Monday Movie Review: ‘American Psycho’ (2000)

“I feel my mask of sanity is about to slip…” ~ Patrick Bateman

Last week I exploded the ultra-violent ‘Fight Club’, so as a gentle change of pace (NOT – 2007 Borat reference, geddit), this week I shall peer into the twisted, sadistic and also ultra-violent mind of serial killer Patrick Bateman in Mary Harron’s 2000 film, ‘American Psycho’ – I fully acknowledge there may be a theme developing here. Yet, I make no apologies for this, primarily because I am a stubborn twat and this is blog is called The Ross Report last time I bothered to check.

But before I go balls deep into my revered movie chat, I have a darkly humourous tale to relay regarding ‘American Psycho’ and my dear old Grand-papa.

It was Christmas Day 2007, as is Bilko family tradition, Grandad Billington stays over for the yearly festive shenanigans. This particular year I graduated from University. Carelessly, I had left a copy of my dissertation perched atop the coffee table in the living room. Curiosity getting the better of him, Grandad reached over and began a merciless 60 minutes reading through my life’s work. Being the dullard I am, I paid little attention – partly due to the beer induced fug I was blissfully ensconsed within but chiefly because I was sat in a brand new gaming chair lobotomising droids in ‘Halo 2’.

My dissertation was entitled, ‘Masculine identity, violence and homoeroticism in Chuck Palahniuk’s ‘Fight Club’ and Bret Easton Ellis’s ‘American Psycho’. Innocuous enough right? Well, kinda…

The dissertation.

As I stared blankly at the TV, I happily mused,”Oh, Grandad, what a good sport you are, reading my dissertation.”

After 30 seconds passed, the beer delay complete, my thoughts violently evolved and transformed into, “OH FUCK, GRANDAD PLEASE STOP READING THE DISSERTATION.”

For any mortal who has delved into Bret Easton Ellis’s original novel they will clearly understand the point I am getting at here, however if you are unitiated, the novel details a sociopathic yuppie killer who revels in violence, sex and his materialistic cravings. All three are interspersed with each other leading to jaunty little passages such as this:

“I tried to make meat loaf out of the girl but it becomes too frustrating a task and instead I spend the afternoon smearing her meat all over the walls, chewing on strips of skin I ripped from her body”.


“I want you to clean your vagina. Sabrina (a call girl he has employed), dont just look at it, EAT IT!”

Both of which were quoted in my dissertation, amongst other filth.

Just as quickly as the blood rushed to my cheeks it dissipated from Grandad’s, and never again will I be that innocent little scamp of grandson he once knew.

Story time over.

Mary Harron’s film does a very decent job of translating Easton Ellis’s words to celluloid. The narrative style is painfully descriptive and at times incredibly monotone in it’s delivery – yet this is not a criticism in any way, as it is clearly intended to be read that way by Easton Ellis. However to truly embrace the character of ‘Bateman’ and to buy into the story, the novel requires patience. The film however dilutes this somewhat and focuses on several gory set pieces and also, I would argue, a softening of ‘Bateman’s’ character. Understandable considering this is a Hollywood re-imagining but still it is disappointing having read the novel beforehand.

The entire film is dipped in satire and retains a jet black humour throughout. Whilst it is memorable for Christian Bale’s performance as the lead, dancing to ‘Huey Lewis and the News’ as he stisfies his nocturnal bloodlust or sprinting maniacally around his apartment complex covered in claret, the film attempts to explode themes of homoeroticism and materialism. Partly it is succesful, the styling is faithful to the era and many of the memorable ‘rant’ passages from the novel find their way into the film. I wont go into further detail with regard to the themes (I did that in my dissertation and lost a head of hair as a result) but they are clear and evident should you choose to read the novel or watch the film. I would argue that those themes are not explored deeply enough in the movie though.

As for Mr Bale, this is career defining fayre. Before he battled Bane or larked about with The Joker, Bale logged the best performance of his career as ‘Bateman’. He is equal parts frightening, unhinged and hilarious.

