The similarity isn’t that both are about hypothetical issues. Imagination and spurious possibility is what the world is based on, just look at the derivatives market if you want an example of how a system based on trading things that aren’t actually there makes people actual, real money.

Vincenzo Natali’s Splice is to all box office purposes an SF film about genetic engineering. The plot focuses on Elsa and Clive, a couple pursuing dazzling careers as biochemists in a pharmaceutical unit. Their avant-garde approach, mutating genes to grow entirely new species and proteins that – they hope – can save the world, is combined with youth and good looks. Which obviously means they’re on the cover of Wired and their lab resembles a home for thrash punks who secretly loved science, grew up and put on a white coat (complete with DIY badge accessories). Of course, focusing on making new and as yet non-existant creatures means that you’re not focused on your own gene replication through procreation. A lack of children is probably why Elsa is so keen to bring a human-animal gene splice into the world as part of a secret experiment conducted at the back of the lab. It’s at this point where the plot is predictably pushed from joy in challenging boundaries to a harrowing semi-horror SF.

There are no end of film summaries around which will tell you what happens in it. You could even watch it. But to summarise, the key plot points in Splice are: genetic mutation, using your own genetic material to create a winged amphibious omnivore, colluding with your partner to raise a winged amphibious omnivore which you then seduce, de-humanising your child-pet by removing its sting, gender mutuation, inter-special rape and death.

That it’s a fairly issue-rich film isn’t the issue because, in the abstract, most films are. But while you’re invited to judge Splice using some very convenient conventions, is isn’t an allegory for playing God. It’s about the inherent dangers of an idle world and the inherent danger of wanting to Get Things Done without Being Arsed to actually, really, do them.

From Frankenstein to GM foods to Dolly the Sheep, the notion of human experimentation, genomes and discoveries are by their nature subject to consideration about creation, its limits and the ethics about changing practices which pose as much challenge as they do benefit. Adopting a polemical viewpoint is very simple in this scenario: by doing something that wouldn’t occur in nature you are playing God and that is wrong. Or equally: by denying others the opportunity to benefit from these wonderful discoveries you are potentially killing others that could survive which makes you a murderer. Unfortunately, polemical arguments are quite difficult to win given the evidence that aeroplanes, cars and chocolate bars weren’t grown from the ground and there are still continents were swathes of the population are being denied anti-retrovirals – people make things as much as they destroy stuff. This is neither good or bad – it happens. As a digression, another shoddy analysis of Splice would be that it is in fact a film about parenting and that, denied our biological imperative to reproduce, our (in this case it’s Elsa who initiates, so therefore it MUST be about women in the workplace, right?) thwarted desires will always manifest themselves in a need to nurture and pass on our traits in some form. The fact that Dren (the amphi-omni-winged mutant child of Clive and Elsa) sleeps with and murders/attempts to murder her parents is therefore a pseudo-Fredian tale about the damage our projected desires do to our children.

Except it clearly isn’t a film about God or children or even bad science. It’s a film about being bone idle and the consequences of being at once ambitious and sloppy. Elsa and Clive have the opportunity to make a meaningful difference in the work that they do. They are funded by a pharmaceutical company who, while they are a commercial enterprise, have been happy to fund massive amounts of R&D and want a return on their investment for their shareholders. This is just venture capitalism or the world of work; rich companies or people with money give it to people who are talented but don’t have any and the people who receive the money do things to justify that investment. Except Elsa and Clive have a problem with doing what their benefactors want and in Elsa’s words ‘don’t want to waste five years’ doing work that they don’t see as meaningful or rather, work that will get them on more magazine covers. So they could make a difference but choose not to, ploughing ahead with what they want to do because they’re impatient.

