Breaking Out The Other "L" Word with Ellen Wong

If you'd asked me five years ago what my favourite film was, I would've said, without any hesitation, Spielberg's classic Jurassic Park. A delicious blend of nostalgia and believable science fiction, with a spattering of the greatest and most realistic special effects that have ever hit the silver screen. For almost twenty years of my life, Jurassic Park held its place as my rainy day film, the film that would cheer me up whenever needed.

And then along came Mr. Scott Pilgrim. Over the last four years since it's release, I must have watched Scott Pilgrim Vs The World almost thirty times, and as I sit here this evening watching it after a long day in the classroom, I still find myself noticing new things, giggling at jokes that had previously eluded me, and falling once again in love with the wonderful Ellen Wong as the tragic Knives Chau.

An eclectic mix of musical, action adventure, comedy and romance, Scott Pilgrim manages to present itself as the chimeric love child of film, video game and comic book, lovingly crafted with all the directorial finese that a British geek named Edgar Wright could muster.

The story, for those uninitiated, revolves around the eponymous Canadian as he fights against an evil league of exes in order to win the heart of kooky delivery girl Ramona Flowers. The plot itself is pretty daft, but it is delivered with such ridiculous aplomb that one cannot help but find oneself at the edge of the sofa waiting for each battle to unfold. 

Michael Cera as the lead is a beautiful mix of hopeless hero and even more hopeless romantic, delivering the most delightfully dead-pan performance since Lorenzo Music first voiced everyone's favourite lasagne-scoffing feline. The supporting cast meanwhile each add their own spice to proceedings, from Keiren Culkin as Scott's world hating roommate to Mary Elizabeth Winstead as eccentric love interest Ramona. Each evil ex is hilariously cast, and each of Scott's hopeless band mates perfectly seasoned. It all adds up to a cordon-bleu dish of a cast, expertly finished by the delectable topping that is Ellen Wong as the ever-lovable Knives who, depending on which ending you watch, will either break your heart, or fill you with utterly life-affirming joy.

Every scene thrives with vibrancy, crafted with such loving care that like each of Wright's other films, it can be endlessly rewatched without ever losing its freshness.

Scott Pilgrim was a flop in the cimema, and remains to this day an underground sensation, but frankly, if you don't like it, you're missing a heart, tin-man. Warm, hilarious, and ultimately reassuring, it's going to take one hell of a movie to knock this one off my top spot.

And then of course, there's Knives...

The Not-So-Fantastic Four with Jessica Alba

When it comes to superhero teams, I've always been an Marvel man. Although DC presents us with kick-ass heroes who can take on the world, they are usually of alien or supernatural origin, thus placing them outside of the sphere of normal human beings. The epitome of this, obviously, being Superman, who is so far beyond normality that his alter-ego is in fact the bespectacled Clark Kent. Most heroes put on a suit in order to become their powerful personas; Kent meanwhile does the opposite. Relatable? Not to the angsty teen that resides within my soul.

As such I've always turned more towards Spider-Man and the X-Men; everyday teenagers who for whatever reason, be it genetic mutation or radioactive spider bite suddenly have their world turned upside-down as great power endows them with great responsibility. Struggling with the forces of evil whilst at the same time dealing with the mundanity of everyday life is something that we all dream of once in a while.

Whether it's the real life issues of Spider-Man (maintaining a job, struggling with relationships or looking after ailing relatives), the political agendas of the X-Men (racism, prejudice and, more recently, homosexuality in the form of Northstar and his newly-wed husband), or even presenting wartime America with a much needed "captain", Marvel has always done its utmost to provide comfort to its readers in the form of the fantastic.

Which is why I've never understood the appeal of the Fantastic Four. As I sit watching what is in fact the third FF movie, Rise of the Silver Surfer, I find myself questioning Marvel's continuous adamance in getting us to like this rather bizarre group. The first film, a delightful Roger Corman produced b-movie was watchable merely for its godawful special effects. The reboot was undoubtably terrible, made only slightly redeemable by the terrible miscasting of Jessica Alba (who I could happily just watch eating a sandwich for ninety minutes), and its sequel is made only marginally better by the addition of everyone's favourite galactic surfer dude. So why, oh why, Marvel, are we now expected to sit through next year's reboot starring Billy Elliot as the gravelly Ben Grimm??

So why doesn't the Fantastic Four work? Let's first have a look at the characters for a start;

Reed Richards (Mr. Fantastic)

The leader of our team is know to be the smartest man on earth. A super-genius with the utterly lame ability to stretch himself into any shape imaginable. His secondary power is to be strangely attractive to really hot women. And he has salt-and-pepper sideburns. All in all, how many kids want to be a physicist with all the power of a rubber band? I know I certainly didn't.

Sue Richards (The Invisible Woman)

Sure, Sue is one of the sexiest women in the Marvel Universe, and made all the sexier when played by Miss Alba, but she had a power that everyone knows should only be given to horny boys in their teens; invisibility. The ability to disappear from sight has only two uses in this world; sneaking into the girls' locker room, and bank robbery. So why on earth give it to a girl? And one that works for the good guys at that?

