Beaten by Billy

Here is a little story of what I was up to a year ago, this weekend. 13th September 2013; when I was party to a Stag Do which lasted four days. In Minehead. At Butlins. With three friends all equally lacking in dynamism and excelling in misanthropy. The Stag (for if that is what we must call him), referred to here as 'Bevan'. David's real identity has been kept secret.

So, while Bevan's choice of Butlin's for his Grande Stag Do was less surprising than the gameplay of a new Grand Theft Auto game, it was still (much like the video game); a very popular and accomplished package.  This was to be no one night of excess and debauchery, but an actual holiday.  Bevan even, at one point, declared that this "was a holiday - not a stag do".  He also told me that he spent more waking hours in an average week, with me, rather than his fiancée.  This may be why she likes me so much.

A 90s themed adult Butlin's holiday weekend it was; three nights and as many days of general, sustained and irresponsible cuntedness.  After much reshuffling, injuries and tactical changes, the Stag Do contingent was down to just four.  A bit like the interview episode of The Apprentice.  All four were Guild members(it's a little club we're in. It's super cool and all the girls love us. Obviously), including Billy Butlin himself, Bev.  Erstwhile Guild veterans Cy and Damo completed the party.  On the morning of event, we embarked on a pleasure that only comes from not having to work on a weekday - Whetherspoons, 10am.  On this day, I even beat Tomkiss to the bar, albeit to have a Shandy; but he'll never know!

After a disappointing (by disappointing, I mean the 'the A cocking 30 at Temple') start, we finally arrived. Gathering supplies at the nearby Morrison's was an odd experience.  Firstly, I didn't realise how much food Damo needs to survive. Maybe he bought more because he was in the wild?  Secondly, shopping at 2:30pm, with the checking in transfer window opening at 3pm, meant that the store was awash with similar young/30somethings gathering similar supplies.  Carefully pondering exactly which size of cheap vodka represents the best fucked-to-drop ratio.  Reluctantly deciding that picking up some water would "probably be a good idea".  I felt real empathy for one girl when she discovered that this particular Morrison's didn't stock the Nacho Cheese Doritos dip; you get the idea.  The juxtaposition of this young, hedonistic, dribbling crowd mixed with Morrison's primary shopper demographic of old people made this feel like some kind of zombie film.  Also, Damo ran off.  It seems I am forever doomed to fail in my ability to control children in supermarkets.

It was pissing down when we arrived and Bevan did all the Dad paperwork thing, gave us our card-keys and off we went.  Luckily we got an 'end terrace' apartment.  I say apartment, I'm not sure what it actually was. I'd never seen Butlin's bog standard, ass rung, value (cheap) accommodation. It was...weird.  The door was too small for the frame at the bottom, but locked, and the windows were barely single glazed.  It wasn't a house, or a bungalow, or a chalet.  Thinking about it, it was like a bungalow.  Like one of those terraced bungalows that are solely for OAPs.  It was even decorated like one.

It was cosy enough though, the sofas sustained a baptism of 'jumping up and down, beer in hand, moshing to Andrew WK' on, and the rooms were spacious.  Briefly, I wondered what exactly had happened here days previous; this wasn't a one-off adult weekend(er?), the summer schedule was packed full of similar type events.  Butlin's innovating their attraction in the years since foreign holidays became affordable.  Upon turning on the modest television for the first time it was on CBeebies, so it seemed safe, and teh previous occupiers were probably on a family holiday.  But we've all been there: 5am, half eaten kebab decorating your shirt, pupils like fucking pins, getting freaked out by pre-school television. So who's to say? I may seem bothered, but even by this point, I was far too drunk to care.  I was bothered by the small spider in the bathroom, who had just been impregnated, judging by the dead one next to it.  Even the spiders were shagging at Butlin's.  But rather than let that get me down, I drunk more alcohol and went to explore exactly how much I would have to pay for a pint in order to obtain the privilege of not staying inside all weekend with perverted, murderous, fucking arachnids.

