mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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the spiders from mars

Anyone ever notice just how often Sam demands to know what is going on between Jackie Queen and Gene? Heh. Bunny boiler Sam.

Should Gene worry? Well, Sam is his father's son, and aside from the ruthless ambition and ultraviolence (he certainly did a number on Ray, even though Ray asked for it), there's that very creepy scene where he's off to meet his Mum, strutting along, black leather jacket, black shirt, flowers in hand, Vic Tyler incarnate. Eeep.

Gah. I posted my displeasure over recent remarks from TPTB re season two of Life on Mars, and all I get is a flood of "have faith" posts. Leave off, yer bloody evangelists. Obviously that lot have not spent/wasted their entire adult lives in front of the box and have never seen a brilliant show disappear up its own bung hole before (hell, it's even a Bowie song, kinda).

What set my alarm bells off was the (hopefully) throw away line: think ridiculous moustaches. Now I don't know about you, but when they start going "fake 'taches, haw haw haw" I start to worry. A lot. It sounds like my fave show has turned into That 70s Show. I'm getting a vague whiff of shark. Perhaps I'm wrong, perhaps it'll be pure genius, but, statistically, how many shows that brag about jokes with fake face fur would you recommend to a friend? I mean, really? Or are you cringing, just a bit?

Please don't misunderstand me. If I were promised comedy moustaches for, say, a new series of Blackadder, why, I'd be slapping my thigh and crying jolly good show. But I thought Life on Mars was slightly more serious than that (what with all that heartfelt Hillsborough guff, etc). Guess not.

And don't start pissing on about if I don't love the show don't watch it (I'm constantly alarmed by zombie cult members who insist on blind unquestioning devotion in all things). If I didn't adore the show to bits I wouldn't give a rat's arse what they did. Go the full Village People. But I do care, hence the unease. They promised more, darker, spookier. So I was a little, um, perplexed, at this latest reveal. To say the least.

Nor need you lecture me on the brilliance of season one. I am quite aware of this fact, thanks. However, it seems unfair to me that I get thumped for raising an eyebrow over a fake 'tache or two when I defended episode six most mightily from its many detractors (where's your blind devotion the show then, or am I the only one not allowed to possess critical faculties?) and let's not forget episode eight, which I still find hard to love. I actually quite like it, up to a point. And it's a very definite point. Talk about tacked on 'ooops we got another another season' non-denouement. "Oi, Sam, if you've quite finished running around the woods like a loon, pointing guns and giving that WPC mixed signals, we're off to the pub." I mean, seriously, wtf?

Much better would have been to just stop it right there, after Vic scampers off, to leave Sam alone in the woods, possibly mad, possibly on the outer with law and buddies, tune in next year. Not as happy, but definitely somewhat more darkly dramatic and a little more true to the story line, imho. (Angst me, baby).

I am happy that not even insane gun play can come between Sam and Gene and a beer, but, still. It's like I find Annie weak because she so easily forgives Sam, who did his very best to destroy her life. Five minutes later she's suggesting a movie. Hell, that girl must be hard up for soul sucking losers (and Sam is rather emotionally needy and high maintenance), or she's a bottomless pit of forgiveness. If Gene doesn't bop Sam for his real and actual gross insubordination, it will seriously weaken him as a character and reduce him to mere caricature, which would be a terrible disservice to the stunningly brilliant work Philip has done so far in making Gene the cunning, multi-layered beast that he is. Again, imho.

But no. It's all fake moustaches and AnnieSue shippiness. Gah.

Maybe I'm just extraordinarily grumpy because it's not the nowt as queer as folk episode I wanted, or indeed was implicitly promised. Actually, make that explicitly promised. The UK equivalent of the Dept of Fair Trading will be getting a stern letter from me if it's wall to wall AnnieSue next year, you mark my words. Hmph.

Anyway, I was watching Phil last night. In The Walk. I don't care much for the plot (holidays from hell are too close to personal experience), but I can just sit there and watch his pretty eyes. So I did. There was a flash of flesh, too.

Phil also popped up, albeit too briefly, in last Friday's Vincent, which I entirely forgot to mention. It started off a bit slow, and I was a bit worried, because as much as I adore Ray Winstone, I find a little of Ray goes a long way, but then he's into his blustery bastard with a heart of gold schtick and I was his. Extra squeally points for the Phil cameo and Marc Warren (starting to look his age now, poor love, remember when he was just an upstart Immie in Highlander?). I'd say Marc was playing a nutter, but it's almost redundant (more rare to remark when he's not playing a nutbar) and everyone was pretty much playing to type. Still, that's what I want from my Friday night Brit Cop drama: solid, dependable, and not too twisty so I can nod off and not be perplexed at the outcome. (Gawd, listen to Nana and her slippers and hot ovaltine on a Friday night. Old before my time).

Ray Winstone just has to be in Life on Mars now. He has LOM points. But hopefully not wearing a comedy fake moustache (or comedy breasts, for that matter).

And now to explain from whence the enigmatic line "but I was busy with Stephen Fry and a duck" came from. You see, my co-worker is off this week so muggins here is pulling double duty again, no overtime, no higher duties and no thanks. Usually, not a bother (I've long since lost that battle), but as we're still working our way through that box of oranges like some reality show challenge, the peeps at home had lashed out with Duck al'Orange (three oranges). They'd even made a four hour round trip to buy frozen duck from the "nearest" mall. This was meant to be a surprise. Well, boy were they surprised when I phoned to say I'd be four hours late. So they had their duck, then dumped mine in the remaining sauce and left it simmering in the pot. I thought I was getting desiccated duck, but by the time I got home, the tough old frozen bird has stewed to sweetness and was now just falling off the bone into a delicious orange gravy. Heaven! My misfortune actually became my good fortune.

