7 Reasons Star Wars: The Force Awakens Sucked

"The fans might actually like sexy protagonists, fire these losers and get me a cloned garbage man!"

I wasn't going to bother updating my blog to rant and rave about Star Wars: The Force Awakens. No, I was merely going to file it under "Painfully Inadequate Modern Hollywood Remakes" and get on with my life. Sadly I was moved into action when I woke up this morning to a story about how Kevin Smith loves Star Wars VII.

 So I find myself at odds with a respected director, actor, and writer who apparently knows everything there is to know about Star Wars and absolutely loved the new movie. Unfortunately I disagree for about 100 reasons, but for the sake of brevity I cut it down to the 7 things that made my inner Comic Book Guy shriek with rage. Spoilers... obviously.

"If these bastards don't open that plastic Amazon clam-shell its going in the fucking trash."

1.  It Was Basically a Remake.

Yes it was. It was largely the story from Episodes 3 and 4 rolled into one. An original movie? No chance. Stop me if you have heard this plot before. Through little effort of his/her own, a recently orphaned desert dwelling nomad quickly finds himself/herself embroiled in a plot to battle against a massive galactic empire. Said orphan is young and inexperienced but has a good heart and soon takes to the quest with  gusto, befriending a handsome/geriatric smuggler and a Wookiee. The orphan gets followed around by a cute droid all of the time and the young orphan can speak droid fluently. At some point, the young desert orphan makes friends with a bearded old bloke in a dressing gown. Meanwhile the evil empire has built a massive ship that can destroy whole planets with  ease, but fortunately they left another weak spot uncovered so we all know how that's going to end up...

"If that punk kid can fight Kylo Ren I fancy my chances too."

2.  Instant Jedi.

Becoming a Jedi takes years of patient training, we all know this. At least a decade as a Padawan, often longer. Training with a master, before attending a trial (which may be skipped in rare circumstances) and finally graduating from Jedi Academy. Sort of like joining the Green Berets but a bit more pansy. It took the might Luke Skywalker months of training to skillfully wield the force. Qui-Gonn Jin can subtly manipulate the minds of weak men thanks to 30 years of training. In this movie, Rey manages to completely mindfuck a Stormtrooper in moments with absolutely no training at all. If it was that fucking easy, why isn't everyone at it? No training, no subtle suggestions or hand movements, just the Star Wars equivalent of being barked at by a Drill Sergeant, which leads nicely to my next point.

3. Puny Dark Side

The band of ill-trained misfits easily defeated Kylo Ren and the First Order in lightsaber combat, as they had once spoken to a man who knew a guy that owned one.

If rare individuals can wield the force like a sledgehammer, imagine what type of things one trained for decades can do eh? I mean, lets say, a kid with the DNA of Luke Skywalker and a strapping robust father like Han Solo. Well Kylo Ren was all over the place with his abilities, certainly he was less useful than the untrained orphan. One moment, he is actually stopping blaster bolts in mid air with little effort (which begs the  question why they bothered blocking them in the last 6  films.) An hour later and he cant even pull a lightsaber towards him with any ease. And that reminds me, remember when Luke pulls the saber a few feet with great effort in Empire Strikes Back? Well Rey has fucking mastered that, and she never got any rudimentary training from Obi Wan. In fact, she is so good at it she pulls the fucker towards her with the speed of Thor's hammer. Kylo Ren thought it was headed for him but what does that fool know eh? He was only trained by Luke Skywalker for years before handing the reins over to a (presumably at least equally skillful) Dark Master.

4. The Fucking Bowcaster

"Fuck this stick, If that skinny pensioner can use the Bowcaster I shall wield one too"

Every nerd knows  that the denizens of Kashyyyk are the only ones strong enough to wield a Bowcaster, the magnetic propulsion crossbow used by the enormous Wookiees. In fact, according to the Star Wars RPG, humans are incapable of actually cocking a bowcaster. And this makes sense, considering they are all enormous towering balls of fur and death. Well, apparently Han Solo, a slight, 70 something who should be well into retirement, he can fire one easily. Piece of piss in fact, because he never misses moving targets while under fire. Perhaps this is a weaker version and only hits with the force of a Nerf Gun? Well no, because it scatters armored 220lb. Stormtroopers across the battlefield with consummate ease. And Han exclaims "I like this thing!" which suggests he has never fired the fucking weapon despite 50 years of adventuring with his chum. I only worked with the Foreign Legion twice and the first thing I did was fire a FAMAS, so I call bullshit. Which brings me to the next point... 

