A year of living singly Part One

It has been a year since I broke up with Ali. It the worst break up of my life and potentially the worst time of my life. In the space of a month I lost my job, my girlfriend, and had a partial thyroidectomy to remove a potentially cancerous lump from my throat. It wasn't exactly a typical break-up... I've never read a problem page story that reads: "My girlfriend was depressed, hated herself, hated me for loving her, hated our dog, hated going to uni, hated having a job, hated responsibility, hated everything, until one day she met a self-righteous, preaching, bi-sexual c-word and decided to go travelling with her. Wanted me to sell the dog because she needed money to run away, would sigh, roll her eyes and play Angry Birds on her tablet as I cried and tried to make things work, blocked me out by putting on her blinkers and looking straight ahead, past the three years of being in love, past the arguments, past her insecurities, her pain and mine, to those beautiful beaches, those exotic smiling people, the blistering sun and those sensuous calming seas, and of course, the potentially beautiful future she could have with that bikini-clad Lithuanian vilifying strumpet. What do I do, Dear Deirdre? What the fuck do I do?"

Some say life's a beach. I'd say its more of a massive stinky anus.

That was all a year ago, and what a year it has been. It all began with a rebound relationship with an emerald-eyed, engaging and emotionally engaged holistic therapist who dated me partly because she liked me and partly because I looked uncomfortably similar to the ex-girlfriend she was still in love with. She didn't tell me this fact straight away, of course, that would be weird.

By rebound I really do mean rebound. I broke up with Ali in late May 2012, I had my operation on the 10th of June and I met Caroline, my neck a butterfly stitched ugly mess of rawness, around the 20th. We walked around Hammersmith chatting in the sunshine before getting some drinks and nachos; I remember I liked her smile, the way she arched her eyebrows flirtatiously and her calm, relaxed manner. She asked me to go camping with her a fortnight later and I agreed because I liked her attention, I liked her, I had just acquired nearly five grand in redundancy pay and the thought of being in the same building as Ali for any longer than absolutely necessary was too unbearable. I had recently walked in on her and The Other Girl sharing the sofa bed one morning and had a major flip out. Items were thrown and savage, pain-filled words were hissed into Ali's confused, faux-innocent face: "Friends share beds Jo, its normal, you just cant handle the fact that she is bi-sexual. You think that means she likes me, but its not true, I swear it."

They say what hurts often instructs and I can honestly say that I have learnt a lot. One of the key things I can tell anyone reading this is:

One should always ignore the ifs and the buts
and instead listen to the head and listen to the gut.

If something is gnawing away at you, it is gnawing for a reason. Your gut isn't your insecurity, it is your protector and it is your friend. Listen to it and get out. Don't do what I did, which is basically the same as seeing a tiger running towards you and closing your eyes thinking that tiger isn't going to be there any more because whether you open your eyes or not you are going to hear that tiger coming; you are going to feel its hot breath on your face and you are really going to feel it as it rips you to fucking bits. Get out. Get out. Get out.

"You should have run when you had the chance."

You would think I would want to get Ali back for her turning my heart into an obliterated hole, and to be honest at one point I thought I would like that too, but when it came to it, came to me packing my bag and her knowing I was going to see that girl, and me seeing her making that face she makes when she is trying so fucking hard not to cry and I am chewing on my cheeks to stop me from bursting into tears because all I wanted at that time right then was for her to love me and for her to want me and to want to be with me and to make it work so I wouldn't go get on that train and I could stay with her and we could somehow be happy despite everything; but she couldn't do that and we couldn't go back to that... we couldn't go back to happy. So I got on that train and spent a weekend camping with Caroline in Devon.

We had a lot of fun camping. I remember we spent 16 hours together in a tiny tent because it was pissing it down, and we drank wine, and we had sex (I cried afterwards), and we read books to each other and she played her guitar to me. I am glad she was my rebound, even though it was so obviously doomed. We lasted around five months of camping, staying in hotels and at her parents house before we called it quits; neither of us was ready for a relationship and we both obviously had a lot of shit to deal with. It hurt a lot though. Despite her occasional spoilt brat behaviour, her criticisms, and the time she waved her hands around my head in front of a gang of bewildered butch hockey players to 'heal' me after I smacked my head on her car, it did hurt (not the car, that obviously hurt, even after her alleged healing hands wafted air around my head, I mean the break up itself).