A brilliant performance is ordinarily measured by whether you can take your eyes off of the actor – I could not. Even after countless re-watches, it is Bale I come back for. An ongoing joke between my friends references a particuar scene in the movie where ‘Bateman’ is porking one of his many prostitutes before shooting a glance at his wall-length mirror and flexing a ripped bicep. Hilarious? Of course, but it is also one of many brave, ultra confidence scenes performed by a then fairly unknown actor.

Harron captures the mood and vapidity of the 1980’s brilliantly. The clothes, music and yuppie culture are dialed up almost to a point of lampooning but do the job of re-creating the transparent atmosphere of Easton Ellis’s narrative. Great support is found in Reese Witherspoon as ‘Bateman’s’ on/off fiance and Jared Leto (who really needs to pack in this singing lark and get back to acting) as ‘Paul Allen’, ‘Bateman’s’ quasi-nemesis.

This is not a perfect film by any means, chiefly due to it’s heavy-handedness at times and glossing over of the true themes of the novel, but it is still a great watch, and worth seeing purely for Bale’s breakthrough performance.

However, if you are hunting for the true Psycho experience, get the book, brace yourself and enter the brilliant but fubar’ed mind of Bret Easton Ellis. Just dont lend it to my grandad when you’re done.

This is a prime taster of what to expect:

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Friday Filth w/ bonus funny: Jessica Nigri (HAWT) and Mr R. Gosling.

Click on her boobs for a gallery.

Friday morning has plopped out of Thursday night’s perky bottom and the weekend is now tantalising close. For all you ‘normies’, this means booze, rest, partying and hookers – you lucky bunch of blighters.

With my trade, weekends are strictly rationed out and snaffled up hungrily on the rarest of occasions that I have them off.

But, I won’t sit here and weep like a teased vagina.

Instead, to warm mine and your jealous and pervy cockles, Uncle Ross has conjured up a female of the foxiest form to lust over in those colder, lonelier moments over this windy, wet, winter weekend. Her name is Jessica Nigri and she dresses up as Pikachu and stuff.

Miss Nigri is a rare and bewitching creature – an unapologetically geeky specimen who spends her free time constructing outfits based on famed video game characters. Then squeezing into said outfiits and initiating cardiac arrest on swathes of chubby nerds at comic conventions. Well, it was going to be her or the industrial vat’s of Wotsits they shove down their gullets.

She also has massive…….opinions on global warming and world peace and… Oh sorry I was looking at her tits. Enjoy.

Click on the picture above to see a little more of Miss Nigri.

For the ladies then, just because I feel a prime turd if I purely hark on about stonking fun bags, as a token gesture, here is a gallery to the effortlessly suave Ryan Gosling. Even a dashing rogue like I can appreciate he is a handsome bastard.

Plus, he has been in a spate of stupendously cracking films over the last 18 months. Any human who watched ‘Drive’ and felt no rumbling in their loins, by my calculations is either a droid or rotting inside.

Click on his giant head for a gallery of Mr Gosling.

And as a final goodbye for the week I charitably mined a shining chunk of funny for you all.

On a recent trip to Barcelona, my two rampaging chums and I were holed up in our rented apartment nursing weapons grade hangovers. A good two hours was spent whoring the apartment Wi-Fi on YouTube and after much deliberation and Jaegermeister, this little gem was considered video of the night.

Butter flooring, if you haven’t heard of it yet; spend a valuable ten minutes of your working day versing yourself on this brutal pranking craze.

I shall see you mucky lot next week for my world famous movie chat. As always, follow me on twitter to recieve all this goodness and more.

Follow the ross report on twitter!

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Thursday Tune: BomFunk MC’s – ‘Freestyler’ (1999).

Oh Finland, you have delivered us…..hang on, what have you delivered us? I dont intend to begin this blog walloping Sweden’s deformed, ginger step brother but as I sit here, ‘Ghostbusters’ mug in hand, I find myself scuttling around hunting for anything that Finland can lay claim to of great cultural significance.

“Oi Bilko!” I hear you holler at me, “What about Liverpool quasi-legend, Sami Hyppia?”

Well, yes, the blonde Finnish former Scouse defensive cornerstone was an admirable servant to the Kop for a great many years – 1st round to Finland.

