Predators: Half Arsed Review
Why is this film worth mentioning on my blog? Back in the days of VHS my Dad proving his genius recorded the original Predator (1987) on the same videotape as my copy of The Land Before Time. Predator was one of the first ’18′ films I saw as a child. There I was, home alone, having just watched sentimental cartoon dinosaurs find their way home, now discovering one of the most iconic characters of the 80s. Predators marks the return to the original franchise (excluding the retched spin-off Alien Vs Predator films) since Predator 2, which was released in 1990.
In the same vein as James Cameron’s Aliens (not only a sequel but a re-imagining of the original Alien) Robert Rodriguez presents this latest installment, which plays on the original’s title in the same way and is indeed more of a re-imagining than a direct sequel. The film opens as the protagonist (played by Oscar winning Adrian Brody) finds himself free falling through the sky. Moments before reaching the ground a beacon sounds from a strap on his shoulder releasing a parachute, saving him from falling to his death. He tears downward through the canopies of a jungle and lands with a heavy thud on the ground. As he regains consciousness there comes another loud crash, Danny Trejo sporting two machine guns and a hollywood snarl. This may very well be the only film to have its entire cast of characters fall from the heavens.
A gang of misfit killers and soldiers, heavily armed and all having been involved in some war or conflict, find themselves together. But why? They wonder. The final character to drop in is no soldier nor trained killer but a doctor, played by Topher Grace (quite possibly the worst casting since Téa Leoni in the already atrocious Jurassic Park 3.) The film’s first flaw starts to show itself within the first half hour with characters explaining to the audience what’s happening with the rationale that thats simply ‘what they would do.’ True this does create an important parallel between the characters and the Predators that comes into the story later and even becomes a theme but as Brody leads the gang through the jungle, often coming upon sudden realisations (when perhaps the film should build some suspense instead) the viewer is never allowed to work out the blatantly obvious without their hand being held. But hold on one moment, Brody is an American (ex Black-ops, whatever the fuck that means) surrounded by people from countries not too fond of America – yet willingly follow his every command, his logic is that flawless. However, even he couldn’t have guessed they were all in fact on another bloody planet.
I won’t fib, the premise is a good one. The original Predator had a squad of soldiers terrorised by an Alien in the guatemalan jungle. In Predators, some of the deadliest humans have been abducted and put on a planet used by the Preds as a game reserve. “We’re the game” Brody tells us.
(Some SPOILERS ahead)
As friction peaks within the group and the shank happy convict demands one of the soldiers give him a gun they’re all suddenly attacked by CG-dog-horn monsters. They serve as another plot device. After the humans unload most of their ammo into the native wildlife, the scooby gang decide to follow the tracks of one of the surviving creatures that turned back after a mysterious whistle sounded through the trees. They discover the Predator camp littered with dead…things (clearly not a very feng shui aware race) and a captive Predator. The Guatemalan (oh, see where this is going?) sniper babe takes a long hard look at the creature before they’re all attacked by cloaked Predators.
After escaping, the humans decide on a plan, meanwhile we get to take a look at the new big bad Predators. Then, sniper babe recalls hearing about Schwarzenegger’s report on the first occurrence, funny you’d think after she noticed she was on another planet she would remember that she’s known about aliens all along and put two and two together. They soon bump into Morpheus from The Matrix. The film becomes even more self-referential than it already was, with its jungle setting and almost identical music, when Fishburne’s character utters that classic line “Over here.”
Now, I don’t mean to paint a bad picture. The film is actually very entertaining. The director knows how to create set-pieces and the impact of each violent blow to every energy blast flashes and reverberates through the theatre. It’s surprising the film wasn’t shot in 3D. It’s just…take for instance the new Predators who are meant to be bigger and badder, it’s like making a new Jaws film and flogging a new meaner shark with twice the amount of teeth, it undermines the shark we know and love from the first film. The original Predator is a character many fans cherish and I never get a sense that these new Preds are quite the same hunters. There’s no sport in their kills and so why bother going to the trouble of abducting humans? The Predator fued (remember the Predator tied up at the camp?) is an interesting sub-plot but I was expecting more from it. Maybe some kind of commentary on humanity and war, which is something the writer/s explored with Brody’s character but never with much depth. Instead the film veers off at the end by including a rather random plot twist before focussing on it’s big finale again. It feels so out of place and just pointless I’m surprised it made it into the final cut.
The film starts suffering half way through and doesn’t recover, relying too much on its set pieces. For instance, stalling the story to answer fan’s long asked question ‘who would win in a fight, a Predator or a Samurai?’ The lowest point for me was the cringeworthy moment in a fight when one of the characters calls a Predator a faggot whilst stabbing him in the back.
