Zombie Apocalypse? Yes, Please.

Like many fans of the zombie apocalypse genre, I am mourning the finale of the first season of The Walking Dead. This series totally took me by surprise. As I live in a cave, all advertisements for the series went unnoticed, so you can imagine my delight when I stumbled across the latest offering from FX. In fact, I missed the first two episodes and had to catch up.
The series is based on the Eisner Award winning comic book series, created by writer Robert Kirkman and artist Tony Moore. Although Moore was later replaced from issue # 7 by Brit Charlie Adlard, his influence didn’t fully disappear from the comics until issue #27. Kirkman himself is an accomplished write with impressive Marvel credentials, having worked on titles such as Captain America Vol 4 and the awesome five issue series, Marvel Zombies.
Notably, The Walking Dead is published in black and white. The choice of black and white can really highlight strong line work, allowing for a more powerful and authentic feel. However, it also allows for the accentuation of not so good work. Perhaps this had a part to play in some of the emerging criticisms from graphic novel art buffs. However there is equal evidence of others praising the art work in articles and forums across the web. The Walking Dead team are obviously doing something right as it has become one of Image Comics best selling monthly titles.

 

Now, although I recognise and appreciate the impressive work that goes into the making of such titles, I am far from what you would call a ‘comic nerd.’ I am, however, totally in love with the zombie genre in whatever form it may come in. Be it film, TV, art, games or comics. It is for this reason I really love these comics and the subsequent television series.

The televised series seems to be just as celebrated as its comic predecessor. There have been countless reviews, the vast majority positive, which have no doubt attracted more viewers. It has also, most likely, bumped up the comics already substantial fan base. It was developed for television by Frank Darabont, director of The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile and The Mist. Darabont went on to fill the role of executive producer, as well as writing and directing, alongside Gale Hurd, whose prolific works include The Terminator, Aliens and The Abyss.

For me, the television series certainly ticks all the right boxes. Convincing acting? Check. Heroic main character? Check. Anguished best friend? Check. Complicated relationship plot? Check. Sex? Check. Gripping survival scenario? Check. Violence? Check. Gore? Loads. Zombies? In abundance.
What more could you ask for?

Jamie Oliver, eat your heart out.

In our household, ping cuisine dominates the kitchen. Don’t get me wrong, we don’t live purely on microwave dinners but there is a distinct lack of “proper” home made food. But who’s to say that’s a bad thing?

These days many people frown upon resorting to a jar of Dolmio Bolognese sauce. This is no doubt the doing of annoying celebrity chefs who preach to us from their equally annoying kitchens about the importance of fresh, wholesome and homemade meals, all the while gloating at us from our television screens. They seem to have instilled into us the belief that we should be using homegrown tomatoes as a base for a sauce to which we should add far too many cloves of garlic in addition to several thousand other ingredients, and then simmer continuously for hours on end until the hob is caked with baked on sauce. We are then meant to marvel at the end result, which disappointingly watery and quite tasteless (despite the garlic). But it’s ok, because apparently if something is homemade with fresh, and preferably organic ingredients, it WILL taste ten times better than anything you could possibly imagine.

I have to raise a sceptical eyebrow at this notion. A prime example of how this just isn’t true is when my sister, for some unknown reason, had promised to cook her boyfriend cookies. I think she had even taken herself aback at this promise seeing as the first and only time she had ever attempted to cook a batch of cookies, the mixture had ballooned out into odd, rock solid, square shapes that threatened to snap off your teeth. In desperation she invested in a box of Betty Crocker’s Cookie mix which inevitably made the whole affair much simpler and resulted in a batch of very respectable cookies. Before my sister had a chance to confess to her so called “cheating” to her boyfriend, his Dad had seized a cookie and after trying it declared loudly, ” You just don’t get that taste with shop bought stuff, do you?”

I’m not sure how she managed to keep a straight face.

My point is, however, it doesn’t really make any difference whatsoever if your food is truly “homemade” or not. Next time you feel guilty for popping open a jar of Uncle Ben’s, just tell them you went to the nearest farm shop, only one hundred miles away, to ensure the finest ingredients and then spent the following week, boiling, seasoning and simmering until you had the perfect sauce. No one will be any the wiser.

The excitement of petrol…Or lack of..

