Keeping up with the Joneses (all 17 of them)

Currer’s 24-hour surveillance of Owen Jones, socio-political punditry’s answer to Truman Burbank

Jalal Azam is The Currer Ball

There were 40 Saddam Husseins. The real thing and 39 replicas to outwit enemies, assassins, and maybe even executioners. Anyway, Currer suspected Owen Jones of similar mass body snatching. How else do you explain the Chavs author’s fondness for bilocation, reviewing tomorrow’s papers today on SKY, while debating geopolitics and cod shortages over on 5Live, while Tweeting about tomorrow’s Waterstones Q&A, while knocking the conversant politicos of the 10 O’Clock Live audience bandy, like an acquiescent, multi-media Truman Show?

Like the aforementioned star-crossed cod, something smelt fishy. So, I played the part of investigative journo for the day, bunging New Scotland Yard’s best to trail Jones from one broadcasting house to another. And another. And another. And horror! Turns out, there’s really only one Owen Jones. Latest estimates purported 17, but my undercover dossier below knows best.

WARNING The following log includes references to Owen Jones, of whom you might already be sick to death.

06.00 The rumours are true: Jones sleeps at Television Centre. He’s awoken by a Canterbury-clad Justin Webb in the Today green room. Bedside reading: The Subjection of Women by J S Mill. Note: Jones’ morning routine doesn’t include a shave.

07.46 Jones broadcasts Thought for the Day, while blogging about Chartism and the Yes to AV in Syria campaign.

08.12 Jim Naughty had promised to offer Jones sage advice about the burden of celebrity, but the cab meter’s running: Jones skedaddles across town to SKY to discuss economic opportunities in the north – it’s a 15 second segment before Sportsline.

09.04 Jones shuttles back to Television Centre for 5Live Breakfast, where he’s deputising for Nick Duncalf on Traffic and Travel. A taster of Jones’ first report: ‘It’s bumper-to-bumper between Sheffield and Stockport – methinks symptomatic of our slow-moving economy and the marginalisation of the trade union movement. We’re all Marxists now.’

10.51 News 24 wants a piece of the action: an interview with Jane Hill, but not for another 27 minutes – just enough time for Jones to leg it to Ottakar’s and buy a shelf-full of Chavs.

11.26 At last, this morning’s Today goes up on iPlayer. Jones listens to his Thought for the Day 5 times consecutively, before announcing (he thinks) to himself, ‘Bevan would’ve been proud!’

13.16 Shaun Ley’s on the iPhone for a scheduled World at One interview, after which there’s 15 minutes to kill before Jones’ next media appearance – exactly the time he needs to pen a protest song, dedicated to Jon Cruddas.

13.52 Lunch with Mehdi Hassan. Laurey Pennie glares from an adjacent table, obviously jealous of Jones’ relationship with her Political Editor. And that’s the trouble with feminism: it’s so unladylike.

14.40 The shiraz-soaked luncheon polished off, Jones hails yet another cab. Destination: Afternoon Live with Kay Burley, where he tries his hand at the weather, covering for Francis, who’s missing, presumed dead.

16.13 Celebirty Masterchef makes an approach. ‘Finally’, Jones beams, ‘my chance to poison Greg Wallace’s food and wrestle the mantle of “Mr Television” from that bald twat.’ During a 7 minute window before his next appointment, Jones Tweets gratuitously.

17.26 A Channel 4 News pre-record – a meeting of minds between Jones and Jon Snow.

20.38 10 O’Clock Live touches base. The producer tells Jones that he’d love him to replace Lauren Lavern for the entire series, but given her ownership of a uterus, a seat on tonight’s panel to discuss why young people are all so ruddy marvellous will have to suffice.

22.14 During the ads, Jones and Charlie Brooker get talking. The Newswipe anchor warns the young gun that owing to the laws of probability, Jones will be appearing in his forthcoming series 16 times.

23.05 It’s the biggie: Jones versus Jezza on Newsnight. The master apprentice wows Paxo, quoting foolscaps from Hobson’s critique of Empire. Backstage, Dave Grossman tells Jones that ‘Jeremy feels intimidated by your ever-increasing presence’.