5. Cheap Throwaway Lines Raping the Canon

"Ok kids, we know you millennials don't like the training part so fuck it, we are just giving these things out."  

A little humor is great in a film like this, not only because it reminds nerds of the comics. Plus, its also true, a little gallows humor is commonplace in all of the worlds military organizations worth their salt. The issue with the humor in SW7 is that there is far too much of it, and most importantly it completely contradicts the canon, as well as common sense. Han has never once touched Chewie's weapon? Stormtroopers, genetically enhanced and brainwashed from birth, yeah they get those Stormtroopers to work sanitation. It was like a cheap throwaway line from Under Siege (he's just a cook!) but it has real concerns form me. Why not get droids to do it? Do Navy SEALS specialize in sanitation as well? And why would someone born and raised in such conditions, without even having a name, be so witty and urbane, and ask girls about their "cute boyfriends?"

6. No Lightsabers?! 

How can they have a Star Wars movie so lacking in lightsaber fights? Seriously even shitty video game companies have done some absolutely top notch fights involving everyone's favorite energy weapons. If you have never seen these awesome short videos before, you are very welcome.

Fast, furious, exciting, and pretty lengthy. I counted one actual lightsaber dual in that movie, the showdown in the snow with Kylo Ren. And it certainly wasn't as good as any of the action highlighted above. It was not only ridiculous, it was dull. And why was it ridiculous?

7. Fencing Professionals Required; No Experience Necessary

"How does this thing work again GrampaAAARRRGG!!"

It is not hard to imagine that fighting with something as dangerous as a lightsaber would require decades of training, I had a go at fencing once when I was in school and I almost gouged my eye out. I could probably deflect three  swings tops. Unlike blunt fencing blades, lightsabers are capable of cutting through 4 feet of steel, they can go through bone like butter. Both Rey and Finn literally picked them up off the floor and not only avoided cutting their own fucking limbs off, but managed to fight and defeat Kylo Ren. The injury in his side at least made the struggle somewhat less ridiculous, but it was still beyond stupid. I wouldn't be comfortable swinging an actual lightsaber around practicing in my garage, I certainly wouldn't be able to deflect multiple extremely fast blows from a youthful antagonist with two decades of training.

Anyway, I didn't hate it, I would give It a steady 2/5. It certainly looked and sounded great in 3D IMAX, but the story was lame and was filled with contradictions, childish humor, and general idiocy. I'm stunned by the universal acclaim, particularly from fellow fans, and obvioiusly by fans I mean those actually bought Genndy Tartakovskys version on DVD, and read many of the novels and comics, not merely those jumping on the media bandwagon. I have yet to meet another cynic so anybody who actually knows the lore and still loves it, please comment below and enlighten me.

I welcome healthy debate, sensible criticism, and full on insults and arguments alike!

"That's just like..... your opinion man."

Picture the scene. 

You are at the store/supermarket doing your grocery shopping. You begin loading all of your items onto the cashiers till. Suddenly she stops you and asks you if you have any beef in your basket. You reply "Yes, I have some steaks and a packet of Birds Eye burgers which are probably more horse than cow but you know what I mean." The cashier looks slightly perturbed and says "Oh sorry miss, I am a Hindu and I cannot sell you beef in accordance with my religious tradition."

"There's your receipt, and here's your change, annnd..... burn forever" 

Like most tolerant, inclusive westerners you are slightly put out by this, but still take the time to apologize yourself, you know.. like how if someone bangs into you on your way out of the dry cleaners and it wasn't really your fault, but you utter the words "Oh excuse me" quickly out of politeness anyway.

 So you pack all of your things quickly back into your basket and you move to the next checkout with the shortest queue. A few minutes later, you start loading your things back onto that conveyance belt thing that nobody really as a name for.. and 30 seconds into it the cashier has finished dealing with the customer in front so she says "Oh excuse me, are those condoms among your things?" You grin sheepishly and say "Oh Yes, I am taking a break from the contraceptive pill so my husband and I are going to use condoms for a while..." "Sorry" says the cashier, "I am a strict Catholic and the very idea of condoms offends me. You will have to use another cashier."

