Explosions Exploding

So, you're a fan of terrible TV. Worry not! There are lots of terrible things, like agnosticism and getting caught learning to play an instrument, but here's the catch: I can make your TV show better. You may think that anybody can do this simply by hiring new writers or better actors, and you'd be right, but I'm going to work within self-imposed constraints and use my knowledge to improve three shows by at least 37% without simply killing every character or firing every writer. Now read on as I kick mediocrity in the dick.

The Show: How I Met Your Mother

"We found a wallet in here and we're not giving it back!"

The Problem: I've Seen Friends

Comparing How I Met Your Mother (or HIMYM, which is dangerously close to HIMYN - just sayin') to Friends is lazy, and it is somewhat unfair since people don't like you making fun of their show, but the problem remains: I've seen Friends. I spent a good decade of my life seeing repeats of Friends on various channels, and whatever room there was in my heart for several whiny, over-privileged New-Yorkers was filled. This is hardly fair since Friends didn't invent the sitcom or New York (it did invent The Rachel and dancing in fountains) but that's my own experience, and it's why I can't invest in the show. Oh, and it's not funny. 

The Solution: Identity

If you haven't seen the film Identity then you should know that every character is a figment of a convicted murderer's mind. You should also know I just spoiled Identity for you. Just be glad I spoiled a shitty film in which the story is revealed to have taken place in somebody's mind instead of something you might've watched like Pan's Labyrinth or Jacob's Ladder. Anyway, upon adopting this direction the show becomes infinitely more interesting; stilted dialogue becomes the result of a fractured mind incapable of creating well-rounded individuals; the cardboard, too-clean New York is explained away as a reflection of all the family-friendly television our protagonist has consumed; the show gains an over-arching narrative that viewers can look for clues of in each episode. Basically, it's a lot more fun than playing 'guess the baby mama' with the female cast. Hey, maybe for the series finale they could send a camera crew out to a random viewer's house and tell them that it was their creation all along - that they're responsible for polluting the airwaves with the televisual equivalent of a dog breathing in your face. In all honesty, 'it was all a dream!' is tacky bullshit, but at least you'd blow that one person's mind, and that's one more than the real show will ever succeed in blowing.  

That same viewer's attempts to dream of Candy Land would prove unsuccessful.

The Show: Skins

This Facebook quiz says I'm just like the cunty one!

The Problem: They Have No Problems

I can only speak about series four and five of Skins since that's all I've seen, but even if it did start out great watching it is now like watching a viral video your mother sent you, and that's where I aim to improve. Skins is an example of a show written by older people pandering to kids in their mid-to-late teens by presenting their lives as fascinating, hedonistic and full of angst. It's no surprise that these people latch onto this show and act like it's a mirror of their drug-fuelled lives - they just want to be cool. The problem is that every character has a pretty decent life; they have food, clothes, a chance at an education and at least a couple of friends. They're also all annoying little assholes who create drama for themselves and then spend forty minutes wandering the streets screaming something like "IT'S FUCKED. IT'S ALL JUST FUCKED" as they spiral into all-out despair over the delay of their Amazon.co.uk delivery or whatever the fuck has happened that makes them discount the remaining sixty-to-eighty years of their life. 

The Solution: Jerry

Who's Jerry? This is Jerry:

Hi, Jerry!

OK, so maybe not that kid specifically, but Skins' next step is to cast and incorporate either a thalidomide or paraplegic. That is my only contribution, but it is most certainly an important one. By forcing the writers to add ol' Jerry into at least two-thirds of scenes I fucking dare the writers to try and write a story about any character getting dumped/losing their super-8 camera/being de-friended by Vice magazine on Facebook/having their parent not give them their undivided attention/being crushed by Dorothy upon her arrival/forgetting their sock puppet theatre rehearsal with a straight face whilst our stoic hero sits prominently in the foreground. Jerry instantly becomes a symbol of sanity, and should any two characters become hysterical with anger over which one of them gets to blow weed in a stray dog's face, then it's Jerry's time to shine as he calmly rolls on from the right side of the screen. Skins is forced to take a long, hard look at itself before deciding that maybe the problems of your average sixth-form student pale in comparison to those of pretty much anybody, and that there are people in this world who can accept and move on from whatever life throws at them without throwing a shit-fit that would make Jack Nicholson blush.

Just grow a pair of tits and move on.