Despite the Met’s reputation for thoroughness, Currer remains convinced that there’s at least 12 Joneses out there. If you spy an OJ, please do not approach it, but contact Currer, stat.

News 25! The sequel – this time, it’s serious!

Jonathan Spelman’s superinjunctioned shower

Drew Colgate is The Currer Ball the best thing to happen to broadcasting since, whisper it, Nick Knowles

Hello there! Drew Colgate here! Welcome to News 25, the show that breaks exclusives so hot, I’m sweating like Andy Lansley dancing the tango with a septuagenarian. More on that sex scandal later.

Tonight, I can exclusively (how else?) reveal the reason why Jonathan Spelman, the naughty son of Environment Secretary Caroline, superinjunctioned the nation’s media.

Just days after mummy had urged Britain to take showers of 4 minutes to prevent yet another hose pipe ban, Johnny hedonistically helped himself to a 6 and-a-half minute power shower post-5-a-side football last Tuesday.

For immediate reaction, we’ve got Shami Chakrabarti of Liberty on the line. Shami, your thoughts?

‘Another day, another scandal to rock the foundations of our centuries-old democracy. Spelman lectures about responsible living for the common good, while her own son washes and shampoos like this? It’s Charlie Gilmour riding the Cenotaph all over again. Haven’t these people heard of the Magna Carta?

‘The 6 and-a-half minutes were egregious enough, but if the rumours are true and it’s a power shower in play, then that’s the equivalent of 8 minutes under a regular, working-class shower. So Johnny’s effectively twice over the limit. Habeas corpus, anyone? And that’s why I’ll be taking the case to the European Court of Human Righteousness.’

To see more episodes of News 25, click here.

News 25! The sequel – this time, it’s serious!

George Osborne lifts the unemployed out of income tax

Drew Colgate is The Currer Ball the Fireman Sam of ever-breaking news – always on the scene

Welcome to News 25 in 4D – our pioneering new medium that means you don’t just watch our ever-breaking news, you experience it with the intensity of Greg Wallace savouring the ‘tanginess of the lemon against the smoothness of the curd’. And you can hear more from that exclusive interview on our website.

Tonight, I’m live from Whitehall, where moments ago, during the commercial break, George Osborne launched the Coalition’s long-awaited strategy for growth.

After 2 years of prioritising deficit reduction, the Chancellor announced the Government’s masterplan to kick-start UK plc. ‘As of midnight tonight’, said Osborne, speaking through tears of pride for the great job he’s doing, ‘I’ll be lifting all unemployed people out of income tax.’

‘I know what you’re thinking: we’re all meant to be in this together, and here I am letting so many millions of people off scot free. I understand that objection – I feel your pain. However, I also think it’s right that those earning zero income shouldn’t be taxed on that income. It’s a hugely symbolic policy.’

Andy Lansley, predicted to join Britain’s 3 million jobless imminently, naturally expressed relief at Osborne’s generous gesture. ‘’Til now, George had done so little to alleviate the burden on the most vulnerable that I’d suggested outsourcing our growth agenda to private companies. But today’s development changes everything, even though I can’t really explain why.’

Later today, Osborne will be defending the announcement through the medium of Danny Alexander.

To see more episodes of News 25, click here.

The paralysis of self-awareness

Was Burns right when he said ‘Oh wad some power the giftie gie us, to see oursel’s as others see us’?

Joe Blogger is The Currer Ball

Intellect. It’s a lot like penis size. I hope I’m above average; I fear I’m below average; I suspect I’m about average. Except, what if it’s a choice between one or t’other? Like it was in Roman or Renaissance Italy, where gargantuan genitals were the trademark of the stupid, even the insane; hence, classical art’s depiction of malevolent gods with magnificent chaps; meanwhile, the good guys, including David, Michelangelo’s icon of virility: all tiny of tackle. Gents, we’ve got ourselves the ultimate trade off. Phillips can take his Curve and get lost. Unemployment versus inflation? Pfft. A picnic next to our Hobson’s choice.

