Ooh, lookit, the firewall's off today. will not abuse...will not abuse...stop it, evil hand!
Tsk. Anyways, very, very bleary eyed from last night's Brit fest. First up was Clive (and Jonathan) in I'll Sleep When I'm Dead. I decided not to do the 200km round trip to see it on the two days it screened out here. Good choice. It's okay on cable, which I'm paying for anyway, but it wasn't the best (the phrase load of old donkey's cobblers springs to mind). It was very sterile, very flat, and yes, getting all the Kurosawa references, no need to throw in faux Japanese plinky plonky soundtrack. Set my teeth on edge, so it did. Plus, Clive didn't get cute until he got evil/returned to souless bastard past, so it kind of took the pleasure out of it, and I found a lot of the cockney monkeys very stereotyped, as if they'd wandered in off a Guy Ritchie film. The subject matter was a bit grim, too. Not exactly what I'd call a date film.
Ah, but John, dear John. I loved Miranda. It was very silly, arch and twee and entirely pointless but it was John being all puppyish and young and cute and lovestruck and awwww....
I'd not seen this one before, obviously, as it was debuting before my very eyes, but, sweet. I think it was meant to be a romcom, in any case, John trying to do a Marlowesque narration in an accent stuck halfway between Manchester and Sheffield (he was supposed to be a Yorkie) just had me falling about in fits, and that was before he started pulling his usual faces. Gasp. Wheeze.
Being a Channel 4 film, there was also naked Simm. In fact I think, hell's bell's, that I'm reaching nekkid Simm saturation point, as in put it away, John. Still, I'll be buying the dvd and will probably make more caps, though I'm sure I could now spot his furry little butt in a lineup. Too much of a good thing?
Never too much of John, especially when he's being all sweet and geeky. Awww. And all soppy over Wednesday Addams, too. What a match. John Hurt was sufficiently oily, but I think old Agent Cooper was in another film entirely. OTT much? It really jarred when he and young Simm shared the screen. But other than that, and flimsy plot (as such) aside, it was a cute, sweet little film, and John is just sooo adorable in it. Must order, must make caps.
Oh yeah, there will be scanning this weekend, afterall. I just needed the inspiration, and a small package from the UK. Nice one, bruvver!!!
Ahem. Need to stop watching Human Traffic everytime it's on and I'm near a tv set. But Simm completely off his tits is too much fun to watch, quite frankly. Wot a self confessed drug pig. And then they keep asking him about the 70s. Heh. Try asking him about last week, the poor lad (if he's anything like some of my old mates, the years of living the high life should be telling about now, she says, primly and cruelly, having had to study nights the bulk of the 90s and thus only has a handful of bacchanalian nights of fond rememberance).
Heh. As rough as I am right now with three hours sleep, I can still spell bacchanalian. Impressed.
Anyways, apres wee John, there was Daniel sprouting poetry and getting his kit off in Sylvia. I quite love this film, but I have seen it before, and I fell asleep. Sorry, Dan. I really do like the film. Aside from Daniel, I had this Ted Hughes thing for a couple of weeks when I was a moody little pre-teen proto goth/library nerd girl. Don't know why, I just obessessed on his poems for a month or so. If only I'd known then that he'd be played by nekkid Daniel Craig in a fillum, well, my little head would have exploded.
Oooh, I think it's going to be a walk in the park and then skipping off home at the earliest opportunity, bugger the workload. It's 10:15 and I'm really starting to feel the burn, cups of tea nothwithstanding.
Speaking of work, I try not to mention anything that'll get me sacked but this is too funny to let go by: the graphic designer used a pic of a crowded beach on all the curent promo material and they were told to check for any nipples, but they didn't, so it all came back from the printers, tits ahoy. So that'll be me with my black marker pen and several thousand print copies today. Your tax dollars at work. Perfect job for when fried, though (I think having to code the next morning killed my youthful debauchery quicker than age or responsibility did, it was easier when I was just a file clerk).
