The Week in Words: Chan's Chop House

Jackie Chan is opening a theme park in China. It’s free entry, although you have to get past the ninjas first. Chan will mostly use the park located in a Beijing suburb to house his personal collection of fully restored traditional Chinese sandalwood houses, some dating back 400 years. I think they should consider adding an extra layer of authenticity by giving visitors the chance to recreate some his more hair-raising stunts. Patrons could queue up for the Police Story ride, where they will be thrown onto a 30 foot pole covered in Christmas lights and told to slide down it, suffering major lacerations as a consequence. Or spend half an hour on the Project A simulation, where people get to ride around on a bicycle without a saddle. Sounds great, just bring your own bandages.

Birthday week - thanks for all your concern. Year 29 is an odd numerical nonentity; not significant enough to concern close acquaintances into an emergency Clintons purchase, or personally critical to feel the need to buy a motorcycle or find the nearest bungee jump. Mum has been understanding. “So you’re in your 30s now then?” “I’m 29.” “Oh, right… well, happy birthday love.” Anyway, birthdays remind me of that old Norman Wisdom joke. “Three things happen when you get old,” he said. “The first is your memory goes, and I can’t remember the other two.”

More science faction for you now. Researcher Nickolay Lamm has released images of what humans might look like in 100,000 years. A bit like aliens, ironically: huge eyes and big bulging foreheads. I can understand the forehead bit. Our heads have been expanding since the Middle Ages and will continue to grow to keep up with our brain capacity, writes Parmy Olson. But the reason for our bulbous eyes takes a greater conceptual leap. “Our eyes will grow to Japanese anime-style proportions… as human beings are forced to live in other colonies of the solar system and in dimmer environments farther away from the sun.” Let’s hope for a decent Specsavers when we’re up there.

I think the fact boffins believe we’ll be around in the year 102013 is encouraging, even if famine/nuclear war/global warming/Simon Cowell doesn’t ruin us before then.

There have been some sensationally negative reviews for the new Diana biopic. I haven’t seen it, but we can at least make some speculative assumptions based on the opinions of critics, who seem to be relishing the opportunity to stick the knife in. Tim Robey’s one star review in the Telegraph was brilliant. He wrote, “Oliver Hirschbiegel’s movie is a special class of awful,” but on the plus side, “it’s hysterical”. Even Chris Tookey in the Daily Mail couldn’t stomach the film's “tackiness”. “It’s directed without panache, lightness of touch or the slightest aptitude for romance,” Tookey writes.

Naomi Watts, the Australian actress given the unenviable task of playing Diana, seemed a touch sensitive about defending the film, after walking out of this awkward interview with Simon Mayo on BBC Radio last week. It sounds to me like they should have made a different film, maybe one based on the constant Diana paranoia (‘Dianoia’?) you find on the covers of the Daily Express. Like the extraordinary suggestion that an SAS “hit squad” had a hand in Diana’s death. That sounds like a Jason Bourne film, or at least a Diana film that people might watch.

The Week in Words: 12 Years Later...

I was in my first Film Studies lecture at college, still nervously adjusting to a new environment, when the news filtered through that a plane had crashed into a building in New York. I stayed with a close friend and watched in horror as the full scale of the attack unfurled in a constant B-roll on 24 hour news channels. The scenes seemed strangely reminiscent of a Hollywood disaster movie – the smoke and the fury, the violence and suffering. I remember the same nauseous feeling even now, the need to keep talking to those around you to find some shared sense of reality, as the world burned and turned upside down. I was 16 and I had never heard of al-Qaeda, jihad or Osama bin Laden. What innocent times.

To this day we still see the reminders. In April, part of the wreckage from one of the Boeing planes was discovered in a Manhattan alleyway. Victims of the attacks are still being identified. I read this week that as a symbolic gesture, the soon-to-be-completed One World Trade Centre - built on the former site of the towers - will reach 1776ft, the year of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Now that’s fighting talk.

As Barack Obama spoke this week at the 12th anniversary of the attacks, America’s standing as the 'world’s police' and their actions post 9/11 have never been more in question. The brash, vitriolic impulsiveness of the Bush administration to launch attacks in Iraq and Afghanistan still lingers, and Obama’s proposed missile strikes in Syria faced stern consternation and stalled as a consequence. In the intervening years, Obama can lay claim to catching and killing the culprit of the attacks, but does the world really feel like a safer place? Only the world's leaders can set the examples for all nations to follow. For example, diplomatic solutions to solve the Syrian crisis appear to be working. Time will tell if another conflict can be avoided. For now we can at least be thankful that the hotheadedness shown under previous leaderships appears to have been left buried in the aftermath of that fateful day 12 years ago.

There comes a time in every young person's life when you realise, quite disturbingly, that your parents aren't the flawless, mysterious super beings you imagined them to be. They are, in fact, quite normal, fallible people just like you, prone to the same human error and insecurity.

