127 Minutes

Despite having all of the work in the world to do - yes, seriously. That much. All of it. Ever - instead of doing any of it last night, myself and Tom went on a cinema excursion. The wonders of living with someone who has the Orange Wednesday's deal suddenly came into play. Tom doesn't use this opportunity often enough normally. He'd probably tell you its due to gigging or being too busy, but in reality its because often him and Nat turn up at the cinema to use it and are told its not a Wednesday and they have to turn around and try all over again. I often wonder about how many tales of my flatmates mishaps I should relay on my blog incase it ends up in their stand-up or rather seems as though I'm being condescending about such things. Far from it. I consistently find such tales of idiocy entertaining and I would have laughed a considerable amount less this week if Tom had travelled up to Scotland for three days with more than one pair of pants. There is a lovely joy at knowing that this house is entertaining even when trying its utmost not to be.

The choice of film last night was 127 Hours. It was that or the King's Speech and whilst all I hear is about how great the latter is, I can't help but find a film about a stuttering monarch will always come second to a tale of anguish, adventure and severed limbs. If you don't know what 127 Hours is about you've probably been living on the moon for a while. If you do live on the moon, how are you getting my blog? I hope you're not stealing off the satellites or I will have to report you. Unless you are the man on the moon, in which case, you are allowed to do pretty much what you like on your giant cheese ball. Although I have checked my google stats for this blog and out of the two people that read, one if from the UK and the other is from the Ukraine oddly enough. Actually, truth be told, according to the stats I have readers in South Korea, the Netherlands, USA, Japan, Germany, Russia and Canada. If that's true then Привіт, 안녕하십니까, Goedendag, Howdy, こんにちは, Guten Tag, Здравствуйте and Hey. If you are one very avid travelling reader then I want you to know I hate you for making me trawl through a language page and spend far too much time on what was one very long and essentially pointless sentence. So anyway, you should all know, in all languages that 127 Hours is about a man who goes climbing, falls down a crevice (I love the word crevice), gets his arm trapped under a rock and has to cut his own limb off to escape after being trapped for 5 days. AND ITS ALL TRUE. A MAN ACTUALLY DID THAT. FOR REAL. I know. I know.

The film is both the most harrowing thing I've ever seen and also truly brilliant. Danny Boyle is a master of many things and has amazed me way back ever since Shallow Grave and just about everything he's done since, especially 28 Days Later. Now this, where he manages to make an hour and a half focuses on James Franco's face constantly gripping. Well done Mr B. Flippin' well done. A bit part of it is knowing full well that Aron Ralston did fall down a crevice and did have to cut his own arm off with a blunt knife and sitting agonising through the film waiting for the moment for it to happen. Its painful to watch the build up and its more painful to watch the pay off. Never in my life have I sat watching a film through my fingers like child does everytime Bruce Foresyth is on the telly. Truly horrifying. And at the end it says Aron is still a climber which makes you feel like he has learnt little to nothing of his experience. Its like if an episode of He-Man ended and instead of a moral they all just said 'well its a shame as Skeletor seems like a nice bloke really. I'm sure he won't do it again.' No. It all feels horribly wrong that anyone would go through such a terrible time and still happy do the sort of sports that lend themselves to ridiculous injuries. Myself and Tom left needing sharp drinks and happy things to watch to curb our minds from what we had seen. Worse though, far worse, is that ever since seeing it, all I can think about is what I would do in that situation.

I'd fail. That's what I'd do. I don't think I could ever cut my own arm off. Or even just get a scratch on my finger. Sure I inject all the time for diabeticals but that's different. Inflicting actual self harm seems like the most horrible thing ever. If I was stuck down a crevice, and I should point out that I never ever will be ever because I'm not a dick who would go climbing instead of just popping to the pub, then I think I'd just cry a lot, crap myself and then die. Like I said though, it won't happen. I was torn between feeling sadness for Aron Ralston and at the same time an overarching need to say 'well you're a proper bellend aren't you for a) doing stupidly dangerous things, and b) not telling anyone where you were going or taking a phone with you.' Then I'd sing 'told you so, told you so' and dance around going 'naaah naah naah naah naah naah eyyyyeyyyeyyyee naaah naah naaah' and so on and so forth. Here's the trick people: why do extreme sports when you can do other fun things where the worst that might happen is a hangover/sore eyes and thumbs from playing computer/ you really upset someone by being too gropey because you've had bourbon. Ahem. Excuse the last one. All I'm saying is yes what a feat for a man to achieve, surviving such things and being brave enough to cut himself out at the cost of an arm. But also, what a dick for finding himself in that situation anyway. Dick dick dick.

It was gripping though and I am tempted to find a way to incorporate such suspense in my performance. I'm considering doing an Edinburgh show called 127 Minutes where I balance a pebble on my wrist and punch myself till it falls off and I can escape. It can't sell any less tickets than last year's show. That's all I'm saying.