Chewing the Scene

hospice

chewingthescene — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 11:03:26 +0000

humbug

chewingthescene — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 11:02:35 +0000

xx

chewingthescene — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 15:03:16 +0000

fits

chewingthescene — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 15:01:50 +0000

sardines

chewingthescene — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 15:25:27 +0000

I eat sardines every day but I eat them like I’m on the needle, backed into a corner, the bottom half of my face hidden in shadow like a Jim Thompson noir detective or a hideously disfigured person operating out of an alley. Every day I disappear for fifteen minutes to munch Sardines, normally I shop for the Boneless green tinned ones from Sainsbury’s (78p) but the other day my mum sent me two new varieties to try, a bespoke version from Waitrose and a Marks and Spencers version with a smooth wide angled shot of a swimming sardine on the box. The thing with eating sardines is that you can’t speak to another person for a polite period of time (apart from the newsagent who doesn’t care about pretty much anything) and so I had to eat them both versions in my room, and it was one of those occasions when I thought my flatmate might knock conspiratorially on the door and ask for a flannel or to stare in my long 4ft mirror or to show me loads of paracetamols spilling out of her mouth, but luckily this didn’t happen and both versions were inferior anyway*

*the reason I eat sardines every day is because I read it in the Daily Mail Femail section in 2003 and it said that it would enable you to leap and bound down a beach forever or something.

Bob Rock

chemical warfare

chewingthescene — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 15:55:02 +0000

love vs money

chewingthescene — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 10:54:22 +0000

i am shit with babies

chewingthescene — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 10:29:13 +0000

These two women got on the bus cradling their babies like sacks of sand and then sat right in front of me even though I was sure I had an expression that suggested I was a dead, dusty statue that should be avoided at all times. It was fine, they began to burble away in the joy filled inflection that new mothers have, discussing the new Jodi Picoult book or Cath Kidson flannels, all the time their unsure little monsters were climbing around the bus like deranged monkeys in a metal zoo. I was reading a book called Kill Your Friends by John Niven, I raised the book cover.

After a thirty minute journey the two babies suddenly gravitated to the front of my seat and both mothers held their tormented loin spawn up for me to look at at, one of them saying “she likes men” talking about the dribbling flesh doll who was looking at me with fear and bedazzlement. So I had to perform. All I could think about was… how I wished I had a antique saucepan that I could smash myself in the face with like a clown and surely they’d find that funny. Surely. I thought about pushing my face into the bus window and making it all squidgy. I thought about taking a bite out of the apple I was eating then pranging it straight into my eye causing instant discomfort and an accompanying comical expression. I thought about pulling the emergency cord.

In the end I shook one of the babies hands.

Bob Rock

lp

chewingthescene — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 10:15:41 +0000

rooted

chewingthescene — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 15:41:10 +0000

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