Monday 17 August 2009

Travelling: The Pressure to Grow a Beard

Hot Rant kicks off the week with a livid tirade straight from the heart of contributor Jack Collins. Woe betide any poor soul who crosses paths with this angry young man in a foreign country while sporting ill-conceived facial hair...

Hello fellow ranters. Firstly, I must stress that this rant is being written in a particularly mind-fuckingly-annoying-gappy-
shit-muncher-hostel in Bolivia, so perhaps my perception of the world around me is particularly warped right now. Nevertheless, the fact remains: just because you dick around the world does not mean you have to grow some disease-ridden joke of a facial-hair-stain on your ra-ra, meathead, Quagmire-esque chin.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against beards. Some of the world's finest have sported the face-rug:

1) Dumbledore.


2) Your Mum.


3) David Bellamy.


4) Annie Jones.

Some of my closest friends have beards. I am not anti-beard. I have even allowed myself to grow a fairly decent face-covering from time-to-time. But amongst the travelling folk of South America in 2009 it is verging on the epidemic. Why the necessity? Why do people feel that as soon as they leave the confines of Britain that they should instantly commence the cultivation of little wispy bits? It is probably a mindless attempt to identify themselves as a traveller. The beard completes the look: the jumper emblazoned with a llama, the rainbow-patchwork pyjama bottoms, the beads around the neck. It is not needed you fucking sheep. Everyone knows you are travelling. You stick out like a sore thumb in Bolivia and Peru. You are white for fuck's sake, and the locals are not! They also like to sport little bowler hats and carry around llamas or babies.

There is no chance of you being mistaken for a local peasant, if that is what you are so worried about you twat.

Sorry, my outburst may seem a little rash. Indeed, I don't blame you Mr Travelling Douche-Face. I too have fallen foul to the pressure! The horrible, just horrible pressure which you have experienced from your far less hirsute friends. You know the type: the ones who didn't have pubic hairs until they were 19, and only need to shave once a month. The kind of chap who says the following phrase: "Oh yeah, you should blatantly grow a beard! I defo would if I could, but I can't". To be perfectly honest, when it comes down to it I like to be clean shaven. I relish the fact that after I have given myself the twice over with my trusty Mach 3, that my face is smoother than your girlfriend's bottom. So please do not try to egg me on, and advise me to grow a moustache. Sure, if i do grow some kind of upper-lip extravaganza, I will start to look like a winning combination of my own father and Freddie Mercury.

But I would prefer to not blend into the mass of dickweeds who surround me everyday. Let me stay nice and smooth, or i may be forced to find another use for my razor and slit your throat. Thank you. Jack Collins

Saturday 15 August 2009

Micro-rant of the day...

...from Mike Leigh's harrowing, yet still very funny 1993 classic Naked. Here, Johnny (David Thewlis) subjects a hapless security guard to an apocalyptic tirade of epic proportions. Brilliant. AC


Thursday 13 August 2009

I. HATE. ESTATE.

An exciting new contributor to Hot Rant this week. A contributor who, being a fair lady, has finally smashed this site's existing sausage stranglehold. Time for council-house hating Claire Geddie to talk estate agents...

Estate agents are muppets. Not the furry, well-meaning, yellow and blue friends of our childhood. Rather, they are bumbling buffoons, idiot guardians of the hallowed halls of London real estate. Gatekeepers of the garrett, keymasters of the corrupt. Their levels of ineptitude are positively Dickensian, and all is made worse by a degree of avarice that would make Scrooge blush with the sheer cheek of it.

I prefer to have little to no association with this breed. For nearly 5 years I have lived in a building which is part of a family run network of properties, with an office next door. While far from perfect, it's more Fawlty Towers than Amityville Horror. And because I know there are alternatives to your classic agency/highway-robbery-by-bank-transfer, I fear my tolerance for their antics has declined.



Fast forward to 2009. Faced with an onslaught of family moving to London, I am awarded the task of screening flats in advance of their arrival, and not just flats, but the holy grail of the London property search - the immaculate and reasonably priced 2 bedroom in Central London.

