Cowboys And Aliens
I love pretty much anything to do with sport. I’m an avid fan of football, rugby, cricket, snooker, darts, tiddlywinks, sloth racing, synchronised bog snorkelling, you name it, I’ll watch it. With one exception. Try as I might, and believe me I’ve tried over the years, I’ve never been able to get into American Football. I don’t know what it is; I used to think it was the gaps in play, where a match which is supposed to last 60 minutes takes upwards of three hours normally, but that’s never stopped me liking baseball, for example. There’s certainly plenty of strategy involved, and it has a lot of the qualities that other sports I love have, but for some reason, American Football and I are always destined to tread different paths.
But there is one upside to the giant rock concert that had a small sporting event during the intervals last night, and that’s the commercials. With most of America watching who’ll be crowned World Champion of America, advertising rates are at a premium, so the film studios stump up their biggest wads of cash for the year to try to entice viewers into cinemas later in the year. And as a typical slot lasts only thirty seconds, it’s not only ideal for the cripplingly short attention spans of most viewers, but also means that most are packed wall to wall with keen quips, giant explosions and things doing things to other things in the biggest way possible. With explosions and quips. And explosions! BOOM!