2/5 I’m Afraid
The film is certainly entertaining but it lacks what really makes a Predator film. Still, at least the ending wasn’t shit. Fingers crossed for Ridley Scott’s new Alien prequels!
How to: Destroying an iPhone
My jeans scrunched into an infinity symbol around my ankles. He was scrunched into the sofa with his arse suspended in front of me. The motion of each grind gave momentum to us both. We pushed into each other. He forced his palms against the wall in front and I anchored my weight into the floor with my feet. My jeans started to swing about, the belt buckle banged against the wood floor and then my phone slipped out of the pocket. It thudded down next to my right foot and I flicked it away in case of a sudden change of stance presenting the risk of it getting trodden on. It was one of the usual intervals you find during sex, those seconds worth of mild panic to make sure you don’t fall off the edge of the bed, the poppers don’t spill, your phone doesn’t get a foot crushing it into matter.
A few hours later I noticed the button on the face of the phone wasn’t working. ‘Oh but not to worry,’ I thought ‘for I can use the on and off button to access my phone albeit the long way.’ However I then realised, much to my horror that, say if you wish to turn on Wi-Fi you need the home button to get back to the main screen as turning the phone off then on just returns you to the settings. This is true of many other tools and apps. ‘Fuck.’
I was puzzled, what could have caused this? It did fall out of my pocket but from ankle height! Yet, it is an old iPhone (first generation old) and it has served me so well. It reminds me of that saying: the candle that burns twice as bright, burns half as long.
I went to the Apple store to see about getting it repaired, the woman there said I’d have to wait four hours before I could be seen to so I went home instead after making an appointment for the next day. On my way home I started to feel a burning sensation in my pocket. I thought for one moment that my brain had cross wired my senses and that I must be wetting myself, for what else could cause this feeling inside my crotch. I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out my phone. It was burning hot in my hand. But I hadn’t used it at all. The metal to touch was as if someone had lit a match from the inside and was slowly burning everything from within.
I returned home and managed to get my SIM card out. Eventually the phone ran out of battery. Returning to the Apple store the next day I was seen to by a balding fellow very unlike the other employees whom I noticed to be all young good looking lads. (Any guesses where I’ll be applying to work next?) He plugged my phone into his Mac on the desk, I stood up from my stool “No, there are children. I mean to say, there are photos I don’t want popping up for all to see, it wouldn’t be appropriate…photo-shoot photos.” He looked away and pointed out an error message that had popped up anyway, my phone was officially fried inside. I asked what I could do: “Well,” He started “You could pay £129 and Apple will replace it, but it’s worth seeing if you can get that covered by your insurance, home insurance for example or your Mum or Dad’s insurance as we do accept all of those…or, you know – it is Valentines Day, you could ask for it as a present from your girlfriend – boyfriend, whoever?”
‘Fuck you’ I thought and smiled. “I’ll see if I can sort out insurance,” I said, knowing full well I couldn’t afford to get it replaced myself. It was I, now feeling well and truly fucked!
2010?
Blackheath is a hilly sickeningly middle-class town in south London known for its flat stretch of pampered grassland that plays host to annual firework displays. The view is clear but for the tree serrated horizon. Down the hill through winding streets amid shops and pubs, myself and some family found ourselves waiting in a restaurant for christmas dinner.
Following a wait close to an hour we were finally given menus. The flaw in our plan soon became apparent, we chose a french restaurant. While there was turkey, carrots, parsnips and the like, where were the roast potatoes? Where was my fucking Yorkshire pudding? It then occurred to us that these are typically English things to eat and of course it would far too embarrassing to fuss over such things (at the risk of sounding xenophobic.) What was worthy of complaint was the fact that there were 5 potatoes served to feed six people. Then blood started to drip from my nose.
As I leaned over the bowl of the toilet, listening to the pats of blood I started to think about the end of 2009. A year that felt almost to be filler in between the lack of trajectory my life had to what I plan to do with my future in 2010. It was generally quite shit. Everything in 2009 seemed to just get worse and worse – what else could happen? On top of everything! Christmas itself felt like a parody of this. To top the year after waiting and waiting, given the sinews that passed as vegetables and what must have been supermarket turkey and then not one but two nose bleeds! It was only something you could laugh at. Especially when I was given a completely different dessert to what I had ordered.
At the close of the year it felt as if for once a change was about to happen. As if I would be presented with a clean slate. The air around me had a charge, London was full of electricity – the anticipation of something about to happen larger in scale than people could conceive but only wait to be a witness of. What could change but the date? This was neither 2000 nor 2012. We were severely lacking in an apocalypse and yet everywhere was buzzing.
