Monday 31 December 2007

Laminators at the Ready!

Calendars - flavour of the month. Or rather twelve months, from January to December 2007. With perhaps six months either way if it's something of a posh calendar.

Anyway, Superbean's calendars have been the number one sellers in Aguadilla in each of the last 73 years (pre-dating native Puerto Rican calendars by a full five years) and are the subject of an annual exhibition in Old San Juan.

It's only fair that you get the latest version (with a recap of 2007). First up is last year's January, featuring Superbean (wrapped up warm for the winter weather) sat atop his favourite donkey Emilio (and also featuring Emilio's civil partner Bernardo and a Ricky Martin poster):

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This year, Superbean decided to go all literary and historical. January 2008 features the beanial one's very own homage to the month that saw the discovery of Tutankhamen's tomb and first edition of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus.

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Click for the full effect, this year Superbean's gone supersized. More soon!

Friday 28 December 2007

You Are Not Legend

I've watched some more films! This involved an ill advised jaunt through the film I Am Legend, but don't worry fans of enjoyable cinema - I also watched some good things as well. So, yes, ladies, gentlemen and animals I give you ... the films I have watched.

I Am Legend

No, you are NOT legend, William. Actually, that's a bit harsh on The Fresh Smith, I doubt it's all his fault *quick shufty at imdb* no, you are NOT legend Francis Lawrence (director of the turgidity), Mark Protosevich (co-writer and defiler of narrative) and Akiva Goldsman (co-writer and similar enemy of intelligence). Be warned - there will be a spoiling element to this unappreciative exploration of cinematic flaccidity. I won't be concealing it in any way, because if you cannot control your eyes or dare to skim read my lovingly crafted and remarkably informative entries on this receptacle of cranial wonder then, to be frank, you deserve to have it ruined for you. Thinking about it, it's more a case of doing you a favour than spoiling anything in this instance. I'd be saving you precious time, time you can spend on more productive and enjoyable pursuits than watching I Am Legend. Such as jamming your big toe in a dirty grid, or starting a swingers' circle with Michelle McManus and Ali Bongo.

The stupid, ignorant film entirely failed to engage, interest or excite at any point at all. But no! What of the trumpeted, vaunted and heralded eerie emptiness of Manhattan? Empty, certainly. Empty of just about everything, including point, purpose and ability to convince. Predictably feeling-free and devoid of soul or reality, as is generally the case when unconvincing and surprisingly obvious CG is relied on so heavily that it is squashed fatter than Mrs. Meatloaf on a thursday night. Christ, if you're going to make such a big deal about it, I would think that you should perhaps spend a little more time, effort (and probably money) on it and try to make it look a little less fake. The animals-at-loose-in-urban-America bit was done more convincingly in Twelve Monkeys and, in technology and hype terms, that may as well have been daubed on a cave wall in France by Les Neanderthales.

Poor The Will Prince. He doesn't do half bad, really. He plays his strong suit throughout - you know the one, the gruff, manly, soft at heart, friendly rugged-with-rounded-edges family man (the one he does in most films - and why not, he's bloody good at it) - and, when the film lets him, he impresses. Occasionally, he puts in a little turn that is genuinely classy, emotional and engaging - and then the film's overbearing leaden lumpenness drags him back into its morass of mediocrity. He should damn well fucking sue the film for turning an attempt at a career-defining performance into Tom Hanks Lite. And then he should be severely reprimanded for putting his name to the godforsaken attempt at a script in the first place.

But no! The creatures! The creatures! Surely, won't somebody think of the creatures?!? Okay. My thought is that they are shit on a very unappealing stick. Again, criminally obviously CG rendered, thus separating them from any vestige of reality, menace, or meaningful presence or existence. They are also one of the key representations of how the film gets matters so universe-threateningly, horrendously, motherfuckingly wrong. WRONG. WRONG WRONG WRONG. Three times in the forty years or so they've made this film, and this is the first one to get it so arse-shreddingly, tit-grindingly WRONG. WRONG.

W.R.O.N.G. with a capital everything.

