January is considered by most people to be by far the most depressing month of the year. With the crumbs of mince pies still stuck to the side of your proverbial face, you no doubt feel bloated and cumbersome from the festive binge period, both physically and fiscally.

 

No sooner have you put on half a stone, as your bank account has lost half of its fundage. There’s no solace to be had in thinking of the fun you had during the holidays desecrating your internal organs with beverages usually too fat for general consumption. ‘Port, go on then’, ‘Baileys? Shit yeh!’ I wouldn’t typically allow myself to drink an entire litre of cream, but screw it, it’s Christmas! I’d probably nosh off a family sized tub of butter if Tesco jazzed it up with yuletide packaging.

 

So now you’re back at work, staring blankly at a titanic backlog left by none other than yourself. ‘I can’t work now, it’s Christmas!’ you previously laughed, and boy did you laugh. ‘Of course you couldn’t’ you think, chastising yourself, ‘Merry Christmas me. I hate you.’ Looking round your office during the first week back you realise that everyone feels the same as you, that should cheer you up right? No, of course it doesn’t, look at those miserable bastards you think, grumbling to yourself as you slump back into the hovel of misery that has become your desk.

 

So now you’re fat, broke and overworked, but at least you’ve got months of unadulterated work to look forward to! On the plus side though, winter has seemingly decided to go AWOL this year. Instead we’ve just had a climate usually reserved for the last week of October… for ten weeks and counting. I’m half expecting a groundhog day scenario where I’m constantly reliving Halloween every week until summer arrives.

 

That prospect would be particularly unusual, as my previous costume of choice was that of a sexy pumpkin monster. If you don’t know what that looks like I would encourage you to use your imagination and then just add a bit of arse to the image.

 

Recurring Halloweens aside, January is undoubtedly a truly miserable month, it is a truth universally accepted. Even the pissing aliens hate January. But then what? Jaded January is only to be followed by forlorn February, which stumbles aimlessly into mediocre March. (Note that I could have continued on this alliterative calendar indefinitely… for twelve months).

 

So what can you do to get rid of the new year blues? Well firstly I don’t know why you’re asking me for. For a kick off it’s already the middle of January and even if I did want to help you, I don’t want to help you. Nonetheless, here are some ideas to try out which should hopefully take the edge off the misery of existence…

 

Do you ever see James Bond feeling depressed? No, of course you don’t, he’s James bloody Bond. So for the start of this year why not try and spruce up your working life like Britain’s most glamorous secret service agent. Send a fax, LIKE BOND, make a communal round of hot beverages, LIKE BOND, be completely adherent to the data protection act, LIKE BOND.

 

I can tell you from experience that this really doesn’t work. Aside from the fact that Bond wouldn’t demean himself by doing a real days work, there is also the issue of discharging firearms in a confined office space and the many sexual harassment charges I have you may receive as a consequence of your 007 style machismo.

 

So what can you do in the safety of your own home, free from the public glare and the frankly explicit and partially wrong accusations of your colleagues. With the tinsel down and the Christmas tree lovingly fisted into the cupboard under the stairs, your living room is now devoid of any human emotion, like a monotonous android, painted manilla.

 

In order to spruce up that bad boy why not try regressing a number of decades by building a fort? By taking some spare bed sheets and applying some engineering nous, you can transform any common or garden living area into a castle and who is the king? YOU ARE. Or queen , depending on the gender or sexual persuasion of your fort.

 

Is there any greater feeling than re living that childhood feeling? Yes. Simply add hard drugs to the equation and you can really add a new dimension to this otherwise humdrum activity.

 

So that's work and home firmly covered, but what can you do to cheer

yourself up in the outside world? If like me you have no sense of shame or

decorum you can amuse yourself endlessly with strangers by donning an intentionally bad accent.  My preferred is that of an old Scottish woman.

I really do recommend you give it a go, next time you're asking for assistance in a hardware store, bike shop or different kind of hardware store, try putting on a 'reaaallly baaad sckooootisshh aaaccckceeeeent'.