Apres duck there was Absolute Power on the tv, which is where Stephen Fry came in, and then, full of duck and delicious British wit, I just tumbled into bed, read a chapter of D&P and lights out. (Did not do housework, get on net or doing anything else I might have promised in the last decade or so).

Btw, last night: Orange and nut bread: three oranges.

OOoh. More episodes of Strange (sadly not available on dvd so yo ho ho it is) in my hot wee handies. Squee. Heh, I do love British tv, you know, despite my many complaints that it could do better ('British Television is a capable student but needs to apply itself better'). I just love the way that an actor can be trolly dolly at Holby City one week, and be all glowing red eyes and sprouting Revelations the next (not that Days Of Our Lives, at least, hasn't blessed the world with demons and demon hunters). I do hope Evil Archie was the first in a long line of Brit thesps being very silly indeed.

Meanwhile, everytime I think I've got the hang of my newfangled recorder, it throws off saddle and rider again. Last night it decided to make new noises. And here I was, panicking that it was too quiet the other weekend and I actually had to check that it was counting off, rather than just listening for the leaden grind of my old Sony. Then there was the terrible time when it started counting down. First time I used it, it starts going 30, 29, 28 ("Tom! It's going backwards!"). The fact that I was attempting to tape an hour show? Sigh.

Mind you, it was on the weekend when every man feels the need to sally forth with lawn mower, leaf blower and all many of large and noisy contraptions, even, I add, after a three year drought, therefore there being little in the way of lawn to leaves to attack. And as for the guy who angle grinds every weekend, what the hell is he doing in there? (to borrow from the Tom Waits song). I, myself, envision a silent army of cybernauts, standing ready and to attention like the Chinese entombed warriors.

Well, that's just me. Btw, it's not that I have a problem with chicks in Life on Mars. Okay, I do, it's a buddy cop show, no birds requested or required, thank you, but if Emma Peel dropped by for a spot of champers and judo chopping, I wouldn't be quite so bothered as I am by cow eyed Annie. Also, weirdly less bothered by Avengers silliness than the Carry On-ness suggested by comedy moustaches and key parties. Ooo-er, Carry On Constable.

Ah, perhaps it's just that other folks aren't familiar with the whole Alvin Purple thing and don't understand why I quail so. I mean, I don't mind if they want to give old Alvin a tickle. Fair enough, it's 1973, afterall, but, well, I can't help but cringe at the very idea of them humping Alvin's leg (and it sure sounded like it, to me). Ah well.

Oh dear, this missive isn't going to be quite as expansive as I'd intended (and you all sigh with relief). There's a veritable scrum of divas at the door, all demanding their job to be done first. I've snarled at them to go and fight it out down on the courtyard (cue Amok Time music).

Yes, snarled. Turns out all this "Please don't make me angry, you wouldn't like me if you made me angry" repression thing was the problem. One really good snarl (or several) and it's Chocks Away! Contact!

Yup. Hot water bottle time. Oi, it hurts, it hurts, make it stop (as Monkey used to chatter). I did, however, manage to find me a hot water bottle, which is some achievement up the posh end of town, I can tell you.

Okay, time to either quite working, quit the trippy drugs or quit thinking about notwork when one types 1973 instead of 2006 on a document. Ooops.

Finally, as requested, shocking 70s wallpaper. circa 1971/72, as found still extant in our loo. Note the of the era mirror:
Alvin Purple
Sup's Blackadder III Page
Sup's Blackadder II Page
Blackadder II
Blackadder II (1986)
Simm Travels Time In Mars
It’s the freakiest show - but Life on Mars is about to
get freakier…
Q&A: Ashley Pharoah
Life On Mars: Series 2
Alliance Atlantis 2006/2007 Programming Lineup (LOM)
Alliance-Atlantis announces fall programming highlights for it's specialty channels (LOM)
Crime wave sweeps fall
Charcoal reveals wildfire history
Avast, Me Critics! Ye Kill the Fun: Critics and the Masses Disagree About Film Choices,,1823116,00.html
Concrete jumble
Detective novelist Spillane dies
Stranger danger and other terrors
Last week was the least-watched week... ever.
Snotty Surf's Up!,,2-2274299,00.html
Shoe rapist is trapped by sister’s DNA 20 years after serial attacks
Liverpool Summer Festival of Pop 06 - Simple Minds Concert
"Jindabyne" Sydney Premiere
2006 Giffoni International Children's Film Festival - Juror Dinner with Elijah Wood
2006 Giffoni International Children's Film Festival - Elijah Wood Arrives at Giffoni
2006 Giffoni International Children's Film Festival - Press Conference and Q&A with Elijah Wood
2006 Giffoni International Children's Film Festival - Elijah Wood Tribute;action
CW premiere dates set
“I had one of these things only last July!”
The Late Show
Shirty, The Slightly Aggressive Bear
Shirty The Slightly Aggressive Bear
Jason King's Groovy Pad
Department S
Jason King (TV series)
Department S (1969-70)
Jason King

Tags: blackadder, emma peel, jason king, life on mars, philip glenister, ray winstone, spoilers, stephen fry

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  • Give me a break

    I should have waited before posting yesterday, but I will post my rebuttal to myself here. I’m still annoyed that I found Wonder Woman such…

  • It’s raining men

    I wish I was of that generation that get a ribbon just for showing up. I could use a round of applause for just being upright and breathing right…

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