By Bill Camden

If you saw that documentary on channel 4 this past Monday night, everything was true. The Job Centre is an incompetent institution that serves no real purpose other than letting members of the public gets basic income so they don’t starve to death or become criminals only to survive.

Those of you who have years of solid work experience may be more fortunate to land a job – but that’d only be in the same industry, trying to change industries is hard.

Jobs at the bottom of the barrel are a lottery because so many people reply sending a CV and Cover Letter is like playing the lottery, except your money is replaced by your hope and fears of rejection.

I sometimes wonder if the Job Centre want everyone to get jobs, because if they did wouldn’t they be out of a job themselves? Sounds like a simplistic formula but even on a sub-conscious level, I question the motives behind some the workers I’ve met at the big JC. Did you know they earn between £18,000 up to £30,000 per annum?

There might be a lot of monotonous admin work involved but mainly they get to meet the unemployed public and either grill them or ask them politely (depending on personalities) about their job search.

It’s a weird process signing on. You go there every week hoping you’ll never have to come back again but before long you feel like you deserve an invite to the Christmas staff party.

One time I signed on, the building received a bomb threat. Shutters came down over the windows, alarms were going off and everyone was told to huddle in the centre of the room, the Unemployed and staff together in a huddled confusion. It has to be one of the weirdest experiences of my life and I’ve taken plenty of drugs.

If you’re a recent graduate, I envy you, especially if you still live with your parents. You can go do an internship for 6 months, there’s plenty out there. You may be working for free but at least you get something on your CV that will put one over me on the Job Market.

For those of us who have to pay for bills and food, working full-time for free for months is impossible. Instead we’re forced to apply for jobs we’re going to hate knowing that we’ll only be making an extra 20 quid above the Job Seeker’s Allowance income after tax, rent and bills rape our wage packets.

Maybe that’s why there’s a lot of people on the Dole. Sure, you get the chavvy scum who consciously scam the system simply because they’re just scum.

Others sub-consciously have lost the will to look for work or even believe they can get a job anymore. How many times do you have to send CV’s and write personal cover letters in the vain hope of getting an Interview, never mind a job offer!

So maybe my attitude might be wrong but even if I got a job flipping burgers at my local McDonalds, I doubt I’d last a week before I was trying to put my own head in the oven.

It could be worse I suppose, I could’ve been born in North Korea and work 365 days of the year brainwashed into thinking I’m working for a great and divine Nation and Emperor. Now that shit is scary. This McDonald’s application is now looking rather inviting.



Haircuts, Football and a Beach – Freebies in London Town

By Colin Robinson

Being a recent graduate I was given the task to source out what the Capital of England has to offer for free. Not really, my student loan has run out and Mummy and Daddy have refused to give me any more money, they said it will be “character building” for me but the stress of finding a paid job is a consistent ball ache.

Having sold the majority of my DVD collections, my two next gen consoles and games, I’ve got a couple of hundred to start on, although that quickly went on gas, electric, rent, council tax, tv license, internet and food. Fuck. Welcome to the real fucking World. Kinda wish I didn’t spend 3 years at Uni pissing my student loan up against the wall through alcohol consumption, and topshop.

If you’re going to Uni, put all that student loan a-side, knowing once you graduate, there’s not going to be a job for you, unless you’re doing a degree is something smart like science or specific like footwear technology.

It probably wasn’t the best time to test out what London has to offer for free during the Olympics because, it was more packed than usual and everyone tried to cash in on the flurry of visitors the games had attracted.

A few weeks ago I thought I’d cracked it, after visiting a dingy rock club in the west end, I found myself at the DJ’s house with plenty of others for an impromptu after the party. There was Jack Daniels bottles on tap, plus a shit load of drugs like meow, meow – which I thought was strictly banned but that’s what it was, or it’s ugly sister. Apparently none of this constitutes as ‘free’ so it was scrapped from the list.

