Is Time Up for the Barbecue and Beers Gang?

Is time up for the barbecue and beers gang? There is literally only supposed to be more of these left (although Vin Diesel suggests different) but public perception is definitely changing. Increasingly it is becoming cooler to hate this franchise. To turn on it, with the popular snarky and 'intellectual' response being, "this franchise has become so stupid and unrealistic", as though the first film was cinema verité of the finest quality. A slice of Italian neo-realism. Bicycle Thieves shit. Fellas, it was always ridiculous, I don't know what series you've been watching this whole time. There's been 10 movies, how have you only just arrived at this conclusion? If anything they're reliably and respectably stupid. Granted they've got sillier in relation to budget but why are you acting like this series turned on you? Seriously, talk shit about Fast and Furious? Tell me what you gon' do, Kelly? Act a Fool!

All that changed from day one is they got more money to engage in their stupidity further. You gotta respect that. It hasn't been all that bad a ride either. Another complaint is that they lost their street racing origins. To some extent, yes they did. However, they always try to throw in at least a detour or two back to the roots. In Fast X, Dom and the new bad guy Dante Reyes (Momoa) square off and shit talk before engaging in a race. Only this time, there are distractions in constant explosions and everybody who rides owns a gun. Whip and strap, men and women of honour and integrity. Dom now being a legend known worldwide for being a gearhead that the streets will defend to the death is absolutely hilarious. Haven't seen such notoriety since Anakin Skywalker was pod racing on the sands of Tatooine.

Still, I personally preferred the street race in the last film. There was this RZA remix of The Prodigy's Breathe and a flashback to young Toretto making his name. My favourite part coming when his amateurish opponent hits the NOS button early prompting a "too soon" from our baby faced tarmac cruncher. I always have time for the silly shot of them all glancing across at each other on the starting line, which has now moved over to being this digitally assisted fake one take as the camera seamlessly moves across each vehicle in an a supposedly unbroken shot. Cinema.

As may be clear, we're firmly in the field of Jacob Kelly guilty pleasures. Except for one thing, I don't feel very guilty about it. I've been an unashamed fan of this series from the start. It had the feel of the '50s hot rod and juvenile delinquent trash released by American International Pictures and New World Pictures. For those unfamiliar, hop straight in to Jack Hill's Pit Stop and get taken for a ride. Over time, the fast and furious films have come way too commercial to ever cement their legacy as carsploitation classics. If Tarantino had made Death Proof now I'm sure the characters would be berating these films over Nicolas Cage's version of Gone in 60 Seconds. Regardless, it's pretty wild seeing the barbecue and beers gang's expansion from robbing 9 inch televisions in the backs of trucks to engaging in global espionage with secret organisations. It may be just as ugly as Marvel movies but it's got one thing those don't and that's the crazy factor.

Who can blame them for widening their influences with the budgets? I say widening, this is limited to about 2 films. Recently, I saw Vin Diesel asked on a red carpet to name his favourite film. A common trend now, which I wish never started because it only reveals how stupid our beloved actors actually are these days in not knowing a single thing about the industry they're meant to work in. You begin to wonder if they ever study technique and do any research for roles or if they just walk in front of a camera all day. It's no wonder that acting theory has hardly developed since Brando with only Nicolas Cage offering anything remotely new to the table. The actors working today are as disposable as the films they star in.

Anyway, Vin Diesel opted to be all artsy picking commie grasser Elia Kazan's lauded anti-union film On the Waterfront. A film which attempts to justify the directors squealing to the house of Un-American Activities. He's a rat bastard that was saved by a brilliant performance by guess who? Marlon Brando. Sadly, not a terrible film that you want to say is a nuanced look at the corruption in unions like Blue Collar but when you know the directors history of being a dirty informant then such a stance falters.

Casting my hatred of the lauded Eli Kazan to one side, I'm not buying that as Vin's favourite film. Perhaps, he digs all the masculinity on show with the brawling on the docks but if we're being honest Vin Diesel has only ever seen two films in his life. They are Goldfinger and Point Break. My man's made an entire career out of copying them. Even going as far as to make his own Moonraker with Fast 9s outing in space. Respect. Don't they always say if you let any series run long enough it will find its way out to space? There's only so long you can jump the shark for until you bounce off the moon. Where we're going we don't need roads.

Hey, the fact that the narrow minded neanderthal Roman Pearce leads this mission says it all. Once he was an interesting character back in 2 Fast 2 Furious but as the series progressed he got shoehorned in to being the idiot who talks too much to fit the whole blockbuster serialised adventure format. A common fate that leaves you thinking, is that still the same character? Nope, Roman the badass became Roman the pea brain, just another stock character to keep up with the likes of Mission Impossible, which is basically just a far superior version of Fast and Furious under the guidance of the skilled Christopher McQuarrie. If there's one thing I know in this world though, it is that you don't leave a ding bat like Roman Pearce in charge.

