In a just Universe the maker of this video is lord of all he surveys

Salutations, sir.

Batman ain’t got shit on Philippe

Tonight I saw the best film I have seen this year.

Man On Wire tells the story of how professional nutbox Philippe Petit and his international crew of fellow nutboxes snuck into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in 1974 and installed a tight rope between the two buildings so Philippe could “wire-walk” between them.  James Marsh’s resulting documentary about the event mixes interviews, photography, video and reenactments together to piece together this thrilling story.

Just recently we were treated to the wonderful eye-popper that was The Dark Knight. In one scene millionaire playboy turned masked-vigilante Batman performs super-acrobatics aided by state of the art gadgetry to invade the top floor of a skyscraper. Its all pants-pissingly exciting, rendered as it was with a billion dollar budget and seven million computers cranking out IMAX quality fireworks. Philippe Petit on the other hand only had some dodgy costumes, a big box of cable and the biggest balls on the planet. And he did it for real. Man On Wire mainly blew me away on two fronts; not only was the actual event it documented mind-blowing but the director managed to turn the tale into a heist movie of sorts. It is equal parts awe-inspiring and thrilling. The tale of how one French headcase dreamed, planned and executed this unbelievable event is captured perfectly here. I recommend, nay COMMAND you seek out and watch it.

I should also take this opportunity to recommend the Light House cinema in Smithfield where I saw Man On Wire. It is a lovely little place. My only gripe is that they only serve pop corn in a small size. Not that I’m an insatiable glutton or nothin’ but I like cinema pop corn so much I tend to make it my meal for the day.  Quite possibly the explanation for this miniaturization of portions is that a large pop corn is seen as vulgar by the coffee sipping intellectuals who frequent the Light House, I don’t know. They seem to have no problems with big bags of Minstrels.

Are you a coffee-sipping intellectual who frequents art-house cinemas? Are you grossly offended by the sight of large buckets of pop corn being emptied furiously into the flabby gaping hole that is the modern cinema-goers face? If so the Off The Meatrack team would like to speak to you.

The Love You Give To Me Will Free Me

Did someone say brass band version of Sexual Healing?

The Hot 8 Brass Band on MySpace.

The Olympics

My boycott of the XXIX Games of the Olympiad had to come to an end this morning when I became aware of the fact that Russia were playing Georgia in Women’s Beach Volleyball. Being a keen follower of geopolitical matters I simply had to tune in to see these scantily clad bronzed females battle it out for control of South Ossetia. I applaud the UN’s decision to settle this thorny issue through the medium of beach volley ball and hope that in future more disputes can also be sorted out this way. And also hope that Brazil attack Japan.

If my interest was baited by the political consequences of such a clash, it was hooked by the pumping soundtrack which filled the stadium after every point. Most pleasing was the use of the Ghostbusters theme. If I was skeptical of the magical powers of the Olympics, all doubt was quashed when I saw too bitter rivals battle it out on the sand to the sounds of Ray Parker Jr’s Ghostbusters theme.

Also “Woomp! There it is!” should be played at all events, preferably at all times.

By the way, the Georgians won. I guess the old adage is true, the volleyball is mightier than the fighter jet.

The more pertinent question would be, Can this shit get any fucking worse?

I just got back from a solar-powered battery recharging holiday in Croatia where I gorged on cheap recession-busting (as the cretinous marketing cunts are saying these days) pints with our Balkan brethren. As I ease myself into the Waterworldesque hell Ireland has become I decided to peruse the listings for tonight to see what was on the telly. And there it was. The four words and a question mark that have confirmed we are now on the down slope of human civilisation. Tv3 presents:

Can Fat Teens Hunt?

Can Fat fucking Teens fucking Hunt, wherein they place obese children in the jungles of Borneo and see if they will kill to eat. If Chris Morris had put that on Brass Eye ten years ago you would have pissed your pants. Its now on tv fucking 3. That actually has happened. The makers of the show want to see if fat teenagers are so devoted to filling their faces that they will kill animals. Holy fuck. Can Fat Teens Hunt? Can Albino Grannies Skateboard? Can White People Dance? Can TV Executives Plumb To Any Further Depths? Can We Kill Them? CAN WE PLEASE?

I have a better idea for a show. Starve these fat kids for a week then put them in a house with the producers who are naked and covered in Barbecue sauce. Better yet, do it inside Failté fucking Towers and have all those cunts serve up the producers for the fat fuckers. THEN BLOW UP THE WHOLE FUCKING HOTEL.

The Ting Tings are completely shit

Seriously, what a trolley of poop. Do people actually like this? Oh well, to each their own.

I’m off on holidays for a week. Take care of the internet for me while i’m gone.