“Oi Ross, you inconsiderate twat!” You now yell in a slightly aggressive and now distinctly hostile manner. “What about mobile phone collossus Nokia?”

And once again fair reader, you may just have a point. Where would we be without having spent countless school lunchtimes playing snake on the Nokia 3210? Or shelling out iPhone levels of wonga for the Nokia 7110 purely because perma-bored actor Keanu Reeves fluffed about with it in 1999’s ‘The Matrix’. Round 2 to Finland.

“Oi Billington you stinky dog-fucker!” Your verbal protestations now bordering into hate-crime levels of vitriol. “What about Finnish game-changing break-beat certified crazy bastards, ‘The Bomfunk MC’s’?”

And with that, you just convinced me that Finland may possibly be the best country that borders Sweden, Norway and Russia. KO to Finland.

‘Freestyler’, released on the cusp of the millenium was notable for a myriad of reasons. Primarily, it was a bloody good record, all bass and computerised farty bleeps. This was the the musical alternative to booting through your car windscreen and cutting up rugs to the resulting alarm – and I say that with the greatest of respect.

Secondly, it sounded dangerously good pumping out of the speakers. Many a teenage evening was wasted fizzing around Dunstable in my best mates ocean blue Vauxhall Corsa, spewing out ‘Freestyler’ through his poorly wired 6×9 speakers and accompanying subwoofer. Each bassy thump punching out of the sub, screaming obnoxiously in the wrinkled faces of all the ‘squares’ trudging along High Street South. We were the new world order of awesome – our voluntary publicising of Finnish music almost definitely led to ‘Freestyler’ solidifying the number 2 spot on the official top 40 countdown.

The video also deserves honourable mention, charting the 4 and a half minute commute of a Finnish Stig of the dump, dicking about with a Sony Mini-disc player (another fine late 90’s invention – I owned one) using it’s magical powers to fast forward and pause real Finnish people.

Which in turn leads to my quarrel with this video.

If this young lad, we shall call him ‘Sami’, truly had the expendable time to be fart-arsing about in what can only be described as a train station designed by Ikea, he clearly was not a genuine owner of a minidisc player.

On average, I would spend four hours recording a 45 minute album on to a minidisc, only to realise when I hit play that the disc was corrupt and I would sit there on the school bus bubbling with fury that I could not get my pre-school fix of ‘The Vengaboys’.

Frackin’ useless.

The mini-disc player = looked cool, actually worse than human shit.

I was saddened to read this morning that the ‘Bomfunk MC’s’ split in 2004 shockingly. Then Finnish prime minister Mixa Matosis declared a national day of mourning (BomFunkensplatt) and a subsequent act was passed in parliament for every second child borne into a Finnish family be named either ‘Bom’ or ‘Funk’, if of the female variety. Upon learning this I was pleased and reassured that the legacy of this genre smashing creative juggernaut would live on.

Turn up your speaker, maybe even light a candle, and sip on a short measure of warming Euro-pop.

Thank me later.

Wednesday Watch: FX’s ‘Archer’.


“She’s like the Pele of anal”~ Sterling Archer.

God bless Walt Disney, not literally of course if those pesky paedophilic tendencies and Nazi sympathiser rumours are to believed, but a swift doth of the cap to the be-spectacled scribbler is just about in order.

Without his early doodles, the universe may never have been blessed with ‘Homer Simpson’, ‘Fred Flintstone’, ‘Stewie Griffin’, ‘Eric Cartman’ and now, the newly initiated clown prince of chortles, ‘Sterling Mallory Archer’.  Mr Disney remains the ‘Don Corleone’ of colouring in.

Cartoons and animation have always been close to my recently irregularly beating heart muscle. As tween Ross grew into teenage Ross before morphing hairily into adult Ross, an ever present thread ran alongside my bubbling and heaving puberty – cartoons.

As a nipper, Sunday nights followed a strict regimen:

4:30pm: Bath time (with brother until it got just a little bit too weird)

5pm: ‘All American Wrestling’

6pm: ‘The Simpsons’.

We rarely diverted from this plan, and any attempts to change channel’s to ‘The Antique Roadshow’ sparked biblical levels of fury from both my brother Glenn and I. It was unpleasant fayre.

