Full Metal Jacket Diary Audiobook – a review

I spend a lot of time up in the air these days and, as a result, I’ve usually got an audiobook on the go. Alan Partridge’s I, Partridge and Nomad are as exceptional as one would expect. Bruce Robinson’s exhaustive They All Love Jack may well be the definitive investigation of the Jack The Ripper murders and is an absolutely essential listen.

The one audiobook I keep going back to, however, is Full Metal Jacket Diary which is Matthew Modine’s recounting of his time on the titular film directed by Stanley Kubrick. I’ve got a thing for Mr. Kubrick. Firstly his films are meticulously constructed and transcend the film genre. They are works of art.

Secondly, the manner in which Kubrick constructs his movies and his dedication to perfection are the stuff of legend. I recognise some of these blinkered qualities in myself when it comes to music, which is probably why my band now just consists of my brother and me.

A few weeks ago it was Matthew Modine’s birthday. I sent him my best wishes via Twitter and advised that I found his audiobook riveting. He responded by expressing thanks and suggested I write a review. So here goes…

I bought a physical copy of the limited edition, very metal Full Metal Jacket Diary back when it was first released in 2005 (mine is number 09492 of the 20,000 released). As a coffee table book it’s stunning and I often find myself dipping into it. The behind the scenes photos are spectacular as is the glimpse at the celebrated wizard behind the green velvet curtain and the creative process that resulted in “the best war film ever made”.

The difference with the audiobook is that, shorn of the photos it very much becomes a story. A human story. One of warmth and affection for a man we will truly never know, Stanley Kubrick. What surprises you is how collaborative Kubrick was as a filmmaker, regularly asking Mr. Modine and the rest of the cast how the film should end and taking on Modine’s suggestion that there should be a ‘sex’ scene.

The audiobook is so engaging that I recently listened to it three times on the bounce, and then watched Full Metal Jacket twice followed by Paths of Glory and Barry Lyndon. Modine’s friendly narration and the smatterings of a shockingly awful, but strangely endearing, Cock-er-ney accent (imagine a less OTT Dick Van Dyke) make it feel as if he’s leading you by the hand on a journey which unexpectedly becomes an adventure, an at times arduous, soul-sapping adventure.  

If you’re a fan of Kubrick, or even vaguely interested in filmmaking, then this is an essential listen. It charts and delineates Modine’s experience from first hearing about the movie via an awkward conversation with a competitive Val Kilmer to wrapping the film nearly 2 years later. We learn how Kubrick wants him to play the role of Private Joker and the pressures the shoot puts on his friendship with Vincent D’Onofrio.

There are anecdotes aplenty (such as Modine telling jokes about Stanley Kubrick. To Kubrick himself. and having to beg him to be at his wife’s bedside when she’s giving birth) and personal reflections that reveal much about Modine the man and the actor. And Stanley Kubrick.

Because this film consumed his life for an extended period of time we are also party to Modine’s ruminations on love, war, fatherhood and life itself. He was in his early twenties when he was cast so we get a snapshot of a young man placed in extraordinary circumstances. I love that there’s no hindsight employed, no rearview mirror context to wrap things up in a pretty pink bow. Just what it meant to him at the time. Perfect.

In fact it’s so good I’m going to put it on and listen to it again. Again. 

Thank you, Mr. Modine.

Trials of an Xtraordinary Gentleman

We played a show a couple of weeks ago at the Saddle Inn, Chester. I intimated to the assembled personages that this was the highlight of my year so far, and I meant it. Just a few hours earlier I was nervously pacing the Priority Lounge of Philadelphia Airport waiting for my delayed flight back to the UK to be rescheduled, worried that I would make it back in time. The fatigue and the jet lag kicked in by about the second song: adrenaline kept me upright. Needless to say my body clock and I are no longer on speaking terms.

There was, however, no way I was going to miss this performance. My New Year's Resolution for 2019 was to dedicate a little more of my time to something I enjoy outside work. I'm lucky enough to have a dream job, but I'm aware that my utter dedication to a professional perfection has resulted in my music being neglected.

