A joke.

I got into a fight with a dyslexic man today. He told me he was gonna shit the kick out of me.

A review of Changeling.

Changeling tells the story of Christine Collins - a mother who fights tooth and nail against police corruption and unthinkable odds in order to find her missing son, Walter. The film is written by J. Michael Straczynski and directed, produced and scored by Clint Eastwood. The film's message: never start a fight, but always finish it.

The film is set in the bustling, yet seedy, world of LA in the 1920s. Christine oversees a team of switchboard operators and is the single parent of her nine-year-old son, Walter. One day, she leaves work but misses her usual tram, arriving home slightly later than normal. When she returns, her son is nowhere to be found; the gentle piece of music playing begins to turn ominous in tone - a testament to Clint Eastwood's musical prowess. In desperation, she calls the police - who tell her nothing can be done until morning.

Walter goes missing on March 20th, 1928. In August of that same year, she receives an impromptu visit from the LAPD. They tell her that Walter has been found and he's in the process of being returned to her from Ohio (where he was supposedly found in the company of a vagrant man). When she greets him, though, she's struck with awe - he's not her son. In shock, she tells Captain Jones that she doesn't know who he is. He manages to get her to co-operate, though, and the LA press snap pictures of mother and 'son' together.

All seems to be working well until Christine tends to the boy after he slips in the bath - she sees the boy is circumcised. She drags him out into the hallway and measures him - he's three inches shorter than when last measured (five months previous). She calls Captain Jones and he gives her lip-service about what stress can do to a child. She refuses to co-operate so he sends in a counsellor (who proceeds to drag 'Walter' around the neighbourhood in order to have neighbours judge him 'objectively').

Soon, we are greeted with the presence of Reverend Briegleb (played by John Malkovich) - a local pastor who proselytises about the evils of the LAPD on his community radio programme. He asks to meet Christine at the church one morning. When she arrives, he shows her an article printed earlier in the morning insinuating that Christine might not be looking after Walter properly from shock (and so she might be the reason for his extreme physical changes).

Reverend Briegleb says: "Many children have been sacrificed to expediency; your boy is not the first, but, depending on what you choose to do, he might be the last...". He also informs Christine of various corruptions in the LAPD - one such corrpution is that police officers are able to kill criminals if they refuse to co-operate.

With the Reverend's help, Christine succours the confidence to take on the establishment. She receives testimonies from Walter's dentist (who notes extreme differences in the two children's teeth), and his teacher - who also notices differences in behaviour. (Both are prepared to give evidence in a court of law.)

The following morning, Christine gives a statement to the local press outside the town hall, stating that she has testimonies and will soon be speaking out against the corruption and incompetence of the LAPD. An officer present calls Captain Jones and notifies him. He issues an order to have Christine brought back to LAPD headquarters and brought in "through the back door".

Christine is told by the Captain that she's either lying about Walter or she's not aware of the fact that she's lying - either she's a liar or she's crazy. On that basis, he has Christine thrown into an asylum for being a "danger to the public and the peace". He does this illegally without issuing a warrant and also doing so before the warrant is issued - both of which are extremely illegal actions. Meanwhile, an investigator at the LAPD receives a call about a youth holed up illegally in a ranch in Wineville and tends to the case.

When Christine enters the asylum, she pleads with the head nurse to let her go and states that she's being blackmailed by police. She's hosed down and given a brisk, degrading, brusk cavity search. Upon seeing this scene, I couldn't help but juxtapose it with how Angelina Jolie is presented in 'Girl, Interrupted'.

Christine meets a woman called Carol Dexter. She notices that Christine's not eating, so she tells her: "Eat; eating's normal. You gotta do everything you can in here to appear normal." Christine tells her that she's sane, to which Carol replies: "No matter what you do, you'll appear insane - if you smile too much, you're delusional (you're stifling hysteria); if you don't smile, you're depressed; if you remain neutral, you're emotionally withdrawn." Carol states that she was admitted after one of her clients (she was a prostitute) beat her up (the client of which turned out to be a cop). When she lodged a formal complaint to the LAPD, she was thrown into the nuthouse - along with dozens of other innocent girls - under Code 12 of a relevant police act.

