Solving 80s Crime with Tom Selleck's Moustache

The eighties was a golden era for the detective drama. In a time when rolled up jacket sleeves were the height of fashion, Culture Club were still in vogue, and Timothy Dalton was proving to be the slickest man to have ever held a licence to kill, television was finding new ways to push the boundaries of explosions and bizarre hooks.

This is the decade that brought us KIT, making us believe that some day each and every one of us could go and fight crime in a talking car. Indeed, if Apple make sure to install Siri into the forthcoming iCar (not to be confused with iCarly, a show I miss even more than many I'm about to mention), it could soon be a reality for us all. I'd like to think that by season twelve of Sherlock, John Watson will have been replaced by a VW running on IOS42. And if not for Knightrider, we might never have been introduced to the Hoff, meaning no Baywatch, and by causality depriving us not only of a weekly dose of Pamela Anderson in her swimwear, but also the greatest scene in the Spongbob Squarepants Movie. Think on that for a moment...

http://m.youtube.com/watch?autoplay=1&v=brTGAgUYnIc&desktop_uri=%252Fwatch%253Fv%253DbrTGAgUYnIc%2526autoplay%253D1

The eighties brought us The A Team, MacGuyver, Quincy, and, of course, the immortal Angela Lansbury in Murder, She Wrote. To this day, I dream of the missing crossover episode in which Jessica Fletcher and Diagnosis, Murder's Dr. Sloan solve the mysterious case of a spate of poisonings at the local county fair. I'd call it Diagnosis, She Wrote. Or Murder, Murder. Either way, it would be the most significant televisual event since Quantum Leap. And I do not say that lightly.

Anyways, the reason for this foray into mystery-based nostalgia stems from an afternoon spent curled up on the couch watching reruns of what is undoubtedly the greatest detective drama of the eighties, if not of all time; Magnum PI.

The reasons for Magnum's awesomeness can be summarised in five simple points:

1. Tom Selleck's moustache.

2. Higgins. Probably the coolest guy to have ever lived.

3. TC's enormous chopper (by which I mean his helicopter).

4. Rick's enormous chopper (by which I DON'T mean his helicopter).

5. Tom Selleck's moustache. That's right, it's so good it makes the list twice.

Throughout the series, Thomas Magnum spends his entire time lounging about his luxurious beachside condo, occasionally solving crimes in between winding up his overly British chum and helping coach the local little league team. And when all this proves too much, he chills out with his bestest buddy Rick at the local bar, picking up whatever lovely lady takes his eye that week. He is essentially living every man's dream. And he's Tom Selleck.

What more could you want from a tv show? Or life for that matter? Except possibly this moustache...

Machine-Gun Sneezing with Queen Elizabeth I

Colds are stupid.

I say this, not simply due to the fact that I am myself at this moment suffering from a case of the sniffles, but because for all my reasoning, I cannot for the life of me come up with any point in this repetitive, persistent ailment.

Let's for a moment have a look at a few other symptomatic diseases;

Tuberculosis: Coughing, fever, night sweats, DEATH

Yellow Fever: Swelling, seizures, obsession with hentai, DEATH

Lupus: Lethargy, nausea, inability to be diagnosed by House, DEATH

Rabies: Psychosis, foaming at the mouth, aversion to the film "Cujo", DEATH

As you can see, all of the cool diseases culminate in an untimely yet memorable death. "Ooh, did you hear about Quentin? Succumbed to the pox!" Chances of the common cold doing you in? About the same as Britain winning the Eurovision in the next hundred years. A cold will neither kill you, not make you stronger, it will simply render you an utterly useless waste of space for an unspecified number of days, sapped of all energy and willingness to do anything but wrap up in a duvet-cocoon and watch "Singin' in the Rain". If you're planning on getting a cold, you may as we'll go the whole hog and get yourself the flu. With the flu at least you run a small risk of mortality; the worst a cold can do is make you look like a complete girl in front of your colleagues when you phone in sick.

Of course, if I do drop down dead in the next few days, make sure Alanis Morrisette gets played at my funeral.

Anyway, the moral of this tale children, is to wrap up warm at this time of year, and should you notice one of your workmates sniffling to themselves as they wander around their daily business, muttering evilly about how they intend to infect the whole office, do your duty and dispose of them in any of the classic manners;

Stake to the heart, setting them on fire, or beheading.

Yes, cold carriers are essentially vampires. Just don't cut off their noses; imagine the mess!