"You might as well be a baby-raper, you both end up in the same place...."

 You don't apologize this time, you have already stood in line twice. You hastily pack your basket and go to the closet cashier. At this point, a concerned manager notices the look of annoyance and the hasty walk and comes over to ask you what the problem is. You explain that you have stood in line twice only to have been told the cashier refused to sell you certain items due to a religious preference. 

"Well" says the manager, "I have noticed that you also have pork in your basket, and Avi, the gentleman on checkout 3 is a Hasidic Jew, so that rules him out as well."

"And Iqbal on checkout 5 is a Muslim, so you definitely cant buy those 4 cans of beer there either."

You resolve to do your shopping elsewhere.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, elegantly explains the stupidity behind the furor in Kentucky. Mike Huckabee, Ted Cruz, and Rick Santorum have all gone on the offensive claiming that the first amendment has been broken. It has not. They claim that Kim Davis should simply "move positions" at work, so someone else can issue gay marriage licences in order for us to not offend her religious preferences. That is not how the First Amendment is supposed to work. It guarantees freedom of religion as well as freedom from religion. Any government employee who explicitly values one religious faith over another is essentially placing one group of Americans over another. 

I am a vocal critic of Islam. I am certainly not entirely on the fence on this issue, but if the government begins endorsing one religion over another (in this case Christianity) then what about the rights of all of the Muslim Americans? What about the Sikhs, the Jews, the Hindus, the Atheists, the Agnostics, the Mormons, Scientologists, and the Zoroastrian Americans? (There must be at least three or four surely?)

If Mrs Davis was merely the owner of an independent cake shop refusing to bake a big gay cake, at least we could have some sort of discussion about it. But the constitution is black and white. It was not written to give excuses for the majority (Christians in the United States) to better stomp on the rights of an embattled minority.

 It was written to prevent it from happening. 

 The founding fathers were smart men. Some of them were Christians, some of them were not. Yet all understood the need to have an inherently secular country, precisely because the rights of the majority are always protected by default. There is no need to protect the rights of the majority, because everybody sees things their way. It is the smallest groups of citizens that require protection under the law, regardless of their color, creed, religious preference, or sexual orientation.

 Kim Davis is certainly free to practice her religion in any way she sees fit. I would defend to the death her right to disagree with, and even vocally criticize marriage equality. I will even defend those that preach so-called "hate speech" and do not agree with prosecuting those that spout hateful rhetoric (Muslim preachers and the Phelps family included.) Indeed, people should be free to say whatever they like, as long as free-thinkers are allowed to say whatever they like in rebuttal. 

But actually put words into practice? 

 Not on the governments dime.

A Drinkers Guide to Portland

So, I spent last week in Portland. Ostensibly the point of the trip was a leisurely look around the outskirts to see if we would fancy a move up there at some point. The endless California sunshine, that a mere 18 months ago I would have described as a golden gift I would never tire of, has started to become a smothering sweltering heat that is actually boiling my spuds in the bag. Whether this is due to climate change, or just the fact I am a pasty northerner raised in the only part of England where the sun is permanently obscured I cannot say. 

 Also, the  endless Beijing-style traffic jams are not to be sniffed at either. As Middlesbrough has never had a single tourist in it's 150 year history, the traffic there is laughably light. The ten mile an hour rush hour "traffic" found in towns up and down the UK pales in comparison to the actual traffic that fills the streets and freeways of California has to be seen to be believed. You can look out of your window at 4am and the freeways are still backed up, its so bizarre its almost a tourist attraction in and of itself.

 Anyway, I figured that I would go check out Oregon because it is supposed to be lovely, and the family were leaning towards the possibility that it may be worth moving up there some day. 

 Upon arriving there, I found myself in what appeared to be the most youthful town in North America. Not that I have been to that many you understand, but I have been to trendy hubs like Chicago, Los Angeles, San Diego, New York, and.. er... does Virginia count as trendy? 

 After landing at the airport and being greeted by two teenage baggage handlers who looked as if they could stick their heads out of the car to shave effectively, we caught a shuttle to the hotel. Amusingly this sign was behind the counter when I checked in.

"Welcome to Portland mon!"

I chuckled and asked the guy behind the counter how long ganja had been legal and he said it had only been freely available for a short while. Obviuously the natives have took to it with gusto, which explains why my room smelled as if Bob Marley had died in the bathtub.