With 8 years of London living under my belt and the weight of 5 previous property searches under my belt I am embarking again on this Titanic Ship of Fools. And true to form I am met with pain and suffering at every turn.

Your honour, if it please the court:

Exhibit A.
A two bedroom property on King's Cross Road. I am on my lunch break, it's a scorcher. And garbage day. There is nowhere for me to stand but beside a festering can of refuse. At the 15 minute estate-agent wait mark I ring, I am told "5 minutes off". 10 minutes later I am on the verge of leaving, when she arrives, apology-free. Fine, fine. After a tour, I am discussing the finer points of the related transactions with her (The finders fee, the Holding Fee, the Inventory fee, the 6 pints of blood, 4 phoenix feathers, and 6 weeks deposit).

Before long however, she takes a call, seemingly from a love interest, and starts discussing her date plans for that evening. 5 long minutes go by while I stand beside her like a lemon. Finally I hand her a notebook and WHILST ON THE PHONE she scribbles down the final financial points. I depart silently as she sets the scene for whatever naff estate agents do on dates.

FAIL.

Exhibit B.
At 9:15 I am outside the flat in question when I get a call asking if I am still on for my 9:15 appointment. Why yes, yes I am. In fact I'm here, which you would know if YOU were here. 5 minutes later he arrives, only to find that he can't open the door. I leave.

FAIL.

Exhibit C.
A two bedroom, moderately (yet still extortionately) priced flat is on the agenda. I have specified not ex-council please because traditionally (my prejudice) I don't like the cut of their jib. So we arrive - red brick building, lovely - enter the front hall - and it's 100% clear that we have a council situation. I ask for some explanation - "Council? You didn't want ex council? I thought you meant ex-counSEL. Like counsellors. Yeah. 'And you cheat, you lie, you make me wanna cry..... (Thanks Godley and Creme).

FAIL.

I wish there was a happy ending to this tale of one city. I fear it will all end with compromise and paying through the nose into a jackasses pocket. But I live in hope. Claire Geddie

Wednesday 12 August 2009

With the new football season underway...

...and Newcastle United no closer to escaping their laughing stock status, it's high time to revisit one of last season's finest football rants. Joe Kinnear, a man addicted to heart attacks and not afraid, in the presence of children, to brand short-lived female Premier League assistant referee Wendy Toms "a fucking slag, a cunt" to her face, lets rip.

"Which one of you is Simon Bird?"
"Me."
"You're a cunt."


Listen again to the infamous press conference here, and if that doesn't do it for you, here is the same dialogue as read by a computer. It's a stone fact that Radiohead's 'OK Computer' becomes at least twice the album if this is inserted in place of 'Fitter Happier'.

And don't forget - Dennis Wise was never in the Crazy Gang. AC

Monday 10 August 2009

Muzik 4 Gymz

When you step into a gym, you are inevitably entering an aural netherworld vibrant with music made exclusively by retards for retards. While thick-necked goons preen in front of full-length mirrors, the speakers emit a pounding, repetitive onslaught of violent toilet shat out by the likes of Scooter and Basshunter, as well as countless reworkings of songs that were rubbish when they came out thirty years ago, and are no better when re-recorded by some no-mark session warbler and stapled to a thudding Casio keyboard demo.

None of this, however, explains the unaccountable occasional curveball hurled in my direction by the ‘selecter’ at my local Virgin Active in Streatham. Today, for example, I was struggling as usual on the cross-trainer when I heard a pan pipe version of Eric Clapton’s ‘Tears In Heaven’. No sane person would think twice about listening to this song in any other situation than sobbing curled up in a foetal position on a cold wooden floor but Virgin’s music man somehow came to the conclusion that it was the appropriate score to gut-busting (for me) exercise. (Incidentally, of Clapton, the genuinely insane and rant-prone Anton Newcombe once said “People talk about Eric Clapton. What has he ever done except throw his baby off a fuckin' ledge and write a song about it?” - more Newcombe gold here)

It shouldn’t ever come to this (please Mr Selecter never do the pan pipes again), but it doesn’t have to be the other way either. There’s plenty of decent music that gyms could blast out that would tick the requisite boxes of upbeat and motivational, but would also be good. In 2006 James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem released the brilliant 45:33, which was actually a rather odd tie-in with Nike and trailed as a work-out soundtrack. The paunchy Murphy humorously and unsurprisingly admitted to not being a gym bunny himself. Failing that, hows about the sweaty, thrusting funk of James Brown or something equally priapic like Rick James as his crackpipe-toting best? Or perhaps something outrageously homoerotic like this, which would perfectly capture the groaning, burgeoning love-in atmosphere of the weights room.

