Tag Archive: harry potter

YAY AVATAR!!!!one!!!!

Let me make the point of this blog post absolutely clear:

Avatar is shit and I am going to have a rant about it.

You have time to stop reading. If you wish to continue, feel free to debate with me or whatever, or shut the fuck up. I shall be happy either way. I also would like to point out that I went into this film knowing nothing other than the fact it had blue people and film reviewers seem to like it a fair bit.

NOW. Let’s be clear on this: the plot of Avatar – henceforth to be referred to as SPoS, which stands for Steaming Pile of Shit – is Pocahontas dipped in facepaint. Not persuaded? How about the whole thing of the big bad guys wanting to mine valuable shit (like the stuff that this film is NOT made of) out from under the bare feet of the free-spirited hippy layabouts with stupid little braids and feathers and crap natives? How are we gonna do it? WITH FIRE.

You could watch Dances With Wolves through a blue sweet wrapper and get the same effect, I promise.

Yeah, OK, it’s pretty and whatever. But I don’t really care what shiny shit you throw at me, SPoS, no amount of sparkly jellyfish things can hide how abysmally thin your wanky plot is. Here’s the bit that infuriates me: the IPNA (look it up if you really seriously have no idea) suffered in the exact same way because of Manifest Destiny. Except they didn’t have flying bird monsters. Or if they did, no one thought to record this fact. But there was no great resurgence from them: they became a minority until they became zoo attractions. Then Stephenie Meyer got hold of one of them and had a bit of a fanwank over him, poor guy. SPoS cheapens the plight and suffering of such native groups and turns it into “IT’S OK GUYS, THESE PEOPLE WITH THEIR LUCKY CONNECTION TO THE CREATURES CAN WIN LIKE.”

OH yeah that too – that deus ex machina of “If I think how much I need help, THE RHINOS WILL FIGHT FOR ME FUCK YEAAAAAH.” That this sort of thing doesn’t happen until the Na’vi are totally desperate makes it both maudlin and way too fucking convenient.

I must thank James “No Imagination” Cameron for making me realise how overused and recycled and SAMEY fantasy elements are.

…Oh like not blinking when facing a Hippogriff?

…OH, like the wand choosing the wizard?

*Epic flying swoopy bit with bird monsters*
*Epic flying swoopy bit with Hippogriff*

Can we not think of ANYTHING new? I admit, that tentacle tail thing the Blue Man Group had going on was promising… until it was used for convenient things. Like controlling that big bird thing that tried to eat them but could be controlled by THE ONE. O FATE YOU ARE SO FICKLE LOLZ!

OH and the length. The length. Ouch.
I’d like to point out that I can sit through a four-hour film and not get bored – when it’s well-made, clever and endlessly entertaining. (See this gem) But 2+ hours of half-assed fantasy crap painted with glitter glue and chocolate sprinkles swiftly becomes tedious. No amount of fizz and sugar could make it better. I tried this self-medication. Repeatedly. My bladder paid but my eyes and my intelligence were paying still harder.

And the hilarious dialogue. Me speak English.

I don’t have anything against fans of the film. I DO have a thing against people who are now obsessing over it as if it’s the greatest piece of filmmaking ever. For future reference, those who I know will ask, I prefer stuff like Lucky McKee’s May. That’s got guts and smarts, so to speak. And it’s genuinely funny. But SPoS is too preachy and long for a kid’s film, and too big and dumb to be an adult movie. James Cameron, your ten years were wasted, please read some books and stop feeling so self-important.


So – I have an obscenely high number of views. Wow. Hello new readers. I love you, old readers, some probably more than others, but still, I love you. Thank you all for reading. You make my ego rotund and bouncy.

Some silly person authorised my student loan, and naturally I have just returned from a hideous spending spree. I am justified in this because, even after deducting rent and necessary expenses, I still have a LOT of money left for frivolity.

Sit ye down and allow me to explain what I just frittered away money upon:

– A pair of boots. I KNOW, another freaking pair of freaking boots. But these ones are knee-high and lace up at the front and I am very in love with them, almost more in love than I am with you, readers.

– DVDS. Namely Twelfth Night (with Helena Bonham Carter, yay!) and The Taming of the Shrew with the woman-I-would-quite-like-to-look-like, Elizabeth Taylor. I almost purchased Michael Collins for the Alan Rickman goodness but restrained myself.

– A board game.
Not just any board game.
Destination Hogwarts, no less! Apparently you have to try and not get expelled. Bellatrix and Snape are on the box. That is why I bought the game. Largely.

– THEATRE TICKETS FOR Rocky Horror AND YES I’M GOING DRESSED UP. Magenta ftw. Also I have reached the conclusion that Patricia Quinn and Eleanor Audley sound astonishingly similar.

So…I am still in need of a job, both for the money and the time-filling effect it will have, since I barely have any class hours this term. Come on, economy. Embrace me. I AM USEFUL.

Coming up fighting.

Thank fuck they haven’t set us dry, irrelevant, tedious texts this year (Daniel Deronda, I’m looking STRAIGHT at you). Madame Bovary is actually riveting. I’ve got about quarter of the way through in relatively few hours, and it’s written beautifully. New favourite methinks.

Better than studying the Bible, that’s for sure.