The first goal I set for 2019 was to shoot a music video. I'd been chatting about this for a couple of years with two good friends; Julian Croot and Andrew 'Kid Justice' Farnsworth, but we could never agree on a date, a location, or a storyline. Eventually, I suggested G, Julian and I scout locations around Manchester one Saturday in the middle of January. We started at China Lane walking and talking through possible shots, camera angles and movements before sliding over to an alley just off Stevenson Square and then making our way to Jersey Street and Beehive Mill.

G-Influence and I used to rehearse here, lugging gear through the masses queueing for the club mecca that was Sankey's Soap, but the environs has changed so much I barely recognise it. Sparkling new structures erupting along its length. The shadowy, foreboding, and mainly derelict, industrial buildings have been torn down and replaced by utilitarian, residential spaces. A lot of the street's character, or rather a lot of what I remember, has been excised and there really isn't anything that would serve our purpose as an interesting backdrop for a music video. It's all a tad bland. Trudging disappointedly away from the Mill I remember that there is a bridge over the grey, murky ribbon that is Rochdale Canal.

Inspecting the cobbled walkway around the bridge we discover an underpass. It's perfect. Green moss clinging to its old worn tiles. Strip lights buzzing like woozy wasps. Julian immediately selects a camera and suggests we walk towards him and then away from him. With attitude. These initial shots look great. The confines of the location offer a natural frame. It doesn't take me long to retrieve the MacBook from my briefcase and before you know it G and I are lip synching and pulling rock star shapes, pausing to let startled dogwalkers and pedestrians pass.

The captured footage looks stunning and we repair to China Lane to gather more. A short three or four hours after meeting, and content with our efforts, we repair to a McDonalds and call it a day. Over carcinogenic fast food and coffee we determine to congregate again the following week - when Andy should be available - to gather some more footage. Julian wants us to start really early so we can make use of the natural light as the sun rises. I don't say it out loud, but from now on I call him Julian Cimino*.

The following Saturday it's 6:30am and I'm stuck in traffic entering Manchester. I'm happy to defer to the experts, but really? Did we have to do this at this time? The plan for today is to use the top level of a city centre car park: capturing G and I as we perform. I'm the first to arrive, then Julian, who asks me to pose and look awesome so he can grab some footage before the others arrive. The car park floodlights are still on and it's pretty dark and I'm not sure where the value is in this action, but hey, he's the boss.

G-Influence arrives and tells me he isn't feeling great and he's swiftly followed by Andy who insists we call him "Kubrick".  Fair enough...

The cold, watery sun is ensnared by an overcast mid-January sky. The familiar dark grey blanket cloaks the city. We start with some shots of The Gents sitting by a table, me reading Alan Moore's The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Absolute Edition (natch) and G just chilling like the legend he is. We then switch to the middle section of the song and jump around as we sing the "Lalalala's". Mid "Lalalala…" a security guard appears and asks us politely to move on. As he walks away, he pauses, turns and says, "Just finish the take you're on." We do so plus another couple for good luck and we move back to China Lane where the filmmakers undertake some exceptional focus pulling and execute the Michael Bay 360 degree shot whilst attempting to avoid the street detritus. 

Soon we're making our way home and I'm more than happy to leave the editing in the hands of the expert, i.e. Julian Cimino. The initial passes are quite fantastic. I'm happy to have been proved completely and utterly wrong on the use of natural light. The early morning footage looks absolutely incredible. The slight blue of the light at dawn looks completely different and adds a dreamlike quality to the opening sequence as the band logo breaks apart. That was an unbelievably good call. Spot on, Julian!

I have to say I'm really proud of the song and the video. They compliment each perfectly which seems quite a simple concept, but is actually quite hard to achieve. Of all the music videos in which I've participated this is the best. Without question. By far. Working with Julian Cimino and Andrew Kubrick was an absolute thrill. A true pleasure. And you can see the fun we had in each frame of the completed work. We're already talking about what the second video might look like. Hopefully it won't take another two years for it to come to fruition.

With especial thanks to Julian 'Cimino' Croot of PicturedMedia, Andrew 'Kubrick' Farnsworth, and the marvellous Ed, Monica and team for making the Chester show so enjoyable.