Not Right. Incorrect. Premise-dissipatingly so. The book and, to differing degrees, the previous two incarnations (Omega Man with the noted gun nut Charlton Heston, and The Last Man on Earth with the noted thing of wonder and global treasure Vincent Price) all have a particular point to make, a point that is the whole point and indeed basis of the story. Y'know, like, the thing that makes the book and films exist. THE FUCKING POINT. The one missed by I Am Legend to a degree not seen since [insert thing that was expected to easily hit the target] missed by [insert largest distance imaginable by which one thing could miss another] and ended up hitting [insert thing that is the furthest conceivable distance from the intended target].

Here comes the spoiler bit [/l'oreal].


Bruce Willis was a ghost! Sorry, wrong spoiler. The creatures, see. An increasing intelligence is hinted at, but a greater emphasis is placed upon a growing menace to The Fresh Robert of Bel Neville. Crude, inhuman, vicious (increasingly so) - they remain steadfastly the enemy of humanity, the humanity that endures in Robert Neville and his mighty crusade to save it from itself. Their intelligence manifests itself in cruelty and brutality, not in society or co-operation - it becomes Jazzy Neville Vs. the Most Brutish Night Seeker. But, as I may have hinted at earlier, THAT IS NOT THE FUCKING BIG BASTARD SHAGGING POINT.

It's not about saving the world, see. It's not about finding a cure. It's about realisation. Big Bad Bob Neville's realisation that he's got it wrong. He's no longer trying to save civilization, mankind - he's now the outsider. He's the monster, and the "others" are the society, the civilization. He's their nemesis, boogeyman, thing of terror. He's destroying, rather than saving. He is, indeed, legend, anachronistically so. Not because he invents the cure and saves the fluffy puppies and children, but because he is legend to the "others", the sort of legend that comes when your children are asleep and kills your family. So, when the lady comes with the portentous ending voiceover declaring Robert Neville to be legend for giving his life to defend the cure, I wanted to re-engineer the measles virus and destroy the world. And laugh in a dastardly way whilst I did, inflicting it first upon those responsible for the narrative mutilation. A thought-provoking, bleak yet moving, interesting and gripping theme is reinvented as Independence Day with an ickle dog. Actually, that's mean to Independence Day - that manages to cloak some nice satire in a publicly appealing gung-ho, GO USA set of threads. This is more the Littlest Hobo without the moral, excitement, or natty theme tune. It is patronising to children and pretends to appeal to grown-ups. Vincent Price and a bunch of Italian film-making dudes got a lot closer to the mark, and even the noted rifle-fondler extraordinaire Charlton Heston managed a lot better. I won't even mention the fantastically gaping plot holes.

SO FUCKING WRONG IT RUINED MY BRAIN.

Thus ends the spoiling bits.


There's Nothing Out There
Infinitely more enjoyable than I Am Legend, as is having shingles of the eyes. Fun, knowing, witty and articulate homage to horror film cliches. With tits. Lots of them. Scream before Wes Craven had the idea of ripping it off and making Scream. Piss off Wes Craven. Amusingly post-modern without taking itself seriously (which seems to be the odd hallmark of self-professed post-modern cultural items), a fun film, and cruelly overlooked when it comes to the appreciation of eighties horror - perhaps because it was released in 1990, but you get the idea. Night of the Creeps gets all the plaudits in the convention-toying stakes and this gets ignored. Night of the Creeps certainly deserves the plaudits, but it really should share them with There's Nothing Out There. Stupid, selfish films.


Monster Club
One of those portmanteau films, which means you can watch it and also keep all your papers and pens and things in it. I first saw this when I was ten. I wasn't ready for such things and it terrified me senseless (well, the last story in it did). I haven't watched it since and only now do I feel ready to face the fear that made me sleep entirely under the covers with pyjamas and a dressing gown on with the window closed in summer. Why I thought that would help, I cannot remember. It has Vincent Price! Donald Pleasance! John Carradine! Geoffrey Bayldon! Lesley Dunlop! B.A. Robertson! It's directed by Roy Ward Baker - a stamp of a certain quality to a certain type of person. Well, it turns out that the last story still unsettles me a little. Not like it did all that time ago, of course. That would be faintly ridiculous. But a little. Poor woman out of May to December. And, as much as the first story is a solid little traditional vignette, I think I may have ruined it for myself by getting it into my head that the whistling Shadmock looks quite a lot like Roger Lloyd-Pack. Ah well. Quality (of a certain, particular kind) throughout, with added Vincent Price-ness.