This was my first time at Butlin's, though I have experienced the thrill of many British holiday parks. I had only previously been on Haven holidays, but Bevan assured me this was "the next level".  The sheer number of Welsh men - and the spider - said otherwise, I argued. Though, in fairness Butlin's cannot really be blamed for any of it. Naturally, to fit with the crowd we went to the Sports Bar, where Bev then literally went mental. All the excitement of the next few days combined with the terror of being a married man was too much and it all came out.  First he was shooting hoops on the arcade basketball machine, then dancing at the same time he played pool.  Dancing. To Sky Sports News.  Up to this point, I was sure I was drunk.  But this made me question everything.  When the lights had gone out (on the pool table, not Bevan) we abandoned the bar and returned to the bungalow.  We would return a few hours later, our alcohol levels increased, to see the first headline act of the weekend: Snap!

Not before the first of, well, a few attempts to trick and/or play a practical joke on Bevan.  I am awful at practical jokes, about 90% aren't funny and I'm worried about just how they affect our children.  Bevan, on the other hand, doesn't give a fuck about any of those things. That's right, he doesn't give a fuck about my children, your children or even his children - all because of his love for practical jokes!  The wanker. Anyway, this also means he is very good at them so, when Damo lifted his keycard from his wallet, he knew exactly what was up.  I, however, while shit at practical jokes, like to think I'm a semi-professional liar actor. When Bev called our bluff, we all denied what had happened (in fact, I think Cy actually had no idea. However, Cy having no idea is really a given and the point is moot), but the denial didn't work.  Angered by this, I did my best at reacting angrily at the accusation of stealing his keycard.  I brandished mine to make a point, as I waved it through the air it slipped through my fingers and fell onto the floor.  Bevan reacted quickest and grabbed it.  He looked at me and said, "now you don't have a keycard".  It was a little astonishing but, he was correct. Damo had two still though. This, of course, was Damo's fault - lifting the keycard from his wallet was a foolish move.  Bevan would never lose his keycard; he's a Bronze Butlin's member and, by Christ, he has every intention of making Silver one day. We gave in, and revealed our failed attempt at spinning this incident and, after suddenly 'finding the keycard' for Dave, we left. This exacerbation only made us want to get drunk more.

To say Snap! were underwhelming would take away just how enthusiastic I have been up to this point, but they really weren't very good.  The venue was poor, a large arena hall - or the Skyline as they call it - which gave Rhythm Is A Dancer less punchy feel.  They would of been better suited to the venue next door; Reds, which is where the game changed.  It was the main 'nightclub' of the resort.  It looked  dark, smoky, with the sound of pretty decent beats emanating from within.  I mean decent dance tunes. Adorning the entrance stood two girls, made up in a kind of glittery wedding dress, tiaras and everything.  They were on platforms, hidden by their 8ft long dresses.  Looking down, they waved at every person entering and suddenly this felt what I imagined a top dance club in the 90s must of felt like.  It was awesome.  However, it took some time for me to realise that wearing my shirt and waistcoat while 'raving and sweating like a fucking loon' was not a good - or comfortable - look.  I changed later that evening, but it was too late - I was fucked.

We woke the next morning was an unruly start.  Ridiculously, after going to bed at 6am, we were all awake by 10:30am.  Frankly, I'm still angry about it, but there we are.  Bevan, ever dutiful, was cooking breakfast, which Damo, ever dutiful, was eating.  I reached for my three drink recovery combo of orange juice, tea and Mars drink.  Not necessarily in that order, but it sets me up. We exchanged stories of teh previous night's adventures. Damo nearly felt some boobs and Cy got punched by a girl. Around lunchtime we made the decision to hop across the road by the main entrance of the resort and play 'Field'.  On the Beach.  'Field', is a popular game conceived by Anthony Marriott back at the turn of the Millennium. Guild members have developed it and it is not unusual for non-Guild members to attend on these events.  The purpose of the game is to go to a quite field and drink some beer.  It has been linked to a similar game called 'homelessness', but these claims have been rejected, The Guild pointing out that in 'homeless' 90% of the play time happens in busy, urban environments.