As my shaggy life rug has been slowly rolled out, Homer has been replaced by ‘Peter Griffin’ ably assisted by doses of ‘Eric Cartman’. ‘Family Guy’ much like The Simpson family has tragically entered into a steady decline. Whilst numerous ‘lol’s’ (I just vomited blood in my mouth) can still be mined from Griffin et al, tragically, this is a comedy that is far from the giddy heights of Comedy Mountain (this infamous moutnain range can be located in Northen Cambodia) that it used to stand proudly atop. As the seasons have passed, and it pains me to say this, the quality has sloped steadily. I still adore the show but as the quality has dipped, my funny bone has been fingered by a new, younger and bustier show.

That show is FX’s Adam Reed’s ‘Archer’.

‘Archer’ is ingenius. End blog.

I could literally end the blog there in a what would be a marginally pretentious manner but, because you deserve more, I will throw you a few stale crumbs on what has fast become my favourite show. ‘Archer’ follows the adventures and non-adventures of the ISIS organisation, a bumbling spy agency populated by nyphomaniac PA’s, a homocidal professor, quasi-Bond villain bad guys and the wonderfully sociopathic lead character ‘Sterling Archer’.

The turtleneck – underated as a ‘tactical garment’.

The animation is a joy to behold with wonderful references to vintage Bond films whilst smoothly interspersing distinctive touches of ‘Mad Men’ in the attire sported by each memorable character. ‘Archer’ is smooth, vibrant and absolutely original, looking unlike any other show, let alone animation on television currently.

I’d wager that the current plague and re-emergence of the turtle neck jumper as an acceptable item of clothing has some debt to ‘Archer’.

Each twenty minute episode is stuffed full of one-liners that zing from the fine voice actor’s mouth-holes. H. Jon Benjamin provides the vocal talent of lead character ‘Sterling Archer’ supported by Judy Greer (Arrested Development), Jessica Walter (again Arrested Development) and Chris Parnell amongst others seasoned chuckle peddlers. ‘Archer’ is a slick and brilliant all round production that  warrants re-watches to simply pick up on the minute visual touches and fizzing one-liners that do get missed on first viewing; the show zips along at a furious pace.

Three seasons in and ‘Archer’ has announced itself with aplomb. Gushing critics can be found in it’s wake, legions of fans, like me, coo and cream over it’s genuine brilliance. Awards have been tossed in it’s general direction and turtle-neck sales have spiked

If you havent already, take eight minutes from your day to watch the youtube video above. It’s only a teasing taster of what the show is about but if not one solitary snigger emanates from that big gaping hole in your face, I will pay you all £10*.

Archer can be found on FX or on DVD/Blu-ray.

*Monopoly money.


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Tuesday Training: Tendonitis = CV, plus added Georges St Pierre!

Inevitably, the famed Billington injury curse has struck again. My body, apparently constructed of paper mache and glass has failed me. I am the bald Darren Anderton.

Unfortunately, I am accustomed to my under developed 7 year old female wrists, 89 year old knees/ankles and tracing paper thin lower back crumpling under most forms of exercise, heck, I have long since learned to fight and adapt my training to acommodate those frequent aches and pains. But now, a body part I have leaned on for years has collapsed under the strain, and my fears were confirmed at the quack’s, I have tendonitis in my left shoulder.

I’ve been “pulling too much” apparently says the Doc, chance would be a fine thing say I.

I should be thankful after my brother thought I may have had a mini stroke, yay, alas I have not.

This means that I will be laying off the iron for two to three weeks and allowing my Wolverine like healing powers to take their course. Mass amounts of painkillers are being swallowed to combat the dull sensation from my trapezius to my elbow joint. I have even taken to wearing some Under Armour heat gear during the day. My ingenius thinking is two-fold – It will keep heat around the injury and will also make me feel a smidge like The Rock in ‘Fast Five’ (He must work for the only Police force that use Under Armour exclusively for their kit – bastard). There are obvious and clear similarities between Dwayne Johnson and I – you dont need me to pander to you all and explain them.

Rocky or is it me?

