I know, completely barmy, me, but it really is like a holiday, being back. Even the firebreathing boss... well, okay, maybe not that. Apparently I missed the colleague we'd voted least likely to be up in the clock tower with automatic weapons, our rock, as it were, finally blowing up big time. He's cracked, he's completely broken. Such a shame.
Meanwhile, my horoscope said I'd be spending the next fortnight doing DIY jobs that can no longer be put off and assembling Swedish bookcases. If I had a gun, I'd be cocking it against my temple right about now. It has not been fun, let me tell you. At least it took only three trips to Ikea to get all the bits for the cheap, badly made and wobbly held together only by wishful thinking piece of tat I bought - but it was cheap, I s'pose. I'm just appalled that I bought such a thing when my gg-dad was apparently a master furniture maker. Sigh.
The last trip had the makings of a sitcom, though. The usual, I assume, from hearing other horror stories, case of being 3/4 of the way through assembly before discovering an insufficiency of screws and whatnots. As it's three hours, one way, via public transport and a death march to the seven circles of Hell that is the Ikea store, I desperately phoned a friend to see if they had the time and charity to take me. To my surprise they rang back and said they'd be round in under an hour. So there's me combing dust bunnies out of my hair and waiting for them when I realise that amongst all the bags and boxes of
Still, it's good to know at least someone is willing to help a lass who's a few screws short of a bookcase. And it wasn't like I really wanted to chuck any of my stuff out. Key words: my stuff.
Can't be helped, and it's not like I didn't turf out bags of stuff I'd have loved to have kept, too. Stuff I'm still crying buckets over. And the bloody thing of it is, it's Magic Pudding mess. No matter how many bags of stuff I turf, there's no difference, none whatsoever. My room still looks like a bombed out second hand bookshop. Gah. I must have been playing Tetris with the crap for years - it was a marvel to science, all that crap shoved into that tiny corner (it's a tiny room, made for bed and wardrobe only, not media centre, etc). More archaelogical dig than room tidy, alas.
And then there's the rest of the house, also badly neglected through years (yes, years) of time and soul sucking unpaid overtime for work. I barely got a start on it, and that's with me working from 5-10 every day. And it was hard, dirty work, and my legs are purple from bruises, especially the YouTube worthy pas de deux I performed with the ladder which I'd forgotten in my frazzledness that I'd parked just outside the back door after replacing five bulbs which had all popped in one day - which says everything you need to know about our erractic power supply.
Things nearly thrown out due to frazzledness included a letter from Wales, my written apology from Bob Kane (some of you might wonder why I hassled an old man into writing me an apology, but, in Whedonesque tones, I merely say that I had my reasons, and I was an annoying teen at the time), and my old school bag with all the faded Madness autographs on it.
Things discovered included several books on Roman sexuality up the back of a bookcase (handy references!) and, well, lots of stuff that I just had to get rid of anyway.
I haven't had any time to watch and disks or dvds, for which I profusely apologise, but I had to square the player away due to extreme dust (I live in an industrial fallout area) and I had no real time, anyway. Evenings were for culling magazines. There I did discover several as yet unscanned gems, including a Jude article you will just die over, trust me. Outdated tabloids are funny though, as celebs manage to work their way through each other. Fave quote though was from the chap who wanted to be "as good a father as Jude is." Does that include tupping the nanny, I wonder, somewhat wickedly.
You've really no idea of the dust. I knocked over the vase of show fairies that live atop my wardrobe, and who knew fairy dust was damn near lethal? I'm still coughing up dust bunnies and sparkles.
There was some tv watching though, mainly on the days I was somewhat under the weather - and the extreme weather didn't help either. I mean, 38C one day, 18C the next. What's that all about?
Tv include the Mayor of Casterbridge, featuring half the cast of Rome, which was equal parts amusing and disconcerting. I mean, I'd seen it twice before so I knew it had Jules and Marky Mark in it, but I'd forgotten about Attia and Cato. The rles, weirdly, weren't too disimiliar from Rome, either. Looks like the casting director cast from the one dvd. I prefer Attia though - she's bad, like Joan Collins Dynasty bad. Heh. And I like my Antony all vain and swaggering. He should behave like a prize footballer. It just works for me.
More Rome in the form of Nero on SBS (sadly John and Ian Richardson barely share a scene, so there's no camp off, which would have really have made it entertaining, as aside from John being all big evil, it had little to recommend it). There was Spooks, Doctor Who and Jericho. That show is as dumb as a box of hammers, but I'm feeling the Skeet love stirring once more. Eh, I've watched shows for less. (Btw, I was going to remove the telly to a place of safety but that would have been a deprivation too far, but it will have to go this weekend - ack).
