Operation Brainmess

Who's seen Brighton Rock? No, the new one. Go on, put your hands up. Really? That few? Hmpf, kids today, I don't know.

Okay, so did you watch the credits? Any names on the crew leap out at you? How about Rowan Joffe? No, not the Orange guy. Yes, I'm sure he does know when he's been Tango'd. Go and sit in the corner.

Joffe has a bit of a pedigree, as he's been producing interesting work for film and television for the last decade or so. He wrote and directed the "recovering paedophile" drama Secret Life for Channel 4, co-wrote 28 Weeks Later and adapted the novel A Very Private Gentleman as The American for George Clooney. The interesting part is that he seems, according to Wikipedia, to have appeared on the scene almost spontaneously in 2000 - something that ties into his heritage.

His real pedigree lies in his parentage. His father is Roland Joffe, a successful BBC television director in 1970s who broke in film in the middle of the following decade. He achieved the impressive feat of landing Best Director nominations at the Oscars for both his first two films, The Killing Fields and The Mission, but things have sagged for him since then. He was the original director of Super Mario Bros, before being separated from his job,and his follow-up was a remake of The Scarlet Letter with Demi Moore in the lead. It was laughed out of cinemas. His last respectable film was Vatel in... 2000.

From the Oscar-nominated
director of "The Mission"

My theory is somewhat radical, I'll admit, but it does fit the facts. It seems fairly obvious that Joffe Sr. transplanted his mind into that of his son at the turn of the millennium, possibly in accordance with some pre-existing prophecy. His career since then has been beyond embarrassment. A US-Russian torture porn flick called Captivity, which had its billboards removed in Los Angeles for being offensive, and leading Joss Whedon to accuse the producers of mysogyny. Another Russian film about phoney lesbians T.a.T.u. starring paparazzoid nobody Mischa Barton, which has struggled to get a release in its home country. Most startlingly, a film about the founder of weirdo Catholic sect Opus Dei - produced by members of Opus Dei.

Short of some horrible blackmail plot, there seems to be no reason for Joffe Sr. to be making these films - unless he is doing so without a controlling intelligence. With his son's body as his puppet - and who is to say that it really is his son, it could just be some unfortunate street youth - he can create a new career, safe from the stains of his previous work, while his name is used to produce weapons-grade bollocks. Yes, I have seen Captivity. No, you don't what to see a film where someone is force-fed their own liquidised foot.

But surely, the ultimate proof is this - Can you prove it didn't happen?

You can go back to your seat now.

Diary

I can't remember the last time that I didn't roll out of bed until 3pm. It's probably not a precedent that I'd want to set, but there are certain extenuating circumstances. By which I mean that it definitely isn't my fault, oh no.

Having got off the phone with Mum at 10.15pm, I put a garlic baguette in the oven to nibble on while cooking. By the time that was ready I got side-tracked watching the end of the Psycho remake with French Housemate and Russian Housemate, neither of whom knew how the story ended. They were quite surprised. French Housemate wasn't impressed.

Then I thought I'd pop out for a little more wine, except the nearest reputable shop open at 11.15pm on a Sunday night is Sainsbury's outside Waterloo station. I put on another garlic baguette and jumped on the Tube, getting there in time to buy two single serving bottles and banter with another customer about both of use being ID'd. Then I had to wait 14 minutes for the last Eastbound train to show up.

Fortunately, Yorkshireman Housemate had taken the baguette out of the oven on my behalf, so I ate that while watching an episode of Doctor Who ("Image of the Fendahl" Part Three, fact fans). Then my other two housemates (yes, it's a six-person household) showed up, back from their Christmas break.

They are probably the two stupidest people I've ever been forced to interact with, and they make it worse by not acknowledging your presence when you walk into the room. They simply carry on, nattering away in Portuguese - her heckling him, him apologising to her - as though you weren't there. They don't like it when I take their clothes out of the washing machine, no matter that they've been in there since last night. They leave the kitchen door open when the tumble dryer's running, so the house smells like a Primark sweatshop. They drive me up the fucking wall.

The upside, however, is that he used to work somewhere in the City. He now works as an usher at the local cinema. I laughed like a jackal when I found out.

Once they'd finally gone to bed, I was able to cook my pasta, and in deference to the late hour, put half of it in the fridge for later in the week. I gobbled the rest, downed the wine, had a Mullerrice and climbed into bed at 3am.

This then was followed by a variation on a recurring dream, where I'm starting at school again. There's a television on the shelf over the sink in my imaginary room, where I'm brushing my teeth while watch Ellen DeGeneres's chat show. I wake as my phone rings. My Mum is texting me to let me know there's a programme on Radio 4 about Morecambe & Wise.

Ninety minutes later, I'm back on Oxford Street, unsure why I've ventured into town when I have nothing to do. I go to the supermarket to get some groceries. I go to HMV and look at the new releases. I go to Fopp and look for a nice T-shirt to buy. Damn, the Overlook Hotel ones only come in large. A coffee and the Guardian later and I slink home again, having started on this month's book group book.

And I don't even have the excuse of a hangover to fall back on.

By the way, if the young lady who was in front of me in the queue at Tesco Metro is reading this, please dump the boring sap you were with and drop me a line. Thanks.