Harry Potter and the Unneccesary Sequel

The long-awaited Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1 has been unleashed upon cinemas everywhere like a ferocious beast, and even I could not escape it. This makes it sound like I’m in a state of inexorable opposition to the Harry Potter franchise, but I’m not. I just wanted to go and see Narnia, but oh no, that was too much to ask. I was reasonably bitter about that. I’d missed out on Ben Barnes for Daniel Radcliffe, and in all honesty, Dan just doesn’t measure up to the same standard as the gorgeous if slightly androgynous (but that’s kind of sexy) Prince Caspian.


I’d blow your horn of Narnia.

The latest installment of the teenage wizard’s story has a decidedly gloomy mood, carrying on the trend of making every film darker than the previous one. In his first year, Harry was learning about wonderful magic and playing amicably with his new friends in Hogwarts. Now, he’s learning about evil Horcruxes and arguing hormonally with his old friends in a tent. It’s dark from the start; Bill Nighy isn’t happy, presumably because they’re going to kill him off in a scene’s time, the Death Eaters are doing some menacing sitting around a table,


(There’s another giant snake and a random woman who Voldy bumps off hanging around, just to remind us that these are the bad guys. As if the gothic furniture wasn’t enough.)

and the trio are emotionally preparing to leave their families and embark on their quest.


Hermione tearfully erased the memory of herself from her parents’ minds so they won’t look for her. I’d have just told them I was going on my Gap Year.

Fortunately a barnstorming action sequence follows, ramping the pace up a bit. The aftermath of this is that a few people die, but no-one really seems to care that much. It’s probably just as well, as JK got rather gun happy with the last book, and half of the characters are going to get it next film. Honestly, it’s Harry Potter, not Midsomer Murders.

Before one of the Weasleys gets hitched with the French girl, there’s the obligatory romance scene, which annoyed me as I’d almost forgotten that Ginny existed. It’s not that I don’t like her, but her relationship with Harry is so hurried and unconvincing that I’d be less surprised if he got with Snape.


Grandad from Outnumbered pops up during the wedding to give us a bit of history for Dumbledore and Grindlewald. Oh, Grindlewald. You may have ended up as an evil dark wizard, but judging from the three-second shot of you when you were young (and some internet research), boy did Dumbley have a good thing going. Jamie Campbell Bower is prettier than I ever will be.


Dreamy doesn’t quite do it.

And now there’s saliva all over my keyboard. I’ll finish the review off, though. That’s the kind of dedication you guys deserve.

Anyways, it wouldn’t be a proper English wedding without a punch-up, and the Death Eaters are happy to provide us with one of those. Only a few more people die than usual. Luckily, Hermione can teleport (or apparatus or whatever), so the trio bravely run away, abandoning Ron’s family to their fate.

A nice little section follows, where the crew break into the Ministry of Magic using that well-worn plot device, polyjuice potion. They make a narrow escape, and Hermione teleports them all into the woods. (WTF? How was that the first place you thought of?)

In the book, this was the part when they spent ages camping and things got so boring I started banging my head repeatedly against the wall just to stay awake. Minus two million brain cells later, I finally got to the good bit. So when they started camping in the film, I felt pretty certain that they’d just skim over it, thereby avoiding a dull middle section. They didn’t skim over it. They went through the whole sorry thing in great detail. And practically nothing happened. Harry, Ron and Hermione sat around in a tent for days feeling miserable. It reminded me of my family holidays. If you’ve never experienced that, imagine being stuck in a confined space with people you don’t get on with in a normal-sized house for hour upon dreary hour, wishing it all to end.


The main story here is that Ron gets all angry because he thinks Hermione and Harry are getting it on. Come on, Ron. Harry is a bit of a minger, and Hermione is so gorgeous even I would think twice before saying no. Do you think the girl has no standards?

The only good part of the camping is the Snatchers, a posse of men roaming around snatching people Voldy doesn’t like. My favourite was Scabior, their leader. I cannot not like a man who wears plaid trousers and eyeliner whilst keeping up an ominous demeanour. All I can say is, if you wanted to snatch me, I'd run away very, very slowly.


