This zeppelin, full of film-making skills, sadly crashed on its way to the 'Sucker Punch' set, and the crew had to go without

“Now I’m no history expert – I’m merely a fan – but I’m fairly certain there were no slow-motion upskirt moments during the Battle of the Somme.”

Blindfolded and semi-conscious, I recently stumbled into HMV and picked up a DVD. I threw my money at what I hoped was a staff member and went home to watch it. Unfortunately, I’d just purchased the 2011 film Sucker Punch.

If, say, Michael Caine came up to me in the street and asked me to summarise Sucker Punch in a single sentence, I suppose I’d offer the following collection of words:

“Well, Michael, if a coked-up adolescent Sigmund Freud made a fairly simple tribute to Fight Club, Inception, Kill Bill, and Mean Girls, Sucker Punch would be it.”

Gripping ladles of angst with both sweating hands, Sucker Punch swirls around the story of some young American women in a mental asylum in the 1960s.

“Are you sure you aren’t just describing the second half of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar?” I hear you ask. Perhaps I am. However, unlike the second half of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, Sucker Punch features a lot of swordfights and explosions. And, unlike the second half of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, Sucker Punch didn’t particularly move me. At all.

Sucker Punch documents the tale of Emily Browning’s furiously blonde-haired character ‘Babydoll’, who, having accidentally dropped a bullet into her sister, finds herself plunged into an asylum by her crusty old stepdad. Emily must escape from Arkham before a lobotomy happens to her head. Simple? Well, yes, except there’s also some stuff about dancing. And angels.

For reasons I can’t quite remember, Emily and the other girls in the asylum must perform erotic dance routines for some blokes. Whenever Emily begins to dance, we cut away to a fantasy. In her mind, Emily is not onstage pirouetting for a gang of masturbating old fools, but battling beasts and monsters.

This inclusion of beasts and monsters means that some (at least a million) of Sucker Punch’s sequences are filled with visual elements commonly described by shaved monkeys on YouTube as “cool”, “awesome”, and/or “epic”.

One such “awesomeness”-filled scene sees Emily Browning and the rest of the team storming across a bullet-drenched battlefield whilst dressed as Rambo’s favourite strippers, glaring defiantly at things and shooting steam-powered, clockwork, dead Germans into the mud. According to director Zack Snyder, this scene was lifted directly from the mind of a sleeping BNP voter during a wet dream.

Non-related searches: Vanessa Hudgens in full nun regalia

Now I’m no history expert – I’m merely a fan – but I’m fairly certain there were no slow-motion upskirt moments during the Battle of the Somme. It’s not too sexually suggestive though. I mean, Vanessa “Bludgeons” Hudgens smashes about twenty clockwork soldiers to death in sixteen seconds using an axe, and not a single one of her leather corset’s buttons is loosened. At least the clothes stay on.

I suppose the film is, at a few junctures, visually impressive (and I’m not referring to the lingerie-themed gun-slinging). A zeppelin, looming over the sad, grey, cratered land of war like an angry flying whale, looks pretty good for a few seconds. Then it explodes in what must surely be a cutscene from Hindenburg Disaster: The Video Game. That looks good, too. Then Emily hitches a ride on the back of a big robot which proceeds to zoom up into the clouds, and another subliminal advert for short skirts and black underwear creeps onto the screen. This looks less good, unless you’re a “bloke” or a “lad” or a “pervert”.

One of the escapist sequences features a bloody angry dragon attacking Jamie Chung and Vanessa Hudgens, I think, as they swagger through the smog in a battered aeroplane, and the whole thing begins to feel like if The Goblet of Fire was directed by a fetish-riddled misanthrope. Soon, Emily finds herself face-to-face with the fire-breathing monster, and I find myself half-expecting the battle music from Final Fantasy VII to begin. But it doesn’t, and – predictably flashing her underwear in slow-motion – Emily stabs the dragon in its CGI head.

In fact, based on my own research, that’s actually the best way to watch Sucker Punch. Mute the film, play the Final Fantasy VII battle theme, sit back, and watch the dragon scene twice. Then switch off the telly and have a yoghurt. Much better.

Prior to watching the film I’d seen people criticise Sucker Punch for its messages of misogyny, and I’d seen other people praise Sucker Punch for its messages of female empowerment. Now, please believe me when I say that I am sensitive to this sort of issue. I hold, with some fervour, bazillions of typically feminist values, and so I was interested to see what I might draw from the film with such values in mind. But, in all disappointing honesty, like an artist with no pencil, I drew little.

