This episode clocks in at 98 mins. Skirting reasonable compassion for your concentration as this does, I was compelled to scour the back-catalogue to confirm my suspicion that this 65th instalment was indeed our pithiest discharge.

On the contrary. It would appear that being so fervidly unfiltered and consequently dragging your patience through a kind of psychic Takeshi's Castle has created a Mandela Effect. Under oath, the needles poised mere millimetres from my nail bed, I'd have sworn that we'd never exercised such restraint. I'd have testified that our debut was one of gross excess and that we'd maintained that sonic debauchery until a couple of months ago. T'was ever thus and such.

But no. Those early editions demonstrate a flagrant damn regard for something. We were trim and cut and oiled. But it's what always happens, isn't it? We relaxed into our relationship with you. We weren't exactly happy but we accepted we weren't pulling anyone else, so we resigned to that unique, mundane comfort of not being entirely content but it'll do cos it's better than being alone. So around Ep. 10, a Christmas ep no less, we let ourselves go. We turned in our conversational gym membership and pigged out on the turkey of self-indulgence and the pudding of not-killing-our-darlings. And then when we turned to the mistletoe, sometimes you weren't even there.

But this metaphor risks conceptual overload and me crying a bit so let's move on.

Receiving this wonderful 98-min-long gift (I know thinking of it as a gift is a bit mad when we're essentially - NO, not "essentially", Sam, entirely, no hedging! - in control of it but does an alcoholic not receive her thirty-day sobriety chip? Does a Weight Watcher not get a certificate for his pound droppage?) invites reiteration: if you've stuck with us this long, thank you and we're sorry for those difficult years where we just didn't give you the attention you deserved. And you know what, we didn't respect ourselves enough either! 😭😭😭 I'm ok hun, i'm ok

This will be the last episode of the year! Given our old schedule, a month off isn't all that punitive, but yes, we will see you in the New Year, peepz.

Greetings, earthlings.

There's no reason that noun should be alien copyright, is there? "Earthling" is a great leveller.

Anyway, that's enough diplomacy for this week.

Hmmm, content, content....

Have you seen The Banshees of-- oh yeah, we talk about that in the episode... It's a trifling juggle, negotiating this relationship between blurb and podcast. Can't really write about the aural cargo - if we're half-decent at this (and I'm WELL AWARE the jury is out way past its curfew and should be back home in bed, not gallivanting around with that oiky Callum boy on that front) - our opinions are sufficiently covered in-'cast and elaboration would merely gild the lily that is our far-from-florid presentation.

But the description can't be totally estranged, can it? Yes, nobody reads it and I've never encountered a YouTube/social media puff that even bothered. But if you think I'm merely going to resort to a simple, "Hey, here's the new episode, here are the topics, here are our socials, enjoy!", you simply know nothing of me, which would in turn suggest you don't listen to the podcast and have no interest in any of this anyway. But for the fraction of a percent that do, I beseech your familiarity with me as a compass for fathoming my orientation, as I once said to a girl that will go unnamed in whose phonebook I no longer dwell 😔

Ahem.

I appreciate that if one is peddling a tin of biscuits, it's ill-advised to devote inordinate time to fashioning the tin. But design is my department, you know? Jordan and I put all the ingredients together, then he sets about the baking as I'm instructed to get out of the kitchen cos I'm just getting in the way like an alcoholic aunty at Christmas. So come on, let me do the colouring in.

On this episode, we discuss the teaser trailer for the new Mario flick, examine Doctor Who's latest atrocity, celebrate the omnitude of Better Call Saul, ejaculate (archaic-wise) upon Black Adam, confabulate re: The Banshees of Inisherin and natter 'bout a whole bunch of TV stuff.

Well, the character limit is almost up so my job is done. Dammit, still 51 left. 28...

^%$£(&^%$£!))((*&&&^

Producing regular video descriptions is rife with self-erected hurdles.