 

They will undoubtedly stare at you shocked, but you will always be safe in

the knowledge that as they're British, there is absolutely no chance that

they're going to pull you on up on it. It really is amazing what you can

get away with thanks to the anally repressed politeness of the British

psyche. 'Ooooh thaaankks ma deeeeaarrr'.  If that doesn't cheer you up I

would suggest that you must have a deficiency in character or failing that, a serious neurological condition which you should almost definitely get checked out.

 

Well if that’s not cheered you up I really don’t know how to help, I really don’t. I’m off to heed my own advice now; sitting in a fort, pretending to be James Bond whilst speaking with a reaallllly baaaadd acccckceent. See, January’s really not that bad is it? …Jesus.

 

THOMAS REID will return in, CLIP ART: THE GOLD THAT TIME FORGOT.

I was in the Birmingham Central Library the other day, (if you're not familiar with it's a building based on the architecture of war torn Bosnia, where young people can congregate and shout at each other) and I happened across this delightful little book.

I didn't care to open said book, but I felt the title alone, 'Traditions around the world: Games' told me everything I needed to know, it was nothing short of astounding. I was flabbergasted that the rest of the world had discovered games, how long had this been going on for? I thought the rest of the world just sat around smoking and eating raw onions, but here they were, not only had they come to grips with board games, but they had the audacity to play them communally wearing only pants.

Something's gone wrong, we need to reclaim 'games' and jazz them up a bit for 21st century Britain. My ideas include the card game 'snap', but wearing only pants. Backgammon, a revival of the old school board game, played only in pants and 'Bop it', a vigorous playing of the memory challenge wearing; you guessed it, only pants. Perfect one for the kids.

I'm off to the local swimming pool to play Kerplunk if anyone fancies a game.

 

A few years ago during a Dice sojourn to Edinburgh, home of the Scotch, we happened upon many a strange thing. Musicians and comedians bustling for trade in the frantic festival streets, Chip shops which offered all the causes of a heart attack, selling battered mars bars, beer, fags and spirits all to a dj beat. And Richard Bacon...

What I wasn't prepared for was a celestial cluster fuck. Soaking up a bit of culture in one of Edinburgh's fine galleries, I was hailed to a painting which came as somewhat of a revelation to myself. Judge for yourself, apparently I'm Jesus...

 

If one looks at the shape of the face and small features, I think you'll concur that I am in fact Jesus. Here's what I look like nowadays holding some lovely flowers.

 

So there you go... If you're in need of a saviour, then cast off your earthly possessions and donate to the Church of Tom. I take cash, all major credit cards and bags of change. Peace be with you.

This week I have done a summation of ‘The Kings Speech’ so that you don’t have to see it.  I have not seen the film and have no intention of doing so, so this exercise is largely pointless. Enjoy…

 

The film begins in the grounds of a decadent royal palace, in a quaint and picturesque part of the English countryside. The sun is shining, a summers breeze caresses the leaves of the proud English oak trees , as the swans cross lazily over the finely kept lawn.  Above the din of this green and pleasant day, the sounds of masculine gaiety can be heard as the gallant young prince Edward leads a hunting party of stuffy old Aristocrats.

 

“By Jove sir well done! Eighty five pheasants, that’s bordering upon genocide! Huzzar for the Prince!” proclaims one of the party. “Wilbur”, replies Edward, “pray tell me, where is my brother?”  “He is just over there my lord”, declares Wilbur, struggling under the weight of all the dead birds, “he appears to be playing skittles with the ladies of the house.”