We waited outside Popstarz for James to arrive, eyeing a glinting belt made out of bullets like we were a set of magpies. A man minced his way down the centre of the road, as he stole the focus of the surrounding clubbers he then slipped and fell flat on his arse. Bleached hair askew and his face more so, though whether naturally or not I could not tell, he stood and arranged himself then walked back the way he came. “Well, that’s his night over then.” We agreed.
We, being myself, Rory and Kraige – two gentlemen you’ll likely to have heard little about from me before. Then James, another you had been previously ignorant of, returned and we entered the club. It was heaving, hundreds of gays crammed in each room, stuffed like burgers of compacted indie meat. We found Yaniv and we found Dolly and others. I saw a Luke I know looking at me from across the dance floor, idly smiling; noting the recognition he was too drunk by then to place a time and place to.
- Horrid Boy-band pose
The shots lined the bar in front of us. 3. It was here already? 2. 2010? 1. It feels the same. HAPPY NEW YEAR. We hugged briefly before downing the shots – by downing I mean mostly down my face and neck. Everyone was knocking into each other as they grabbed and pulled for celebratory hugs and cheers. Later, downstairs and with paint all over my face I bumped into Scott – so rat arsed he didn’t recognize me at first, even at point blank range as he practically fell onto me. “I fucking love you Chris…you kn- not in that way, but…well I would, you know – I just love you though.” He reminded me, as sweet as Scott is, what was wrong about my 2009. The friends that like me more not for the content of my character but for the curve of my arse.
I sent him on his way back to where I had seen his friends earlier. I danced. I danced to GaGa, I danced to R’n'B – It seemed best to tear my way into 2010 with an attitude none other than ‘Fuck It.’ Maybe that is the attitude I should have had all along, fuck it. No longer lacking self-worth and a sense of identity – what else can I do but not give a shit anymore? This is 2010, I want 2010 to be mine.
Without Shame
- A photo I took using my iPhone, whilst on my way to work
Liverpool
The carriage had the static silence of a polite quiet, we boarded the train; only a few to each compartment. Sitting opposite was Barney, whom I had known for an hour at the most. Adjacent to us, sat at the other table, a woman with her husband. He had fingered two earphones into his ears before the train had even started moving. The woman sat pressing a fist into her cheek, looking nowhere. It seemed as if out of boredom alone, having nothing else to do she chose to get out a shot of insulin (perhaps?) and inject herself.
An hour or so before, I had met Barney. He was the other floor manager I would be working with on the conference. Having never met him prior to that day I waited, casually sitting on a bench checking my phone for his announcement of arrival. Then a text message: “I’m @ Euston now – black coat, black t w/blue dog on, short beard, receding hairline – stood @ central info column in front of departures board.” I phoned him and waited and watched to see who would go to answer – then, seeing me, a man holding his phone acknowledged what I was trying to do – nodded and came over.
We talked about our work, we talked about Liverpool. Both of us were tired, he explained he had been looking after his girlfriend the night before – that she had been upset due to a bereavement and then I thought of Dave. Stupidly wondering and in no way spiritually but more inquisitively, whether I would see him again – a second later I had to remind myself that he was gone and when that happens during a conversation with someone outside of your mind – Barney standing in front of me – the atmosphere becomes somewhat awkward.
A while later, the train threaded its way through the last stretches of London streets and shot through the green hills, dotted by white specs of passing sheep and a strip of black; the canal that ran alongside the tracks.
We got a cab to where the conference was being held, Liverpool Football Club, I noticed on the way I saw the word “Regeneration” four times. Having to describe the next six hours is near impossible to do so with any nuance of enthusiasm, due to having not much to do during “the rig.” We tested the satellite later however, and there was hope that the next day would run smoothly. When standing in front of the camera, leveling the microphones by clapping the car wash tune, things seemed promising – all locations could see one another, the comm links worked. What could go wrong?
Two of us, now four – with Daniel and…Lee? I forget – now joining our ranks, got a cab down toward the docks to check into our hotel. The cab driver took us down a busy street, our view was blocked by bulks of steel and glass. From the back where I sat, I heard the driver make conversation,
“…That there was where he stayed, got robbed and everything – that balcony there…fuocking great.” As we cruised into the center of town, with genuine concern he asked “Where are you lads staying?!”
My room at the Premier Inn was your usual four walled affair. I looked at my bed for a moment, thinking: ‘I may masturbate on you.’ before dumping my things and heading downstairs to meet the guys in the lobby. We went to a bar next door called Circa – a place you hear long before seeing. A polar bear stood, stuffed at the foot of the stairs. Women crowded booths and men charmed them for entry. This was the type of bar you would see a thousand times in London, only here they dimmed the lights, loudened the music with no one yet on the dance floor however. Daniel had to yell at me to tell me about his trip to Cyprus. “A man pulled…PULLED – up in his car, so I went over yeah, thinking he wanted directions or something, ok so – he lowers his window and he asks me for a blowjob for money, hah!” We laugh, kind of.