The Xtraordinary Gentlemen single Cooler Than An 8-Ball In The Corner Pocket is available now, wherever you usually acquire your music.

See the video here

Behind the scenes and post shoot analysis here

Interview with the chaps here

The gig was a HUGE success by the way. Catch you at the next one?

*In honour of Michael Cimino, Director of one of my fave films, Heaven's Gate. Legend has it that he would keep everyone on set waiting for the light to change and the right cloud formation. I admire his relentless commitment to perfection.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed. 

Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.

On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble. 

I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career. 

George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him." 

The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.

In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.

Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.

After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.    

If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him. 

It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. Jeremy Corbyn's success is a direct reaction to this.

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed. 

Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.

On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble. 

I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career. 

George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him." 

The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.

In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.

Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.

After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.    

If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him. 

It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. Jeremy Corbyn's success is a direct reaction to this.

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed. 

Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.

On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble. 

I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career. 

George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him." 

The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.

In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.

Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.

After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.    

If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him. 

It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. 

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts and has just received its Irish Premier. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed. 

Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.

On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble. 

I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career. 

George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him." 

The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.

In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.

Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.

After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.    

If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him. 

It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. 

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts and has just received its Irish Premier. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

Prince: my tribute

My Brother has just Whatsapped me a link to a story confirming Prince’s death from an overdose of painkillers. His commentary was, “What a cliche.” I can’t say I see it that way necessarily. If you’ve ever had to endure persistent pain any kind of relief seems like a blessing. I’m biased though. I thought Prince was amazing and so naturally I’ll always cut the brother a little slack.

I didn’t start out a fan though. The first time I encountered Prince I was in the bedroom of my then girlfriend’s girlfriend who lived over by Lyme Park in a very swanky abode. We four - her boyfriend was there too - had spent a lovely summer afternoon chatting and sipping lemonade. 

At some point we repaired to my girlfriend’s girlfriend’s bedroom to flick through her music collection… It was clear the afternoon was winding to a close - no-one has music taste as good as mine - and so I tuned out. I remember wondering how we were going to make the journey back to Hazel Grove: hoping that my girlfriend’s girlfriend’s Mum, who looked extraordinarily like Dudley Moore, would give us a lift, when there was a scream. A prolonged, piercing note which made me wince. What the-? It was my girlfriend emoting dramatically having unearthed a rare Prince single, namely Gotta Stop (Messin’ About). 

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygodi’lldoanythingi’llkissyourfeetpleeeeeeaaaaaseletmehavethisilovehimilovehimilovehim!” I have had many occasions to look back on my relationship with this unhinged sociopath and experience regret and not a little embarrassment. I would say this is one of the 5 highlights from that particular reel. My girlfriend’s girlfriend looked puzzled and appalled, prised my girlfriend’s clawing fingers from her left ankle and eventually said, “Yes. Sure. Have it,” shooting me a look which seemingly asked the question: “Are you that desperate for regular sex?” I was.

On the long drive home - Our Dud was a particularly cautious driver - I examined the sleeve and was repulsed by the fop in the black, groin length stay-ups, posing pouch and red scarf under his black jacket. He had brown eyes like those of a baby deer and ostentatiously relaxed hair. He looked ridiculous, but for some reason my girlfriend was still shaking with excitement, her chest heaving with emotion.

A few months later we were lying on her bed and a song came on with a truly thrilling guitar solo which threw shards of light about the darkened room. I sat up. “Who’s this?”

“Prince.”

“Are you fucking joking?”

“No. And he’s playing all of the other instruments…”

“Hmmmm…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A grudging respect for his musicianship was flowering, but I still had a pathological aversion to this weirdo. Perhaps a year or so later and the short-arse was playing Wembley. Fine… I’ll go if you want. Same damned thing. She’s normal. She’s normal. Prince finally appears on stage and she loses her shit. Like completely and utterly. She’s elbowing past other concert goers and security guards to get to the front whilst screaming as if someone is ripping her left ankle through the top of her skull. 