Vin's performance has got weaker and weaker. We're at a stage now where they roll him on to set, he screws up his face a couple of times to convey the emotion of anger, then says the words, "family", collects his 20 million pay cheque and goes home. He's got an even better gig going on the Guardians series, he doesn't even have to show up for that one but he does have to stretch it to three words with, "I am Groot". Luckily, if he's not feeling doing that again, he can just email in some old outtakes still recorded on his laptop. You should watch his films in reverse, you might see some minor improvement in his acting calibre. The words just in. They're going to go back and give him an academy award for his performance in the Modjo music video for 'Lady'.

Fast X opens and closes with some very choppy editing that nearly puts Rise of Skywalker to shame. A feat, which takes some doing. There's no way a professional did this in a studio with the latest equipment. I don't buy it. Literally, put together by some unfortunate soul suffering the late stages of amphetamine addiction armed with the primitive tools of Sellotape and a pair of scissors crippled by insomnia and working only between the hours of 4am and 6am.

It could be said that the entire film comes off as though it's got Roman Pearce's clueless hands all over it. There is next to no narrative or connective tissue linking individual scenes. Each scene comes at you at total random as though picked out of a hat. Most of the gang are separated in this adventure so we flick between them all with the role of a dice. Zero through line or anything to unite what we see as a central theme or idea or even just for basic coherence. In all its chaos, I'm here for it. So strap in, don't question a thing and let Roman be the boss conducting tactics like he's Mike Basset. Also, I'm starting to wonder why Brian didn't take charge of this mission. He's such an arsehole these days. He never gets involved in the missions anymore and he doesn't even show up to the barbecues. Can't even remember the last time me and the boys were sipping coronas with Dom at the barbecue and I looked over and there was teenage heartthrob Paul Walker with his gorgeous blonde locks flashing me his million dollar smile. Starting to think something might have happened to him. Either kill him off or bring him back as a T-Rex.

Jokes aside, we miss you, Paul. It hasn't been the same without you buddy! Someone must have told these guys that Fast Five was the popular highlight of the series so there's several callbacks to that. Accidentally, this actually brings them back to the low budget Cormanesque origins more so than any street racing could. Why?

The answer: stock footage. There's a really amusing aspect to them trying so hard to keep this story going that they drastically splice new footage of Jason Momoa in to the old frames of Fast Five, five fucking films ago, to make it look like he was involved in the vault heist in Rio. New levels of desperation and I can't say watching them struggle isn't entertaining. It's more than that. It's fucking thrilling. Like watching a learner driver parallel park. Get the deck chairs out and feast your eyes on these morons trying to unbox themselves out of a tight one! Some things you just have to see.

They're all out of road some critics will say. However, that's the fun in this late stage, watching them squirm and wriggle to make a story out of it. Pure refusal to give in and call it quits. For the barbecue and beers gang, the towel is never an option. Apollo Creed already dead before these guys stopping. An image to keep in mind when dealing with this crew is one they created themselves. I refer to the potentially 28 mile long runway from Fast and Furious 6. They'll do anything to keep this nonsense going. And so these films fall in to categorisation of creative stupidity. Full time shark jumpers. Honestly, if anything I admire the audacity. They'll drive cars across buildings and now down dams. It fits in to the same area as Emmerich's Moonfall from last year for its consistent challenging of science. My hat goes off to them, if you want to give me a physics lesson like this, if you want to tell me Isaac Newton is full of shit, then I'm going to listen. Bear in mind, this should not serve as an excuse though for championing bad filmmaking. No, only that if you want to succeed in this field you've got to really push the boundaries on contemporary thinking in matters of science. If Albert Einstein isn't shaking in his grave, you've failed the mission. That is the key to creative stupidity.

When it comes to circumstances concerning logic, Fast X truly excels and is near unmatchable in this department. They say when it comes to popular entertainment, an audience will generally accept one element that strays from reality. Call it the suspension of disbelief principle. This series had that from the outset with its cartoonisation of its nitrous oxide feature.

Who doesn't love it when the screen goes all fuzzy like the character is experiencing the effect of some drug? WHEEEEEEE! Now we're so far beyond that to the point you have to see it to believe it. One of my favourite rules of the series is that cars serve as a shield and so if you smash in to them at high speeds you will always be protected as they absorb any impact. Case in point, Dom in Fast and Furious 6 jumping out of a car across a motorway, catching Letty in mid-air and crashing in to a windshield on the way down. They match that in this one. Right at the climax, Dom's son jumps across from the seat of one car to another in one fluid motion whilst both vehicles are moving at high speeds. At a moment when the film should be getting serious, they opt for this nonsense. Oh God, I'm in shock.

Earlier, Dom literally plays football with a bomb across Rome to stop it rolling in to the Vatican. Only in a Fast and Furious would the logic be to drive in to the bomb to stop it exploding. Another desperate attempt to outdo Fast Fives using giant safes as battering rams. Now they have a burning bomb. I admire the upping of the ante.