 

The young prince Albert is called to the side of his older brother, as the group of girls laugh at him behind his back. “Albert”, laughs the elder Prince, “come over here you little mincer. How are you today my brother?”. “Ffffffffine sir,” struggles Albert, “Just playing games. Wwwwill I be able to shoot one day brother?” “Oh Albert” Edward says sympathetically, “Of course you will not. Such manly pursuits do not befit someone of your immoderate stature and feeble mind. Ha ha ha ha ha…” Everyone one laughs at the poor Prince Albert, the image blurs…

 

Colin Firth shudders out of his dream, sweat pouring down from his elegantly posh brow. The Prince is now a fully grown adult, still struggling under the weight of his own oral inadequacies and his growing addiction to Benzedrine. He drags himself out of his regal four post bed and sojourns into the arousing artificial light of the bathroom. After surprising his face with a healthy splash of cold water, he looks soulfully into the mirror. His gaze is one of sadness, underachievement and dejection. ‘I must stop binging on Benzedrine before I go to bed’ he thinks to himself.

 

With the light of a new day brings hopeful promise to the troubled Albert, as he is about to meet the speech therapist who will one day change his life. Johnny Roughneck, a rugged working class linguistic analyst from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne has been assigned to the Prince, in order to solve his stuttering nightmare. ‘Can it possibly work?’ thinks the Prince apprehensively, for the good of the film I certainly hope so.

 

From the very first meeting Albert realises that there is something very different about this man, not just the fact that he smelt of coal or that he had traces of gravy stuck in his beard, this man was larger than life and exuded a certain joie de vivre that cannot be taught in any finishing school. “Alreet yer majesty” bellows Jonny with his hand outstretched, “Let’s have a goo at curing that stammer of yours then pet.”

 

And with that, the unlikely duo embark on an emotional journey, both learning from one another, absorbing the culture of each others worlds, so alien to their own. The Prince Albert teaches his new mentor on the etiquette of drinking a fine port, while Johnny introduces the royal to his first meat and potato pie. The Prince laughs, he is both overjoyed and disgusted in equal measure.

 

For the first time in his life, Albert feels a sense of worth and self belief, but this inner confidence is short lived, as he is about to receive a shocking blow, when he hears news of such bombastic proportions that his life will never be the same again. His older brother, King Edward VIII, has announced that he will abdicate his throne in order to pursue some American harlot, with the line of ascendancy pointing its ugly finger at no other than Albert. “Hhhhow could this be?” despairs the Prince, his stammerific curse returning upon him, “I ddddddo not wish to be king!”

 

But Albert has no choice, he is bound by his duty as a royal and as an Englishman, he must be King and as everyone knows, in order to be ordained to the throne, one has to perform a suitably impressive public address, as all English monarchs have done since time immemorial. In order to add layers of dramatic tension and provide a clear narrative for the film, a date is set for the Princes ordination and subsequent oratory. Albert and his Geordie speech therapist must work like they have never done before, labouring day and night in order to rid the Prince of his terrible stutter.

 

[Montage of Albert and Johnny working tirelessly.]

 

The soon to be queen wakes from her slumber, to find her husband gazing pensively out of the window, to the early hours of the morning.  “Are you alright my dear?” she asks devotedly. “You shall go to bed as Queen tonight my love and we shall know by then if I am worthy as a man, as a King and as an Englishman.”

 

The scene cuts to the newly crowned George VI, leaving Westminster Abbey in full majestic regalia to a crowd of baying reporters and before long, there is only five minutes left to his make or break speech. “How ya feelin Albert?” asks Johnny. He looks deep into the eyes of his mentor and trusted friend, “Like a King Johnny” he replies. “I was goarn to ask ya like, why did yeh change your name to George for?” But it was too late for a response, the newly crowned King has already left to address his people. He opens the patio doors of Buckingham palace on to the veranda, where four million Britons await to hear the Kings Speech.

 

After a cursory wink from Johnny, the King launches into his oratory, speaking with the eloquence of a Shakespearian thespian and with all of the conviction of a lion. “… And so my humble subjects, remember that the worth of every man, woman and child, must not be judged by superficial means. By looks, by sounds, by the manner of speech, but must be measured by the content of their character and the nobility of their hearts. We must all remember this in each and every moment of our lives. For only then can we achieve the zenith of existence, to be honourable, to be great, to be British”.

