mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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in the navy

Went to the Sydney Film Festival. A friend had been all film festival this and film festival that, so I thought I should get me some spinach films into the diet. Only I wasn't so keen on paying good money for spinach films, so I entered a few comps, and, whoo, tickets.

Not to the Matty film, alas, because that would have been too good to be true. Nope, my film was about a couple of depressed and insane Danish butchers chopping up and serving the locals. It was a very dour and black comedy. With subtitles. As I said, not something I'd normally waste me hard earned on, though, to be honest, I enjoyed this a lot more than some of the el cheapo dvd offerings of actors X, Y and Z.

It also came with a short which featured Paul McDermott, and yea verily, the munchkin himself popped up on stage. It was very, very DAAS on art school acid, but narrated by the irreplaceble Ruth Cracknell. Look out for The Scree.

I actually had two tickets, but I couldn't give the other away, not even in the foyer. I suppose everyone is too frightened lest I publicly rebuke them here for hogging the popcorn. No matter. I thoroughly enjoyed the trip in by myself and sat and ogled the State Theatre while I waited for the lights to go down. I've been in some grand old theatres lately, but the State, ah, what a faded old tart of a place. All those dusty velvet drapes and chipped plaster scrolls and curlicues and gilt, gilt, gilt. Julian Clary once described it as looking like Danny La Rue's khazi, so you get the idea. Fabulous, dahlink.

Six Months in a Leaky Boat But what you'd probably most like to hear about, or see, is where I went on Saturday. It was pilgrimage time, folks. So, on a blustery deep autumn day, off I set to visit Lucky Jack Aubrey's uniform. Yep, the one from the fillum. It's part of an exhibition of sailor uniforms, and the art and fashion they inspired, called Sailor Style at the Australian Maritime Museum.

It was very small, but covered a lot of ecclectic ground, to my amusement, including the sailor suits from Split Enz's Six Months in a Leaky Boat and JPY's lil sailor suit. It also featured Frank and the lads singing "New York New York" over and over again and it made me giggle because I'd obviously hummed the lyrics over and over in my head during my wonder week. But if you think about it, if you sing the chorus you do get basic directions, so you just hum it to keep from getting lost - grin. So that was fun.

But, highlight of highlights: Jack's uniform. Oh, sacred object. All washed and spiffed up and I apologise for the crap photos but it was no flash, in the corner, under glass, opposite a large screen that was showing The Village People's In The Navy on a loop, so it was, deliberately methinks, nigh impossible to get a good snap. At least with my camera. If you're really into costume, I highly recommend a visit because they also have a fabric swatch book from the film, including buttons, so you can play with the buttons and stroke the material, heh, heh, heh. Mmmmm, tactile.

Fun. Next up I admired the scrimshaw, then it was off for a toddle to the nearest likely looking luncheon venue for a slap up 'I'm not getting sacked' celebratory lunch. Plus, I never did get to celebrate my trip to NY. Found a place that served a bucket of prawns, in an actual bucket, ye gods, which kept AP happy, and I had the chowder. We dined in the open air and had lovely waiters and gooey dessert and it was perfect, bar the brat who damn nearly knocked our table over and would have had I not had my elbows on the table like a peasant. Told the father of said brat that he'd be paying for our lunch if that happened again and so we dined entirely brat free for the remainder.

Well, it's about time these hideous so called parents took responsibility for their feral offspring. Telling lil Oliphant Kazoo to piss off does no good, but the threat of billing our slap up din dins on the head of the little bastard, and, well, at least they kept the brat away from me, even if they did stare and whisper.

So I loathe children. Big deal. Don't like cats either.

Trotted up to the bus stop just in time as our watery wintery sun was blotted out as huge dark grey clouds rolled up. The wind was wild and howled and whistled and I swear it was sleet and not rain smashing into the bus windows on the long trip home.

So it was indoors and dvd watching for the evening. Been working my way through my Smallville boxes. I know some don't take to it, but it's so much better when not run through the Channel Nine blender, and I love the Lex. There's a gorgeous scene in Stray where Lex says he'll miss Clark, and he ain't looking at Clark's eyes. Nosiree. Then he does that wicked little grin, and, OMG, it's just to die for.

Meanwhile over on Oz, Keller made a huge romantic gesture to Beecher and bowed out of the series, with a big Hollywood movie goodbye kiss. Weep. I'm such a sucker for the big movie goodbye kiss.

Sunday night was spent watching and taping Sammy and Daisy in Stiff. It was very Melbourne, very Australian, very true and very funny. Poor, poor Daisy, he did suffer many an indignity. I loved it. Sam was, naturally, quite evil and oily. Loved that, too.

Apologies for the lack of scanning this morning. I slept in. In fact, I was discovered still abed by a horrified family. I'd somehow disabled my alarm clock again in my sleep, so I must have been tired, and I dreamt I was on holidays and having a ball, but any benefit from my illgotten lie in evaporated from the stress, shame, humiliation and trevails I endured to get into work (missed several buses, had to run to catch the one I caught, which kindly dropped us off 2km from the station because he wanted a coffee and there's nowt to be had at the station, or something like that). Grizzle. And I'd had a whole pile to scan, too. Had a bit of a blow out in the city, a mag-gasm. I think now I'm almost over not getting them in the States, though it cost me six times more to buy them here. Grizzle. Grumble. Pout.

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