I've moved house! Click here to go to my new blog, The Pop Culture Cynic.

Friday, 28 June 2013


Who am I? Why am I here? Is that blood? These are all question's I'm asking myself but I assume you have some questions too, and seeing as none of you have nuclear mind-reading machines (I'm wearing my tin foil hat just in case anyway), I guess it is my responsibility, nay, my duty, to tell you about myself and why you should be at all interested in this blog and its current ground-breaking single post.

Well if I may begin at the beginning, this is me:

Being me.
My name? Ben "Sex Demon" Thompson. Now I know what you're thinking about the middle name, and yes, ladies (and gents), it is indeed true. Every last bit.

Sent her back into the fiery depths of hell all by myself. After the photo-shoot, mind.
Where am I from? Guid auld Scotland. It's the place just above England, you know, where the queen goes on holiday sometimes. Home of strong, foul tasting booze, crazy nationalists and a cripplingly low average IQ.

Need me to narrow that down a bit more?
What do I do? While I'm waiting for the planning permit for my volcano lair to come through I am studying some course at Dundee University. Medicine or something. Not that important. What is important is that with the advent of this blog, I have yet another wonderful excuse not to study. With it currently being summer and with no resits (thank Cthulhu) on the horizon, I have set my sights on a two month long binge of films, video games, booze and women, mainly the ones you are googling right now after seeing that picture of the Succubus above.

That little guy's face means only one thing...
The only notable endeavours to mention are the ones you will undoubtedly end up reading about on this blog. Those being the possible conception of a text adventure horror game co-written and developed by myself and the lovely Fiona, and the completely separate writing and production of a horror film with the previously mentioned Rhona.

Fiona on the left, Rhona on the- goddamnit, where does she keep going?!
Around about the time of the new semester I shall be moving into a brand, spanking new flat with my lovely roomies, Georgia and Nadine (do I not know any men...? Shit.). What are they like? Well you shall be introduced to them very soon, no doubt; I will keep all you glorious readers informed of the veritable smorgasbord of fun and frolicking that shall undoubtedly occur!

Pictured: My glorious reader.
As for the rest of the goings on on this blog I imagine it shall mainly involve plenty of ramblings involving any aspect of popular culture I see fit to discuss as well as some medical related posts for those of you interested in all of the wonderful ways in which we medics learn how to kill you while you thank us for it.

Keep that needle away from me until I've sorted out the executors of my estate.
There. You know things now. Are you happy? With you and your knowledge. Knowledge only brings misery you know. Yeah. So now you're miserable.

Thursday, 27 June 2013

A Face-Off with Face/Off (a-ha-ha-ha, see what I did there? ...syntax)

So I had a short, highly erotic discussion with my good friend Rhona-
Pictured he- huh, can anyone find her?
-and she reminded me of my somewhat unhealthy obsession with a new fad that seems to have popped up in the public conscious over the past few years. A group of people take a load of pictures of other people running or jumping over things and then make them move on a large sheet of paper through the wonder of witchcraft and what I believe is the light you collect from a dying orphan's soul. I think the kids call them movies or something?

She said "Ben, you watch lots of these movie things, and I bet not a lot of people talk about them on the internet. Be the Moses to their respective non-Jewness." Suddenly a heavenly light shone through the windows of the house of our latest arson victim and I knew it was a sign that I had found my calling. I climbed upon the stolen ASDA trolley and donned my mantle as "Part-time Movie Reviewer"! 
The mantles only came in one size. I wear him like a hat.
So, you filthy heathens, I have come to educate you. Every week or so I shall watch a new movie and tell you all about it so you don't have to bother watching it. You're welcome. Now you have more time to masturbate.
Just change pages before you do...please.
Take a seat, open the nearest bag of savoury snacks, and continue scrolling with those greasy, dorito-stained fingers of yours as we delve into the world of:


I had a little skim of the Interwebs before writing this and a lot of people seem to have a rather unhealthy obsession with Nicolas Cage, and I just don't understand why everyone seems to give him so much stick. He's a very well-rounded actor, and anyone who has seen this movie will agree with me; no-one else could have pulled off playing as both of his own personalities-

We think he's trying to tell us he's hungry...

 -and as other famous, perfectly sane individual, John Travolta.