So they’re keen and ambitious – what’s wrong with that when they so evidently want to make a difference and possibly save lives? Sure, that’s laudable. When it’s accompanied by careful thought and a sound rationale as to why you’re actions will do this and some consideration of the risks and opportunity costs involved. Health and Safety assessments wouldn’t make Splice riveting, but it’s precisely because the decision to firstly splice genes to make Dren followed by implanting her embryo are made in hasty, half-whispered conversations or domestic squabbles that it all goes wrong, not the appropriation of any demi-god status. Demi-gods don’t stand behind locked doors shouting at their partners ‘this is what’s known in couples therapy as emotional hijacking’ as their significant other implants an embryo in a machine. And while I’m no biochemist, I’m pretty sure that all of the medical and scientific professionals I know are pretty amused by their portrayal as rock-loving renegades. I mean, they have good haircuts and commendable taste in pop culture, it’s just that when they go to work it’s about, well, work until clocking out time. Not like the Splice lab where junior techs listen to hair metal and piss about with pipettes while Clive’s brother fails to spot that one of the N.E.R.D creations has actually changed gender.

It’s Gavin, Clive’s brother, who compounds the terminal laziness that defines Dren’s existence. The character is faced with the knowledge that he should be more than curious about the project that his brother and brother’s girlfriend have undertaken in the lab: their attention is diverted from achieving the goals that will save the lab from being axed, they are spending less and less time on core activities and not picking up on significant developments such as hormonal changes in their mutants in the public domain. Yet he remains complicit, not quiet about his suspicions. Even when he eventually finds out about Dren when he enters the basement where she’s been stashed and is nearly maimed by her he continues to be compliant and mute. It is only when it’s far too late, when Dren is both strong, winged and homicidal that Gavin drags in external backup because he ‘feels like they have to know’. Of course, it’s too late for intervention or him and his death is more an allegory about the dangers of procrastination than a lesson in playing God and its effect on innocent people.

The point? The things we make are destructive and turn out badly not because we’re evil for messing with the fundamentals of life in the first place but because we do it for the wrong reasons, we have no idea what we’re doing or we’re in such a hurry to assess the outcome that we don’t check things like the content or whether or creation has wings and will kill us in the end. Applied Splice is reading ‘How to change your life in 60 seconds’, liposuction as a first-resort and factoring in at least one year for exam re-takes into a medium-term study plan. But if the thought that valuing results without the requisite preparation and effort is too, well, draining, then just sack it off and keeping surfing the net. Start, here with a reasons why Splice can’t happen because the ‘Science’ isn’t believable (they haven’t read Ben Goldacre’s Bad Science, clearly). Or this one that focuses on all the complex, new and difficult moral and philosophical questions that Spliced raises with comparisons to all the other films like it.

Baking and eating cake is one thing. Selling it and pretending that it’s ‘art’ or much better than investment banking is interesting. And the fear of grown people moving away from childhood playtime in the kitchen with mother because the prospect of failure is all too real is probably a pathology with a name.

Cake is the window dressing for big misogynists who jam them into windows, juxtapose them with stupidly expensive products to somehow make the object fetish a homely experience that you could rack up in your own oven to sell more high heels. But the uber-mensch of evil has to be the cupcake. The crude, coloured symbol of a world where no one works anymore, even if they wanted to. And a symbol that – despite being saturated in fat, evil and pointlessness – is bizarrely popular and a lucrative product.

In tandem with the global economic meltdown, the cake has sprung up like an floury atomic mushroom as the salvation to afternoon sugar dives, recently redundant city workers and dentists who wondered where the quality cavities were going to come from if everyone started taking on public health messages on board. Bakeries carve a profit margin from customizing their goods by making them different colours. Or different sizes. Or flavours. Some decide to make them macho.

The so-called resurgence of the cupcake in pop culture is pinned on Sarah Jessica Parker’s malnourished character wolfing one on the steps of a NY bakery. It has been said, completely unreasonably, that the cupcake is a selfish cake which chimes with a culture of self-preservation at all costs and explains why a single woman in her 30sis seen eating one in the first place. But there’s little point in analyzing why a woman eating a cake by herself and not portioning it out into birdlike pieces to share with her hatstand friends is equivalent to sitting on a big box shouting: IT’S MINE, ALL MINE AND YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY. I SPIT ON EMPATHY AND WOULD STRANGLE UNBORN CHILDREN IF I COULD. A fictional character who exists to avoid meaningful sexual relationships, deify a daddy-figure and write sentences on a laptop that can later be used as solipsistic groin-searching soliloquy is entertainment of the point-laugh-pity variety, not a baked good endorsement.

