Trump is right again.

Britain needs guns

Recently, President Trump (the healthiest ever president that ever did live) compared London hospitals to a war zone. He was, of course, referring to the rampant knife crime that goes unchecked throughout the city. Once again, he has been rather astute and hasn’t been cowed into avoiding telling the truth like most politicians are.

Living in a London overspill town, I spend a lot of time in England’s capital city or the front lines as it were. Stepping off the train, the true extent of knife crime is instantly evident. Bodies lay strewn along the platform with medics risking their lives in a vain attempt to save those of young men cut to ribbons.

Words of wisdom

True to President Trump’s (the healthiest ever president) words, the hospitals are awash with blood. One prominent doctor even compared it to that one scene from The Shining. The unchallenged thugs that prowl London’s streets fear not the law or any sort of recompense. Just look at the arrogance of the typical Londoner, proudly brandishing their blade of choice.

 

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I feel threatened just typing this

 

Government figures show that knife crime has got so bad that even the charts used to illustrate them look quite scary.

graph 1

As you can see, the number of deaths due to knife crime has inclined steadily over the years, before levelling out in the early naughties for some unknown reason, before rocketing off the chart (literally). There’s no telling how high the number is because there is yet to be a sheet of paper large enough to record it.

UK Government failing us yet again

Alas, the government does nothing. This is partially due to the fact that Britain’s elected MPs are currently stuck inside the Houses of Parliament because there’s a shady looking ethnic fellow standing outside, and he almost certainly has a knife.

It’s simply not a case of isolated gang violence stemming from various economic and social issues. The native Londoner has become a bloodthirsty beast who thinks they can do what they wish. Slashing up innocent civilians left, right and centre, and even slightly left of centre.

 

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Yet another couple of knife-crazed millennials celebrating their latest kill with a balanced meal.

 

The solution

It’s becoming increasingly obvious that the only solution to this terrible state of affairs comes in the form of a gun. Why we Brits fear the gun is a mystery that baffles all intelligent men. Thanks to the gun, Britain forged the greatest empire the world had ever seen. The gun helped us keep our green and pleasant land’s most vicious predator (the fox) in check. Now the gun can liberate us from the tyranny of the knife.

If we stopped listening to all these cowardly liberals and embraced the return of the gun, knife crime would all but disappear. All this violence would end if these knife-wielding maniacs knew they had a righteous man with a gun to fear. The bloodshed will cease if everyone who looks like they might be carrying a knife was shot.

The hard truth

The incredibly healthy Donald Trump isn’t afraid to state the hard facts. Facts that may offend all you many snowflakes. Of course it’s true that had everyone present at the Bataclan had a gun and immediately started opening fire upon sighting a terrorist, the death toll would have probably been in minus numbers.  It’s as true as had President Kennedy (a less healthy president than the immensely healthy Donald Trump) been waving a gun when sat in that car, he’d not have been assassinated.

‘But what if the criminals get guns?’ you disgusting, whiny liberals cry. Well, they’re not going to use them if they know that everyone else has a gun. It’s mutually assured destruction. If every man, woman and child has a gun, they’ll outnumber the criminals tenfold.

Compare the stats

Just take a look at the official statistics coming from America, where everyone’s allowed a gun and even teachers are being urged to arm themselves lest a crazed maniac with a gun comes in.

graph 3

You’ll notice that the number of deaths has always been low (under a thousand). As the number of guns increases, the number of knife related deaths decrease, until we get to 2018, where nobody has yet died at all. This is no doubt partially influenced by citizens following the healthy example of their elected leader.

Now let’s look at the UK and American statistics side by side (or underneath). graph 2

As you can see, the graphs are completely different. One’s a bar chart, the other is a line chart. We can all agree that when information is displayed via lines, it’s a lot more of a pressing issue than the nice, friendly bars.

Now compare this to the number of knife related deaths that occur in rural locations where it’s known that the farmer down the road owns a shotgun. The number is so low, that there’s no point in showing it in chart form.

There has only been one recorded knife related death and that was because he was cutting an onion and slipped, severing an artery. Plus, he had past convictions of knife-related crime anyway, so good riddance to the bastard.

The facts are clear. Guns will solve London’s knife crime and make our country great again. Donald Trump didn’t get as healthy as he is today by not embracing guns.

