The things I did in London

• Two and a half hours after landing, was having vodka at the ICA while listening to Slovenian techno.
• Had KFC on the underground on the way, which was a first.
  
• Stayed at a hotel staffed exclusively by Spaniards and Jamaicans.
• Grumped about the English habit of using wool blankets instead of proper duvets.
• Had Marmite.
• Wondered what perverse mind came up with the idea of boiling down soy sauce and putting it on bread.
• Saw Hitchhiker's for 1£ at the Prince Charles. Thought they should have strayed even further from the book than they did.
• Bought boots about half an hour after I needed them.
• Got lost in the theatre district.
• Giggled at "Cockfosters."
  
• Had Sunday dinner-lunch at the Hind's Head in Bray-on-Thames, courtesy of stepsister's boyfriend's brother who cooks at the Fat Duck next door. (Kidney pudding filled with oxtail. Only tasty entrails I've eaten in my life.)
  
• Followed the signs towards the Monkey Island Hotel, which is up the road from Bray. Was unfortunately too damn full to walk all the way. Picked chestnuts.
• Had two complete strangers walk up from behind me at Earl's Court Station and point to random places on my map.
• Managed to order a pint of drip coffee at a Starbucks by mistake. (They were the only thing open in Oxford Street at nine in the morning.) Wussed out of drinking it two-thirds through.
• Utterly failed to trade in my old games at the Computer Exchange.
• Had noon pint at the end of Rathbone Place.
• Somehow managed to feed using chopsticks, for the first time in my life.
• (Deep-fried baby squid. Quite evil, but oh-so tasty.)
• Failed to get into industrial concert in Islington. Mutter grumble bloody treehouse club rules.
  
• Flirted with random girl in the bar queue at the Porterhouse.
  
• Walked through the whole of Berwick Street without buying a single record.
• Popped into The Foundry. It was stylishly decorated with piles of junk hardware, however it was already full of Scandinavians. Went away before I lost the feeling of being on vacation. B+ would get sloshed at again.
  
• Went to the Red Rose club to see three acts advertised as "folknoise." I think they stepped on the fuzz pedal twice the entire evening. The only good part was the girl on electric violin.
• Bought eight obscure CD's from some guy's stand inside. [Addendum: One was a Darklife sampler featuring Zeni Geva, woo hoo!]
• Had nine drinks in twelve hours.
• After said nine drinks, found myself having to navigate London's night buses. To make matters worse, I'd mixed up east and west and wound up at the wrong end of Seven Sisters.
• (Got as far as Tottenham Court Road before I gave up and got a cab.)
• Picked up dodgy curry from the corner store at 1:30 in the morning.
• Saw Frida Kahlo at Tate Modern.
• Finally got hold of a 32MB SmartMedia card.
• Spent 120£ on games.
• (Animal Crossing, Fahrenheit (PS2), Watchmaker, The Italian Job, Hooligans, Getaway Black Monday, Scrapland, Psi-Ops, Black & White, Legacy Dark Shadows, Black Mirror, Mystery of Druids)
• Didn't buy a single book.

Jarmusch tries to tell story, falls flat on arse

Borken Fløøvers is doing the film club rounds this week. I wish it weren't.

We watch a letter being delivered and a bunch of clouds drifting by for far longer than is necessary. This is presumably Jarmusch's idea of film art. Once the movie deigns itself to begin, we see some guy watching a movie about Don Juan growing old; this would be a subtle hint that our antihero is an aging Don Juan character if it weren't for the fact that it's then promptly mentioned three bloody times afterwards.

This attitude of treating the audience as stupid permeates the whole film; witness the demonstrative bird chatter every time Bill Murray wakes up to stuff the fact down our throat that, yes, it's morning. Witness the planes going off for no particular narrative reason other than to pad a 75-minute film to 105. See the main character have dreams that add nothing at all. See Jarmusch try for deadpan tragicomedy and landing far, far short of Kaurismäki, or even the Coen brothers.

In all, my suspicion that Jarmusch is adored primarily by film students and others who want filmmaking to look easy has only been further confirmed.