The film came across to me as a flick. A basic psychological flick with a few knickers and guns thrown in to bubble the gloopy liquid in your rusted adrenaline tanks. Dragons were there; trench warfare was there; short skirts were there; eyelashes designed for use by Charles Blondin were there… It was a gritty Christmas cracker of long legs, uninspiring dialogue, and shimmering sword blades. It didn’t really appeal to me.

I recommend that you watch Sucker Punch if you’re immortal and you need to whittle away yet another worthless evening, sitting there in your dank bedroom waiting for the universe to swallow itself into oblivion. If, however, you aren’t immortal, and your personal existence has a Best Before date, I’d say that watching Sucker Punch could prove to be a waste of your valuable time. But who cares what I think, really? I’m just some buffoon who watched a film and then wrote a badly structured review about it.

Oh, and, Emily Browning, if you’re reading this – please don’t hate me. I’m counting on you to star in the film adaptation of the bestselling novel I’m writing. It’ll be at least four percent better than Sucker Punch, I promise.

Numerical verdict:
Some stars out of ten.

Other verdict, with words:
Using Sucker Punch as the focus of a drinking game called “Cut Yourself And Pour Vodka Into The Wound Every Time You See Bullets And Underwear In The Same Shot” will quickly result in death.

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As some of you possibly know, we – the bread&crows time and space wasters – provided a live commentary of the BAFTA ceremony on Twitter a few days ago. Spewing out approximately twelve idiotic tweets per second, we soon found ourselves colliding with the frankly fascist update limit, and the commentary came to an abrupt end.

We didn’t take this to be a metaphor, though, oh no. In fact, we grew rather enamoured with the idea of being stupid and ignorant on Twitter for hours at a time. It made us feel like celebrities.

So, to distract ourselves from the harsh realities of modern existence, and to selflessly provide you, our dearest reader, with a bit of “five star entertainment” (bread&crows, 2012), we will be taking to Twitter TONIGHT, at 8 o’clock, to narrate the BRIT Awards.

Settle down with your telly and your Twitter, and expect your screen to fill with leagues of unnecessarily cruel, snide, and mocking remarks about various talented artists (by which I mean expect the BRIT nominees to harshly criticise us).

Bring an umbrella.

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I like Lush. Lush are a nice company. If you’re not aware of them, Lush are a chain of shops that specialise in fresh and organic handmade cosmetic products, promoting the use of vegetarian ingredients, and only sticking things that are actually needed into their goods. You won’t find preservatives in seventy percent of their products and their packaging is always recyclable, whilst often being made from recycled material itself.

I remember when I was younger I hated even walking past their shops because the smell of all the soap made my nose block up, but my sense of smell must have adapted because I can now walk into their stores and spend at least five minutes in there. Five whole minutes.

Recently, I’ve noticed a growing trend among their products – more and more items are appearing in solid form. A block of shampoo. Solid deodorant. Hard hand cream. Apparently, it’s to save on packaging and to squash more product into less space, but it’s almost as though the shop-owners have an obsessive compulsive disorder, insistent that everything they stock is a solid block. Don’t get me wrong, though. I don’t think this is a bad thing. I like Lush, remember?

On my last visit, I stumbled upon ‘Toothy Tabs‘ – toothpaste in tablet form.

I managed to get some free samples and took them home to try out. I was given the ‘Ultrablast‘ and ‘Chou Chou… I Love You‘ varieties. You have to bite the little tablets between your front teeth to crush them up, and then brush with a wet toothbrush as you usually would. Lush describe them as ‘revolutionary’ on the packaging.

Four things that are rad:

1. They actually made my teeth feel super clean. A lot cleaner than any toothpaste from a tube made them feel. I don’t know if this was just a bit of a placebo effect going on, though.
2. I imagine they’d be great for travelling. You could probably stock up on loads of the tablets and use less space than you would with tubes of toothpaste.
3. Quite a lot of the ingredients are natural, which is always a good thing.
4. It foams up well, which isn’t something I was expecting from a product like this.

