Throw in the Pal

[read as a flamboyant pirate]

Why durst we cry when we're happy 'n sad?

Is it cos of the burden of being, me lad?

The land-lubbers cling to their dirt and their dwellin,

While seafaring cineastes're like to be yellin'

For somethin' twixt joy and a tidal despair

That costs naught but yer tears, so buyer's beware!

In venturin' this far, you're showing some foul

Inclination to voyage, and to Throw in the Pal

So there's a man walking through a dense woodland area, until he finally comes to a solitary cabin with rooms to let. He walks up to it and raps twice, loudly, on the door.

"Who's there?" comes a reply.

"Bob," the man responds.

"Uh huh, Bob Down, I suppose?" says the now-wary voice emanating from the cabin. "I've heard that one before, mate! You'll hafta do better than that."

"Now, look here," Bob implores, "I'm a simple man named Bob, and I'd like a place to stay for the night."

"No jokers admitted, sorry." And with that, the man will hear no more.

Later, when Bob tells this story to his Pals, he is effusive about the rudeness of the proprietor and the exhaustion he endured making his way to another establishment for the evening.

However, Bob is always insistent that the dwelling itself was a handsome venture, a property of stout build and an inviting aura, as whatever grumblings he might have about his lacklustre experiences trying to procure a bed for the night, none of that in and of itself should be construed as a Knock at the Cabin.

You know who deserves an Oscar when it comes to showbiz? That guy on every film set who is always dealing with the trash left behind by the cast and crew. He should have someone to help him with that, perhaps some green little fuzzy guy comfy in confined spaces who leans towards grumpiness. If we could all collectively agree that the chief custodian of all movie productions deserves such an accomplice, I think we'd all shout in unison: How Don't They Have An Oscar?! Which is also what this episode's about.

I hate the way they talk so much,

I hate the way they laugh.

I hate that they’re so out of touch,

I hate the constant gaffes.

I hate the way that their do bits,

I hate it when they sing,

I hate these opinionated sh!ts,

And I really f$&@in' hate it when they sing.

I hate the fact that they are always around,

Even though the pod’s hit a wall,

But mostly I hate that they can’t rhyme,

Not any one of them, not a single Pal.

Christmas: from the Latin "Christ", meaning "friendly guy" and the German "mäss", meaning "gathering".

Movie: from the bovine "moo", meaning "good" and the French "viè", meaning "Who?!"

Pals: from the Sesame Street letter of the day "P", for "Pugsley" and the suffix "-als", meaning "etc."

That's a quick etymology lesson to explain why this week's episode is called Short n Sweet - Christmas Movies with the Pals!

Merry Christmas everyone!

Christmas isn't what you think it is. It isn't contained within the waking, sometimes sleepless days of the yuletide season; it doesn't simply begin and end at those polar midnights of late December. It's not quantifiable by tallying cards and presents, not merely a protracted spree of buying and giving, wrapping and tearing, hugging and crying. Christmas, really, is more akin to music or memory than the temporal here and now; even when it's not loudly ringing out, even when it happened so long ago, you carry it within you to summon against the darkness, holding it tight against the quiet and the cold. It's something you know as a child and try your absolute hardest to forget as an adult, but the truth is that Christmas is truly, deeply, embarrassingly about that one special thing: it's love, actually.

Dancing is a lot like making love: it takes heaps of practice, can be very cinematic and is virtually impossible to do when you're a podcaster. Also, something do with feet, I guess... This week, the Pals are cutting a rug and never shutting the fug up about their favourite times the silver screen was almost torn to pieces by the sharp sashays of some of the world's nimblest nae nae-yers. Hoo-ray!

Now, this is a story all about how Galinda's actually Glinda now

And we're talking bout Wicked

Massive hit of the year

So take a break from all your worries and lend us an ear

On the stages of Broadway, born and raised

Where this musical originated back in the days

Of George Bush, Usher and low-rise jeans

It sure was a hit of grandiloquent means

Elphaba's green, and people are mean

"What's up with that?" I suppose you might scream

Well it's a metaphor, stupid, for prejudiced people

And how rejecting diversity can be terribly lethal

Wicked Wicked Wicked, what a crazy little movie

Chic-a chic-a chic-a, scooby dooby dooby

F is for the way the snow falls fast

R is recording a film podcast

O is "Oh my gracious, this is so outrageous!"

Z is the zillion times we've all heard Elsa's sing-song rhymes

So E's enough of the poem mode

N so now we can listen to the episode

[Sung to the tune of L-O-V-E but then it just sorta falls apart, I guess]

Enjoy the latest Throw in the Pal!

When you watch a movie, the agreement you enter into through participation with the medium itself is that you shan't be required to read. Yet eagle-eyed cinema-goers will notice that some filmmakers still insist on putting a bunch of wordiplex junkery at the start of their colourful picture shows, apparently to commend those who did all the work and that to make the movie run. They're called "opening credits", doncha know, and these are the best ones!