Michael Bay vs Rupert Murdoch: Clash Of The Twats

I can't believe almost every blog includes my visiting the cinema, but, in the words of West Coast Ghetto Heisman, Dub C, "Uh oh! Here we go again!"

I went to see Transformers: Dark Of The Moon. I've now seen all three movies in the franchise, returning like an inquisitive index finger to a ripening scab. That's over seven hours (!) of no discernible plot, explosions, slow motion sequences, more explosions, gratuitous ass shots, ever more explosions and cringe inducing dialogue permanently set to "CONSTANT SHOUTING!". All of which should make for the perfect popcorn experience, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it?!? However, in the hands of Mr Bay you feel like the poor stunt driver who was injured during its production: permanently brain damaged with one eye stitched shut.

Mr Bay describes his style of filmmaking as "Fucking the frame". I spent the whole movie thinking "Damn! Can I at least get a blow job, or an enthusiastic tongue between my oiled buttocks to get me excited first?" But no. No foreplay. It's all about the penetration with Michael. A sinister penetration which recalls Robert De Niro as Max Cady in Cape Fear. Bay is laughing at us as he rips at our flesh with his teeth. How else to explain the execrable Rosie Huntington-Whiteley in her film debut? Her bee-stung lips are more animated than she is and, undoubtedly, pre-assembled flat pack furniture in Swedish pine would have proved far less wooden. She manages to make Megan Fox appear as accomplished as Dame Judi Dench. Bay doesn't care though. He's essentially saying "My movies are just about blowing stuff up. I don't even need actors. Look!" That's how little he thinks of us as the audience.

Fans of the movies (I know! Incredible. How they stay upright is beyond me) claim that Transformers: Dark Of The Moon is better than Transformers: Revenge Of The Fallen, which is like me saying that my tonsillectomy was a better experience than having my wisdom teeth out.

The most annoying thing though isn't the interminable asinine juvenility, it's the caption: "Middle East: Illegal Nuclear Site", which appears just before Bumblebee and the rest of his Autobot homeboys start kicking a little raghead ass.

What the - What?!? Is Michael Bay doing politics?!?

I felt so dirty I left the cinema vowing to wipe myself down with the last ever edition of the News Of The World. I'm kidding. I've never bought that filthy little rag, its sister paper The Sun or subscribed to Sky, so my conscience is entirely clear. Well, at least when it comes to the funding of Murdoch's empire. I remember being in the studio recording a track with guitar legend Jim Davies (he of The Prodigy fame) who arrived one morning a tad upset that he'd received a volley of abuse from a newsagent for purchasing the latter publication. David Goldring, who was laying down beats, explained the revulsion in Liverpool for the paper. It dates back to the 1989 Hillsborough disaster and the headline:

“The Truth.

Some fans picked pockets of victims

Some fans urinated on the brave cops

Some fans beat up PC giving kiss of life.”

A policeman was quoted in the article claiming that Liverpool fans "were openly urinating on us and the bodies of the dead.” David summarised succinctly, "So we were picking the pockets of our own dead friends and families and pissing on their corpses, yeah?" The Sun have yet to apologise. Kelvin McKenzie even stated recently that he was happy to stand behind the veracity of the story.

The Milly Dowler revelations came as no surprise to those who have nothing but utter contempt for Mr Murdoch, his twisted world view and his hijacking of a party which was supposed to represent all of us who have to go to work tomorrow. The leader of the Labour Party can't even support workers voting to strike for fear of how it would play in the press. The only thing separating us from my bound and shackled forebears is our right to withdraw our labour.

When Our Tone became Labour leader in 1994 he flew across the globe to pay homage to Big Rupe, assuring him he'd play by his rules. It's been revealed that he spoke to Rupe on three occasions in the days leading up to the Iraq invasion on March 11th, 13th and the 19th, which was the day before the invasion itself. Rupert said at the time, "I think Tony is being extraordinarily courageous and strong... It's not easy to do that living in a party which is largely composed of people who have a knee-jerk anti-Americanism and are sort of pacifist. But he's shown great guts…"

Yep. "Great guts" to go to war on a stack of lies and rape a country of its resources. And he's so brazen he had no fear in referring to that three letter word our governments are far too scared to whisper. "The greatest thing to come out of this for the world economy...would be $20 a barrel for oil. That's bigger than any tax cut in any country." So it's not like it's a bad thing.