You may (if you’re still reading) be wondering why I don’t just play my own music. The thing is, although I do have an iPod, no matter how loud I crank up the volume through my decrepit headphones, I’m consistently unable to drown out the sound of Lou Bega going “AAAAAAIGGGGGHHHHHHTTTTTTT!!!” or Eiffel 65 crying about how they’re blue and in need of a guy, abadabeebowbudai they’re in need a guy. I simply can't win unless music man sorts it out and ups his game.

A few weeks ago, a middle-aged woman let loose a voracious fart on the treadmill next to me. Any sense of perpetrative mystery or furtive second-guessing was entirely precluded by the fact that there was only two of us in the whole room. Her subsequent thousand-yard stare straight into the mirror suggested that a) she was unaware of the devilish crime she has committed against my nostrils or b) she was fiercely proud of it. That this unpleasant episode was soundtracked by a particularly vile remix of Duke Ellington's 'It Don't Mean A Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing) by some technocunts called Gabin was both strangely fitting and utterly depressing. The worst smell in history and the worst song in history combining with lethal, unforgiving force to create an enduring microcosm of the worst that gyms have to offer. Sort it the fuck out guys. At least put something decent in my ears, especially when I've got something evil in my nose. AC

Friday 7 August 2009

The Decline of the Comedy Duo

Hot Rant welcomes a new contributor today - the wonderfully named Steve Boniface (of Les Valentine fame). And let me tell you, he's not happy about the state of British Comedy duos...

Does anyone remember when British Comedy duos were funny? Morcambe and Wise (OK I don’t remember them per se but we see their 486 brilliant Christmas specials rolled out annually). Reeves and Mortimer. The Two Ronnies. Cannon and Ball (erm…scratch that one).

The United Kingdom of the Great British Isles has a comedy pedigree that is arguably unsurpassed by any other country (the USA is out because they don’t understand irony), and that includes the great tradition of the comedy duo. Typically a magical combination of ‘the stupid one’ and ‘the exasperated clever one’, these pairs have entertained us through generations and we have gratefully thanked them.

But today? The youth of Britain are stuck with the mediocre likes of Mitchell & Webb and Horne & Corden, two duos rammed down the public’s throat just because they happened to break through into mainstream in television shows written by other, more talented people.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I give you ‘Peep Show’ and ‘Gavin and Stacey’. Both extremely popular, clever and genuinely funny televisual treats that happen to star a pair of actors who share an undisputable chemistry with the material and each other.

Problem is, as soon as a show like this hits, the great and the good in the world of comedy production smell a cash cow. No sooner can you say ‘David Mitchell isn’t as funny or clever as his character in Peep show’ than you start seeing these pairs EVERYWHERE!

Mitchell shows up on every comedy panel show going (except for ‘Argumental’ on Dave – the producers have good taste) and proves just how hilarious he isn’t. Horne & Corden are called in to do a dire segment at the Royal Variety performance. Both pairs are slung into hit and miss sketch shows on the BBC who should learn that the odd titter from the audience does not count as a success.

What does this prove? It all goes South when these people are required to stand on their own two feet and actually be funny.

And then? The inevitable feature length film.

First came Mitchell & Webbs ‘Magicians’, in which Mitchell hilariously cuts off his wife’s head on stage because she’s shagging Webb. But it’s all OK in the end because the pair make up, forget about her and become successful again.