But enough about the economics of Johnsons. I’ve recently had to admit how unintelligent I am. (And I don’t say that to imply I’ve got a foot long dong). It’s how I behave ‘round others that’s the giveaway. Not just a propensity to say stupid things, but a psychological flaw – a part of me that reliably lets me down.

That was my hunch, anyway. But I had to prove it. So I gathered evidence to support my hypothesis of stupidity. I decided to document all the slurry that poured from my mouth in the company of others. I started writing my list on a Post-it. Big mistake. After a few hours, I’d switched to a more suitable medium: an A4 notepad. After a fortnight of cataloguing my social misery, I’d covered 10 foolscaps. Which I don’t have the nerve to publish.

My favourite befell me about 3 weeks ago. I was in the company of people older, prettier, and more successful than I. It would’ve done me no harm to impress. I was straight out the blocks. Reeled off a couple of time-honoured, gag-rich, made-up anecdotes. Then a smart aside here, and an even smarter call-back there, which were all the better for seeming improvised. I wasn’t just holding my own, but the entire group in the palm of my hand. I even imagined that one of the women, out of my league (her 8 and-a-half to my 5, I’d generously estimate) might just fancy me. And the reward for my flying start? Confidence, that irresistible product of acceptance. I was relishing my role as the life and soul.

Then the conversation jackknifed to Noam Chomsky – I know, that sounds wanky (but it was and they were). That said, I was chuffed: I’d recently finished Hegemony or Survival by, conveniently, Noam Chomsky, and looked forward to parading my eye-catching knowledge. Trouble was, I then made the inexplicable blunder of calling Chomsky’s book a ‘novel’. What a moron. (To clarify, that’s me, not 3-tomes-per-year Chomsky). Stat, my confidence was rocked. My intellectual front peeled off like brown banana skin. Thereafter, I was rendered diffident. I contributed hardly anything, and nothing worthwhile. I disinvited myself from the after party at the aforementioned pretty girl’s flat – a decision that not one of group objected to.

I’ve had to admit it: I can’t be trusted not to make an arse of myself. When I’m socialising, I feel like a politician having to pronounce Jeremy Hunt’s name and brief over and over ‘till I inevitably tumble into Spooner territory. And if I can’t trust myself to avoid social ignominy, I certainly can’t begin to fathom how to speak eloquently, entertainingly, or extemporaneously.

Did you see Question Time the other night? It was another example of what I’m talking about. Julie Meyer, the entrepreneur, was on and was awful. (Admittedly, that’s not a unique quality among Question Time panellists). She knew little about politics, repeated the same moot point over and over, and didn’t muster a round of applause all night. My digits coiled every time David Dimbleby said, ‘Julie Meyer…?’ Here’s my point: if Meyer had any self-awareness, she wouldn’t have accepted the BBC’s invite. She was hopelessly unqualified to say anything interesting about the week’s news.

Now, let’s assume that Meyer’s self-awareness deficit extends to things beyond media appearances, which I suspect it does. You might therefore assume that she’s at a disadvantage in life. But that doesn’t exactly square with reality: Meyer’s one of the most successful businesswomen in Britain, worth tens of millions of pounds. So it seems the truth’s just the opposite: if not for Meyer’s unawareness of her ignorance, she wouldn’t be so bloody successful.

Unlike Meyer, I am self-aware. I used to think it a good thing. Now, I’m not so sure. It’s gotten so bad that my personality’s crumbling into ruin. I’m timid to the point of solitary (I don’t use the word ‘reclusive’ as that might imply something interesting). I’m so conscious of my stupidity, it’s paralysing me.

I’m reminded of that Mark Twain line (Twain would’ve been good at Twitter): ‘Better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.’

But at least I’ve got a big penis. I hope.

Bad company, part 3

This week, Currer’s inside woman reveals how the corporate world beautifully packages failure

Miss Anthropic is NOT The Currer Ball

The project hasn’t been going well. Deadlines have been and gone, Key Journey Points are flying past, deliverables remain undelivered.

But as the crisis gets worse, the less time we spend on the project. So what are we doing instead? Well, talking about how much work we’ve still to do, how little time we’ve got to do it, and what an eternally troubling metaphysical problem it all presents.