Creepshow 2
Another collection of vignettes, one that I prefer to the first in the series. Not much to choose between them really, but they both edge out Tales From the Crypt without a hint of a doubt. Fun with the obligatory Stephen King cameo (he plays a stupid trucker. No, that isn't a typo). Creaky, slow-moving Red Wooden Indian Death! Killer oil slick that looks suspiciously like a tarpaulin with twigs on! The hitchhiker that will not die! Some tits! Directed by George A. Romero! It's alright, I guess!


Deathproof
Shitproof. Except it isn't, and a load of shit seeped in, especially in the excruciatingly dire second half. Blow it out of your arse, Tarantino, and don't return until you've finish, wiped your bum and realised what a terrible error of film making you have made.


Planet Terror
WHOA THERE! Much, much, much, much better than its much more lauded neighbour in the Grindhouse. Both films are loving in their attention to the detail of their sources, the difference is that Lord Bobert of Bobdrigues turns his into a fun, camp, gory barrel of excited laughmonkeys and Quentin makes a big puddle of self-indulgent cinematic wank (Kurt Russell is excused, he's quite marvelous for most of it , especially in the first half).

So there you have it. It would have been a lengthier list (watched half of Atonement, for example - promising so far), but I've been distracted by the arrival of a collection of "This is Tom Jones" shows from the end of the sixties. Well, they were actually from Amazon (they didn't arrive in a time machine), but you get my drift. As the actress said to the snowman. Or perhaps it was the other way round. Also I can't shake the nagging feeling that I've forgotten some. If I have, then it is probably with good reason.

Hasta la next time cinema cementheads.

Tuesday 25 December 2007

It's been a long time, been a long lonely lonely lonely time

It hasn't really, it's been about ten minutes. I was just listening to Rock'n'Roll by Led Zeppelin whilst preparing the shuffle and I couldn't resist. I blame Mr. Bangtango the sPazAmper. He sent me a message with that as a title and it started the short and not really all that convoluted series of events that led to me using it as a post title. VALHALLA I AM COMING. It's Immigrant Song, now. Obv.

The sound of Christmas Day in the shufflehouse, '06 style dudes.

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In your massively wrinkled faces, you cockney spacksicians. I thought it was only fair. Y'know, balance and all that.

I should have better things to do. I don't. Deal with it, cementheads.


1. Jethro Tull - Locomotive Breath
I sort of know what he's getting at, but it still doesn't stop the mental image of the subject of the song going "choo choo!" everytime they open their mouth. Doesn't detract from the grandness of the song, mind.

2. Big Black - Precious Thing
A song all about Steve Albinoid's love for all things Kinder Egg. His favourites were the Crazy Crocos. He cried for a week they when discontinued them before he completed his set, and now he spends endless hours diligently scouring ebay in the forlorn and desperate hope that the schoolteacher croco and the BMX croco will turn up. This is far more interesting than the actual song.

3. Afghan Whigs - Come See About Me
Better than the original, and anyone who says otherwise is deaf. They should have been roundly worshipped as titanic musical gods. Instead, you mostly ignored them and they went away. Now that stupid bint off of television's the X-filesFactor is number 1. You get what you deserve, you swines.

4. Amon Düül II - Cerberus
Twingly twangly pseudo-eastern guff about a mutant dog. I'm reasonably sure I can hear a bongo or nine in the first half. Picks up dramatically towards the end (after the bongo pisses off. Coincidence? I think NOT). First half is shit, second half is more like the usual standard. Still guff about a freakdog, though.