This is a prime example of what love is.

As another one bit the dust, another girl came along. Her name was Hazel, she was a singer/songwriter and she was the most intense, crazy-ass date of my life, save for coke-girl, but she comes along later. For now, we are all about the Haze (I never called her that). We spoke online, on skype and on the phone all the time before we actually met and there was a definite bond of some sort, which Hazel took to mean that I was the love of her life. When we met she had written me a little love letter on a postcard, had two hair products for me because I once casually mentioned that they looked good from an advert, and a cup with her home town printed on it. Within half an hour she was looking up flights for me to go to France with her in a fortnight to meet her sister, was asking me to go to a hotel with her and generally being terrifyingly intense. It was in Tate Modern when I  accidentally touched her hand on the escalator and felt like I had been electrocuted that I realised I was out of my depth in this situation. We went to a cocktail bar and Hazel and I sat in the sun chatting, a nice casual conversation for a first date:

Hazel: We don't have to get a hotel, I could come home with you?

Me: Errr... I think we could just spend some time together today, during the day and see how we feel about that at another point.

Hazel: But we could spend so much more time together! I really wanna keep hanging out with you and I could meet your family.

Me: Mmm. *sips long island iced tea*

It was then that Hazel went in for the kill, kissing me in a way that reminded me of a turtle gumming on some cabbage leaves. Once it was over I asked to be excused to go to the bathroom, where I made a hasty phone call to my friend Tony.

Tony: Hello? Aren't you on a date?

Me: Help me!

Tony: What?

Me: She kissed me and I didn't like it and she asked me to go to France with her and she wants to come home with me or for us to get a hotel and I'm frightened!

Tony: Err...

Me: Hurry!

Tony: I don't know! I've never been in this situation!

I hung up in disgust and went back upstairs where an expectant Hazel waited.

Hazel: So?

Me: What?

Hazel: Did you feel anything from our kiss?

Me: *coughs awkwardly* Well.... no. Actually. Did you?

Hazel's eyes filled with tears and she put her coat on. So I did too, because it seemed like the time for us to put our coats on. We walked out, Hazel first, her back rigid with rage. We walked a little while together, in silence, while I hoped she wasnt about to punch me with her tight fists.It was then that she turned on me, her eyes hard yet watery.

Hazel: You didn't feel anything?

Me: I'm really sorry.

Hazel: Nothing?!

Me: I'm really sorry.

Hazel: But I thought we had a connection. We talk all the time! We tell each other everything! I really like you and I know you like me.

Me: I'm really sorry. I do like you but I didn't feel anything and I'm sorry.

Hazel stared at me for a while as I looked at anything but her.

Me: I'm gonna go.

Hazel: You're leaving me here alone!

Me: Well, you know how to get back don't you.

Hazel: You don't want to talk about this!

Me: I'm really sorry.

It was then that I got on the nearest tube and got the early train home.A few weeks later Hazel rang me to confess something, told me I would hate her and that she was sorry. I told her not to be silly, of course I wouldn't hate her and that I was sure that whatever she thought was bad really wasn't that bad. It was then that she told me she had herpes and felt really terrible for trying it on with me so much. She had also had sex with someone just before our date, and one person after and felt she needed to confess because she "really, REALLY, liked me."

"Bitch, that makes no sense."

It was another lesson to learn I guess: Just because someone may be really awesome to talk to, may make you laugh and be a great listener and good looking and talented and cool, doesn't mean they aren't an absolute herpes ridden nut job when it comes to dating. Haha, that wasn't where I was going with that at all, what I really mean to say is that regardless of all of the above, if you don't have chemistry, you don't have anything. This was a lesson I learnt with my next date: the beautiful, pillow-lipped, lovely, yet ultimately bland Lauren.

To be continued.