Wednesday afternoon was a classic case. Jargon alert: it was our Status Meeting of Key Project Stakeholders. I had the happy task of presenting some slides to illustrate said status. When my manager discussed the slideshow with me, I was surprised by how much detail he was after. By ‘surprised’, read ‘horrified’. The status, as I pointed out to him, is ‘bad’ or ‘behind’ or even ‘badly behind’. How many slides could we possibly need? Well, funny you should ask…

‘We need slides saying that, overall, we’re badly behind, but then also a detailed breakdown of how badly behind all the badly behind individual units are relative to other badly behind units. These then need to be ranked in order of severity, with further slides, suggesting mitigating factors intermingled with BS to blur the basic message: “We’re badly behind”. And for the sizzle, throw in a Gantt chart.’ (A note for the blissfully ignorant: a Gantt chart displays tasks and timeframes for a project. It looks impressive, bamboozles the client, and no questions are asked. We love Gantt charts).

I make up the slides and I’m good to go for the presentation. Just before the meeting with those Key Project Stakeholders, we have a pep-talk of our own, during which my manager pipes up with, ‘You don’t seem to be up to date with the revised schedule for this week, better pick up the pace’.

I haven’t kept up with the revised schedule? Of course I bloody haven’t! I’ve spent the last day and-a-half, ON YOUR INSTRUCTION, re-writing the Karma Sutra to explain how fucked we are. What more do you want from me?! I could’ve told you, even without a Gantt chart, that I wouldn’t have been able to spend those same hours resolving things and, y’know, doing the project.

Only I didn’t actually say that. Craven me. I followed the rules of the game and said something totally meaningless about ‘moving targets’ before we went merrily off to tell the clients that we’re screwed, how we screwed them, and that we’re expensive.

What do I want? Deferred gratification! When do I want it? Now! Now! Now!

                                             Who’s in a bunker?
                                             I have seen too much
                                             I haven’t seen enough
                                             You haven’t seen enough
                                             I’ll laugh until my head comes off
                                             I’ll swallow till I burst
                                             Until I burst
                                             Until I
                                             Here I’m alive, everything all of the time

                                                                      – Radiohead, ‘Idioteque’

Here’s Rod Liddle’s take on what’s wrong with our society: ‘I must have it and I must have it right now.’ We’ve abandoned ‘deferred gratification’, so says chain-smoking, wine-chugging divorcee Liddle, and that contrary to what we’re often told, chasing pleasure doesn’t make for happiness. (I’d go one step further and say pleasure and happiness are inimical). Liddle offers up several examples of selfish, counterproductive ways, from school children shitting themselves, to adults taking out loans because they ‘deserve’ an all-inclusive Mediterranean cruise.

I’d agree that deferring gratification isn’t exactly flavour of the month, but that’s only half the story: because Liddle neglects to mention the deleterious impact of consumerism – how it’s become harder than ever before to leave the woods and keep our promises. Especially with ad men constantly telling us how overrated deferred gratification is. Let me show you what I mean…

So says the chocolate cake (the ad man’s brief): ‘Bite me! Bite me! Go on! You deserve it! Behold! My delicious, decadent, mmmouth-watering chocolate! Taste it! You’re worth it! Why wait?! Why not?!’

Why not? It’s not easy to answer. Staring at that delicious, decadent, mmmouth-watering chocolate cake, the reason why you shouldn’t submit isn’t immediately obvious. But here’s my best shot:

What about my gut? The protruding externality of my daily defeat to the chocolate cake’s tease. But forget about my spherical middle. In fact, let’s pretend that I’m sporting a 6-pack à la Andre, Mysterious Girl. Might it be a good idea to say ‘No’ to the chocolate cake, anyway? Because isn’t restraint a good thing for its own sake? The other way ‘round: might forever instantly-gratifying ourselves not be so ruddy marvellous, after all? Because denying ourselves things that we want makes us better human beings. It helps us graduate from over-indulged children to responsible adults. You might say that it’s the very essence of life.

