A Giant Bath with Tony Montana

I've been rather offline of late; indeed the last few weeks I have found myself in something of a late-twenties crisis (possibly mid-life... At this point, who knows?). As the turning point of thirty looms ever-closer, I feel the need to sort my life out a'proper. 

If I had asked my teenage self where I thought I would be as I approach the end of my third decade on this earth, I would have, without doubt, seen myself in a comfortable job (with a pretty high level of employment security), owning a small but cosy house somewhere in the 'burbs, with a dog and a nice little run-around car. Once upon a generation, these things were not beyond the reach of a young professional.

Instead, however, I find myself in a job, which although I love dearly, offers as much security as a chocolate fireman in the ever-tempestuous market of the EFL industry. I am living at the bottom of my overdraft in a job which, if my P60 is anything to believe, offers a net salary somewhere below the national minimum wage, supplemented by all-weather busking and private lessons with all-too-often sporadic students.

As such, I have had my head down of late, battling against the rising tide of depression with a trident of determination set on sorting my ruddy life out once and for all.

The dreamer in me has finally summoned the courage to do what I have been promising myself for years, and has auditioned for both The Voice and The X-Factor in the unlikely and yet seemingly possible fast-pass to a smidgeon of success, and although I have no pretence of getting anywhere, I have already made it through a couple of rounds of the former, so perhaps I stand a half chance of at least a few wedding gigs out of it if I can get some TV exposure.

The realist, meanwhile, is fighting valiantly against the ever-baying wolves of bills at the door, and is beginning to wonder whether it's time to pack in this teaching malarkey. Sure, I love my students, but it's time now to look to the future, and perhaps a job in copywriting would be a little more financially viable. Sure, I wouldn't enjoy it quite as much, but at least perhaps I could take a bit of a breather once in a while when it comes to the battle between monthly bills and the decision to eat.

So apologies, dear reader, for a somewhat more bleak than usual post, but this is where I have been of late. With continued oomph, perhaps soon I'll get out of this slump, both financial and psychological, and get some more positive posts coming your way. 

The day I can afford a bath I can actually lay down in and take a load off; that'll be the day I can relax.

On the plus side, only eleven days 'till Jurassic World! Suppose it's not all doom and gloom!

A Trip to the Vet with Nami and Robin

Owning a pet is great. Having been a constant animal owner since before I was even born, I can honestly say that an animal in the house is a source of perpetual amusement and companionship. Over the course of my life, I've had two very different dogs, one a bizarre mongrel (who we think may have been the unfortunate partenering of a King Charles Spaniel and a Rottweiler) and one an utterly insane Labrador who generally believes herself to be an oversized housecat. I've also had the pleasure of owning an overly affectionate (if somewhat destructive) house rabbit who although cost us nothing to adopt, did end up losing us £600 in deposit money after eating his way through an leather sofa. 

My favourite pets, however, have been my guinea pigs, the first pair of which I was bought during my third year at university by my well-meaning friends as a way to combat my crushing bachelorhood. The boys, Oz and Warren (named after characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer of course) were a cantankerous pair who lived to the ripe old guinea pig age of eight, Oz, rather amazingly, playing the role of Odysseus' dog Argos in faithfully waiting until I finally returned from my adventures in the Far East before shuffling off this mortal coil.

A few months ago, having gone somewhat petless for the last year (the neurotic Labrador still living with my mother in the North East) I decided to look into getting a new pair of guinea pigs to bring a bit of joy to the home (and also to further delay any more conversations about potential tiny feet...). Having looked around the local pet shops without finding the right piglets for us, we when somewhat taken aback to discover a pair of female Peruvian Long-hairs up for adoption.

Now, if, like most (and myself to be frank; I'd always thought a guinea pig was a guinea pig), you are unversed in the plethora of cavy breeds, the Peruvian can best be described as the love child of Cousin It and Mick Jagger; a quivering ball of fur with a very self-important strut. Not realising yet what a handful they would turn out to be, we took in the pretty pair, naming them Nami and Robin (the two main female characters in Oda Sensei's One Piece) and settled them into their new home.