The Professionals gave us Stakeout. This was an episode inflicted upon me more times than was comfortable with in my youth when I had to rely on the screenings of the sacred tapes from others, so I kinda groaned, but this time round I enjoyed it. I wasn't fussed about the plot, the politics, the blue screen in the helicopter of the split in Bodie's trousers, and yes, I have seen it that many times. I was just bemused at how the lads, and that peanut eating funny bugger from Special Branch, weren't all arrested for cottaging. I mean, all that hanging around the loos and the bowling alley. Suspect behaviour indeed, lads. Still, it's one of the touchiest feeliest episodes of the Profs, which is no doubt why it was on high rotation in days of yore.
The Sweeney burst into the regrettable last season with a new credits sequence that reminded me just too much of the Beastie Boys' Sabotage. Oy. Suddenly the Sweeney is a complete parody of itself, and not in a good way, with an Adam Faith like little oik and Diana Dors doing her very best Matt Lucas impersonation. Even my Sweeney book calls the ending something from On The Buses. Not good, old son, not good at all. The only worthwhile bit of the episode was Regan's scared straight speech. Other than that: complete bollocks. When good 70s cop shows go bad - but, I must point out, this is season four. Season three was still brilliant, she says, pointedly, still miffed at the news that Life on Mars is only cranking out eight more episodes (and worse, an 80s spinoff - oy. Either finish it utterly or park a truck of cash in front of Simm's house. One or the other, please, I'm begging you).
Mind you, an early 80s cop show does begat surreal thoughts, especially as a very young tearaway calling himself Sean Bean (or possibly even some variation of same) popped up in a very early episode of The Bill. (There is a provisional mullet and acid wash jeans warning for sensitive viewers who try to track down a copy).
Mind you, all the hints and spoilers over on TRA suggest that the time travel theory wins over the coma (and that's been broadly hinted at before) and if Sam ends up in '81 older if not wiser, then we've probably had the chance to go back or save Gene scenario. If he chooses Gene, I'll be a happy girlie.
Or it could all be complete tosh. Who knows? The writers are certainly having fun spinning whoppers on TRA. Just don't make the fake endings better than the real ones, 'kay?
I'm still somewhat, emotionally at least, peeved that my LOm rations are so limited. Yes, yes, quality over quantity, but I liked it. I damn loved it. Please, Sir, may I have some more?
Meanwhile, there's this quote from John Barrowman: "Not every nine-year-old has the ability to comprehend why this alien is having sex with somebody on the counter of a sink and then killing him."
Am I wrong to go yay? I think maybe Torchwood might fill the Mars sized hole left in my world. Not plug it, but fill it up, just a little bit. Make the world less empty, at any rate.
Oh, did I mention I've been watching a shaggy Ray Stevenson in City Central? A rather pedestrian cop show, but the episode by a certain Matthew Graham that featured a Morricone score and a totally Sweeney van job bemused me somewhat. Proto Life on Mars, except they never had a proper Sweeney van job, for shame. Ray is barely in it, alas, as the writers seemed to have fixated on a Mary Sue WPC (again!) so all I ever get to see is Ray moping and scowling about the fact that he shagged the Super's bunny boiling teenaged daughter. And please don't let that be a LOM plot.
Re an ongoing LOM discussion, and the violence that surrounds Sam, allowing of course that tv cop shows must be Action and Adventure. There seems to be a lot of dead and maimed in Sam's wake since he landed in the 70s.
Sam certainly does seem to be a catalyst, and not always for the good, despite the thread of same on TRA. In fact, one wonders: would Jonie have ended up having her throat slit if Sam hadn't encouraged her to leave Warren? Would Billy have died in custody? That's debatable, but they certainly wouldn't have had it on tape (any future crims not caught due to Ray's demotion is down to Sam). Would Vic have blazed a crime spree across the city if not for Sam arresting Warren? Would June have been shot if Sam had not let Trent out? Would the Bannister kid have been shot if Sam had not left the guns in the dunny?
Sam: force of good or evil? I mean, yes, he makes Gene a better cop and he's learning some valuable life lessons, but whoa to the collateral damage.
Meanwhile, those second degree burns I gave myself from a too hot hot waterbottle are objecting to the harsh weave of this shirt. T-shirts for the rest of the week, sneering elders and betters be damned. Ow, ow owie...
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