(In part two expect more awkwardness, me being molested, straight girls trying it on, me losing friends, vag-teases, commitmentphobes, girls with girlfriends, Ali realising the grass isn't greener, a make-out session with a hot police officer and a night with a coke-taking Jamie Winstone lookalike near-to-millionaire munchkin)

Prague

We arrived in Prague at around eight pm and Ali gave herself a couple of hearty pats on the back for the flight time she chose. No leaving the house at four am, no getting to another country at a ridiculous hour, as Mr Burns says: 'Excellent'. After getting some change for the bus we got shuttle A into town instead of AE and, due to the confusingly numbered trams and our decision to walk to the A&O hostel in district seven by following them, we got to our bedroom at gone eleven. The hostel itself was OK, a bit basic, but annoyingly the bar wasn't open so we went straight to bed.

The next day we got the bus to Praha Zoo, a steal at 150 Czech Koruna each, and could easily have spent the day there. The zoo was huge and had many animals I had never seen before up close, such as polar bears and a honey badger, and also animals I didn't even know existed, like the shoebill.

A hungry / sexually frustrated lion frightened me by roaring its head off and the giraffe's enclosure was lovely, as was the gorilla enclosure. We sat and watched them for a good 20 minutes. After three hours of walking around it started to rain so we got the tram and metro into central Prague. One problem with this city is the lack of change available for visitors. The trams, metro and buses all run frequently and are easy enough to use with the option of 30 minute, 90 minute and daily tickets which are all cheap; the problem is that there are few ticket offices open and the only way to get a ticket is from machines that only take change. It is very frustrating as a visitor having to waste money buying things you don't need from stores to get coins because most places refuse to swap money.

Prague is a very pretty, bustling city, with gorgeous architecture and history. We had a look at the astronomical clock and had a walk about before trying some Czech beer in a little pub. Beer varies in price depending on how central you are so the Pilsner I got was quite expensive at 50 Czech Koruna. Beer was followed by a stroll over St Charles Bridge, one of the most visited sites in Prague. We felt a little cynical about the historic landmark considering most of the bridge had been refurbished and all of the statues were replicas. It started to get dark so we booked ourselves in for a dorm room at Ritchie's hostel, right in the city centre.

With our beds for the night sorted we went to join a  pub tour, but only one other person showed up so we figured there was no point paying someone 300 Czech Koruna to take you around some pubs when you can just do it yourself. Ali got some honey wine from a German market before we went to Battalion, a bar and comic museum in one. We didn't go to the museum but had a beer each while watching Kerrang's hottest men list.

Really though?

We shared our dorm with a guy who was asleep by the time we got back and was out just after the crack of dawn. It was the first time I had used a dormitory at a hostel though and slept with one eye open out of fear I would be chopped into bits and flushed down the toilet. I blame horror movies. The creepiest thing to happen was that I had unknowingly shared a bed with two toe nails, that weren't my own. Nice.

We left at eleven and walked to the main train station near Wenceslas Square to go to the Sedlec Ossuary in Kutna Hora, trying out a Czech hot dog and walking past a man shaking his needle of heroin on the way. Ali also found some weed in a bag on the floor and kept it for later. Getting train tickets was a nightmare. Apparently Czech people 'fucking hate' tourists, and the people we met at the train station were no exception. The man we went to buy tickets off told us to go upstairs to get tickets, even though we were in the ticket office. When we told him we had already been upstairs and there was nothing there he angrily told us again to go upstairs so we went to the tourist information office and were greeted by a sour faced, eye-rolling bitch who told us to go back where we had just come from. In the end we got our tickets and on to the train where two Canadians studying in London chatted to us. 

Once at Kutna Hora we headed to the skull church in the drizzling grey weather... very pathetic fallacy. It took about 20 minutes to get there, plus the hour on the train and to be honest, although it is impressive and bizarre to see, I wouldn't really say it is is worth it. The ossuary is very small and you can get round it all in less than 15 minutes. I also found it a bit unsettling that even back in the old days people were a sucker for fame. Just because some guy threw a bit of 'holy mud' in the church gardens, isn't any reason to give your bones to that church and allow them to do whatever the Hell they want with them. One poor sod's bones were used to create a bird that looked to be pecking at a skulls eye socket. How is that honouring the sacred?