Where it’s come from is best left to spurious home-economics analysis. The cupcake market, however, reveals endemic social problems that should have been left on a doily but have somehow crept into the mass market. They’re basically fairy cakes which have infected the world with their abundant, undercooked, smelling-slightly-of-raw-egg presence in fetes, church halls and anywhere where you have to bring and buy. They should be brilliant because simplicity is good. Anyone can make them. Everyone does. And when bourgeouise social duty calls upon young and old to make a culinary contribution, invariably, they’re shit.

After today, I might have to get one. I knew already that people CAN take decent pictures on them – Jemima’s website Jebaloo, or London: mostly through an iphone can testify. Her blog proves the good ishot is not just a fluke, even if it takes an ex-professional photographer to coax more than motion blur from the very basic photo function. If you’re still sceptical, more proof positive exits in the form of 100 amazing iphone photos by people who are also obscenely good. But it was only when my Smena 8M packed up (okay, I forgot that you have to do EVERYTHING on the charming Soviet fucker and wrecked yet another film by exposing to light) and I didn’t have any 35mm film that I borrowed an iphone to do some test shots.

To my surprise, it picked up more than pixels. Even better, when the jpegs were dropped into photoshop, they didn’t look absolutely terrible…

I once saw this woman who I knew lived alone from the weird pile of egg boxes and junk in her living room just take off her clothes in the kitchen and put them straight into the washing machine ready to wash them for the next day because linen baskets are just pointless inventions by IKEA and the Swedish autocrats of home furnishing anyway. Another time I woke up scared that I was without doubt going to die as my giant face towered 2m tall at the bottom of the garden before the scene changed and I realized the neighbours had picked up a projector and were watching a film on the third floor of their tower block cinema.

It wasn’t an anthropological study with rigour, I know. But I like to think I learned something from my time at the window that I wouldn’t’ have done had I, say, never taken up smoking in the first place. That basically if you remove the urge to create, procreate and make our names come first in Google searches, we’re very boring creatures. Sure, there are people who cure social ills, make them, make themselves ill with the burden of brilliance and still make time for a heavyweight CV crammed with Bluechip experience and an ‘Interests’ section that’s actually interesting. But the rest of us have fired up our search engines, bought the box set and settled in for a slow sedentary decline. The rest of us are waiting for zombies.

Since Monday I’ve gone from not knowing that the BBC had a digital music channel called 6 Music to knowing that it faces the off switch; that Lily Allen thinks this is the death knell for new British music, David Bowie thinks stations like 6 keep the ’spirit of music’ alive and Ed Vaizey – like me – didn’t know it existed at all and didn’t particularly care. Until he listened, that is and realised it had a ‘passionate and articulate’ fan base who can presumably vote as well as creating polysyllabic soundbites.

It’s been a very quick story to catch and no doubt social networks have sagged with soggy sentiments like ‘Save 6 and save music!’, ‘Sign the petition for BB6!’ and ‘If I use lots of exclamation marks people will think I’m passionate even if I can’t punctuate!!!’. A whole 90,00 people signed up to a Facebook group in a day. The is the kind of viral marketing that people who attend Google ranking workshops have wet dreams about, that and all the pithy copy and the very public support of right on, left of centre press.

So why I don’t I want to slay the BBC for making me pay a licence fee and then having the audacity to cut funding and the chance to listen to Lauren Laverne live online? Why as a music lover am I not making 10ft banners and recruiting likeminded citizens to romp the streets spreading the music to tune in and save all that is sacred about sound? For me, it’s related to some very simple and, for those who have been committed and genuine listeners of 6, possibly upsetting factors.

The main one being that none of this is about music. Yes, there are superb broadcasters who know music and want to communicate something they’re passionate about to an equally engaged audience. They may not be totally throttled by the demands of a playlist so constricted that a GP would diagnose a severe nut allergy. But, like music television which has long ceased to devote itself entirely to music videos (an invention made wholly by MTV as a promo outlet before the channel began to think programming quasi-real series about models-turned- lobotomised-trust-funders was the way forward), the concept of staying loyal to a one source seems like an archaic business model.