Three things that are bad:

1. The Ultrablast tabs taste like wasabi, probably because they have wasabi in them. Great if you like wasabi – not so great if you don’t. The Chou Chou tabs taste a lot like Love Hearts, which isn’t a taste I particularly want whilst I’m brushing my teeth.
2. The tabs are very chalky whilst you bite them, though I imagine it’s something you get used to in time.
3. If they got wet then they would probably be ruined – a reason they might not be good for travel after all.

Score:

• The cheapest box of Toothy Tabs is £2.00, which includes forty tablets – almost three weeks of brushing for an individual person. At the moment, I know there are toothpaste tubes available that are cheaper than that and last longer, so I guess it depends on whether you want to spend that little extra on them. Definitely worth trying for the experience.

Notes:

• Originally, I was going to put the lack of fluoride in the bad section, but after some research into it there are some very mixed opinions of this on the internet. Some sites say that fluoride is poison, while others say it’s essential for reducing cavities and tooth decay. Make your own decision whether no fluoride in these little things is rad or bad.

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02/14/2011, 10am

To my dearest of diaries,

Today is Valentine’s Day! I just love Valentine’s Day, because that’s a lovely thing to love, right?

I caught the eye of Cassandra from PR again. I’m certain that Cassandra and I will engage in pubic relations soon. I left a cheeky Call of Duty-branded card on her desk. The words on the front were great! It said, “I want to Prestige your heart.” Ha! There was a picture of Captain Price holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a live grenade in the other.

On the inside of the card, I wrote:

“Dear Cassandra, I’d catch a grenade for you [it’s like that Brian Mars song]! Come to Bobby Kotick’s office at lunch. Don’t worry, he’s not letting you go. In fact, he- I mean, I want to hold onto you forever. Plus, I have your pay-slip. He has your pay-slip. Someone has your play-slip. Yours lovingly, signed ??????? ;D”

I hope she likes it. I didn’t sign my name, so I don’t think she’ll know it was from me. I’m banking on her being surprised, as that adds to the Valentine’s magic, I think.

Valentine’s love,

Bobby

02/14/2011, 1pm

Diary diary diary,

I checked my inbox and have so far had no Valentine’s cards or gifts. Just the usual hate mail. I wish people didn’t hate me so much. I don’t understand it! We’re giving them exactly the games they want, so why do they complain? Maybe we should go back to Modern Warfare 2, the highlight of the series, and stick to that formula. But whatever Treyarch make next year, it’ll be better than Bioshock Infinite and Borderlands 2, right? Lame ass games, ahoy!

I’m thinking I might get Rachel from the cafeteria to make something for Cassandra and I’s lunch. Rachel’s been acting all weird since I started mentioning Cass. Henry Roberts said she’s jealous, and I’m inclined to agree. Depending on how good this meal Rachel makes is, I might fire her to avoid any awkwardness. That’s the only solution I can think of that’ll have no repercussions whatsoever.

Anyway, I’m going to put on my brand new Guitar Hero cufflinks for when Cass comes in. I think I’m going to ask her to be my PA! Then she could personally assist me, and she’ll get a significant payrise. I’ll pay her with my undying love.

Wish me luck, diary! I know you can’t actually wish me luck, so I’ll assume you already have. I’ll update you tonight, wink wink!

Love from Bobby

P.S. Is wink wink just a blink? Because Ken Levine told me it is and it’s been driving me mental.

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Hello, dearest reader (you are our favourite).

As you may or may not know, the bread&crows campaign to physically capsize Twitter during the BAFTA ceremony failed, and the website, with all of its 140-character passengers, remained afloat. We did, however, manage to spout a few bullets of liquid wit; by which I mean we did some tweets.

Sure, we lost a couple of followers – perhaps we even drove them to insanity – but it wasn’t all in vain.

The producer of BAFTA-nominated comedy Black Pond, Sarah Brocklehurst, was targeted by one of David Rattigan’s bread&crows outbursts, in which he announced his terrifying plan to marry the poor woman based on the aesthetic value of her last name.

Fortunately, when Brocklehurst came across the proposal, she wasn’t deterred, and proceeded to read through and actively enjoy our coverage of the awards ceremony. She even tweeted to her 590-or-so followers about bread&crows. Well done us, I think. This must be how Edmund Hillary felt on reaching the tip of Earth’s party hat back in 1953.

Anyway, here are a few of the more coherent things we said last night whilst watching the British Academy Film Awards.