When the investigating officer arrives at Wineville, he comes upon a man whose car has broken down at the side of the road. He asks the man where the Northcott Ranch is. The man proceeds to reach into the back of his truck in order to put away his gasoline and he almost reaches for a 12-gauge shortgun he has in back. However, he refrains and gives the policeman directions. The cop arrives at the ranch and looks around the scene (finding an empty chicken coop, and axes and knives strewn about the ground) when he's startled by a boy who sees him and tries to flee into the house. He takes the boy into custody.

Meanwhile, at the asylum, Christine is being studied by the head psychiatrist. Christine tries to remain neutral and unaffected throughout his questioning. When he asks her if she minds how she's been treated, she says that she doesn't - the nurses are just trying to "cover all their bases" (by doing such things as testing for syphilis). When she's asked if Walter is her son, she says no (in stark contrast to the picture of her with 'Walter' at the train station taken in August). When she's asked if the police are just doing their job she says: "Yes; they're here to help," to which the man replies: "Really? That's not what you said to the head nurse - you told her that the police were 'conspiring against you'. Right, Ms Collins?" She begins to crumble.

Reverend Briegleb arrives at the LAPD headquarters shortly afterwards with hundreds of protestors in tow, demanding that Captain Jones tell him where Christine is. He tells her she's in a "safe place" that she needed to go to in order to maintain public peace. When the Reverend leaves, he calls the cop who was previously investigating the Northcott ranch and asks him to return. However, after he interviews the boy - who turns out to be named Sanford Clark - he finds out that the boy and his older cousin (Gordon Northcott) could potentially be at the heart of one of the state's biggest ever murder investigations. Sanford tells the officer that he and his cousin are responsible for the deaths of up to 20 children at the Ranch. When Sanford looks through the pictures of missing children, he picks out several photographs of children he remembers being held at the ranch - one of whom turns out to be Walter Collins.

Upon going back to the ranch with Sanford, the officer (accompanied by several others) asks the boy to dig where he believes the boys' bodies lie. After several minutes he unearths several skeletons. The investigator requests the aid of every officer within a 20-mile radius and phones back to the LAPD. Shortly afterwards, an article is published (which soon comes into the hands of Reverend Briegleb). The reverend storms the asylum along with California's leading civil-case lawyer and orders the release of Christine Collins. (Shortly afterwards - after she tells the men of the mistreatment and illegal holding of innocent, sane women - all of the women being held under Code 12 are released). When Carol and the others leave, we see the dainty frame of Christine (who's wearing her trademark, floral bonnet) standing at the foot of the entrance of the asylum. Carol throws Christine a look of deep gratitude and pride.

'Walter' is interviewed by the investigative officer who found the bodies of the missing boys and he cracks when he's told he could be prosecuted for impeding a police investigation. The boy says that his real name is Arthur Hutchins and that he wanted to come to LA to meet 'Telmex' - a character in a series of films - and ride his horse. Meanwhile, when Gordon returns home to Vancouver to see his sister she has her husband call the police. Soon afterwards he is arrested and taken into custody.

Christine pays for Arthur to be returned home. The Chief of Police oversees his returning. When he greets his mother, the Chief is giving a statement to the LA press. As Arthur is getting on the train, he tells his mother that it wasn't his fault - "It wasn't even my idea; the police told me to do it". The press members hear this comment and note it with curiousness.

At the civil trial, Captain Jones and the Chief of Police are both fired for malpractice, never again entitled to stand in the LAPD. Meanwhile, Gordon Northcott is being tried in a smaller, criminal trial. After the jury deliberates, they reach their verdict: they find him guilty of 20 counts of murder in the first degree. Gordon is sentenced to be hanged after being held for two months.