5. David Bowie - Rock'n'Roll Suicide
I loved this song when I was about 15. I thought it was dead clever and stuff. I later recognised it as a big pile of self-indulgent pseudo-arty pile of massive wankery. Bowie, however, was distinctly older than 15 when he wrote and recorded it. The cock end. Straight out of the draw marked "future Radiohead lyrics / third rate A-Level poetry". Also, it took him a remarkably short amount of time to start sounding like a cruel and ridiculous parody of himself. And his wife looks like a man. And he smells. Of poo. Ner.

6. Inspiral Carpets - Paper Moon
Well that's just ridiculous. The sun would set it on fire every eclipse time. More enjoyable than the last song. As is having shingles.

7. The Wombles - Remember You're a Womble
It'd be hard to forget, what with all the fur, and the giant snout, the bad clothes and the irresistible urge to collect shit you find on the floor. Also better than Bowie.

8. t'Sweet - Wig Wam Bam
Wild Native American sex in a tent. Sung by rough Scottish blokes mostly dressed as very odd women. It's what the baby Jesus invented music for. Eighteen times better than Bowie.

9. Aguaturbia - Hermoso Domingo
Cheerily winsome early seventies sunny pop recorded in a tin of beans. By foreign mentals. No idea who or what Hermoso Domingo is, though.

10. GLC - GLC Will Bang in Your Face
Filth.

11. James Brown - Say it Loud (I'm Black and I'm Proud)
I'M BLACK AND I'M PROUD. Is that loud enough? Only I'm not black, see. Hope that won't prove to be a problem Jim, you massive gun-toting, wife-punching squanderer of talent. With stupid hair.

12. Thrones - A Quick One
Yes, it is a cover, and a bastard fucking fine one too. Plus I have my bastard fucking fine Thrones t-shirt on, so huzzahs all round.

13. The Smiths - I Know It's Over
I wish I could say the same. Still five bloody minutes of it left. Oddly, I like this on Rank and always have, whereas I have always found it to be painfully dreary on The Queen is Dead (the version that is currently besieging my ears like a horde of apathetic and feeble bee-stings). I am contemplating going voluntarily deaf.

14. Mansun - Wide Open Space
One of three reasons to love Mansun. Feel free to choose your own choices for the other two. Unfortunately, they released about thirty other reasons to hate them.

15. Chas'n'Dave - The Sideboard Song
Everyone who has recorded a song since this should be ashamed of themselves. David Bowie dreams of being this good. It is a forlorn and hopeless dream, though. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care if he comes round here. I got my beer in the sideboard here, let Mother sort him out if he comes round here. Wise words, words we would all do well to heed.

16. The Cramps - Swing the Big-Eyed Rabbit
No. Bloody filthmongers.

17. Neil Diamond - Oh Mary
If I was around about sixty, had been out of fashion for a while and Rick Rubin rang me up and asked if he could record an album for me, I'd check the levels of my life insurance. And, if Neil and Johnny are anything to go by, I'd release some cracking songs whilst I waited for death's icy finger. I've just realised that I've made it sound like Neil Diamond is dead. He isn't. Yet.

18. South Park Children's Choir - Dead, Dead, Dead
All Christmas songs should be this happy and cheery. And so on Christmas morning let good tidings fill your head, what a festive season, someday you'll be dead.

19. The Independents - C is for Cookie
It's only a minute and a half long, it's a cover of a Sesame Street song and, if you take away the actual Cookie Monster sample at the start it only uses nine different words, but I love it. A tiny, perfectly formed thing of beauty.

20. Jethro Tull - Christmas Song

Sound contrived? What with it being Christmas and the sPazTune beginning and ending with two immensely wonderful Jethro Tull songs? Well, it is. Sort of. I would have finished this about two hours ago, but I got distracted by a vintage Times crossword from 1936. On Christmas Eve. At this time of the morning. I know! You wish you had my life, bitch.

Happy Babyjesusmas.

Christmastime, Mistletoe and Gin

Only kidding. I'm not that keen on gin. It'll be whisky, rum and/or red wine. And Cliff Richard can fuck right off, the musical sadist. Anyway, it's Christmas! And to celebrate the fact that I have an hour to kill before I can put the roast potatoes and parsnips on, I thought I'd slip in a quick shuffle. This was the shuffletastic musical sounds of the eve of Christmas eve last year. Superbean makes an appearance (one that makes sense now that he's been introduced most thoroughly).

meet the bean

In your face, you bindipping musitards.