Talk about Deus Ex Machinas. They end it all with a stunt of Dom escaping two trucks from the front and back by driving down a dam and nobody dies. Could he not just swerve them and play chicken with those truckers like a normal person? There's no chance Fast X had a writer. It resembles the kind of movies that arose from the 2007-08 writers' strike like Quantum of Solace and Revenge of the Fallen. Where these would throw set piece after set piece seemingly at random, going entire sections without dialogue and including all sorts of false starts and false endings. Watch Quantum of Solace again it literally begins 3 times before the story starts. An absolute narrative nightmare. In Revenge of the Fallen, The Jesus even says, "let's not get episodic, okay, old timer? Beginning, middle, end. Facts. Details. Condense: plot". I'm semi convinced he was actually just talking to Michael Bay behind the scenes and they accidentally included it in to the finished film.

These films had such an improvisational feel that they almost could be considered avant-garde. Of course they were bad but you know what, they were also thoroughly entertaining. In the process, far surpassing your usual boringly bad blockbusters. I'm sure with the current writers' strike, we could end up with more of these outrageous disasters so lock in those seat belts. Car wrecks are back on the menu boys and I'm more excited than I should be about that. If any Elia Kazan motherfuckers start jumping in with any union busting activities or anti-union sentiments, it's fists, alright? I want my Hollywood car wrecks like Lieutenant Aldo Raine wants his scalps.

Expanding on my previous point about vehicular armour, there is a moment in Fast X where Dom drops his car down from a plane on to a motorway crushing a couple of cars as he lands. Visualising this as his superhero pose isn't too big a leap. You can fully see it with the knee bent and fist raised. We're Marvelised now. Normally, I'd hate it but that was just so absurd it bounces back around to just plain old amusing. The 'influences' are out of control on this film. They've always carefully balanced those so that the racing and the car stunts take prevalence but they were not adverse to incorporating the odd fight sequence. This time they've got it all wrong and put too much attention on the fighting. There's one about every 10 minutes on the dot with every member of the cast getting their own, which normally I'd approve of but it shouldn't come at a detriment to what the franchise is known for, which is the car stunts. You sacrifice that, you lose the DNA.

On other films, it hasn't been as much of a problem with the deviations but this one you certainly notice it. Assume they just got nervous about the success of the Wicks and that's why Jason Statham's mate Louis Leterrier was brought in. The streets still remember the dripped in oil fist fight from The Transporter and Unleashed's swimming pool death matches. He actually made technically the second MCU movie too with The Incredible Hulk but most people choose to forget this. I think what happened there is Leterrier and Tim Roth were trying to make this R-Rated action flick, the studio wanted a kids movie and Ed Norton was on some Lawrence Olivier shit bending it in to the theatrical. Results in a bizarre clash of tones.

Leterrier once again doesn't fully get a hold of the movie he's making here. Not that he ever really does handle tones well. Unleashed being a perfect example with its mixing of kung fu, action oriented exploitation and corny sentimentalism that was all too common with the Europacorp model of filmmaking. Always warmed to Europacorp's ambitions to mix the drama and action but the reason Taken was one of the best of those is because it was so darned ugly. Scrapped all the soft bullshit for the Bronson enticing this Psycho-Schradist. Generally, Leterrier always does just enough of the elements that do interest me, despite some howlers scattered about. It's Jason Momoa who's struggled more in Fast X. Whilst he was the one drop of fun in Justice League's snoozefest, he's been such a disappointment over the years. We all know he's capable of making some Schwarzenegger style hard R-Rated action but for some reason he keeps bottling it. How long is he going to make us wait?

Unprofessional as ever to his cast mates, Vin Diesel claims Momoa's overacting is the reason for Fast X's bad response. Although, I'm not on board with what he brings to the table, he's far from the worst thing here. Trust me, there's far too many problems with it to single out his contribution as being the root cause. More so that he's a victim of this current way of playing villains. It's not just him, they're all doing it. He summed up perfectly the problem I've been having the last few years with my villains. As his character paints his nails with his hair in buns, he makes a meta comment on how you have to tone down the masculinity these days. Unfortunately, too many do. Where did all this bland eccentricity come from that’s now become so boring? Bland eccentricity should be an oxymoron right? Make villains sinister again! Where did all the dodgy Russian accents go? See this is why I defended Nolan's Tenet. You were all getting distracted by its abstract unusually complicated plot and wining about how it lacks the typical Nolan exposition. I was getting high off Kenneth Brannagh's Bond villain. Checkmate. I win.

Out of all the cast, it is John Cena as my namesake, Jacob, who adapts best to Leterrier's Europacorp style filmmaking. He makes a stunning entrance by taking out an entire army of bad guys sent in to kill Dom's son. I could have happily had an entire movie on John Cena and Dom's son's road trip across the country in a shitty Subaru thing. Cena reliving his glory days of the '90s by blaring Marky Mark and The Pharcyde. A clear attempt at getting back to the series roots of decades gone by. Don't know whether to be charmed or depressed by the fact the culture I grew up with is now something Dad characters have nostalgia for. I'm after all, a father myself but it isn't pretty. We're getting older fellas, it's happening.