I have noticed an interesting feeling developing recently – that of the unwelcome tag of “third wheel” settling uncomfortably on my shoulders. If you’re inclined to input the phrase into a search engine, you’re likely to come across various unflattering descriptions and “how-to” advice on avoiding the sensation. As unpleasant as it is, denying it would be churlish, and thus I must work through it and deal with it like an adult rather than a little girl.

It’s strange for me – my past circles of friends avoided males like the plague. I still do, on the whole, although it’s now less a matter of being scared of them and more of not being able to find common ground with them. I find the majority of them to be arrogant tossers, and the only reason I’d want to get remotely close to any of them would be to punch a gap in their front teeth. This majority clearly feel the same way about me: there is nobody out there tripping over themselves to enter into a relationship with me. Unless they’re drunk Asian men. Again, denying this is fruitless. I know what I know.

The obvious way to remedy the feeling of being a specimen of social outcast is probably by getting a boyfriend.

Fuck that shit, if I may.

I wouldn’t be able to deal with it. I have a fairly limited capacity for social interaction, and after the timer goes off, I require a sizeable period of solitude. If they disagreed with me on something, I’d either snap angrily at them or simmer and start to resent them. If they started acting like a limpet, I would start having visions of breaking their hands, and you get the gist of what I’m saying here. I’d be unhappy.

I’m aware that this sounds like fervent, lying denial, but you’ll have to trust me when I tell you it isn’t.

Not only would I be at breaking point if I ventured down that road, but for most of the time, I like being a distant, singular entity. Various reasons have contributed to this:

a) the defiance of social norms. Nineteen-year-old female university students are sort of required to have a boyfriend/partner/whatever you call it when you’re not ten years old, I’m out of the loop. People expect it. Hell, my family seem to anticipate it. Oh no no no, you’ll not catch me in that trap. Merging my identity with someone else’s because it’s “normal at your age”? NO.

b) the defiance of my family. As I said above, they appear to expect me to enter into a relationship fairly soon. They keep dropping hints about being “the one left on the shelf”, which only recently lost its sting. My mother, at one stage not long past, hinted at two people she’d like to see me with. One was a Christian version of Harry Potter, who fortunately is engaged to someone equally as lovely and normal and kind and responsible and boring as he is, so may they be very happy and all that, and the other was nice enough, but not my type. At all. Like I’d rather kiss my cat than kiss him. For this reason in particular, I intend on holding out as long as humanly possible.

c) the preservation of my integrity. Last year I did so much of that fucking awful drunken dancing with randoms that I actually want to hurt myself as punishment, in all seriousness. Where the HELL did my respect for myself go? Why did I do that to myself? Why could I not see that they only engaged in such behaviour with me AFTER they had downed a large quantity of alcohol? No more. I refuse point-blank to do that any longer, and similarly to compliment, to simper, to sycophantically laugh for anyone. No fucking more.

I do realise of course that not all men are hideous drunk pussy-scouts in clubs. The ones I actually speak to are decent people. It would be exceedingly unfair on them if I did group them with all the other males I know of.

The huge positive side to all of this is that any bitterness or hatred I feel can be easily converted into academic energy: “angry studying”, as I think of it. The pent-up frustration can go into reading and researching, and can drive me through inspiration dry spots. I like things that are useful, and so I must learn to like the namesake of “third wheel”, as it will be my sustenance.

I would like to inform everyone that yesterday, I almost bought all of the Tank Girl comics, and the only thing that stopped me was a total lack of disposable money. Blast.

One day…ONE DAY…!

– Girls who blog about the “charming, quirky, offbeat, gorgeous” style of celebrities, trying to sound as though they’re experts. There’s an alarming amount of these twats on the internet. As if you’d go out wearing half the stuff you harp on about – you’re too much of a fucking pussy. You’d probably wear beige if those fucking French fashion magazines told you in was THE colour of next season. I realise of course that there may be one or two that are actually man enough to wear what they like. Good for you. I hate fashion unless it involves black, lace, leather, corsets, Victorian-governess-bondage, things that look like they should be worn around Hogsmeade and old military uniform. And boots that look like they’d disembowel someone if you deigned to kick them whilst wearing a pair.

-The “friends” I have on Facebook constantly giving the world updates about how their newborn spawn is faring. Most of them are my age. I. Don’t. Care. I could unfriend you, but I love looking at your page when I feel I’m failing at life. I think, “At least I haven’t become pregnant yet – that would really be a new low,” and instantly feel awesome. There is a positive side to this – it reaffirms how lacking my maternal instincts and desires to inflict miniature versions of myself on the world are. Damn I hate children. If I was in charge, it’d be like Vulgaria in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and I would  employ this fine man to uphold my law of NO CHILDREN:


– This house. I die a little every day inside this house. I can’t be creative or intelligent or outspoken in this house without being labelled as someone who has let university “change” them. Of course it’s changed me – I’m not a wimpy little retard who doesn’t speak up for herself now. That’s a good thing. I reject your reality AND your fucking stupid religion and substitute my own! Viva slash fiction and men too pretty to be entirely male!

Oh yeah, man. Snucius forever.

– Weight gain. Although it is only 1lb for wine/Jelly Baby/excess amounts of pork chops/a freaking large KitKat.

– WASPS. Both The Cat and I whinged like big girls until someone came to kill the wasp that was in a bedroom this morning.

…All right, so The Cat was raring to murder the wasp. I was the only one whinging like a big girl.