We left Sedlec Ossuary and went into town. There wasn't a lot there so we decided to head back to the train station early. On the way a puppy ran over to us and rolled on its back, wanting a belly rub. I obliged and went to walk off thinking it was with the group across the road. When they all got in a mini van it was then we realised the dog was lost and decided to take him with us. He kept running in the road so we took it in turns to carry him until we came across two women with a baby and a dog. After a game of charades (we speak no Czech, they spoke little English) they understood that the puppy wasn't ours and needed help. They called the dog warden and said they would stay with him until the warden came. Relieved that the pup would be alright we headed back to the station, trying out the weed on the way, and got the train back into central Prague to get the metro to luxury hostel Czech Inn. After two days of slumming it, Czech Inn was perfect. We had a gorgeous private room with a comfy bed, our own kitchen and a lovely bathroom with a hot shower. 

We took advantage of Czech Inn's happy hour, two beers for 50 Czech Koruna, then went to a cafe for some food. Ali had the Czech delicacy goulash, while I had Mexican. Goulash is definitely recommended as Czech food to try.

In the morning we had our complimentary All You Can Eat breakfast at Czech Inn. They even had pancakes, fit. We had hours until our flight so took to the trams to view as many sights as possible, such as the castle and Prague's mini version of the Eiffel Tower. Because we were both feverish (Ali was particularly ill), we weren't really enjoying the sights and viewed them more as 'yet another fucking building' and 'yet another fucking statue' but tried to be optimistic about it all seemed it was our last day.

We went around the Jewish Quarter and got a single admission ticket which allowed us to go in the Jewish Museum, the Spanish Synagogue, the old Jewish cemetery and other buildings under their control. It didn't include the Old-New Synagogue, which was separate. The Pinkas Synagogue is a memorial to the 77,297 Czechoslowak Jewish victims of the Nazi's. Their names fill the walls of the Synagogue and upstairs are drawings that the children drew while held in the Terazin concentration camp during the war.

Once we had been round the Jewish Quarter we headed to the airport. Prague is a city of great beauty, but ultimately can be done over a weekend. Any longer and it all starts to look the same.

Erwin James: The Man Not The Murderer

In the past week I read two books by Guardian columnist cum prison diarist Erwin James. Through the books I saw the change in James as he matured and prepared for his life outside. He always appeared wise to prison life and the psychological behaviours of prisoners and was a strong advocate for men doing the time but not becoming a miscarriage of justice themselves, publicising any cruel knock-backs of friends who had become forgotten grey matter over the years.

The opportunity to write was a great one for James, it allowed him to become more perceptive of others and gave him a purpose in showing the many Guardian readers a world they would probably never see. His writing was honest, never biassed and humbling in allowing us into his thoughts and feelings of shame for his crimes (which he never told his audience... only that it all started when he was ten). He was open from the start, albeit careful to change names, places and time frames to protect other prisoners, and the ending was jubilant as he left the prison to continue the rest of his life as a free and redeemed man. That is how I felt about Erwin James, until my curiosity got the better of me and I typed his name into Google.

I was shocked to read that Erwin James (real name James Monahan) had gone to jail for the murders of two men with his accomplice William Ross. The two had spent time together boozing it up and boosting each others fractured confidence before stealing cars and robbing from houses. After meeting Greville Hallam in a Soho bar, where Ross and Monahan were trying to sell videos, the three of them went back to Hallam's house in Hampstead where Monahan got his victim in a headlock and strangled him. Hallam was found bound and naked and a television, stereo and video equipment had been stolen. Three months later Ross and Monahan dragged Angus Cochrane into the rose garden's of St. James's park. The two men kicked, punched and beat Cochrane with a brick before taking the little money he had in his wallet and left him to die.

It is hard not to change your opinion of a man you believe to have redeemed himself when you see the severity of his crimes. It was not mere opportunistic behaviour gone wrong. Both times the two men seemed to revel in their power over another person and enjoyed the cruel savagery they forced on their victims. It is hard not to see past this heinous crime when you read about it in the present, but it is important to remember it was over twenty years ago that this happened. That would never make what Ross and Monahan did forgiveable, but it gives us the chance to see how one man can improve himself in prison.