Later, Cena drops from the skies in a Batman style canoe contraption. His entire subplot is pure gold and nailed on what I be wanting. His arc is rounded off with some homo buddy cop antics. He rides on the highway with Dom and sacrifices himself with his final line being, "go save your son", before clearing the way by crashing his cannon car in to a bunch of bad guys and blowing them all up. Perfection. Ladies and gentlemen, Fast and Furious. I see some aren't buying Cena's characters transformation from magnet manipulating mad man in to cool uncle. All I can say is... who cares? Isn't that in every actors contract in this series too? Introduce you as the bad guy for your debut and then in the next film you join the team of the good guys?

Perhaps the most infuriating aspect of Fast X is how badly they botch the penultimate cliffhanger ending. All the Cena/Diesel buddy cop cowboy shit delivers a treat and then you get the choppy editing of the climax after that. Roman arriving in last minute and crashing the squad plane. Dom and his son surviving their fall. They go for the down and out all hope is lost ending but ruin it with this really abysmal editing and that fails to linger on the characters lows long enough or generate any kind of emotional response. Yet, I can almost allow it just on how much of a laughable shambles it is, especially in Roman pulling a Dick Halloran. What I'm going to call heroic black failure in their epic rescue mission being squandered the moment they arrive.

We need to move past the token black characters early death and even past such falsely progressive notions of black excellence. No, we need to make that a thing of the past. I'm all about heroic black failure. Need more of whatever that absurd and mildly racist business is in Hollywood. Big budget black catastrophe. That's the kind of questionable dumb spectacle the studios could really deliver on in their attempts to bring us this thing we call entertainment. Before, I get in to trouble, do I need to explain that was a joke and that Funeralopolis does not promote racism or intolerance?

What I can't allow here is the killing of the question of how do they get out of this mess, thereby destroying the whole nature of the down and out all hope is lost ending. I can forgive all the Deus Ex Machinas and avant-garde escaping of all the situations but was there any need to suggest where the next film would go by adding a layer of hope? Or maybe it's not the optimism that irked me, it was the inclusion of that IDF child killing cunt who I previously happily believed to be deceased in this series. Fuck off Gal Gadot. All the way through I'd defend this and say I'm happy for more Fast and Furious films but if you're bringing back shits like that then I'm checking out the Overlook. Put your cocks back in your pants gearheads because this franchise could soon be over.

When you've got Jason Momoa making jokes now every time someone dies about how they won't be coming to the barbecues any more, you know it can't be far from over. We're more than in self-awareness and parody stage. Time could well be up for the barbecue and beers gang. The end is nigh. We've fallen on hard times and they're shutting us down. Probably deservedly so but we can't disrespect the barbecue and beers gang. We've got 1 more movie. Roar them engines. My gearheads. My Psycho-Schradists. My Kustom Kar Kommandos (RIP Anger). Pimp those rides, put the speakers in the back and install those Playstation 2s. We can't go out without a fight! Ride them Subaru's straight in to the cinema. Don't care if you don't have a Drive-In. Park it in your local Odeon in Row C. Let's see the neon glaring. Let's hear the Joe Budden blaring. Pump. Pump. Pump it up! One last ride? Who will be there? I'll be there. We're 2 Fast! We're 2 Furious!

Talking of last rides, this month is actually my final one living in Sheffield before the big move to Liverpool. So to mark the occasion, we threw a big barbecue ourselves in the tradition of our heroes Jesus Christ and Dominic Toretto. But before that, I spent the day visiting the B29 crash site. Something I'd always wanted to do since arriving in Sheffield. This is no ordinary tourist spot. Back in 1948 a Boeing RB-29A Superfortress descended too early in low cloud and crashed in to the Peak District. They called her Over Exposed. She was headed to Burtonwood. Her mission: photograph nuclear testing at Bikini Atoll. This would also include the dropping of an atomic bomb by B29 Superfortress Dave's Dream. But fate would have other ideas.

Captain Tanner thought he'd cleared the hills and began his descent. Over Exposed hit the ground and burst in to flames. All 13 passengers died in the crash. Like Pearl Harbour, they never cleared the wreckage and the damaged aircraft equipment forms its own graveyard. Getting there though was no easy task. We started the day with a stabbing. We love stabbings in Sheffield. We can't get enough of them. It makes sense really, cause after all, this is the city of sex and steel. And what is a knife but a phallic metallic item used to penetrate people. What better symbol of this city than the blade? I was just glad this one hadn't happened on my street. Last time, this absolute joker of a cop tried to tell me I couldn't go in to my own flat because the area was (James) cordoned off. Told him whatever happens I'm going home. When a man gets it into his head that he's going home, he's going home. Just ask Michael Myers. Eventually the no good cop caved in and I was escorted by a couple of pesky piggies through the crime scene like I was DCI John Luther.

Google informed me that the bus that would take me to where I wanted to go could be caught on West Street. That was a lie. This made me miss the 1pm'er. It was a Sunday. There couldn't be many more buses. I checked, okay there was two more, this could be done. Show me destroyed planes. The next bus would be at 3pm. All I needed to do was find the actual spot. Rockingham Street. Fuck sake that was right by The Moor where the stabbing had gone down this morning. The bus stop better not be (James) cordoned off too. The forces were fucking with me.