I sigh, gather her abandoned effects from her seat and make my way more politely forward. I can see her form bopping away down the front. Somehow she’s hopped a security barrier and she’s having the time of her life. I look around the venue and everyone else is too. I look at the stage and Prince, in an effortlessly stylish yellow suit with oversized buttons is doing his best James Brown impression as he teases rhythmic chords out of a Hammond organ. Occasionally he’ll pirouette, perform a push-me-pull-you with the mic stand before dropping into the splits as he cues a horn break. Holy fuck!

I look around Wembley Arena. 10,000 people are smiling as they dance to a non-stop, machine-tooled groove. It’s simply the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever experienced. Transcendental. Magickal. He slows the proceedings just long enough for us to bear witness to him bringing his microphone to a shuddering orgasm. Oh, Lawd… I was officially a fan. I eventually split up with the crazy screamer, but for a while the only thing that kept us together as a couple was a shared affection for Prince.

Unhappy at never receiving a thin penny for either recording or shows and reluctant to tour again under the same fund-free agreement, Jayne County dispensed with my services as drummer - using the N word as the ‘phone was slammed down. I didn’t care. The live reviews confirmed what was glaringly obvious: she was the weakest link in her own band. I wanted to do something else and got together with Peter Turner who was as into KISS as me and we fulfilled our Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons songwriting fantasy. After that I played with a guitarist who was in The Fall for two weeks and then toured Europe with Vicious Rumours. Upon my return I wanted to see if I pull off a Prince and do it all on my own instead of relying on other people whose priorities and values weren't aligned with mine. 

I borrowed a keyboard and a drum machine and wrote a couple of songs which were very Prince-like in nature, drawing from his synth-heavy Minneapolis sound blueprint. One of the songs sounded like a riffed up version of Control by Janet Jackson, whilst the other was essentially a re-writing of Prince’s acclaimed B-Side, Irresistible Bitch. I took some birthday money and booked a day in what is now Courtyard Recording Studio. I played everything except the guitar which I brought in Peter Turner to play. As became de rigeur for Pete, any time he had to leave his bedroom to play his instrument he froze. It took him an unbelievable 2 and a half hours to lay down an 8 bar lead break. In order to finish the session I had to rush a little more than I wanted and cut some corners, but the lack of polish added a vibrance to the tunes which means they still sound pretty good today actually.

I searched around for musicians to bring the songs to life, which was pretty tough in Stockport, but I told everyone we were going to be so good as a live band that there was no way we wouldn’t get signed. They were my Revolution and we rehearsed hard, making sure we had harmonies, gang vocals and on point choreography which set us apart from every other band on the live circuit. We’d go down to London and blow away all these bands that we’d read about in the weekly music mags.

We started getting a lot of press ourselves and I whizzed a copy of the demo over to Dave Roberts at FM Revolver inviting him to a gig at The International. He came up to me afterwards beaming. “I’ve no idea how to describe what you do, but that’s the best gig I’ve seen in years.” He signed me on the spot. I was elated because they were the label that had released The Stone Roses’ Sally Cinnamon. So cool. 

We had a photo shoot for the EP. It was all a tad untidy with everyone dressed differently and disparately. Eventually Dave dismissed the band and instructed me to take my shirt off. That was the cover. The chaps and chapess who included: Gary on drums; my Brother on percussion; Des and Clifford on keys, Greg Curley - who I’d played with in Vicious Rumours - on guitar; Mark Pearson from Jayne County on bass; and a singer named Shairon who set her predatory sights on our ingenue drummer, were disgruntled. What can I say? I was a lithe adonis back then before the steroids (for health reasons) and the piling on of muscle, and my perfect form demanded to be captured for posterity. I didn’t see the irony at the time, but I had just become Prince on the cover of Gotta Stop (Messin’ Around).

The 3 song EP was supposed to serve as a teaser for the rip-roaring album which would feature all of my best songs including the first two songs I’d written and set closer Rock This House which ALWAYS brought the house down. The album was recorded at Twilight Studio in Salford, and sounded incredible. We'd slimmed down to a 4 piece with me handling drums and vocals and my brother playing keyboards and the live bottom end contrasted with the machine operated rhythms we'd had before. Typically, as we delivered the album to the label Dave got poached by Nude and there was no-one else at the label who got what we were doing. The lesson is, of course: never save your best stuff.