We ste off to play Field: Beach Extension Pack, but not before a trip to the fun fair.  We braved the carousel, which was just about ok considering I was basically still drunk.  Cy complained about going on the carousel, but seeing as Cy's most out of place look was yet to come, I think he quite enjoyed it.  Damo befriended yet more girls, one of which asked him what his 'cum face' was.  Still unsure if the face he pulled was his reaction to the personal nature of the question or actually a serious answer.  I was going to try and find previous sexual partners to confirm this, but I decided that, actually, I really didn't want to know.  We then braved a swinging, aeroplane type ride, which was just about fierce enough for Bev and I.  Not so for Cy.  He and Damo went on to this ridiculous monstrosity which spun upside down and stuff.  Damo made taunting comments about Tom Carter while I think I made some UKIP style posturing.  Unsure why.  Damo wanted a bit of DamoTime(TM) so he went off to watch a Tom Jones tribute act some sport and the remaining three of us went to the beach.  Whereby we smoked cigars and pretended that we were a really rubbish version of The A-Team.  In our heads.  It was a good afternoon and before long we set off to meet back up with Damo.

Now, Bev is not a man to forget a wrong against him and he had not forgotten the keycard farce from the previous night.  He decided he would have his vengeance in the only way he knows how: being a horrible human being.  I won't go into too much detail, but it basically involved a McDonalds meal intended for Damo, a section of pavement, Bevan's terrible attempt at pretending to be Lionel Messi and my video phone.  In a way, he was Clarkson and I was Richard Hammond, filming the travesty unfold while Cy's James May looked on with shame and thrill in equal measure.  Damo did eat the meal and then Bevan showed him the video.  A ceasefire was agreed.  Makes me wonder if Bevan is actually a secret military strategist and not, in fact, a cunt of a man?  A discussion for another time, perhaps.

Now that the gang was all back together we ventured back our bland accommodation.  The main attraction this evening was a Madness tribute act and Chesney Hawkes, but both weren't on until quite late, so we played poker, scrabble and got smashed at home before going out.  Chesney was first up and we caught the end of his act.  After finishing another cover of a popular guitar led pop track he announced the crowd "I'm going to play one of my songs now".  The crowd roared with approval and anticipation.  "It's one I wrote myself, I hope you like it".  Not the One and Only then.  Instead, it was a new original song he had written.  The crowd calmed down and didn't seem interested.  When it finished, he said, rather regrettably, "I suppose you want me to do 'The One And Only' now, right?"  The crowd cheered again, even louder.  He did his thing, and off he popped, before thanking the masses.  I feel sorry for Chesney.  For all the emphasis on modern manufactured pop stars to play their own instruments, write their material and perform well live; here was one who was doing all that, but nobody cared.  They wanted Nik Kershaw's song played by this Chesney Hawkes cover band and maybe some other songs never wrote.  His original song wasn't very good, but at least he tried.  Or maybe he just really like that Streets Of London sketch in Big Train?

I suppose Sunday was the start the hangover, but at least we got more sleep that evening. Bev was adamant that we needed to check out the pool, so our battered bodies picked up what was left of our battered brains and went to check out some log flumes.  I lasted all of 10 minutes before deciding that I really needed to lay down and listen to Pink Floyd. Complete with overpriced, unsatisfying pasty. By this time our old and frail bodies desperately needed to rest, so Sunday was a bit of a blowout.  Damo got a full frontal of a naked Welsh man standing in a window, resulting in him walking the longer route home to avoid a repeat retina burn.  We saw a Blur tribute band and went out that final evening and mishitting 90's boyband, Damage. Damo was most enthusiastic about this, while Bevan, Cy and I took some seats a comfortable distance away from gyrating mens torsos to ensure we didn't get aroused. At one point, Bevan and I left the table briefly, leaving Cy alone at a table watching half naked men sing songs about how great a lover they are. To get the effect of this, you really need to see young Cy. He resembles a stereotypical Download festival goer. That's about the nicest and most concise way of describing him.