The final scene we see takes place a few years after Gordon's death. Christine is called by a 'Mrs Clay'. She tells Christine that a boy has been found. He turns out to be David Clay. David tells of how one night he and Walter and another boy escaped through a hole in the coop. Walter and the other boy were out when David became stuck. His noisy attempt at escape roused the attention of Gordon Northcott. Walter went back to help free David and all three escaped. David spent several years moving in and out of orphanages through fear of being faced with a reprisal kidnapping. Christine Collins kept looking for Walter but never found him.

I found the film riveting. The score was simple and elegant and the set pieces made one feel one was immersed in LA as it actually was in 1928. Angelina Jolie played the part of Christine simply and elegantly, bringing the character alive with the gentleness of her eyes alone - each exchange was like softest velvet; some were as knives. It's certainly up there alongside such greats as the Shawshank Redemption, LA Confidential and Stand by Me. It's certainly one of Clint's finest efforts - perhaps even exceeding Million Dollar Baby and Gran Torino - and it offers lots of commentary on contemporary society - if one wants to read it in that way.

Rating: 9/10. If I had a handle on more films I'd give it a 10. It's a little wearisome at over two hours in length but it's a worthy and worthwhile investment.

Town.

The town in which I live is dying;
Sometimes I go out to cry.
But the rain masks my tears
And the night cloaks my fears.

The sky is crushing and cold
And this town's bones are getting old.
The sea's storming the pier
And the squall's all I hear.

Sorrow's a drag and regret's pointless.
We're here; we'll be gone, so why feel the blues?
But the jobs have all gone
And I'm left without Sun.

The TV screen flickers in the evening.
I'm sitting here with cans of beer and spite.
Some girl's on TV
But she's not singing for me tonight.

The lads 'round my way all want blood.
To them life is worth less than mud.
They all hide their eyes
And shout slurs in the night.

The town in which I live is dying;
Sometimes I go out to cry.
The sky's grey and looms
Like it's pregnant with gloom.

With hearts on our sleeves,
We die and we bleed.
With hearts on our sleeves,
We die and we bleed.

How do religious people manage to get out of bed in the mornings?

If I were a Christian (or any devotee of one of the Abrahamic religions), I don't think I'd be able to get out of bed in the mornings. For 1200 years, the Catholic church ruled Europe with snipe and subversion and torture and repression until the first awakenings of the Renaissance in the 1500s.

In that time, people believed they knew everything there was to know. They thought the Earth was at the centre of the solar system - and possibly the universe - until the Copernican revolution; they thought the Sun and planets and stars orbited the Earth in 'spheres' and perfect circles (hence the expression: 'music of the spheres'); they thought the stars had a bearing on destiny; they thought mental illness was caused by demonic possession (the usual 'cure' was to drill a hole in the afflicted's head through which the demon would pass); they thought that comets were portents highlighting God's wrath at the sinful multitudes (or possibly highlighting the imminent downfall of certain kings - as happened in 1066); they believed they were made in God's image out of dust; they believed women were inferior and infidels should be held as slaves and chattel.

I don't think I could get up in the mornings with the knowledge that some deity might hold a definite plan for my life. I don't think I could get up if I thought that everything was known and that there were no more triumphs to be had. I don't see how Christians can get up in the mornings with their short-sighted, stunted views on reality.

I don't see how Christians can assume to have definite knowledge on the cosmos and its origin, and the origin of man. I don't think I could get up assuming the world is 6,013 years old and that the Renaissance was a bad thing. I don't think I could get up if I were to believe that women are subordinate and that certain peoples can rightly and justifiably be held as slaves. I don't think I could get up if I were a Christian. My current awe at the beauty of nature would be expunged and replaced with a numbing, dogmatic nothingness. The beauty of evolution and its tangible and delicate dancings through time would be gone. If I were a Christian, there would be nothing more to live for. If I were a Christian, I would follow the teachings of Christ.

A short polemic against school uniforms.

You might think it an odd topic - and possibly a marginal one - but I have several things to say on the subject of secondary education. Every year, hundreds of thousands of primary school children are shipped off to their new state indoctrination centres to learn single, national accounts of history - in other words, they're taught to be able to justify things Britain has done in its past.

