Thank God someone saw sense and put on some Libertines instead. Another second of Morrison's pretentious "oh, I'm a shaman" banter and I'd have cut the heads off of the staff with a hatchet.

Jim Morrison was the David Blaine of rock n' roll.

"I'm a shaman. Oooh."

Fuck you. The only Shamen I give a rats wank about are the ones who sang about E'zer Goode and I Can Move, Move, Move Any Mountain.

Comin' on like a seventh sense, motherfucker.

Episode III - Thoughts From The Back Seat

On my way to the Friday night screening of Star Wars Episode III - Revenge Of The Sith, and I can't help but feel horrendously under-prepared. I had intended to watch every single Star Wars flick this past week, in anticipation of this grand finale, but I just kept looking at that cover of Phantom Menace and thinking about no amount of Jedi carnage is worth this shit.

It felt right to have Don't Stand Me Down by Dexy's Midnight Runners playing on the iPod. It felt right to have Kevin Rowland yacking about "This is what she's like…" in his curious half-man / half-wookie yelp.

What's she like then, Kevin?

"She's got a cute nose, JIMMY!! AIEEE! She has this brilliant, hallucinogenic wit that fries my skull and makes me smile PLAN BUH-EE!! HUUWOOOO!!!!"

Where is she then, you yelping psychopathic?

"She cuuuuulllldn't come, JIMMAH!! Huruggghhhhh!!! She had to study an SOOCH-A. PLAN BAYEEE!"

An so it's just me an Kevin and thoughts about some nuns I saw earlier, and how come nuns don't wear black anymore? Where did all these navy nuns come from all a damn sudden?

Whoopie Goldberg, man, fuckin up every damn thing.

I managed to avoid almost every spoiler and every review of Revenge Of The Sith, something I never managed with the last two instalments, and something that has, inevitably, left me a tad less hyped about it all than I was when settling down for Attack Of The Clones.

Still, at least there's less chance of embarrassing myself in the foyer by gabbling ridiculous about "It was amazing! Jar-Jar really works!"

I can't show my fucking face in the cinema that doesn't exist anymore, and all because of ill-judged rants regarding the podrace.

But I feel quietly confident that this will be something worth celebrating.

Last night, Sir Fleming sent me a text message which read only; "A joy! A sheer fucking joy!" Sir Fleming is not one to make these kindsa decisions without plenty consideration.

Crimes And Misdemeanors, among the most criminally underrated of all Woody Allen pictures is, according to Sir Fleming, "Overrated."

Whereas The Duke went into some kind of babbling frenzy regarding White Noise, Sir Fleming saw it for what it was; pish, but pish that nonetheless had Michael Fucking Keaton.