Understanding the Super Bowl with Snowflake the Dolphin

Maybe it's because, as my dear friend Michael once told me, no matter where I had been born in the world, I still would have ended up more British than tea and crumpets, or perhaps it's because my passion for sports goes little further than the occasional race around Bowser's Castle in Mario Kart, but I simply cannot comprehend the ferverous excitiement that is currently sweeping the globe in preparation for this weekend's Super Bowl.

I will willingly admit that my understanding of American Football (I am begrudged to call it simply "football", not least for my years spent having to teach Japanese children to call proper football "soccer") stems mainly from a combination of Ace Ventura, Glee and Kim Possible (go mad dogs!) and as such I have ascertained the rules to be as follows;

1) Laces must be "out" lest transvestitism should surface in unstable players.

2) If the opposing team looks likely to win, the best tactic is to perform a dance number to Beyoncé's "Single Ladies"

And

3) The only way to get ahead in American high school is to be dating a member of the team.

In all honesty, if these are the rules to follow, I must say it sounds like the kind of game I would be all for. Add to that the copious amount of cushioning clearly missing from the rather more rough-and-tumble sport of rugby, and frankly I could roll with it. Add to that the fact that there's a team named after a Family Guy character and you can sign me up with the Cleveland Browns right now!

Obviously that last comment was in jest. I don't really want to sign up.

What I really don't understand however, is why over the last few years, the entire world seems to have gone doolally for this Americanised phenomenon. Once upon a time, the English went mad for the footie, India the cricket, and Wales for rugger. Of late however every network seems to be pushing their "exclusive" coverage of the Super Bowl, and we, like the sheep that execs assume us to be, inevitably follow. 

So somebody tell me (though probably first you should explain the actual rules) why I should be excited by this utterly un-British monstrosity, and maybe I'll grab myself a Coors Lite and join in the festivities. Until then, I'll find something else to be putting a ring on.

Riding the Six Thirty Bus with David Walliams

Working in the service industry isn't nearly as awful as I often make out. It's not ideal; the long hours of menial tasks, waiting on the general public's every whim for the government-dictated minimum wage (a pittance that I would like to see the politicians attempt to live on) are somewhat alleviated by the knowledge that the rag-tag bunch of reprobates you will inevitably end up working with will become like a bizarre second family makes for some hilarious and memory-worthy misadventures.

Some of the most fascinating people I have ever had the (mis?)fortune to meet I have encountered in the underbellies of hotels and restaurants throughout this blessed isle. From The Captain, the handyman at my current place of work; a septuagenarian who has been to every red-light district the world has to offer and now resides in a mansion once owner by Errol Flynn, to the toothless and illiterate Pablo; an erstwhile kitchen porter in Cardiff, who earned his name because his amigos thought he looked Italian, I look back on each with a macabre fondness.

Of course, I've also met some of my dearest friends in Hospitality, many of whom despite our long-formed separations on a global scale, the wonder of Facebook keeps us in touch.

No, the worst part about the service industry is the ungodly hours it demands we keep. Back in my early twenties, a fourteen hour shift on barely four hours sleep (admittedly often after the mandatory after-hours debauchery the night before) was a regular occurrence. Nowadays, however, the sleep and the hours simply do not mesh. As I sit on the bus at six thirty this rainy January morning, exhausted from a sleepless night (though this time through nothing more exciting than not being able to get comfortable!) I stare over at the bus driver, who looks remarkably like a Polish David Walliams, and wonder why the hell either of us have dragged ourselves out of bed...

Inner Musings and Trololo-ings with The Trololo Guy

So, it's been a while since I've been around the blogosphere; my review site Silver Screen Linings still gets the occasional entry after three years of solid criticising, and what had intended to be an ongoing journey down memory lane, the Forest of Nostalgia soon burned to the ground, never to rise again.

Over the last few weeks, however, I've found myself longing for an output for general rants, thoughts, reviews, nostalgia kicks and other such musings and have decided to drag myself back into this post-hipster, pre-neo-hipster society that is Blogger. 

Recently, I've been amusing myself, and to a lesser extent my Facebook followers, with a daily update as to which of the hundreds of characters rambling around my psyche that have been providing the day's inner monologue. Recent narrators have included Brian Blessed, Alpha 5 and a post bike theft Pee Wee Herman. The voices of these much loved personas keep me both amused and as close to sane as can be scraped together in my day-to-day service industry life. Today I've been wandering around the house singing Eduard Khil's bizarrely catchy "I'm glad because I'm finally retuning back home" (aka the Trololo song) to myself, thus bestowing Mr. Khil with the honour of being our first Inner Monoblogger. Congrats you crazy Russian!

So come join me and a few familiar faces as we rant, ramble and review the goings on in this mixed up world that be livin'.

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