 After a nights rest, we took an Uber into the city center and had breakfast at what is apparently an extremely popular breakfast restaurant named Gravy (3957 N Mississippi Ave) As always, I found the food to be perfectly acceptable, but not worthy of the endless praise showered upon it on Yelp, and certainly not worthy of the 45 minute wait to get in at 10am on a Tuesday morning.

  Indeed, in America it seems that merely serving 4 lbs. of food as a single serving on a plate the size of a dump truck wheel is enough to warrant a 5-star rating. My corned beef hash was more than passable and the eggs were decent, but there are kids eating mud in Haiti so I feel a bit guilty when I get my hash-browns served to me with a shovel. Personally I recommend splitting a plate with a friend, or just getting coffee and a half-order of French toast (The half order looked like a telephone directory covered with powered sugar.)

 By this time, we still had two hours to burn before we could check in to our digs, so we walked a couple of blocks down the street to StormBreaker Brewing on the junction of Mississippi and Beech Street. I got a 5 beer taster that for some reason was served in King Arthurs lunchbox.

"Gadzooks! Sir Gawain has just been chinned by a bouncer."

Tasters are rarely offered in England, and when they are, it usually involves 3 or 4 warm glasses on a plastic dinner tray. I found that in Portland they always came in increasingly elaborate carved wooden frames, boxes, old tea-chests, and anything else that looked like it was pre-World War One. Pretty cool I suppose, but frankly, who gives a fuck how they present your booze? Its whats in the glass that counts. 

 I can report I was more than impressed with the ale, the lager was a bit pissy, but the Americans often like it that way. The IPA was as powerfully hopped but excellent as it always is this side of the Atlantic, and the stout was top-drawer, stronger and much more flavorful and than a timid pint of Guinness. A few pints later I dropped my gear off at the apartment we were renting and walked a short distance to another place just down the street, Ecliptic Brewing.

 This place was not as welcoming to my eyes as StormBreaker was, as rather than an old-fashioned wooden bar and some benches it was a huge, bright, metallic building. Indeed, it looked like one of the aircraft hangars that Nicolas Cage hangs about in in Face Off. I'm guessing it is a recent expansion as it all looked very shiny, not as pleasing to me as a dimly lit, urine stained bar, but its the ale we are here for so I took a seat at the bar and ordered another taster. 

If you can drink 4 of these and not roll off your stool you are a better man than me.

If the name and spiral design of the taster tray don't give the game away, all of the beers are named after constellations and such like. The beer was all pretty good, but I didn't really like the staff. I started a jovial conversation about golf with a guy at the bar and we started discussing whether or not we thought golf was a real sport of not (it isn't.) We were having a laugh and a joke about how its should definitely be up for debate because pensioners and fat guys can still win titles and the bartender appeared to take real offense. I know that in California they tell bartenders to avoid heated debates with the customers, but in hip and youthful Portland, everything appears to be fair game, which explains why the fat bearded guy behind the counter called us a pair of clueless bastards and stomped off in a huff. 

 He did have an arse like a water-buffalo though, so I can only presume golf is his game of choice, he certainly didn't look like a speed skater. To be fair he did come back ten minutes later, but I thought he was being a bit of a pansy. A few more pints later and I was half pissed, I went to several more bars, but I'm fucked if I can remember where they were and I fell asleep by about 9 0'clock. I'm not getting any younger.... 

The next day we went for breakfast in another Yelp favorite, one of the several thousand food trucks that has popped up in Portland. The place is called The Egg Carton and while the food was excellent, it was pretty steep for a truck ($13 for a special with eggs and potatoes and a coffee) and the service was genuinely awful. Four of us ordered and the food came out at 10-15 minute intervals for each member of our party. To be fair to the lad who was working there, he was fucking quick considering he was clearly high at work (legalized pot in action folks.) When I was that stoned at work in my teens I couldn't even fasten my shoes, let alone cook four breakfasts.

 We went into the downtown area after breakfast and walked around for a bit. Nipped into the massive Powells City of Books after being told it was a "must see" by several of the locals. Basically its a really big book shop, but as the main aim of a bookshop is just buying a book, I don't really see what all the fuss is about.

A very nice bus and a metal sculpture of a sperm fertilizing an egg, but there is a book store behind it honest.

