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The Curious Decision to Cast Reese Witherspoon in This Means War

February 8, 2012

I'm having sex right now. You can't tell. It's nice.

Nobody has worked Teflon Face like Chris Pine. Ever. That man takes something that shatters most teenage lives and manipulates it – he makes you want to touch his face. With your genitals. Exhibit B, in what has swiftly become a line-up of moviestar hunks, is Tom Hardy. Now Tom – or Tommy, as RoT calls him – has never been hotter. He’s in a new Batman film and he might like having sex with men and he hates Jonathan Ross and he’s Heat’s Torso of the Week. Imagine, then, a film in which these two human embodiments of sex are pitted head to head for the affections of a woman. Which actress could possibly play the part of a temptress so staggeringly breathtaking as to addle the minds of these beefcakes? Beefcakes, moreover, who could have, literally have, any woman they want? Angelina Jolie, perhaps, who we all know is the best at sex? Certified World’s Sexiest Woman and only human being who is 95% legs Rosie Huntintgon-Whiteley, maybe? Or even sexpot Marion Cotillard, who could whisper to them in French? No. Our femme fatale here is Reese ‘Granny’ Witherspoon, a woman with the sex appeal of a slowly drowning limpet.  Sure, she’s pretty and has lovely hair. But she is not woman enough for Pine/Hardy. We all saw her lose her virginity in Cruel Intentions, lying on her back and taking it, politely gasping as Ryan Phillipe gave her his best. Her sexual technique has not advanced since then: it’s clear to all the world that sex for Reese Witherspoon is an activity solely restricted to the half hour break between Monday’s Coronation Streets. There is no chance that Pine/Hardy, who, by the way are playing SPIES (or something) in this film, would ever fall for the insipid, mumsy ways of Granny Witherstpoon. No chance at all.

Verdict: RoT is better at sex than Witherspoon – it should be batting its eyelids in the direction of these two spectacular gunshows.




February 7, 2012

Suffers from gloop.

What are gloop? And how does it mean? These are important questions, but the grammar owls amongst you will have noticed something a little odd. What has happened to RoT’s often impeccable, often dubious, but never bizarre, grammar? The answer is ‘gloop’. Gloop lollops off the tongue like Blackpool hen-do at closing hour. Gloop permeates the brain, swelling like a toad’s throat, or perhaps that of a fresh-faced dictator. Even thinking about gloop has glooped RoT’s grammar – such is the power of gloop. Gloop is not just the greatest, most powerful word in the English language, it is a glorious state of mind. Gloop wobbles in an order of its own: a glorious new age, sludging over the past like an omelettey amoeba across the face of a sleeping man. Gloop: just say it. RoT knows it will make you happy. You can live off gloop. Gloop can educate your children. Farming gloop will make you prosperous. Should gloop slip over any liminal region, mined or otherwise, gloop would just reform like the syrupy singularity it is. Gloop! It will last for ever! Or at least be glooped underneath a glass case to be glooped over.

Verdict: RoT has no idea how things came to be like this. Long live gloop! 10/10

Passport Control Smile

February 6, 2012

Business or pleather?

So the plane actually landed, by which RoT means that the RyanAir pilot dropped it like a hot hasty turd onto the runway, and the Yanks have finished applauding for the flight team’s personal skill in not crashing into an American landmark (even though this is Beauvais, and there wasn’t even enough fuel to crash into one of those Parisian suburbs where they imprison black people). But this isn’t your concern. Even as your fellow passengers heave their hand luggage from the overhead storage and onto your skull, you’re already worried about your impending face-off with border control. That picture – five years ago: a bleach-blonde double-haircut. What were you thinking? A mullet-mohican combo: that would never stay in fashion! What if they don’t let you in? What if you have to go home, your holiday in tatters, your dignity crushed beneath the weight of a misguided haircut (damn you Vice Magazine!)? The fate of your next (insert length of holiday here) hinges on the whim of some borderline professional: the hallowed passport control. By now you’re in the queue, wishing you had a digital passport that would forgive your haircut and just check your face bits. You’re sweating all over; your claggy palms secreting the smell of the inflight magazine – God, they all look so sullen and stern. Looking at the passports. Looking at the people. Making sure they match up. This is terrifying. Forgive me border control man, it was a juvenile mistake. And there he is, fag-ash stubble, noting the absence of a bleach-blonde mullet-mohican combo from atop your head. Shit: you’re busted. They’re probably going to probe you in effort to curb the illegal trade in Pez sweets. But then, that smile as he hands you your passport – that wry, indecipherable smile: you may enter. Do they know something you don’t know? About fashion, or what they do here to people like you? Have you accidentally landed in Australia or Slovakia, and for the first time Mr Passport Control has peered out from the 1990s to see what life looks like in the new Millennium? Or is that Mona Lisa smile, the mystery of the human condition, actually just someone who has bored by their endless drill of a job? Or do they fancy you? You should definitely have asked them out.

Verdict: Who knows what they mean by that faint smile (is it a smile? Or have they just farted?). Fascinating. 10/10

The Flat from New Girl

January 24, 2012

Jolly times in Zooey Land; predatory times IRL.