Since the weather was sunny last weekend I was invited for a drink by some Uni mates (girls, I’ll have you know) in Camden Town. We usually go to the Ice Wharf to sit by the stinky canal but this time we went to Roundhouse after overhearing someone talking about a Beach.

The rumours were indeed true, although there were a lot of kids around building sand castles, which was weird considering all the people over 18 without kids were there to drink alcohol and get a sun tan.

 I could only afford one fucking drink at £4.50 for a small bottle of bear but I did enjoy sitting back in a deckchair with my bare feet in the sand. It was probably builder’s sand though, that’s been pissed and shat in by rats and foxes at night time. But it was free entry, and probably worth checking out whilst the Sun is still out to play this summer.

Another freebie I found was playing Football. The season starts again this weekend so I thought I’d try my skills at the local park in Regents. I only went with myself a ball to do some keepy-uppies but got invited to join a game and had a fun time, so much so I am going back next week.

It might not be as smooth as playing at GOALS or Power League but at least I didn’t have to fork out £10 to play. It was all free, apart from your own motivation.

Last week I had a job interview with an estate agent, which didn’t really look like an estate agents or what I imagined one to look like. It was dodgy and although it was a bit nicer than Barry’s car lot office from Eastenders, it looked like it had been made over night.

The bloke interviewing asked me when I’m planning on getting a haircut. I guess I had let it grow a bit wild but the last time I got a trim it cost me forty fucking quid at Toni & Guy. And it was shit. I looked like Justin Bieber.

Besides, I kinda got use to the Mod-come-Beatles-come-Hippy look that it had grown into but I guess you’re not going to get a job with it. I found a local barbers cutting hair for £5 but was put off by the cheap price and also the fact that the Polish women inside appeared to look extremely angry.

A mate told me about places offering free haircuts, usually done by students who need real people to practice on. I had horrible thoughts of Bart Simpson and his dodgy haircut in that episode from years ago but I didn’t really have much choice.

I could pay for a shit one or get a shit one for free. If it is really bad, I can just shave it off myself and look like a Nazi for the next few months.

After replying to some gumtree ads, I finally got mine done in Shoreditch, the trend centre of London.

I was expecting some pretentious art students prancing around a warehouse conversion, pretending to be the next Trevor Sorbie but I was wrong.

It was run by a bunch of cockney geezers in a basement of an old office building, but there were plenty of people there getting haircuts and people of all backgrounds, young and old, poor and the rich.

Next to me was a bloke in a suit who was telling the cocky teenager giving him a shave that he’s a business executive for the Olympics. But here he is getting a free shave and trim in some dingy room.

I was given a portfolio of styles and was told to choose one by this 40 year old geezer from Chiswick. Or what he called “CHIZ ICK”.

Thinking I’d picked something relatively easy for him to do, he seemed to get very agitated and called over a block called Tony or what he called “TOE KNEE”.

After a long reassurance by Tony, who I assumed was the boss and an actual qualified hairdresser there to cover up any major fuck-up’s, my hair was being hacked at.

Two hours later, I had a style straight out of the 1950’s which looked a bit too retro for my liking but thought at least I’d fit in around the area. Since then it’s been alright, considering I didn’t pay a penny. The qualified hairdresser took over most of the job in the end too so I ended up getting a good cut by someone qualified.

That’s 40 quid well saved then. I guess London does have some shit for free but I won’t stop here, there must be other free shit out there or I’ll be selling the big issue come Winter!

So Good, So Far, So Wrong


By Bill Camden

Since the start of the Olympics I’ve been living out of an underground bunker I’d made in a local allotment. You see, for the past year in the build up to this global event, rather than bask in anticipation of sporting triumph I spent my time watching videos and listening to podcasts.

Some of you may have done the same thing but you probably haven’t been listening to the kind of content that my mind has been transfixed on. I already have my own opinions on the Olympics being a corporate sports day, but apart from that I was pretty neutral about the whole thing.