Some prisoners will refuse to take advantage of opportunities offered to them, but James Monahan was not one of them. Having spent his first year on 23 hour-a-day solitary lock up, Monahan realised he had a lot to improve about himself. He had huge issues with self-worth, could barely read or write and cared little about anything but his own survival. It was a meeting with a wing psychologist that made Monahan appreciate prison could be a new beginning. He spent six years reading Plato and Sophocles through the night and the writers made Monahan realise his own life could have been so different. Brought up in a "brutal and rootless environment" Monahan spent time between his family home and being in care. His Mother died when he was seven and his criminal life began at the age of ten. As a boy there was no one to offer support or guidance and from that Monahan created his own destructive path that led him to twenty years in jail and the blood of two men on his hands. After six years of reading the greats and coming to terms with his previous life, Monahan gained a degree from The Open University.

From then on Monahan was known around the prison wings as "the guy who could write a good letter" and he frequently helped out his fellow prisoners. In 1998 his first column appeared in The Guardian and continued up until his release in 2004. It was brave of Monahan to give Guardian readers an insight into his world, particularly when he had to read out the article down the phone in front of other prisoners and guards, while trying to protect his identity. Once he left prison Monahan continued to work for the charity he worked for while in the open prison, but also wrote for The Guardian. In 2009 someone found out who Monahan really was and spread it on the internet. Uproar ensued: a murderer? I was reading some facking murderer's words? What was that fackin' paper thinking?! etc.

It is the shock of the word: Murder.

It is something that is required inside that person for the deed to take place. Something that most of us don't have. Something evil and unknown. The Guardian were brave to choose Monahan, as I am sure they would know that deep down, one day, it would all come out. But is the crime the reason they chose him? Hell no. The Guardian saw something in Monahan that anyone who reads his books will see: his humanity. They chose him for the choices he made in prison; choices that allowed him to be rehabilitated and reformed into a well respected human being. James Monahan could have spent his time in prison battling authority and fighting other prisoners. He could have continued with a life of crime and violence. Instead he transformed over twenty years from an uncaring brute into a confident, eloquent and contrite man who has done his time. James Monahan's story is shocking, but we must remember that the end result gave the world a man, not a murderer.

Even Free Cable Has a Price

Ernie "Chip" Douglas is a lonely and disturbed cable guy who desperately wants a companion. Raised on TV (his "babysitter") while his Mum went to bars at nights, Chip (Jim Carrey) is under the impression that people are having exciting, melodramatic lives which he wants to be a part of. He meets Steven, a designer who has recently broken up with his girlfriend, while installing his cable. Steven gives Chip an extra $50 in exchange for all of the channels and fakes an interest in Chips line of work, which a naive Chip takes as an opportunity to make a friend. What follows is a manic, hilarious and at times disturbing story of unrequited and possessive friendship.

Chip takes Steven on the "information superhighway" to see the satellite that gives America cable. Steven thinks this is a one off meeting to thank him for the free cable, that is until Chip shows up at his basketball court, takes an injured players place and ruins the game for everyone involved; almost breaking the back of real best friend Rick (Jack Black in an early role). Realising that Chip is more than a little strange Steven decides to back away from him, only to return home to 11 messages on his answer machine from his new "best friend". With a night of snuggling up with his ex while watching chick magnet Sleepless in Seattle on his mind Steven ignores the calls with bad consequences. This pattern continues throughout the film as Chip manipulates and stalks his way back into Steven's life by giving him expensive electrical goods for his home, buying him a prostitute to take his mind off Robyn, paying the cast of Medieval Times to let the two of them have a joust to the (near) death and beating up the guy that Robyn goes on a date with.

Everything Chip does is done with the best of intentions. He desperately wants Steven to like him and to be happy but goes about this in the most alarming and consequential ways possible. Chip is torn between a normal friendship and a life of melodrama with melodrama as the outright winner. He gives Robyn free cable and tells a horrible story about giving his ex space which had traumatic consequences to get her to take Steven back. It works but doesn't make Steven want to be his friend again. Feeling used and abandoned Chip hijack's his ex best friends life. The electrical goods he accepted were stolen and Steven ends up arrested and put in jail for the weekend. Worse still, there is no sign of anyone called "Chip Douglas" who works for the cable company. Chip, who is now calling himself "Larry Tate", visits him in jail and warns "I can be your best friend or your worst enemy. You seem to prefer the latter."

