Meanwhile (thanks to a dear friend) I've got another Simm interview to upload for y'all but my PC it being a bitka again today, so no uploads, and no dvd burning. Argh. [beats head on keyboard and comes up qwerty]
I'll try again tomorrow. All I can do. Whimper.
Meanwhile, I tried to turn that frown upside down by pissing off to the art gallery. They've got a collection of prints up from the 15thC-18thC and they were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Loved just about all of them, but especially 70s rock album cover Jesus, stoner Jesus, the pissy little actor having a strop from 1599 (some things never change), Vauxhall Gardens (for the Vanity Fair connections), the 18th views of the Roman forum (mentally comparing what's left to my piccies of same, cause I took the very same angle), a party at a castle that had me peering at every tiny prancing figure, ditto a rape and pillage scene that was so tiny but very Tarrantino once you really, really looked (there was a dude strung upside down in the roaring fireplace that I missed first time round) and a few that reminded me of a comic book artist I never liked but now I suddenly know what he was trying to do (alas, his name escapes me). There were also lots of gloomy vanitas you're old and haggard and death is already griining at you pics, which really helped lift my mood, not.
There was a talk, or meant to be a talk on the works, but it was some posh Pommie wanker and it was about him and his travels to Madrid and Munich and wherever. I bailed.
Coulda done without the usually snotty looks. Excuse me, but these drawings were collected for the public good, ie so that the great unwashed who will never be able to afford to see them any other way, ie me, can have their lives informed and enriched by such works of art. So piss off back to your big houses and let me enjoy myself, you posh tossers. Ahem.
I loved the drawings though. Loved 'em to bitty bits. Especially the party one. There should have been a police box tucked away in the far corner, I thought.
I was desperate for some Doctor Who and *bink* there it was: The Idiot's Lantern. Sadly, spoiled on this one so no ooohs or aaahs, and it kinda didn't really grab me anyway. The TV monster was cute (and very Little Shop of Horrors), but it felt rather uncomfortably too much like a McCoy episode, or maybe that was just the scooter. The whole Indy thing with the hiding of the police car was just too pat, and then they did it twice. Good grief. The whole the Doctor introduces women's lib thing was somewhat trite, and the rights for gay nerdy boys too heavy handed (shout out to the fan base).
I did however like the Doc's impressive quiff, and when he got really, really annoyed that they'd messed with Rose. Once upon a time companions were pretty much disposable, but not these days, it seems. And I did like the Betamax joke, lame though it might have been.
Again, I felt that instead of attempting to have something grown up that kids could watch, they'd gone straight to that horrible kiddies panto place again. Please, guys, go watch Green Death and The Pyramids of Mars again. Or maybe it's just that all the campy shouty running around bits are compressed into 45 mins with no breathing space for suspense or a pause for plot dump or even, good grief, character development.
But I did so love seeing the Doc. He looked smashing. (I can't believe I'm crushing on the Doc. It's kinda creepy in an Electra kinda way, but then, Rose is kinda in the same boat).
Then, as there was no House, there was an unimpeded viewing of the catty and minxish Stephen Fry in Absolute Power. I don't know why it suddenly takes years to get BBC shows (ouch), but this is so wicked, so vicious, I just love it to bits. It was the fox spotting MP one. I was shrieking with laughter.
Followed it up with the Glasshouse. They were very wicked and they did mention the war - grin. So did The Herald:
The earth clearly moved for Simon Barnes, The Times of London's chief sports writer, who appeared transported by the Socceroos' victory yesterday.
"And then the match turned and stood on its head: a sudden cataract of goals and emotions and it was all about Japanese tears and Australian song," Barnes wrote.
"Only football can do this because only in football does a goal matter so much. The explosion of release at a goal is something no other sport does in the same way. In Australian Rules, a goal is a kiss on the lips; in football, it's an orgasm."
No mention of the war then.
And they were telling the Poms to behave. Smirk.
So I was happy, for a bit. Then I ws dragged aside for another enforced opportunity for personal reflection on my multitude of failings. Apparently this time, what I'd mistakenly believed to be virtues (hardworking, dedicated, conscientious, willing to make sacrifices) became the worst sort of vices. Argh. I just cannot win.
Not that I want to win. I just want to be left alone to go about my business in peace. Why on earth has everyone decided to throw in their two cents all of a sudden? Is there a kick me sign on my back? Leave me the hell alone. If I want advice/criticism/assessment, I'll bloody well ask for it.
So far I've just nodded dumbly, but I tell ya, the needle is pushing into the red here. The next time someone tries to dish out a free personality assessment they'll find this worm ready to turn. Pow, right in the kisser.
Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry. And you can add that to your long, long list of what you don't about me, too. Hmph.
At least I know why it felt like a northern Winter this morning: 1C. No wonder I was near brought to greeting as I had to wrench myself out of my flannie pyjamas and fluffy socks. It is, officially, cold.
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