The End is...Not That Bad

So it finally happened. The Sopranos ended on E4 Sunday night. Anyone not wishing to know two things: 1 - don't read on and 2 - congrats for making it this far because this is seemingly the worst kept secret since Prince Charles starting being seen in public with ol' horseface.


This is the obligatory gap for skim-readers who will bitch about spoilers despite the disclaimer some thirty words ago.



Anywho, back to the bravado. Wasn't it just right? In a hail of bullets, Tony introduced himself as 'da bad guy' and took down everyone inside his club with an automatic weapon....no wait...that was Scarface. So he um...swivellled in his chair, resigned to a life of crime that his wife would never be allowed in...nope The Godfather. Shit, so what happened?!


Nothing.


As the family known as Soprano sat down to the not-so-dolcid tones of Journey, Meadow entered the restaurant and...FADE TO BLACK. It just ended. Cue 7 seconds of black and the credits roll in silence.


What a shot. America is left mouth aghast unsure of how to proceed. A nation that needs closure left hanging on a knife-edge on the one thing they thought could bring them a definitive climax. Upwards of 30 people have been slain in the North Jersey mob drama - the audience has got used to things going down with a bang.

But no. A whisper. A quiet hush. Tony looks up and it fades away....as Steve Perry croons over those dying seconds...'it goes on and on and on and on'. Nothing definite, because - as Chase, so grounded in reality realises - nothing is.


Hold your theories. I'm happy with this. The black humour, politic treasure chest that was The Sopranos now sleeps with the fishes but long live the tributes.

The B-Movies' Dead! Long Live The Stath

In a time when the buddy-love-in 'Grindhouse' can't be met with the aplomb it deserves for catching the who-gives-a-fuck nature that is the fundamental essence of the B-Movie, what hope does this genre of film have? What kind of Premiership would we have if suddenly they got rid of all the fizzy pop leagues below it? We need are D-DVDs (thats Direct-to-DVDs kind shrew), we need our Chuck Norris' and Wesley Snipes, we need something to stock bargain bins across our blessed land.

Where amidst this pile of debris and unforgiving world of cinema are we going to find our half-assed, badly constructed monstrosities that clog the late night channels and drain our brains of the necessary fluids it takes to make us function.

Oh look...a balding, slightly muscular man on the horizon. Is that Ross Ke...no it's JASON BLOODY STATHAM.

The cockney-tongued, wide-boy has turned the B-Movie genre on its head. From amidst the dated archives of Badmovies.org that depend on 'Dolemite' and other explotation flicks for a cheap laugh, The Stath (copyright Empire Magazine) has brought the sub-genre roaring back into our faces like a football coverd in fire kicked by God.

After such ribald hits as 'The Transporter' and...uh...'The Transporter 2', the former stock character in Guy Ritchie's gangster wonderland decided to try his arm at 'Crank' and, you know what? Critics bloody loved it.

But where now? Well Chuck Norris would fight Bruce Lee. DING!

The Stath vs. 'Bruce Lee 2.0' Jet Li in upcoming kung-fu, fightfest 'War'.

But then what?

Well he has signed on to play, get this, Frankenstein.

No not Boris Karloff's big bolty-necked bastard being chased by peeved villagers but this mother hubbard in 'Death Race', a remake of 1975 B-Movie extraordinaire '
'Death Race 2000', a stupid look into the future where America ruled the world (hey wait...) and sanctioned a bloody race across the country where pedestrians are worth points.

But will it worked. Well, it certainly worked for one of it's original stars

All Aboard the Hype Machine

With the gallant euphoria that follows a small lottery win, England players crumbled to the turf after their heady victory over Australia. The old enemy, in rugby terms at least, vanquished. The unknown position of under-dog suited the English, who found some of that plucky Blighty resolve and come good when it mattered.

Penalty after penalty slotted home and the score ticked like a poorly wound clock just pegging ahead. It was a slow deliberate battering of the flashy, technical Aussie outfit and now, from seemingly nowhere, England are in the Final Four.

This being a place that may has well have been on Jupiter when England trudged off the pitch thoruoughly outplayed by the Springboks in Paris. Now, there is no lamenting the 36-0 scoreline that blazed so brightly in the St. Denis sky only a short time before. That is in the past.

Forgive me if I don't get too carried away with the future.

France are an entirely different prospect. Written off, ridiculed and resigned to the dustbin as soon as Ignacio Corletto decided to piss wildly on Nicholas Sarkozy's bonfire on the opening night of the tournament.

Our Gallic cousins regrouped, reformed and readdressed (a lot of 're's) and tinkered manically. They tightened the second row, put faith in the base of the scrum unit and put an unknown at the central reservation - with fly-half being the position that has blighted England's campaign. We couldn't even manage to see of the US convincingly without Superhero Jonny and the French keep famously tempremental numero dix Freddie Michalak in reserve...aren't they lucky?

What happened when they clambered battered and bruised out of the most turbulent group of the whole competition? They ended up in Cardiff, in their own bloody competition the hosts had to leave the country to proceed. And if that wasn't enough they met with the favourites in full flow and...the French prevailed. Questionable forward pass aside, the French 'turned up' as they so famously don't...ask any rugby commentator for clarification of 'which France will turn up'/'blowing hot and cold'/ cliche ad naseum.

England's victory was a drop in the ocean compared to the French victory. They tackled well, attacked smartly and defended as if plugging holes in a sinking ship. England lack the verve to penetrate such a resolute line, despite Sheridan's mercurial form the scrum will be evenly contested and Moody & co will get used to prospect of turning up to rucks to be greeted by the groggy smiles of the Betsen, Dusatouir and Bonnaire already stealing ball.

In fairness, England have peaked. France have turned the tournament on its head and now seem destined to make a go of it. Still, at least 'Dad's Army' aren't drowning their sorrows like those in Auckland/Sydney/Dublin/Cardiff just yet.

Technology Be Damned

Everything everywhere is destined to break at the touch of a button. This is the world we now live in.

Computer's crash, train's don't run on time and the more you shout, scream and put people in giant wicker effigies over it, the more likely things are to go belly up.

Computers were built like a fantabuolous house of cards; in a perfect world they are amazing, if somewhat more useful than a house of cards, but one strong gust of wind or sleight change and....ERROR ERROR ERROR ERR:1287 ERR:5637, 'CAN NOT READ DISK', 'DO YOU WANT TO REBOOT: YES OR YES?', 'EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE IS LOST', 'YOUR LIFE IS POINTLESS', 'THE END IS NIGH'.

When it comes down to it, in all honesty, pencils are brilliant.

There is the old addage that the Americans spent billlions and billions of dollaradoos on creating some fandangled pen that could write in space/upside/on God's face and do you know what those pesky Russians took upon their spaceship to the moon?

Pencils.

You can't go wrong.

It snaps, get another. It goes blunt, sharpen it.

Need the news? Buy a newspaper. And use your trusty pencil to fill in the crossword...mmmh...solution!

Trust me, you won't spend your Sunday in Comet explaining to mouth-breathing Gavin that the PCP Port is clogged with your innerds after you physically attacked the bastard when it finally caught up to your fumbling and tried to simultaneously open 8,000 windows and had what can only be described as an electro-stroke.

Let the luddites reform; we're bringing back the pencil.