That was until you supply a drunken man with the Internet and soon perceptions can change with a few clicks of an electronic mouse. I’ve been watching videos on YouTube which have convincingly shown that the London Olympics is the harbinger of death. The symbolism, the conspiracies all point to this Olympics being the show down for a multitude of possibilities, none of which involve peace, love and care bears.

I’ve been in my bunker, awaiting this Alien Invasion / A-Bomb to go off, ready to tell any poor soul lucky enough to have survived it that I was right all along and you should’ve listened to me, as I dance on the ashes of the fallen.

In a sobered state of mind I knew it was all nonsense, but who likes to be sober? We are living in a society that likes to fuck you up the arse without a condom distracting you with food, sex, comedy and violence.

The internet can be a dangerous thing, not because guys like me have access to this multitude of platforms but rather any Tom, Dick or Harry can make and post a youtube video.

It wasn’t just the Olympics either, it’s the year 2012, the end of the Mayan calendar and the end of the World as we know it. Planet X and Planet Niburu are coming to collide with the Earth bringing death and destruction whilst Alien races invade the planet and enslave us, the human race as gold diggers for their own sinister and needy greed.

Don’t forget the New World Order and the Illuminati’s involvement, the Rich come Lizard people are all to blame, the free mason’s and the secret societies have been plotting this society of random bull shit for centuries I’ll have you know.

So I took a break from Youtube and online videos of this sought only to find myself listening to podcasts. My life was then taken over by fear and a certain husky voice of an American man from Texas called Alex Jones who can make a birthday greeting sound like it’s bad news.

But there is something about Alex Jones that I like, not his dogmatic approach but rather his passion. You don’t hear him making wild predictions; he’s more factual than that. Just like his website slogan says ‘spreading the truth about lies’.

His podcasts and a variety of guest appearances on others had me thinking that shit was going to hit the fan come the Olympics as it provides the Global Elite with a ‘false flag’ to invade Iran and blow the World to kingdom come as they enslave us as a One World Nation.

It’s almost been two weeks now and the Olympics is looking good. I’ve enjoyed seeing the beach volleyball and such at the Bookies. I feel rather stupid going to my bunker in my tin foil hat every night looking to the sky to see if I can see a mushroom cloud or an incoming space invasion from planet annunaki.

This World isn’t perfect, I know that much but I’m kind of glad to be proved wrong when it comes to A-Bomb’s in the Olympic stadium. Is there a market for crazy conspiracy theories to be made money out of?

So tomorrow I plan to leave the bunker behind and ride back into civilization in London.

God speed my friend.


A Bad Trip to Hell and Back

By Colin Robinson

It was Thursday 26th July and I was booked on the 12:05 train to Manchester from Euston station. This was off the back of one of craziest weekend’s of my life and unknown to me it wasn’t going to get any less crazy.

When you reply to an online ad looking for writers, you don’t expect it to end up in a binge of drink, drugs and debauchery but that’s exactly what occurred when I was invited along to a bar in central London to discuss a project called ‘Gonzeaux’.

In hindsight I can admit I was a little nervous about going to this meet-up as I didn’t know what to expect.  I’ve been all over the place since Uni finished back in May and I faced the result of what I came to expect, a big fat failure. 3 years of my life down the drain and no academic grade to show for it. Friends tell me you don’t need a degree to succeed, you just got to be in the know, I hope they’re right.

By the time I’d gone to this meet-up, I was a little half-cut [A little? I thought he had ADHD or something – Bill] and I saw the other guys there were much older than me. The drinks were flying in and conversations were flowing over ideas for articles and reports for the new project.

[Edit]Someone [not Bill Camden] gave me a small bag and told me to “open my mind” and then he was gone. By that time I was pretty wasted and just chucked them into my bag, before I went to another graduation party where I met other failed Graduates who wanted to bury their misery by getting fucked up.

To cut a long story short, once after party lead to another and before I knew it, it was Tuesday and I’d missed my Aunt’s birthday party on the Monday. But fuck it, she stopped giving me money for mine years ago so I didn’t feel so bad. Plus, I’m avoiding family right now.

