Greetings and salutations, guys, girls and everything in between. For those who don’t know me, I’m the shrivelled up, bollocky-looking thing you pass in the cloisters. You may not think I see you, but I do, and boy do I have some opinions.
I know my piercing blue eyes and Botticellian blonde locks may give the illusion of someone carefree, but let me tell you, I am far from sugar-coated. Think of me as a grenade covered in semen and angel dust. I will explode. And I will fuck you up. Mark my fucking words.
Anyway, I take my position as UCL’s most recent raconteur-in-chief seriously — so should you. You see, it pays to be so crusty and shrivelled-looking that nobody wants to look at you. Lodged between the Bhangra rehearsals, I get the juiciest goss. Speaking of which, don’t these kids ever rest?
Seriously UCL, I wish someone would pick me up and give me a butcher’s every once in a bloody while. Maybe even take me to a lecture, or a dramatic meeting where they talk about buildings or food or whatever. Or perhaps someone would be so kind as to let me see a show, which brings me on to the subject of this month’s column: films.
What a hoot eh? Such innovation! This week I watched Spotlight and The Shape of Water. I know, I’m a little behind, but give me some credit. Do you know how long it takes to roll all the way to the Odeon on Tottenham Court Road? Anyway, I digress, back to the films…
And GOOD GOD, society is CRUMBLING. The first one made me want to roll under a rubbish truck and the second one… that was too whacky even for my enormous brain.
I don’t understand why they can’t just make a nice, cheerful moving picture that doesn’t involve children being abused, or deaf people shagging fish. What ever happened to good old-fashioned family values? I want, just for once, to go to the pictures and see a flick about an unlucky-in-love desiccated head who meets her match in an attractive, womanising desiccated head who, in turn, learns the value of monogamy, and rolls all the way to the airport to stop her from leaving to go on holiday with Lance. Alas, a boy/corpse can dream.
Thanks for reading my first column folks. Join me next time when I’ll be talking about Sriracha sauce and asking whether JFK was actually shot, or if his head just did that by itself.
This article appeared in CG 66.