 

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A brave young boy standing up for the little person. (metaphorically, not dwarves. Though he’d stand up for them too)

 

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Rose tinted spectacles

rose tint

I was going to complain about how hot it is today, but I realised I have already posted about how much I don’t like the heat. In fact, I think I’ve done that at least twice. I worry I often come across as a grumpy old man, and this fear was reinforced by the fact that I just had to yell out my mum’s window to tell off some damn kids that were buzzing the flats and running away. Other people’s kids; I hate ‘em. Especially when they’re allowed to run riot, unchecked and undisciplined. I played knock down ginger once when I was a kid. The neighbour chased me, yelled at me for half an hour and then told my mum, who proceeded to wallop me and yell at me for a further hour. If I had my way no one under the age of 18 would be allowed outside and, even then, they’d have to pass a test first.

I went to see two houses today in the hope of solving my homelessness problem (which is not as bad as the homelessness problem. In fact if I were to complain about it I’d have to burn my privledged arse with an iron. One was only a house by a technicality. There were stairs, which led to a bed sized platform with enough space for a bed. From there, you could peer down to the living area, which is something I never realised I wanted to do until then. The second was a two-bed house, I saw it with a human being I can tolerate… just.

For context, I have recently returned to my hometown as my former flatmate decided she’d rather live with the man she loved and her daughter instead of me in a bit to live a happy and fulfilled life. The selfishness of people these days astounds me. Anyway, I couldn’t afford the flat on my own so asked my dad if I could live with him for a while. He laughed and hung up.

My mother was more charitable, but apparently, even her patience has limits and I have been given a deadline to find a place… I don’t really know what happens after that. Maybe she and my ten-year-old sister will bludgeon me to death with a frying pan. A fate I’d welcome in this heat.

Anyway, back in my hometown… seeing houses… I walked through a wood that I hadn’t walked through in some time. I got a powerful hit of nostalgia. It’s a painfully heavy thing nostalgia that pulls on your very soul. The phrase rose tinted glasses is often associated with viewing the past or reminiscing on one’s childhood. I tend to view the past in shit tinted glasses. Not because my past was bad, on the contrary, it was very good.  Just, the feeling that can only be described as ‘nostalgic’ twists my innards. Nostalgia is a dangerous thing for many, people often get lost there. My dad once started an anecdote concerning the 80s, we lost him about half way through a Genesis concert. We haven’t seen him since.

I don’t like nostalgia. It makes me feel very uncomfortable, much like thinking about the future. I tend to live in the moment. Not out of some cool life affirming way, but out of belligerence the past makes me feel uncomfortable and the future terrifies me. I refuse to be anywhere but the moment and have to be dragged into the future kicking and screaming.

The problem with that is, moments are fleeting. Future moments are transformed into the present with the previous moment being hurled into the junk pile of the past. The older you get the taller this pile rises until it’s a veritable mountain and casts an oppressive shadow over you. All these moments have now gone, never to be lived again. The future pile is growing smaller and smaller and most of the moments there seem to be best avoided and filled with death and the realisation that I will never fulfil my dreams of being a legitimately published author, or musician… or just rich. Forget the books, the music or the success, just give me money.

What was I saying?

Ah yes. The houses were quite nice, I’ll probably go with one.

You Next Day Delivering Arse

After finishing a hard day of staring at a screen and wondering what to write, I find myself sitting staring at a screen and wondering what to write. There’s a fleeting moment upon finishing a day at work where you’re filled with a vague sense of accomplishment mixed with relief. You think ‘I can now go home and do whatever I want.’ And then you get home and realise you have no idea what you want to do, before succumbing to the realisation that there isn’t anything to do that doesn’t involve a screen of any kind. Go on, think of something to do that doesn’t involve a screen. I’ll wait…

How many things did you think of? If you said meet up with friends, think how many people actually have friends these days. There aren’t many and those that do don’t meet up with them because they’re all looking at screens. If you said go for a walk, then I can only assume you are from the 19th century.  I live in the centre of Stevenage, there is nowhere worth walking to. Not to mention the level of homelessness seems to have risen of late and for some unfathomable reason, they all seem to think I have lots of money and will be the one to pull them up the social ladder. I don’t have any money, and the social ladder’s been locked inside a shed for some time now.