If one is to avoid delving into the substance of the content or indeed the content of the substance which is sometimes substance itself but more commonly spontaneous piffle - superior to rehearsed piffle - and scantily-cloaked prejudices, overt in their implications but by inference suggestive of an irony whose being is implicit in the overtness of its presentation, well, it's hard.

If one is to avoid flogging the dead horse that is the FF production schedule which, even in correction, is nonetheless a horse dead, just one flogged with glee, a chilling prospect because while we mayn't relish the spectacle of a teary jockey ineffectually administering whip-based CPR, at least (and most) it transmits a tragedy that blunts our equiphilic (equi-tolerant in the case of this nature sceptic) contempt, whereas thrashing that dead beast with a smile - relief, even - bespeaks stark lunacy and maybe that's why unfailingly happy people are a bit menacing and annoying, well, it's tricky.

If one is to avoid writing about the writing of the blurb itself in a grossly self-aware, plainly procrastinative, unameliorated-even-by-what-you-might-think-is-a-double-bluff-but-is-in-fact-a-naked-admission, tiresomely Pirandellian, that-wanker-in-the-English-exam-who-writes-about-a-student-writing-a-story-in-an-exam, actually disgusting, God-I'm-bored-why-can't-I-stop fashion, it's a pickle and a half.

So I Googled how to do it. I was assaulted by 100-step, print-screen-laden advisories bulging with as far as I'm concerned neologisms like "algorithm", "keyword" and "analytics" run by people that DO THIS FOR A LIVING. On one of these interminable how-tos, Step 12 was "Write like a human." Step 12. Whatever in God's green holy Hell the above is, it cannot be accused of calculation. "Optimising" and "maximising" are for the roboverlords, not me. And if I can't write like a human, I'll split the difference and write like a Sam.

On this here ep, we discuss Mufasa, Velma, Mad God, Vengeance, The Midnight Club and oth'ings. Enjoy!

Sam “speaking”.

It's a strange sensation, this... being on-schedule. An abiding struggle has become... LIKE a job. I don't need no tirades about a fortnightly podcast holding no candle to Alaskan crab-fishing or hostage negotiation, alright? I'm talking about a consistent routine, not exertion, OKAY?!

Though you try filling silence for three hours with no water. And yes, that's my choice, but why should things be EASY?! 😡😡😡

Wow, you're annoying this week.

I feel a bit like Charles Foster Kane. Or Del Boy near the end of Only Fools (I'm not employing some sublime-to-ridiculous technique there. If you inferred as much, you are implicitly belittling Only Fools and Horses, for which you ought be flogged). After realising his lifelong dream of seven-figure fortune, he stands in his vacated flat, lamenting the end of the uphill climb. For the fight was the point.

Funfiltered is now techn(olog)ically stable. We are mustering self-discipline. This was our Eden. We long ago abandoned the callow hope of being heard. Arriving at this terminus of bi-weekly output became the point in itself. Yes, this indeed bespeaks the mundane tragedy of what most of us must learn to accept, that IT JUST ISN'T GOING TO HAPPEN FOR YOU.

Nevertheless, here we are. Untrammelled by adverse hardware or ungoverned chopsing. Yet. There is a venom in my comfort, a pin in the cushion of my recliner chair, a solitary corpse bobbing gently across my field of vision as I gaze upon Lake Garda.

I miss the fight.

Forlorn in his affluence, a revitalising notion soon forms in Del's 'ead: 'This time next year, we'll be billionaires.' Renewed, he lives to fight on.

So... perhaps it's time to rediscover my world-conquering optimism and dust off the cobwebs (I stowed it in my attic). Maybe... the next battleground is expansion. Maybe... it's finding an audience?

More than two months 'til New Year and I'm already resolved, bitch.

On this ep, we discuss things and thinglets including Ezra Miller, MultiVersus, Primal, Don't Hug Me I'm Scared and Nope!

N.B.: Most of that was an act. I don't miss the struggle, it was maddening. But do chuck us a listen, go oooon.