Once I’d come to some kind of sober state, I checked with [The Boss] about writing for the Gonzeaux whilst I’m up in Manchester to watch Team GB. He tells me Lance Thorpe, one of the guys from the meet-up was going to and he’ll try put me in touch.

I don’t remember a Lance, maybe it was the posh bloke but I barely spoke to him. By the Wednesday I opened the bag that I was given on that night and found what looked like mushrooms but after getting a second opinion from my mate Dan, he confirmed they’re in fact magic truffles.

We decided to munch some of them along with Nutella and some bread. I’d done ‘shrooms before a Uni but all I remember was laughing my arse off and falling asleep.

This was totally different. I forgot Dan was even in the room with me as I lay back on my bed tripping my balls off for what I learnt to be about 10 hours. It felt like I’d gone into a lucid dream.

It was around 2 am on Thursday I came to my senses, Dan wasn’t around so called him to see what the hell had gone down. He told me I’d turned into a zombie and he decided to leave.

I was paranoid I’d miss the train to Manchester if I went to sleep so stayed up through the help of coffee and proplus. Once I’d got to Euston Station later that day, I rushed to platform 13 to get on the train, somehow I’d nearly missed it.

Once I was aboard, I finished panting and heavy breathing after some intense running and pulled out a bottle of drink in my bag. What I wasn’t aware of at this time was that it was not the bottle of Coca-Cola I’d left there before.

I came to find out that, Dan, had made some tea out of the magic truffles and had decided to empty the bottle of coke, fill it up and leave me some. Only, he forgot to tell me and here I was on the train drinking it down like a thirsty beast.

Once the taste had filled my buds, I began to yack and look down at the drink. It was the same colour of cola but knew it tasted fucking foul. On closer inspection I noticed there were bits floating around in the drink and I threw it in the bin. Thinking I’d got a stale bottle of cola.

About 30 minutes later, looking out of the window on the train, I started to wonder why the sky had turned purple. The music on my ipod sounded wavy and the bloke sitting opposite me on his laptop appeared to be grinning.

The sweat started to pour down my forehead and I shot up looking for my phone and headed out of the carriage to call Dan.

He’d explained about the shroom tea in the coke bottle and laughed at my situation. I hanged up with anger and headed towards the buffet as I was in desperate need of some water.

The walk through 3 carriages felt like a lifetime and the shrooms had almost fully taken over my system. After begging for water, what appeared to a cat-faced woman I sat in the toilet for the rest of the journey to scared to venture out and trapped in my own thoughts on an unplanned trip.

This wasn’t like the other day when I had taken these things. I was more awake in the experience but paranoia was rife. I answer my phone where a Uni friend explains how his cat died and he isn’t coming to the game or something.

I answer it trying to piece together the information but focussing on signs on how to get to Old Trafford. I get into a little panic and go up to two Coppers standing by the entrance to the station and ask them for directions.

Their faces started melting and I quickly hurried off before they told me fully, all I heard was the number of the bus. By luck or fortune I found a bus stop and jumped on the bus, where the driver said he goes near the stadium.

I head upstairs and collapse in a seat at the front. I’m desperately trying to think my way out of this trip but it just makes it worse. I decided to lay back and close my eyes.

I’m seeing blue, red and yellow shapes in squares and circles. There what looks like a castle made of blue stone and I enter it only to fall into a pool of red liquid.

Once I open my eyes, I panic and do not know where I am. I press the bell and get off thinking I’d missed my stop. I did not know where the hell I was.

All I could see were streets of houses and council estates. I start walking like I know where I’m going and then I see a gang of youths, three on foot and one on a BMX approaching me.

I turn around and walk in the opposite direction but they catch up and call to me.

Not actual footage

One of them asks for a fag and I give him one, I ask if they know how to get to Old Trafford. They won’t tell me and ask where I am from. The biggest one grabs the cigarette packet out of my hand.