Things pick up towards the end of the film, with a lovely animated section for the fairy story of the Deathly Hallows, and the long-awaited arrival of Dobby, everyone’s favourite self-harming house elf. There's also Bellatrix doing some freaky (and slightly pervy) torturing of Hermione.


Some lust-filled stares there.

The whole film ends on a bit of a downer. The trio's horcrux-finding mission was a bit of a fail, they've all been bashed up a bit, and, oh yeah, the world's going to be destroyed by Lord Voldemort. But all of this pales in comparison to the fact that JK Rowling murdered Dobby, traumatising all teenagers even more than Justin Bieber’s international success. It is all I can do to repeat these words:

J.K. Rowling, I was fine when you said that Harry's parents were dead. Fine, when you killed Sirius. Okay, when you killed Hedwig and Mad-Eye. A little mad when you killed Dumbledore. BUT YOU CROSSED THE LINE BY KILLING DOBBY!!!!!!!!!!

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I want you back.

Er, hi again. Yes, I know, it’s been a while. Don’t look at me like that. There’s no need to act like a ditched boyfriend. I know I may have cheated on you with LiveJournal, but things are different now. Take me back. I won’t leave you again. (Well, not until another online blogging utility turns up.)

That’s right guys, Regrettable Mullet is back, and ready to spread the teenage cynicism like a sarcastic margarine. (Perhaps called You know it’s not butter, why pretend?) Watch out world, pessimism is heading your way!

A problem Jared…

Please note: Whilst Alex Pettyfer is my passion, I do not close my eyes to all other hot men (of which there are many). Enter Jared Leto, who manages to be fit despite being the same age as my Mum.

Jared Leto is widely acknowledged as a rather handsome chap (oh, that man is hotter than the centre of the bleeding sun), and thanks to the popularity of 30 Seconds To Mars and his acting in several films, there is enough mancandy coming from his direction to keep even the most obsessive fangirl happy. Not that I would know…


He gives eyeliner sex appeal.

Even my brother agrees that Mr. Leto’s piercing blue eyes and dark hair falling over his face is buff. And he’s straight. That’s just how hot Jared is. Just look at him. Those eyes are like pools of copper sulphate.


Have you got a map? ‘Cause I’m lost in your eyes.

Sadly, this has not lasted. For some bizarre reason, Jared is fighting his good looks and has decided to do this to himself.


Bury me, bury me!

A blonde Mohawk… and huge sunglasses hiding his eyes… What?! Listen Leto, I am Regrettable Mullet. I know about tragic hair. I am thoroughly disappointed.

30 Seconds To Mars were interviewed in a recent issue of Kerrang! magazine. The resulting photoshoot looked like the Hairy Bikers had just run into Jedward’s long-lost triplet.


Jared had the same dreadful look at the Dior show in Paris.


Even Jessica Alba’s concerned. I bet she’s saying: “Hi, I’m Jess. You know, I’m going out with this really hot guy. He’ll be here any minute now... Oh my God, Jared! Is that you? What have you done to yourself?”

I am seriously considering removing my shrine to Jared due to this. I can only hope that he sees the error of his ways soon, ditches the bleached-blonde hair, and reverts to the buff ting he used to be.


And Jared, you couldn’t get Gerard Way to do the same, whilst you’re at it?

The World Cup was a bit of a fail.

England’s World Cup hopes are shattered. Our dreams are broken. The sun has gone down for English football.

Oh well.

Yes, our management was less than perfect, yes, our defence was rubbish, and yes, our performance overall was very poor. BUT… Actually, I can’t think of a positive to come of this. We were pretty appalling. And now my chances of getting with Alex Pettyfer are slimmer than Posh Spice’s waist.

We were thrashed into the ground by Germany in a match that showed us that when the ball goes into the goal, it isn’t necessarily a goal. Now the team faces many questions about why we were so rubbish. I personally don’t think it’s very surprising when you consider how focused our players were.