Sam “speaking”.

It took us XLs LX episodes to get here. A solid place. By no means is that to fling dusk at Lord Eddard B. No, I refer to the substance/subtext of 98% of our written output - the Stygian quagmire of what would strike any observer as divinely-ordained techno-shambles.

We've had all the luck of a Nobbly Bobbly between a pair of straighteners. The candied pebble-dash may suggest fortification, but 'tis mere gauze 'twixt the sizzling pincers, promising naught but a creamy puddle on whatever surface one has elected to perform this deranged procedure. And sure, we* like the sound of creamy puddles as much as the next pervert, but it's not sustainable, is it? Not filling, is it? It's not what you want for your dinner, is it? Or is it? I've lost all sense of time and place, I don't know whether there was a point to this, who I am or what I was. It would seem that text has appeared between my intention to type (wherever that occurred) and this moment and all I can suggest is that you plumb the thus-far for something meaningful or halfway coherent or otherwise just peer at the collage and wait for a dominant hue to emerge...

Okay, I've taken five, put a cold flannel on my nape and come to the conclusion that I wanted to say we are finally FFing content. We've managed to align our podcast ducks and, now that I've said as much out loud (as far as your brain is concerned), the quacky jerks will fly south for the winter. But this is no place for superstition/recognition of the salient motif of my vicious Design.

This is a place for reviews of - phwoar, clock the segue on that - The Northman, The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent, Everything Everywhere All at Once, Top Gun: Maverick, Thor: Love and Thunder and more.

Ep 60 was over 5 hrs long, time sufficient to watch The Return of the King AND experience the complete arc of a dating app relationship. No longer. Brevity is the soul of wit and the ambition of these here twits†.

*A presumption based on certainty.

†An outright falsehood. One of us detests pith with the kind of contempt a Sonic purist might reserve for the Fowlerverse. But I'll preserve the ambiguity.

Sam “speaking”.

I could prattle on interminably about the Funfiltered hiatus you've been unknowingly withstanding. But, ignoring the nauseating magnitude of this 60th episode, I do recognise you have lives to lead, what's rest of the damnable things. So I will prattle on terminally.

I further recognise that, when your washing machine breaks down, you're not that concerned with the nuances of the motor's ruin. You just want the thing fixed. Am I saying there's a STRONG equivalence? Well, it's not my place. And yes, my washing machine did recently go the way of journalistic credibility and apparently I'm dwelling on that.

But if some clarity is what you want, by God, you've come to the wrong place. Here's the sitch, though.

We recorded this ep feat. FF OG EB (Eddie Boylett) at the end of April (2022). Perversely, the episode was/is a catch-up of the preceding two or three months (it's all a futile blur). We covered topics such as the Oscars, The Batman and Sonic the Hedgehog 2.

Post-production for this podcast is a vivid hellscape. Our recordings unfailingly de-sync in-software; audio-syncing was in fact the thirteenth Herculean labour omitted from the canon in anticipation of its capacity to terrorise children. And that's before the actual editing of content. The visualisations of the cuts alone are as Matrix code, writing a reality of a Jordan fatigued. It is an unseen and uncelebrated effort and he should be commended. It was also his birthday recently and I didn't get him a card. I'm not made of money.

So, between the 9-5 and going to the toilet, etc., it's taken time.

We are in a process of redress and renewal. It may take some time but when we're up and running, we will indeed be running. You'll be pleased to know, episodes will henceforth run no significantly longer than 2 hours. Because we (I swear) actually want to entertain you, not test your endurance.

We're fast becoming the Daniel Day-Lewises of the podcasting world with our lapses in output. And yes, only in that respect. We strive to be more like... Nicolas Cage. Who doesn't?

In the meantime, if you're gonna listen, God bless ya and for God's sake, listen at double-speed.

Sam “speaking”.