Unless you are after some ancient tome they are unlikely to stock on Amazon.com, I don't really see the point of cramming into a massive sweaty building filled with other bored tourists who stupidly followed the advice of the natives and walked very slowly around the place even though they didn't want to buy a bastard book. I count myself among the stupidest of tourists obviously, because I'm old enough to know better than following the advice of youthful travelers who say something is a "definite must see" (fuck you Stonehenge.)

 After that, we hit Fat Heads Brewery for a few pints because it was almost midday and I had a perishing thirst.

One of the fattest heads in Fat Heads... and a woman with a normal sized skull

 I ordered a taster, big surprise, and it came in another strange wooden frame. The session ale was lovely and at less than 5%, I could actually drink it steadily for several hours, unlike many American "session" ales that weigh in past 6% and leave you in ruins after three hours. I know Americans work much longer hours than their European cousins, but unless you work a 90 hour week 3 hours just doesn't count as a session. I also had the Imperial IPA (ridiculously hoppy) the Trail Head IPA (wonderfully easy to drink but gets you pissed a bit too quick) the superb Bone Head Red (beautiful but about 9%) the Starlight Lager (a bit tasteless but a steady percentage) a kinda disgusting blueberry lager with actual berries floating in it, and a stupidly strong stout I forget the name of (not too good but still tastier than Guiness.)

"Excuse me mate, some arsehole has dropped vitamin C and antioxidants into my harmful carcinogenic beverage."

 I got another pint of the red because that was my favorite, and then I felt half-pissed so we went to TILT for lunch. Its a decent place with a sort of.. metallic British Steel sort of air about it. All of the chairs are brushed metal, so anybody that has ever worked as a welder or a steelworker would probably prefer a trip anywhere else. As for the food...

In America, it isn't a butty if it fits in your mouth

I got a Reuben, which for the uninitiated, is basically pastrami on Rye with Russian dressing (fuck knows) and some sauerkraut. The sandwhich was good, but those weird jalapeno popper things on the right were one of the best things I have ever put in my mouth, and I have ate a Parmo from The Europa. They are a sort of.. cheese and potato paste mixed with peppers, and battered, similar to the excellent potato balls at Portos in LA but better. 

 The highlight of the day, other than the 12 beers obviously. 

After lunch we nipped over to the Nob Hill Bar and Grill, which I was disappointed to find was not actually a gay bar but an ordinary bar and grill. By this time I was smashing pints into me at speed and I have absolutely no idea what I drank, but I remember the staff were very friendly, and then I think we ended up in Prost a German themed bar that was small and cosy but had a really nice beer garden with a separate bar outside. I was leathered by this point, but I do recall drinking massive 1 liter steins for $10 a pop, and I was baggage by around half past 8. 

Real men get carried home by their 110lb wives and fall asleep before 9 o'clock

I scraped my face off the pillow the next day and we went to another apparently popular breakfast spot named The Stepping Stone Cafe. Like a great many of the bars, restaurants, book-shops, and.. well, anything in Portland, it was very hip and youthful, and it looked like I was the oldest, sweatiest, and most haggard person in there.

 Sadly this also includes my mother-in-law, who is 30 years older than me. 

 The menu proclaims "You eat here because we let you" in that sort of, tongue-in-cheek, unfunny hipster way, but this should not dissuade you, the food is really good. 

This is what it looks like when a Tesco freight train hits a Waitrose truck and they make a meal with the wreckage

My choice was a steak that they deep fry like a chicken, cover in cheese, peppers, paprika, onions, and hash browns, then wrap in a massive omelette. Oh yeah, and the gravy has sausages floating in it, because in this wonderful country, there just isn't enough meat in something that is made out of a cow and fried in a liquidized hen. 

I was tiring of Portland by this point, so we buggered off up the the coast to Astoria, its about two hours north and its a nice drive because you can see an ocean that isn't full of burning tires, hypodermic needles, and dog shit.

On the way, you can stop at the totally awesome Tillamook Cheese Factory off the 101 Highway. Its only a factory of course, but they have a massive gift shop, and a big open buffet where you can stand in a line and essentially eat as much cheese as you like. You can also pose for the obligatory shite tourist picture. 

Looking at that uncommonly handsome bull, I can almost understand why the Welsh shag sheep.