Yet still, I am bombarded with requests for loose change. If I believe the stories thrown in my direction, I do try and help. But rarely do I believe and it’s a very complicated, multi-layered issue that requires more thought than just ‘here’s 50p’. The outermost layer being the already mentioned: I have no money. I would get into some of the other layers, but better people than I have tried to solve the problem of poverty and social inequality and it’s apparently still a problem. So, like most people, I will ignore the issue altogether and focus on my own trivial existence. I’m sure it will sort itself out. Like global warming and this Syria issue.

Global catastrophe and potential war crimes aside, someone in my office ordered some new headphones today. What’s notable about this event is that he ordered them and, two hours later, they were delivered to the office. I’m not prone to over reacting, but I feel this is poultry up the anus insane.

The idea of next day delivery annoys me for a myriad of reasons, let alone same day delivery. For one, before the age of internet shopping, you could get things on the same day you bought them, it just required going to a shop. Historians reckon there used to be loads of them and archaeologists have recently uncovered what they believe to be the foundations of an old [insert defunct store here and wait for the hilarity to settle down].

Furthermore, next day delivery has led to an influx of delivery vans on the road, which we all know leads to more pollution. It has also led to the exploitation of many hard workers being paid a pittance to deliver approximately one bazillion parcels. There have been reports of drivers not being permitted bathroom breaks and being paid well under minimum wage. Which is outrageous because cumulatively, I spend at least two hours a week on the toilet and get slightly above the national average for my age, which means I’m probably earning more per hour doing a shit than a driver does delivering shit to impatient shits.

Sure, you all take to the internet to say, ‘that’s outrageous, that’s like modern slavery!’ (although it’s a difficult one to compare. On the one hand, drivers do get paid, but on the other, slaves probably got to go to the toilet when they wanted), but you’re also the first ones to be on the phone complaining that your Superman graphic novel wasn’t delivered, leading to some poor driver getting reprimanded. I fucking hate you! You next day delivering arse!

There are even apps that allow you to track your delivery in real time. Which is terrifyingly dystopian, you, watching over these poor delivery drivers to make sure they’re keeping to the exact minute promised by corporations earning billions in profits. Soon, they’ll add the option to shock your driver if you don’t think they’re going fast enough and the slowest driver of the week will be beheaded for all to see.

But you don’t care about any of this do you? As long as you get your things and get them now! You’ll be demanding your latest video game release get blasted down from space the exact second you hit order!

Why are you so desperate for your things? Even various sofa shops are doing next day delivery now. How has anyone found themselves in the position that they’re that desperate for a sofa? Even if your sofa is inexplicably stolen by the world’s most impractical thief (the resale value on a sofa can’t be worth the effort of lugging it out your living room), just sit on the floor for a couple of days.

‘It’s efficient though. It’s good to have things quick. We want the things and we want it now, it’s instant gratification, we don’t like waiting. No sooner than we get the thing delivered THE SAME DAY, we’ll be ordering the next thing. Chip chip driver, no time for sleep, I don’t care if your bladder has just exploded and your crying urine.’ That’s you that is.

Why bother waiting to order the thing? Why bother waiting until you know you even want the thing? Don’t even wait until the thing has been invented yet. Don’t wait for anything, just press the cease existing button and never wait again.emergency stop

…well that got out of hand.

 

Time is somewhat shorter

Tomorrow is the 30th, which theoretically means the next day will be the first of May. May is a month I always forget, in my mind it goes: January, February, March, April, June, July…. May interrupts the flow. We should just get rid of it and pad February and August out a bit. However, that would make it seem as time is going even quicker than it currently is, which brings me on to my point: time is going too fast.

Tuesday will herald in the start of the fifth month. We’ll bid a tearful farewell to April and plunge head first into whatever shit May brings our way. It’s utterly terrifying. Just yesterday it was Christmas. The week before I was sixteen and my band had just won Hertfordshire’s under 18s Battle of the Bands. I had written a novel I was sure was going to be a best seller and could say with some degree of confidence that I was definitely going to star in a few blockbuster movies.

This year I turn twenty-seven. The band’s guitarist is putting on weight at an alarming rate, the drummer is having a child and I’m fairly certain the bassist died… perhaps in some sort of unexpected golfing accident. I realised my novel was shit so wrote some other, decidedly less shit ones which got rejected by multiple agents, and I was an extra in the Theory of Everything. It’s a film I have yet to actually watch and have no intention of watching. I don’t understand biopics. They’re either embellished to the point of pure fantasy or boringly accurate. Ultimately, we know how they’re going to end. Also, since watching Game of Thrones I can rarely get into anything that doesn’t involve a sword fight or gratuitous nudity. I doubt a biopic of the late great Stephen Hawking has any of that.