This is not to say that people are fickle beats who are incapable to fidelity to a provider of content and entertainment. But the internet isn’t just for porn and posting sentences exhorting people to support various causes and tend to their virtual vegetable patch. It’s a brilliant source of new music and platforms for artists and communities to build a fan base, share content and recommend similar artists without having premises and overheads and egos to manage in order to do so.

The democratisation of the internet which made expansion to include ‘niche’ channels like 6 possible is the very thing that makes it difficult to sustain without extensive awareness that it’s there. It’s pretty difficult when your choices of Radio station are limited to listening to Chris Moyles testing whether speech counts as proof of owning a brain cell or listening to a channel that no one’s ever heard of because it’s never promoted anywhere. If you don’t know about something, how are you expected to know it exists, much less expect it to compete against a flagship product.

It could do, too. It’s hardly as if it really were the fringe venue for unsigned artists who, without 6’s patronage, will starve in a hovel in Hove. Hove is quite affluent and 6’s current playlist isn’t revolutionary. I mean, Vampire Weekend, Goldfrapp, Friendly Fires and Jimi Hendrix are all great choices. Some of the bands have Myspace pages instead of being featured, established artists. But you can’t tell me that a station that features the Arctic Monkeys isn’t populist, even if they have come over all quirky and popped Rammstein on because they probably count as world music.

I do hope that 6 gets saved. Evidently it will make a lot of people very happy to have all of their rare music back.. But if that doesn’t happen and people want to, say, discover new music among seminal works by consummate craftsmen, chosen by people who’ve run a radio station for free purely for their love of music and do this without promotion or interruption (except for news bulletin in French on the hour), I’d recommend you listen to Radio Sing-Sing. It’s French pirate radio at it’s best and it’s very, very good.

French twins. Impeccably dressed in matching cream raincoats and black drainpipe jeans, both toted carrier bags from the same shop (Joy) and whipped out matching Moleskin notebooks to take notes on artists they liked. Awesome.

Raincoats = de rigeur

The complete wanker below must have a great phsyio. He reclined motionless – presumably in rapture – for long enough to do damage to the majority of his vertebrae and confuse the little girl who tried to copy his contortions.

It’s pretty clear the art wasn’t the primary reason for his visit…

If the thought of being ogled puts you off public displays of art you can always stare in wonder at the hoarding on the building site at the back of the Tate Modern, just off Park Street. The illustrator who did this either comes from a distant solar system or has a worryingly warped view of the homeless, as the caption ‘resting on the bridge’ reveals. For future linguistic reference, perceptive illustrator, the verb ‘resting’ connotes sleep or relaxation after exertion, not ‘rough sleeping’.

However, the most visually interesting thing in Southwark at the moment can’t be found in or near a gallery. It has no funding and is of no interest to the art world. Shame. The Bricklayer’s Arms bus stop on the New Kent Road is both easy to get to and quite a smart statement.

It’s reasonable to get pissed off if you’re sitting in a silent room and all you can hear is a tap dripping. But would you know it was still doing it if you moved rooms? Next door, upstairs, in the garden? Even if I took the bus to the local supermarket I can hear the rhythm of the drops at the roundabout by the trolley park at the edge of the canal where the kids dump them in instead.

Like a faulty aertex ceiling I find human suffering just as impossible to switch off to even if the steady drip, drip, drip of despair is in a distant continent, not my living room.

I did doubt this occasionally. The increasing frequency of parties, gatherings – in fact, noisy social interaction involving more than one person and a TV screen – made any kind of contemplative meditation impossible in the rented kingdom I called my home. The shared areas were a Goya etching, natural disaster in microcosm and testament that if you don’t adhere to a well-planned rota, pestilence and disease are the only logical outcomes.

That and creating a desire to change the world through a mixture of idealistic hope, brutal justice and noticing the guy who got on before I did at West Reason.

It’s a devious medium, I know. I used to think that films like The Mighty Ducks, A League of Their Own and even Jerry Maguire (you can – just about – count it as a sports comedy) promoted the underdog, gave hope to the unstoppable loser and promoted the soft values of gooey-centered liberalism. Overcome difficulties, stay together, play together. It could be a mantra for Relate, except if you think back to the heartwarming staples of your childhood (and the head-soothing hangover fillers of your occasional Sunday), you’ll realise that they aren’t flicking the V to alpha bullies, they’re the beta machinations of the status quo yelling at you to straighten up and fly right.

