Walking The Dog – International Reform

10.47pm. It’s dark, quiet. Cold creeps cautiously around your face as you brave the elemental outdoor conditions. Oblivious to your surroundings, headphones channel distraction directly into your brain. Wind howls, stroking your dog and blowing a fine rain into your squinting eyes as you wade through the thick, colourless mist. Your canine companion sniffs the air, identifying and categorising scents as he delicately guides your shoulder from its socket, pulling you along. Approaching a corner, you reel in the lead, restricting the allowance of your canis lupus in preparation for the bend.

Tentatively you turn the corner and a new horizon appears. Peering up at the tarmacadum from beneath your hood, you see a shadowy silhouette. It is what you feared. Merely ten feet in front of you, beneath the ominous luminance of a broken streetlight stands a humanoid shape accompanied by a long, thin line. You navigate the lead with your eyes, as does your hound. His ears prick up as he distinguishes a staunch shape from the darkness – another dog. All parties stop as the stand-off occurs.

You stare at the cowboy opposite, mirroring the intensity of his western glare. Your hands twitch above your holstered leads. Ennio Morricone’s Inseguimento reinforces the theme, courtesy of the ever-relevant iPod shuffle. Two men. Two dogs. One path. Someone has to make the first move? Will it be you?

Continue reading

Advertisements

ITV’s The Cube: An Abundance of Acrylic

What do you get when a terrestrial television channel has an empty prime-time slot, a mysterious gymnast, and acrylic plastic surplus to requirement?

ITV‘s prime-time, acryli-fest gameshow – The Cube. That’s what.

Back for a second series The Cube fulfils the part of ITV‘s remit that clearly states the must utilise the abundance of Poly[methyl methacrylate] stored within the warehouse since Simon Cowell’s Plastic Death Dungeon of Doom was officially decommissioned in late 1997. Oh, you didn’t see that one?

Continue reading

HMS HORSEBOX

After an inconvenient delay which the British people utilised to have a good ol’ moan, I am aboard. That’s right.

Fuck land.

I’m on a boat.

Motherfucker.

But I wasn’t always this enthusiastic. Far from it. I used to be terrified of this very situation. Floating precariously on perilous waters, aboard a huge, metal death-box. At age 10, as far as I was concerned I’d be extremely lucky to make it across the sea alive. In my mind, the chances of the ferry sinking like a dead stone to the bottom of the Irish Sea were highly likely.

Continue reading