The Show: Episodes

I'm sure 'Joey' will enjoy a renaissance on Blu-Ray.

The Problem: Matt LeBlanc Is Dead Inside

If you've read any of the dozen interviews with Matt LeBlanc during which he talked about waiting to accept just the right project after Friends then you'll already know the sadness I'm talking about. Here is a man still struggling to come to terms with the world's baffling disdain of the Lost In Space remake whilst at the same time trying to afford a pool for his pool-cleaning net. You can't really compliment his performance as a down-and-out actor when you know that between takes he's trying to persuade the government that he has nothing worth repossessing on his Motorola Razr. I mean really, the problem with the show is that it's not funny, but let's forget that and focus on poor Matt instead. 

The Solution: PayPal

It's not too late to return Joey to his late-90s glory. It's time for a grass-roots campaign that reaches around the world. I want people in China donating their hard-earned China dollars, I want Russians taking a break from raising children of steel and instead marching through the streets of Moscow to the tune of The Rembrandts 'I'll Be There For You'. Whatever your national stereotype, stop doing that and give Matt some money. Once we've raised enough money then it's time to hand over that money to Japanese scientists who will then create five highly realistic androids based on the likenesses of the cast of Friends which are then instilled with the five, fictitious personalities of that show. Upon completion of the Friends-bots our next step is to create a 1:1 scale replica of New York (like a much grander Synecdoche, New York) for Matt to live in where eventually the life, memories and sadness of Matt LeBlanc are replaced wholesale by the wacky hijinks of Joey Tribbiani, this fictional life eventually consuming him whole until nothing remains of his true self but half-remembered dreams of a cruel and distant land which shunned his genius. If I did have to think of a way to improve Episodes, I'd probably just add a talking koala called Donny. I don't know, it might be cool. 

Sting Makes Music For Lovers

The artist currently known as Sting is a virtuoso at anything he turns his hand towards. His talent is an established fact, his contribution to uniting genitals is immeasurable, but what a lot of people don't know about is the secret heartbreak hiding behind his lute; Sting, it turns out, is ugly as all fuck. 

Pictured here looking like a peanut with cancer.

The singer-songwriter is a fragile creature and to bruise its ego is akin to telling a bee that it's too fat to fly, thus removing any semblance of aerodynamics it once held, causing it to drop out of the sky and ruin middle-class breakfasts the whole world over. This is, however, the shocking truth that lies buried beneath decades of solid-gold pop songs such as "The Police", and "Missing You". So how can we as a people avert this crisis? The answer is simple: we show him love. The problem is that words can only go so far - eventually a boy will realise that the reason his platonic friend wants to remain 'just friends' is because of his potato-like appearance and eBay-bought nunchucks. The only solution is the physical act of love, and so I present to you the following...

Three Scenarios In Which You Might Have Sex With Sting

You see, you can single-handedly put an end to his crippling self-doubt, but I know that as things stand you don't really want to have sex with someone who, even at his best, only ever looked like a blonde pineapple. This leads me to the following scenarios which, should you ever find yourself in, copulation with Sting could be considered an option, or at the very least, 'taking one for the team'. 


1. The Post-Apocalypse

For whatever reason, the world has turned to dust and leather-clad biker gangs have seized control of whatever passes for currency in this dank future (probably buttons). You and your animal pal of choice roam through the wastelands, barely surviving on the meat of rats and contaminated water. Eventually you happen upon an outpost, almost a town, with gates constructed specifically to guard from the mutant chimps that instead of evolving into rational creatures capable of empathy and highly complex thought, instead evolved the ability to rip our cocks off and bury them in the dirt. You enter seeking shelter and after negotiating a room you decide to unwind at the bar. The days prior have taken their toll and you slump into your booth, not even raising your eyes to meet the waitress when ordering your potato vodka. Soon, however, you become aware of sound... It's a soothing sound, one not of these barren lands; a fusion of commercially viable soft-rock and a genre you wouldn't call jazz unless you were straining for credibility in a market that has rejected you. You try to pin it down but your mind is at a loss until, eventually, you turn your head and see it: a being of pure benevolence, his hair non-existent but his cranial stubble proudly declaring that if it were there, it would be awesome. Your eyes meet and you know instantly that it's Sting. Shocked, you sit back down, and as your mind races so does his set. It's a humble set, no requests or any of the hits (he wanted to try some new stuff which he'd hoped you'd like, but didn't really care if you did) and you're about to leave when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Your eyes meet once again with this glowing figure and you know in your heart that he wants a handjob at the very least. What are you to do? The world is in ruins, mankind is waning, all we can do is play as the Titanic sinks, so do you want to be the person who threw the violins overboard? No, my friend. You must fuck Sting.