Johnny Storm (The Human Torch)

Now, the Human Torch is pretty cool. Ability to control fire has always been on my wish list, and one of the best superhero catchphrases of all time make him the one actually appealing hero in the troupe. That said, making him a super cool stunt racer and ladies man with an attitude problem make him little more than a slightly less cool Tony Stark. I half wish they'd made him gay just so "flame on!" Had a hilarious double meaning.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

The Thing really drew the short straw in the comic book world. Not only does he have one of the lamest names in comic history, his power is that he's so hideously gravelly that he's only attractive to blind people. I'm sorry, Ben, but sucks to be you.

Not only are their powers and characters weak, the Fantastic Four are also "out" in the superhero world. Sure, during the Utopia story arc the X-Men walked freely around the streets of San Francisco in a state of mutant acceptance, but that soon fell apart and now they're treated once again as terrorists against humanity. The Fantastic Four meanwhile have been open to the public about their powers for decades and never run into any problems. Life is simply too cushy for us to really ever see any danger for them.

And then there's the kids. Kids in sci-fi suck. Fact. The one exception is Runaways' Molly Hayes. Franklin and Valeria Richards not only have rubbish names, they also fall into the inevitable pantsness of fictional children. Spider-man doesn't have kids. Just sayin'.

The one redeeming feature of Fantastic Four books is their villains. Victor Von Doom is an awesome antagonist, harking back to gothic villains of Victorian horror, whilst Galactus literally eats planets for breakfast. For good measure, we'll ignore Mole Man and Puppet Master.

All in all, I simply feel that of all the heroes in the Marvel Universe, the Fantastic Four make for the dullest team. Individually, they aren't that great, and as a quartet, the fall far from Fantastic. So why, Marvel, don't you stop trying to ram them down our throats. Why not concentrate on making that Runaways movie you've been promising for the last decade? Or a delightfully dark Dr. Strange? Christ, I'd even settle for a decent Howard the Duck reboot!

Happy World Tapir Day! with Drowzee

I love tapirs. A delightful forest ungulate from the darkest regions of South America (as well as Malaysia), they boast not only one of the strangest appearances of any mammal, but also the cutest babies in the animal kingdom. I mean seriously, check them out...

All four living species of tapir are classed as endangered, and as such, to raise awareness for this wonderfully unique creature, April 27th has been designated World Tapir Day. Given their large size, the tapir has few natural predators, save for jaguars and crocodiles. They are shy and peaceful creatures, happily living a semi-aquatic lifestyle away from the ever-expanding human population of South America. But of course, as is so often the case, the destruction of their natural habitat in order to make way for the needs of humanity has led to numbers declining dramatically over the last few decades. Indeed, it is estimated that there are now more tapirs in captivity across the globe than in their natural Amazonian homeland.

After a fabulous day today with my Brazilian friends, sampling some truly delightful Brazilian foods (the likes of which I have never tried before, and as such am rather impressed!), I figured it was only apt to muster up a little awareness of this delightful Brazilian beast that so rarely gets any press. 

Tapirs are magical; they're like some bizarre missing link between pigs and elephants and always make for one of my favourite exhibits at London Zoo (not solely due to their astonishingly enormous testicles! Seriously, they look like a pair of beachballs in a bin-liner!). They also exist in Japanese folklore as the dream-eating Baku (inspiring, no doubt, probably the most famous fictional tapir, Pokemon's Drowzee),  and are seen as peaceful spirits of the American forests.

So look out for these lovely beasts, and if you don't know what they are, read up on Wikipedia in order to discover your new favourite animal!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tapir

Happy World Tapir Day everyone!

Spooning with John Candy and Steve Martin

Whenever you start out in a new relationship, you will at some point (hopefully) reach the point where the age old question of "big spoon or little spoon?" will arise. Most men at this game-changing moment will give the answer that all women want to hear; big spoon. And dear lord do I love snuggles in bed.

But ladies, it's time you knew the truth; men hate spooning. Indeed we don't care whether we're the big spoon or the little spoon. We want to be that weird thing in the corner of the cutlery drawer that looks like a cross between a corkscrew and a cheese-grater that nobody ever touches.

Snuggling was created for watching movies, whether on the sofa or in bed, and indeed it's an entirely pleasant experience. In that case, yes, we'll happily take on the role of the larger piece of silverware. In that ten minutes that it takes you to fall asleep, we'll generally put up with the awkward "where should I put my arm"-ness that comes with being the big spoon, but after that, we'll roll over and take our solitary place at the edge of the drawer.

It's not that we don't want closeness. No, we love closeness, and when we're feeling blue, or have had a stressful day, there is nothing better than a jolly good cuddle before bed. 

Before being the optimum word. Relaxing time together is great, but it's simply a case of the need for a little alone time when we're dozing off. Getting comfortable in a bubble of your own duvet space as you drift away is the best few moments of the day. Having a face full of hair and a dead arm generally do not constitute as entirely comfy.

Seriously though; where does the arm go? Underneath your partner leads to circulation being cut off in a strangely painful and at the same time painless experience. Bent back on itself means you spend ages pretending to be comfortable before eventually giving up and sliding it under your partner, and resting your own head on it is just not convenient. All in all, the only person that this whole malarkey is pleasant for is you; the little spoon! Sure, it's lovely and comforting for you to fall asleep to, but for us it's simply an awkward waiting game that we endure because we care.

So don't have a go when we curl up in the corner of the bed before you fall asleep; for all the times we've held you 'till you've fallen asleep, there is a once in a blue moon when we're too tired to wait you out. Sometimes we just need to be comfortable too.