You don't deserve one anymore than you deserve any presents, but here's a festive sPazTune. Well, it'll be festive if you eat a mince pie whilst frittering away valuable time reading it, or something. I'm not going to be otherwise theming it in any way. What do you think it is, bloody Christmas?

1. Jimmy Eat World - Sweetness
God alone knows why I own this. Well, God and me, but I'm not telling. So go ask God, see what he has to say for himself, the big bearded tit.

2. Pink Floyd - Vera
Anyone got any Veras? Pink Floyd have? Laahhhvvveeellly.

3. King Khan & His Shrines - Take a Trip
Brass-tastic. Garagelounge-derful. Also reasonably average. Better than the Dirtbombs songs it was split with, though.

4. Monster Magnet - Tractor
From the first EP, when Dave Wyndorf couldn't sing particularly well. Possibly about his favourite Massey Ferguson. Which I think is a type of tractor, although it might well be a typewriter.

5. Ian Dury & the Blockheads - Heavy Living
It shouldn't have taken Ian so long to realise how much he needed Chas and the rest. But particularly Chas. Also, he should have banned his son from singing and given him a better name, but that's nothing to do with this particular song.

6. We the People - Mirror of Your Mind
That doesn't make any sense, you run of the mill garage mongs.

7. Wu Tang Clan - Uzi (Pinky Ring)
Had this very song before, I think. I don't care. It's fucking Scary Fucking Rap Fucking Dude-tastically wonfuckingunderful. Pinky ring sounds rude.

8. The Who - Shakin' All Over / Spoonful / Twist & Shout (Live at the IOW)
A fun medley for when they had temporarily run out of their own songs and fancied titting about for a bit. Fun, yes. Tremendous, no.

9. Vibracathedral Orchestra - Jubilee
Much better than whatever pap you're listening to (with certain exemptions. You know who you are).

10. Beat Happening - That Girl
Which girl? That girl? Where on the stair? Right there! Possibly wearing clogs, we won't know for sure until we get the tests back.

11. T'Sweet - Ballroom Blitz
Ready Steve? Andy? Mick? No? Alright, I'll hang on a tick. How about now? Alright then! Etc, etc. t'bloody t'brilliant.

12. Creeping Nobodies - Cold Hands
Ta, Joe.

13. Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet - Bang Bang
One of my favourite songs, in a wonderfully wildy and twangy mariachi superstyle. Whatever that means. HEY!

14. Edgar Broughton Band - Officer Dan
Sounds a bit like the Steptoe and Son theme tune. Then it changes in the middle, before changing back.

15. The Prisoners - For Now and Forever
It's The Prisoners. What more convincing do you bloody well need, cementhead?

16. Ultravox - Passing Strangers
Sounds painful. Not the song, the concept of trying to pass a stranger.

17. Vic Godard & the Subway Sect - Stool Pigeon
The only way this could be any better is if it were a Kid Creole cover version.

18. EPMD - DJ K La Boss
The DJ was not the highlight of EPMD. This song shows why.

19. Chris Farlowe - Looking For You
I'm over here!

20. Billy Ocean - Red Light Spells Danger
The eternal debt owed by B&S to The Ocean. YES. "Dog on Wheels" is almost identical to "Caribbean Queen". Only joking. HOWEVER. And yes, the capitals are entirely justified. As even a cementhead like you realises, the crown jewel of the Billy Ocean back catalogue is "Red Light Spells Danger" (Rupert the Bear suit wearing on TOTP whilst singing "Love Really Hurts Without You" notwithstanding). How miffed must Billy have been to have realised that B&S decided to cover it, only to call it "Sleep the Clock Around", change all the lyrics and, just to rub salt into the gaping musical wound, not credit him (and also take out all the good bits)!