After that we cracked on right up the 101 to Astoria, which if anybody even remotely cares, is where they filmed The Goonies. Unfortunately the poor old couple that live in the house that they forced that fat kid to dance outside now live in perpetual fear because drunks rock up on their garden and start dancing with alarming frequency, so I didn't want to go and take a picture. I did get a picture next to those big rocks in the sea that One-Eyed Willie's ship sailed past though.

There must be a hideously deformed football player and a crass Asian stereotype around here somewhere....

After having clam chowder and a few pints at a place with an excellent view but very generic and entirely forgettable food (Moe's, Cannon Beach) we cracked on up the road to Astoria and first port of call was Astoria's oldest brewery, the Wet Dog Cafe.

It hurts so good....

This place was one of my favorites, the bar tender was warm and friendly as soon as he heard my accent as we had a good craic. The craic basically involved me making bad jokes and him giving me all of the beers I had missed off the list for fuck all, what a positively splendid gent.  I got a taster tray that looked like a big square table-tennis racket and I drank too many beers to keep track of, but the vast majority of them were excellent. Oh, and the fruity ones were a lot more subtle and pleasing than the alcoholic smoothie I drank at Fat Heads. 

A much better use for a table tennis racket than actually playing table tennis

Anyway, I was pleased after leaving the Wet Dog Cafe, and not just because I was pissed, the staff were excellent, the beer was cheap, and it was all of good quality. 

 We then walked 5 minutes up the street to Fort George Brewery + Public House.  a large and new looking place on the crest of a hill just off the main street. The taster in this place was the biggest yet.... 

A very lucky 13... Until you piss the bed.

 Anyway, this place was very trendy, everyone in here was young and bearded and wearing pants tight enough to cut the flow off to their ankles. I tried to strike up a conversation with a few people but didn't get anywhere, and the bartender was merely cordially polite. Still, by the time I left I was minging, so I can heartily recommend it. 

Last stop in Astoria was the excellent Rogue Ale Public House, situated right on the pier and with a lovely view across the bay. 

Excuse the writing, I was pissed and convinced I could do calligraphy despite never being shown how.... what a bell-end.

Rogues beer is some of my absolute favorite, when I was in San Francisco I bought a case of their Hazlenut Brown after merely sipping one. Anyway, the ale was excellent, the locals were all friendly too. They get some sailors and fishermen in here and they are a good bunch. One of them let me swig his truly bizarre stout-with-ice-cream pint when I crudely said it looked like something had died in a pint of Guiness, and.. well.. it tasted like something had died in a pint of Guiness as well, but its the thought that counts. The only gripe I would have from this great little place was the fact that it is so large and airy that the toilet is about 200 yards away from the bar and I have a bladder like a walnut, but you can't have everything.

 The next day I started off half-pissed and it went downhill rapidly from there. Grand Central Restaurant & Bowling Alley, was a cool place with loads of video games, (shooting digital rhinos on Big Buck Hunter is a surprisingly gratifying experience for an animal lover) and bowling alleys. They have plenty of cheap drinks specials and the staff were eager to please. After that, just when I thought the tasters couldnt get any bigger, we went to the Hopworks Urban Brewery and I was presented with these bastards...

And then Captain America and U.S. Agent hit the town.....

They dont come on wood in here, presumably because they dont want to decimate the surrounding woodland, so they come on the back of massive metal trays as big as the shields that Captain America throws at terrorists. One of the 15 beers on the stock tray was some sort of pissy, shandy lemonade thing, but the other 14 were pretty good, even the sour cherry thing that tasted a bit like Samuel Smith's Cherry Beer mixed with Listerine. The pretzels and fries were good as well, so they get top marks from me.

15 mini beers with a slightly larger beer taster

 We also ate at the very trendy Fire on the Mountain, but the food was only average and I didn't like the youthful clientele very much. They also had three walls full of photographs of people that had completed "The Challenge" but considering it had more names on it than a Battle of the Somme memorial I don't understand how challenging said challenge can possibly be.

 Second last stop was The Kennedy School which is a huge auld school that they converted into numerous bars, distilleries and restaurants. 

Perhaps the only school where the kids get more drugs in the classrooms than the bathrooms.. 

I'm sure anybody who reads this will head straight there as soon as they land in Portland because it sounds so awesome, but to be honest, I suppose its more of a gimmick. Yes, it is pretty cool wandering around the place and taking a few snaps, but ultimately the food was rather bland and the beer.. well, its good everywhere, and better at those other places that give you more for cheaper. Still, head along, I'm sure you are going to go regardless of what I say. 