Today was quite a momentous day for me. As a result of the eagerly anticipated pay day, I was finally able to make a long overdue trip to the petrol station. If I’m honest, I wasn’t entirely sure that I’d even make the five minute drive there. However, my trusty Corsa successfully reached pump number one, even if it was lurching uncontrollably for want of petrol.
I then filled up with a grand total of twenty pounds’ worth of Shell’s finest premium petroleum. I must admit, it was nice to go to the till to purchase a more substantial amount. It’s not as though I burned with shame every time the cashier would say, “That’s £3.50 then please Madam.” Not ashamed at all, but it definitely made a pleasant change.
As I made my merry way home, I also noticed that it was quite refreshing to be free from that recurring question; “Will I make it? Won’t I make it?” The absence of the petrol light was also a positive deviation from the usual scenario, but it seems that nervous glancing at the fuel gauge has become second nature.
Despite the fact my car can now make it up a slight gradient with ease, I seem to have lost that sense of achievement I felt every time I reached a destination. Every drive was a bit of a gamble. Now, I am saddened to report, it is a tad dull.

Love: Daisy Lowe.

This week, I have discovered an admiration for the lovely Daisy Lowe. The stylish twenty one year old is the daughter of designer, Pearl Lowe and musician, Gavin Rossdale. 

 

Not only is she a successful model, but her gorgeous size 10-12 figure is a welcome addition to the fashion world. As is her refreshing attitude to being an actual real life size that is attainable to mere mortals, and not just the generic stick insects who stalk the catwalks.

‘I’m extremely proud of the fact that I’m two sizes bigger than most models. Being a stick is so unsexy…..Fashion is about how you dress your body. Fashion is also about how you express yourself through clothes. So I just don’t see why models have to be so tiny.’

In the June edition of Vogue, Daisy was the supplement cover girl and featured in “Today I’m Wearing…” which documented her fashion choices for the month of May. Here are my favourite two:

The Great Ugg Debate.

Now, I am the first to hold my hands up and admit that I am a victim of the Ugg boot. To be quite honest, I don’t particularly care if they are considered an emblem of so called “chaviness”. As long as one doesn’t team them with a pink Juicy Couture track suit, I think they are perfectly acceptable attire. For me, the attraction stems from sheer laziness, and an aversion to the cold. Once in the habit of wearing them, every other alternative seems so cold and uninviting that I just cannot bring myself to revert to my pre Ugg ways.

All of this considered, you’d think I’d have been beside myself with excitement at the launch of the collaboration between Ugg and Jimmy Choo. The unlikely pair have put together a range that combines the practicality of Ugg with the more fashion conscious nature of Jimmy Choo.

I am afraid to say that I am definitely not a fan.

What with Uggs already battling the chav label, I’m not sure that adorning them with studs and animal print was really the way to go.

Sure, they may look just about passable on the ends of this model’s sylph like limbs, but stuck on the feet of someone in a velour track suit who has fallen victim to the dreaded muffin top, I am not convinced that they will have the same effect.

The collection includes variations of a number of designs, with the selection of prints on offer including leopard and zebra. Amongst the more imaginative options are some star studded boots, complete with tassles.

The prices for this, let’s say, interesting collection range from £395 to £695. Hopefully that’ll be enough to deter the masses.

Why is everyone dressed like Max Wall?

Recently, as I was innocently making a cup of tea whilst dressed in leggings and an oversized cardigan, my Father entered the room.

He took one look at me and asked casually, “Why is everyone dressed like Max Wall?”

Vote Wagner.

And so it is upon us. The X Factor is once again in full swing. The cringe worthy auditions, with their “point and laugh” nature are over, as well as the gruelling boot camp phase. We have powered on through the judges’ houses stage, in which the judges have the luxury of ruthlessly rejecting hopefuls from the comfort of their own palaces, and now the live studio performances have begun.

Last nights marathon combined the talented, hysterical and the downright uncomfortable to form the latest bizarre, yet compellingly addictive installment of His Highness Simon Cowell’s brain child.

Now, I would like to point out that I am one of those haughty ones among us who have persistently withstood the X Factor’s charms out of protest. Alas, it was not to last. This year I made the ill advised decision of watching the auditions, purely for its comical value I hasten to add, and was consequently robbed of my dignity. I now find myself regularly tuning in, post auditions, and often engage in heated debates about this year’s contestants and their performances, or, as the case may be, lack of.

Cher Lloyd for example is probably the most talked about contestant to date. She has been continually slated over her alleged eating disorder and her Cherylesque persona. I for one, can’t quite grasp the vehement persecution of the 17 year old. Ok, it’s true that her poor excuse for a performance at Cheryl’s house was pathetically pitiful. However, she has delivered on two out of three performances up until then, and, let’s face it, when she did fail to deliver, she was suffering from a bout of tonsilitis. Give the girl a break? It is also true that her performance last night was somewhat lacking, and Cheryl’s obvious favouritism of her mini me was rather shameful, but as Danni said, we couldn’t take our eyes off of her, and that is because we, as a nation, whether we love her or hate her, are fascinated. She has gone and done what any star worth their salt should do, and that is to get people talking. There has not been a magazine or newspaper in the past week that hasn’t included at least one feature on the fragile hopeful. She may have got us talking for all the “wrong” reasons, but any press is good press, right?