The next thing I know I was being threatened with a knife and my wallet was taken out of my back pocket. They took a £20 note, my match ticket and a few coins.

It all happened in a flash, I dunno if it was the shrooms still or just the shock of it all but it fucking sucked.

Luckily they never took my phone.

I call my sister and blubber over the phone as I tell her all of what happened but she’s more concerned about me taking drugs than being mugged so I hang up and head to Old Trafford.

The ticket office won’t do anything over my stolen ticket and I got angry, probably a delayed reaction to being mugged but the security come over to try to calm me down, which just made me worse.

I ended up being dragged out away from the stadium grounds after refusing to leave.

There was no point going to the police, because of the drugs so after finding a cashpoint I grabbed a burger and walked around to find a pub. At least I got to see the game, even if it was on Television.

Since I’ve been back, I’ve got myself a job, reconnected with my family and taken up martial arts. Whether it was the experience being mugged or taking Psilocybin truffles I don’t know.

I just feel like a pretty humble and focused bastard now.

GBR 1-1 GBH Senegal – A trip of Museums, Masochism and Magic Mushrooms

By Lance Thorpe

The Sun is shining and the Pimms are out here in Manchester city square as I lay back in a deck chair and look up at the big screen where BBC are giving great previews and build-up to the London Olympics 2012.

Today is a mark of history as GREAT BRITAIN (team gb) take on Senegal in the first game of the Olympics in the Football. It’s been 52 years since the last time Great Britain took part in Olympic football and back then it was competed by Amateur footballers from Non-League.

In the game today it’ll be far from amateur with the likes of Ryan Giggs, Craig Bellamy and Micah Richards joining a squad of under-23’s for this impromptu appearance that saw Scotland withdraw any of their players from selection.

Before I pop over to the Old Trafford, I am out of my deck chair, necking my glass of Pimm’s and setting off around the corner to the National Football Museum which has just opened up a few months ago, right here in the City centre. It is a splendid location than that of the old site in Preston which was a dreadful mischief to get to.

It’s in a modern looking glass building that rises up to 4 floors. I am impressed with the free entry but generously slip a 20 pound note into the donations box and approach the escalator to start this Football museum.

Unfortunately it is the Summer holidays and there are plenty of rugrats running a mock that ruined my experience. Can they not put the snotty little brats in a crèche?

There is plenty to see on the first floor, the most delightful was the origins of the game with copies of the first Rules behind and a cabinet full of Football’s dating back to the 1860’s. They’re all sorts of shapes and sizes, there’s even one made out of old condom’s and pigs guts. Horrid to think they’d have been kicking and heading that thing back in the day.

Another delight were the memorabilia from a number of decades on display, I believe this was in the fans section which was also a nice touch about how Fans make football and the clubs they represent.

Unfortunately there was no opportunities to touch of lift any trophies, though you could see them through a glass cabinet, all cramped together. I would’ve preferred an entrance fee and the chance to lift the old FA Cup. A Kodak moment of the finest.

The museum could’ve been a lot better if they have more funding and memorabilia donated to them. Considering we like to call ourselves the founding fathers of Football it was a poor show. However, one must say that the Gallery on the top floor was most delightful full of a variety of photo’s that grasp the essence of Football itself.

Once I had dodged the chavs with push chairs I got myself onto a Tram heading towards Altrincham. The only trams I had experienced were the ones in Blackpool and it was a rather odd experience to be on one in a big City.

It took all the time in the World to arrive at Old Trafford but eventually I turned up with about 20 minutes to spare before the first game kicked off between Uruguay and United Arab Emirates. A lovely lad informs me that all pockets are to be emptied when entering the ground and items must be placed in a clear transparent bag, which he hands me.

You’re only allowed 100 ml of liquid too in lidless bottles. For a second I thought I was attending a game of football, not boarding the Concorde to New York.