Lampard and Terry, er, exercising.

Wimbledon 2010.

This week’s not just been about the World Cup – Wimbledon 2010 has begun. It really does show that despite the fact England invented the great sports of football and tennis, everyone else is better at them than us. I’ve recorded the pathetic efforts of our nation in two different competitions so far, and I have a feeling that this is just going to end the same way.

Our 16-year-old Laura Robson got knocked out in her first match. I have to say, she’s a sweet, funny, athletic, accomplished, pretty girl. So excuse me, Nature, but I thought you were supposed to share out the gifts? That’s what I have to tell myself when I look in the mirror.

Things are looking more promising for Andy Murray, who took over Tim Henman’s place as our hopeful champion. Henman was good but not quite good enough, and the British public sat through many long, tense matches which he eventually lost. Why he earned the nickname ‘Tiger Tim’ I’ll never know. In his last match, Andy Murray got to play before the Queen herself, and fortunately for us, he won.


I considerably enjoyed Andy's cutely awkward bow to Her Majesty. I think that is a tennis ball in his pocket.

But I’m not keeping my eyes peeled for Andy – not when Roger Federer’s about. Oh the gorgeous man.


He makes cardigans look sexy.

Poor baby, he nearly lost his first match. But he came back fighting, and played an amazing final set. My favourite bit of the game was when the interviewer talked to him at the end, and asked him if he had any injuries, and he said: “No, no; I’m perfect.” (Though having said that… I did quite enjoy it when he whipped his shirt off halfway through.)


What a cute little Feddy bear.

Although Fedski is the most beautiful player, I was very impressed by the huge efforts of the equally huge Mahut and Isner, who played the longest match in history.


Bless 'em, they're too tired to do normal things with towels.

After over 10 hours of play, the Frenchman finally lost. That must have been dreadful for poor massive Mahut, when he’d put so much effort into the match.


Mahut collapsed on the ground. The scary thing about this photo is the way the black woman blends in with the background.

However, this match is great publicity for Mahut, and he’s sure to get a lot of new sponsors. I think Duracell might be one of them.

So I hope Andy Murray does well at Wimbledon this year, but I’m cheering on Mr. Federer. If he wins, it’ll be for the seventh time. If he doesn’t win, he’ll cry. And we can’t let that happen.

What I think of football.

Football Mania has swept throughout the country in a plague better reported than swine flu (and just about as deadly as that turned out to be). As one of the few unafflicted souls, I cannot see what is so incredible about several men in shorts roaming around a field for 90 minutes. The creators of football were forced to introduce a break halfway through every game to prevent people like myself dying from boredom whilst watching it. Because, the sad truth is, not much happens.

However, drawing on my previous World Cup experiences, it is possibly worse when something does happen. If England scores a goal, I find copious numbers of sweaty men thrusting themselves onto one another, and I am always the ill-fated soul at the centre of the bundle. I can only presume that I am being punished for some grotesque crime in a former life. What I do not understand is why a single goal causes so many people to completely abandon any attempt at self-restraint. You manage it at weddings; you’re happy then, but no-one rugby-tackles the priest or leaps onto the bride’s back in excitement. (My Mad Uncle Jack is an exception).

The players are just as bad, having violent group hugs whenever the ball hits the net. In fact, when Uruguay unexpectedly scored against Italy, they took things a step further.


Bromance is a beautiful thing… but this really is taking it too far.

It’s even more dreadful when the other team scores. I’m forced to brace myself for a bout of angry people shouting things like: “What?!”, “Oh, that’s right, just let them walk right in!” and “WHERE WAS OUR DEFENCE?” (Interestingly enough, I reckon the Trojans were shouting similar things when the Greeks came out of that horse.)

England’s had a pretty unpromising start, and seeing as it’s been a staggering 44 years (my MUM is nearly that old) since England last won the World Cup, it’s highly unlikely that the event will be repeated this year, or indeed, ever. In fact, I believe that it’s far more probable that Alex Pettyfer and I will start dating. Hopefully, my torment will be over soon, and England won’t last long in the World Cup.

