Yo!

Here are the latest things I’ve scribed for http://www.whosjack.org

First some Daniel Radcliffe fan fiction.

Then a review of Jason Statham in Safe.

Next a top 10 Movie Beards list.

On to a consideration of Defeatist Cinema, or the hate-hate relationship I have with bad movies.

Finally, a look at a trio of foreign films about vengeance.

What’s up?

Here are more of this week’s articles over on www.whosjack.org.

First is a top 10 of the best movies with shouting in them.

Next is an opinion piece about why superhero films need to take a break.

Finally there’s a little article about a couple of French movies that are worth watching this weekend.

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Hey chaps, you can check out my reviews of Avengers Assemble and American Pie: Reunion by following these links.

Battleship movie review

April 18, 2012

“What a fine set of moustaches,” cooed Jennifer Aniston, leaning over the side of the enclosure and reaching her hand out to point at the distant walrus that had dumped itself lazily on an artificial rock. “I should like to feel those running through my hair.”

 

This was the first thing in the entire menagerie that had excited her. We were six miles below the desert of Dubai, which, I had been informed, was connected to various foreign food supplies by gob-smackingly expensive pipelines. These were used to sluice in grapes from Persia for the horses and a gallon of creamy butter every hour for the weasels, which were all obese and vomiting.

 

“Ah the walrus. The gentle scholar of the deep. The learned fisher-king of Neptune’s splashy continent. The Mark Twain of illiterate, mute, beanbag-shaped mammals.” Aniston opined, her Friends jacket twisting as she leaned ever further over the railing, which was for some reason made from jutting teak phalluses.

 

“I think it’s a bucktoothed, fey idiot” I burbled into her ear. She was my best friend, but I had to remind her that not everything she said was agreeable.

 

“Well I like them. I should like to mount one. They are known as the ponies of Poseidon’s intangible paddock, after all.” she said, pulling a bridle from the recesses of her wig. A sheik sipping coffee at a nearby bandstand scalded several of his wives when he involuntarily sprayed boiling liquid over them at the shock of this statement.

 

For my own part I was also surprised, dropping my monocle. A new one grew back almost immediately. “But Rachel, it is illegal for women to command man or beast in this country. You can’t even read a fucking book without also having a man’s cock resting on your shoulder like a featherless, boneless, beakless parrot. With enormous bollocks.”

 

Suddenly she turned to me, eyes black with rage, fists knitted with walnut knuckles and blue-gold veins.

 

“My name. Is Jennifer.”

 

The only one left alive was a walrus, softly weeping into a conch.

 

by The Monopoly Man

Helen Mirren Keeps Busy

April 16, 2012

Helen Mirren was knitting a woollen anus. I’d pointed out that it was really known as a snood, but she laughed like a bullfrog and told me that calling it an anus sounded less silly.

She came downstairs one morning with the woollen anus clasped tightly in one hand and absentmindedly flung her leg over one of the rocking horses in the kitchen. Our six children were gathered around the oven because I’d told them it would give them a suntan. I spat in the sink, my gut still swollen with an unvented morning piss.

“How’s the anus going?” I chirped, while enjoying the soothing stutter of the washing machine as its buttons massaged my thighs and bum.

“Oh it’s coming along, I think. I can’t wait to wear it over my penis.” Mirren replied, the hard consonant sound formed by the start of her last word being forced out violently enough to blow some scripts off the table in front of her.

“You don’t have a penis though, love. And even if you did, you’re making something that’s supposed to go around your neck. You’d have to be upsettingly well endowed for that to pop neatly onto your cock, wouldn’t you?”

She jerked her head to grimace over at me, setting the wooden horse rocking in a manner that removed any menace from the act. “Well, what with you being my wife, the news reader Moira Stewart, you don’t have a penis either. Which means this woollen anus will never clutch at either of our respective junks.”

She was right, but then I’d never said I wanted a snood OR a penis. She lisped loudly in an amazingly offensive Chinese accent into her Bolognese. I kept quiet to avoid an argument and took a copy of the Beano for a shit.

by the news reader Moira Stewart

“Whose lap is this?”

Ryan Gosling flopped heavily down onto me, spilling a little of the peaty Scotch from my tumbler and carelessly crushing my copy of Zoo.

 

“It’s mine, Mr Gosling. And if you don’t get up soon I fear my legs may fuse to this chair”. My voice was tight and the pitch was rising as his pressure upon my lower body built.

 

“Whose…lap…is…this?” He repeated, punctuating each pause with a peck on my whiskered cheek.

 

“It’s yours, sir.” I relented. He took a fistful of cream from a passing child’s sundae and held it aloft lazily, letting it run in rivulets down his wrist and into the sleeve of his freshly ironed cotton smock.

 

“Fuckin’ A it’s mine. I am the marquis of your lap, am I not?” Without waiting for an answer, he palmed the sloppy cream onto my face where it became matted and sticky.

“Now you have two beards!”

 

“Look, can you just move, please sir? I’m too old to be treated like furniture.” I dashed the remaining whisky in my face in an attempt to wash at least some of the cream away. I smelled glorious.

 

“Okay, Grumplestiltskin, I’ll move, after I’ve done just one more thing.” he said, affecting the voice of a precocious teenage opium dealer.

 

Gosling paused, his eyes roving sightlessly behind a pair of medically prescribed patches which barely masked a fretwork of scarring that splashed grotesquely out at the sides. Then he farted super hard right onto my dick.

 

by Sean Connery