Once I’d got frisked on the gate by a Scouse security guard moaning that he’d been at work since 5 am, I heard a commotion behind me. A young man is being taken away by two Police officers and crikey me! It’s Colin Robinson, the chap from The Gonzy meeting.

I wonder what an earth he’s been getting up to. I hope Bill did not plant drugs [No I Did Not – Bill] on him. I bet they don’t tolerate that sort of delinquency here.

They’d taken young Colin away before I could see what was going on so I made my way to my seat. Being a tall gentleman I’d been pre-warned about the seating conditions at Old Trafford being on the cramped side. Surely a stadium that’s held in high regard as the Theatre of Dreams will not have uncomfortable conditions. The answer was yes and fortunately I persuaded a chap sat facing the stairs to swap with me so I did not develop deep vein thrombosis.

I took a partial viewing to the first game and decided to cipher through the match programme which cost a remarkable £5. What also cost £5 was the stadium ‘Meal Combo’ which consisted of a soft drink and a meat pie. Even McDonald’s would’ve been a more welcomed option and that’s the Devil Incarnate.

Suarez was getting booed every touch and rightly too. The fans warmed to UAE too who played some decent football in the first half but just ran out of legs in the second and Uruguay were able to get a narrow victory.

It’s surprisingly a packed crowd for this Team GB versus Senegal game as both teams line-up for their respected anthems. “God Save The Queen” makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end but it’s almost sung with a nervy disposition by the English players and fans who are aware of any Welsh, Scots or Northern Irish folk in attendance.


The atmosphere was dead and after 15 minutes I did stand up and sing the chorus to Rule Britannia which only got a few laughs from the indifferent crowd which appeared to be full of children, mainly groups of them from a daycentre or what not.

A chorus of GEE BEE with clapping crescendo was the closest anyone got to a rousing song. Even a GREAT BRITAIN chant similar to “Ingerland” would’ve been sufficient but there appears to be apathy and scarcity to even mentioning the words GREAT BRITAIN with our very own OLYMPICS.

Do the public know we’re no longer Great and are ashamed to mutter the words with Britain? Even still, why can’t we just have a chorus of Britain or have we just lost our British identity in its entirety. It’s a shambles and this Team GB branding is a joke, better money would’ve been spent on getting a brass band in this stadium to get some atmosphere.

If I see another Mexican wave I may have to utter a swear word.

BLIMEY we have a goal and it is Craig Bellamy who opens the scoring with a lovely volley into the ground and it bounces into the back of the net.

Not sure if it was deserved, it’s been a drab of a first half and I am pleased to hear the half-time whistle. I get a voicemail from the chief writer at the Gonzy, Bill Camden, who says I should look out for Colin who’s on mushrooms.

I text him back to say why would I be worried if he’s eating mushrooms when there’s only pie or sausage rolls to eat here. He responds with a fit of HAHAHAHA’s and I am left bemused but await the second half to kick off.

Senegal have upped-the-ante and have started making tackles in the school of Kevin Muscat. The Referee does not seem to care however and they’re going unpunished.

It should be a penalty! Craig Bellamy is brutally assaulted just inside the box but the linesman flags for a throw. It was a brutal assault by the Senegalese left back Ciss.

I Don’t Believe It!

Senegal have only gone and equalised. Kanate I think is the goal scorer. What a load of pugwash!


Despite the aggression from Senegal, we have been far to relaxed playing the ball around our back four at 1-0 up and not try to kill this game off. It’s a typical Stuart Pearce side, he did it with the Under 21’s and he did it with Manchester City and Nottingham Forest.

The guy should go to 1990’s Italy.

I make my way down the stairs to see Marvin Sordell hit the crossbar after some good work from Aaron Ramsey but it’s just not enough. I’m walking out of the exit before the final whistle goes to try and beat the crowds but it looks like thousands of others have had the same idea and we’re being slowly marched towards the main street.

