Stuart McCullough

Once upon a time, movies didn’t revolve around special effects. Most of the action in a Hollywood blockbuster these days is pasted in later on a computer, leaving the actors largely superfluous. In fact, so prevalent are computer-generated effects that the day is surely not too far beyond us where the award for ‘Best Actor’ is given to a laptop. Granted, it will have to be carried to the stage, but it will doubtless thank its agent before disgracing itself at the after-party.
Continue reading “Welcome to the Musical Theatre of My Mind”

What is the world’s stupidest word? If that question has ever troubled you, then worry no more. The hunt is over. After many months and a search so exhaustive that would make the folks over at ‘the Voice’ seem lazy in comparison, we are finally ready to announce a winner. ‘Chillax’.
Continue reading “Frankie Says ‘Chillax’ – A Brief History of Manglish”

In 1990, ‘grunge’ was the soapy residue found in hard-to-reach cavities of washing machines. For those of us who frequented laundrettes at the time, grunge was simply one of a cavalcade of hazards that came with doing your laundry in an appliance that didn’t belong to you. Fast-forward twelve months and the term ‘grunge’ meant something else entirely.
Continue reading “Now That Grunge Has Gone and Left Me Here”

For as long as I can remember, they were friends. My father and Bill Ford both went to high school in Rushworth. This, in my own view, is a claim to fame available to far too few people. For the life of me I couldn’t tell you what classes they took or the score-line of any of the football matches they played. Those stories would surely have existed once, but have failed to survive the years. Instead, all we ever heard about was the different kinds of trouble they managed to make for themselves in their youth.

Continue reading “Vale Bill – Convenor of the Men’s Camp, Jaguar Enthusiast and Pig Wrangler”

I have always wanted to make a name for myself. Sadly, that name is Poncho Zenmaster Jones. Granted, it still needs a tonne of work to be much use, but you’ve got to start somewhere. Frankly, all the good names are already taken. William Shakespeare? Used up, it seems, by some sixteenth century scribbler. Leonardo da Vinci? Long gone – occupied by a Renaissance-era paint-spiller. For pity’s sake, even ‘Engelbert Humperdinck’ is owned by two people already. I can’t say I’m all that happy with Poncho Zenmaster Jones. It’s therefore likely that I will have to stick to the name I have and do the best I can. It is, of course, simply the latest failed attempt to become cool and hip.
Continue reading “The Tragically Hip – My Life In Acid Wash”

The world is full of instruments. There are surgical instruments, instruments in the cockpit of an aeroplane and instruments of the state. Then there is the oboe. I hesitate to call it a ‘musical’ instrument, because I never once succeeded in coaxing anything from it that sounded remotely like music. It was more akin to an instrument of destruction.
Continue reading “The Oboe and I”

For those of you who genuinely believe in your heart of hearts that Twitter is important and a legitimate part of our broader social fabric, look away now – for no earthly good can possibly come from reading any further. If you think that the ‘Twitterverse’ is greatest thing to happen since people stopped eating sliced bread, pack up your eyes and take them somewhere else without delay. Shoo! Shoo, I say to you! As for everybody else, huddle up, come close and listen – I think Twitter is a colossal waste of time that threatens to undo much of the good work evolution has done up until now. It’s stupid, it’s nasty and it’s narcissistic. It’s a medium that not so much pitches itself to the lowest common denominator as it does plunge headlong beyond zero and deep into negative territory.
Continue reading “Twitter: How I Loathe You”

If there’s one thing that reality television has taught us, it’s how to squeeze five minutes of sheer, unadulterated entertainment into two hours. But if such programs have taught us anything else, it’s of the importance of ‘the journey’. Nobody gets thrown off these programs because their fellow contestants can no longer stand the sight of them or because they’re not up to it. Rather, they are eliminated as part of a ‘journey’. Presumably, it’s one in which the route takes you directly away from the gaze of the cameras and straight to the back seat of a waiting taxi.
Continue reading “A Long Day’s Journey Into ‘Journey’”

‘LOST! One ferret. Answers to the name of Tony.’ Whilst local light poles are littered with crucified pamphlets advertising everything from garage sales to school fetes to lost cats and dogs, ferrets rarely get a look in. Perhaps people feel you can only really say so much on a light pole. In fact, it’s true to say that most people have a carport rather than a garage, but you never hear of a carport sale. Such a declaration would, no doubt, spook the horses. In the same way, it’s fine to plaster a photo of some unfortunate feline far and wide in a plea for its prompt return, but you seldom if ever see anyone begging to be notified as to the whereabouts of their missing pet hairy-backed tarantula of short-nosed crocodile. The same is true of ferrets.
Continue reading “Dark Night of the Ferret”

In its natural state, rock and roll is a very ugly thing. Sweaty, noisy and likely to leave a nasty mark on the rug that all the bicarbonate soda in the world simply can’t move, it’s the very opposite of pretty. Indeed, true rock music is practiced by those of a grizzled visage who – but for their ability to rock out – would only be of use to society for their ability to scare small children. The balance, however, has now tipped. Having seen the kind of adoration that even ugly people can inspire when accompanied by the right kind of musical backdrop, beautiful people have decided to muscle in on the action. This must be stopped – it’s time to get back to ugly.
Continue reading “The Ugly Truth In Toto”