The point is, none of my dreams show the remotest chance of coming true. Which is fine, if we all achieved our dreams the economy would be in a state of disarray. But my next ‘big birthday’ is 30. We all know this is where the clock really starts ticking if you’ve not achieved anything interesting and/or don’t have a partner or indeed any sign of finding one (all of those are true for me). People in their forties might shake their head and tut at this, but that’s only because they’re living in denial. 30s is the beginning of the end. It’s all just a matter of waiting for death by that stage.

Having started a job (a fairly good one, but it’s too early to claim it’s a career yet), time is rocketing by at such a pace I am destined to wake up one morning and catch a glimpse of a haggard, heavily bearded man clad in ragged and rotting clothes. I’ll look into his worn and dead eyes and see me as a youthful man trapped inside, weeping. I will then scream and run outside and get hit by the bus of the future, which still won’t be flying, and a single will cost £450 in future money.

The weekdays zoom by, despite being at work, which is a notoriously dull place (again I quite like my job, but still). The weekends are gone in an instant. I go for a poo on a Friday evening and when I emerge it’s Sunday afternoon, Monday’s looming over me and I haven’t topped the electricity meter up.

Soon it will be summer, the worst of all the seasons and then it’ll me Christmas again, the worst of all the celebrations. I will have no more time to write shit unpublished novels, having time to find a love interest and then devoting time to the unnecessary convoluted human mating ritual will be but a mere fantasy and before I know it, I’ll be writing another half arsed blog about how my next birthday is 28, and things still annoy me.

Then one day, I’ll realise I’m 86 and that it’s time to die. Death will come wandering in, I’ll get up to try and nut him, but dislocate a hip. And he’ll say, ‘You know, it only feels like last week I saw you being born when I was passing through the hospital to geriatric wards.’

I’ll ask him if I’ve led a good life.

He’ll say I’ve led a distinctly average one.

 

 

 

 

An Ode to Rain

Whilst I can accept that the sun is key to all life bar the weird shit swirling round in the darkest depths of the ocean, there’s simply no excuse for what it’s currently doing. England is experiencing a mini heatwave of sorts, prompting people to prophesise once again that these are our few brief days of summer. They say this despite the fact that it is April and therefore spring, and that year on year summers are getting increasingly hotter.

 

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Figure 1: Graph stolen from a site that looks like it proves my point, but if looked at in detail doesn’t really.

 

Still, the British population complains we don’t get enough sun and that it’s always raining. I for one think that the last few days have been unbearable. Not only do I find anything over 8 degrees (Celsius, the best of all the degrees) maddeningly uncomfortable, heat also causes a river of sweat to sweep into the narrow valley of my arse crack causing me to constantly wonder whether I have shat myself.

The intense solar rays also inflict the British public with a form of madness, turning them all into dicks or, at the very least, they bring their innate dickishness to the surface. Men are the first to succumb to this because on the whole, they’re more dickish. The first symptom manifests itself in the mistaken belief that they no longer have to be dressed when they’re outside. Shirts become a temporarily forgotten thing and swollen egos strut around displaying their thoroughly underwhelming bodies in an animalistic display. Skinny and chubby men tense with all their might to look appealing, giving themselves hernias in the process. Those with sculpted six-packs stride through fields with sickly, self- satisfied smiles that make everyone want to hit them with chairs.

There’s never an excuse not to be fully clothed. No one takes their trousers off screaming that it’s too hot. If it’s not acceptable on the bottom half, then it’s not acceptable on the top.

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A variation on my collection of ‘you’re a dick’ signs.

 

Then the coffee shops become clogged with bodies. Queues stretch out the doors and move at a snail’s pace. This is not because people feel inclined to have a nice espresso as they sit in the afternoon sun like someone might in Italy. Not that I’ve ever been to Italy, just sounds like the sort of thing they’d get up to before riding off on a moped and doing… doing something overtly Italian. Those crazy Italians and their ways. No. Instead, as it’s hot, people think going to a coffee shop for a cold drink is a good idea. A drink with numerous ingredients that requires blending in some weird industrial blender, with a frankly indecipherable name.