So, no weights = more CV. This is not an issue for me, I revel in cardio like a little bald piggy-wiggy larking about in turd. The target set is an easily achievable 45 minutes of steady state cardio for fourteen days in a attempt to cut some of my love chunks. Once I feel the old shoulder is back in the game I will ease back in to the lifting and re-ignite the Hulk rage within. Tough Mudder lurks on the horizon and I must be at full capacity for that sneering, evil slut.

Enough about me, lets discuss the UFC at the weekend, and shed a little light on Georges St Pierre and his explosive return to the octagon.

As perma-red faced commetator Joe Rogan repeatedly attested, GSP looked enormous on Saturday night. His enforced absence from competing with a career threatening ACL injury clearly was spent eating babies. It was a relief to see the funny voiced martial arts afficianado go the distance with Carlos Condit in a true barnburner of a championship bout.

GSP in his post match interview referred to knowing “what ring rust is now”. You could have fooled me you crazy little French-Canadian monkey.

I wont reveal the result here but, boy howdy, much claret was spilled.

Below is a little compilation of Mr St Pierre training, it’s ideal pre-gym fodder. Now I am off the pre-workout drinks for an undetermined time, videos like this give me the required boot up the arsehole I need to “embrace the grind” (emotive bullshit that translates to “go to the gym”).

Georges, over to you.





Monday Movie Review: ‘Fight Club (1999)’.


“I want you to hit me as hard as you can”.

It pains me ever so slightly to comprehend that this film was released in 1999. I was a young buck of a 14 year old, riding the crest of an angry, gushing wave.

The internet machine was whirring into full force, Blink 182 were new, exciting and ‘vital’, Pro Evolution Soccer was curling off countless turds on FIFA. I had a full head of bewitching hair, envied by millions. It was still socially acceptable to don popper tracksuit bottoms in public.

This was an age of innocence, expectation, alco-pops and shit Nelly and N-Sync collaborations. 1999 also happened to be the year that guffed out my all time favourite film, David Fincher’s ‘Fight Club’.

Before wading through the sea of superlatives that I will be tossing at this ground-breaking film, I beg of you to humour me momentarily and cast your mind’s eye back to ’99. It was a dark, chilly Winter’s eve, my older brother had rented ‘Fight Club’ on VHS from Blockbuster Video along with a copy of Playstation’s ‘Tenchu’ (criminally underrated). Big brother was grafting at rugby training so I spied an opportunity to fire up the VCR. ‘Con Air’ farted out of the VCR’s rectangular mouth and in glided David Fincher’s ‘Fight Club’. At this point in my under developed adolescence, I had not been the film spod that I claim to be now, that ‘special’ movie had not arrived and swept me off my size 9 feet (size 11 now girls, you do the math). Unbeknownst to me, my perception of film was about to be bastardised for eternity.

There I sat crossed legged with my Sarah Michelle Gellar poster reassuringly perving over me, my (striking) blue eyes wide for 139 minutes plus allotted toilet time, 10-15 allowing for any ‘complications’. I was spellbound by the styling, acting, music and originality of what is one of the greatest narrative hoodwinks of cinema. The Dust Brothers soundtrack, Brad Pitt’s acting masterclass as ‘Tyler Durden’ only matched by Edward Norton’s nervous and fractured performance as protagonist ‘Jack’. It’s unrepentant violence and unadulterated fury was so very palpable that the steaming, sweaty stink almost emanated from the speakers. For brief moments I could taste metallic blood creeping into my mouth. Claustrophobic and oppressing but yet so intriguing I dared not to look away. I had found a new leader, this was dirty bliss in celluloid form.

We, as humans, mutter of defining moments in our respective lives. When these moments happen, you dont realise the full force or effect that they have on you as a character, or the phycological dents they leave. These moments can only be spied and traced back after the event, days or months along into the future. Watching ‘Fight Club’ remains one of these seminal moments in my 27 years as a human-bot. It changed me as a person.

I re-watched ‘Fight Club’ over and over, not “28 times” like red-capped shout merchant Fred Durst, but more times than I should. Each occasion further rewarding my persistence. This film requires multiple viewings, much in the same vein as Bryan Singer’s sublime head-porker ‘The Usual Suspects’.