“Oh!” I said, “He asked to suck you off, and pay you for it?” Daniel nodded and laughed. I became slightly concerned he brought this up for a reason. We finished our beers, and I retired for the evening. Back in my hotel room, I thought over what was to come tomorrow. I stood in front of the window in my undies, looking out at the Anglican Cathedral. There was a river below that bounced reflected city light across the room, Gordon Ramsay was on TV – he was saying “fuck” quite a lot.
6AM, my “alarm” rings – the “snooze” button lights up, I misread it as, Adam Sloose.
We rehearse the day’s conference, our camera operators show up – mine is called Rich – a man that knows Liverpool well, he asks “Where are you staying?!” Later I meet my ET (I still do not know what that stands for) but his name was Mike and he worked for the company putting on the conference, he was also a twat. I stand him on the mark we placed for a nice backdrop and better lighting. I explain that we’re going to do a rehearsal, just to see all the cameras are working and the other locations can pick up our feed. I find myself quite nervous, standing in front of the camera again about to go live – even just for a few people – the feed appears and my first thought: ‘I look awful.’
The secretary at the desk rubbed a finger across the width of his cracked lips. I had a few hours break – what is there to see in this city? He looked up and said “You should go to Liverpool One, thats quite new – you should go see that.” Myself and Barney followed his recommendation and headed out to this Liverpool One. On the way, we pass the city hall – a stone building with tall standing columns lining the walls and circumference of the upper level dome. A statue looked over from on top. We were forced to look over to another street as the cab took us away into a busy shopping court. A sign read “Liverpool One.” There we saw a HMV, a Pret, Odeon, American Apparel, Burger King…
Barney stopped and said “This-this is just a mezzanine really, isn’t it?”
“Aww…” I replied, “Maybe they haven’t had one before!” Walking the streets later, I noticed the word Regeneration another three times, I noticed “The Beatles” or statues of The Beatles six times, I noticed how friendly everyone was. We walked to Anfield, coming across no one, on the way to the football club. Buildings stood in half-ruin decorated in barbed wire, businesses were closed, shutters collecting rust through disuse, I couldn’t understand what must have happened. An old woman crossed the street, not really looking where she was going – we turned a corner and stopped. I couldn’t believe it, rows upon rows of houses – all boarded up, stretching nearly two miles maybe. The place was silent – dead. One car was parked outside the one house that had no metal or wood panels covering the windows and doors. For a moment, not really knowing why, I felt guilty – perhaps to be living the lifestyle I have been and not appreciating that Anfield could soon be the reality for many cities. I imagined what it must be like to be the person living in that house – what happens in Anfield in the dead of night, in a dead town?
We arrived back at the football club in time to go live, I got my radio and met Mandy a part of the Liverpool 2 team, that team being anyone in my room AKA: Liverpool 2 or Camera 5. She asked me, “Where did you stay?!”
Whilst the suits, the company employees sat at their tables and watched VTs of their company leaders talk about growth, Rich, Myself and Paul the sound guy, set up. Rain began to lash the windows, then suddenly we lost comm links! I couldn’t hear the director, Del. I exchanged a look with Paul and waited. A storm turned day into night outside. The comm links came back, we were minutes away from going live, “We’re having trouble picking up the satellite feed from Liverpool” Del said, “We may need to drop Liverpool.” Two days setting up the satellite and test running the entire event, to lose the signal, now?!
Well, we didn’t lose the signal – in fact Liverpool 2 put out one of the best feeds, if I do say so myself – very neat and with good timing.
On my way to the train station I took one last look at the city; towers against abandoned stone factories, warehouses, homes. There is an obvious sense of pride in the city with liverpudlians – there is so much talk of regeneration. But everyone seems to be waiting for something to happen. There is the tallest restaurant in the UK, surrounded by homes belonging to deprived families. Streets are silent – the only evidence of there once being life, the smears of spray paint that have failed to wash off anti-graffiti fences. Liverpool is a city in transition – everything, everyone seems to be waiting for some kind of correction – From brick to steel, jobless to working. In a park someone had painted the word “nigger” and later someone had changed it to “snigger.”
The city seems to be trying to grow up out of the poverty around it – the only problem being that what happens to what is left, the small businesses, the poorer homes, the people? I wonder if the entire city has been conned by the companies that have moved in, and whether the damage has been done. I found myself unsure whether I should be grateful for seeing what is left of the old Liverpool, as I did find it quite charming – or doubtful about whether the regeneration will ever happen.