'The Mask', starring The Mask

“Trivia: The BAFTA award face is the death mask of Rasputin.”

“The BAFTA mask is looking more and more depressed during every award splash screen.”

“I don’t know why the big silver mask isn’t hosting the show. He was great in Shrek.”

“What year did V from V for Vendetta win his BAFTA?”

Brad Pitt's Andrew Lloyd Webber impression

“Don’t like Brad Pitt’s hairstyle. He looks like a sweaty peasant.”

“I see Brad Pitt has morphed into one of Oscar Wilde’s friends for the occasion.”

“Brad Pitt looks like a Jedi. Could just be me.”

Tom Jones singing Thunderball from, uh, 'Thunderball'

“Tom Jones was my favourite James Bond.”

“Tom Jones looks like a tit.”

“Hang on – is this the National Lottery draw?”

Stephen Fry, hosting/sneezing

“According to rumour, Stephen Fry will be reenacting the secret end-of-credits sex scene from Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy by himself.”

“Repetitive flashing images of Stephen Fry flashing, perhaps?”

“I swear Stephen Fry is made from porcelain.”

“Ricky Gervais is really playing it safe this year.”

“Stephen Fry looks like he could be/is definitely Charlie Brooker’s dad.”

'Daniel Radcliffe' star, Harry Potter

“Daniel Radcliffe is smiling, probably because of ALL THE MONEY HE HAS.”

“Daniel Radcliffe moves like an L.A. Noire character model.”

Gary Oldman, winner of Most Succinct Name

“Gary Oldman stole his hair from one of Nicolas Cage’s dreams.”

“‘Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy kept me on the edge of my seat.’ You were perched on the arm rest, Stephen.”

'The Artist' won seven BAFTAs. 'The Racist' wasn't even nominated (or made)

“Trivia: The Artist began life as an unsuccessful radio series.”

“I think The Artist theme is from Bugs Bunny and Taz Time Busters.”

“That dog from The Artist has been rendered permanently black-and-white and silent because of the special cameras they used.”

Bond babes, Baomie Barris and Berenice Barlohe

“I wonder which one James Bond has sex with and which one he has sex with but kills.”

“As Bond women, we’re here to celebrate British film… and breasts.”

John Hurt, reportedly swapping his BAFTA for dental surgery

“John Hurt me.”

“John Hurt is sweet. I want to be his dad.”

“John Hurt doesn’t look hurt at all. Let’s revoke his award for being an indecent liar.”

“If a speech has more words than the actor’s IMDB film list, it’s too long.”

The Ugly Gosling from 'Drive'

“The film Drive isn’t as good as PlayStation’s Driver 2.”

“Drive should really be named Super Driving Hammer Man.”

“He’s so talented behind the wheel that, while driving, can play Scrabble, tie a tie, and do his taxes.”

Thatcher, 'ight?

“Margaret Thatcher was great in Meryl Streep The Movie.”

“The Iron Lady is the worst spinoff movie ever to emerge from The Jetsons.”

“Margaret Thatcher’s voice sounds like a dying ghost.”

Filthy Firth and stripper Streep

“I think Meryl Streep just had sex with Colin Firth.”

“Her cheeks look sad.”

“Colin Firth is between Colin Third and Colin First.”

“Colin Firth’s accent was created in a lab following sixteen years of concentrated experimentation.”

Scorsese to star in live-action 'Up' adaptation

“Did they base Leonard from The Big Bang Theory on Martin Scorsese?”

“All the best directors are old and balding. Directing skills must be hidden on one’s scalp.”

“Say it with any less enthusiasm and it’ll be written on your gravestone.”

-

As you can see, we had a great night. We didn’t drink any alcohol, we didn’t take any drugs, we didn’t do any dancing, we didn’t play any sports, and we didn’t go looking for any girls. Instead, we sat in our homes and watched the BAFTA awards ceremony, being flippant and ignorant at every single opportunity. Perhaps it’s the future of teenage entertainment.

Hey, don’t blame us – you read it, dearest reader (still our favourite).

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For years, the British Academy Film Awards, as hosted by the British Academy of Film and Television Arts (BAFTA), has been the victim of an existential dent. Right there, on its left shin, do you see? The shin of the BAFTA awards ceremony has been hideously bruised due to a subtle lack of something more; a lack of beauty, a lack of intelligence.

But no longer.