Take Dodgeball. The premise is quite innocent: Peter LaFleur (Vince Vaughan) has thirty days to raise $50,000 to make good on a mortgage default that threatens to see his bunch of misfit members being bulldozed by Globogym. When holding a carwash doesn’t bring in the hard dollars, the only obvious course of action is to watch 1950s style training videos, enter a dodgeball team coached by a dodgy coach played by Rip Torn. If this were a film review without a spoiler (which it isn’t) I’d state something shitty and trite like: complications abound, proving to the Average Joes that sometimes, winning is more than playing the right shot, it’s about knowing who you’re playing for. Or ‘grab life by the balls’, which is the actual tagline. But it isn’t about seizing figurative team testicles or a modern day parable about not underestimating your opponent in a 92 minute version of David and Goliath starring Ben Stiller. Dodgebal espouses far shallower, boring virtues.

The first – being part of the team means you get to take one for it – focuses around the seeming triumph of team sports over sexuality. LaFleur has to save his gym which is going to be shut down with the legal help of Kate Veatch (Christine Taylor) on behalf of White (Stiller). Because his gym is going to be shut down, LeFleur seeks salvation in dodgeball. Veatch, sick of being hit on by White, is more inclined to join LaFleur’s dodgeball team because it’s opportunistic payback and means that she can kiss girls without being sexually harassed by her employer. And because team sports are obviously magical, Veatch reveals that she is actually bisexual and obviously lusting after Peter. The loser-turned-lothario through cardio formula works equally well for Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s characters in Baseketball. Once again, mortgage foreclosure is the central catalyst for all ensuing action. In brief: unemployed turned homeless friends Coop and Remer (Parker and Stone) make up a new game that doesn’t require hours in the gym to win, argue a bit before they are finally reunited, this time with girlfriends.

The central concern here is not the crude message that you have to be ‘in it to win it’ – exhorting people to sit in semi-darkened isolation alone with their thoughts and a penknife is no formula for larks. It’s just fundamentally annoying to have team games held up as the epitome of everything sexy about human endeavour. That somehow working up a sweat will transform sexuality (mainly female) into something co-operative and appreciative of losers who run fuckawaful gymnasiums for the socially weird. Or transcend fiscal holes as a fast track to solvency and, once again, provide an out for loose spenders who can’t meet their mortgage payments but don’t see long-term unemployment and homelessness as reasons to get a job or prevent them from getting a girlfriend. Perhaps I missed the point. Maybe these films released in 2004 and 1998 are actually messages from the future transcribed into Hollywood treatments about the impending global financial crisis. In that case they’re genius for seeing a future in which foreclosure is possible for every middle class middle American, ultra-scary for suggesting that entering far-fetched national competitions (which probably cost more than the average street in Detroit in 2009 to take part in) are the answer to the economic equivalent of a black hole.

The second overarching piece of evidence that sports comedy equals dark sanction for social ill? The coach figure. It’s not John Candy’s fault that his performance as Irv Blitzer defines the generic archetype (even though he’s only actually starred one sports comedy, Cool Runnings). He’s to be applauded for that. But he can take the blame for covertly championing alcoholism, the implication that if you ain’t playing the game you’re blatantly a washed-up misfit and that despite all evidence suggesting addiction and dependency, the coach is still coach. And being an authority figure means that you should listen to coach at all times, no matter how unsuitable they may be. This logic at large in Dodgeball, where Rip Torn’s coach character is presented as the once mighty, now fallen through the means of latent insanity and wheelchair usage. That isn’t so much worrying but downright discriminatory. However, kudos must be given to the Mighty Ducks for presenting the triumph over adversity narrative via the means of a convicted criminal (drunk driving) put in charge of a children’s ice hockey team as a means of rehabilitation. The flaws in this are self-evident, right?

Which is why I really like Napoleon Dynamite. For all of the film’s weird quietness and heavy anti-hero apathy, it is wise. For it knows that far from winning, the underdog who swallows the doctrine of ‘do team sports well or die’ turn out like weird Uncle Rico, playing with their balls by themselves in the yard.