Hang in there, kitty!

2. Sunday Morning

The kids are screaming, the spouse is complaining about his/her something, your parents are calling to get you to explain how Sky+ works "Just one last time, dear" - oh, man, it's Sunday! It's all getting to be a bit too much to be honest. I mean, you were going to be something but then something happened and now your life is just a big fat mess. There is one form of salvation though; today your significant other is taking the kids out all day for once. You have the house to yourself at last, so now you can finally unwind, get naked, load Google Street View and pretend you're a naked space-angel following people as they go about their day. It's all going according to plan until you hear a knock at the door... Who could it be? Well, of course it's Sting. He's just moved in down the road, and since hot water is just normal water made angry, his wife Trudie despises kettles and because of this he hasn't had a cup of tea in years. You invite him in and immediately set about making the perfect cup of tea, engaging in small talk and getting to know him better. The tea is a success and he thanks you for it with a signed copy of his top 40 hit 'Desert Rose'. He's about to leave when he confides in you that he does sometimes have doubts about his genius, that maybe if he hadn't written the song 'Until...' for the film Kate & Leopold would some other musician have done it just as easily? This is a dire situation, and you think of the faces of your children; you think about them growing up in a world without a regular appearance by Sting on The Culture Show. You can't let that happen. You shelve your plans to watch karate films for training purposes in case you're ever attacked in the street and steel yourself for what is to come. You must fuck Sting. 

Sting will grant you one game of chess, but you're

only postponing your inevitable death. 

3. Car Showroom

Your current car has given you some good memories, or rather facilitated your good memories by acting as a means of transportation with which to travel to a location where good memories took place, or maybe you did just have a party in your car - it's not important now. The important thing is that you've decided to buy a new car with all that money you made selling your childhood toys on eBay (I hope Captain Soft Hugs doesn't haunt you in your dreams). As you watch other people dutifully traverse the floor, kicking tyres and inflating their cheeks in shock at the prices in the car windows, you try and find a spot where you can fart without raising any eyebrows. You think you're alone, but before you can relax physically a pair of firm hands grip you by the shoulders and a voice fills your head; it's as soft as a hummingbird, murmuring something about change for the vending machine because it'll be damned if it's breaking into a £10 note just for a Drifter. You turn your body, and before you can even begin recommending it buys Fruit Pastilles instead since they last longer and have the added value bonus of variety you discover the voice belongs to international pop sensation Sting! Immediately you begin asking him if he's here to buy a car as he licensed his song 'Desert Rose' to a 2001 car advertisement which some felt was massively hypocritical as he was claiming to be quite an environmentalist at the time. He says he is not, and that he merely enjoys stalking the showroom floors of car dealerships since it reminds him of the jungle. You don't even question that sentence. Having deprived you of your bus fare home and rebutted your idea of teaming up for an autobiography which also incorporated a sub-plot about the decline in population of the European bee (Will There Ever Bee Another Sting?) he begins to slink away. It's now you realise you can't let this happen. You grit your teeth and clench your hands into fists, destroying the cone-shaped polystyrene cup in your right hand that was going to be a party hat for your cat on his next birthday. You call his name and he turns towards you, hoping in his heart you'll tell him you love him, but you won't tell him... You'll show him. You'll fuck Sting.

A panther exuding Sting-like levels of intensity 

and the desire to eat smaller mammals.

So now that you know what to do in at least three potential Sting scenarios, it's up to you to get out there and make them happen. Good luck, Sting-fuckers!

DANNY BOYLE'S FRANKENSTEIN!

Woops!