Some, like the brave teenagers interviewed on Tuesday's excellent documentary Mum and Dad Are Splitting Up (BBC2), are forced to learn this fact sooner than others. At every turn, the adults are undermined by the honesty and maturity displayed by their kids, who clearly understand much more about the issue than either parent would care to admit.

Darryl (pictured), whose parents separated nine years ago, is lucky because his Mum and Dad still talk to each other. His mother would even consider giving up her relationship with John if she decided to get back with Darryl's father. But Dad isn't convinced. "The trouble is I think she would still see him, because he's got her dog," he says.

Natasha isn't so lucky. She lives with her father and hasn't spoken to her mother for 18 months. At nine years old, Natasha’s mother moved the family into a new home without telling her Dad. He came home one day to find the house bare and his family missing. “There would have been more taken, but I think they didn’t have time to get it all out,” says Dad.

Then there's Daisy, who feels personally responsible for her parents divorce two years ago, believing she was the root cause of their money woes.

A third of UK children live with one parent. The program suggests there is, actually, no such thing as a happy solution. A peaceful solution, yes, perhaps. But breaking up a home leaves permanent scars. The program was confronting, heartbreaking and poignant, and worth checking out.

The new Arctic Monkeys album, AM (released on Monday), is a triumph and cements the band's continued relevance and confidence after ten years in the industry. One Direction, take note.

As one of the UK's truly great bands – Olympic ceremony champions, Glastonbury headliners and so on – their fandom crosses the gauntlet between young and old, hence interview slots on Newsnight and BBC Breakfast. The kindest thing you can say about Alex Turner in interviews is that he's not one for platitudes. He may be one of rock's greatest social commentators – eagle eyed and poised with a razor sharp witticism like a modern day John Cooper Clarke – but you would probably still have a more interesting conversation with a duck.

Lately he has settled comfortably into a Sheffield steel greaser impersonating Elvis via a Tom Ford commercial, and looks certifiably rock and roll. He's only 27, so it's fine, but it’s embarrassing having to watch fawning BBC journalists trying to follow suit. Stephen Smith wasn't too bad despite some clumsy hip hop references, but Susanna Reid's interview possessed all the awkward chemistry of a parent-teacher meeting. Donning a denim jacket and adopting an uncharacteristic slouch, Reid asks him about a possible participation in next year's Strictly Come Dancing because, "I bet you look good on the dance floor". Turner looks away. "... of course," he sighs. You can’t blame Reid for trying, but she probably should have left her dad jokes at home.

As for the band’s early Mercury Music Prize nod (the full list can be found here, which makes for proud reading in a great year for eclectic, home grown talent), the music snobs may deem it redundant to hand out a prize to a band already on accolade overkill. My guess is they will opt for the sickeningly young and talented Surrey brothers Disclosure for their 90s nostalgia rave Settle, which achieves the rare power of being both familiar and progressive at the same time. The winner will be announced on October 30 where, like most of my predictions, I will no doubt end up with egg on my face.

The Week in Words: Golden Balls

In this week’s wonga news, Vodaphone sold nearly half their business to Verizon Wireless for £84bn. That’s about the going rate for a Tottenham Hotspur midfielder these days. Actually, Gareth Bale’s move to Real Madrid was for only £84m. In the deal, Bale will receive £300,000 a week for six years. An extraordinary amount of money for one footballer, clearly. The last time I checked there were 10 other players on a football team. For that amount, he should be sidelining as boot room boy, caterer and groundsman, as well as banging in the goals.

And I thought Spain was broke? In 2012, its Eurozone bailout bill was £80bn. European football, however, is an over inflated cash cow. According to a Newsnight report, Europe spent £1.2bn on players earlier this week to beat the transfer deadline. The English Premier League alone increases its worth by 10-15 per cent every year. Companies like BT and Sky are the cause, piling more and more cash into the game as they compete for TV rights and making the clubs, particularly the rich ones, even richer.

Bale is a great footballer. Have you seen him take a free kick? He can kick a ball like it’s a cruise missile. The moral argument says no individual could be worth such a large sum of money, but if a football club working within such unique economic parameters deem £84m to be a viable price tag then clearly he is worth it, and I’m sure you won’t be hearing many Real Madrid fans complaining.

With no salary cap in football (unlike the NFL or Super League), wages will continue to reach astronomical figures as long as there is the money at the club to pay it. I’m sure we could make room for a player like Bale at Swindon Town, but what could we offer him? Nectar points? A year's supply of pasties? A time share scheme? Football players ultimately want to play for the best teams, and you can’t begrudge a player for wanting to win things.

There you are, reading the paper, scanning the back pages for the quick crossword when you find this: "We are all actually Martians.” Say again? “Life started on Mars and came back to Earth on a rock." Woah there! Let’s back up a minute. You're telling me this now? Not only that, but you're burying it in the Guardian's comment pages? Surely this earth shattering news should have taken precedence over the story about an old man who wrote a song about his dead wife? (Actually, it is quite touching).