I headed down there hoping not to see the dreaded blue and white strip. Nope, all clear. The bus arrives on schedule and I hop on. Still capped at £2. Window seat. Talking Heads Television Man blaring through the ears. A true Kelly anthem. I'm feeling it. Mashallah and all that. It's going to be a good day. He has willed it.

The bus comes to a screeching halt. Every car in front is Tokyo Drifting and pulling u-turns in the middle of the street. What is going on? Windows go down. Information relayed vehicle to vehicle. There's been a crash up ahead. 2 bikers thought they were Mad Max and collided with some cars. "What's it like?", asks the bus driver. "Well these things are never pretty, are they?", throws back a menacing onlooker as he laughs to himself and drives away like he's in some David Lynch movie. And a good day to you, sir. Wait, we can't pull a u-turn, we're a fucking bus on Snakes Pass. There's no room for that shit. This could take some time. How we getting out of this one?

We don't. For the next 150 minutes we are stranded. Has anyone read the short story The Southern Thruway? Has anyone seen the Godard movie Weekend? We form a little temporary society in the apocalypse. Our driver announces that this is the first time he's done this route and he doesn't have a clue what he's doing. He also does not think he can reverse the mile or two back to a spot where he could u-turn. He has two assistants with him that seem younger but are somehow his boss. One of them still tries hard to put on a low gravelly voice to tell you he's going through puberty and uses work acronyms and jargon on the general public to appear intelligent. The other has long greasy hair and looks like he's well and truly in his first relationship with Monster energy drinks. What's he doing working for the buses, hasn't he got a school to shoot up? Christ, he stinks.

If we are to survive, we have to put our faith in these three representatives of the Hulleys of Baslow bus service. Two passengers can't hack another minute and decide to get off and walk to next bus stop. Who can blame them? Jargon man smooths out his high vis and lays down the law, "It's a 50 mile an hour road. You're putting your life in your hands" "We'll take our chances", say the 2 passengers and they abandon ship.

Monster energy man was stinking up the bus. We'd hit 30 degrees and this bus had become a sweatbox that could well become our grave if we weren't careful. If we have to start eating people, I'm eating this bastard first. Kelly has chosen. I sat at the back of the bus smacking my tongue against my lips like Ronaldinho. Every second warming to the idea. Somebody's getting fucking eaten. Anything to get rid of that pungent smell. Yes, this act of cannibalism would be a public service. Perhaps the first in history. They were going to give me medals for this. Whilst this was going on, Jargon guy was on the exit options, doing the maths calculating the size of the bus and the roads. Eventually, he realised what we all realised when we first stopped, the bus was too big. In the end, the Jargoner and the Monster Man jogged to the nearest town to get signal so we could update the Hulleys of Baslow head office. Whatever good that would do. Anything to get the sweaty one off the bus. Now I realised I had another problem, my phone battery was dying and so too were my headphones. Had to switch off to preserve the juice and so filled my time speaking with my fellow passengers.

There were only 2 others left excluding the driver and his useless assistants. A green haired female on her way back to see her family for a Sunday roast. Our other co-passenger was an old biddy who was near completely deaf. Something we soon figured out. Somehow she didn't have a clue the bus had even stopped, despite being held up for about an hour by this point. An ostrich with its head so far in the fucking sand it saw the Three Gorges Dam get built. Bless her. In raised volumes, we gave a break down as to what had happened. We hear the sirens roar past us as an ambulance zooms ahead. Eventually, rancid and gravel voice return to pass on the information they have received. This just in. They're going to close the road. That much is clear. But they haven't decided what they're going to do with us yet. So we're just going to "hang tight" until the road is back open. Could be a couple of hours. Could be a couple of days.

Right, need to get my head screwed on and keep cannibalism off the brain. Cool it, Armie Hammer. The assistants ask us our destinations, working out potential new routes if we have to detour. I hold my nose as I speak to avoid taking in the smell. It's gonna take a lot not to kill this kid. Keep it together. When they get to the deaf biddy, they look around at us confused as to why she doesn't answer them. "YOU HAVE TO SHOUT. SHE'S DEAF!", cry out greeny and myself in unison. A policeman on a bike rides up to the driver's window and asks, "Why can't you move? We've closed the road you know". SYPD's finest, as sharp as ever. The bus driver had to be the one to tell him we're in a giant oblong on a bendy road, there's nowhere to spin it round. Buses weren't made to go on Snakes Pass and cops weren't made to be cops. He still isn't getting it, the bus driver draws him a diagram. He finally gets it. Doofus on the bike tells us he'll speak to his superiors and see what he can do about getting us out of here. "Just hang tight in the meantime", he says and speeds off on his bike like Count Dooku.

The next vehicle to approach is a van to clear up the damages. We see the bashed in remains from Fury Road. 2 cars. 2 bikes. The menacing onlooker was right, it wasn't pretty. Greeny winces at the sight. In a surreal and still unexplained moment, 5 minutes later the clean-up van returns in the opposite direction back to crash site with the written off vehicles still attached. "What? What was that?", said greeny. "I have no words", I added. Noone did. Some things just happen. Greeny recommends I go all the way to Glossop and get the train all the way to Manchester so I can get a train from there back to Sheffield. Going backwards to go forwards. This was the logic we were operating on now. There was no alternative. She says forget my hike. Jargon guy agrees. It had become too risky. I told them I couldn't abandon my mission. It had some purpose, although I wasn't sure what yet.