Then there’s Lesbian Vampire Killers…has there been a more over-hyped British film in recent history? When it came out in the cinema you couldn’t walk 50 yards without seeing Horne & Corden’s smug faces glaring at you from a phone box, magazine cover or billboard. Panned by critics on release, the film was a flop – no doubt in part due to the fact that everyone was sick of the sight of them. At least for the DVD release the marketing people saw sense. The cover sees the two ‘stars’ crammed into a tiny section at the bottom, playing second fiddle to a large pair of breasts. What a pair of tits. Steve Boniface

Thursday 6 August 2009

The not so Belle side of France

Hello friends and enemies. I'm back from a brief sojourn in Paris which led to a regrettable lack of posting action. Good times were had as I experienced the over-priced, obstinately rude, yet wonderfully art and monument laden hospitality of the French nation. However, the thing that has played on my mind most consistently throughout and after my trip has been a simple question: How have our Gallic friends managed to create some of the most amazing art and historical monuments known to man; produced a selection of the world's finest food and wine (notwithstanding the chips I was served in Montmartre which seemed to have been cooked, then plunged in a bucket of water before serving); and yet collectively failed to educate themselves in the not particularly challenging art of using a toilet correctly?

Somewhere in the cultural development of the French nation this particular skill seems to have been omitted. To the extent where they seemingly have no idea quite how a public toilet should be used or kept. It doesn't seem to matter how many free public toilets there are nearby, upon exiting any metro station in Paris you are forced to traverse a force field comprised solely of the pungent smell of human urine. The Frenchman (or woman), always eager to break convention, likes nothing more than to exercise his or her liberty to piss wherever the hell they want. Especially if the area is an absolutely necessary and unavoidable daily thoroughfare for thousands of people. Vive la revolution.

The famous liberté, egalité, fraternité motto may well have been coined to express the inalienable right of everyone French to relieve themselves anywhere in a brotherly manner. And how fitting then that they should exercise this right to the nth degree in the most opulent symbol of the ancien regime: Versailles. The men's toilets in Versailles were literally flooded with liquid expressions of French freedom, to the point where a Spanish lady emerged from the women's, almost in tears due to the unfortunate meeting of flip-flops and baggy trousers with the unstoppable invading force of the neighbouring men's overflowing urinals. Only in France could you be standing in a beautiful, listed, historic building, being told not to use the flash on your camera, while inch deep in piss.

None of this compared to the experience in Gallery Laffayette however. Having sauntered through one of the most upmarket shopping malls in Paris I thought myself assured of a reasonable toilet experience. How wrong could I have been. As I turned a corner, having just wandered past a series of €7,000 Versace dresses, I was hit by a wall of stench so powerful that I can only describe it as like having been directly hit by a salvo of explosive diarrhea straight from the arse of a particularly Camembert fond Gaul. Merde. Immediately my eyes began to water as my nasal hairs spontaneously combusted. This was awful. With no urinals I waited an age for a cubicle and finally got in one as it was vacated by a very smug looking old man. By the look of the floor, it seemed that he had used the toilet for the sole purpose of pissing himself with a modicum of privacy. As the heavy, sweet stench that only old man piss can produce entered my recently depilated nostrils I realised that his smugness had probably been due to the warm trickle of urine comfortingly making its way down into his shoes and the knowledge that he was about to olfactorily stick it to an Anglais. Touché.

Some attempt has to be made to clean all of this mess up and with a depressingly unflinching continuity this always seems to be the unfortunate job of a poor black woman. They look at you with the dead eyes of a person whose job it is to make some frankly token attempts to clean these cess pits, trapped by a system of institutional racism. Next time you witness the indomitable cheeriness of the (similarly racially profiled) toilet attendants found in English clubs, know that they are happily singing the 'freshen-up song' due to an uncontrollable joy gained from not being in France. Most often these poor ladies simply chuck buckets of soapy water at the floor while numerous Frenchmen continue to nonchalantly piss up the walls and shit in the sinks with a laissez faire attitude that only they know how to pull off. How hard is it to actually shit in the bowl, one wonders. The French so loathe to look like they are trying hard at anything that I imagine they simply drop their drawers, and with a Gallic shrug and an audible "Bah" simply hope that whatever their body produces does not go on their clothes. Quite how they arrived at this way of doing things, I'm not sure anybody knows; perhaps they were too busy cooking or painting or going on strike. However this came to be, there's a lot to be said for the good old British way of actually depositing bodily excretions in a porcelain bowl and doing this thing called flushing. Apart from that Paris was pretty cool. FC

Wednesday 5 August 2009

Micro-rant of the day...