Destroying the Music Industry with Avril Lavigne

I've always had a soft spot for Avril Lavigne. From her first single Complicated, I was ever so slightly smitten by her angsty cute Canadian punkyness.

Over the years, that love has sat somewhere in the back of my being like a nostalgic reminder of the rebellious teenager hood that I never had but secretly always longed for. Her debut album, Let Go, remains to this day in my top ten list of albums that have influenced my upbringing, and her third single from said album, I'm With You is one of my all-time favourite ballads.

I have fond memories of drunken 2am dancings to the highly infectious Girlfriend during university, and of wondering whether or not to reprimand one of my tweenage students in Japan when they told me that What The Hell was their favourite song.

So, with everyone's favourite Sk8er girl having such a beloved place in my heart, I was horrified earlier today to hear her latest song, Hello Kitty...

"Oh," I thought, sipping a refreshing cup of tea as I did my daily YouTube tour "Avril has a new song! And it's inspired by that delightful Sanrio character that I certainly didn't get enough of in Japan! This should be a catchy little ditty!" 

Over the course of the next three minutes and nineteen seconds, my tea turned sour, my heart turned to stone and mountains crumbled to the sea as the fires of damnation began to lick the shores of the country.

In her latest single, Miss Lavigne has managed to do what I fondly call "The Harajuku Hollaback".

Remember when Gwen Stefani was in No Doubt and everybody loved her for being a cool punkyness chick in an awesome ska band? And then she went solo and everyone thought "ooh, this'll be good!"? And then it wasn't? And then it went from being utterly awful to a semi-racist cacophony of non-sensical lyrics and terrible outfits? Well yes, that actually happened.

But did the world learn? If Hello Kitty is anything to go by, then no. No it didn't. Terrible lyrics, a debatably condescendingly racist video, a godawful Skrillex haircut and Avril looking well past her prime all add up to the biggest crime against music since Rebecca Black realised what day of the week it was (happy Friday by the way everyone!). My faith is lost, and in shall be pushing Miss Lavigne from the pedestal upon which once I which kept her.

I'm sorry Avril, I'm no longer with you.

Bank Holiday Weekend with Russell Brand

Having spent pretty much all of my professional career (in the UK at least) a slave to the service industry, I have never seen the wondrous thing that is a four-day weekend. So used, am I, to working, as chefs, waiting staff, emergency service workers and other such labourers are so accostomed, when everyone else is enjoying themselves, that even a glimpse of sunlight was once a treasured gift. We work the weekends, the late nights, and most unsociably, the holidays. Whether it be Christmas, New Year or Easter, the call of the service industry is never-ending, so remember to tip well and forgive the occasionally disgruntled employee when you're out having a whale of a time.

This year, however, I have had the utmost joy of actually being able to spend a bank holiday weekend with my feet up. Four days without work (Friday and Monday being paid, of course, or else I would have clocked in and put my feet up in my classroom!) has allowed me for once to see how the other half live. It's also given me a ruddy well-earned break after the eventful and exhausting first month at my new place of employment.

A picnic on the beach, followed by the not-quite-amazing-but-certainly-better-than-the-first Amazing Spider-Man 2 on the gloriously sunny Good Friday, a day in the park on an equally fair-weathered Saturday, museums and ramen followed by movie night with good friends on a rainy Easter Sunday before finally getting all those menial weekendy things done today. Top it all off with a tummy filled with M&S Easter eggs, and we have a most joyous weekend indeed (I shall omit the fact that I've just sat through the rather terrible "Hop" on TV this evening!)

But as you sit back this evening, fully relaxed and raring to hit the office tomorrow morning for another four-day week, spare a momentary thought for those who have not had the same luck. The chefs that cooked your wonderful meals out this weekend, the disgruntled teens that served them. The shop staff that found you those last minute eggs at five thirty on Saturday. And most importantly the emergency services that have been overworked as a result of the tomfoolery of all-too-excited folks with weekends of alcoholic mischief. They're the ones that really deserved the break. 

As a kitchen veteran though I've ruddy well earned mine!

Living By The Sea with Dido

I've lived in a lot of places over the course of my twenty eight years on this Earth. Going through every house, flat and dingy hovel, the total comes to a rather impressive eighteen. I've lived in seven different cities in three different countries, but no meter where I am I always find myself longing for one thing; the sea.

There is something truly wonderful about living on the coast, and indeed most of my fondest memories (and albeit some pretty pants memories too) have taken place to the sound of waves crashing and gulls gulling. Barbecues and bonfires, numerous first kisses, hilarious drunken escapades, film making, song writing, it's all happened along the coasts of England, Wales and Japan.

I never feel more at peace than when wandering along the seafront, my nostrils filled with salty air and the maritime breeze billowing through my hair. It really is magical.

City life is great; sociable, musical and bustling with life, but I inevitably find myself succumbing to claustrophobia. Too many people, too much noise, and nowhere near enough manners. I genuinely can't deal with inner city life for any length of time; my recent adventure teaching in Leicester Square proved that to me. Sure, the job was great, and spending some quality time with old friends was a lovely respite. The stellar night out at a dingy Mexican club will also stick with me for years to come. But all in all I simply find the city far too constricting. I hate the crush of people, and as I grow older am finding it more and more difficult to stifle panic attacks during rush hour on the underground.