I've never been to the theatre before and technically I still haven't, but I did recently get to watch Danny Boyle's interpretation of Frankenstein via a stream of the play at my friendly, neighbourhood VUE cinema. It cost, like, £16 but I guess that's besides the point. I went in with pretty high expectations since it was critically acclaimed and it managed to actually surpass my expectations. Johnny Lee Miller and Benedict play both Frankenstein and The Monster, alternating the roles with each night's performance. I saw it with Johnny Lee Miller as The Monster and I think this worked out well since he was pretty amazing. Benedict had a slightly harder time since his role was inherently less showy, but his performance was equally great, with both actors complimenting each other surprisingly well. The story broke from mainstream Hollywood tradition and actually gave a voice to The Monster, imbuing it with thought and sensitivity as it adapted towards its surroundings and began to understand the world and everything in it. I found it especially amazing since three days before I watched Danny Boyle's interpretation of Frankenstein, the BBC aired their production of Frankenstein's Wedding and it was complete and utter dogshit. Seriously, I'm not exaggerating, and it doesn't deserve any more articulate criticism. I'm angry I watched that thing in the first place. It can go fuck itself. 

Benedict portrayed the pain of monster rape much more convincingly.

The themes raised by the play are decades old now, so I don't feel the need to copy and paste a Wikipedia article which ponders if it is Man's place to play God before claiming that Mary Shelley loved Dr. Who and was born with both sets of genitals. I simply want to say how good this play is and that if you get even half a chance you should really do all you can to see it. If you don't get to see it on the big screen then see it on DVD, but be jealous of me for seeing it on a screen bigger than that dog that attacked you when you were seven years-old. 

Holy shit a talking iPod

So what of my actual work I displayed in the show? My final piece was a seemingly rather simple one, and to a certain extent it was, but it was another rather time-consuming project. Many of my projects deal in some way with obsession, so in that sense it was similar, however the logistical nature of the project was not a concern or initially apparent to an observer. My final piece was an iPod held in an iPod holder placed atop a plinth. The screen displayed 1,110 words, each scrolling by one word at a time, with the words acting not as a story, but rather as a crude artificial intelligence.

Kinda like an upside down HAL 9000.

My piece was intended to interact with the viewer whilst at the same time not doing, but rather than frustrating them it frustrated the piece itself – in this case my iPod. It begins by saying hello and then begins asking the observer general questions about their well-being, their surroundings, their likes and dislikes etc. From here the iPod would then begin to become frustrated with the lack of interaction on the part of the observer, its attempts get more and more desperate until eventually it crashes (a fake crash that I created).

There's also some dogshit music in there (sorry, Vengaboys).

It begins to fail, acting erratically before eventually crashing and then rebooting, at which point the entire ten-minute process begins again. I intended this to be some kind of small technological Sisyphus story that could unravel before your eyes. I was told of two potential downfalls to this project by my peers but both, to me, were actually part of the piece and interesting in their own way. The first was that at ten minutes nobody would stay to witness the entire thing, and people who walk in halfway through may not understand what is happening. This was not a problem to me, but rather a positive aspect to the work. I found the idea that the iPod continues to try and form a friendship regardless of its surroundings rather poignant

The idea of my iPod alone in the dark at night after the exhibition had closed, still failing to form a connection but still attempting to was very interesting to me. The perseverance of this psuedo-artificial intelligence gave it a quality that I found endearing. It would never succeed, but it would never stop trying. The second potential pitfall I was warned about was, again, another positive; the idea that people would come and read a few words before moving on. I found this interesting again because these people who simply ignore it are why it ultimately fails; they are disinterested, not willing to give it their time and so move on to the next piece. This was intentional. Had I made the cycle two or three minutes long it would be possible for everybody to stay for the entire duration of the cycle, which makes the failure of the iPod confusing since everybody is willing to give it their time and attention. Had it been shorter it would seem like a simple glitch and failure on the part of the iPod, but at ten minutes it can be ignored, and so you can prescribe emotions to the piece. The idea that it feels isolated, alone and ignored.

It also stole 77million PSN users' credit card information.

I was also warned that some people might think it was simply part of the exhibition simply designed to greet people. This was never a concern for me at all. It was not placed by the entrance, it had a description next to it and anybody who spent more than five seconds reading the text would understand that it was not simply an alternate method of welcoming people to the exhibition.

Overall I feel my piece was very successful. I felt it was a good idea and well executed. It received quite a bit attention on the opening night and the response from my peers was positive as well as my tutors. One person remarked that it was interesting simply for being so different. That when walking around the exhibition it was almost like a holiday from the traditional and expected work you were seeing. This was probably the biggest compliment and made me feel very happy with the idea. The piece itself may have seemed simple to make, but creating it involved creating 1,110 individual audio files and renaming every single one individually, whilst also setting the time of each file so the (one-sided) conversation would flow naturally (leaving pauses on questions for example so they had time to be absorbed by the viewer).