Jan Moir: “It is not disrespectful…” Actually Jan, it is.
Jan Moir caused outrage last week resulting in the highest amount of complaints ever received by The PCC (Press Complaints Commission) The Daily Mail published Moir’s article in which the journalist expressed opinions regarding recently deceased pop singer Stephen Gately, opinions that many readers considered to be distasteful. Moir then continued with statements such as: “Another real sadness about Gately’s death is that it strikes another blow to the happy-ever-after myth of civil partnerships.” leading to many labeling Moir and the article as homophobic.
To impose my ego into the matter, I – along with thousands of others (including Stephen Fry) – declared my offense in response to the article. Branding Moir as “vile.” However, the escalation of this matter I fear to be bordering on ridiculous, bearing in mind that a police investigation has now gone underway. And this evening, audience members on the BBC’s Question Timewere asking whether the article should have been published at all. The man sitting opposite to this audience was BNP leader Nick Griffin and the audience questioned our democratic right that is freedom of speech due to a gossip columnist?!
I do not believe Jan Moir is homophobic – and my ex-boyfriend is certain (being a close friend of hers) that she is not – that as a journalist you have demands set by your publisher (and remember, we are talking about a right-wing newspaper first established by fascists.) You have little time, and a lot of stress. This does not excuse the article however, no matter what her personal beliefs really are.
In the article, Moir claims: “After a night of clubbing, Cowles…” (Gately’s partner,) “…and Gately took a young Bulgarian man back to their apartment. It is not disrespectful to assume that a game of canasta with 25-year-old Georgi Dochev was not what was on the cards.” Not disrespectful? Some may not agree with the way in which Gately was portrayed as ‘whiter than white’ after his death but to make such a presumption, to scandalize the last few hours of his life without knowing for sure what had or had not taken place, as sleazy – then go on to question civil partnerships – is a great disrespect, not only to Gately but to the entire gay community, the article then is not about slandering a recently deceased celebrity, but using generalizations involving a minority group to do so and pose a question about the stability of monogamous gay relationships because of Moir’s own presumptions about Gately.
Hate Crime
Homophobia has always been present within any society that has accepted gay people as a minority group with equal rights. Yet as there is acceptance – even tolerance, there are those who are ignorant still and hateful. In the news recently it was found that the number of homophobic attacks reported has increased over 30%
What is important to note is that no, the amount of homophobic attacks does not seem to have increased but instead the number that have been reported. Yet the BBC decided to campaign to gay men in particular to come forward if they have experienced homophobia. The news story went further to suggest that in doing so, it may help the police in being able to respond appropriately to such crimes.
Oh, are the police not yet trained in being able to deal with crime? Does this not put their entire purpose into question?! A representative from Stonewall (the gay and lesbian “charity”) suggested that in order for ‘us’ to tackle homophobia we need to be coming forward to police about the types of abuse we have been experiencing. Does it not make sense instead for police to respond to any crime, no matter the crime – its type or its victim? Do we, as a minority group need to put ourselves upon a pedestal – to not only report a crime but use its possible motive as a means to single ourselves out as victims more so?
A hate crime, is a crime. No more horrific than the next. Does it need to get to the stage where a crime against a gay man or woman will be considered homophobic by default? Similarly being the case with white men who commit acts of violence against black people.
Where will the line be drawn? What purpose will reporting the crime as homophobic, serve?
Sex ¥en
In more urban parts of Japan sex has become so mainstream in its presence in the public eye, it is sold in a similar fashion to a person purchasing a drink. In fact, not only are bottles of beer sold from vending machines in parts of Tokyo, but used pairs of underwear as well. I recently wrote an essay on the topic of prostitution in urban sectors of Japan. I went about my research clear in my mind that sex has become an obsession for Japanese people. Tokyo is full of sex alleys, Love hotels, prostitutes and pornography. But what I discovered was that there are deeper reasons why sex has become accepted into mainstream outlets.
Rapelay is one of the more recent scandals; a videogame in which the player simulates raping female victims, which is being sold in Japan. In the USA it was banned when Amazon.com tried to list it on their site. The Telegraph quoted a spokesman from the company responsible for the game: “We believe there is no problem with the software, which has cleared the domestic ratings of an ethics watchdog body.” (2009). This alone could make you question how sexually explicit media is censored in Japan.