After that first Wembley gig I followed Prince and his work studiously. I saw him 15 or so times in concert and have all of his albums. Even the ultra rare Gold Nigga. When Wireless signed to EMI in addition to my pristine Beatles box set, Gordon managed to secure me a promo copy of Emancipation. 

Eventually, disillusioned with the lack of suitors and benefactors the band morphed into Shake Babies who became Damaged Gods and are now The Xtraordinary Gentlemen, but the blueprint has always been that laid down by Prince. The motivation to recreate that feeling I had when I slowly panned around Wembley Arena and then looked at the stage to watch Prince doing stuff I’ve never seen before and never will again. 

I had a quick scan of iTunes when I heard about Prince passing and found that FM Revolver had reissued the EP. Half the globe away he inspired me to believe that I could manifest a world from my own imagination and have musicians help me build a gleaming edifice that others would enjoy. 

The day after Prince’s passing my Bro’ and I (who have always channelled that louche Morris Day/Jerome Benton vibe) played our first TXG gig in ages supporting Professor Elemental and Cosmic Rays featuring Charlie Adlard (The Walking Dead). I didn’t tell anyone, but as we teased smiles from strangers and demanded their enthusiastic participation in creating a thoroughly immersive experience, that was my tribute to Prince: His Royal Badness.

Mark Two: The Pall Bearer's Lament

Sup, y'all? S'been a while...

So, a year ago I began the interview process for the position of Learning and Development Manager at Mark Two Distributors, purveyors of quality Kitchens and Bathrooms. The first interview, with the HR Manager and the Director Of Service Delivery went like a dream, due in no small part to my knowledge and experience; natural charm and easy wit; the use of some outstanding hypnotic language patterns; and how amazing I look in a three piece suit (in addition I've recently taken to wearing a pocket watch with chain. It has been suggested that the next logical step is a monocle. Now, I'm not saying that I'm ruling it out completely, but I'd rather be violated by a chainsaw).

The second interview was conducted once again by the Director Of Service Delivery and, this time, a Team Manager. It went even better than the first. I even managed to drag a Shakespeare quote from my gilded quiver - and it wasn't the one about the painted strumpet's front bottom either. On the way home I popped into ASDA to buy my answer to the question: If you were a drink, what drink would you be? Answer: Grapefruit and Lemonade. Natural, harsh bitterness tempered by a shot of luscious sweetness. I was shouldering my way through the front door as I received the call that I'd got the job.

I was so happy I performed a little jig which was, in essence, a crude facsimile of Michael Flatley's Riverdance. Man, I was pumped! This was an opportunity to shape an organisation's Learning Strategy. Essentially I was being handed a blank canvas which I could adorn with my professional musings on what Learning and Development should look like. Very different from my previous place of employment where I was managed by a failed stand-up comedian who chose to emphasise his comic inadequacy at each and every team gathering: "The dolphin of today's meeting is... No, wait. I mean porpoise. The porpoise of today's meeting is..." I'm not even joking. Neither was he. I mean, he was trying to, but... Whatever.

I strutted into Mark Two on the Monday and immediately regretted not wearing kevlar body armour and a combat helmet. I've compared my first day at Mark Two to the first beach scene in Saving Private Ryan. If I may, gentle reader, I'd like to amend the filmic reference to Tom Cruise's recent Edge Of Tomorrow instead, as the comparable beach landing scene in this movie takes it up a notch - featuring killer aliens who can warp space and time and eviscerate you at will. Sure, it was a blank canvas all right, but it was being held by a Grizzly Bear doing Crystal Meth. On a skateboard. Brandishing a Kalashnikov.

As a family business which had exploded into a multi-million pound turnover almost overnight, there were none of the processes or procedures in place which would ensure consistency. It was a free for all, and not in a George-Clinton-controlled-chaos kind of way, but a Miles-Davis-coked-out-of-his-mind-with-potato-chips-sticking-to-his-face-as-he-wails-away-in-the-key-of-D-minor kind of way. Utterly. Frightening. There was so much to do! My days were long and hard (easy there, Finbar!). I'd often pull twelve hour stints at my desk and when I got home I was  shattered. Drained. I could barely function. I was commissioned to write a screenplay which remains only 13/16ths finished.