By the sea, however, I feel at home. The freshness of the air seems to make everyone's troubles dissipate, leaving a happier, friendlier populous with a genuinely more chilled outlook on life. Down here, we have the music, the theatre and the food, and you know what? It's half the price of Soho. 

So keep your tube, keep your double-deckers, and give me the beachy life. 'Cause you sure as heck can't go paddling in the Thames.

The Bucket List Part One with Rachel Green

I've already ranted at some length about how life in your twenty-somethings is nothing like TV would have us believe, but one of the scariest parts of living in the later years of twentydom is the knowledge that the dreaded beast that is your thirtieth birthday is creeping ever more quickly around the corner.

Along with the grey hairs and aches and pains in places that were formerly unknown to even exist, the daunting prospect of turning the big three-oh announces that we can no longer kid ourselves that we are not adults, and that we really should be concerning ourselves with grown-up things like mortgages and life insurance (two things I am dreading having to sort out at some point soon).

So, like many of my comrades in the war against youth, I have decided to begin the compilation of my first Bucket List; thirty things to do before I'm thirty. A last ditch attempt to prove that I can deal with being a grown up, and to do a few of those crazy things that I wish I had conquered many years ago. So here's part one; the first ten tasks I shall be challenging myself to accomplish over the course of the next twenty months.

1. Learn Spanish

Learning a new language always crops up somewhere on people's lists, but since I already speak enough foreign languages to impress at parties, I figured learning one that I could actually use to travel to some of the places I'd genuinely like to visit might actually be a bonus. I want to go to Peru some day before I croak, and Mexico has always been on my to see list, so why not try and conquer South American Spanish? I'm already speaking it at a Dora level, so time to take it further.

2. Feed a Manatee

Manatees are my favourite animal. Always have been. I remember Chris Packham telling me when I was about seven that they would have disappeared from the face of the earth by the time I was thirty, so I should probably get over to the Everglades at some point and give one a lettuce. 

3. Publish a Book or Record an Album

I've written books, and I've recorded some very rough copies of musical albums. Some day, I'd like to see one for sale somewhere. Preferably not in a bargain bin. Any success to come from either venture would be an added bonus.

4. Quit Smoking

I've tried on many occasions, and even succeeded for a full six months at one point. Eventually I'd like to kick this self-destructive habit altogether. Don't start kids; it's really not worth it.

5. Read the Quran

Along with all ex other major religious texts. The key to understanding any culture is to understand the religion upon which it is based. As a teacher of English to international students, I'm determined to broaden my knowledge of their beliefs, and as such their views on the world.

6. Pay Off All My Debts

An utterly mundane addition to the list, but at some point in my life, I'd like to see my bank account truly in the black. It's not likely to happen anytime soon, but to actually have some real savings at some point in the next two years would be phenomenal.

7. Stay a Night In a Haunted House

Or one of those über scary hospitals from the movies... I love horror films, and a good ghost movie always gives me the willies. I'd love to challenge myself to spend a night in one of those typically creepy locations and not burst into tears at some point.

8. Cycle Somewhere

I don't know where yet, but my perpetual laziness coupled with my fear of bicycles makes this one a real toughy for me. I know I'd be truly proud of myself if I could accomplish some relatively large distance powered by my own steam.

9. Watch Every Film in the IMDB Top 100

As much of a film buff as I am, I am ashamed to admit that having just double checked the list, I have only seen 46 of the top 100 films of all time. And some of the films are missed are downright embarrassing. I've never seen Shawshank, there I said it.

10. Visit New Orleans

I love jazz, I love Cajun food, I love the voodoo mythology, and if I could travel back to any time period, it'd be 1940s N'awlins. Unfortunately, time travel isn't possible (can of worms on that one), so I'd happily settle for a trip to the modern day city during Mardi Gras. Just so long as there's gumbo all round.

Stay tuned for the next ten coming soon, along with another of our favourite TV twenty-somethings...

Letting Go with Sven the Reindeer

I have somewhat of an obsession with Disney films. Having grown up in front of my television, with VHS copies of Alice in Wonderland and Basil the great Mouse a Detective, and one of my earliest memories being a trip to the cinema in 1990 to see The Little Mermaid in a Croydon cinema, back in the days when you still had an interval in the middle of the film so that the projectionist could change the reel and audience members could pig out on orange ice-lollies, it's no wonder I have such jaded expectancies of the world, wishing more than anything that we could at whim burst into joyous song with our anthropomorphic animal sidekicks and conquer the forces of evil with little more than a pure heart.

Unfortunately, the real world is not so forgiving, but hope can still be found in the annual release of a new Disney movie, an event that I rarely miss out upon (though I admit I have yet to see Wreck It Ralph, something I shall rectify later this week).

After its much publicised release and Oscar winning acclaim, this evening I have at last dipped my toe into the icy delight that is Disney's 52nd Animated Classic Frozen, a retelling of Hans Christian Anderson's The Snow Queen. Having already been voted the fourth greatest Disney film of all time (losing out only to The Lion King, Beauty and the Beast and Aladdin), I had very high hopes for this CGI spectacular.