Of course, what the pet shops don't tell you is that having pets that look like they could be in a L'oreal advert comes at the rather time-consuming cost of having to groom the little blighted on a daily basis. For Robin, it's not too much of an issue. Nami meanwhile will squeal and scream at the top of her lungs as soon as you go anywhere near her with a comb, let alone a pair of scissors. Unfortunately, this utterly abstinence from the clippers means the girls have to go to the vet once a month for a makeover.

And this is where the negative side of pet ownership comes into play; vets' bills. For a five minute nail clip and bottom trim, each pig costs the ridiculous sum of £18. That's £36 for the pair. Had I known this prior to their arrival, I would've got a pair of bog-standard piglets and let them get on with their lives. But no; I had to get the ruddy Kardashians of the rodent world.

So a word of warning to all; pets are great, but be careful what you choose, 'cause a pet is for life, and so are your credit card bills.

Days Off with BMO

When you're a teacher trying to make his merry way in this world, a day to yourself when you have absolutely nothing to worry about; no marking, no problematic students, and, heaven forbid, no bureaucratic nonsense, comes about as often as finding a fresh fifty pound note laying in your path in the street.

So, on a peaceful Sunday morning (and by morning, I mean afternoon - you know it's a proper day off when you can still be in your pjs at 1pm with no guilt) I find myself thinking of the perfect ways to spend a day off. For your reading pleasure, here's my top five...

Cartoons

As any long-term readers of this blog know, I spend a vast amount of my precious free time indulging my nostalgia by watching the cavalcade of cartoony goodness from my youth. Whether it's a classic Disney series, or a piece of modern gold such as Adventure Time, there's nothing more enjoyable than some good quality kids' TV. In fact, one of the few reasons I have for actually having kids in the near future is to allow myself to continue watching cartoons under the pretence of it being for their enjoyment. "You want to watch Octonauts? Shuttup, Darkwing Duck's on!"

Baking

I don't bake as much as I'd like. Indeed, until about three years ago, I hated baking and was adamant that I was a cook and not a baker. Times change, and having somewhat been forced into the craft at a restaurant I was briefly working at, I have finally come to see the joys of throwing a bunch of stuff in a cake tin and hoping for the best!

Comic Sorting

I've always had a passion for alphabetising, coupled with a lifelong affinity for superheroes. Thus there are few greater joys in my life than hours spent lovingly putting comics into plastic envelopes and sorting them into chronological order. Dear god I lead a sad existence...

Gardening

I never thought I'd be the gardening type. Indeed, as a kid I absolutely hated the hours spent in the shed with my father on some cockamamie DIY project. It's rather odd then that when we moved to our current flat, I found a strange affinity with our shed. As soon as the sun comes out, I find myself outside, Bon Jovi blaring, potting and repotting the various fruits and veggies that we've currently growing on the veranda. Eventually, I might even get this kiwi tree to grow. The avocado's certainly looking healthy!

Busking

Street performing has becoming something of a zen-like experience to me now. No matter how bad my day at work, a couple of hours with my guitar, making a few extra pennies, has become the highlight of my week. Music is the universal medicine, and actually being appreciated for it quite frankly is awesome.

Unfortunately, having spent the day geeking out, I've now for a pile of ironing to work through. At least I've got Finn and Jake to keep me company though. Guess what time it is?

It's Ironing Time!

A New Age with Elizabeth Olsen

I must admit, as I get older, I feel that I should perhaps begin to grow up a little; as a man on the verge of turning thirty, I feel that some of my more childish pursuits; evenings spent watching Adventure Time marathons, my lego collecting, and my weekly trip to the comic shop, should perhaps take something of a back-burning.

As such, I felt a little ashamed the other night to be partaking in one of the geekiest exploits of my life to date; a midnight viewing of the Marvel Cinematic Universe's latest offering, Age of Ultron.

After being one of the few people to be utterly underwhelmed by the first Avengers outing, and subsequently being disappointed by the terribleness of Iron Man 3 and Thor 2, I have had reservations for a while now. Upon learning that a grand total of twelve beloved Marvel heroes would be taking to the screen, I had a horrible feeling that I was in for another dip into the "too many heroes, too much action, too much story and not enough of any of the above" territory previously claimed by X-Men The Last Stand. 