I made an immediate impression: 2nd week in I was named Employee Of The Week which came with a VIP parking space (pic above. Astral moisturiser to the extreme left). My first meeting with the MD to relay my initial findings and outline my plan of attack was a little intimidating. He spent the whole of my presentation with his brow furrowed in a manner which was redolent of Mr. Bean trying to forecast the punchline to a joke he had never heard before in a foreign language. Afterwards the Director Of Service Delivery said, "That went really well. He really liked you." I was, like, are you kidding me? 

We moved into lovely new offices on Raikes Lane in January which were situated by the tip and recycling centre. The company's Vision and Values were stylishly graffiti'd by a local artist in black and red on the clean white walls. The concrete struts which jutted out from the walls were painted black and buzzwords such as "Care", "Enjoyment" and "Generous" were graffiti'd on them in white and red. The stench of burning waste was a constant mist seeping slowly into the building, but it was the smell of chips wafting up from the new canteen which truly offended the MD most, and so they were officially removed from the menu - save for a Friday when he wasn't in the office.

The fortunes of Mark Two, seemed to hit an up curve once we moved house. There was the perpetual hum of positivity about the place and the learning interventions, processes and structures I put in place were having a positive effect. I was tasked with bringing some of that gloss, glitter and sparkle to the Managers out in the field and my stock rose even further once I brought the house down at the Summer Conference. A short 6 weeks ago at the Director's Briefing - where the Directors stand before the whole business and give an update on the organisation's progress - I was asked how I thought things were going. I replied that though, ordinarily, I was far too consumed with my own monstrous ego to take an objective view of my surroundings, even I could see that we had come a long way from where we were when I initially joined.

Then, on the 4th of November, the MD announced that Tesco were pulling out of their agreement with Mark Two. Others may have popped on their rose tinted glasses, but I readied my escape pod. I updated my CV, zapped it off, attended an interview two days later and had the second one last Thursday where I had to give a presentation. I start on Monday.

The business officially folded on the 18th of November - a week before payday. There were two weeks of shifting rumour and swirling blame. Games of hangman abounded as we waited to hear what was happening. I spent my time helping colleagues with their CVs, ringing customers to give them updates on where they stood with the installation of their Kitchen or Bathroom and coaching the Customer Service Reps on what to say to seriously disgruntled customers.

There is no positive spin on close to 200 people being made redundant without pay a month before Christmas. It's horrible and I'm sure someone far better qualified than me will untangle the truth and ascertain that the situation could have been handled differently, but it doesn't change the fact that - apart from working on an adult chatline - this was the best job I've ever had with the nicest bunch of people I've ever worked with. That is what I will be taking with me from my time at Mark Two.

Much love to all of the wonderful people I bumped into and worked with. I shall see you on the beach. It's been immense, my gorgeous little ceramic coasters.

Á bientôt

xBx

Dragging Alan Moore From The Vaults: Watchmen 1998

Just a little curio for your amusement and beguilement. We're going all the way back to 1998 and a young Basil Creese Jr is idly pondering the cinematic future of his favourite graphic novel. I think he got it pretty much spot on. Well played, dear boy...

5 Reasons Why Alan Moore's Watchmen Will NEVER Be Made Into A Movie 

See that picture? That's Alan Moore. He's as eccentric as the photograph - which clearly evokes a less contemplative Rasputin - suggests. Shunning the gleam and shimmer of fame and celebrity he lives in Northampton, England. On his fortieth birthday he announced that he was a chaos magician. He worships the ancient Roman snake god, Glycon, which is actually a glove puppet masquerading as a minor deity. He's also a genius. Among Moore's impressive list of works are From Hell, V for Vendetta, Batman: The Killing Joke (a work which, Tim Burton has intimated, informed his 1989 Batman movie) the partially published pornographic tract, Lost Girls, and his recent novel, Voice of the Fire. Mr Moore is not just one of the finest writers in working in comics, he’s one of the finest writers ever, reinventing the comic book as a cutting-edge literary medium through the complex layering of symbolism, erudition and narrative. He has singlehandedly elevated what was once considered a gutter medium.