Rapelay and many other types of pornography (ranging from media broadcasted on TV to magazines and comic books showing nudity, sold from vending machines and other outlets) have considerable success in Japan. “Under the influence of Western morality, the Japanese imposed restrictions on pornography…even today, visual materials still must not show genital and pubic hair. With this one exception, pornography now appears throughout Japanese society.” (The Functions and Effects of Pornography 1986) with boundaries made clear, it has in fact made sex more widely accessible in many forms. “Themes such as rape are common yet rape rates in Japan are relatively low” (1986) this goes against western ideas, if Rapelay is considered, that violent or sexually explicit media can lead to the consumer becoming more violent or sexually active and so you would think that any criticisms of sex becoming mainstream in the east, can now be considered unjustified in some respects.
The differences between western values and eastern may be more distinct when the issue of Love Hotels is discussed. Love Hotels may seem kinky an idea to you, but in fact they’re used mostly by married couples who need to escape from the cramped confines of home in order to be intimate with each other. What some may slander as Sex Hotels are in fact helping to keep families together. Japanese people are far more open about sex, this openness can be tracked back to the Samurai, who were able to pursue same-sex affairs due to (it is believed) the lack of a connection on a conscious level between gender and sexual preference during that period. Today, their society has no connection as we do, between sex/pornography and the negative results that could have on the public. Take Soho, (the centre of the city of London, as one example,) where sex is sold in many forms and as a result the area is considered sleazy.
Sleazy being something Westerners perhaps do not want to associate with themselves, yet sex and pornography is what most people naturally take an interest in at some point in their lives.
The changes that have occurred within Japan have led up to the way in which people view sex. “Post-war Japan, with its rapidly developing industrial culture, is witnessing changes in sexual attitudes and behaviour and sex is gradually losing its feudalistic aspects including arranged marriage and preservation of virginity until marriage.” (Asayama S: The Japanese Association for Sex Education, January 1974) and with less marriages generally, more divorces and the legalization of birth control methods – it has meant a complete shift in people’s attitudes toward sex can take place. This shift has also contributed to the way in which people now think about extramarital affairs. With Love Hotels being somewhere for partners to openly go to be intimate, it is not uncommon for married couples to be intimate with someone else as well. The study into adolescent sex development and adult sex behaviour (Asayama S, 1974) has found that over 90% of married men have had extramarital intercourse.
Japanese society has developed into one that has embraced what would be taboo for western countries. Sex has become a part of every facet in Japanese adult life. It is sold alongside food and drink. It is not criticised and has liberalized those whom in other countries would have been victims. Censorship has given Japanese people the reason to abide anything pornographic and in turn, it has allowed an audience to embrace it openly. It is this openness that has been key to couples pursuing intimacy outside of their homes where they would have been otherwise restricted.
People may be quick to question attitudes toward sex and even women in Japan – yet this is a country where Companions (what the Japanese call their prostitutes) choose whether they have sex with their clients. Wives are also having extramarital affairs but it doesn’t automatically lead to divorce anymore. What I once thought to be a wild obsession, I believe now to be structured, thoughtful and ultimately, harmless.
Pride & Gay Prejudice
Let us pretend, I am someone living my average-Joe life, I work, I shop, I fuck. There is nothing extraordinary about my lifestyle. I give spare change to homeless people. I eat Pret sandwiches. I go to give blood – but wait, I can’t. I am sitting in a small booth answering questions – I am told I cannot give blood and thanked for my time. This would seem confusing a situation for anyone to find themselves in.
The reality is certain people are banned from giving blood. One group being gay men. We are banned from donating blood on the basis of being gay. The National Blood Service (NBS) has stated that this is not the case – “The reason for this exclusion rests on specific sexual behaviour (such as anal and oral sex between men), rather than the sexuality of the person wishing to donate. There is, therefore, no exclusion of gay men who have never had sex with a man nor of women who have sex with women.”
Of course the reason for the ban is the risk of contamination caused by sexually transmitted infections in gay men. The risk posed by lesbians is minimal in my opinion, the risk only just greater than completely impossible! If the NBS truly believe the basis of the ban is not based on sexuality but in fact sexual behaviour – then why, I must ask, do they not exclude all people engaging in the same sexual practices? The answer may come down to a generalization that all gay men are the same, engage in the same activities and hold the same views about sexual health. Sexually transmitted infections may be on the rise within the gay community but wouldn’t it make sense to ask not if you are a man who has sex with men. But whether you have had unprotected sex? How many sexual partners have you had in the last six months? Do you engage in high risk sexual behaviour?
