Friday was a dusasterous day at work, and Wire In The Blood was The Case of the Obvious Mystery again, but never mind. Stayed up to watch Waking The Dead, because I was still grinding my teeth over the day's injustices, even though I find all the lead characters annoying. It was a rather silly plot that read like a Wire In The Blood re-tread, but at least one of the annoying characters bit the big one. They're not afraid to kill off characters on UKTV, and shockingly casually, too, something USTV is only just starting to get into. Or maybe I just missed all the 'very special episode' ads. (Btw, the episode was two years old, so I don't think it counts as a spoiler).
Saturday involved a forced march up to a fete, uphill all the way, to a local fete at the oldest church in the area, well, at least here 1869 passes for old, especially as few structures older than 1969 are allowed to remain. It was so quaint and daggy I was actually perversely enjoying myself, it was just so back to the 70s, both in the junk on offer and the late 60s hall in which parts of the fete were set. If you wanted to get the Sam's flat look, this was the place. I picked up a couple of pots of bright flowers for the price of the bus fare I'd eschewed (they've cut the buses back to near non existant, so it was quicker to walk than wait) and thus I trudged back, admiring the lovely gardens before they're all dug up for units.
Oh yeah, I also picked up a ginger loaf, which made for a nice afternoon tea.
Saturday night: Doctor Who, Professionals, The Sweeney. But before that, driven inside by the heat, I caught up on some dvds. Yes, I said driven inside by the heat. There's just no change of seasons here. Last weekend I was wearing three jumpers and a coat, this Saturday it was singlet and thongs.
I watched a couple of pilots, very kindly sent to me. We seem to be back in the early 80s. First up was Jericho, and as much as I was curious to see what Skeet did next, well, oh dear. The Cold War is alive and well on American television, and I swear, if I had to sit through one more speech about how good and righteous small town American folks were, well, gak. Could have been interesting but the whole thing just screamed sitting on the shelf since the Regan era, and it was just too po faced to be funny, you know? It was scary alright, scary that they're still making this sort of stuff. Maybe later episodes are less preachy, but I'm thinking no.
Eureka I enjoyed much better, at least, I was enyoing the smart mouthed Marshall and his encounter with a phase locked early 80s SF show (it just had that feel about it, big time) until they rolled out Matt Frewer and his atrocious attempt at an accent. I showed it to friends, who also quailed and whimpered. And, for the record, the diving with the sharks is usually done off the SA coast, not QLD, you jerks. I would also like to, again, point out that not every Australian wrestles crocodiles for a living, even though I do, in fact, know a gentleman who does, I realise, to my embaressment. Just can the early 80s stereotype, 'kay?
But aside from that, and the whole eightiesness of it, it wasn't too bad, and surprisingly darker in places than I dared to hope.
Still, weird, how unconciously retro these shows were.
Then I caught up on three episodes of SGA. Missed my boys. It ended on a cliff hanger but I assume it'll all work itself out.
Doctor Who and the pit was up next (Quatermass appears to be required reading), and I do like the episode, even with the questionable inclusion of the beast, because I liked the sets, I liked that we actually got to know the guest characters for a change, I liked the possessed Ood, and I just really like David Tennant. (Speaking of which, PG caught the lad playing an insane consultant in some Britcom on UKTV yesterday, called High Stakes).
The Professionals: Finally, we get up to the intended pilot, and I can tell by the way George is lecturing me on what CI5 stands for. Scarily prophetic in their police powers, and yet quaintly nostaligic in his football team analogy (obviously George isn't up to date with his Footballer's Wives viewing). Also, not getting the twin Eastend crimelords ref. Aside from being treated to Golly with a handgrenade down Pmela Stephenson's cleavage, we were treated to clever Bodie, because Bodie is actually on top form here, making the right decisions and, damn me, even quoting Beckett. I was also bemused how they kept explaining their new ways of policing and crowd control, it was all so very Sam. I kept wanting to tell Doyle that I'd make him a hat. So yeah, fun episode, good Bodie moments and lots of LOM touches.
The Sweeney was all about the son (Jacko) of some bird Regan had once had an abiding interest in, getting in deep trouble, first with the law, and then shagging some big note crim's woman. Well, asking for it, imho, but nevertheless, Regan was doing his best to try and protect the boy. Loyal to a fault, is our Jack. I was bemused by the lack of occupational health and safety regs in the chip shop, the bunting in the street, the big Yank car and the red jag that drove past Jack. A Morse driveby?
Also, the episode was brought to us by the colour lime green. Yargh! It was everywhere: wallpapers of startling ugliness and the big pineapple themed curtains. Yeesh. Be warned: this episode contains 70s interior design which may disturb some viewers.
Sunday: was up bright and early, well, early at least, to water the garden. Then I did a bit of scanning during the repeat of the Pros and The Sweeney. Then my friends took me out to the Spanish festival, and it was fun. The weather turned grim, but after a smattering of rain and howling winds it fined up like the day it had promised to be that morning. Luckily we arrived during the worst of the squall and snagged a table not too close to one of the stages, and when the sun came out, we were laughing. I came back with armfuls of paella and nachos while others carried armfuls of churros and sangria, so we just sat and ate and drank and talked.
I was a bit worried, as Sangria acts like a truth serum on me, in that I slosh it back like red cordial and it sneaks up on me and I don't realise I'm drunk but my three second delay goes out the window. I once destroyed a long standing and much treasured friendship after an inordinate amount of sangria on a hot afternoon and her pompous BF going on and on about my lack of socio-geo-politico-ecomonomic status, ie I was a poor scrubber from white-trashland and it was a wonder I could read having only gone to a Govt school, etc. Well, after several hours of this, the sangria kicked in, the diplomacy chip burnt out and I told him, possibly in words of one syllable, exactly where he could shove his private school education and north shore abode. Alas, that was the end of that, but it was almost worth it to be spared the insufferable prick.
Fortunately this time I was with old friends, old enough to know the worst that could happen and old enough for me to just idly enquire about the parking fee to get them to stir. Mean, but you know, two bottles of Sangria and my mother's bladder. :\
There were bright flags flapping, South and Central American entertainment, lots of dancing, guitar work and traditional costumes. Not enough food stalls, but one just had to time one's visits between the crowd's ebb and flow to avoid insane queues.
A fine day out. We had to walk back to the car park through a Malaysian food fair, where, weirdly, but I suppose they once occupied Malaysia, I found a Japanese stall, and, happiness, they were selling my favourite octopus balls. They also have a stall down Dixon street, so I can now sate my octopus ball cravings without having to fly to Japan. Yay! (Not that I wouldn't mind the trip, it's the expense, darling, that I balk at).
Dropped home just as another nasty squall blew in, so, despite telling myself to back away from the PC with my hands in the air, being happily buzzed on sangria as I was, I got online, but hopefully didn't burn too many bridges, ram my feet in my mouth or drop an unforgiveable amount of clangers.
After that I just watched a docco on King Arthur that I'd seen before, weirdly, must have been in the UK, and curled up for riotous dreams fueled by seafood and sangria.
And just for the record, it's a sinus headache from all the stirred up pollen, and not a hangover, m'okay?
Edit: made the mistake of confiding my delicate condition to a close friend, who has now told everyone on three floors about the parlous state I've gotten myself into, rolling into work all hungover. Great, just great. On top of my tanty on Friday (though any fool who stands beligerantly between a hormonal woman and her sandwich gets the verbal abuse they deserve, imho), I'll be known as a bitch and a drunkard. Oh well, with those qualifications they can always promote me to management.
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