The months after led to me shouting at close friends to watch it, I bought Chuck Palahniuk’s original novel that the film was based upon, I created a fansite called ‘The Unique Snowflake’, that never actually went ‘live’ due to my inability to actually create a working website and a 56k dial-up that continually dropped out. In one of a long list of teenage fashion mis-steps, I purchased a pair of sunglasses worn by Pitt’s ‘Tyler Durden’ failing to realise that only someone as criminally handsome as Pitt could pull of what was a pair of horrendously shit sunglasses (picture included). The burning passion I had for this movie would not relent and licked at my psyche daily.

This was the film that seduced me into cinema, stroking my long since abandoned hair before flashing me a cheeky nipple and coaxing me into it’s Fritzl dungeon. I was a willing victim, skipping into it’s warming embrace. I have not looked back an never intend to.

In the 13 years that have since passed, ‘Fight Club”s footprints can be seen peppered over my existence. My dissertation at university was centred upon the novel, I own t-shirts with quotes from the film and still sport them, even my screensaver at this precise second is a ‘Fight Club’ quote. ‘Where is my mind’ by The Pixies is still tucked in a dark corner of my ipod, each time I am happily suprised when it plays, those same feelings of youth flush across my brain and momentarily I am back in that bedroom with Sarah Michelle Gellar and the reassuring whirring of the VCR.

This blog entry was intended to be a review but has clearly strayed from that particular path. For that I apologise, however, when discussing this particular movie I cannot remain impartial and must only gush. As we approach the 15 year anniversary of Fincher’s ‘Fight Club’, it still feels fresh, the stylistic touches have not dated and are as impatient and as important as they were all those years ago. More so now that ever can the commentary on consumerism and lost identity be grafted on to this current generation.

With notes of homo-eroticism to be found alongside warning’s of an entire lost generation of men with no purpose or place, it is a Multi layered narrative. Thankfully with a subject matter so steeped in the darkness, Fincher laces the proceedings with dark comedic touches delivered impeccably through the performances of Pitt and Norton with notable tip’s of the hat to Meat Loaf in a memorable and thankless role as ‘Robert Poulsen’.

The final act pummels you and gives the closest form of audience related concussion that I have experienced through film. Your jaw will drop as the origami like narrative unfolds again cementing the need to re-watch and re-watch then re-watch again. This is a true masterwork of deception but also reward to the viewer.

If you own eyeballs, and I presume you do to be reading this, and appreciate film as a medium in any form, I implore you to watch ‘Fight Club’ now, tonight or as soon as humanly possible.

Break that first rule of ‘Fight Club’ and do talk about it, lots.

In the event that you dont appreciate its bad-assery, I will fight you…with fists and sticks and stuff.




Friday Filth: Emily Blunt.

Whilst my previous blog entries have been thought-provoking and endlessly informative, Friday’s instalment is slightly less high-brow.

Here be boobs. Abandon all hope ye who don’t like dirty pillows, because Friday’s are purely for perving.

This will be brief because I’m at work and can’t very well surf the interwebs hunting for ‘tang. A handy link below to the wonderful Miss Blunt.

She also seems to have an agent who isn’t a complete fuckwit as her film choices range from the funny (‘Five Year Engagement’) to thoroughbred action (‘Looper’, ‘The Adjustment Bureau’). Plus, in ‘Looper’ she sports dirty blonde hair and a dirtier Yank accent.

John Krasinski, you are a prime shit for tapping this particular ass. Enjoy.

Thursday Tune: ‘Ginuwine – Pony (1996)’.


Gents, we all do this. Or I sincerely hope I am not a weird exception.

Sex music, tunes for baby-making, boner jams.

The playlist you spend a solid 45 minutes carving and perfecting for the sole purpose of covertly playing when entertaining a lady whose sugar walls you intended on breaking down.

It’s a world championship winning tag-team of sexually explosive proportions. Think the Legion of doom but with less painkillers and steroids (RIP Hawk), but more hip action timed to the baseline of NSync’s ‘Girlfriend’.