Admittedly, I've been tentative about the computer animated revolution that has swept Disney studios. After the spectacular Princess and the Frog, I've been rallying for Disney to return to its 2D roots, but I must admit, Frozen does a fantastic job of capturing the heart of Disney in its animation whilst still appealing to the computer generated world. Each member of the ensemble cast feels like a traditional Disney character, and our two princesses Anna and Elsa will certainly sit upon the pantheon with Belle and Jasmine in years to come. Hero Kristoff has elements of the traditional Prince Charming merged with Tangled's Flynn, this creating one of the most believable romantic leads a Disney film has ever seen. Comedy comes in barrel-fills from Sven the reindeer (a delightful fellow indeed) and a talking snowman named Olaf, who unfortunately for me feels rather superfluous and pandering only to appease the younger audience members who may at times feel somewhat lost amidst the more adult themes that seep through this chilly tale.

Musically, as the entire world seems to be aware, Frozen shines through; aside from the Oscar winning "Let it Go", we have some very strong numbers ranging from self-consciously cheesy love songs to a lovely ditty about where snowmen go in the summer. 

Unfortunately, amidst the convoluted tale, something feels a little amiss. I can only put it down to the underdevelopment of the cast; sure they are well-voiced and beautifully animated, but what sets this behind the likes of Princess and the Frog and Beauty and the Beast is that aside from saving the town from eternal winter (admittedly a decent enough motivator), none of the characters have a personal motivation. So used are we to having each character with a back story and a reason for advancing the narrative that to me at least, the cast of Frozen seem a little, well, cold. The epitome of this (aside from the utterly pointless snowman) is Snow Queen Elsa's all too quick transition from outcast to semi-evil ice maiden; having been distraught over her exile, in less than the first verse of her all-too-famous song she embraces her re-kindled powers. It really feels like there's a scene missing here, and in so many other places in the film too.

That's not to say there isn't fun to be had, and the final "twist" on the search for true love is nice (although it does rather poke fun at every princess story before it). Overall, I wouldn't place it in my top ten, but with further watching and a little added nostalgia, it might just stand the test of time. certainly moreso than Disney's last snowy tale, Brother Bear... And the reindeer in this one is ten times more lovable.

Revisiting the Amazing Spider-Man with Emma Stone

It’s very difficult to try and 2012's Spiderman reboot objectively. Aside from the obvious “too soon” statement upon every audience member’s lips, there is something so very iconic about Sam Raimi’s Spiderman that it was always going to be difficult to beat. Uncle Ben’s “With Great Power…” speech. The Spidey kiss. Even the infamous Saturday Night Fever-esque struts of Spiderman 3 are such a notable part of so many people’s growing up, that no matter what director Marc Webb brought to the table in his allegedly darker retelling, it was never going to be enough for most die-hard fans.

So let’s not dwell too much on what was, and look instead at what is.

In The Amazing Spiderman we are once again taken back to the beginning on a journey that ticks all of the boxes in Spiderman mythology; bitten by a radioactive spider, Peter Parker (played by could-be One Direction member Andrew Garfield) falls for high school sweetheart Mary Jane… Check that, Gwen Stacey (sultry and husky Emma Stone), loses his beloved Uncle Ben at the hands of a petty crook after some stupid decisions, and goes on to battle a mutated mentor, all the while getting to grips with his newfound spider-senses.

On paper, it ticks all of the right boxes, and indeed there is some good to be found here; a couple of touching scenes, most notably for this jaded Spidey fan, the moment when school bully Flash Thompson (a rather pathetically unthreatening Chris Zylka… in fact, I can’t of a less convincing school hard-ass save for Kiefer Sutherland in Stand By Me) actually sympathises with Parker’s lost uncle, and a wonderful scene in which Spidey saves a young boy from a car moments before it plummets into the Hudson. Rhys Ifans’ performance as teacher-turned-nemesis Curt Connors is also at times touching, if somewhat underdeveloped, and Martin Sheen does a nice job as the tragic Uncle Ben.

Where the film truly falls short however, is in its attempts to be a darker, more brooding Spiderman. The attempts to echo the success of Batman Begins are evident throughout, but whereas Nolan’s films worked by bringing the Dark Knight into a reality, the Marvel Universe is flawed in its own supernatural elements. When your hero is empowered by a modified spider and your villains are giant lizard men, it’s a little difficult to imagine this really happening in downtown New York.

Of course, if the story is strong, we, as an audience, will buy it. Unfortunately, the script is so clunky and jumpy it feels like it has been written by a first-year script-writing student with a little too much time on his hands. The exposition is so heavy-handed that one scene in particular will remain in my head for years to come as the most ridiculous foretelling-of-a-baddie’s-plan moment of all time… Not quite word for word, but;

INT: OSCORP LABS

A large, ominous-looking machine. Enter DR CURT CONNORS.

CONNORS: Hello, I’m Dr Curt Connors. I want to rid the world of weakness. This is a machine that can cover an entire city with a cloud of toxic gas.

Obviously, not quite verbatim, but I swear, not far off. And how does the Lizard discover that Spiderman is actually Peter Parker? Spidey drops his camera during a scuffle, and conveniently on it is a sticker stating “Property of Peter Parker”. Come on people! At times, the writing honestly feels like a poorly plotted episode from Spiderman The Animated Series. The intrepid soul-searching and “quest for answers” promised by the marketing campaign is also completely non-existent. Having a brooding lead does not automatically mean that there are answers to be found; one does have to ask some questions in the first place!