We all basically longed for our own beds while simultaneously not wanting the weekend to end.  End it did though, but not before Bevan slipped on his arse on the dancefloor moments after we all advised him to call it night. Probably the only foot he put wrong all weekend.  We also handed out 500 slips of paper encouraging people to follow Damo on Twitter. We weren't actually trying to make Damo go viral, we just wanted at least one person to hurl abuse at him online. Lo, the next morning, there was a tweet directed to @damofail and was suitably abusive.  Mission accomplished.  Damo, however, got the last laugh of these inane, unispried pratical jokes for the weekend.  Covertly stealing my pillows just before bed on the last night.  Motivation gone, I conceded and used a pile of clothes as a makeshift pillow, keeping focus on the fact I would soon have my own bed soon. I returned home, watched the penultimate episode of Breaking Bad, with a proper set of pillows and about 7 gallons of water.

Dominos Pizza. Or Sky Sports

Dominos Pizza has long held the title of most overpriced item in the free world.  The primary reason being; they're really, really expensive.  And they sit pretty much at the top of the franchised takeaways in Britain and, as such, means they are accessible, acceptable and sought by any person from any level of affluence.  Rich or poor, Dominoes sits alone, for what you need it for.  Any sociologists will tell you that makes them pretty bloody overpriced.

Or they would, if they didn't subscribe to Sky television.  And most of them do - they probably realise how having television signals BEAMED FROM SPACE is still quite cool.  Because of the cost of all these space miles of sometimes glorious television, the price has to be high, we all understand that.  No, Sky TV is expensive, but Sky Sports is overpriced.

To put it in perspective, I've excitedly just caught up with hearing Barry Davies - he of Dennis Bergkamp vs Argentine World Cup semi final and Big Train fame - commentating on the 2012 Olympics.  At 28, I caught Davies in the autumn of his career and, despite not being a regular, he still remains my favourite commentator of everything.  For anything.  Ever.  I was a devout ISS Pro fan, but had a soft spot for Actua Soccer's  football-cum-ice skating videogame would work if only for Davies classic vocals.

The man is more deserving of the word legend than the last person you described it about, I'm sure of it.  This Olympics is Davies's twelfth Summer Olympics, which is now a record for a UK sports broadcaster, surpassing the behemoth of UK commentary, David Coleman.  Davies is known for commentating on Football, Hockey, Badminton, Tennis, Gymnastics and all round running around trying to win things through physical and mental means.  This is mainly lifted from his wikipedia page, which is well worth a short read.  His children, incidentally, have some sort of ability reminiscent of Les infants Attenborough.  But I won't bore you with it here.

Instead, I want to draw your attention to why Barry Davies is an example of sports commentary and broadcasting at it's best.  The man exudes warmth, knowledge and gravitas.  The balance of these three things is totally messed up in 99% of sports commentary today.  And Sky, more specifically, Andy Gray, is to blame for starting this foolishness.

Knowledge means little these days, as I have just shown in the paragraphs above - Wikipedia is in the actual air next you to, all the time, providing you know the IP address.  And there are some commentators who still have modicums of warmth.  I do have a soft spot for *cough* Johnatan Pearce *cough*, who seems to have moved on from his Robot Wars days.  Even if he would be ruddy awful company.  Actually, that's stupid; Jonathan Pearce has about as much warmth as an average 24 hour garage.  I'll move on.

To gravitas.  Yes, gravitas.  The most important world in the whole world.  For the next 60 seconds.  Of your life.  See, it's well important.  Modern commentators/sports reporters have it all muddled up and are constantly pushing it up to 11 on a Sunday afternoon in Football League Two.  To an extent, the hyping of everything you see on television is a standard move and Sky, 'i'TV, et al. do practice this as a often as you or I would fart.  It makes sense.  In the evil, cruel and oppressed world of commercial television, that is.  Gray started this hyping of a very different nature during is co-commentator time at Sky.  It was a million miles away from Jimmy Hill's wails of delight in the 1986 World Cup.  Though, Gary Neville has had a good go recently.  "Couldn'ta save tha wid two Gouhlkeepars", "Massive, massive chance" and various other chilches infected the game over a sustained period.  First 'i'TV and now, mistakenly, adopted by the BBC's commentary team.