The game has left me in a foul mood and this slow walk to get back to the City centre is testing my patience. I think I spot Colin sat on a wall next to a burger van and whistle over to him. He looks very sombre, he explains how he took some magic mushrooms on the train up to Manchester, he ended up in Moss Side and was mugged of his match ticket.

That’s why I saw him being escorted off by the coppers as he tried to get in without a ticket. He looks like he needs a companion so I invite him to come back with me for a drink in the City centre. His explanations about these magic mushrooms distracted my attention away from the game and have made me wonder about these scandalous drugs.

The Dark Knight Rises a subtle climax to an epic Trilogy

By Bill Camden

If there is one thing that should remind me to not go on the old London Underground then it’s that of narcotics. The bright lights have my pupils at maximum expansion and the people on the train stare at me with a glare. Am I even on this Train or is this a crazy drug fuelled dream?

The mobile phone in my pocket vibrates intensely waking me up to some sort of confused sobriety. I answer the phone.


It’s Nigel. A good bloke is Nigel. A right geezer.

“Nigel mate. I am on the train on my way over. We still on to see this Batman flick? Right you are mate. Right you are. Dagenham did you say? I will find it mate. Is Tara joining us too? Super, well get me some amber in and I will…”

pic of random bloke on tube courtesy of

A fucking tunnel. A phone that is apparently more technologically advanced than anything the U.S. President had in the 1970’s but it still can’t keep a bloody signal underground. Least that call has me feeling more with it, anyway. People don’t seem to be staring at me anymore and I take a seat. It feels like I’ve just woken up after my body had got me here on autopilot.

Today I am going to see ‘The Dark Knight Rises’. I don’t usually review films but that’s because I do not usually get asked to….. I tend to say it how it is. I lack the pretentiousness to write for Film magazines whilst the Entertainment blogs say I am too profound. It’s just a fucking movie, right?

The drugs were part and parcel of this feature and I tell you this with up most sincerity. The weekend just gone, there was a celebration regarding the launch of ‘THE GONZEAUX’, well I say launch, it was more like a confirmation of ideas.

Some geezer put an advert on that Gumtree site, you know the one where you go to look for free things like Dogs, Fridges and Sex. He was looking for some proper writers. Seekers of Truth and social commentary, he demanded. After the third round of beers he brought me I was hooked.

There were only four of us, and the guy who was given the Entertainments biz ended up taking a turn for the worse. He was a young whippersnapper. Full of energy and fucking surprised at anything that came out of our mouths. I wanted to punch him in the face but I realised it was only because he reminded me of a younger version of myself.

But fuck Freud and Carl Jung. I gave the kid some Truffles I’d got hold of from the Netherlands and no one has heard from him since. Hopefully it’s woken him the fuck up.

That’s why I am going to see this movie, the third film of this modern Batman franchise that started with Batman Begins in 2005 and The Dark Knight in 2008. This is 2012 and The Dark Knight Rises is the hopes and dreams of movie lovers everywhere for this year.

I usually can’t give two shits about these movies, The Avengers tickled my fancy and I avoided Spiderman. There is something special about Batman that makes it stand alone from the others, maybe it’s the fact he’s Mortal and that sense of realism feels less fairytale and more real.

I was up all last night watching the first two films of the trilogy. It confirmed my belief that Batman Begins is the best Comic book movie adaptions of all time. And that the sequel should’ve been called The Joker with a cameo from our favourite Hero.

Not that I am complaining of course. Both movies were great and as the train journey grew shorter, I was becoming more excited about seeing this closing chapter of a character, a City and a Universe that I’d just engrossed myself in via a small television and a DVD player.

I’ve avoided trailers for The Dark Knight Rises. All I know is that Bane is the bad guy and an American Football pitch collapses. I did not want to know more and I actually punched a guy last week at a party who began to explain the ending to anyone who listened. He was a dick.

Finally I arrive at the back of the Cinema where Nigel and Tara greet me with cold can of beer and a joint. I crack open the can, take a swig then search the pockets of my swimming shorts for a lighter.