But, the question is, is it enjoyable? And yes, I have to admit, I had a good time. Though not a patch on its predecessors, there is fun to be had here. Quite simply put, it’s Spidey for the Beiber generation. I’m already fully aware of the tweenage (and worryingly older) Garfield fans this end of the globe, and can only imagine the starry eyed young girls swooning over the far-too-attractive-to-be-Peter-Parker young fellow in the est of the world. I guess the only way to properly gauge this film as a success would be to wait until this year’s twelve year-olds are subjected to the next reboot in 2024 and see how they react. But for me? Spiderman? Not quite… Amazing? Far from it.

So what can we expect when the much-publicised sequel hits the big screen next week? Well, there's at least three baddies (with speculation that Venom may also pop in for a cameo in anticipation of his upcoming spin-off film) which, if Spidey 3 is anything to go by, may not end well, there'll be some brooding from Mr. Garfield, and there will be plenty of vertigo-inducing 3D sequences.

And Emma Stone. There'll be plenty of that...

Who Needs Sleep? with Lorne

Sleep is something I have a pretty love/hate relationship with. Not that I hate sleep at all; indeed in the strangest of ways slumber time is my favourite part of the day. 

When we sleep, suddenly the stresses of the day dissipate. No longer do we worry about money or work, but instead there's a distinct possibility we'll find ourselves on desert islands with Katy Perry or, for some reason, acting as an undercover reporter at a Bruno Mars gig (it's been a funny old week for dreams...).

The problem is, there never seems to be enough time for sleep. No matter what time we intend to get to bed, it never turns out as planned, and despite my recent attempts to combat insomnia (bath before bed, a little light reading, no caffeine after three pm) my sleep pattern is still utterly erratic, leavi me still exhausted when my alarm sounds just after seven. It probably doesn't help that every other night or morning of late has been interrupted by some problem or another from around the country. There are times I hate being so reliable...

So with too little sleep, we find ourselves groggy, needing caffeine and a general grumpus for the rest of the day, longing that we could have tapped the snooze button just one more time. But then win too much sleep, for some bizarre reason, the exact same thing seems to occur. Sleep for more than eight hours and we wake up with a storming headache, just as moody as if we were equally deprived and just as much use to the world that lies ahead.

So what, therefore, is the answer? How do we find that perfect amount of sleep? How do we capture that rare feeling that only happens once in a blue moon when we awaken wonderfully rested and ready to take on the day with a skip and a smile?

I honestly don't think we can. So the answer? Rid ourselves of sleep altogether. Sure, we would sacrifice some pretty awesome dreamtime, and with it those fleeting memories of dates with Taylor Swift, and if the Whedonverse is anything to go by, there's also a strong possibility of unleashing a maddened Hyde-like version of ourselves, but in the end it'll be worth it. We'll be happier, more focused and never filled with that hump day fatigue. And also we'll drink an awful lot less coffee, so we might just topple the evil that is Starbucks. Unless of course they start serving seabreezes for elevenses...

¡Hola Dora, soy backpack! with Ariel Winter

I've always managed to bluff Spanish to some degree; eight years of Latin at school coupled with various childhood trips to España during my childhood has led to some pretty solid listening skills, and my ever-confident persona when it comes to my international friends has meant that nodding my head and repeatedly saying "sí" creates a delightfully multilingual illusion.

When it comes to actually speaking Spanish, however, I've managed to limit myself to a few key, useful phrases. Beyond Beck lyrics and the always chipper adventures of everyone's favourite pre-school explorer, these are the Spanglish snippets that have managed to get me by  over the last few years...

¿Hablas inglés? (Do you speak English)

An obvious place to start; simply bypass your own ignorance by exploiting the fact that education on the continent is a heck of a lot better than ours. We may not speak their language, but they most certainly speak ours.

Dos cervezas por favor (two beers please)

In any language, being able to ask for a drink is vital. Once your new found friend at the bar has a few drinks in her, you probably won't have to worry too much about the language barrier anymore.

¡Fosters! (Fosters!)

As my friends and I discovered on our last trip to Catalonia, sometimes all you need is one word. Apparently, sometimes that word is simply the name of the worst beer in the world. Point and shout.

Ester hombre pagorá por todo (this man will pay for everything)

Useful in many situations, but mainly at a bar at that embarrassing moment when you realise you've misplaced your wallet, or simply want to drop your non-Spanish speaking friend in the shit.

¡Váminos! (that means "let's go!")

One for all you Dora fans, use it at your pleasure, more often than not to be directed at talking monkeys.

¿Que el queso me recomiendan? (Which cheese would you recommend?)

After a couple of beers, you may fancy some nibbles. Or you may simply take a fancy to your local cheesemonger. Or fancy some cheese. The opportunities are endless!

¡Que es un muy hermoso toro! (What a beautiful bull!)

Let's face it, Spaniards love their bovines, and what better way to garner favour with the locals than to compliment them in their choice of livestock. Also good small talk at a bullfight or the annual running of the bulls.

¿Dónde estoy? (Where am I?)

After your night on the tiles drinking Fosters and scoffing cheese, memory loss is highly likely. Use this to get yourself home. Or simply if you're lost.

Necesito unos pantalones nuevos (I need new pants)

Self explanatory really.

