I went to see Factotum
tonight which is a slightly disappointing adaptation of the work of one of my favourite authors, Charles Bukowski. Bukowski was the original George Best, except his talent rested in writing rather than in football and he very nearly managed to piss it away before anyone had noticed he was any good. Luckily after many years of dead-end jobs and drunkenness he eventually got published and became a hero to loads of nice middle class men like me who he would no doubt have hated.
The film had all the depression of his books - and there's little more unpleasant than viewing the seedy life of sickness of the alchoholic - but none of the magic and strange beauty and very little of the dark humour. Or so it seemed to me. It's been a while since I read him. The life of dull drudgery and pain made for a surprisingly dull and drudery-y movie. It's nice to look at and certainly not rubbish, but I'd advise you to stay at home and read the books instead, maybe with a massive jug of wine that you drink on your own whilst doing this, before popping down the pub to punch your girlfriend in the face. The life of the alcoholic is truly one we should all aspire to.