My work often involves humour and obsession, with this project having both the obsessive, time-consuming nature of its creation and the humour element found within the words. The themes I wanted to instill into this piece included intelligence, humanity, isolation, frustration, despondency and perseverance, and while no one viewer may have gotten all of these pieces of the puzzle I do believe I succeeded in exploring them all. 

WE BUILT THIS WITH OUR BEAR HANDS

Pictured: not bare hands.

After many months of hard work the M Exhibition finally opened, and opened in style thanks in large part to the socks I wore that day (red rings). The exhibition was an obvious success, with around five-hundred people attending during the two-hour private viewing. The work on display The atmosphere towards the event and on the night itself was very positive, with numerous people congratulating us on organising the exhibition successfully. Several people received offers to have their work purchased and the work on display was varied in medium, tone and content, making for an eclectic exhibition, which was our aim. The location of the space had been an initial cause for concern for some including myself, but this turned out to be a non-issue given the eventual level of attendance. The opening night of the M Exhibition was a success with every single student displaying work and (almost) every student actually helping to organise the event. 

The only failure I know of on the part of the Marketing team was the failure to have the invitations created earlier, which was an oversight on our part, but its actual impact on the event was minimal, if there even was one. The success of the Marketing group far outweighed its one discrepancy. We sought attention in local papers, had posters created and strategically placed, were given radio time to promote the show, created flyers which we distributed everywhere we could, had e-mails sent out to other universities and then forwarded to all their students as well as our own, and of course, created a comprehensive website where anybody could come any find anything they needed in relation to the M exhibition.

Alongside pictures of me exhibiting sexy.

I feel the M exhibition was, while not as polished as professional exhibitions, was a success with only a few minor stumbles along the way, but even they were a part of the learning process in creating an exhibition. From finding an ideal space, to navigating the potential pitfalls that come with any show, and finally making sure you exit the space promptly, leaving it exactly as you found it. I feel we achieved all of this, and that this second-year student exhibition was an invaluable learning process for all involved.

It was Winnie The Pooh or the Honey Monster, and I don't appreciate the vaguely paedophilic overtones of the Honey Monster

Look at this - children are starving.

On the 30th March 2011 I had the privilege of attending a self-described art and comedy night at The Highlight Club in Leeds. The event was called Super Hybrid and it was indeed just that. I walked in to see a man on stage 'struggling' through a joke, taking roughly six minutes to tell a one-sentence joke followed by a brief punchline. I laughed. The next stop was into one of the club's booths which had been appropriated by artists, specifically the one which invited audience participation. In this booth groups of 3-5 people were given various tasks such as drawing whilst listening to a vinyl record, engaging in robotic dog races and guessing the made-up names of traditional biscuits. I drew an awesome bicycle, letting the world know exactly where it stands in relation to my icy-cool demeanour. 

Neither myself nor my bike require internal organs.

Typically during an evening I'll urinate several times, and it was during a trip to the bathroom that I learned the toilet attendant was actually a tutor from Leeds University engaged in performance art for the duration of the night. I gave him a pound and he gave me a Chupa Chup, but only after we had discussed the recent raising of tuition fees and how it would affect both our worlds. Once I had fully appreciated this amazing display of dedication he sprayed me with Beyoncé Knowles' latest scent and left me smelling like a pre-pubescent girls' sleepover. Eventually the promised 'Main Event' began, which consisted of a person dripping honey onto a plastic sheet, spelling Super Hybrid, then adding white paint before folding it over into itself. It was pretty fascinating to watch, although I'm not sure if it's entirely because of deep-rooted appreciation of her message; I was more excited simply by the fact that she was doing it. My suspicion of shallow appreciation was further solidified by the next act, in which a person read poetry aloud whilst inviting audience members to approach him and throw one of the cream pies he had laid out around him into his face. Did I participate?

Fuck yeah.

John Baldessari

If you can read this your art is boring.

During research for this project I found an artist that I became interested in almost instantly. You've probably managed to figure out that the artist is John Baldessari, an American conceptual artist who makes use of text and humour in a lot of his work. So, on the one hand I've found someone similar to myself, on the other hand I've found someone who's done what I'm doing... Forty years ago... Whoops!