Fortunately, within the first five minutes of Age of Ultron, I knew I was to be proven wrong.

Opening with a fantastic raid sequence on the lair of Hydra honcho Baron Von Strucker, we are reintroduced to our core Avengers, with Thor, Captain America, Iron Man and the Hulk leading the way, and Black Widow and Hawkeye once again in stalwart support. Indeed, I groaned aloud when once again poor, oft seemingly useless Hawkeye was knocked out and laid up once again within the very first fight. Give the guy a break! And, much to my surprise, a break was very much given. Of the original team, Barton very much managed to steal the show this time round, and in a great speech towards the end of the movie, actually proved that perhaps he is more vital to the team than even the screen-hogging Tony Stark.

The much-moaned about online relationship between Romanov and Banner actually added humanity to this sequel, something very much missing in the first film, and Mark Ruffalo has this time round really got to grips with the many emotions haunting the troubled doctor. 

Humanity is what really solidified this film in the MCU oeuvre; in a world of super powers and CGI, with a cybernetic villain (played with aplomb by James Spader), it's sometimes difficult to keep things grounded, but Joss Whedon really made an effort this time to show us the personal sides of these fantastic characters. In Age of Ultron, we see the friendships these heroes have built over the years, and that humanity is what can finally stand against a technical foe.

One thing that worried me before entering the Odeon was how our new players were going to be introduced; Marvel legends Quicksilver, Scarlet Witch and the Vision have all been very much teased over the last few months, and I was very impressed with the portrayals of these "enhanced" beings, and am in fact now somewhat besotted with Elizabeth Olsen's Wanda Maximoff. Quicksilver is a totally different side of Pietro Maximoff to his Days of Future Past counterpart, and equally as delightful to watch, and Paul Bettany's promotion from VoiceOver to superhero in the Vision works well within the context of the story. Indeed, as the all new Avengers finally Assembled, a tingle ran down my spine in apt anticipation of what is to come.

My only grumble is a small one; although eleven of our twelve Avengers got ample screen time (perhaps a little more War Machine would have been nice, but what we got was good), I do begrudge the absence of Falcon from the final battle. Having stolen the show somewhat in The Winter Soldier, I was very excited to finally welcome Sam Wilson to the main roster, and thus was disappointed that in a high flying sky battle (because it wouldn't be a Marvel movie without one!), Falcon didn't swoop in to join the other sky-based heroes. Maybe he got cut from the original four hour version... Ho hum...

Overall, however, Age of Ultron is a fantastic conclusion to Marvel's second phase, building upon the MCU's great points, and improving very much so on their mistakes of the past. Colour me excited for the next few years to come.

And more Elizabeth Olsen please. Much more.

A Televisual Comic-book Cocktail with Chloe Bennet

I remember when I was younger, I used to pride myself on my vast knowledge and time spent with a variety of different tv shows. Indeed, my love of television is what initially propelled me to do a masters in scriptwriting, in the youthful hope that one day I could be up in the screen-writers' pantheon with the likes of Joss Whedon and Russell T Davies.

During university, my screen-time continued to flourish, with hours spent digesting any semi-acclaimed (and indeed any completely off-the-wall) series that happened to be talked about that week, finally culminating in over 400 hours of "research" for my MA dissertation, "The role of the ensemble sidekick in supernatural tv drama since 1993". Lot of use that turned out to be...

In recent years, however, I've begun to notice that I make little time anymore for television, with even my stalwart go-to comfort shows such as Masterchef and the Bake Off (shush; I used to be a chef... These shows are like porn to me...) getting cast aside for a decent book, or, quite frankly, a good sleep.

If you were to ask me what I'm watching at the moment, I would genuinely have to take a moment to think; I tried Game of Thrones (sorry, dull), Breaking Bad never appealed, and I'm still waiting in vain hope for a sitcom to come along to trump How I Met Your Mother.

So what am I watching? Well, there was, until two weeks ago, Glee, whose passing still makes me sad, and then, to be honest, everything else is comic book adaptations and spin offs, most of which I am weeks behind in due to an aggravating combination of livin in the UK and a crack-down on upload sites online.