Dad was right, they are the best years of your life.

Anyway, that's about me, I think I have forgotten at least ten of them, such as this one I don't even remember being in (Lompoc?) 

Answers on a postcard...

This place that was somewhere between Portland and Astoria... 

The Golden Valley was forgettabley Golden

 And the many I never took any pictures of. I can heartily recommend a trip to Portland to anybody if only because there are more breweries than Oliver Reed could safely manage, but it was a little hip to the point that it may grate on people over the age of 30, with a penchant for shaving, or a preference for baggy pants and crew cuts. (Lots of top knots.) The service was pretty bad at almost everywhere we ate, but New York and Los Angeles are just crazy econmic hubs where everyone is in a hurry all the time. Once you get used to the laid back attitude and the abundance of youthful trendy people with fashionable shirts on, its a very fun place to visit. The traffic is much worse than I expected and its pretty crowded, but I enjoyed it more than Chicago (just as hip but much colder) and San Francisco (who the fuck wants to walk up a mountain when he comes out of the pub pissed at half past 11?)   

In Defense of Walt...

It's Only Some Stolen Valor

In a post that would shock and surprise many of my former military comrades if anybody actually read my fucking blog, I am now going to compose an article in defense of that most mocked of creatures, the Walt.

 The term is most popular in the UK, but I believe it is becoming increasingly common in the United States. Although over here, in a typically American manner, the much more direct and grammatically correct term "Stolen Valor" is more commonly used to refer to the actions of those who claim to be soldiers but are anything but. I believe the term Walt derives from the story of Walter Mitty a meek friendless man in reality, who lives a vivid and boisterous fantasy life inside his own head.

"We were running Black Ops out of Saigon.. Dave was out of ammo and Mikey was bleeding out, so I pulled down a tree, swung it.. musta killed me 50 or 60 of the muthafukkas."

  The term is sometimes incorrectly used for people that serve but inflate their achievements. If anybody is interested, the term Bloater is usually reserved for these people. There was a famous instance of a Royal Marine being charged for claiming the rank of Sergeant, and also an American soldier adding unearned Ranger patches to his uniform for a homecoming meeting at his local airport.

 Anyway, as someone who had to grit his teeth and drag his fat, stumpy frame around every inch of Dartmoor in pursuit of the coveted green beret and went to Afghanistan twice (it was much nicer than North-east England) Iraq twice (Afghanistan with running water) Northern Ireland (Afghanistan with drunks) and Sierra Leone (African Afghanistan) many people may find it strange I would stick up for Walt and his consistently mocked kind. Indeed, even patriotic civilians love to pour scorn on poor old Walt, and barely a day goes by without some "viral" video of some possibly mentally ill, usually obese fellow, standing next to a war memorial or attending a parade, with several upside down medals pinned upon his chest, or "Kung-Fu Battalion" patches sewn upon his shoulders.

In Fallujah we called these fermented vegetable drinks "combat cocktails"

 But I confess I find the ire servicemen have for them to be most perplexing. I am comfortable enough with my own life and achievements in general that I care very little about whether or not some desperate loner is attempting to ride on my coattails, it seems like a small sin indeed in the grand scheme of things. Do one guys lies wipe clean a real soldiers impeccable service?

 So lets get to it. Like Atticus Finch (who is apparently much worse a person than Kim Kardashian nowadays, do me a fucking favor) I shall stand in defense of a man (men) that everybody just loves to hate, Walt.

Why? Well, that's pretty easy. I can do it in 3. 


1. Freedom, bitches

Everybody in the military loves to talk about freedom, especially in America. As a true libertarian who believes that anything is kosher as long as it doesn't harm anybody else, I think that free citizens should always have the right to be lying bastards. I might not like it, but there you go, people tell lies, we might as well accept it.

 How many people tell lies on a daily basis? Is telling small lies illegal? When you meet someone for the very first time at the office and they tell you their favorite TV show is Glee, or they show you a family picture and point at their "beautiful" wife and she happens to have a face like a smacked arse, do you answer honestly and say "You watch shit TV" or "Your wife looks like a woodpecker tried to make a nest in her face."

 Of course you don't. 