Not very much, is the answer. I doubt he has noticed - he's Billy Ocean, for fuck's sakes, he's probably too busy eating crumpets with Lionel "stop adopting crackass hoes" Richie to give a flying fig, fuck or toss. Either way, Billy Ocean >>>> B&S. And yes, I have used large parts of this part of the post before. It isn't plagiarism if it's your own stuff, just tedious repetitiveness (depending on your point of view). One of the finest songs in all of the whole wide world and if you don't think so, well, you should have your license to own ears revoked. Immediately.

I often ask myself "why do I bother". I often follow this up with the answer "I have quite literally no idea". Enjoy your musitard Christmasses, cementheads.

Saturday 1 December 2007

Mecha-Jesus and the Beansy Music

Whilst it has long been acknowledged by the inhabitants of this planet that are in possession of both a brain and functioning ears that Roxy Music have been responsible for some of the finest collections of cleverly arranged noises ever to be labelled music, it is less generally realised that Superbean wrote all the b-sides for the first six years.
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Mecha-Jesus. I've seen him, Superbean's seen him, and we're both going to hell.
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El baa.

Marqués del Haba Estupenda and Don Pedro del Ultrahaba

Superbean has had enough. Beans shouldn't be scared of their government, the governments should be scared of their beans.
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The Marqués del Haba Estupenda and Don Pedro del Ultrahaba make plans to retake the New World.
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El Haba Estupenda says in your FACE, Dan Brown.
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Ricky Martin does his world famous "I'm the Hulk" dance in honour of Al Pacino's fruitcat safari (long story). El Haba de Estupenda and Ultra Haba join in.
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Beanissey, Lenin and Ultrabean Marr celebrate a birthday (another long story).
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Fully rested following his communist birthday exploits (see the aforementioned long story), Superbean makes a requested return. In the words of Alan Partridge, ¡Parque Jurásico!

During Resident Beanvil: Apocalypse, Superbean finally snaps due to the frankly dismal Sienna Guillory's inability to stand up straight (throughout the WHOLE BASTARD FILM), and bites her legs off.
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Juepatastic.

Ultrabean the Loserbean and The Miami Bint Machine

Superbean has a close and good friend - Ultrabean. A simple introduction, he returns anon.
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Superbean expresses his disapproval of Gloria Estefan. The troops agree.
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Superbean sings whilst washing some apples. Ultrabean looks on adoringly.
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Superbean re-recorded Ricky Martin's seminal crossover hit Maria, lovingly dedicating it to his favourite Sunset Beach character, the back from the dead and not really drowned Maria Evans-Torres - beloved of Ben and bane of Meg Cummings life.
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Bless.

The Bean Rider

As with so many others, an abortive television career followed an abortive movie career (some do it the other way round, so have a try at an abortive music career. It doesn't really matter so long as the key part - "abortive" - is adhered to).

Here's some of the early promotional material for his mooted role as Michael Knights robotic bean assistant in Knightrider.

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It didn't really work and it was decided that the car alone was enough. Similarly unsuccesful was Superbean's role as the fifth A-Team member. He was to be the squad's "Bean Man", the go to guy for all those situations of a Beanial nature, situations that Superbean would deal with using the skills he learnt in deepest, darkest 'Nam.

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The producers soon realised this was a stupid idea, not least because Superbean fitted into Hannibal's pocket, as illustrated.

By now desperate, Superbean teamed up with his good friend Simon MacCorkindale (star of very little indeed, although he was a doctor on Casualty. Or it might have been Holby City. Like it makes a difference) to pitch their idea for a series called "Beanimal", where a crime-fighting Bean (played by Superbean) had the power to turn into various animals (one of them being a Simon MacCorkindale).

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Sadly, this proved as unsuccessful as all the others. The producers liked the idea of the show, just not the bean element. The title was changed to "Manimal" and the rest is history. Superbean was initially downgraded to the role initial planned for MacCorkindale, but even these episodes were eventually canned (mainly due to the difficulty the writers had in dreaming up situations where Simon turning into a small, inanimate bean with eyes would be in any way helpful). The episode where he turned into a large stoat was also, sadly, binned.