Observe as we, the bread&crows gaggle, set fire to Twitter in a storm of BAFTA-focused tweets, punching out the dent in its shin and bringing a crown of glory to its previously flawed head.

By which I mean we’ll be doing a running commentary of the ceremony over at twitter.com/breadandcrows. Join us.

Expect comedy, confusion, and idiots.

Niko Bellic, Hallowe'en 2008, dressed as Barry Chuckle

Watch as we brazenly advertise our social networking outlets using the medium of Grand Theft Auto IV.

Imagine for a moment that you’re Grand Theft Auto IV protagonist, Niko Bellic, but with a better haircut. It’s an average day in Liberty City. You’re squinting at a fuzzy computer screen. There’s an ominous itchy sensation in your bulging Bulgarian ball sack.

A ringing cell fractures the silence. It’s your cousin, Roman.

“Wanna go bowling!” he spurts. “Beeg American titties!”

You utter one of voice actor Michael Hollick’s various pre-recorded responses.

“No way, Roman. Pees orff.”

You crush the phone like a brownie between your teeth.

A collection of white and yellow words ping into view, accompanied by the noise of a sneezing metal bird.

Roman wants you to follow twitter.com/breadandcrows

“I said pees orff!” you groan. “Don’t you know what ‘pees orff’ means?”

You ignore the prompt and continue glaring at the glaring screen. More words.

Roman wants you to follow breadandcrows.tumblr.com

“I want to pierce Roman’s tongue with a metal coathanger, cut off his ears using the hands of a grandfather clock, and throw his limp, aching body off a bridge,” you think aloud, “or whatever it is that angry Eastern Europeans do to their annoying cousins.”

Roman wants you to like facebook.com/breadandcrows

After several moments’ hesitation, an irate blood vessel protruding from your skull, you follow Roman’s instructions.

You are ripped from your seat by an explosion of air, your eyes seared by a great white flash. Hundreds and thousands of in-game trophies and achievements crash through the ceiling, smashing and splintering by your feet. By simply embracing bread&crows’ expansive social networking empire, you instantly complete Grand Theft Auto IV, as well as every other Grand Theft Auto game, including unreleased Grand Theft Auto V, and Crazy Frog Racer, for some reason. Gene Wilder bounds into the room.

“You’ve won, Niko!” he yells. “You’ve won! You did it! You’ve won!”

And so, my friends, imagine for a moment that you’re Grand Theft Auto IV protagonist, Niko Bellic, but with a better haircut. Do what must be done.

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“It’s time to fund your virtual wallet! It’s time to buy the downloadable content! It’s time to meet the sackbots with appropriate Muppets-themed costumes on the Muppets Premium Level Kit at the time in which you are able to play said downloadable content!” – A discarded theme song for the most recent LittleBigPlanet 2 level kit

Jamie Breeze takes a look at LittleBigPlanet 2′s most spectacular performance yet, featuring the Muppets.

First things first, if you’re looking for a definite answer to “Should I buy this lovely, cheap, exciting collection of levels, trophies, pins, decorations, stickers, costume bits, and an all-round enthralling, awarding, and enjoyable experience?” then… yes, you should. I’m not going to lie; the new Muppets pack for LittleBigPlanet 2 is, without a single grain of doubt, my favourite level kit from the entire archive of downloadable content in the history of video games. The only real Muppets here are those caught up in their own tentativeness about exchanging such a pitifully small amount of coinage for this marvellous surfeit of Muppet-y love.  Since you’re reading on, I’m going to assume you are also indecisive about this whole “buying things” malarkey.  Let me enlighten you, you eager, unlit torch of initial cynicism.

The levels, which were hand-delivered by Media Molecule from the posthumous, metaphorical womb of Jim Henson (by permission of the widowed Walt Disney Company), are bursting with bounteous amounts of remarkable level sections and comical cut-scenes.  They throw entertainingly badly-plotted curveballs into the mix, akin to the basis of the whole Muppets style, such as the “Pigs In Space!” story, which sees the S. S. Swinetrek spaceship wander off-course, a training assignment to get yourself familiar with the new “Attract-O-Gel” and “Attract-O-Tweaker” material and tool respectively.