New Girl is everybody’s new favourite fluffy American sitcom about an unusually attractive woman with severe learning disabilities sharing a house with 3 completely different, yet inexplicably close, men. It is everything that Great Britain needs on its television screens in January: cute, brightly coloured and ever so slightly anti-Semitic. However, through its watching of New Girl (each episode several times, often through tears of jealousy), RoT has developed something of a niggle with the flat occupied by this 21st Century 3 Men and a Little Lady. To break it down into two factors:

1. The improbably high real estate value of the apartment. A cursory glance at New Girl‘s Wikipedia page will reveal, repeatedly, that the gang live in a loft apartment. And very nice it is too. Large, open plan kitchen-diner-living area. Beautiful stripped oak floors. Four spacious double bedrooms, each with large windows and charming, rustic exposed brick walls. There’s a roof garden, which may be communal, but does reveal quite a stunning view of the Los Angeles cityscape, hence confirming the desireable location of the property. This sort of dream flat doesn’t come cheap. And yet, look at the tenants: a lawyer – or, at least, a law graduate who works in a law firm. He can probably afford to live there. A primary school teacher. Notoriously underpaid in the LA district but, if she made prudent cuts to other areas of her life, she could afford it too. A barman. No. An unemployed black guy. That’s racist. RoT rests its case.

2. The Bathroom. Two urinals and a cubical? Like in a nightclub? And a shower that, although undoubtedly free of the heating and power issues that plague so many Brits in these winter months, has people mooching around outside while in use? Would a young, lonely, special needs woman moving in with three strange men really feel comfortable with them brushing their teeth while she scrubs her pits and belts out her favourite power ballads? RoT rests its case.

Verdict: RoT rests its case.


Spending the Night: an Imaginary Situation

January 21, 2012

Time for the ritualistic burning of your sheets again.

You will never really have planned for it to end this way but, even so, you might have shoved your dirty knickers under the bed as you left for the office. But the dirty dishes and dusty windowsill and hairy plughole? You leave those be: to tidy would be to jinx. There’s a lot to be said for holiday romances, you think, afterwards. For one, you are rarely responsible for the cleanliness of the location where the Night is Spent. For two, it is a contained experience. The tequila sunrises, the cockroaches, the Night Spent: they all belong to that fortnight in Faliraki, forever. But here, at home, you have let him into your life and he has stained everything with his presence. Look: there’s your favourite after-work bar, that you were asked to leave for inappropriate behaviour. Over there, the tube station where he undid your belt without you noticing. In your kitchen, your fridge, the very one he pressed you against when you went to get a glass of water and he just couldn’t wait. And your bed. Your actual bed that you live in. He was there, asleep, in real life. The first thing you did when you got in the next day was press your face into his pillow, just in case it had trapped any of his scent. It hadn’t. Is your life over? Probably.

Verdict: RoT thinks that normal humans are very strange, putting themselves through this. One to avoid, thanks.


Broken Promises

January 17, 2012

The real victim of Broken Promises.

Why did nobody tell RoT? Anybody reading The 12 Reviews of Christmas must have known that this was one venture doomed to fail. And, indeed, it must be today, on the centenary of Robert Falcon Scott achieving one of mankind’s greatest ever feats, that RoT faces up to its broken promise and admits its failure loud and clear. Letting down an army of loyal readers – which, despite evidence to the contrary, is actually an unusual occurrence – got RoT to thinking about broken promises. They are read about each day; a procession of anguish splashed across Dear Deidre’s Sun column. They are heard, in the anguished wailings of Celine Dion. They are tasted, in the snot-and-tears mix that trickle into the mouth of a destitute young woman, hysterical and horizontal on a sofabed. How cruel humans can be. Life is hard enough, with the frailty of our delicate anatomy; widespread poverty and poorly written literature gaining mainstream popularity. Little do we need to be turned on by those we should be leaning on for support. How many tears do you suppose Madonna has shed since Elton broke his promise of friendship at the Golden Globes? Or Kim Kardashian when her ex-husband reneged on his vow to let her film their wedding night sexploits? Reviews of Tings will play no part in this broken promise epidemic. From now on.

Verdict: finally freed of the burden of guilt, RoT can resume it’s normal one review a month service for its 5 3 devoted readers.


The 12 Reviews of Christmas: No4 Those Giant Spinny Swing Rides

December 18, 2011

All these children are sad because RoT ruined Christmas with its last review.

Now, where was Reviews of Tings? Oh yes: Never are the collective peoples of the Western World under more pressure than at Christmas time TO GO TO THEIR CITY/TOWN/VLLAGE’S VERSION OF A WINTER WONDERLAND MINI THEME PARK. Good. Back on track. Now, these little fairgrounds are not without risk: just because they have some extra fairy lights doesn’t mean that they aren’t still run by the questionable members of society who bring them to your playing fields/village green/car park throughout the rest of the year. You know the sort- they’re all about 14 with caps and shellsuits and no discernible adult supervision. Undoubtedly, not all of these rides are safe to go on: best to avoid any roller coasters, or those troughs you stand in that whoosh you up in the air. But ferris wheels should be okay as should, at a push, waltzers. But these rides are boring/vomit inducing. What you need is the much neglected hero of any funfair, the giant spinny swing rides (this is its official name). You know the one- it’s in the picture dummy! These rides have all the brilliance of normal swings AND normal roundabouts, but without the crapness of an out-of-shape dad huffing and puffing as he fails to muster the energy to satisfy his child. Stupid dad.

Verdict: Ace fairground rides = the spirit of Christmas. And THAT is an equation that will echo through the ages.


Update: They’re called Chair Swings, apparently. Whatever.