Well, I didn't get my Raffles, but that was to be expected. By the time the afternoon rolled around I was so cranky and fed up that only Mal Reynolds would serve, but I didn't get to watch any Firefly, either.
I've given demonstrations of sites before, but never one so sabotaged, as nothing would work, all because the server had been dicked with. Oh well, as that bitca keeps telling me every twenty minutes, I'm either going to be binned or sent to Wollongong (both a fate worse than death) so I just don't care. I'm lying, I do care, because I'm getting that sharp stabbing pain between my eyes again. I wish she'd leave me alone, or she'll be getting a sharp stabbing pain somewhere if she's not careful. I don't know why she's so mean, getting my job is a done deal by the way she's snuggling up to Fearless Leader.
So, housework and the Who last evening. I actually offered to stay home today and deal with the shower recess of horror, that's how much I don't want to be here, but AP would have none of it. It's okay for my Bro to lounge around the house, but not me, and I wasn't going to lounge, anyway. I wanted to catch up on work because a hour a night on housework isn't enough. It doesn't even scratch the surface, as the shower will bear witness to.
I did get to see a bit of Who though. It was the last episode of Spearhead From Space and various VIPs are being replaced by waxy, plastic impersonators. Rembering the Oscar diary from the guys who won for Harvey Krumpet about how waxy all the stars were, we started thinking, OMG, that's an alien impersonator and the real Burt Reynolds/Mickey Rourke/Cher/insert name of wax job is stuck in a wax museum somewhere!
Well, it makes perfect sense, that's the scary part.
Then the good Dr shorts out the plastic peoople with his 70s era IPod, but not before we have one of the most pants filling scary moments on Who, where all the maniquins in the high street shop windows spring to life and burst through the windows and start killing innocent bystanders left, right and centre. Eat that, Mary Whitehouse. I mean, I still can't walk past a shop window display without thinking about this scene, which was f**king terrifying as a wee kiddie. Pretty creepy these days too, if a tad offset by the obvious plastic masks and 70s fashions. Heh, these days it'd be a band of murderous plastic alien drones looking like the Queer Eye guys, which is indeed terrifying, when you think about it.
Finally the Doctor despatches the writhing plastic bag that is the head alien nasty, but not before there's a lot of gurning and messing about with hairy rubber tentacles. The really scary thing is, that gurning is genetic, as is that shit eating grin, as I've noted since Dog Soldiers became my disk du jour.
I mean, David Troughton, you can see how he's Patrick's son, but he doesn't look the dead spit of him (thank frell) the way Sean does his dad. I mean, you could slap a silly wig and a cravat on Sean and send him in to play The Two Doctors with Chris (ooh, not like that, you feelthy buggers) and no one would notice. Sean's really, really starting to look like his dad now, and, as Bro rather cruelly pointed out, Sean now isn't much younger than his dad was when he did Who. Which means, with much cruel sniggering from Bro, that we're aboout ten or so years from Worzel. Ack. Poor Sean.
Never mind. I always did love his Dad. Probably why I glommed onto young Hugh Berringer as badly as I did. It's all Sean's fault you know. From him I went to Shopping, discovering the annoying little oik that was Jude Law. Jude's still an annoying little oik, but drop dead gorgeous with it. Sean Bean I picked up before Patriot Games. I can't remember in what but I know I went to see PG because it had Sean in it. Ewan was discovered in Shallow Grave. And then, as I followed these lads about I stumbled across more and more: Clive Owen in Lorna Doone with Sean Bean, Daniel Craig, Paul Bettany and James Purefoy in Sharpe, Dougray Scot and Jason Isaacs in Highlander, Robson Green in Soldier Soldier with Peter Wingfield, and so on and so forth. The League was born (skip to pics).
I'm actually having a shitty day at work. I even lost my temper. Out loud. Again (but for the first time in months). Why? Because that bitca is back and making my life hell so that my usually daily irritations from other people's fuckups are just so much more salt on my festering wounds. Make her go away. I can't stand it. She gossips loudly to everyone within earshot how I can't do my job, upsetting me to the point where I damn well prove I'm not fit to be employed. Arrrrrgh.
At least I've got my friends page on lj. Here I am now, entertain me. And you did.
Oh yes, weird dream, set in San Francisco. With SF friends, celebrity guest spots and lots of Who-like running up and down corridors. Huh. You know, I think I can use some of it for an Angel fic. Actually, the idea of an Angel fic seems comforting, somehow. Will aim to rack off early to go home and scratch out the basics. Don't want to stay here. Contractor, Bitca and Cheap Perfume Marinade Woman are all conspiring to make my day miserable and irritating from my inflamed nasal membranes onwards.