The storyline then progresses to the world of The Great Gonzo; a full level devoted to the cunning flair of circuses, full of odd surprises such as huge cannons, trampoline floors, and a devilishly menacing – and handsome – phantom.  This continues the fantastic muddling story also, and the doubling of the whole familiarity-with-the-tools thing.  As it stands, this level is basically a very strange obstacle course but rides through simply with charm (and possibly the background crowd noises which probably trigger some kind of pseudo-praise in which you feel better for accomplishing something as silly as jumping into a barrel, against a lack of praise which comes from finally beating that bloody annoying “50 JUMPS CAN YOU BEAT THEM ALL??? H4H” level at the top of Cool Levels) and really does shine a light of awesome on your face (pseudo-awesome, that is).

At the direct centre of the pack is wedged a cunning little level which requires you to shoot beakers at things. After about nine minutes, you might think “Oh, that’s alright. Not as silly as I thought. Beakers are used for scientific purposes, which also relates to the Muppet Labs theme of the pack.” – but no, you’re wrong.  Sit there and be wrong, because you’re wrong.  Dwell on your wrongness and cry about it.  You’re shooting the character Beaker, not those silly cup things. Again, this utilises the magical tools from beforehand, but only slightly, so they can test your will to adapt, just like when they tell you that you can find polar bears in Antarctica, and polar bears can also kill, but then they tell you something completely arbitrary and ask you if you’d like a free flight to Antarctica with all expenses paid for… which does sound nice, but polar bears can kill, you see.  Although, I’m being ambiguous about “expenses” since you could probably ask the pilot to bugger off to Hawaii and completely forget everything about Antarctica.  So by using Beaker, you can make platforms drop and rotate at your curious whim while you navigate this wholly rotting and dilapidated laboratory.  That being said, would you like a free flight to Antarctica?

Following this, you make your all-important guest star appearance where you attempt to catch the phantom in the Olde Theatre, playing the trap-snack sack for what seems to be a gigantic, hairy Elmo that terrorises the place by crashing through the walls and floors of an already-rickety building (which probably would be hard enough to complete, as it is) while you simultaneously use the grappling hook and your newfound anti-gravity manoeuvring skills to find your way to the main stage, collecting useless (though charming) facial decorations all the while. I might note that this particular stage had the reviewer almost harm insentient objects with frustration, and utter words that even the most vulgar sailors may not use while being attacked by a polar bear after a free flight to Antarctica.  Let’s just say, if masochism isn’t your cup of razor blades, then you might want to consider practice and patience with this one. The next assignment isn’t a particularly warm, soft hug from a panda, either, and never really will be.

The final level, and the deadly boss of the storyline, is none other than the phantom which has been terrorising the set for the past couple of hours (save your breath, we all know you’re surprised) and though he appears to be the aforementioned warm, soft hug from a panda, he has a few absolute buggers of a pain in the arse up his hirsute sleeves.  In the first of two phases in his malevolent decent-original-film-crappy-sequel of sackicides, you’ll find yourself dodging fiery balls of fiery fire, jumping on teeth, and throwing bombs at his fists.  When you think it’s all over (which nobody actually does, let’s be honest), you face the same thing yet again, with added harshness such as more fire, glitched teeth, and a more ridiculous means of obtaining the bombs, due to a bounce-pad floor of certain doom. And when you think that’s all over (which some of you may have, let’s be honest), you’re forced into dodging an absolute Christ-load of falling furniture and theatre debris. Then it’s all over. Well, apart from the final movie sequence which, like pretty much every other LittleBigPlanet story known to man, the antagonist takes a magnet to the moral compass.

Ah.  So very heart-warming.  And thus ends the storyline for the lovely Muppets pack.  Come now, wipe that tear from your eye, it’s not quite over yet.  The opportunities which emit from this fantastical set of downloadable content are apparently endless, from the sounds of audiences applauding and laughing at your misery, all the way to the dashingly spiffing music that could bring joy and hope to the vilest of community creations, and are rightly promenaded across most of the popular non-Media Molecule levels at this very moment.  So is there any downfall to this level kit?  Of course; not owning it is very much frowned upon.  Perhaps you should cave in to peer pressure and buy it?  Or as the chances may be centrifugally separated to, you should buy a PlayStation 3, LittleBigPlanet 2, and then this pack.  I mean, I’m not here to tell you what to do, but if I was, you should do that.  Now GIT.  I have to marinade myself in the company of The Great Gonzo again.  No peeking.

“So what did you think of that review?”

“Reminded me of a children’s playground.”