The relationship between content and blurb is one encumbered. Well, for me it is. I imagine for most it’s as simple as prioritising the production of their vid and, knowing as they do that fucker none reads the “descriptions”, leaving it at a cheeky “Hello” and perhaps a link to their ‘gram and inexplicable merch store.

I think you deserve better.

That’s a lie.

Who are you? Do you know your fundamental nature? Me neither. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you deserve. And I only marginally care. I care as far as you maintain social equilibrium, chew without sound and a leave me alone.

No no, it’s vanity mixed with proactive laziness sprinkled with self-delusion. Capped off with a little umbrella made of ego or something. A cocktail of unnecessity seldom quaffed and, when ‘t’is, leaves the quaffer with the bitterest of aftertastes. You’ve chosen to read this and I’ve spent the whole time complaining about those who don’t and vaguely slagging off the ones that do.

Such is me. Such is life. Such is this damn podcast, somehow.

But back to the symbiosis between pod and puff. If something is worth saying here, why wasn’t it worth saying during the episode? Equally, if there’s nothing left to be said, there’s no puff. Which, as I say, is not an option for ME.

Something must be here. Need it be the indulgent ramblings of an increasingly ostracised, angry and paranoid loon?

Apparently, yes.

Recorded as ‘t’was mid-Feb, nothing in this episode has particular relevance. There will always be a time capsule element to a show which traffics in pop culture. But insofar as Jordan and I have our fingers on the pulse, this instalment of FF finds our digits wandering elsewhere. An elsewhere far removed from what you’re currently envisioning.

We’ve been a bit busy, is the truth. Episode 60 should be choc-a with surprises and updates, moviewise, political and personal. There is a-much to a-catch-up on and we endeavour to do so for reasons.

But here it is. Episode 59. To be imbibed by youse beautiful few that preclude us from unanimous neglect.

We’re back.

That’s the li(n)e.

Enjoy!

Sam writing.

-----

FADE IN:

INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

SAM (27, overweight) sits at the table. He stares bleary-eyed at his laptop. It’s early morning and it’s showing. He eyes a pack of cigarettes.

S moves the mouse, opening a document titled “Blurbs”. He begins typing. On the screen, we watch him type:

“FADE IN:

SAM (27, overweight) sits at the table. He stares bleary-eyed at his laptop. It’s early morning and it’s showing. He eyes a pack of cigarettes."

He scratches his head, sighs. He's stuck.

EXT. FRONT GARDEN - NIGHT

S leans against the doorway, his eyes vacant. He smokes, exhaling.

A FACE appears in the plume, hovering in the air. It has a passing resemblance to Zordon. F studies S.

S (unfazed)

Alright?

F (booming voice)

I am the Conditional Giver of Things.

S

Okay.

F

You may make three wishes.

S

What's the catch?

F

Your CONDITION is thus. You must persist with the Funfiltered podcast until you perish. Of natural causes.

S

What if I die unnaturally?

F

The deal shall be null.

S

...Yeah, I'll be dead, anyway.

F

...Yes.

S

...Okay. I accept.

F

What is your first wish? And don't go asking for infinite wishes, that's not some shrewd loophole. I clearly specified that you may make three. In fact, the only thing you CAN'T ask for is infinite-

S

Chill, chill, I wasn't gonna.

F

Sorry. It grows tiresome.

S

Um... I wish that people would take Marvel less seriously.

F

I hope you're going in ascending order of importance.

S

Obviously.

F

Fine. Done.

S

I wish for just enough money to give me the freedom to create the things I want to create.

F

Are you not going to wish for world peace or anything selfless?

S

Unless I'm your first, I'm guessing that doesn't work.

F

...No, it doesn't. Okay, done.

S

I wish for love.

F

What type?

S

Huh?

F

What type of love? There are myriad.

S

I don't know... The kind that will sustain me. That will make me happy.

F nods sagely.

F

It is done.

F vanishes.

S raises his fingers to his lips to take a drag. But the cigarette is missing. S feels his pockets for the pack. But it's gone. S smiles.