A straight man or woman whom, let’s say, has sex with numerous partners (protected and unprotected) can give blood, because the same logic the NBS has used for gay people does not apply to straight men and women. Recent studies have shown that there are in fact as many cases of STIs in teenagers as there are in gay men. With hardly any questioning into the sexual lifestyles of heterosexual adults, I can only imagine what a study would reveal about their numbers. The other day I read a story in a newspaper about young straight people, aged between 16 to 25 who are having unprotected sex. One of the reasons they are not using condoms is because, they say: “we are not gay.” How ironic that they, greater in numbers are the ones who are getting infected and pose the risk of contamination.
I would like to reiterate that these people can give blood and many will. After reading the story I spoke to my friend Megan (who, it happens, met a random man a few days earlier and had bareback sex with him…twice) about sex education and what could be done about this problem. She said that “the fear” needs to be put back in the minds of the public. I pointed out that if we are made to fear something like AIDS then it would surely lead to discrimination, fear and intolerance toward people who are HIV positive/ have AIDS.
The education system is built upon foundations of fundamental religious beliefs. The idea of incorporating gay sexual education has so far been rejected. However I do not believe this means teaching children how to have gay sex (although it would make things a bit easier for the children who grow up to be gay.) Instead the principle, that being gay is as natural as being straight. With something as basic as this maybe we would not have some of the attitudes we have today, if this had been applied to sexual education years ago.
What is unfortunate is that fighting for gay rights has become somewhat unfashionable, we have Pride every year, so who are we to complain?! Well prejudice still exists and I believe the basis for the blood ban is unjust and of course what sort of impression does it give about gay men to other people. That we are all infected sluts? When there was a petition to end the ban, I attempted to spread the word and I found that people were quite hostile when this was brought to their attention – even some gay men were! I was completely stunned as one gay man I knew shouted at me for forcing my beliefs onto other people – I soon cut that person out of my life. It seems some people, gay men too, think that there is a risk from gay blood – However…
Max Pemberton recently wrote about the blood ban and the policy the NBS have meaning they will not allow any possible chance of contamination – as even one case of someone becoming HIV positive or diagnosed with another infection through transfusion is unacceptable – which of course is understandable. However, Dr Pemberton found out that “France, Italy, Spain, South Africa, Sweden, Russia and Australia have lifted their bans, and none has seen a rise in contaminated blood. Indeed clinical evidence suggests lifting the ban has cut contamination.
Italy screens donors on the basis of risk, rather than sexuality, and since introducing this policy in 2001 the number of HIV infections via blood transfusion has fallen by two thirds. Spain also screens according to risk. Its health ministry says HIV contaminations have plummeted 80 per cent.”
So it should be clear by now that the NBS may say it doesn’t come down to sexuality but instead sexual behaviour – However, unless you apply that to everyone it is discrimination. The ban should be lifted and a new policy should be applied to everyone.
This is not just about gay rights, this is about the risk of contamination from people who fit under no current policy.
You won’t take my blood? What makes you think I want yours!
Kissing
Last night on Platform A (where I waited for my train after work,) I noticed a couple standing across from me sucking the faces off of each other. As I tried to dislodge a sweet stuck behind one of my teeth, I thought about kissing – what makes you a good kisser, what makes you bad?
It is the most searched for thing on the internet – or more accurately: “How To Kiss” is, but I believe being good at kissing doesn’t just come down to technique, but also style.
For years I have been told Im a somewhat good kisser, something that’s not exactly hard work considering my big lips. But then I met my ex – imagine my surprise when he told me that I need to practice. How dare he, I thought. A year later we talk about my skills again and he told me how I have gotten much better.
Better? Or used to his style of kissing. What could be an exciting, heart pumping rush of a kiss between two people could be a clumsy wet face smudge when tried with another person. I had nailed a technique, so why couldn’t my ex understand that what he was getting was top notch kissing?! I would always start with lips, gradually introducing some tongue to build upon the progression of the kiss. What I was surprised to find was that my ex approached things completely differently. Heads tilt almost 90 degrees, mouths open and tongues wrestle.
Who can say which of us can kiss and which cannot. Does it come down to preference? Style? Or even a person’s own limitations? Maybe it is the case that some people naturally use their tongue more if, say, their lips are thinner. While others use their lips fully. Some people suck on lips, others run their tongues along the other person’s teeth. There are so many techniques and quirks that we all have but because sometimes they are not immediately obvious to others we mistake the other person as being a bad kisser and thus incompatible. When you think about it, you can both work at it and end up enjoying kissing each other as much as past partners you were used to.
But there are a few fundamental rules that can see anyone through any type of kiss – whether you enjoy it or not comes down to both of you, not just one person.
1. There should be no transport of food! Strawberries can be fun to put into your partner’s mouth, but make sure it is one you haven’t already chewed.
2. Accidents happen – your teeth may bump theirs, you might dribble on the rare occasion – it is best to acknowledge it and move on immediately.