So here’s an idea: why doesn’t a philanthropist interested in making our society better (Currer’s definition of ‘society’: the sum of the people in it – a succinct explanation of why ours isn’t any good) buy some billboard and commercial space, then hire an ad man to make restraint and responsibility cool? Given how non-conformist those things have become, and that to be ‘cool’ really ought to be all about non-conformity, you wouldn’t even need a Saatchi-style mastermind to pull it off.

Until then, try growing up and saying ‘No’ to the chocolate cake.

.   .   .

Is Price Water House Cooper Price Water House Cooper or Price Waterhouse Cooper? Or Pricewater House Cooper? Or Pricewaterhouse Cooper? Unlike the company, do I make myself clear?

.   .   .

In After the Arab Spring: How Islamists Hijacked the Middle East Revolts, recently published by Palgrave Macmillan, John H Bradley says it was premature of western commentators to rejoice at the Arab Spring. Currer agrees. But doesn’t it follow that it’s equally premature for western commentators like, say, Bradley himself, to write pessimistic revisionist histories? Can’t we all just wait and see? Like Thom Yorke says: everything, all the time.

Who wants to hear my new joke about plagiarism? You might’ve heard it before…

Stand-up comedians get touchy about it, but what’s really the big deal with so-called ‘joke theft’?

Jalal Azam is The Currer Ball

Aristotle once said, ‘Most of us will never have an original thought during our lives.’ What he didn’t say was that he stole this line from Plato.

I’d like to preface the following article by saying how much I admire stand-up comedians. (And that isn’t cant). While I don’t know any stand-ups myself, and thus cannot comment on whether they’re generally good people or vainglorious bastards, I’ve got nothing but respect for what they do: to so unambiguously bare their cocks on the block. Whenever I see a comedian on TV whom I don’t like, I remind myself that they’ve played the circuit for probably 10 years, deserve their success, and how my dislike of a particular routine or joke doesn’t matter one bit.

First, let’s distinguish between 2 things: 1) the lifting of a routine or act of one comedian by another. I think we can all agree that constitutes joke theft; and 2) the inevitable overlapping and repetition of material between 2 comedians or among many. By ‘overlapping’, I mean shared subject-matters, treatments of subject-matters, tones, and styles; by ‘repetition’, I mean the duplication of parts of routines and even gags.

To avoid any confusion, and owing to my limited powers of expression, here’s an example of what I’d consider theft. It’s the most open-and-shut case I could find. The first clip, the original by Patton Oswalt; the second, the plagiarised imitation by Brian Corman (not ‘Conman’ – funny, eh?), Columbia University’s 2010 General Studies Valedictorian:

 

 

Henry Fonda wouldn’t acquit. The silly graduate might argue that he’s not a comedian himself, so wasn’t pinching from a contemporary to advance his own stand-up career, but the scale of his theft, the transplanting of a whole routine word-for-word, especially as it would’ve been so easy to cite the material’s original source, makes it especially egregious. But more than anything, it’s the nature of the material that makes the theft so clear-cut: that story belongs to Oswalt; it’s a very personal, faintly surreal, probably fictitious recollection. That someone else could’ve written something identical just isn’t credible.

Al-Megrahi watch! 32 months and counting…

I spy al-Megrahi… protesting on Twitter against Andrew Lansley’s NHS reforms! (#ComebackKid)

A long, long time ago, in a political planet far, far away, Kenny MacAskill, the Scottish Justice Secretary, said that Abdelbaset Mohmed Ali al-Megrahi, the Lockerbie bomber, was ‘going home to die’. But as of today, 20 February 2012, that was 32 months ago. Somehow, I was beginning to doubt MacAskill’s wisdom. So the investigative journalist in me hightailed it to Libya for some sun, sea, and fact-finding. Going home to die? As you can see from the following exclusive, explosive exposé, al-Megrahi’s done a lot more besides.

Day 1, 09.02: I disembark the Air Libya jet. I could swear that I see al-Megrahi unloading the plane’s cargo. A fellow passenger expresses surprise at the ease with which the terminally-ill patient handles our heavy baggage. ‘I’m shocked that he’d be doing such a physically demanding job,’ said the tourist. ‘Mind, he does have affinity with luggage on aircraft.’