Arguably his most significant work is Watchmen, a groundbreaking graphic novel which has defined the genre. Written for adults it's a gritty, bleak work which succeeds in unmasking our superheroes' insecurities and neuroses. Released over a decade ago, it allowed mature and cerebral comics to slide into the focus of the mainstream and was named one of the 100 greatest novels by TIME Magazine.*

It was only to be expected that Hollywood would come sniffing around, but since its release in 1986 "the bible of graphic novels" has remained in Hollywood development hell. Here are the 5 reasons why I think, and hope, it will remain there.

5. It's A Comic Book

I do not mean this pejoratively, Watchmen is one of the most important works of art of the 20th century, but there is no escaping the fact that it is a comic book. It is not a novel. It is not a movie script. It is not a sequential collection of storyboards. It is a comic book. The fundamentals of its construction require us to engage with the story in a very specific manner. The nature of comics offers possibilities that aren't available in film. One can linger on each individual panel absorbing all of the information therein, and refer back to certain pages if the action references earlier events.

In a comic book the story unfolds before us as a living canvas, we bring our own interpretations to each aspect of the narrative. A film can never hope to address all of the subtleties and nuances inherent in this very different artform, instead it would simply drag you through the story at 24 frames per second not allowing you to pause and admire the scenery: its eye too literal and linear to allow the transfer of subtext and metaphor, or to describe the organic arc so beautifully crafted here by Moore.

The present capabilities of film special effects technology, so cruelly found wanting in the Spawn movie, couldn't possibly capture the physical complexities of a blue, shape-shifting, radioactive Dr Manhattan. At one point he teleports himself to Mars for a quiet sulk and constructs a glass palace designed as a clock mechanism. The technology hasn't been developed to portray this convincingly, and realistically won't ever be available. As if the Dr Manhattan dilemma weren't enough, there is also the question of how to recreate the ornate, and intricate, "comic-within-a-comic" Tales Of The Black Freighter inserts. I would contend that it's impossible. It can't be done.

Face it, making Watchmen into a Hollywood movie is as probable as a studio turning the labyrinthine, holistic, social dissertation of From Hell into a by-numbers police procedural starring Johnny Depp!

4. Even Terry Gilliam Says It's Unfilmable

I love Terry Gilliam's films. They're ambitious in scope and as mad as his animation for Monty Python back in the seventies. Gilliam has made some astonishing movies: Brazil, The Adventures Of Baron Munchausen, The Fisher King and 12 Monkeys. We fans of Watchmen were enraptured when it was announced  that Mr Gilliam had been tasked with bringing Alan Moore's vision to the screen. A maverick cineaste as wild and whimsical as Alan Moore, if anyone could make sense of the Watchmen universe and filter it for mainstream acceptance it was him, and probably him alone. His films are a testament to his both his artistic and technical ability in capturing unwieldy fantasy on celluloid. Teaming Gilliam with legendary Producer Joel Silver was almost a superhero match-up in itself.

As work on the project stuttered and sputtered he voiced concerns about translating Watchmen to film, suggesting that the epic story could not be faithfully reproduced as a movie, unless that movie had a running time of about five hours. He expressed concerns about limiting the story to a two or two-and-a-half hour film as it would strip away the essence of what Watchmen is about.

Unable to get a handle on the project Gilliam even considered shooting it as a television mini-series when he met Alan Moore to ask how he would film Watchmen. Alan Moore, being Alan Moore, said he wouldn't bother. The project eventually failed to secure adequate funding and was put back into mothballs. Gilliam said he heaved a sigh of relief as he realised this is definitely a film better left unmade. If the great Terry Gilliam is stumped by source material he deems too complex then there's a good chance it probably is.