It was a joy yesterday, therefore, to have a day, for the first time in over a month, where I had absolutely nothing to do. True, the weather was beautiful, and a little voice inside me kept saying I should be outside getting some vitamin D, but you know what, little voice? It's my dad, so shut up!

Six episodes of Agents of Shield later, and I'm almost up to date, relishing in a series that started oh so badly before finally becoming something Mr Whedon should be proud of. Throw in a large side Chicago Town pizza and I'm halfway through the fantastically macabre Daredevil series on Netflix, and then pour a glass of scotch before finishing with a couple of shots of Gotham for good measure.

Complete our cocktail analogy with a delightful sprinkling of Chloe Bennet's Skye to garnish and I am a happy man.

None of it could truly be classes as high-brow entertainment, and I'm still a good fortnight behind all of my friends that I'm putting off talking to due to possible spoiler leakage, but hey, these shows make me happy, and at the end of the day, I'd rather be watching a series because I actually want to than because the world tells me I should.

Now, dear Marvel, about that Howard the Duck tv series I pitched...

At the Terminal with Kurt Wagner

I hate airports. Cold, faceless gateways to the world, there are in fact very few that instil any sense of excitement about the holiday to come.

Having spent a depressingly large proportion of the last decade arriving and departing from various destinations across the globe, I have come to regard airports with the same suspicious loathing with which they regard me.

Nowhere else in life are you expected to arrive hours early simply to be bundled into a cramped, noisy, smelly room and be grinned at inanely by people with more makeup on than Ronald McDonald. Once ushered through the gates, a minimum of one whole hour before the flight (indeed the one you already checked on to online the evening before), you are greeted by a landscape of unsmiling travellers, perched miserably on their luggage as the inevitable news of flight delays are delivered by faceless flatscreens, charged extortionate amounts for mediocre coffee, and (unless you luckily happen to be in Asia or Amsterdan), denied even the simplest of luxuries in a relaxing cigarette before your twelve hour flight.

Perhaps if I didn't hate flying quite as much as I do, airports wouldn't be quite as bad, but as I sit here at Southampton terminal waiting for the first of four flights this week (two of which being entirely superfluous - I'm having to fly up to Newcastle in order to catch another flight southbound, straight over my ruddy house in Bournemouth), a cacophony of babies crying and possibly braindead teens ringing in my ears, and a severe case of the sniffles adding to my grumbliness, I can't help but thinking maybe I should have just stayed home.

But then again, I'm finally going on my first holiday in four years, so perhaps it'll be worth it in the end...

If only I could teleport...

I'm Getting Too Old For This Sh*t with Roger Murtaugh

So the weekend of debauchery went ahead much as planned, with a delightfully civilised meal with friends and colleagues on Saturday evening followed by karaoke until the early hours of Sunday morning. This, topped off with an epic game of laser tag (consisting mostly of us ganging up on prepubescents in order to claim the crown), and much fun was had all round.

Unfortunately, with the new term kicking off at school this morning, I awoke feeling far from fresh as a daisy. 

A three-day-in-the-making hangover was coupled with the aching joints that follow running around in the dark like a madman, pretending to be District Attorney Dredd (not long before the promotion), lead to a general realisation that I am indeed, getting too old for this shit.

As experienced by the cast of How I Met Your Mother, Murtaugh's law states that eventually we all reach a point in our lives when we simply cannot handle the frivolous activities we once enjoyed; whether they be busting some ass on the mean streets, or simply busting a move at 2am, eventually we all have to grow up, or at least deal with the consequences of desperately clinging on to our youths.

Of course, my clinging usually entails playing with Lego and watching copious amounts of Disney movies (my knowledge of which never fails to come in handy in my line if work - a brief verse of "Let it Go" always breaks a smile on even the most morose of children), but nonetheless, a good old fashioned outburst of stupidity, whether it be shooting the heck out of strangers, or a spontaneous slut-drop to Ke$ha, is sometimes very much in order.

I fear that in the coming future, my body's tolerance to my childish exploits will continue to lessen, but when all's said and done, it's a price I'm willing to pay for being awesome.

'Cause after all, you're never too old for anything.

Except possibly dungarees...