Day 1, 10.55: I check-in to my hotel. Spacious room, ethnic décor, no minibar. I idly turn on the telly and shit the bed: it’s only al-Megrahi on the Libyan version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? With half a million dinar on the board, Meg decides not to gamble: ‘I’m going to take the money. I’ve got my retirement to think of.’

Day 1, 14.46: I’m feeling peckish. I swing by the grocers. Shock! Horror! Al-Megrahi’s at the till, buying 3 oranges and a grapefruit. He declines the offer of a carrier bag and proceeds to juggle them home, while whistling ‘That’s Life’ by Frank Sinatra. The store manager cogitates, ‘He lives to love and loves to live. He’s our best customer! I can only assume that the vitamin C’s good for the cancer.’

Day 1, 17.21: I’m tipped off by a confidential source to ‘get down to EMI Libya headquarters for something special’. But nothing could’ve prepared me for what I was about to witness: al-Megrahi recording the Libyan national football team’s official song for the 2012 African Cup of Nations. The vocal producer said that al-Megrahi ‘really threw himself into the rap’, before adding that the ‘comeback kid was the obvious choice to sing such an anthemic and inspiring number’.

Day 2, 09.12: I awake feeling invigorated, and head down to the local leisure centre. Mine and al-Megrahi’s paths cross on the climbing wall, where the convicted mass murderer demonstrates his abseiling skills. A fellow all-action enthusiast said, ‘He was having a whale of a time! His mid-air pirouettes were particularly special. I could make out a Cheshire Cat smile behind his trademark swine flu mask.’

Day 2, 14.37: I’m channel hopping back at the hotel room. For the second time in 2 days, I spy al-Megrahi on telly. And it’s only Celebrity Come Dine with Me! He dedicates his main course of haggis, neeps, and tatties to ‘my friends Kenny MacAskill and Alex Salmond’. One fellow contestant said that the ‘haggis was delectable’. Another enthused, ‘I hadn’t realised that a country capable of such dire political decision-making could create a dish so delicious. And the citrus salad? A masterstroke! I give Meg 10 out of 10!’

Day 2, 18.09: Another of my Libyan contacts comes good: ‘Get down town to Libya’s State-owned film studios, stat!’ I heed the advice, and behold! Al-Megrahi’s on set, starring in a new film about his life and death… I mean, his life.

And on that cinematic bombshell, my fact-finding mission comes to a close. But rumour has it, we’ll all be seeing more of al-Megrahi soon: apparently, the Lockerbie bomber wants to return to British soil to abseil for Libya at the 2012 Olympics. Or maybe not – I’ve heard the pole vault’s more his thing.

News 25! The sequel – this time, it’s serious!

Olympic drug testers fail their own drug tests

Drew Colgate is The Currer Ball 100% behind Andrew Lansley (if only to perpetuate the hilarious spectacle of politicians’ daily visits to hospital wards for ops – that’s photo ops, not surgical ones)

Hello there! Drew Colgate here! Tonight, News 25 exposes the scandal BoJo and Lord Coe wanted swept under the carpet (along with baseless allegations of an aborted lovechild and a homosexual affair): the exclusive that threatens to overshadow London 2012 before the first starter gun fires.

Agent Provocateur, our anonymous undercover reporter, last night obtained classified PDF and JPEG files that reveal evidence of endemic drug abuse among Olympic drug testers. While supposedly monitoring track-and-field competitors for banned substances, the testers themselves have been higher than Ainsley Harriott anchoring Ready Steady Cook atop Kilimanjaro, and so hadn’t a ‘fucking clue’ what they were doing. How else, with just 4 months ‘til the Olympics, do you explain testers’ failure to detect thousands of junked-up athletes?

One Olympic tester, speaking off the record and out his tree, opened up to Agent Provocateur: ‘What we’re smoking isn’t exactly performance enhancing. I’d expected to have caught half the Olympic field by now. That’s the problem with skunk: it’s just so distracting. Why should I waste time catching drug cheats when I can munch on a block of cheddar while watching nature documentaries?’