Greeny manages to get a signal and informs me she's messaged her Dad about Glossop train times. He thinks the last one could be about 8pm. We were half 5 now. This was going to be incredibly tight. As soon as were back up and running I could check to confirm Greeny's Dad's suspicions. There would be 20 minutes before my stop. In the meantime, I checked possible routes on my phone. Thank God for offline saved maps. Originally, I was going to walk from the bus stop along Devil's Dike to the plane crash site and then walk straight back the way I came and get the next bus in to Sheffield. That's about an hour 20 walk. Nothing too serious. Nice little cure for the hangover from the night before. Now look at me. Since there was now no bus that would be heading back to Sheffield, all I could do was pick up Doctor's Gate and walk all the way to fucking Glossop. Adding an extra 140 minutes to the walk. So 3 hours in total and I had to make it in time for the final bus supposedly at 8pm. This was becoming near impossible.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I had to stay on this bus and get off in Glossop. Abandon the hike. Could I just come back another weekend? No. No. I couldn't do that. I refused to accept that. There wasn't another free weekend between now and the move. It was now or never. I had to do this. Even if it meant being late to work tomorrow, spending hundreds of pounds on B and Bs in God damn Glossop and forking out on taxis to escape my situation. Something in my heart felt like I had to do this. I had to keep going. I had to see that B29 scattered across the hills. What meaning that would have, if there was to be any, it would soon reveal itself, I was sure of it.

Judge Dredd comes back on his little bike. Pulls up driver's window side. Says, "Road is nearly clear now. Should be about 5 more minutes and we can escort you through". Greeny, Jargoner, Monster Man and I heard just fine. Our resident elder, the poor old biddy, put down her Jeremy Clarkson magazine and sat up looking for answers. Everyone laughed and shouted back at her, "SHOULD BE FIVE MORE MINUTES NOW!". Times up. We're moving again. Judge Dredd lights up the way. Just 20 minutes until my stop to decide whether to get off or give up on my mission. I had my eye on the signal strength. Once I saw a pathetic 3G in the corner, I was searching train times. My stop was approaching. My fingers flickered faster.

Last train is 8.20pm giving me 2 hours and 20 to walk what Google had told me is a 2 hour 50 walk. Well, as had been proven that day, Google could be wrong and I had faith in my own pace to shave off half an hour. Fuck it, I was going for it. The game was on. We were going all the way. You want to live life, you have to gamble. I smacked that stop button so hard and drive came to an abrupt stop.

The B-52s Love Shack fired me up and put a spring in my step. I bid my fellow passengers good night and good luck. It was every man for themself now. We'd survived an ordeal together and I would almost definitely never see them again. I finally understood the meaning of The Southern Thruways hectic ending. There wasn't time to think about that. I had planes on the brain. None of this moderate 3 miles an hour business, this isn't amateur hour, it was brisky 4.5 miles an hour or spend the night in Glossop. Devil's Dike was flat. Totally flat. What we liked. Call Meat Loaf because Jacob Kelly was zooming along like a Bat out of Hell!

All was splendid again until the hills arrives. Who put those there? There is no understating how painful they were. Especially, when you'd been operating at peak pace the last 20 minutes. Might have tripped a couple of times on the way, leading to a re-think of the entire strategy. Surplus items out the pockets and in to the bag. Shoelaces properly tied. One ear linking me straight to George Harrison, the other open to the world's ambiance. "If not for you Babe, I couldn't even find the door. I couldn't even see the floor. I'd be sad and blue, if not for you", spoke George softly. The usual fear settled in that if you rock up alone out here, then fuck up and slip on uneven ground, you might just stay out here forever. That's the deal. You saw what happened to Julian Sands. Taken before his time, cut short by the very thing he sought to please him. Rest in peace, you beautiful man. Hard to care though about the darker consequences when you've got George's words of encouragement in your ear. That's the walker's code. The pact you make. Soon as you step out the house and on to the green, you have to accept these things may happen. Not the worst place to lay your head either. Nature's a cruel mistress.

By the time Bob Dylan's Knocking on Heaven's Door came on, I felt like I couldn't be far off myself. I'd reached my peak but had I reached hers? "Mama Take this badge off me, I can't use it any more. It's getting dark, too dark to see". You get old. You get useless. Had I suddenly found myself in a Peckinpah movie? Just a fading, frail man with a once plausible dream. The fate of the plains had been decided without me. There was no place for me now. Every step carried the weight of my mission. All pursuits were futile and only prolonging the inevitable. Was there any point continuing?