“Oh, so, cleverly thought-out with good intentions?”

“Nah, just a load of balls.”

Read our review of the LittleBigPlanet 2 Move Pack here.

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Episode 1 – With Cannons

Shelf o’clock in the morning. Old grandmother clock, looming in the hallway like a cuboid oak soldier, strikes eggshells. Somewhere in Salisbury, a violin whines for its pension. But not here. Here whines Noel Edmonds.

He lies on his golden mattress like a beached blonde whale, crying into an unfortunate pillow. A photograph of Richard Branson’s facial hair is Blu-tacked to the violet wallpaper above his bed, and a small but biologically accurate leviathan writhes on the carpet, aghast at Noel’s distress.

“Noel, what bothers you?” it hisses.

Unable to speak coherently through his tears, Noel throws a notebook at the beast. The title on its mauve cover is Appropriate Conversational Responses.

“Page twelve,” Noel manages to splutter.

The leviathan flicks to page twelve, and quickly reads the following passage:

“What bothers me? Oh, leviathan, you are so furiously naïve. I am bothered by the rusted mechanics of this capitalist engine.”

“What does that mean?” the leviathan enquires.

“Page… page six,” Noel mutters. The leviathan turns to page six.

“It means that this world is broken. The dolphin factories don’t produce happy dolphins anymore. The window crafters haven’t smiled in weeks. My very own team of rainbow artists can’t even generate the colour red these days, that’s how sad they are. The world’s rainbows have been topless for at least a month. And it’s all down to capitalism. We need to shake the system, pull up its roots, put on metal dentures, and then chew out its spinal cord.”

Noel has obviously remembered the stirring speech he’d written on page six, for he is no longer weeping.  The leviathan looks impressed, like a child watching the death of John F. Kennedy for the first time. The light of the sunrise screeches angrily through the window, prompting Noel to jump from his bed.

“We’re going to do it,” he declares. “We’re going to bring down capitalism.”

“But how?” asks the leviathan, who has become cross-eyed with excitement.

“We’re going to assassinate Captain Lism, the man in charge of this festering pit.”

The leviathan immediately vomits twenty-six gallons of blood, thoroughly shocked by the announcement.

“Assassinate Captain Lism? That’s crazy-talk, Noel. Absolute schizophrenia rendered audible. We surely cannot murder the country’s ruler.”

“Have faith, tiny serpent. Let us eat breakfast and consider our scheme.”

Noel moves over to the window, through which the light continues to scream, and slams the wooden curtains shut. The noise of a million irritated photons ceases, and Noel smiles.

The two friends make their way into the kitchen, which hangs from the side of Noel’s house like a Lego breast. Jay Leno is sat at the table, scoffing flapjacks and hair gel.

“Morning boys,” Jay says, grinning like a church elder, all gloopy strings of hair gel and flapjack crumbs stretching between his mandibles.

“Good morning, Jay Leno. Unfortunately, we have no time for you today, as we are busy,” Noel solemnly informs him. “You will have to leave.”

“No way, I just got here.”

Noel has neither the time nor the resources to gladly suffer fools, and so plucks a Webley revolver from his knee-high sock. Quite forcefully, he places a bullet between the ears of the American TV personality, who falls backwards through a Jay Leno shaped gap in the wall.

“We have to be prepared to kill,” Noel explains, settling down for milk and paper. “Shooting Jay Leno will build up my resistance to petty sentiment.”

“I understand,” the leviathan replies, tucking into a loaf of pork. ‘So, what is the plan?’

“We catch the nine o’clock carousel to Barrowman Lane, hop on the midday shuttle to Gatwick Hairshort, the pilot barbers, make our way to Tesco, turn left at the birthday cake selection, vacate through the fire exit, go back to Barrowman Lane, climb the Valley of Sentient Carrier Bags, roll down the Mountain of Normal Carrier Bags, sneak into a Renaissance painting at the Glycerine Gallery, and wait to be purchased for Captain Lism’s extensive art collection.”

“It’s fantastic,” gasps the leviathan.

“No,” replies Noel, smirking sexually. “It’s art.”

“But it’s also fantastic. Things can be ‘art’ and ‘fantastic’ at the same time.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“My word,” the leviathan shrieks, catching sight of the digital clock sizzling in the fireplace. “It’s nearly nine o’clock, Noel. We have to leave now if we want to catch that carousel.”