If people are not guzzling on children’s fruity milk drinks (made adult by the addition of ‘cino’), they’re sucking on beer or cider bottles or sipping fizzy wine, depending on how the class war’s going at the time. It’s hot, therefore drinking in public is acceptable. If it’s raining, a lone figure sat on a bench and hunched over a can of cheap Polish lager is a sign of poor life choices or serious economic and social woe. If it’s sunny, the world and their nan are getting pissed in public and leaving a trail of discarded bottles and cans in their wake. Like slugs. Except their slime isn’t biodegradable.

 

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I hate them almost as much as I hate this sun enjoying cock!

 

Then come the inevitable invitations to barbeques. Either at someone’s house or gathered around a foil, disposable thing like prehistoric man, charring cheap strips of meat until it resembles something vaguely edible. Or, in people’s gardens, as they roast marinated meat and vegetable kebabs on huge, expensive beasts as everyone gets drunk and the neighbours’ children die of smoke inhalation. ‘Nothing beats a barbeque’ people say. ‘It’s just cooking outside’ I say. ‘Who invited you?’ they say before I retreat back inside and stew in my own sweat, desperately opening every window in an attempt to get the air to move.

But alas it remains still. My efforts just aid the insect invasion. Flies and wasps of all sizes seem to find their way in with ease and yet haven’t evolved to the point they can consider leaving the same way. They circle the place buzzing nosily or biting and drinking my blood. Bees occasionally make themselves known, but I have a soft spot for the fuzzy, dying things and at least if they sting me they’re doing more damage to themselves.

Sleep becomes a distant memory.  The naivety and innocence of those pleasant winter months, where your bed welcomes you with open arms and hugs you with warm and comforting duvet arms, fades and is replaced with hardship and woe. You toss and turn in a desperate bid to feel some degree of comfort before you have to rise from a fitful sleep and spend another day under the assault of the blaring sun.

Bring back the rain. The rain is the giver of life. The rain washes away the oppression of the hydrogen beast in the sky. The rain brings relief. The rain is forgiving. The rain is loving.

I long to hear the words ‘that’s the end of the British summer.’ And the damn thing hasn’t even started yet.

 

What?

First of all, why would anyone suck an egg? Secondly, why do grandmothers have such expert knowledge on the subject? Why can old people get away with talking complete arse and calling their drivel ‘sayings’. My nan used to say, ‘you’d laugh to see a pudding roll.’ Who wouldn’t? If your pudding started flopping around of its own accord, you would laugh. At the very least you’d smirk. If you were stood in a forest clearing and a swiss roll rolled past, that’d be amusing.

I never understand sayings and idioms, they make me mad. But then again, everything does. Like the Plus Net guy, I fucking hate that guy. He’s been trying to sell broadband for years. Is he proud of himself?

 

 

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No doubt he’s watching someone stomp on my dreams.

 

Despite recently getting a job that’s paying me more than I’ve ever been paid (which is not to say it’s a lot, just I’ve never been paid much) I am currently homeless. I’m not destitute, I’m just of no fixed abode and crashing on my mum’s sofa and my dad’s spare bed. Having spent more time with my mum and 10-year-old sister, it is becoming more apparent that I am a difficult person to live with. Mainly because of my hateful and angry nature. I have tried to control this, I have tried to let things go and not get worked up over trivial things, but then Owen Wilson comes on the TV and starts talking about sofas and I just become incensed. It astounds me how that man has a career. I think I’d even say the Plusnet man is more bearable than him, and I hate the Plusnet man.

I can’t stand anything. Everything is stupid. The news, global politics, the entertainment industry, life is just becoming unbearable and if I’m set to live for the national average I’ve got another 55 years to go. How have we got to this point? How has the USA got a bloated mutated baby as their elected leader and why is he trying to run the country via Twitter. Why does Russia bother denying that they’re doing dodgy shit? They’ve got the worst poker faces. Most of the time they don’t even bother to hide their smug smirks.  How is Come Dine With Me a thing?

It’s fucking unbearable. Four attention starved wankers cooking for one another in a desperate bid to win £1000. Why is there never an episode where one poisons the others?

Why do I have to get my haircut? And why are all the hairdressers so busy? Why is everywhere so busy? There are too many people, it’s making everything take thrice as long. Why is renting so expensive? A one bed flat with smelly carpet and half a wall separating the ‘lounge’ with another room that was generously called a kitchen was demanding £725 a month. A MONTH! That’s insane. That’s more aggravating than Owen Wilson talking about sofas.