Lo siento, este no es mi sombrero (Sorry, this is not my sombrero)

Believe me, misunderstandings with headwear are more common than you'd think, use this to get out of any hat-based scrapes.

There you have it. Any other problems, go talk to Dora. And make sure you pack your map!

The Mamma Mia Effect with Amanda Seyfried

I've always thought of music as being a universal unifier; something that brings the world together through the emotive power of harmony. Harmony through harmony in fact. Whether it be the joy of dancing to samba in Rio, or caterwauling some karaoke in an Osakan bar, music has always seemed to bring people together of every creed and culture,

As such, it has been something of a surprise to me over the past few weeks as I have come to learn more and more about the Islamic faith that many practising Muslims are under the belief that listening to pop music is an affront to God. 

At first, I thought that it was simply a culture clash; during my time in Japan I found it occasionally frustrating that my students did not know of Springsteen or Bon Jovi, but put this down simply to my personal heroes not yet infiltrating the masses of Asia. As such I figured that my Arabian students' utter disinterest in British and American music was down to artists having not yet conquered the wavelengths of the Middle East.

And so to today; having planned a delightful lesson on The Mamma Mia effect, that being the boom in tourism in the Greek Islands that has been a result of that ruddy ABBA musical, I was knocked back somewhat to discover that in a class of seventeen Middle Eastern gentlemen, not a single one had heard of ABBA, let alone their delightfully cheesy musical extravaganza. Believing this to be some kind of well-planned joke, I whipped out my iPhone and played them the eponymous song. Genuinely, they had never heard it before. So much for that meticulously planned class...

So I decided to look into this a little more; surely a group that have been polluting our radios for the last forty years had at some point got some airplay in the Arabian subcontinent? 

But this is when I discovered the source of my students' somewhat endearing naivety; according to the  Qu'ran, any music that could inspire sinful acts such as drug use, fornication or adultery is prohibited in the eyes of Allah.

In many ways, I'm down with this idea; indeed a lot of the world's subcultural violence has inspired the debate into the influence of rap and hip hop. Drug abuse and sexual promiscuity is perpetually glorified in both genres, as is violence to those of different ways of thinking. Punk music has links in rebellion, and reggae in revolution (and again the glorification of drug use). Techno and dance music are linked with the hedonism of the Balearics, and screamo, death metal, and whatever bizarre names they're giving to that shouty music the goths are listening to these days lead to, well, goths.

And then of course there's Ke$ha... I really cannot defend her this time round...

But where would we be without love songs? Do they inspire fornication? Well, possibly... But is there anything evil about Barry White crooning a little seduction? It's an interesting debate that I would really like to get into with some of my more open-minded higher-level students. 

Pop music isn't all about sex after all; more often than not it's simply about bringing a bit of musical joy into our everyday lives. I personally couldn't live without my daily dose of Taylor Swift, and I'm pretty sure that "We Are The World" never meant anything but a message of peace and unity.

I do my best to respect all religious beliefs; as a teacher of English as an International Language, I have to be prepared to understand anyone and everyone's ways of life, but this aspect of Islam has befuddled me. I can see both sides of the dispute, and would probably prefer a world without Puff Daddy, One Direction and Slipknot. But no Counting Crows? No Beatles even? I'm not sure I could deal with that.

Of course ABBA might not be the most innocent of examples... After all, does your mother know that you're out? Here's Mamma Mia star Amanda Seyfried to prove my point...

Finding a New Fortress with Sheldon Cooper

Being a nerd in the modern world is perhaps not as difficult as it was once upon a time. Indeed, looking back to my teenage years, the advent of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, coupled with the astounding popularity of The Big Bang Theory has at least allowed us to come out of the shadows and show a little pride in our geeky selves. That said, the next time I see a muscle-bound douche-canoe in a "Bazinga!" T-shirt I will not take responsibility for my actions.

The problem is, despite cultural awareness in our lifestyle choice, it is still ruddy difficult to come by that all too precious commodity that fuels our existence; the lowly comic book.

Comics have brought joy into our hearts, and filled the coffers of movie producers, Robert Downey Jr, and of course, Stan Lee for the past few decades, but even though our cinema screens are perpetually playing the celluloid exploits of our favourite heroes (this year alone we have Robocop, 300 2, Captain America 2, Spider-Man 2, a Turtles reboot, Transformers 4, the new X-men, Guardians of the Galaxy and Sin City 2 all hitting the box-office), trying to find the source material on the high street is no easy task. To be frank, I often feel it'd be easy hunting down heroin than heroines on the UK streets.

And so, moving to a new town, giving up my former fortress of solitude in Newcastle's Forbidden Planet, I have been searching for a new supplier of my drug of choice. 

Being told that the nearest FP was a forty minute train ride away at first seemed like a small hurdle, but factor in the £15 return ticket, and an already expensive habit becomes that little bit too rich for this geek's blood.

Fortunately, a little iPhone-based research uncovered a delightful little indie store about twenty minutes' walk from the flat. Not only that, but it's about twenty percent cheaper than my erstwhile dealer. 

So congratulations Frog Brothers of Boscombe, you have usurped the Jotun frost giants of Forbidden Planet and will now be taking my money from me on a monthly basis. Now all I need is a coffee merchants and a purveyor of fine waistcoats and I can say goodbye to that house fund for the next few decades...