Noel’s sexual smirk falls into a twisted gurn of mellow desperation.

‘You’re right, leviathan. Let us go, now, and save this rotting globe.”

Noel and the leviathan storm from the kitchen, speed along the corridor, stamp through the living room, steam across the chessboard-themed floor of the pet zone, kicking aside cats and puppies, strangle their way past a set of rubbish burglars, and step out into the daylight.

The plan is begun.

In the words of Hamlet, “To be continued.”

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Helga Rantrunska is a close friend of mine, and coincidentally a twenty-two year old female prostitute. She was born in Stripagrad, Russia, a smoky vagrant town six miles east of Moscow, daughter to a violent lemonade salesman and Lady Communism. Helga continues to live in the town, now routinely auctioning her flesh at the infamous Magnitogawp brothel. It is said that Stalin frequented the brothel as a revolutionary, supposedly contributing the slogan, “Don’t be a red square, comrade!”

The following is a genuine conservation from the popular chat website Omegle.com, accidentally saved to my laptop by Helga in a fit of frenzied love-making. A word of warning: it’s a bit rude. It’s not safe for work, as they say. It’s not safe for anywhere, really.

You’re now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

Stranger: hi im horny m or f

You: SIR

You: i am f 22 looking for sexular man who will also make me sexular

Stranger: how big r your tits

You: so big they reach the star and moons

Stranger: mmmmmmmm

Stranger: my cock is 10incheslong

You: this sounding good

You: my nipples begin to leak

Stranger: whats your name

You: my name is helga pleased meet

Stranger: helga want it in your ass and pussy?

You: in all available sockets

Stranger: mmmmmmmmm

Stranger: ok

Stranger: i would eat u out n finger your ass at same time

Stranger: then id fuck u in air pussy n ass

Stranger: then doggy

Stranger: pussy n ass

Stranger: then creampie in your ass

Stranger: n i cum on your tits

Stranger: n in your mouth

Stranger: im white with a big cock

Stranger: honey

You: oh boy

You: it like sexy shopping list

You: what the honey for?

Stranger: horny**

You: oh

You: perhaps we make sweet tea afterwards using honey as natural sweetener?

Stranger: mmmmmmmmmmm

Stranger: n fuck in shower

Stranger: while water is running

Stranger: what would u do to me

You: i would turn off the shower and slip into something MORE COMFORTABLE

You: you would say, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

You: i would respond, “COOL YOUR BOOTS, COPPER. i just getting slipped into something MORE COMFORTABLE”

You: ”oh,” you would reply

Stranger: mmmmmmmm

You: i would say, “baby…” (the ellipsis signalling an erotic exhalation)

Stranger: mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

You: then what would you do?

Stranger: come inside u baby

Stranger: n pound your pusssssssssssssy

Stranger: i would hump u fast

Stranger: while my cock inside u

You: mmmmm

You: that v sexy

You: i am dribbling at crotchal area

Stranger: mmmmmmmmmm

Stranger: can i drink it

You: yes i suppose why not

Stranger: 69

Stranger: babe

You: by dick king smith

You: and you are the dick king

You: am i correct?

Stranger: mmmmm

Stranger: babe i am the dick king

Stranger: i want fuck u so badly

You: SIR I WANT YOU TOO

You: let us engage in the love making

Stranger: ok

Stranger: visit me

Stranger: u get a fuck of our life

You: OH BABY

You: YOU ARE V SMART

You: THIS IS BEST PLAN I EVER SEE

You: WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

Stranger: mmm

Stranger: nothing

Stranger: except

Stranger: u fuck me forever

You: okay

You: what is the address

Stranger: im 30 minutes away from d.c.

You: what a coincidence!

You: i have family in the states

Stranger: mmmmmm

Stranger: get ur family and we could have a 3 way

You: i don’t think it would be safe to make love in the road

Stranger: orgy

You: OH SIR

You: that is a plan and eight-quarters!

Stranger: yeah so what u say

You: orgy sound like very fun times

You: we going to have so much fun

Stranger: mmmmmm

You: i must warn you though

Stranger: what

You: my family is full of spies

Stranger: what r u saying

You: my family is full of secret agents

You: you not need panic!

You: they are russian

You: they not involved in american politics

You: they just on holiday

You: hello?

Your conversational partner has disconnected.

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