But, if we do do well… I’m giving Alex a ring.

What I thought of Eurovision.

I set aside over 3 hours of my life to watch Eurovision 2010, though I do view the whole thing as an expensive waste of time. I have pondered before why we don’t just scrap Eurovision and make the contestants have a massive fight instead. Then I remembered we’d already done that in 1914. And 1939.

My favourite came quite early on in the form of Cyprus’ ‘Life Looks Better in Spring’. Despite having a guitar composed of 50% duct tape, singer *Jon Lilygreen was rather sweet, and the song was alright too. Disappointingly, Jon’s torso was not very impressive when he decided to bare it, complete with the slogan: ‘I <3 MUM’, but mine’s not much to look at either, so I forgave him.

Belgium’s ‘Me and My Guitar’ was a sweet performance that did very well in the competition. My only criticism is that *Tom Dice looks about 9. It’s not his fault, I know, but it makes me feel like a paedophile, as I couldn’t for the life of me stop staring at his tight trousers. (They really were tight. Am I the only one who noticed this?)


Tom Dice performing. Check those tight trousers out.

France had a very upbeat number, but about halfway through the song it became apparent that the choreographer had only come up with half a routine, and told them to fill up the rest by what is commonly referred to as ‘shakin’ their booties’. I don’t mind a few *thrusting Frenchmen, but it was a little excessive.

This year’s competition was full of its customary weirdness: women with wings, a fiddler on a giant record player, and a robot doing odd things with a rotating blade to name but a few, but for me, the most unfathomable of the lot was Armenia. The girl was singing about apricot stones. Is that a euphemism or something? Then there was the whole question of the 80-something year-old on a wind instrument. And at the end, for no apparent reason, a tree sprang up from the stage. I swear that was like a dream I once had, only the girl wasn’t singing…

There were a lot of underwhelming ballads, though I must say I did appreciate Israel’s. Admittedly that was only because of *Haral Skaat, the hot guy singing it. However, considering that Israel is located in West Asia, I question the decision to enter it into EUROvision.

Then the results rolled in. I knew the UK wasn’t going to do well, but coming last place really was an achievement. I think our defeat summed up our efforts quite well – hopeful but rubbish. At least it showed Josh that, whilst his song might sound good to him, it doesn’t sound good to anyone else in the whole of Europe.

Of course, it was Germany who finished in first place, so we were thrashed into the ground by a girl who can’t seem to stand upright on stage whilst flailing those skinny arms around, singing about ‘your lahv, lahv, lahv’.


Lena Meyer-Landrut, who rather got on my nerves.

She was incredibly annoying when they interviewed her, with her: “This is so absolutely awesome and I feel like…. this is not real!” and: “I feel so… I don’t know, it’s kind of… FREAKING OUT!”. I sighed in exasperation, but my mum just said, “Oh, she can’t help it; she’s European.” I must say, though, that my favourite consequence of Germany winning is the somewhat bitter Facebook group called: ‘Yes, Germany, you may have won Eurovision, but we all know who won World War 2’.

So after this year’s humiliating defeat, I hope that the UK will start to question why we even bother to enter. We might as well shove Cliff Richards on stage and see the end of it. Or, better still, get a big British band to perform – it worked with Turkey’s MaNga this year. (And yes, I did notice that their lead singer and guitarist were hot.)


MaNga's electric guitarist Yagmur Sarigul. Oh, he can pluck my G-String any day of the week.

Franz Ferdinand would be good, or better still, Muse. I know that I for one would be melting into a puddle on my sofa in front of *Mr. Bellamy. I would love to see Eurovision meet ‘Supermassive Black Hole’ – they could get some baseball players in and everything! (And bring *R-Patz along whilst they’re at it.) If we can’t win Eurovision with Muse and vampires, we can’t win it with anything.

(*I am very sorry that I just ogled all the men during Eurovision, (and plan to do so in future), but it was far more savoury than actually listening to what they were singing.)