 

The King finishes and the crowd go fucking mental. From there on out George becomes the perfect King, giving endless speeches, creating the National Health Service and single handedly winning the Second World War. The end.

 

Stay tuned for more film reviews, so that you won’t have to watch them. Suggestions welcome.

This week I have just discovered the program photoshop and I've got to tell you I'm bloody loving it. I mean, it's almost as good as msn messenger or cd-roms, who knows what they'll think of next!!!!

Here are some of the photographs, I have been 'editing using the photoshop programme' this week:

Here's me, but with a hat on. Ha ha ha, so crazy!

Here's me, but if I looked like my friend Will.

Here's me, if I looked like Hollywood actor Alan Rickman. Too sexy!!!

Here's me if I looked like my friend Will again, except without my top on and with green and red paint all over my face and the phrase 'FUCK ME' written in black pen on my arm. LOL!!!

Well that's my photoshop fun for this week. If anyone's got any photoshop ideas you want me to use my magic on, don't hesitate to leave a comment.

 

 

Not many people are aware of this fact, but I was once a guest on the inimitable late afternoon game show 'Deal or No Deal', back in the spring of 2008. They also fail to realise that I am by nature a compulsive liar, but that's not important right now.

While I had fun frolicking around the Bristol based studio with Noel and the gang, I soon got the sense that there was something fishy in the air. I had gotten word off other contestants that Mr Edmunds liked to get up to all manner of fantastical erotica after the cameras (or so he thought) had stopped rolling.

So one evening after a hard days shooting, I decided to hide in the studio to find out what was going on. I was able to evade suspicion by hiding behind one of the counters with my head in one of the red boxes. It was number 10, £250,000, winner.

Anyway after all of three minutes had passed who re-enters the studio but Noel Edmunds, in full Narnian attire, leading a dozen midget gimps by the hand, insisting that they have a look at his 'dream factory'. Deep seated psychological traumas stop me from going into too much detail about this sordid and mythological Dionysian romp, but here are some photos i managed to take on a disposable Kodak. Judge for yourself.

What you can't see here is the Mr Tumnus figure just below shot, the horror.

"Hello? Oh, yes, iId like to buy 16 of your finest sex whores please. Yes. How much? Deal!"

This is the exact moment when Noel 'beat the banker'.

I was meandering my way through another lunch hour today when I was confronted with a fabulously perplexing sight; the film poster for Jason Statham’s new intellectual masterpiece, ‘The Mechanic’. Wow I thought, finally a feature film dedicated to the harrowing problems of the humble grease monkey, but wait, he’s got a gun!

 As I have read absolutely nothing about this and I have no intention of going to see it, I thought I would save you the trouble and give you my summation of the film based on the Jason Statham films I have seen, which I trust will be of little to no use to you.

The film begins with the hero Flex (Jason Statham) hard at work in his garage in Woking. His colleagues are heading off for a cool pint after a hard days graft, but Flex is having none of it, as long as there are cars that need fixing he’s going nowhere. CRASH! The garage doors burst open to reveal a mob of angry, well dressed gangsters, who as we all know are the worst kind of gangsters.

Their intentions are made remarkably quickly. There is a price on Flex’s head after he did a poor quality repair job on the beloved car of Tony Carbonzo, the head of the mafia.  ‘How can this be?’ Flex thinks out loud, he has never performed a substandard repair in his life…

IT’S A SET UP! His old colleague and now turned nemesis has manipulated these goons for his own dastardly ends. ‘How could you do this to me, I thought we were friends Joey Menanendendez, how could you do this?' Joey explains to Flex that it is for a plethora of reasons; his arrogance in controlling the garage, his disregard for basic health and safety guidelines and most importantly the time when he drove a mini bus into his impregnated sister.

The reasons were valid, but his reaction was hasty. So Flex had to do what he does everyday, fix shit. Through a tenuous series of massive explosions Jason Statham manages to battle and murder every single intruder (apart from Joey, who escapes for obvious filmic reasons).