In primary school, the uniforms are usually incredibly twee and cute - crisp cotton shirts with large collars, woollen or cotton jumpers with the school emblem emblazonded on the breast, and, invariably, neat black trousers and clunky leather shoes (my trousers invariably had holes in them around where my knees would sit).

In secondary school, the uniforms are often more casual - I never wore a school jumper or a blazer; I'd usually trade it for a jumper, a plain hoody or a rain coat. Also, black trainers (or white ones for the next generation of thugs) are usually the choice footwear of today's children.

I haven't got to my point yet and I don't intend to labour it, but my point is this: why should school children have to wear uniforms? In my view, they shouldn't. School uniforms encourage children to look and act the same - they're already encouraged to think the same.

Certain subjects are essential: English grammar should be taught in English classes, maths should be taught proficiently, and so should science. English literature is also important - as is History - but I think it's second to the former subjects. The most important faculty any child should possess, though, is the ability to think critically; it's not enough to be able to read words on a page and understand, roughly, a given point or argument - children should be able to scrutinise rigorously what they read.

So, should children wear uniforms? No. Uniforms encourage uniformity - go figure! - and homogenisation. Individuality should be the only message inculcated into children. We need a next generation of adolescents capable of critical thinking who can detect and scrutinise the mistakes of their elders. It seems our educational system is failing. Perhaps it's time parents took the initiative. Is this or is this not a democracy?

Female circumcision.

Over 80 million Christian women in the Third World have had their clitorises forcibly removed in order to reduce sexual stimulation (and thus 'prevent' them from commiting adultery). Women who suffer this custom often succumb to chronic infection problems (as well as social disorders (and lameness in general)). Here's a video detailing this most horrific custom:

On last night's Question Time.

Last night, over eight million people tuned in to watch Question Time - four times its usual audience. The media storm surrounding Nick Griffin's appearance had whipped up much interest.

Many of the audience and panel's questions were directed at Mr Griffin, and, in answering them, his responses were flummoxed and came across as being desperate. (He also often failed to answer questions relating to stances he'd taken up in his past.)

Quotes about his party's evocations of Churchill and Hitler were put to him - many of which he denied saying - and he was also asked to justify comments he made at an American political rally at which the former head of the Ku Klux Klan was present.

He is believed to have said that his party would conceal their true nature until election time and dupe in members of the British public by using 'saleable' words such as 'freedom', 'democracy' and 'identity' (identity being a euphemism for race to him). He also said that he hoped to achieve control of the BBC if elected. Mr Griffin denied saying these things (despite the fact that one can hear him say them in a short Youtube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=04QolIvfQEw).

On the show, he disparaged Muslims and said that 'if Churchill were alive, he would be a member of the BNP.' He also disparaged Jack Straw's father (a conscientious objector during WW2 who was imprisoned), saying that his own father flew in the Royal Airforce.

At one point, he insinuated that 'indigenous' British people have been on this isle for 17,500 years - despite definite knowledge that the first Britons were Picts (a Celtic tribe who were present here some 4,000 years ago and were driven westwards by the Romans) and the Angles and Saxons didn't arrive until around 500 AD.

He also insinuated that his party stands for 'traditional, British, Christian values'. I wonder whether the admonition 'Do not judge, lest ye be judged' means much to Mr Griffin?

Although it's fair to say an unfair amount of time was spent probing Mr Griffin's beliefs and politics, I think such probing was a justified and necessary evil. He's a sickening character and I think he showed his willingness to deceive the public fully last night.

As of midday today, he has stated that he is due to lodge a formal complaint to the BBC for his 'unfair' treatment, and he has also challenged Jack Straw and David Cameron to formal debates.

I sincerely hope that no more platforms will be granted to him. I agree with Peter Hain that it might now appear to BNP enthusiasts that his party is as legitimate as any other major party purely because he's been allowed to take part in formal, televised debate.