With Steven in the clink Chip takes the opportunity to ingratiate himself with Robyn and Steven's family. When released Steven tries to play Chip's game but the it get too much and he punches him in front of his horrified girlfriend and parents, making them believe more than ever that it is Steven who has issues. While Steven's hacked work computer sends a viral of him bitching about his boss to everyone in the office Rick phones him with information on Chip who has been sacked by cable companies for stalking clients while using fake names such as "George Jetson" and "Mr Magoo". Having taken this news on board Steven barricades himself in his home, turning off all the lights and locking his door. Chip realises that Steven is on to him and takes drastic measures to get his attention. He kidnaps an unwitting Robyn and takes her to the satellite dish. There is a climactic battle as the two battle for Robyn but with helicopters and police swooping the area Chip knows his time is up. He tells Steven "Somebody has to kill the babysitter" and falls onto the satellite dish, taking out the whole areas TV signal. He is airlifted to hospital, with the paramedic telling him "Hang in their buddy." Chip asks "Am I really your buddy?" The film ends as it has begun, with Chip / Larry / Ricky Ricardo having a new victim to terrorise into being his new best friend.

The Cable Guy is a very dark comedy that dips it's toes into the water of psychological horror. Jim Carrey is excellent as the clingy and deranged Chip whose mind is so destroyed by television and movies that he has almost no identity while Matthew Broderick is quietly impressive as the anal retentive and harassed Steven. Highlights of the movie are obviously the jousting scene and the karaoke session but there are many funny parts in this to pull you through the more sinister moments. The Cable Guy is a gem of a film that didn't get the recognition it deserved, but for those who "get it" the movie becomes an easy favourite to watch again and again.

Don't forget to wear The Jacket in the morgue.

Trippy science fiction movie The Jacket tells the story of Jack Sparks, a gulf war veteran who is released from duty after surviving a shot to the head in 1991. After a year in rehabilitation he is back in the real world where he ends up wrongly accused of murder and sent to an asylum. Out of the frying pan and into the fire comes to mind...

Jack is surrounded by crazy people but the problem is he isn't one of them. He's an amnesiac trapped in Hell with a devilish psychiatric doctor wanting to use him for a strange experiment (if you can call pumping someone full of drugs, wrapping them up in a straitjacket and putting them in a morgue drawer that) that has killed other inmates before. The claustrophobia is intensified by close ups of Sparks (Brody) eyes and mouth as he panics in the closing darkness. The drugs and atmosphere set up a psychedelic trip of brightly flashing colours and disjointed fragments of memories in Jack's fractured mind before we dive into the future with Jack who ends up outside a greasy spoon in 2007. He is offered a lift from pouty, chin jutting Jackie (Knightley) who for the first half hour of the film seems to care more about using her lips suggestively than her ability to act. They're rubbed against bottles, her hands go in her mouth, her lips are consistently parted. Perhaps she is a mouth breather? Maybe we shouldn't judge so harshly.

Jackie has had a hard life. Her mother was an alcoholic who died in a bed of flames after passing out with a cigarette in her hand. She left Jackie alone to repeat her miserable existence. The thing is Jack already knows about this because he met Jackie in 1992. She was the little girl he met by the road on his way home from war whose Mum was lying inebriated in the snow because their car engine had frozen up. Jack had chatted kindly to the girl and given her his soldier dog tags which she still has. Jack finds the dog tags and explains his dilemma of time travel and insane asylums to a disbelieving and frankly freaked out Jackie who (pouting and squinting) tells poor Jack to leave. He has to go anyway, bitch, because his time in the morgue drawer is running out. Don't think Jackie boy was leaving because of you Jackie, you filthy drunk. That kind, caring, good with children Jack Sparks is too good for you anyway!

Jack's halitosis was too much for the nurse to bare.

Jack returns to the morgue and is pulled out of the drawer. The psychiatrist asks him to blink if he hears him. Jack blinks and the psychiatrist is impressed Jack hasn't passed out from being in there, deciding to up the dosage and time for the next stage of the experiment. What follows is a murder mystery romance as Jackie helps Jack find out about his time in the asylum. It turns out he has four days until his death in 1992 and he needs to find out how he dies. Is it that the experiment goes wrong? Is it abuse from the nurses in the asylum? Is it an attack from a fellow inmate? No. He dies after slipping on ice. All those possibilities of a more dramatic climax and it turns out Jack could have been saved from having better grip on his shoes.