 We might not like it, but free people have the right to tell lies. If they wear the uniform to defraud someone, or perhaps engage in some kind of elaborate fraud (dressing as a serviceman to elicit charitable donations and pocket the cash for example) I am all for throwing those assholes in the brig, but for trying to get laid?

"I've got trials with Manchester United next week luv... Alex... ff..f.. Ferguson said I'm gonna be the next Ronaldo"

Men tell lies to women all of the time, and serving soldiers do it too. Plenty of times I've sat in pubs and listened to Army Signalers and Vehicle Mechanics tell women "I was clearing the caves in Afghanistan with a shotgun, it was hard, close quarter fighting baby." How many soldiers lie about having their wings, how many sailors tell girls they are Marines?

 It seems terribly hypocritical to get hugely outraged about men telling lies, when men tell lies in all kinds of other ways, they just don't involve uniforms. If we locked people up for telling lies when trying to get laid, then every man in America would be in prison, and I would never have got married. 

 I wasn't going to tell her it was only 2 inches long on the first fucking date was I? 

2. Publicity 

Many people might not have noticed, but we have a serious recruitment problem. For some inexplicable reason, modern western kids just aren't interested in sitting in a trench surrounded by flesh eating flies while bearded desert-dwelling fanatics throw grenades at them. 

 Walts provide great publicity. No news is bad news when you want publicity, just ask Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian, and anybody else who essentially became famous by shagging in front of a camera.

 Shit, if I was guaranteed to get a few million bucks out of it I would probably suck an ice hockey player off on television as well.

"Well, I suppose if its going to help those kids walk again......."

Videos featuring Walts regularly go viral, generating an enormous amount of publicity and filling young men with an urge to quickly head to the nearest recruiting office and show those pansies how its really done. 

 Well, second stop after they drive around to the Walts house and kick his head in, obviously.

3. Free Manpower

Obviously not free manpower in the strictest sense, because frankly I would rather stand in-front of the Taliban than in-front of a pasty, deranged fantasist in an eBayed uniform with an automatic rifle he has never been trained to fire.

 No, I mean free manpower for all of the really lame things, like standing outside a school to deter another pasty deranged fantasist in an eBayed uniform with an automatic rifle he has never been trained to fire. Or free manpower for attending one of those memorial parades where the Ministry of Defence charges for sending real soldiers, so they rely on the old, the lonely, and the Walt to make up the numbers. 

 I'm presuming that fake soldiers are better than no soldiers at all if you want to march down Halifax high-street in the rain on a Sunday morning and salute the grizzled wheelchair-bound veteran who thought nobody was going to show up. 

 Indeed, once you get past 90 your vision is so bad you are probably utterly incapable of registering the fact that everyone has their medals on upside down and one of the teenagers sports an Iron Cross and something from the Boer War. 

"I got this one for shooting, this one for surfing, and this one for coming top at seal clubbing school in 'Nam" 

 In such a case, I make the argument that seeing a decent turn-out for a parade in their honor is a good thing, and it will make their heart swell with pride. They expected nobody to show up, and are instead greeted by legions of fine, upstanding young men who have not forgotten their sacrifices.

 Lets face it, most young people fucking have.

  If I get to 90 I would love to be greeted by a group of earnest young men who assure me that the efforts of my brothers and I were not in vain and many of them died for a reason. The Walts might make the difference between an acceptable turn-out and no turn-out at all. 

 So lets not be too harsh on Walt. If I get to a parade and I am lucky enough to see it well-staffed, I wont be looking too harshly at everbody's uniforms, like most cynical old soldiers Ill simply be happy that somebody showed up at all. 

Conclusion

 So, there we have it. My premise is simply this, mock Walt by all means, send your friends the videos, hit "share" on Facebook and have a chuckle. But let it end there. Public shaming has already gotten out of hand,  and prison?Considering we are running out of space for terrorists, pedophiles, pushers, and pimps, I consider the humble lying bastard to be beneath my notice. 

 Do you disagree? Do Walts grind your gears/curl your commando flashes/peel your patches? I'm happy to engage in spirited debate, leave a comment and I shall happily tell you to fuck off and leave me alone. 

 Unless of course you served during Operation Flaming Fists of Fury, at which point I might be too scared to enter into debate with such a badass.*


*It was actually called Operation Flying Fists of Fury, fuck off Walt.