This makes no sense, and seems like the BBC is keeping up with da cool kidz, innit.  Talking like an overhyped sportsfan at every conceivable kick, foul and pout, their current football commentary team are just as bad as iTVs.  Of course, BBC viewers do get the yin to Guy Mowbray's yang in Mark Lawrenson.  What a fucking winning combination.

Davies of course, needed no team and his diversity in sports coverage is being adopted by more and more commentators.  Lawrenson on Boxing?  Unfortunately, no, but old faces such as John Inverdale pop up when you least expect them, like on the Tennis or Rugby.  Claire Balding does Horse Racing, Swimming and Rugby.  And Crufts.  Steve Rider can be spotted 17 hours after Haley's Comet passes.  Usually on iTV3.  And spare a thought for Jim Rosenthal.  Despite this, none of these presenters would fit anywhere on Sky's coverage.  Claire Balding just isn't going to get as many 'PHHHRRRROOWWAHH's as Georgie Thompson.  Inverdale is a hunk though, so go figure.

Before the sexism scandal (scandal, journos, not 'row') engulfed them, Keys and Gray had no chance spreading out to other sports, even if they wanted to.  The tribal football fan had accepted them as their own and they were going nowhere.  Much like football fans had done with Lynam, Hill, Brooking, Hansen, Motson and Moore; but this time a different type of fan initiated them into the football fraternity for ever and ever and ever.  Y'know the fan type of football.  The loud ones.  That listen to, and participate in, phone ins

The modern football fan was more defined from the modern sports fan than ever before.  Sports fans should love the spectacle, first and foremost, not the competition; despite it arguably driving the excitement.  Sports fans and broadcasters should care little about a striker's shots on target ratio or how many times one long standing and established club has beaten another long standing and established club, since they formed back in the Mesozoic Era.  It really doesn't matter and we don't need to have an hour of pre match build up telling this nonsense.  It's like your partner banging on you about every orgasm or carpet burn they ever had, using an iPad as a pictorial and interactive aid; all the time reassuring you that this is 'foreplay'.

The loving of spectacle is pretty much what this Olympics feels like and Davies is right be brought back to our screen.  Yesterday the GB Team (not 'Team GB' - this isn't a staff training exercise roleplay thing, it's the chuffing Olympics) won their first gold medals after various people started moaning about we didn't have any yellow coloured 1st Rosettes yet, at our bloody sports day.  Does it matter?  Probably not.  The Olympics seem to be about personal battles, the years of training and once in a lifetime chance.  The spectacle is all the really matters.  Real stories, not a unpredictable Italian setting off fireworks in his bath.

And the BBC have done a pretty good job at keeping a lid on it so far.  There has been little hype, traded for subtlety.  The excitement created with this approach is much more palatable.  The commentators do exactly that; commentate, not spew hyperboleic audio descriptions down their microphones.  It makes it much more enjoyable.  And I don't even like sport (this is not a joke).  All sport coverage should have this approach, not a grandiose and shiny front end that Sky Sports adopt.

So imagine if Sky did Olympics coverage.  It would be dreadful.  Literally impossible to watch.  Moving, sound effect aided screen graphics for Judo.  Needless computer simulations showing exactly what happened in weight lifting - in 3D.  Using that flawless logic, think about anything Sky Sports does better than any other broadcaster.  Is there anything?  Maybe F1 (and I'm probably not qualified to say; but I know many detractors from this way of thinking)?  Imagine if Murray Walker was still commentating.  And staying on BBC.  Who in their right mind would choose Sky?

Sky Sports: massively overpriced for what it is.  It can't even cover sport well, at all.  It just has loads of dosh.  Probably from all that sponsering Dominos do on The Simpons.  That you and probably gave them from buying really expensive Pizzas.  So we're to blame really.  Typical.