The skies clear. The sun shines down on 3 goats lying on top of a rock. Van Morrison dances over a few piano keys to bring me in to his finest piece. "And the caravan is on the its way. I can hear the merry gypsies play. Mama, mama look at Emma Rose. She's a-playin' with the radio. La la la la la la la la la la la la la la!". I find the strength to make it over the final ridge. The goats guide me home. They walk off into the distance and I follow close behind. That is when I notice the loose strip of metal. More and more obstruct the path like breadcrumbs. Until there it is, Over Exposed in all her glory. Tarnished beyond belief, she'd seen better days but her power still undeniable. She lured me in.

Laying eyes on the endless destruction, all I could think was one thing. Ballardian. Strictly Ballardian. It reminded me of when we were kids at school and people would unzip each other's bags, rock them up and down, launch the contents across the floor with a big mischievous grin across their face and scream, "Scatter!". We were animals. Only this time, the contents were never re-collected and the pieces weren't put back together. They would lie forever where they were left. The youthful yesterday had been immortalised like a dream for all to see. Apparently, in the '70s, Captain Tanner's wedding ring was finally found in the rubble and given back to his daughter. One more answer to the riddle. Who knows what other treasures this mysterious site holds?

The playlist had now conveniently got up to Neutral Milk Hotels In The Aeroplane Over the Sea. A rather fitting tribute, I hoped Captain Tanner and the boys would have approved. Whilst not approving of the crews nuclear activities, I did form a sort of kinship with them when I read about how they probably never knew they hit the ground as it states on the memorial plaque. Die like you live. For what else can you do? Ah Captain Tanner, ever a man with his head in the clouds. "Never want to come down. Never want to put my feet back down on the ground" That's the motto for these guys. Their death would be like the ending of Runaway Train, meeting their demise at the perfect moment. One frame more and the poetry, the celebration, the immortalisation of the act would be lost. One more frame and they would be idiots. But the cut fell perfectly and they went out as Kings. Respect it, firmly respect it. Samurais were often criticised for resorting to death too quickly. Maybe they did. But they were right about one aspect. A person should regularly marinate over their own death. This is a good death.

I'd brushed up close with morbid curiosity. Gotten way closer than I intended. It dawned on me, why had I chosen to come here as my final hike across the peaks before my departure? What hadn't I turned back at every opportunity when disaster struck? When all signs pointed to endangerment, why had I continued? Why did I want to see the pieces of a crashed plane so badly that I'd put myself on the line constantly? The wreckage before me had all the answers I'd ever need. Each piece of machinery told the story a thousand times over. I finally knew why I was here. I couldn't think of a better symbol of my time in Sheffield. A total plane crash from start to finish. A failure in just about every regard. But it was beautiful, bloody beautiful. 8 years. That's not nothing. I have hated her, I have loved her and I have hated her again. I have lived here. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It is what it is. All things good and bad should be drank to and celebrated, period. I raised my Sprite bottle in to the air and cried out to the heavens, "ARRIVERDERCI!".

Burial site completed, it was now a mad rush to race the last train home. They threw everything at me. Hills so steep you had to go arse down, lightning and thunder storms. Nothing could take the smile of my face. I'd tried my fair share of drink and drugs in my time but nothing can match the endorphins released during a hike. The great outdoors. A high nobody can take from you. It's your right. Your gift that cares not for your background. Open to all who dare. You just have to be willing to overcome the initial hurdles but once you do, there's nothing quite like it. To see what was here before you and what will be here long after you. Green for miles around that cannot be bought and sold or passed around from business to business. You would never see a student accommodation out here. They couldn't touch her. She is what she always was. Her heart and soul could not be taken.

I thought of the recently deceased Cormac Mccarthy who once wrote possibly my favourite passage of literature, "Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence". Pavement's In The Mouth A Desert began pumping through my ears and I'd never felt so uncaring of a downpour. Standing tall and undefeated, "The King of Id". Did I make it back for the final train? Of course I did. With 15 minutes to spare!

Skip to the weekend after and I am invited to a barbecue. Most annoyingly, all the way in Featherbed Moss, which is right opposite the B29 crash site. So had I been invited the week before, I wouldn't have had the hassle of going to Manchester to get back to Sheffield. Oh well. In attendance is Fabian Barthez, Mike Delaney, The Goshima (who we're back on good terms with), Long Tall Sally, Warwick Tumley, Nathaniel Rourke, Shelley Porter and none other than Bonehead Bill. Warwick Tumley is the owner of the fine establishment. A former acid head with a love for Indian culture. Catch him at gaffs with his four foot sitar. It's either that or his pool cue. He carries both everywhere. One in each hand.

Let's go to about 18:06 on this one. Warwick is lighting the stove with his toes. A new trick he'd learnt from God knows where. He looks up at the sky, unable to comprehend just how hot this weather has been of late. "Will it end in fire or ice?", says his girlfriend Shelley who wonders on over and opens and umbrella. "I seem to have forgotten my disguises", replies Warwick. I have no idea what this means. Probably some sex thing knowing these two horn dogs. Before I can think too much about what he meant by the comment, a dove circles past for about the fifth time today distracting my attention.