Today’s sploof ditty is a 90′s classic. Blatant in its lyric’s of “riding ponies” and recently exploited to the gyrations of surprisingly decent actor cum (teehee) former stripper, Channing Totum (double teehee) in Stephen Soderburgh’s ‘Magic Mike’. Yes, I did watch ‘Magic Mike’ and I fully understand the ramifications of this with regard to my sexuality. In the same way that I read Playboy for the articles, I watched ‘Magic Mike’ for the acting.

From the first thick, dirty drop of baseline this record unapologetically creeps along like musical rohipnol. With now weirdly stacked but still chubby Timbaland pulling the production strings, the chorus arrives and digs its nails deep in to your eardrums and induces grot-filled thoughts. Women get frothy whilst the gents get poorly concealed semi’s that get tucked into their waistbands.

The video, now horrendously dated with the obligatory late 90′s fisheye lens, has Ginuwine flopping about like an electrified sex robot, is standard fayre with bizarre racial undertones. A white motorcycle bar is overun by Ginuwine and his clique. The white folk look angry, Ginuwine dances, video ends. It’s deep stuff.
So, grab your woman, lay her down on the (scotch-guarded) sofa, crank up the volume and glide to what is premium backdoor smashing musicality.

Wednesday Watch: The Philip DeFranco Show

Over the last year I have substituted the humble google search for a YouTube search. For everything.

Much like an old university ‘friend’ who remains a Facebook friend but offers no value other than that. The once exciting and reliable google has since dissipated like a fetid yet quietly honourable guff from the folder named, ‘Ross’s awesome links’.

I’m drifting from the point dangerously here, essentially YouTube is my new search buddy. Clear? Great.

I happened upon a YouTube channel at the back end of 2011. It popped my subscription cherry with aplomb and introduced me to a gentleman named Philip DeFranco. His self named Monday to Thursday news show instantly tickled my perineum.

Packed with jump-cuts, a tasteful and vibrant studio and a host boasting a genuine like ability coupled with obvious intelligence and passion, I subscribed and have not missed a show since. In fact, without my daily fix of PhillyD I feel a slightly soul-less husk of a man. Hyperbole? Abso-fruitly.

In all seriousness though, here is a chap who has cracked it. ‘It’ being the new way to deliver news. He is a creative juggernaut overseeing his frighteningly growing empire and all plaudits lie at his feet.

Rather than stagnating, PhillyD created and now oversees and a merchandising wing stuffed with t-shirts, posters and Thai brides (not the last one). I sincerely hope you click on to him and subscribe.

Also, he might bung me a few shirts and let me do stuff to his co-hosts (I’m looking at you Lee Newton….and Trisha.)

Tuesday Training: Tough Mudder 2013

July 2012, bodyshape changing slowly (I am wearing pants)

July 2010, fatter and little definition.

May 4th 2013.

A date that will determine whether I have sufficent pools of man-up gravy in my decent but not overtly massive sized tank.

A date where I will ‘enjoy’ the physical equivalent of a candlelit dinner with Tom Hardy’s ‘Bane’ (post meal coitus inclusive).

A date whereupon I draw on days, months and years of personal beasting and adolescent vomit inducing pre-season training.

Tough Mudder 2013 – my smirking, spitting, spiteful muse. I am training and lobotomising myself daily for it, but ‘it’ is a cruel, unsympathetic bastard.

Training and personal fitness and health have become an integral facet of my daily life. Like many, I evolve in to a miserable and cantankerous being if I dont exercise. Heck, this could be an unhealthy obsession, and at times I question why it is so important to me. But, these cautionary thoughts are briskly washed away when I consider I could be addicted to heroin, methanphetamine or X-Factor.

Currently, my training is directed toward strength and increasing my compound lifts. Three sessions of Push / Pull / Lift, with each workout centred around either a squat movement, dead lift or bench press. Other supplementary exercises circle the big boy lifts like scouts around a warming camp fire. If that particular camp fire induces near rectum prolapse.

Rep ranges are 5 x 5 or if I am feeling fruity 4 x 6. Big, meaty lifts.

As the day of reckoning approaches I will swap to a hypertophy based program and intensely up my endurance and cardio sessions.

Not only do I intend to decimate Tough Mudder, I aim to look good in the process (and look slightly spectacular naked).

For those uninitiated, check out the below trailer.