All this set aside, my personal favourite has got to be Wagner. Wagner is like no one I have ever seen. The man’s got it all. Who else could perform a rendition of Ricky Martin’s  “She Bangs,” crossed with the B52’s “Love Shack”, whilst playing the bongos, and pull it off? Out of all the acts, he is the one who deserves to be crowned the winner.

If Wagner is voted off in this evening’s show, I fear I may have to revert back to my anti X Factor protest, and that would never do. I’ve just started to warm to the show and its familiar characters. There’s the cheerful Louis, who’s cuddly little face lights up at the mere sight of anyone who can utter a vaguely coherent noise. Then there’s the likeable Dannii, who’s face has recently become slightly more mobile due to her boycott of botox. Next we have the “nation’s sweetheart,” Cheryl, who’s thuggish ways have been long forgotten as the nation finds itself mesmerised by those cute little dimples. Then there’s the man himself, Simon, who is a law unto himself. Even his hair defies the very laws of physics, and falls into the most puzzling parting I have ever seen.

Now I’ve had a taste of such variety all rolled into one show, I really don’t think I can go back to my mundane X Factorless life. So please, for the sake of my weekend entertainment, vote Wagner!

Public Transport in a Nutshell.

Trains are funny places. Only on a train would you find such a wide ranging variety of people in one place. I’m on a train as I speak (or type) and, quite frankly, I fail to see how one can be bored on a train. I only have to look around to see something of interest, not quite entertaining mind you, but something nonetheless…

Opposite me is a middle aged woman sandwiched between two men of the larger variety, yet she is determinedly putting together a photo album, and what’s more, she’s succeeding, but not for want of a struggle. Although there is no reason why it should, her current past time of choice is of mild irritation to me. I find myself secretly hoping that the box of loving family memories on her lap will slip off, maybe due to an unexpected jolt of the carriage, causing the contents to spill chaotically to the ground. If I’m lucky, maybe someone with muddy shoes will step on a few. Of course I would (probably) feel some sort of sympathy should this actually happen, but it hasn’t, so I can enjoy the hypothetical scenario whilst free of guilt, and the womans box of joy, of which she is still happily organising, is untainted by the mud from the boot of a road sweeper. Everyone’s a winner.

Another man in close proximity to my person is playing a (very loud) game on his iPhone, whilst another is trying desperately not to fall asleep. Unlike the photo album woman, he is shockingly awful at his activity of choice (if you can call it an activity, but you get my drift). Actually, maybe I’m being a tad harsh. At least when he does succumb to unconsciousness, head lolling limply onto the unlucky passenger next to him, dribble and all, he manages to wake himself up with a stupendously impressive snort.

But, out of all the coughing, sneezing, spluttering, sleeping, photo arranging passengers that I have the fortune of sharing my journey with on this grey Wednesday evening, the one that stands out to me the most, and is perhaps the most irritating, is the one reading this over my shoulder as I write.

Bon voyage.

This is England ’86.

This is England ’86 is the long awaited follow up to the critically acclaimed film, “This is England”. The film was a ground breaking portrayal of ‘skinhead’ life in the midlands during the early 80’s. It’s harrowing scenes and raw portrayal of white supremacy and racism, which thrived on issues such as unemployment, certainly made an impression on audiences nationwide. The director, Shane Meadows (Dead Man’s Shoes – An absolute masterpiece), skillfully hones in on these issues with a certain amount of realism which really allows for an impactful, and, at times, shocking, portrayal of this sub culture.

With the first episode accumulating over 2.5 million viewers, it would seem that “This is England ’86” is approaching popularity on par with its predecessor.

I for one am hooked. There is a harsh romanticism in its gritty nature which is simply addictive. The vintage punk culture has somewhat faded into the year 1986, but it’s shadow is still stubbornly present in both the Doc Martens donned by many of the characters, and, of course, in attitude.

 

This is England ’86 focuses in on the ongoing relationship between Woody and Lol, with plenty of sub plots to add a certain complexity and believability to the story which makes for compulsive viewing. 

Now, if you don’t mind, I’m off to catch the latest instalment…

Out of the Mouths of Babes.

Whilst in the toilets at a shopping centre I was privy to a rather delightful conversation between a Mother and her five year old daughter.

“Wow, you’re getting bigger and bigger aren’t you,” said the mother to her daughter, whilst lifting her to the sink to wash her hands.

“Yes,” replied the daughter matter of factly. “And you’re getting fatter and fatter.”

Oh, the honesty!

Whilst the mother looked somewhat shocked at this breaking news, I promptly left to avoid a rather loud snort resonating through the room, which would be followed by, no doubt, an offended glare from the unlucky parent.