His politics are disgraceful, deceitful and fascistic (and technically illegal because of his party's refusal to allow ethic minorities membership), and he deserves no recognition. I think we've all seen him for the callow, hollow, callous man he is. I hope sensible people will not identify with his claims about being treated unfairly. Sympathising with him would be playing right into his hands.

Creation.

This afternoon, out of sheer chance, I remembered that Creation is still being shown in cinemas. (For those of you who don't know - or might be fooled by the title - it's a biopic of Charles Darwin and his grand theory of evolution - the theory of which changed for ever the image of man within the cosmos.)

Upon looking around, though, I've found no cinemas in Brighton that are showing it - not even The Duke of York's Picturehouse. I'm thoroughly disgusted that fear and monetary sensibilities go before educational value in this country. Even if the picture were to have some inadequacies or bad character acting I'd still see it.

My faith in the secular nature of my country has been slightly shaken and I'm left feeling perturbed and dispeptic, with the odd taste of bile hanging around in the back of my throat.

Chicken.

Why did the chicken cross the road? Because it was paid twenty pounds to fulfil the punch line of a very poor joke.

Patton Oswalt - Sky Cake.

A link to Charlie Brooker's Gameswipe.

After browsing through last night's late-night programming, I came across Charlie Brooker's newest series: Gameswipe (which I wasn't even aware of until last night). Here's the link: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00n1j8q/Charlie_Brookers_Gameswipe/

Lenny Bruce: All Alone.

Wormwood.

My heart is the wormwood
To your worms.
The soft fibres make
A tasty treat for your termites.

I left my heart unconcealed
In the rain,
Like the fallen trunk
Of a once-great oak.

I'm so easily consumed;
The first fallen leaf of autumn -
Always the litter;
Never the growth.

I don't know what I am anymore.
I don't know what I am.
I'm a pliable putty
Hoping love will deform me.

I woke up this morning,
Borne in a whirlpool of understanding,
And saw you naked -
Even though you were fully clothed.

Five jokes.

My girlfriend's into anal sex... she's very frigid and very rarely does anything other than missionary.

My dog's a detective. The other day, a local pet shop was broken into and some dog merchandise was stolen. Upon investigating the scene, my dog was asked by the shopkeeper: 'So, are you any the wiser yet?' To which my dog replied: 'No: we've no leads yet; we've yet to collar anyone.'

Why did the nigger cross the road? To get away from you, you fucking bigot. You disgust me.

My father often tells me I'm a terrible bastard. Apparently, my elder brother - who was also conceived outside of wedlock - is a much better one.

There's an indoor swimming pool in my town one can go to that re-creates the conditions of night swimming during the day-time.

A story about a young boy.

The afternoon of the event is as hazy in my mind as the memory itself. It was a sunny afternoon. It might have been May. I think I was nine or ten years old.

On the afternoon in question, several of my friends - kids I hung around with who also picked their noses and scabs - beat up a boy in the year below me. When they were found out, they said that I'd been involved, too.

We were lead to the headmaster's office. His name was Mr Marshall. He was of Welsh stock. He had white-haired knuckles; thick, black hair, and a booming, baritone voice. He was a traditional disciplinarian. I sat outside his office terrified. I felt abandoned, and ashamed of myself for being such a helpless child.

I faced the wall outside his office and started to cry. He was motioned out by our school's kindly secretary, Mrs Smith - I think she was fucking the lollipop man with the screwy eye.

He started to scold each of us. 'Don't cry! Don't you all feel sorry?' He loomed over us. He approached me: 'What are these crocodile tears, boy?' I can't remember what happened next but I was suspended for several days. I was collected - I can't remember by whom - and I remained silent.

This must've happened on a Friday, as the first time I said that I'd not been involved was at my nan's house - I always used to stay with her on weekends. When I told her - on Saturday - she called me daft and, although she had a cold presence, she cared deeply for me. She was, more or less, a surrogate mother who'd take me every weekend 'til I was ten or eleven years old.