Condominium Life with Joey Tribbiani

I always envied the cast of Friends. For a group of twenty-somethings that rarely seem to go to work (yes we all know they all have jobs that suit their characters and whatnot), they lead a pretty cushty life. Lovely downtown apartment, partying hard at weekends, going to trendy coffee shops, and generally doing what TV has always told us we should be doing in our mid-twenties; enjoying life to the max.

Unfortunately, TV, as much as I love you, this evening I'm calling your bluff. You sir, are a downright liar.

The years of being a twenty-something a far from perk-filled (central or otherwise). Throughout the previous decade, we were told that if we worked hard at school, we'd go to a good university. If we worked hard there we would automatically find ourselves in a good job and living the life of the Gellars and the Bings in no time.

The reality is, however, that unless you have been born into a thriving family business, or you know a guy that knows a guy, no amount of striving will get you anywhere in this post-credit crunch world. I myself have a double bachelors degree, a masters, a teaching certificate and enough brownie points on my CV to open a bakery, not to mention fifteen years in private education with all the top grades to prove it, and yet I still find myself losing sleep as to how I'm going to be able to pay next week's rent.

Don't get me wrong, I don't kid myself that my experiences have any worth nowadays; indeed in the post-Blair regime, a degree is worth about the same as a roll of Andrex (and probably cheaper too judging by my shopping bills!), but I have single-handedly fought my way into a decent teaching post, and on paper the pay isn't all that bad.

And yet here I am on a Saturday night, just back from the laundrette, sitting in a "condominium" flat that would still have looked dated in the nineteen seventies, the floral carpet and brown bathroom suite quite honestly an affront to four out of five senses. My "treat" for this week, save for an after work pint with my colleagues (during which an old man decided to inform me that I looked like a child molester... Great ego boost for a teacher, I can tell you!) has been an M&S spinach and ricotta cannelloni. And a reduced to clear one at that. Paid for with gift vouchers.

I don't begrudge my life at all; I've always said as long as you're happy in what you're doing the rest will follow thereafter. But a few extra pennies here and there might be nice... The ability to order out pizza, to go for lunch with a friend without wondering whether I'll still have enough change for the washing machine... Perhaps one day I might even get a lazy boy. Or a play station, 'cause I hear play station is whack...

Birthday Shenanigans with Alfie Moon

I love my birthday. Continuing my quest to maintain my childlike demeanour, I like to look on the annual celebration of getting older as an excuse to rekindle a little more of my ever-fading youth. Whether it be holding a Disney themed fancy dress party, or dragging all of my dearest friends into the woods for a giant game of hide-and-seek, my quest for eternal youth through the quite trivial yearly ritual always leads me on some bizarre adventure or another.

This year has been no different. Indeed, as I rapidly approach the end of my late twenties, I have had arguably one of the most childish weekends of my last two decades.

Kicking off with a trip to London on Saturday, courtesy of my father-in-law-to-be, I spent the morning in Hamleys toy store, the largest toy shop in the world, and a place that never fails to fill me with the utmost joy. Spanning seven floors, Hamleys houses every kind of plaything one could imagine, and even more that one could never imagine in the wildest of dreams. Staffed by a motley crew of magicians and toy enthusiasts, Hamleys is like a real life Wonka factory, and although at least half of our visit was spent admiring the intricate Lego sculptures, I still find myself feeling like I did at age six when my parents would take me out for the pre-Christmas shopping spree.

After a trip down the river of chocolate, I received another piece of my childhood; a box of Lucky Charms from one of my dearest friends, a cereal that I have not eaten since primary school, since it was banned in the UK for having more sugar than the unhealthiest of desserts.

After the mandatory trip to Hard Rock Cafe, wherein I was treated to a free birthday boy sundae and a highly embarrassing (yet somehow satisfying) musical rendition, we returned home. Thereafter, my other childhood obsession was indulged with a trip to the cinema to see none other than the new Muppets movie.

Now, despite my lifelong love of the Muppets, it dawned on me this evening that I have not actually seen a Muppets movie at the pictures since The Muppet Christmas Carol in 1992. After their last outing, however, I had high hopes for Muppets Most Wanted, our fuzzy friends' latest global escapade. In 2011, The Muppets shone as a heartwarming yet hilarious addition to the Henson legacy. Alas, for me at least, Most Wanted was something of a disappointment. Funny, yes, but lacking in story, in music and most importantly, in Muppets. When writing a Muppet movie, one needs to balance between the calvacade of characters that we so dearly love. Unfortunately, this time round, the only characters to get more than a line (and flippant words of agreement at that) are Kermit, Piggy, Fozzie and Kermit's evil doppelgänger Constantine. Ironically, Rizzo the Rat (in his only line) sums it up beautifully when he points out that favourite characters aren't getting a word in edge ways. It's a shame, as the opening number brought so much promise, only for it to be pasted over with a Ricky Gervais coloured wallpaper. And if I wanted to watch him being dull for an hour and a half, I'd rent Ghost Town again.

So that was this year's birthday, or, as I like to think of it, "I'm still a kid, so shut up" Day. Of course it's not all child's play. My favourite presents this year were the delightful array of shirts I received. Enough, in fact, to make Shane Ritchie jealous. Maybe this time next year I'll have enough to put down a deposit on a pub. 

By which, of course, I mean flat.

No. I mean pub.