Two uni degrees and I'm blacking out nipples. Oh yes, those years of study, those nights of unmispent youth, not wasted at all. Take my advice kids: do drugs and party, because working hard and being good just ain't worth it.
Speaking of grump, that urgent flaming thing I had to stay back late last night doing, and nearly missed the Brit fest in doing so, it's not so urgent now. In fact, it's going nowhere. Arse.
Not that I'm bitter or anything. Wouldn't want you to think that. Heavens no.
Went to the park again, because it was such a lovely day. Managed to sketch out a couple of scenes (I have a beginning, and end, and an idea of the middle). It's not much but I'm pleased, being better than not writing at all, and I've never been the sort of person who considers a large word count as a measure of the quality of her work. Whatever the fic needs, is my opinion (and, as I loathe typing, less is more). I write much more when I stay at my desk and type, but I do so love sitting outdoors, with my favourite notebook in my hand.
I really love this old fashioned notebook. It cost be an obscene amount, being bought from a posh stationery store, but it's just like the old notebooks my Dad used to bring home from work for me to use, once he'd sliced his own pages out of them. It feels so right in my hands. I love it.
I also discovered I do write more when I'm sitting on a chair in the park and not enduring waves of attacks from ants when I sit on the ground. Though on my third favourite seat, which is usually the one I end up at, I have to watch out for spiders dropping down the back of my shirt from the tree above. Always fun and games.
At least the bats are elsewhere. They were all stirred up today, flying and fallping about. They were hot, too, because the ones in the trees were all beating their wings in time, like some some weird Japanese art installation.
Of course, the moment I got back from my adventures I was screamed at because that urgent- no make that next week thing suddenly became we wanted it an hour ago, so much phone calls and wrist slapping for daring to leave my desk at lunch. Grump. Mood kill.
Oooh, and I shouldn't have had that cajun chicken sandwich. Aside from the fact that I've obviously been very wicked of late because I can't swing my arms without hitting hips again, it's doing the Alien tango down there. Ooooh. My other thought, and why I wasn't going to mention it, was I was afeared that some pinched bitka would say something about it being improper to eat a cajun chicken sandwich in light of their recent suffering, etc, at which point I would smack them. Hard. I find, like Gene, that a good smacking soon stops you getting pestered by such whining annoying types like that.
I should start smacking fussy eaters, too. Hate 'em. The bloody magpie at home has gone vegan on me again, and in that flapping and flailing manner of the newly evangelical, too, you know, 'the how dare you serve me meat, flail' sort of carry on. He wanted the parrot seed this time. Whatever. In a week's time he'll be back to begging for all the fatty trimmings off the meat. Just asking for a smack, that one. Goodness knows I was belted enough for not eating what was put in front of me and it never did me any harm.
Well, actually, it did, but never mind. I still find such people annoying beyond belief. Especially as it'll be another fad diet next month. Too much time on their hands, I reckon.
Okay, sign me up for Grumpy Old Women, but with the big PR enent gearing up in time with massive PMS, and, well. Dvds, the park and writing mayhem are what I need to get through this, and I get shirty when denied my few treats, as you would.
To end on a poistive note, a big thanks to neighbour J who hacked off half his prize waratah for the purposes of design and display required urgently for my work. Nice one, bruvver!
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
Doctor Who Night
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My husband? Oh, he’s a writer dude
Ecstasy no more for man who popped 40,000 pills in nine years
Hamstrung by desire for a bog-standard sambo
Wardrobe moment slays Julius Caesar
Robot suit will help quadriplegic scale the heights
Bringing Back the Brontosaurus
10 Best Internet Spoofs
This Week's Hot Pick: 'Brokeback Mountain'
"Brokeback" Mounts Revolution
Bahamas bans Brokeback
Who says the Poms don't have a sense of humour?
Life on Mars
At two minutes and three seconds after 1:00am this morning, the time and date was: 01:02:03 04/05/06.