The same fella recently ran a story saying that DJ Gadaffi issued his troops with Viagra, the easier to commit mass rape. The motivation for this lie being the same three letter word. The same fella who claims to support our brave boys overseas runs an organisation which hacks the 'phones of dead soldiers' families.

I'm looking forward to him scapegoating his sacked journalists as workshy benefit scroungers. The question now is whether or not people are disgusted enough by these recent revelations to make Rupert's gleaming edifice of shit crumble to dust. I doubt it though. Boys like Page 3 don't they, eh? They like their boobs, don't they, eh? And it's just a bit of fun, innit? Phwoar, eh?

PPPPPPHHHHHHHWOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!!!

Which, I believe, was pretty much the first draft of the script for Transformers: Dark Of The Moon.

Johann Hari's Divinterview

I've never liked Johann Hari. I saw him once on a BBC current affairs programme shouting at George Galloway because he thought the Iraq invasion was morally necessary. His pudgy child's face was all red and puffy as he jabbed a finger towards Gorgeous George who had a smirk on his face. 8 years later and despite being absolutely right in EVERYTHING he said George inspires little but ire and consternation (an acquaintance recently described him as "an arsehole spouting shit", whilst another shared a joke about shooting him. It's fair enough. Once you put your head above the parapet you're fair game for anything really), whilst Mr Hari is now the darling of the "Left".

Unfortunately, Mr Hari has been caught plagiarising other journalist's articles and existing quotes from his interviewees to flesh out his articles. Hardly the appropriate actions of an award winning journalist. Anyway, below is his recent interview with Jesus Christ which should restore his reputation.

Jesus Christ. Rebel. Freedom Fighter. Icon. That he chose me to be the first interviewer since his recent resurrection is, undoubtedly, a burden, but one my coolly cynical shoulders are more than happy to bear.

The first thing I notice is that the door to Jesus' abode doesn't seem to exist. It's merely a collection of abstractions and concepts rather than anything solid one would find in aisle seven at, say, B&Q or Wickes: the weekend altars of worship de nos jours. I asked him about this as we finally sat opposite each other. He folded his arms and regarded me slightly askance. "You see, Johann," he began, all charm and easy, if vague, erudition, “ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” His eyes are vast with benevolence as a laugh barks from his throat, the light dancing on his burnished skin.

But what relevance the House of God as the struggle between the 'Haves' and the 'Have nots' rages? "My position hasn't changed, Joey, but not due to intransigence," he clarifies. He's more relaxed now as he warms to my softly softly questioning. "Years of detached observation, derived from my fundamental divinity, have led me to this simple truth." He pauses, leans in conpiratorially and says softly: enunciating in a breathless whisper, "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

As I look about the room - a testament to distinguished Oak and Mahogony bathed in an avuncular incandescence - I'm reminded of appearing on BBC's 'The Sharp End' with George Galloway in 2003. I was wrong about the Iraq War. So very wrong. Vociferously so. David Aaronovitch and I - ekeing out a very comfortable living in a resolutely mediocre UK media with no fear of reprisal - will have to live with that for the rest of our lives, but instead of giving me the slap about the ears I plainly deserved for spouting Blair's propaganda George merely smiled at me. An expression imbued with such sympathy and pity I interpreted it as mockery. JC - as he insists I call him - is grinning at me in exactly the same way now. He knows something. Or at least he thinks he does.

Gabriel, his PA, appears from nowhere like a Mr Benn shopkeeper and whispers something in his ear. JC nods slowly and fixes me with an ambivalent gaze. Our time is up. "Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted," he pronounces as he rises to show me to the door. "All I ask, Joey, is that when you write this up it is not just an essayistic representation of what I think; but a report on an encounter between the interviewer and the interviewee. Will you do that for me?" He sounds a little like Claire Rayner.

"Whatever you say, Lord," I reply.

I walk down the short road to the tube and everything is the same; shiny shopfronts on either side of the street; people chained to their ipods, their eyes cast groundwards. But I am different.