rooted

it’s always the case, you want to leave a film and then bequiffed talkathon Mark Kermode sits behind you and so you feel that you can’t slide out of there like some sort of oil because Kermode will probably mention it on the Culture show and Lauren Laverne will laugh her blank featureless laugh and it will be no solace that I’m part of a Mark Kermode anecdote. The film was dragging on, I’d seen all the actors I wanted to see, Kermode was geeking off to his teenage friends about the reason why the alien in Predator had dreadlocks, everyone was low level guffawing, I eyed a copy of Grazia, the room was full of free loading journalists who write for TV Quick and Tank magazine and some guy had a moustache that hung off his face like a piece of belt on the suitmakers floor. Kermode laughed five times, I take from that that he’ll give it a good review, even though the film featured a fucking Homebase. Laughing is no guarentee of plumping up a critics review though, I once sat behind hideous old sparrow Nicholas De Jongh, the worst critic the Evening Standard have ever patronised and he laughed like he was being tickled by a thousand monkeys at this charged homosexual play in Hampstead but the moment his frail, insipid fingers hit the keyboard the review that hit the press was a scathing knife in the back job. Horrible fellow. Looks like Fagin.

Bob Rock