3. Speaking of dribbling and drool – don’t! Swallow before you open that mouth of yours and make sure you lick your lips just before you lean in.
4. Use your hands, heighten the emotion of the partner by stroking his/her face, stroking their back or running your fingers through his/her hair.
5. Come up for air – a sustained kiss can get boring so make sure you kiss in short bursts to give your partner the chance to change positions if they want to or allow the both of you to try something new.
Author Interview: Daniel Allen Cox
Mr Cox is a man enjoying literary success in his post-pornography career as a writer and has brought his first published novel, Shuck, to the UK. The book is loosely based (50% to be as exact as the author) on his experiences in The Big Apple. “Shuck is the intense, dazzling diary of Jaeven Marshall, a quasi-homeless hustler who seeks his fame and fortune in New York, where he tries to manage his reputation as the city’s porn star du jour when he’s not dumpster diving, tweaking, or trying to get published. As his dreams of becoming a literary star grow dim, and when his love affair with a moody painter becomes hopelessly messy, he tries to reconfigure his life by documenting obsessive lists from found trash, and by hustling, which steals little pieces of his body and scatters them all over the city.”
I had the chance to ask the author about his work and a little bit about his life as well:
Shucking refers to the speedy removal of corn husks, oyster shells, trousers, skivvies, and petticoats. This group of objects, it would seem, share an innate sense of urgency: they must be handled with a quick hand, and delay is unwelcome. Why postpone anything related to food or sex? If the only thing between you and a good fuck is an annoying piece of clothing, you need to shuck that nonsense, pronto.
Q. What is your most memorable experience of Shucking? Is it a good memory or a bad one?
It was when a photographer shot my erection in front of a big bay window, silhouetted against the twin towers of the erstwhile World Trade Center. My cock was exactly the same height, but that was likely due to camera tricks. My porn career crumbled around the same time the towers did. It’s kind of creepy now, when you think about it, so I’d rather not discuss it further.
Q. Do you think there is much difference between being a porn star and being published?
For starters, no one comes in my face when I finish a scene, and I’m no longer paid in bills that smell like sex, which is a bit of a downer. I get more sex propositions as a writer than I did as a porn star, but then people realize I’m not Martin Amis, and they politely fuck off. But there is no real difference, because sex work is work, and all work is a form of prostitution. For the rest of your life, people will be paying you for services that your body performs. And you’ll take the money.
Q. What was the key factor in Shuck becoming published internationally? Sales? Or is it easier to crack other countries from your side of the pond, than say our side?
Arsenal Pulp Press has an excellent distribution network, one that reaches into the cozy corners of the reading world, so I’m lucky. I understand that most of its books are sold outside of Canada. For the second part of your question, that depends on local sexual tastes. Do Canadian accents make British people wet? There’s a bit of a UK accent fetish here, so I was wondering if I could turn my own maple syrup stutter into a marketing tool. What do you think?
“I’ve managed to be pretty transparent in my “personal life”, whatever that means.”
Q. Was you ever asked to take something out of the book? And for what reason?
Absolutely not. Arsenal Pulp Press is founded on diversity and it has been instrumental in fighting censorship in Canada. I was lucky to perform at Little Sisters bookstore in Vancouver, famous for waging a decades-long battle with Canada Customs over books seized for obscenity. They have made great headway in opening avenues of personal expression and sexual knowledge in this country. Because of these angels, I can write what I want. On the other hand, I would love for border officials to flag Shuck as dangerous literature. A literary bonfire would be even better.
Q. Jaeven, your protagonist, is based on you but better looking you have said. What aspects of the character did you make worse than yourself?
He could learn to take better care of himself. What kind of idiot leaves an infection unattended for weeks at a time? Money is no excuse, because he could’ve unzipped, done a handstand, and pissed in the wound. And Jaeven is a bald-faced liar. It’s a given that as a fiction writer, I’ve learned how to weave varying degrees of truth, though I’ve managed to be pretty transparent in my “personal life”, whatever that means.
Q. Is there anything about your old New York lifestyle that you miss?
I miss stumbling out of a club on a pitch-black Wednesday morning, buying a blueberry cream cheese bagel, and saying “damn, this tastes like beer.” I miss movie audiences that scowl when you bring popcorn—how low-brow!—into the theatre. Most of all, I’ll miss the little survivalist ruses I had to develop. When I was evicted from my one-room rat’s nest in Brooklyn, I had to patch up three hundred push-pin holes in the wall with toilet paper and whiteout, just to get my security deposit back. The landlady should have paid me more—it was a work of art!
Shuck will be available to buy on the 26th February
To Order A Copy Of Shuck Click Here
Or Here (WhSmith)