Season Five - Episode One

The season opener of the fifth and final season of Breaking Bad premièred in the U.S. last Sunday, with a heavy amount of anticipation and fanfare - down the various internet back alleys, at least.  Famously, the show is still yet to be picked up by a major UK player, despite winning numerous Emmys and being nominated in the Golden Globes.  The show's cult status mirrors that of The Wire, which only got it's first UK run a while back, late night on BBC2.  The difference setting them apart is that AMC produce BrBa (as only true obsessives will call it), making it free of the difficulties that seem to permeate negotiating HBO series across the pond, though this has long been rectified by Sky's Atlantic channel.

Even this blogger must admit that he has only caught up on all four previous seasons in the past few months and, despite the excitement, it is difficult to see where Vince Gilligan can take the show after the climax of season four.  The show excels in so many areas: the acting from Cranston and Paul, and their TV double act is superb; both displaying natural verve in the role.  An on-screen double act not matched by many, and very few examples to compare it to in the big US dramas, where the lead alone seems to dominate.  Here both are equal, despite the premise revolving mainly around Cranston's 'Michael Douglas-in-Falling-Down-cum-Mr-Spock' story.

The show's strength is manifested here and in many other areas, making it hard to pick exactly why it's so revered.  The pacing of the show is perfect; 45 minutes whizzing by with ease and every scene seems to be relevant.  No Dickensian qualties here.  The show can be seen as a series of mistakes and deceit; and, something it does borrow from The Wire - no one seems to be infallible.  Apart from maybe Walt Jr. (but he is a disabled high school kid when we meet him, his role in the story is obvious) and maybe - get this - Jesse.  But maybe more about that another day.

It seems difficult to know exactly where the show was going to go, other than the obvious.  This season, split into two, the show's swansong and the seemingly inevitable path of 'Top Dog' for Walter was the only place the show needed to go.  Rather than the lazy comparisons to Scarface, this is more about examining a simple thirst for power amid anonymity following a rather rudimentary mid-life crisis.  A clever backdrop against the world of 2012, where people happily give up every inch of secrecy for a slice of self affirmation.  In the show the affirmation of Walt and Jessie's abilities is a whole lot of money.  Y'know, how it used to be back in the olden days?  I'm guessing Walter or Jessie aren't on Facebook.  Then again, maybe they are...


We start with a teaser of Walter, doing his best Gary Oldman Jim Gordon impression, complete with a full mop of hair; alone, on his 52nd birthday.  The preamble ends with him buying a weapon of paranoid destruction, prompting to ask the question who is he obsessively worrying about now.  And the method isn't exactly his type, based on previous form. That's all we get of it, and I suspect we will see more as we move through the season.  This blogger thought that the ongoing teasing of pink bear and it's rouge eye in season two met a fairly unsatisfying end, considering how much it was rammed down our throats, so it would be a little disappointing if Gilligan was to do it again.  However, the mystery does keep playing on the mind, so maybe he's proven his point.

It's also about as much of the arc as we get to see at this stage, the first episode seems to be a setup for what we expect to come.  Credit must go to the team for picking up the story directly where it left off at the end of season four.  This was done in the pilot/second episode transition and is so rare to see.  Of course, the main driving force of the show is Walt's ascent/decent, so the opener showed a Walt still high on his 'victory' over Gus.  The comedy element which litters the show in the darkest - and most tense - of places was true to form with the magnet scheme.  Walt's desperation was clear to see by making the van topple and shows that, whatever happens in the next 15 episodes, and despite how smart he is, there will be no stunning and stylish escape from death akin to Gus's escape from Dan Eladio's residence, once his life is threatened.  Walter is still rash and very much thinks on his feet.  Effectively and to exhilarating effect, but one wonders how effective this will be now he is at the top.

It would be reasonable to suggest that the tension which was made all far apparent between Walter and Mike will soon cool and it wouldn't be surprising if Gilligan and the team of writers focus more on Walter's relationship with his family.  This would bring it full circle and address the first real tensions in the show; his 'forgiveness' of Skyler seemed genuinely surprising, indicative of a man who may be getting (rather understandably) delusions of grandeur.  Gilligan and his team are masters of the spaghetti western style sub plotting/resolutions and there are surely surprises to come but, if Walt is heading for the ultimate fall which most of audience expect, we are surely not naive enough to expect it will be anything but straightforward.  Not in this show.