Superbeans Don't Lie

Although Ricky (and all things Ricky) are Superbeans Latin music of choice, he does occasionally dabble with other artists of a similar flavour. As this snap of his momentous meeting with Shakira shows.

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It wasn't all just Ricky Martin mania, however. There was also Superbean's burgeoning film career to consider. He got his initial break understudying many of Michael Caine's film roles (which is noteworthy not least because it was nearly two decades before he grew up in 80s Puerto Rico. And also because he was a bean).
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Truly, his versatility knew no bounds. Well, apart from those derived from being an inanimate bean with eyes.

Juepa!

Naturally, Superbean is a HUGE Ricky Martin fan (being born and raised in Puerto Rico in the 80s it was hard for a young Superbean to avoid falling deeply in love with the enormously seductive teen latin tones of Menudo. We've all done it at some point in our lives).

Here's one of his most treasured memories (by "his" I mean Superbean, although I'm pretty sure it ranks highly for Ricky, too). The moment he met his idol.

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I've not checked precisely, but I think my gayness increased by 6% whilst finding a suitable picture of Ricky Martin. I blame the general tone of Ricky's publicity photos. Oh, I've also developed a yearning to wear speedos

The Merry Friends of Manuel

Before we get stuck into the Annals of Superbean (hurr, annals), it's worth spending a little time filling in the MSPaint doodling blanks. Never in the history of human communication has the word "worth" been more severely misued.

This is Manuel. He is a curious skull/mushroom hybrid and he lives in Rod Hull's graveyard. He's so ace that I'm going to get a tattoo of him.
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Manuel has friends, of course. This is Esteban the permanently shocked ghost tadpole with a skull head, sponsored by Nike. He lives in Manuel's head. I'm also getting an Esteban tattoo.
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This is a skull on a stick. It was briefly Manuel's friend until it drove him insane with its incessant prattling about being a former Scooby Doo villain and the voices in his head (namely Esteban) told him to put it in the bin, which he duly did. It doesn't have a name, it's a skull on a stick. And I'm not getting a tattoo of it for the same reason.
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This is Horace the Hydroalien. Manuel can't stand him, and he lives in a Vietnamese prison. In space.
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TBC continued. LOL out loud.

The Injustice League of Spazmerica

I was very bored one day. So bored, in fact, that I indulged my passion for MSPaint art. I say passion, I'd not really ever done it before. But passion sounded good. Shove that in your crackpipe and smoke it, cementcranium.

Anyway, the fruits of that particular endeavour were mixed, to say the least. Some went on to greater fame and fortune than others, as we will doubtless see in future tedious episodes of this electronic exercise in excrement. First out of the metaphorical pen was George, the five limbed Octopus, which makes him a Pentapus. So George the Pentapus, then. He looks mildly perturbed. As would you, were deficient in the limb department to the tune of three.

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Next came George, an alien from the planet Retardo. Names are not my forte, okay? Here he is looking resplendent in his orange Adidas spacesuit.

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Thirdly we have Harry. Harry is also an alien, a Mekon to be exact, and he has a penchant for bigly collared shirts, thick rimmed glasses, and narrating programmes about hilarious home video blunders.

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Sadly, these beauteous creations remained one offs. Any further adventures and exploits they have undoubtedly had remain mournfully unrecorded. The same goes for most of the following. Most, but not all. Here we have the most feeble and pointless assemblage of "super"heroes this side of Superman and his retarded attempt at an everyday disguise and perverted obsession with showing the world his undercrackers. The Injustice League of Spazmerica.

WonderWormMan:
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Dastardly Dyson:
Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

Agoraphobic SnailMan:
Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

TortoiseBoy:
Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

The Neon Chameleon:
Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

Super Bean:
Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket


Now personally, I found Agoraphobic SnailMan and The Neon Chameleon to be of particular note. A terrified and immobile Gastropod and a reptile whose only talent would be to seamlessly blend in with an 80s music video. However, the wider public singled out another for adulation, adoration, and accolade. That lucky legume was none other than El Haba Estupenda himself - Super Bean. Just you wait and see.