"Do you think it knows something we don't?", says The Goshima, noticing me noticing the bird. I shrugged and stroked my chin. During all this, Long Tall Sally is weaving in and out, filming everyone on her new camcorder like its 2004. Full of that manic energy, Livin' La Vida La Loca, life of the party and here was me birdwatching at the barbecue again. When did I become so fatherised? I'd fallen on hard times, it was clear to see. "They say before a storm birds take refuge by the sea. The scientists believe they use infrasound to detect when it's coming", continues The Goshima "Didn't have you down for a bird guy, Goshima?", I say. "And thou treble-dated cow. That thy sable gender mak'st. With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st. 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go", adds The Goshima unpoetically whilst sipping on a beer. "Who the fuck said that?", I question. "Just some nob head", he replies, taking another sip of his drink.

I'd never been more grateful to see Bonehead Bill, The Goshima had clearly gone doolally. Maybe it was the weather. This heat will do that to a man. I prayed for rain. Anything to not see a man stoop so low again. "Any new developments on the JFK assassination front, Kelly?", asks Bonehead. "Well I'm working on my grand theory for this", I answer. "Oh, I see, go on then", says Bonehead mockingly nodding his head with his arms folded. He was provoking me to say more nonsense, knowing full well what he was doing and I fell for the bait like a rookie on his first day of school. "Well erm...", I start to say before coughing to clear my throat. "My theory is that JFK's assassination was pure cinema. Pure uncut unadulterated cinema", I declare.

"For fuck sake. what is it with you guys and the JFK assassination? Let the man rest", says The Goshima. "Sir, November 22nd 1963 is the day democracy died", I jokingly interject. "Do not forget your dying King", throws in Bonehead in his best Kevin Costner voice, bringing on a case of the giggles in myself. "He was better than Trump I guess. America's best president, you think?", inquires The Goshima. "Fuck no. That would be Richard Millhouse Nixon", I announce, barely able to keep a straight face. "I mean you're forgetting the fact Kennedy goes down in history for being the president to turn the white house in to his own personal brothel. So that makes him rank pretty highly. But you're right there's no beating the King", says Bonehead.

The Goshima sighs heavily and having had enough of the juvenile conversation taking place, walks away to start a more meaningful discussion with Nathaniel Rourke about Hou Hsiao-Hsien's The Assassin. Leaving us idiots to continue babbling. "I think we wound him up again", says Bonehead. "We need to stop doing that", I reply. My eyes drift again back to my dove who is now perched on top of the disused washing line. "So, you're grand theory on JFK's assassination being pure cinema, can you expand on that, please?", demands Bonehead. "Alright, so this came to me the other day watching Brian De Palma's Blow Out", I state. "Oh, I get all my ideas from Brian De Palma movies", mocks Bonehead. "Shut up, do you want to hear my theory or not?", I ask. Bonehead composes himself and finally utters, "continue"

"So, I think we can assume that political assassinations have taken place since the dawn of time, right? There's one thing for me that separates JFK assassination from the rest. The one thing no-one counted on", I ramble.

"You're talking about the Zapruder film?", interjects Bonehead. "Correct. The best director in movie history. You have to wonder then is the main thing that separates the last two centuries from the rest then cinema? The Zapruder film would have never happened before. Assassinations and cover ups have always taken place but now we can prove it. You wanna try that shit, we got you. We can't be fooled any more. But that has its consequences. There's a fallout effect".

"We can't hide from the truth any more. The effect that's gotta have on the public conscious is insane. There's the entire opposite too. The whole cover up involving fake photo after fake photo. Cinema to expose and cinema to lie. Movies, the most amazing art form of the last 2 centuries. The greatest achievement since the Egyptians started scribbling on papyrus. But also in many ways our downfall. It's in its nature. It is the celebration of the death of a moment. You've seen Peeping Tom, right? All this filming isn't healthy. Morbidity and cinema have always been so closely connected. And so is JFK and cinema. We never knew the man but we can watch his final moments in a loop over and over like a ghost in the machine. His final image is engrained forever in celluloid like with Blow Out, when he puts Sally's scream in those slashers. His death isn't his own to keep. It's for all to see. His grave is in the 8 millimetres. 12.29. The first shot fires. The last shot fires. It'll just keep bouncing on and on. Forwards and backwards. Dead. Alive. Dead. Alive. A snake eating its own tail. Basinski shit. Hence why JFK's murder was pure cinema. They're synonymous. It's the only way I can explain my increasing fascination with it...", I ramble some more.

Before I even finish, I hear Bonehead's chair screech back and he walks away as if caught in a trance, his eyes focused on something in the distance. I'm left alone. Nobody is speaking. Louis Armstrong's Struttin' with some Barbecue is all that can be heard over some tinny speakers. "Listen, fucknuts, don't fucking ask me for my big JFK theory and then walk off like that", I shout, falling on death ears. I notice Long Tall Sally filming me again, sensing that intrusive camcorder of hers in my face once more and I wave her away with my hand. She doesn't get the message and so I scream, "Sally, fuck off". That's when I look up and realise she isn't filming me but something behind me. Something everybody at the barbecue is now staring at with terrified looks on their faces, "what are you filming?", I ask.