Why did my shoes fall apart? Shoes are expensive. That’s capitalism for you. Buy these shoes, they’ll fall apart within a few months and you’ll have to buy some more shoes. It’s the only way to keep the shoe industry going. Why are my friends all getting fat? Their fatness doesn’t bother me, but what are they eating? It doesn’t make sense. Why does this man insist on talking about museums.

Why can I not think of a suitable blog post to keep my online presence going and keep my dream of being a rich writer alive?

 

Our infatuation leads to oversaturation

… across the nation(s)

The below is a vain attempt to capitalise on the never-ending stream of Marvel and Star Wars articles that get so much attention. Yes, I’m selling out. Or at least I would be if I was going to get any money.

Like many my age, my childhood consisted of Star Wars and Marvel. Star Wars and Spiderman was what made me happy, these creative properties transcending all things. The Star Wars movies were more than films. I did not watch them, I was in them, I was fully immersed. I splashed and flailed about in them, relishing every moment.

It is sad then, that I must watch these cherished creations become tarnished. Cracks began to appear and they are rapidly becoming wide gaps, revealing mutated hornets nests. Soon, the dormant mega hornets will awake, emerge from their hives and peck our eyes out. Yes, they are so dangerous that they don’t even need to sting.

Of course, it has to be admitted that some of these cracks have always been there (as is always the case with creative endeavours), but they were papered by the innocence of childhood. With the cynicism that comes with age, I decided dinosaur wallpaper was no longer appropriate, had the walls stripped and could finally see what my naivety had blinded me to and the trends of Hollywood had exacerbated. Are we still talking about a space opera and superheroes? I’m not sure anymore, I think so, though even I’ll admit that metaphor was somewhat laboured.

What am I trying to say?

Well, as Star Wars and Marvel made me happy, I should be ecstatic that they’re churning out films by the bucket load. So why am I not? The answer is complicated. There are many answers as to why I’m unhappy and a lot of that amounts to bad life choices, unfortunate political climate, an incredibly unfortunate actual climate and just general poor mental health.

In terms of Star Wars and Marvel, there are also many problems (the fact that many of the current Star Wars flicks are written by morons aside). Ultimately, it comes down to money and saturation. The original Star Wars films were great because they were just that, Original. They had their charm. They were fun. The prequels were fun (despite the amount of hatred people like to dump on them with a smug sense of self-satisfaction) and part of what made them interesting was seeing the Star Wars universe with modern special effects and movie trickery. Episode one also came out 16 years after Episode 6. There was a wide enough gap as t generate interest. Original fans would enjoy watching a new film and a new film would encourage new fans. Then there were another 10 years between Ep 3 and EP 7 (this numbering gets confusing). Many second-generation fans (i.e. my generation give or take a few years) had kids of their own to get into the franchise.

Now Disney has got their grubby little hands on the franchise, there’s talk of a Star Wars film every year from now and until the end of time. Some sources even suggest 2 films a year. Clearly, Disney has never heard of the concept of their being too much of a good thing, and presumably neither have audiences.

Since their take over we’ve had the Force Awakens, Rogue One and The Last Jedi and are eagerly awaiting the release of Solo. I say eagerly awaiting, we all know that’s going to be a steaming pile of shit. I know this for a number of reasons. One, the origin movie is a tired old thing. Two, Han Solo was one of the coolest characters because we knew nothing of his past. He was just a roguish smuggler who happened to be in the right (or wrong depending on your outlook) place at the right time. He was an opportunist who got caught up in bigger things because of the chaotic nature of the universe. What he was getting up to before Obi-Wan hired him is irrelevant and I’d go as far as to say should remain unknown. It can be whatever we want it to be. In fiction, there must be blanks for the audience to fill in for themselves. Attaching unnecessary backstories to these characters takes away their mystique, it chips away at their charm. Unless it’s amazing, it’s terrible. There’s no middle ground. Plus, Han was played by Harrison Ford who leant the character his own charisma which is another reason we responded so well to him.

Apologies, sidetracked.

2019 will see the latest trilogy wrap up with Episode 9: Another Bloated Mess That Shits on Your Dreams. However, Disney does not intend on leaving it another 10+ years before making some more.  Some sources cite another trilogy from the worlds most underwhelming man Rian Johnson, director of The Last Jedi, which was arguably the weakest entry in the Star Wars franchise and that includes the holiday special (ding ding ding, that folks is the 1 millionth time that joke has been used in the world of blogs). There’s also talk of Disney following the DC and Marvel model of producing several TV shows. I, like Mark Hamill, am becoming increasingly concerned about the possibility of oversaturation. More on this later.