It is a big build up to the moment of Jack's demise. In one episode of being in the jacket he asks 2007 Jackie what her address was in 1992. He then gets Dr. Lorensson to take him to the address with a letter for Jackie's mother. In the letter he explains his death, her death, his meeting with her and Jackie and the time travelling. It is outside the asylum that Jack slips up and is taken, head bleeding, to the morgue where he puts the jacket on one last time. He shoots to 2007 and ends up outside the greasy spoon with his head bleeding. Back in the morgue in 1992 they open the morgue drawer and there is no sign of him! Jackie, who has finished her shift, eyes him with a hint of recognition and again offers him a lift. In the car she asks him how long they have. The credits roll as We Have All The Time in the World blares out.

Henry knew signing up to that extras agency was a good idea.

My question is this: Is he going to disappear from Jackie in 2007 as soon as he dies in 1992? If so why the Hell is he playing with her emotions like that? "How much time do we have?" "I don't know, maybe 10 hours until I am released from my brain dead coma." Has he died in 1992 and then been transported into another dimension? Has his whole existence been changed by giving Jackie's Mum that letter? If so why hasn't he aged in 2007? Why is his head still bloody? The Jacket is a great way for Adrien Brody to show off his acting muscle as a rakishly thin, dreamy and broodingly unexpected heart throb who has a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sadly the script doesn't match his talents. It's a twisty-turny, time travelling science-fiction fare that left me feeling confused and a little disappointed.

Alternative Brit Awards

Yes, it is that time once again where hands smack the backs of nodding, lip synching puppets who are praised and thanked for all their bust-a-move bopping and miming skills. Looking at the list of nominees I am quite surprised at the amount of reasonably OK talent in there this year. Criminally there is no sign of Fanfarlo and their joyously thunder-clapping album Reservoir... but hopefully their time will come. Anywho, I thought it would be fun / a bit of a giggle / a way to pass the time until the Brit Awards comes on that doesn't involve me hacking away at my Destroy It Yourself fringe to do *drum roll* Alternative Brit Awards! And by that I don't mean give a grundy, sweepy haired, be-tattered and pierced "dude" (that word makes me gag, particularly when used by posh people from Oxford or Cambridge) an award for ripping off Incubus or My Vitriol, no. I mean alternative nominations. Cue pennies dropping the world over. What a noise!

Worst Comeback 

Adam Rickitt

For anyone who blinked and missed it, Adam Rickitt waved goodbye to Shortland Street and came back to the UK to restart his singing career. I heard the director, upon hearing the bad news, asked him "Is it you or is it me?" to which Adam replied, with a sage and grave look upon his plastic face, "Lately I've been lost it seems. I think a change is what I need. I'm looking for a chance or to dream..." The director then nodded, wiped away a tear and tore up dear Adam's Shortland Street contract. Wise choice Adz. One concert at GAY and on to the dole queue.

Singer who most looks like they suffered a severe lack

of oxygen on Mars during the climax of Total Recall

Oritse Williams

I know. I am horrible and immature. But there are enough screamy girls out there who fancy him rotten for me to be entitled to a mild bit of piss taking. You can see it too though, right?

Singer with haircut most likely to cause long term damage to neck muscles 

and also be likely cause of singer walking in front of a bus

Justin Bieber

Every time I see that precocious little dyke on my TV I want to shout "Get a fucking hair cut if it is annoying you and getting in your face so much!" Egads.

Singer who looks the most handsome while wearing / 

can actually pull off the big geeky glasses look with aplomb

(instead of looking like a trend following prick)

Tinie Tempah

Beautiful bone structure, that Tinie. Nice to see a rapper wanting to show a bit of panache and class too, instead of having their trousers round their ankles and dirty boxers on display while giving everyone the finger.