It is clear that we’re all expecting greatness but know deep down that the heights of the previous two films will not be met…or can it?

Once in the cinema I grab my protocol of Large SWEET popcorn and a large soda before dropping the kids off at the pool. We take our seats and are treated to a teaser trailer for MAN OF STEEL, not once but twice. In case we missed it. The World needs a decent fucking Superman.

The cinema is empty but that’s just the way I like it. I’d purposely come to Essex to see the film for the cheap price. Only 8 miles separated the same cinema charging £16 and £5 for this movie. That’s London.

My mind starts drifting whilst some shitty trailers for Dredd and Total Recall play out on screen and take a moment to think of those in Denver who were unfortunate enough to be in that cinema massacre. I can’t fathom the words to describe such horror.

FINALLY…the film has begun. The Dark Knight Rises is here and I am waiting to be entertained.

The opening scene with Bane and the Plane hijacking blows my mind. They certainly made the right choice in casting as Tom Hardy has given Bane an extra dimension with his muffled posh voice behind that meat head villain persona.

Unfortunately I wasn’t impressed with how the film went on to be structured, I expected the story to show us how low Bruce Wayne has fallen, he’s been in his ivory tower for 8 years since the Death of Harvey Dent (Two-Face) at the end of the last film. He’s also walking with a Cane, after 8 years and all the money in the World he can’t get this fixed? But then I remind myself comic book movies are not supposed to be logical. I get it.

But maybe it’s why I like Batman, he’s not got any special powers, he’s just a tough son of bitch looking to serve some justice to some evil fucking cunts in Gotham City.

My attention is turned by the introduction of Cat Woman (Anne Hathaway) but the pace of the story is starting to become lethargic like it’s just eaten a Big Mac meal. My mind starts to wonder into a fantasy featuring me and Cat Woman but I’ll spare you the details


Finally we see Bruce Wayne don the Batman suit for the first time in 8 years (in the story) and he gets his arse handed to him by Bane in a close combat scene where Bane breaks his back and sends him to the prison which he was born in.

It’s another cue for Bruce Wayne to come back again as Batman but this time it’s going to be tougher than ever. Despite walking with a cane for 8 years which he fixes with a high-tech knee brace, he manages to fix his broken back in a prison with no technology in a few months. He should become a chiropractor.

I was expecting Bruce Wayne to fulfil some epic Joseph Campbell styled Hero Journeys in this movie, but these were too sloppy and somewhat predictable. But they know that.

My only conclusion is that Nolan and Company didn’t want to over shadow the previous two films by making this as Epic as I feel it could’ve been. Instead they wanted to end the franchise with a subtle “awwwww” rather than an “OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT?”

Overall it was still a brilliant movie that hit all the right notes although I wish there was more action and less drama.

Once the film finished I turn to Nigel and Tara for a post-movie review and Nigel points out how they got Bane all wrong compared to the comic, where he’s full of steroid-venom or something.

In Dark Knight Rises he uses a surreal oxygen/gas mask that prevents him from feeling pain which is still quite clever and felt it worked with this version of the Batman Universe.

There was also the introduction of Robin too, although not in costume that made all three us ponder about a spin-off Robin movie, but probably not under Christopher Nolan’s direction.

Once I left the cinema I couldn’t help feel disappointed. Perhaps I’d over hyped the movie by having watched the previous two the night before. I was expecting the same quality. I supposed that’s the trouble with a 3rd Film in a series, on its own it can be great but compared to the others it just don’t cut the mustard.

Not wanting to leave this review on a sour note, I totally dig this movie as the wrapping of an amazing Batman trilogy and best Comic book film series ever.

Tom Hardy has made Bane cooler than Chuck Dixon and co could have ever imagined. Whilst surely no one else can even attempt to play Batman after Christian Bale’s performances, he IS Bruce Wayne.

Now you’ll have to excuse me as I browse the World Wide Web for more pictures of Anne Hathaway as Cat Woman. Meow.