One athlete, who dreams of bagging Olympic gold and not getting caught for hourly steroid injections, spoke anonymously to AP. ‘I was tested about a month ago’, said the bent triple jumper. ‘My urine sample was fluorescent green, so I’d assumed the game was up. But then the tester started giggling, lit me a refeer, and told me not to worry.’

Last night, Lord Coe was similarly relaxed about our allegations: ‘While they’re out on bail, the Met’s finest are on the case, so I’m confident nothing will come of this.’

To see more episodes of News 25, click here.

This Means War . . . What is it good for? Almost absolutely nothing

Currer reviews This Means War, an action film that wastes its all-star cast

Natalie Golding is The Currer Ball

While watching This Means War, I didn’t think about much (given that I’d left my brain at the door), but one thing did strike me: the utter dearth of standalone action films with a sense of humour. Chances are, if it isn’t a (comic) book adaptation, remake, or sequel to an infinitely superior original, it hasn’t made it to a multiplex near you in the last decade or so. Even when an original script somehow sneaks through, it’s more often than not a po-faced affair. Think Salt and Avatar – varying shades of excellent in their own ways, but short of a certain quip-happy recklessness that franchises like Lethal Weapon and Die Hard served up so well.

That’s reason enough to take a gamble on This Means War, a featherweight spy movie with added (b)romance in which CIA spooks and brothers-in-arms Tucker (Tom Hardy) and FDR (Chris Pine) both fall for career woman Lauren (Reese Witherspoon). Naturally, their friendship’s soon buckling under the strain as they use and abuse the ample resources of the US Government to thwart each other’s wooing of lovely Lauren.

And the central trio – Pine’s slick playboy, Hardy’s sensitive bruiser, and Witherspoon as the girl-shaped wedge between them – don’t disappoint. It’s just a shame that all 3 give far better performances than the material merits, their collective star power driving a script that’s so half-baked it doesn’t even bother to explain why Hardy’s English spy finds himself working at the heart of the most American of security agencies.

The plot’s wafer thin, occasionally incoherent, and utterly predictable (you’ll know who’s going to get the girl before she even shows up), but that’s just the beginning of TMW’s problems. Step forward the movie’s director: McG. In the hands of a lesser moron (yes, ‘moron’ – the man calls himself ‘McG’), the film’s many shortcomings wouldn’t have been so stark. I’ve no doubt that a more talented director with a better understanding of both comedy and action (Shane Black, Joe Carnahan, even Guy Richie), could’ve turned This Means War into a whip-smart romp along the lines of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.

Sadly, serial offender McG’s Lennie-like cinematic grip all but crushes the life out of TMW. And so it’s reliant on the plucky cast to maintain its effervescent charm. Pine’s left stranded in one gear as a reformed playboy who never really gets ‘round to reforming – yet another sign of the shoddy script, especially given Pine’s stellar turns in Star Trek and (to a lesser extent) Unstoppable. As his partner in crime, Hardy’s big softie can beat the living daylights out of anyone to save the girl… then snuggle up to her afterwards. But the price of playing a slightly more in-depth character appears to be a woeful storyline. On the plus side, Hardy’s performance serves as a pitch perfect show reel should he ever want to angle for the coveted Bond gig, kicking, punching, and smouldering his way through the film, demonstrating nice comic timing while he’s at it. Likewise, Witherspoon has enough comedic chops to fill out what’s an otherwise identikit female role, ensuring that she doesn’t get lost amidst the more interesting (nay, less cardboard cut-out) characters.

Even the action scenes, arguably McG’s forte (admittedly, that’s a bit like saying Homer Simpson’s really good at being a fat, lazy slob) are too few and far between, vanishing in a blizzard of nauseating jump-cuts when they do. Meanwhile, the scenes of a sexual nature rival Zach Snyder’s cheesy efforts in The Watchmen.

Overall, it’s a jolly good romp, warts and all, right ‘til the credits start to roll, at which point it’s a deeply frustrating missed opportunity and yet another reason to curse the boneheaded studio execs who keep employing Mc-freakin’-G. But ‘til that happens, sit back, relax, leave your brain at the door, and enjoy the snap, crackle and pop of Witherspoon & Co.