3. Comic Book Superheroes Just Don't Work As Movies

The hottest comic book property at the moment is Spawn. He's dark, he's troubled and he's supercool. He's probably my favourite superhero of all time. A government assassin who's killed, sent to hell and does a deal with the Devil so he can come back to Earth and see the love of his life one last time. Utter genius. The animated series is an incredible achievement. It perfectly captures the tone and the brooding atmosphere of the comic books. Did you see the movie that came out last year? Horrible. And yet, as abysmal as it was, it was still better than Steel featuring Shaquille O'Neal as the titular hero. The reason for these cinematic superhero failures, both critically and financially, is that any finesse or subtlety has to be jettisoned to ensure that the popcorn munching hordes flock to the movie theatre.

The law of diminishing returns which results from this short-term view of film making is perfectly described by the Batman franchise. Tim Burton's 1989 Batman is a defining entry in the superhero film genre. The Gotham envisioned here is a delicious gothic treat: Anton Furst’s Oscar winning production design was breathtaking. Fast forward to Batman And Robin, the fourth in the series, and the pressure to earn more money than the last movie results in an embarrassingly lacklustre effort with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The story and its execution are awful: sound and fury signifying, well, not much really. Arnold Schwarzenegger does his best impression of IKEA flat pack furniture whilst delivering 27 (count 'em!) ice related puns and has ensured that we'll never see another Batman movie.

Marvel have done a deal with New Line to make the movie Blade, starring Wesley Snipes, which is out this summer. I guarantee it will be a flop and that Marvel will never bother us with any of their superheroes again.

2. Very Few People Know Any Of The Superheroes In Watchmen

The Watchmen graphic novel represented the collection of 12 perfectly crafted issues and it has to be said that, whilst highly acclaimed, it hasn't actually reached a mass audience. This means that unlike the Spiderman, Superman, Wolverine, Hulk, Spawn or Batman characters that have permeated popular culture, there are not millions of comic book fans, or even those with a casual interest, who are aware of the exploits of the Watchmen superheroes. Most will not even recognise any of the characters.

Mr Joe and Mrs Josephine Public do not read comic books and certainly wouldn't be able to tell you anything about Rorschach, Nite Owl or Dr Manhattan. However, there is a very good chance that they would be able to recognise Superman, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, Batman et al. You may argue as to whether such a thing should ever exist, but no child has ever owned or played with a Hooded Justice doll or placed a Sally Jupiter poster on their wall. This relative lack of profile and recognition for the Watchmen characters will prove to be a huge barrier to any production of a potential film in a Hollywood which is increasingly dependent upon existing properties - whether the film is a sequel in an ongoing franchise or is based on a television series - to generate funding.

All that being considered it would be pretty awesome if I could have a Rorschach doll where the inkblots on his mask were constantly morphing and I could pull a string and have him intone darkly, "Not even in the face of Armageddon. Never Compromise."

1 . The Threat Of Armageddon Is Over

The way in which Watchmen examines the human condition and deconstructs the superhero archetype makes it an essential work, but its tone is entirely informed by its being set in an alternative 1985 and its political context: a world on the brink of nuclear war. It is very much a work of its time. Back in the eighties the prevailing orthodoxy was that those crazy Russians might kick off and blow us all to kingdom come. This looming, black paranoia frames everything in the graphic novel and throws the raw re-imagining of fragile superheroes with hang-ups, delusions, and erectile dysfunction, into a sharp relief. We watch civilisation teeter on the edge of extinction and gauge the reactions of the tormented characters as they contemplate their own mortality. Rorschach, for example, is enthralling because his coping mechanism is the application of his own binary template to every situation and as a consequence he views everyone, and everything, in a coolly detached black and white.

Back here in the real world things are far more peaceful. The Berlin Wall came down in 1989 and Russia has eagerly embraced capitalism. Here in Britain, following last year's General Election, we've moved to a more tolerant and liberal minded government in New Labour. Our new Prime Minister, Tony Blair, has pledged himself to what he calls an "ethical foreign policy", so we can be safe in the knowledge that he won't be scanning the world and looking for wars to start. The Cold War anguish of Watchmen seems rather quaint now. These are days of peace and so it would be practically impossible for an audience to identify with a cast of characters worried about war and conflict. Such concerns are as alien to us today as the city sized squid that turns up at the end of the story.

*TIME Magazine also voted Adolf Hitler Man Of The Year in 1938, so, y'know, make up your own mind about whether they should be arbiters of anything.