My nan made some calls. On Monday morning, I sat in Mr Marshall's office and told him I'd had no part in it (in the shyest, mousiest kiddie voice I could muster). He looked at me, puzzled, and couldn't wipe the quizzical look from his face. The boy who'd been beaten up was called in and sat down next to Mr Marshall. 'Was he involved in the fight?' he asked the boy. After several seconds - an infinity to a child - he said: 'No, sir.'

'Okay,' Mr Marshall replied. 'You're free to go.' As I left the room I was silent and had an odd smirk splashed across my face. In retrospect, I wonder what Mr Marshall felt as I left the room. A girl, Amy Austyn, asked me why I took the bullet. I didn't know then; I don't know now - through fear of social reproach or fear of Mr Marshall? Maybe. They weren't even my friends: they were just kids who came to my birthday parties and whose birthday parties I attended. Amy's got a kid now. God knows what happened to Mr Marshall - he left for retirement in 2000.

It's been a long time....

It's now October, and autumn is upon us. Halloween is due shortly, and the Brighton Comedy Festival is soon to be under way. To usher in this new month, I've decided to write a post which encompasses several things. I'll begin....

First, I have a few words to say on the popular and persistent confusing of the words fewer and less. Less applies to uncountable nouns; fewer to countable nouns. You're probably feeling slightly nonplussed right now, so I'll clarify the point. If a noun can be counted, use fewer: I have fewer inhibitions than him; five items or fewer. For uncountable nouns, use less: I have less hope now; I take a bit less sugar in my tea, thanks.

Second, I have a few words to say on gerunds and participles. They're both altered forms of verbs. Gerunds are verbs that have been inflected and function as nouns, whereas participles are verbs that have been inflected and function as adjectives. For example:

Gerunds: skiing, baking, sewing, knitting, running, jogging - the suffix -ing has been added to change these verbs into nouns.

Participles come in two forms: present and past and usually come at the end of clauses or sentences. For instance:

• Past: Jim was sleeping; he was robbed a few days ago; Jim has just arrived;
  
• Present: Jim will be arriving any minute; he's a dying man; I'm leaving now.
  

As a rule, past participles end in the suffix -ed and present participles end in the suffix -ing. Sometimes, a participle can cause ambiguity if left in the wrong place and becomes what's known as a dangling participle. For instance, in the sentence whilst walking back home, a car knocked me over it seems as though the car is walking back home - which is impossible, of course. In cases such as this, the sentence should be re-written - the former sentence should read: a car knocked me over as I walked back home or whilst I walked back home, a car knocked me over.

Third, I have a few words to say on the word thanks (or the phrase thank you). Thank you should be used for occassions in which gratitude is to be expressed sincerely. If a mailman hands you your post, you might thank him. But why? He's just doing his job; he hasn't gone out of his way to help you - if he were to give you twenty pounds and some German pornography you might thank him. And if you ever receive marketing calls, the person on the other end will blather on indefinitely about inane products and interject several times with the odd thanks or thank you for waiting (or - God forbid - good-good). Such usage is spineless and insincere, and it sickens me. In the same vein, the word sorry is used excessively these days. I no longer find myself saying excuse me any more, but rather sorry - as if I'm a perpetual inconvenience (alongside every other person on this planet).

Fourth, I'd like to address another lexical confusion: the difference between artist and artiste. An artist is one who expresses something in a way that transcends normal experience (through language or physical expression or painting); an artiste is a cheap entertainer.

Finally, I want to touch on the subject of death - specifically death in the military and police. When one conscripts into the army or police force one understands the dangers one might face, and yet every time a person in, for instance, Afghanistan dies we're told it's a tragedy. It isn't. Civilian deaths are tragedies - as they're unprecedented and can't be accounted for. It might be tragic if a serviceman were shot in a post office by a disenfranchised postal worker, though. If you're in the army, carrying a gun around in some other schmuck's country, you'd better expect some shit. And if you die, don't expect any tears from me; if you don't want to get shot or blown up by an IED, stay the fuck out of Afghanistan.