The comments were made last week by Professor Steven Benner at the Goldschmidt international scientific convention in Florence, where I’m sure they throw legendary after parties. This is no great revelation. The theory has been around for centuries. But Benner's notion that only Mars could have housed the microbes needed to build life on Earth is new and quite startling. It looks like we finally have an answer for Bowie’s question, "is there life on Mars?" Yes, David, there is, and it's us.

While you get your head around this - it took me a while – let’s quickly consider what we humans think aliens look like. I was watching Gareth Edwards' fantastic 2010 film Monsters the other day, and saw the same repeated sci-fi motifs we consider to be alien: slimy, squid-like tentacles, feeding off electrical impulses with noxious, toxic extremities. Like Piers Morgan.

As Philip Hoare’s article observes, in showing aliens in this light we are only replicating the image of our own aquatic ancestors. And what incredible irony that it seems these depictions may have been from another planet after all! Anyway, it's fascinating stuff.

I was at a lunch for the new Pol Roger 2004 vintage at Manchester's Midland Hotel - where Rolls met Royce - and conversation turned to Winston Churchill, who was partial to a drop of Pol Roger. The last time he visited the Midland he popped in for what he would call a "light snack": two glasses of champagne and 18 oysters. There was an exchange of favourite Churchill quotes. A waiter once asked Churchill if he had enjoyed his meal, to which he said, "Dinner would have been splendid if the wine had been as cold as the soup, the beef as rare as the service, the brandy as old as the fish, and the maid as willing as the Duchess."

And this one, which I hope is true. After a particularly grueling Prime Minister's questions, Churchill jumped into the bathroom to avoid bumping into Labour chancellor Stafford Cripps. A political aide apparently knocked on the toilet door asking that Cripps wanted to see him, to which Churchill replied, "Tell him I can only deal with one shit at a time."

The Week in Words: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Nothing beats a long stint in the barber's chair to dissect the current style predicaments facing the new age man. Take my hairdresser, for example. He's a clear cut case of post-modern trend setting. Rockabilly grease quiff and Ned Kelly bushman beard: check. A plaid shirt (still cool) tucked under skinny denim and braces, like a posh lumberjack, or some faux-tramp extra from a Mumford & Sons identity parade: check. Severe turn-ups revealing heavy Doc Martin ankle boots, like the singer in a Two Tone ska band: check. I'm projecting here, but I reckon he also had sleeve tattoos. You see them a lot these days. There seems to have been a movement to gentrify staple rebel motifs for a long time now. I blame David Beckham.

The point is: how can anyone keep up with all that? I didn't wear socks to work recently and I never heard the end of it. The careful balance seems to be in adapting these bohemian, roguish, punk-like qualities without actually being homeless and/or a football hooligan. At 28, the high street becomes an unwelcome prospect. You choose your clothes store by how loud the music is. You know better than to wear Topman slogan shirts but you're not yet boring enough to dress like Jeremy Clarkson. Reiss, Hugo Boss and Paul Smith look nice, but who the hell can afford it? Most modern men will settle for a compromise somewhere between style, comfort and affordability. You're never going to get all three, but you'll happily settle for two.

I briefly met Neil Innes on Thursday at The Rutles reunion gig. He was playing the hits of Liverpool's Prefab Four with John Halsey, who played well-coiffed wannabe hairdresser Barry Wom in Eric Idle's spoof Beatles TV 'mockumentary', made in 1978. The novelty project was famously supported by George Harrison - a huge Monty Python fan - who also appeared in the film. Eric Idle played the analogous Paul McCartney role but - fact alert - he never actually played on the Rutles' records. His parts were performed by third Rutle Ricky Fataar, sadly absent from the reunion tour, who went on to play in The Beach Boys. Innes never received royalties for his acerbic, heartfelt homage to the Beatles' music because of how closely the songs resembled the originals, but Innes is a unique wit of extraordinary merit. He writes lyrics like, "A glass of wine with Gertrude Stein I know I'll never share." He's a sprightly 68 and sounding great, hopefully starting to recoup on his most famous satire. After all, All You Need is Cash.

I spent the start of the week struggling to get worked up about Miley Cyrus' performance at the MTV Video Music Awards. The moral outrage escalated hourly on the internet, running concurrently with the news of a Commons vote as to whether Britain should side with America on a program of strategic missile strikes on Syrian governmental targets. The potential war barely got a look-in on Twitter's top trends. Priorities, people.

Anyway, if I had to raise an objection (and, let's face it, why else would anyone write a blog?), then it wouldn't be with the performance itself - a bizarre pornification of a rather harmless pop song (and didn't Madonna do this better in the 80s?). It would be with the media reaction to Cyrus' new "mature" look, as if dressing in a skin-coloured PVC bikini and grinding her derriere into Robin Thicke's crotch like a trashy stripper on amphetamines was a byword for maturity.

If it's maturity you're after, the 20 year old former child star should have used the VMA platform to announce a new free jazz concept album, or her role as a PETA ambassador. She can do whatever she wants, of course, but it's a depressing sight nonetheless.