Band most guilty of criminal misuse of another song

that in turn created a tragedy of modern music

Joint winners: 

JLS for The Club is Alive

and

Black Eyed Peas for The Time (Dirty Bit)

Yeah that's right, pixelate and blur yourselves in shame Black Eyed Peas. From JLS we expect this sort of music because it gives them the opportunity to show off their their dance skillz and Aston's astonishing ability to do bloody backflips (we all KNOW about it now. Stop doing it on every single TV show you go on) but Black Eyed Peas taking a classic like Dirty Dancing's Time of My Life only to RUIN it? I, for one, was shocked. 

Best Thighs

Rihanna

Just wow. Well deserved winner of that award I say. And on that note, the alternative Brit Awards of 2011 are over (because the proper one is about to start on ITV). Ta ta.

The Tourist: Review of a Terrible Film

If I were on my death bed today, racked with the effort to breathe as I wiped the bloodied phlegm from my dry, parched lips, I would clasp your hand in mine, look deep into your eyes and say "Whatever you do in life... promise me one thing... don't watch The Tourist."

It is a film that tried so hard to be a classic that it has become a classic rotten tomato; a film to be sneered and tittered at in general discussions about the worst films you have seen recently. "Just what were they thinking?" becomes a typical phrase during the discussion... and gives you pause for thought. Just what were Johnny Depp: Burton's quirky golden boy and all round brilliant actor, and  Angelina Jolie: sex goddess with the ability to be excellent (albeit a little shouty) thinking? Maybe it was a movie that looked good on paper. Maybe the foreign locations and mistaken identity / not mistaken identity / is he isn't he? storyline looked like the sort of movie that would go down in the ages as a modern champion to mingle with the golden greats. Except it didn't. It bombed.

"Three double cheeseburgers, one large fries and a chocolate milkshake, thanks."

The Tourist is the story of Elise (Jolie) and Frank (Depp) and their meeting on a train to Venice. Elise is being followed by Scotland Yard who are after her lover Alexander who has evaded tax payments and owes a gangster millions. She is given specific instructions to get on a train to Venice by Alexander and to pick someone out who has the same build and height as him as a way to fool the police. Except, oops! One of the police officers is a bit dodgy and passes on Frank's photo to the mob. Cue lots of running around, jumping off buildings, shoot outs on boats and so on. Frank is told he is part of a plan to save Alexander, but his attraction to Elise won't let him leave her and he frequently gets in the way of undercover operations, much to the chagrin of the police. Eventually the mob catches up with Elise, who it turns out is part of the police force, and her life is put in danger as she is forced to open Alexander's safe. Frank goes in to distract the mob while the police take aim and shoot the gangsters. The police are told Alexander is by the pier so go arrest him. With Elise and Frank alone, Frank opens the safe and takes out the millions that were in there... leaving a cheque for the money he owes in tax. Yes, Frank was Alexander all along, and the other guy who everyone thought was Alexander was "just a tourist". Quelle surprise. The two set sail on a boat together, with Elise asking "Twenty million dollars worth of plastic surgery and that's the face you choose?" before telling him "It will do." I would have found this moment much more entertaining and the vast amount of money spent on a face more believable if Frank had been played by Mickey Rourke or Sly Stallone.

"Leave it Ange, she 'int werf it."

One of the main problems while watching The Tourist was the strain it put on your ears. There is constant disneyfied, swooping music in the background that makes it seem like Frank and Elise have a full orchestra trailing behind them everywhere they go. Worse still was when Elise burnt the letter she received off Frank and walked away from the scene as the police raced to save evidence. The music went from swoopy to cheesy electro. It was horrid. Another issue is the distinct lack of chemistry between the two main actors. It's Depp and Jolie, two of the most beautiful people in the world! Looking into their eyes is like seeing a sunrise or going on a hot air balloon over Africa for the first time for Christ's sake. If they can't have a fizzle of chemistry then what hope is their for the rest of us? I also found it a massive shame that Maths teacher Frank was downplayed so much by Depp that he was almost invisible. He seemed to bumble through the film like a ghost. And don't get me started on the "high-tech" gadgets used by the police to lazily force the storyline along. It's a shame that The Tourist didn't work out because the Venice setting was beautiful and the actors were beautiful... but the script was one ugly frothy mess that left you feeling very let down at the end. Depp and Jolie, we expected more.