Speaking of Marvel, let’s go onto that. It’s odd to think that Marvel almost went bankrupt in the 90s. Their name comes up so frequently their logo is permanently printed on my eyelids. I can’t sleep. With the relative successes of X-Men (2000) and Sam Rami’s Original Spider-Man (2002), Superhero films were showing as a potential box office draw, owing partly to the fact that they were good. Sam Rami’s Spider-Man and Spider-Man 2 are still the best. Even Spider-Man 3 isn’t the worst, that honour goes to The Amazing Spider-Man 2.

Whilst these were not necessarily produced by Marvel as we know them today, they were Marvel creations. This gave them the confidence to go off on their own with their back catalogue of superheroes. Their subsequent films were so successful they seemed to create the concept of an expanded cinematic universe. This concept has generated so much money, that numerous other studios have tried to replicate it (there’s even talk of a Hasbro expanded universe, what the hell are Micronauts?). However, they all seem to forget that Marvels cinematic universe came about over years of carefully crafting said universe. They’d test the waters with fairly innocuous cameos, they built up the possibility over time, focussing first on establishing characters that work independently before finally giving us the big ensemble piece.

This is too much work for most studios who want money and they want it now, so they grab whatever partially formed characters and intellectual property they have and smash them together, exploding some cop cars and toppling some CGI buildings. So, in a way, Marvel has a lot to answer for.

Anyway, sidetracked again.

When everything was new and the superhero genre was relatively unexplored territory, it was exciting. Iron Man, yes please. Thor, sure why not? Captain America, Hulk, all those guys are fun to watch (well, not the first Captain America, that was shit). Iron Man 2, okay, the first was pretty good. This all culminated in Avengers, which culminated in more sequels, which culminated in Avengers 2, which was just Avengers 1 again, but this allowed them to create Vision. Then there were more sequels and some more new characters which are becoming increasingly hard to keep track of if you have a job and a family and therefore, not a lot of free time, even for a former childhood nerd like me.

All of this is building up to the upcoming Avengers Infinity War. Which does look good. All I can say is, Thanos better kill at least 3 people, otherwise, we’ve spent 10+ years building up a threat for nothing. Plus, someone pointed out that he looks a lot like a purple Homer Simpson, so he has to go the extra mile to be threatening.

It’s pretty much a given that characters will get killed off. Chris Evans has been saying he wants to leave for years (but there’s just too much money at stake damn it!). It’s pretty telling when even your actors want out.

Should beloved characters sacrifice their lives to take down the biggest ever threat that is Thanos, an almost godlike being who wants to wipe out half of life in the universe, it seems like a good place to end it. Yet we know that it won’t end there because Avengers 4 is already confirmed, with the Russo Brothers stating that the title ‘should scare us’. I can only assume that it’s because we’ll realise that these films will go on and on forever. Cinema will stagnate beyond repair and before we know it we’ll be pleading with Russia to hurry up and nuke us all.

A tad overdramatic perhaps. But the entertainment industry is largely what makes life worth living. Why work and toil away and do all those pesky things that keep us alive, if we can’t enjoy some entertainment?

Returning to Mark Hamill’s comment. He’s right on the money. Not just with Star Wars, but everything. If you keep churning out films year after year, showing no signs of stopping and announcing them years in advance, interest will eventually fizzle out. Star Wars and Marvel films will come to an end, but not because their stories were finished, but because people stopped caring. Franchises will cease to be profitable and will, therefore, be terminated.

We’ll be left hollow as a result. I can feel it already. After the shit of The Last Jedi, I can’t even look at my DVD of The Empire Strikes Back without feeling the heavy burden of knowledge that the galaxy far far away is being held up like a piñata and beaten repeatedly. All the good candy has fallen out and the stuff dropping out now is not fit for human consumption.

Is it a coincidence that both franchises are owned by Disney? Will we see Star Wars crossover with the Avengers in a desperate bid to cling onto our collective imaginations?

I hope I’m long dead before that day comes. No doubt beaten to death by Mickey Mouse wielding a plastic lightsabre. Let’s just all agree that despite the many flaws, Star Wars was better when it was just whatever George Lucas wanted.