FADE OUT

-----

Just seeing if life DOES imitate art. I have my doubts, but I retain my hope.

Sam "speaking".

‘Tis the age of the podcast, the business page, the second Instagram profile for one's hobby/vocation/the boundary is ambiguous, etc. And so it’s a safe assumption that you know some poor Gen Y sap peddling their wares Webwide.

And while “fake it till you make it” is an aphorism of some wisdom and an attitude of some esteem, don’t you just hate it when your mate employs the pronoun “we” when they’re talking about their T-shirt design Kickstarter? We here at Funfiltered (the “we” is knowing in this instance and thus pardonable) completely understand the temptation to hold the figurative torch to the action figure so that it might tower as shadow, to origami up a paper tiger. We understand the theoretical benefits of representing one’s venture as a MACHINE, with infrastructure and planning meetings and a bounteous backlog of e-mails.

But it’s just a bit silly. Especially in these early stages (in which we still maddeningly lurk). The only folks we really reach are our friends or virtual facsimiles thereof. So no tricks, no bravado, no malarkey. It’s just me and Jordan, alright?

So whenever I say “we”, those are the persons to whom the “we” refers. It’s neither the royal “we” nor the organisational “we”. It’s the “we” of Jordan Criddle and Sam Rees. Funfiltered IS that. It is CURRENTLY that. We have no producers, editing assistants, graphic designers or money, we’re trying our hardest, alright?!

All to say, in the previous puff, I wrote that we at Funfiltered make no resolutions (yes, I know all that seems like an excessive preface to guard against a charge that the absence of a listenership means none have levelled. But I don’t want you doing us on the “we”, okay?)

And I’m only reminding you of THAT to instantly renege on the statement. So far, we’re basically on schedule. I know we’re only two eps in this year but hollow credit where it’s due. Thus, I do hereby resolve to stop using our setbacks as the springboard for nearly every blurb. To stop relentlessly milking our blemishes for material. And yes, I know one can’t milk a blemish, you nobody there.

But I’m hitting the character count so it’ll have to be next time.

Sam "speaking".

I had a book called Children’s Miscellany as a child, appropriately. Saturated with trivia, it nurtured the glazomaniac (list junkie) and pub quiz aficionado in me. It forever equipped me with the ability to recite the seven deadly sins at will and a theoretical understanding of how to milk a cow.

Doubtless a result of my increasingly ruinous nostalgia, the extract that unfailingly springs to mind is the following forecast - by the year 2010, we will have firefighting robots.

2010.

As we move into ’22, I continue to await news footage of an aesthetically affable android - think I, Robot minus uncanny valley - marching into a burning apartment complex, its (I won’t say “his” or “her”, we can’t afford to humanise these implements; I refer you to all relevant science fiction) metallic arms outfitted with industrial Super Soakers. I await.

In 2020, a so-called “firefighting robot” was unveiled. Just Google it. Less smiley Terminator, more Robot Wars reject. It simply won’t do. I want human-sized, human-shaped (anthropomorphised, if you will, as long as we maintain that mandatory detachment - THEY ARE NOT OUR FRIENDS) Extinguishers.

And that’s what we’d call them. Extinguishers. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I’m happy to cede any copyright as long as the powers that be make it a reality pronto. It ticks three fundamental boxes:

It does what it says on the tin. It benefits from brand awareness - consider the comparably twee “fire extinguisher”. And when you remove the noun “fire” from the equation, it sounds rather bad-arse.

Why am I saying all this? I don’t know. Something about unfulfilled promises and foolish, hope-baiting conjecture.

So we here at Funfiltered make no resolutions. No promises. We will keep trying our best or a reasonable estimation thereof. On this here episode, Jordan and I review The French Dispatch, Spider-Man: No Way Home, The Matrix Resurrections and other stuff.

FF has now existed IN four years and two decades. Ugh. Here’s to, with a bit of luck, a better fucking year for all of us.