Seen here in his native dress.
What's it about? Something to do with terrorists and a bomb (it's forgotten about just after the start of act 2) and John Travolta stealing Nick Cage's face in order to go undercover to get information from Cage's brother. Cue the inevitable mishap and 'splosion, 'splosion, credits. I liked this film. It was fun and silly and there were some genuinely beautiful moments hidden away in there behind all of the unusually flammable objects. I mean how do a guy's shoes combust like that?
At last, the cure for cold feet in bed.
Was it not big news when some lunatic opened a 100% flammable footwear shop? Did I miss this craze back in the nineties because I was too enthralled by recently becoming the owner of the greatest shoes any kid will ever have? By the end of the movie, this same guy must have moved into the marine market, because every boat seems to explode as soon as it enters the vicinity of Travolta's mesmerising chin. Although this same chase does provide the prime opportunity to answer that age-old question: Does Nick Cage skim?

Walking on water is for normal people.

On the subject of chase scenes, this is actually surprisingly where the film seems to fall down the most. They're just so goddamn long! The movie seems to get carried away with itself and blasts on having fun without checking the audience still cares.

The chase with our crazy bad guy Nick Cage, before he's John Travolta (the whole face-swapping thing confuses matters when trying to explain scenes), in a plane running away from super-awesome cop John Travolta, before he's Nick Cage, in a car lasts for so long that it stretches beyond the boundaries of belief that A) The runway didn't run out two minutes into the chase and end abruptly in the departure lounge of Terminal 2 and B) The pilot of the plane didn't have the sudden epiphany that he can use the vertical axis to his advantage, even when it is kindly suggested to him twice by a gun to the back of his head.

"I can't take off until all the tray tables are up!"
But films are all about the suspension of belief so we can forgive the movie about totally fictitious face transplants and prisons with giant magnetic boots which serve only to make you unable to remove your trousers for ignoring the basic principles of common sense. And the audience.

But enough of that and more about the unique properties of this film. Like any good hallucinogenic drug, there are certain aspects of the movie which you only realise are disturbingly odd after you have woken up the next morning in a pool of wolf's blood and lavender. I have taken it upon myself to dub the most conspicuous of these the "Stroke of Love". Observe:

The twist is that the whole world is actually blind.
You're sitting in a darkened room with your loved one (for the purposes of this image I suggest you steer clear of children or siblings), Barry White's smooth, deep vocal cords are covering you in that warm, fuzzy, caramel goodness that only his can do (or parents for that matter). You lock eyes and move closer together, you can feel his and/or her breath warm against your cheek. He/she/it puts a hand on your leg. You edge closer and closer, begging for that single moment of contact that you know is oh so near.

Then you lift your hand and smear your palm in their face.

Oo, so romantic. But what's weird is that it actually works. Between all of the explosions and some utterly fabulous Cage-Rage faces is a sweet story of Travolta's character's family and the hardships they've faced at the hands of the Cage's truly splendid madness. And the sugary-sweet glue that holds them all together is the timeless Stroke of Love.

"Honey, stop eating the delicious metaphor."
Although this ain't all one big picnic of inedible household items, oh no. The great thing about the central characters' body swap is that we get to spend a good chunk of the movie watching the bad guy (now disguised as Travolta) have completely free reign while the good guy is stuck being Nick Cage. He has the family at his beck and call and Travolta's performance as not-Travolta (I'm confusing myself now) is really quite chilling. This movie manages to strike the nerve that connects to our fear of something infiltrating the family unit without our knowledge.

Imagine finding that in your family unit.
Also, Nicolas Cage is a priest for like five minutes for no reason. There's a little bit of something here for everyone.

Overall Ben Equivalence Rating

Visiting your Grandad in Hospital -
A great laugh but you end up staying for far too long and you're pretty sure he doesn't realise he's funny most of the time. Also it gets kind of creepy when he starts telling you he's someone he isn't.

Wednesday, 26 June 2013

A Glaring Lack of Exposition

Come one come all! Marvel at the splendour, the spectacle, of the greatest blog you have ever seen! Well, not the greatest. Maybe, like, second greatest after that blog of pictures of Tom Selleck eating a sandwich by a waterfall, but the general gist still stands; this blog is totally awesome.

"Oh, but it's not even got anything on it yet, you smug bastard," a certain few smarty-pantseses (es? whats the plural of that word?) will undoubtedly be saying. Well in the same way that Schrodinger didn't know if his cat had slowly learned karate by watching it on TV for fifteen years until he opened his poison-laced box, nor will your sorry little presumptuous arses know whether this blog will be any good until I string letters together to give those weird voices in my head a way to express themselves.

But I do digress, you should totally come back in...shall we say a day or two? I should have come up with something to say by then. It'll undoubtedly be a very original heartfelt post about an arbitrary aspect of my life or maybe a review of a film that's been reviewed a hundred times before but because I'm me I think someone will want to read it AND I JUST WANT TO BE NOTICED *sob*

...I should go lie down and think for a bit.

Hey, rum.

Change The Sheets Once You're Done

Don't read this post. It's like watching a video of your parents conceiving you.