You know, I recently had a near death experience.
I know, sounds faintly ridiculous, right? I mean, life is a near death experience. Simply walking down to the shop to get the latest copy of Razzle usually means negotiating several roads, gangs of disreputable, hooded youths talking to each other in some form of sms flavoured code, bitter old ladies whose dreams never came true and who hold you personally responsible for the excitement that utterly failed to show up in their lives, and you continually have to invent rules for games you discover yourself playing – games such as Dodge the Dog Turd or Antagonise the Supermarket Security Guard. Each of these things pose different, but potentially catastrophic, dangers to your physical and mental well being.
All it takes is for you to play Jog of Suicide (a neat little game unwittingly played by every member of the western world which involves checking to see if there are any cars approaching, then jogging gently to the centre of the lane in which the oncoming vehicle is travelling, then slowing back to a walking pace for the remainder of the journey across the road. Keep and eye out, you’ll be amazed how many particpants this game has) once too often and Bam!! a Cortina fuelled head injury drops your IQ to that of a BNP supporter.
Get too close to the gang of facially obscured youths and Wallop!! you wake up in hospital after a 17hr operation to have a house key removed from your skull.
Don’t get out of the way of the old lady? Crunch!! you’re ankles will get scuffed up by a wheelybag faster than a new pair of school shoes on an 8yr old on the first day of term.
And, as for irritating the supermarket security guard, even that can end badly. Remember, every waddled step his fat ass takes in pursuit of you is a few extra calories burned. Keep him moving too long and he might lose enough weight to actually catch you, then you’re in trouble.
So, yeah, even a trip to the shops to buy tabloid porn can be filled with life threatening events.
What made mine special? Well, mine had everything a good near experience needs:
I saw a bright light, heard soothing music and was even floating outside my own body looking down at myself at one point.
Oh, and Russell Brand was there.
What? Oh, I see, sorry you were thinking that I actually had a proper, really real, ‘my heart stopped and everything’ near death experience. Sorry, my bad. No, what actually happened was I went to see Hop.
You know: Hop, that fun filled, easter family movie starring that wacky Russell Brand whose raunchy humour and debauched antics are the stuff of legend, and that English guy from House, famous throughout America for his no holds barred, acidic comments and cutting, degrading observations.
Yeah, you know the one. It’s that hilarious egg filled romp that completely and utterly disregards the true origins of Easter and turns it into a 4000yr old chocolate covered holiday, even going so far as to use Rapa Nui as the base for this candy coated travesty because, you know, it’s called Easter Island.
Yeah, that’s the one. The worst film my now bloodied and blistered eyeballs have ever witnessed. A film so tragically, excruciatingly bad that at one point my soul actually left my body, and began its ascent to heaven, completely of its own accord.
What made it bad?
I’d love to be able to report that it was a single event, or maybe a bit of stupendously bad casting that tipped the scale violently toward the crap, but I can’t. What made this film bad was, well, the film.
The voice acting for a start made no sense. Russell Brand is famous for being a weird, sex crazed, hairy madman who may at any point say something entirely inappropriate for live TV, probably about something obscenely biological, and Hugh Laurie is known to 90% of America as Dr Gregory House, whose bedside manner is only a small step up from Dr Mengele.
Hop has a completely neutered Brand doing a, particularly good, Ricky Gervais impersonation, and has Hugh Laurie playing the dad from Stuart Little (which most Americans probably don’t realise is Dr Gregory House). And they both had to say candy instead of sweeties or chocolate. Have you any idea how face smashingly infuriating it is to hear British people use the word candy?
Then there’s the fucking awful script that had obviously been put together by having a lobotomised mental patient translate the shrieking of a retarded howler monkey being sprayed with boiling water, which sees Gary Cole (I shit you not, Gary-fucking-Cole) tell his son that he was proud of him (a mere two minutes after he’d derided his life choices, I might add) when he saw that the Willy Wonka inspired, Batman villain suit his son was wearing was actually due to him now being the worlds first human easter bunny and not a serial rapist.
And don’t get me fucking started on the Egg Sleigh.
When I was a kid we had chocolate eggs at easter. It made no sense to me as I went to a Church of England school so was well aware of the whole puerto rican on the cross, dying for our sins, then standing up and shout ‘Psych!!’ at everyone thing. But slowly the whole idea of an Easter Bunny hiding chocolate eggs around your garden crept into our society, and managed to make even less sense. But this film took it that little step further and instead of the easter bunny wandering about dropping eggs hither and thither he turns up in a goddamn Egg Sleigh pulled by flying chicks, and not the hot, swimsuit calendar, big chested kind of chicks either (*note to self: make sure no self-respecting woman reads that line).
An egg sleigh. A sleigh, pulled by chicks, to deliver chocloate eggs. A fucking egg sleigh.
I mean jesus.
And the less I say about David Hasselhoff looking like and old lesbian in this film, the better.
This film was the biggest pile of horse shit since Pearl Harbour, and I had to shit myself while watching that film just for something interesting to do.
Seriously, don’t, for the love of electro-plated stag beetles, go and see this film. Every time someone watchs this film a puppy is deep fried alive. Think about that.