...from a truly brilliant film that not nearly enough people have seen.


Living In Oblivion (1992; dir. Tom DiCillo)

AC

Tuesday 4 August 2009

Bad Lieutenant. Brilliant Idea.

It is safe to say that Nicolas Cage - now less an actor than an anthropomorphized side of livid ham - is a favourite of Hot Rant. So it is with great joy that we bring news of a collaboration that threatens to undermine the foundations of cinema, and rational thought, as we know it.

It has been announced that Cage will star in an upcoming remake of 'Driller Killer' director Abel Ferrara's 1992 sleaze and rant-fest 'Bad Lieutenant', helmed by famed nutter Werner Herzog. And if that wasn't enough, there's an appearance by twat-of-the-90s Val Kilmer. (Trailer below - even that screenshot is enough to get you worried...). Ladies and gents, this could well end up being the most over-the-top film in the history of over-the-top films.



The original Bad Lieutenant featured an extraordinarily ripe performance from notorious scenery-chewer Harvey Keitel, and included graphic scenes of drug abuse, rape, public self-abasement and nude whimpering. All of this allied with Nicolas Cage's frightening inability to control his facial expressions means the possibilities are endless.

Brilliantly, if somewhat predictably, this melange of warped egos has inspired some very public mud-slinging, with Herzog claiming never to have seen the original, nor to have heard of Ferrara.

I, for one, can't wait. AC

Monday 3 August 2009

Portrait of the intern as a young man: Day 1


As I feared, the day has arrived. I am interning again. I have finally felt the aching swell of the Broonite economic crisis, losing my job as the lynchpin of the lucrative sex-business arm of multi-national non-fiction behemoth Dorling Kindersley, and returning to the depressing pursuit of sitting on the internet with nothing to do and not even having to pretend i'm working as i'm getting exactly zero pounds-per-hour for my efforts. Sure, i could have tried to get another interim job before my career as publishing magnate/professional country-punk guitarist finally drags itself into fruition, but the temptation to be subtley proactive and improve my cv instead of contemplating suicide at the mercy of Office Angels seemed all too sensible.

To coincide with this new development in my post-graduate life, i have decided to show the initiative Owain (who, incidentally, has reached the end of his antibiotics and thus should be infection and scab free by now) never did and start a diary of my experiences. Yes it will be banal. It may be unreadable in it monotone lack of events. But it will, to all purposes, be the most pure example of immersionist journalism ever to ooze from the fingers of a son of the Isle of Wight.

Day 1:

In attempt to look entirely ubiquitous around the office, i have worn the finest threads messrs Carnaby and Neal have to offer and ridden my single speed in. It has worked perfectly. As expected, the Vice stronghold is open plan, stripped brick and wood panelled. As also assumed, i have nigh on zero to do. the few tasks I have been deemed qualified enough to attempt luckily draw straight (potentially plagiaristically) from these very pages; i am researching to write blog pieces on a wave of Stalinist giant crabs desecrating the northern scandinavian shellfish populations, and on the american obsession with creating terrifying robotic animals for use in military and intelligence operations. Great. And that is about it. The potentially exciting caffeine headache i have developed from drinking too much Diet Coke is currently being soothed / exacerbated by the repeat playing of Sunn0)))'s new record, whilst my eyes are aching from staring meaninglessly at an antiquated computer screen. I am almost longing to be sent flyering around Brick Lane, and considering leaving early despite the fact that i have been here for little over 5 hours. Compared to being told i was 'Prince Charming' by a hoard of pubescent schoolgirls at the prep-school i worked in last summer, i feeling a definite lack of gratification for my trade skills. But worry not, readers, i will Indesign the fuck out of these reprobates yet. TH

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We are Hot Rant. We are Fred, Tom and Ashley. We write about things we hate. We write about things we don’t really like. We laugh at those unfortunates who lose the plot themselves. When we have nothing else to say, we post links of things we find funny or suitably furious. You can too. Please submit 500 word (max) contributions to hotrant@gmail.com for consideration. You can follow us on http://www.twitter.com/hotrant