Just as he is about to unload a bullet into the head of the last surviving hoodlum, he runs out of ammo, hoodlum laughs, ha ha ha. LOOK ON THE SIDE! It’s a nut tightening tool, with the cool aura of a Hollywood great, Statham reaches for the tool and wipes the smile off his victims face as he quips, ‘You spanner.’ Said victim is then savagely bludgeoned to death.

Flex is about to blow the joint when he hears a faint whimpering from the inspection pit. It is none other than a devilishly attractive engineer named Sandy Wrench, whose clothes have happened to fall off during the fracas. ‘I’d like to inspect her pit any day of the week’ Flex thinks to himself. He smiles, ‘I am so clever and funny’, he thinks again. They talk for the good part of 30 seconds before having sex on the vehicle ramp. ‘Can’t get it up?’ she laughs, but more fool her, as Flex raises the ramp six feet off the ground. They have sex again.

Flex must find Carbonzo’s car (a 5 door Citroen Xsara Picasso) and take vengeance on Joey Menanendendez. Along with his new ‘love’ interest, Flex, the innocent mechanic, inevitably has to fight and kill a large number of other entirely innocent people. BUT THEY DESERVE IT.

 One hour and ten minutes later, our hero has tracked down Joey and cornered him mano y mano in a deserted Michelin factory. The pair have an horrific duel using fists, chains, and other blunt but harmful objects in order to take down their adversary. In the end, Joey has Flex right where he wants him, unarmed and in clear sight of his hunting rifle.

As luck would have it however, the plentiful stacks of high grade Michelin tyres were stacked in such a way that with a simple nudge of the foot, Flex is able to set off a domino style reaction, resulting in Joey being buried under a big black mound. He quips again, ‘I’m beginning to tyre of this shit.’

Entering the scene with uncanny timing is Sandy Wrench. They have sex. ‘I always told you to rubber up’, she says, nestled in an array of tyres. ‘Ha ha ha’, replies flex, ‘you know that joke doesn’t really work because nowadays tyres are made primarily of synthetic and natural fibres’…

After 25 more unrelated deaths, Flex is finally able to track down Carbonzo’s car.   He explains the situation, offers to rectify it and the chief gangster is surprisingly grateful for the help, as it turns out he was in fact oblivious to the entire situation. Despite an eight day delay in parts being delivered, the repair commenced and Flex did a sterling job. The door was fixed, the paintwork was restored to a near factory finish and the suspension was altered to a satisfactory level.

Tony Carbonzo is delighted and gives Flex a million pounds for his trouble. Sandy Wrench is happy and relieved. They have sex again. All seems to be well, but! When everyone leaves the garage, who do we see but Joey Menanendendez cutting the break cable on Carbonzo’s car! Leaving it open to the possibility of sequels, ‘The Mechanic 2, Under the Bonnet' and 'The Mechanic 3 - Spanner in the Works'. 

So, there you have it.  The Mechanic is out at some time in cinemaplexes near you. If you like film reviews which bear no relation to reality, stay tuned for more, suggestions are welcome.

P.S. In finding the movie poster off google images I have discovered that this was in fact a remake of a Charles Bronson film and therefore may have at least some narrative or cinematic integrity. Either way, I don’t care. 

 

Hi and welcome to ‘Reid All About it’, the blog that critics are already calling the ‘Daily sport of the blogosphere’ and ‘a complete and utter waste of time’. If you’re reading this you are probably unemployable and or touching yourself as we speak, but don’t fret, I won’t judge or even press charges.

 In this blog I will be offering you the best of my thoughts, pictures, articles and drunken ramblings for your general amusement. Any comments and suggestions are welcome, I probably won’t read them, but it’s nice for you to keep busy.

The idea is simple, to give you something amusing, funny or thought provoking. So sit back, put your feet up and enjoy my minds thoughts.