

The house was sinking

If we inspect the picture of the house again (not the spooky one of course)

We're going down captain!

You can see the pipe going over the front door. This was the drain from next door’s upstairs bathroom. This drain was blocked. I’m not 100% sure of the logistics but the blockage was causing a flood under our house to the left of the front door, by that little green bush (weed). Long story, long, it was washing away all of the foundations from this corner of the house. The house was sinking into the ground on this point meaning the door was being squeezed shut by the weight of the entire house. Fun!

The surveyor chap priced the damage into the hundreds of thousands. That’s a lotta dosh. From our position as blameless casual observers, this was all hilarious. For the amount of times we’d been fucked over by twatty land lords and their Estate Agent brood this was glorious to watch. Karma’s a bitch. We urged them to get it sorted as believe it or not, we like opening our front door, it’s something that until now we’d kinda taken for granted. Luckily the landlord paid up and the house was fixed.

Now I say it was fixed, they didn’t sort out the foundations. That’s a lot of money and having never met the Land Lord of that place we can only assume he was a penny pinching, smelly, greasy rat face. Their solution was something a little more cost effective and lot more amusing. The cleared the drain block obviously and…

They planed down the top of the front door

That was it! The master plan! A greater expression of an Estate Agent/Landlord’s shitness I have not found. But as I say, we weren’t liable and the door now opened so we laughed about it.

I don’t know if the house was still sinking after they *fixed* it. I don’t know if it’s been fixed now. The spooky house picture was taken by a friend so at least we know it hasn’t been swallowed up by mother earth just yet.

I feel I should finish this by addressing the Estate Agents. Now, you maybe an Estate Agent (god forbid) reading this thinking I’ve given you an unfair crack of the whip. You’re there, drinking a WKD blue, adjusting your Jamie Redknapp tie, saying

Hey now Jason, I’ve not shafted people out of there money this week”

or

“Cmon Jason! I helped someone once and only asked for a modest fee”

or

I gave them some of their deposit back once!”

What can I say? I calls em as I sees em. I have never dealt with an Estate Agent who didn’t annoy me.

So I say to you, twatty Estate Agent, this is your chance. Now is the time. Stop being a twat, be nice and helpful. It doesn’t take much and we will notice. Who knows, we might stop praying to Odin to slaughter all of you (though I wouldn’t count on it).

This blog was brought to you by the League Against Estate Agents. For just £2 a month you can equip one of our storm troopers with a crossbow, they’ll do the rest. Please give generously, praise be to Odin.