"Fifteen years ago, offender profiling had been the job of a police artist, and even today in certain parts of Yorkshire it was an art practised by consenting officers in private." - Reginald Hill 1998, On Beulah Height.
Note yak-free quotation, and Amazon is trying to pimp Supernatural at me. Away with you, you unseemly yak botherers. Apparently, I draw the line at yaks. Which is good to know, I suppose. And yes, I know this reply to an off-piste conversation will make no sense to innocent bystanders, but trust me, you're happier and healthier that way (btw, "let slip the yaks of psychosis"? - *dies*).
Honestly, it's enough to make one one want to retaliate with AvP in SF, but see how I don't, because I know it would be wrong. Cool, but wrong. Very wrong. Oh, now, look what they've done. Especially as the P word has cropped up more times than is seemly this week. Okay, so a lot of that was a result of all that wilful googling of wee Sam on my part, but still. Please, do not let (what's left of) my brain go there. Whoops, too late.
This is what happens when I'm completely and utterly fried, so fried I thought the wonky terrarium air-cond (or complete lack thereof) was just me. Chronic sleep deprivation does strange things to this girl.
So, yes. Big Boat. It was, as advertised, big, and boat-like. Honestly, I'm not that into boats, but since she was supposed to be the biggest mutha ever to sail into the harbour, like, ever, I thought a gentle stroll over hill and dale to take a squiz apres work might be just the thing to break the desk<->bed rut I've sunk into again. And it was a lovely stroll.
At first I thought there'd be only maybe forty or fifty folk there, and there was. Ten minutes later there were hundreds. Ten minutes after that there were thousands. In one of those crazy Gestalt moments, all of Sydney had decided, yeah, lets go see a big boat. Frell, I love this town. I mean, how sad that the sight of a big boat gets us excited en masse, yet how cute, at the same time.
I was also, very rarely for me, very yay people because the authorities had clearly not anticipated just how bloody bored Sydney is on a Tuesday night and there were no cordons, no police, no rangers, no wardens, no men with whistles and vests herding people this way and that, and you know what, it was just fine without them. There's something to be said for growing up in an ex British penal colony and behaving in an orderly fashion. Of course, it was more of a Women's Weekly crowd than your BDO lot, so no chance of a riot, but families, office workers and the curious all strolled shoulder to shoulder along the crowded footpaths, keeping to the left, through narrow stone gates and stone stairs in single file, also keeping to the left, as nice and orderly as you please, queuing patiently for drinks and icecreams and it was just one big spontaneous city wide picnic. Marvellous.
And frell me dead, I've never seen so many people. I was afeared Bennelong Point would slowly start to sink into the sea. But no. The big boats sailed past each other and hooted, the crowd cheered, fireworks went pop. And then everyone clambered home on buses like some silly Cliff Richard film - at least for those who left early. I heard it then degenerated into chaos and the city reverted to its usual snarling self. Oh well.
At least I managed to get the pics off me camera at last, and got a bit of fresh air.
But don't think I wouldn't swap it for decent theatre, galleries and museums in a heartbeat (a work colleague just got herself a Pom out here for the cricket and is now off to London for a life of TGM and I am crying tears of blood that it's not me - wail).
Oh yeah, yesterday was also enlivened by several blackhawks roaring over my place of work, rattling all and sundry, thundering out over the park (distressing the bats no end) and back again. For hours. Apparently it was all because America is sending us a dick. Gee, thanks. And we didn't get you anything (maybe we could send you Abbott and/or Costello).
Okay, enough with the acid drops.
Sorry it's all RL today. Obviously precious little tv watched last night. I even fell asleep during Cold Feet, but woke up when I heard Richard Armitage (her master's voice?) and then proceeded to drool over Sean Pertwee for a bit (I know, if it's not Sam Troughton this week it's Sean Pertwee. I am just too weird even for myself at times, but I just can't help myself, it's been Sam in pearls and Sean in togas and, well).
I also managed to watch Ultimate Force without too many interuptions. No Tobias this week, alas, which meant my eye was free to wander around the rest of the cast: Jamie Bamber, Tony Curran and even Jamie Draven, who whipped off the daks for my viewing pleasure (nice, very nice). But what caught my attention this time, and I'm dreadfully embaressed for not noticing sooner, but Alex is such a snivelling and annoying little shit for an SAS dude and his hair isn't half as bouf as it is now, but I heard the voice and I heard Mohinder. Of course. There he was. Armed, dangerous, and whining as always. Heh.
Funny how so many of the cast of Ultimate Force ended up in US shows. Funny how so many actors go back and forth these days, confusing me no end. Thank frell my dvd is multi-region.
Then there's the news about Kev. Yet another British actor snapped up by the Yanks. That makes, off the top of my head and to the best of my faulty and spoiler free recollection: Damian Lewis, James Purefoy, Dougray Scott, Kevin McKidd, Jack Davenport, Jamie Bamber, James Callis and many more all working on US series this year. Will the last British actor please turn out the lights? What is going on? One minute it looked like we were poised for a golden age of UK telly. The next, all the production houses are being bought up and all the actors poached.
If I were a person of a suspicious nature, I'd suspect a fiendish plot by ailing US networks to prop up their (mostly) crap shows with talent while nobbling the opposition. I mean, just look at our non-tv industry now - all our actors are in the US. Sigh. This means no local theatre, so there is a real direness to the whole situation. I wonder if the Brits will suffer the same, or do they have enough in reserve to field an entirely new team? I can but hope.
Okay, so it's probably just all about the money (cue images of my favourite actors wallowing in piles of cash, clothes optional), but it does mean there's no local scene, and that's depressing (once I counted many a creative person amongst my circle from writers to performers to costumers to prop masters and artists, etc) and now I have none. It sucks, just quietly, between you and me.
But never mind, it wasn't meant to be rant on The State of Televsion, just a sleepy hey, it's that guy moment last night (really, the bouf threw me, utterly)
Other than that, the server is frelled, I'm knackered and I've got little time or brain cells for fic today, which is probably a good thing, just between you and me. Though in the pit of my stomach, I just wouldn't put it past TPTB to 'bless' us in the form of further crack fic as episodes (ninjas?!) with something resembling AvP. I just wouldn't put it past them, the wretches.
Come back, Richard Carpenter, please.
Btw, twas bemused by the SFX review that compared Torchwood to Pete Doherty (as in addled trainwreck). Heh.
Oh, and I forgot to mention how much I'm loving Farscape. First time I've seen it uncut on a decent tv at a decent hour and I love it four times more, I think, watching now (which isn't to say I didn't love it before, I'm just appreciating it in new ways). Certainly I was really into last night's episode, in a deep caring about the characters and their journey kinda way.
What can I say? Real, proper outlaws.
Unlike other shows I could mention. I read a review that compared it to Smallville and I hit my head and cried of course! That's exactly what they're doing. How could I not see it before. The whole gag worthy Lex, Lionel and Lana thang. But in the name of all that is holy, why???
Oh well. Nothing for it but to shut my eyes tight and think of Crichton. And Richard Armitage. And Sean Pertwee. And Sam Troughton. And invisible things in the forest...noooo....
Ships in the night
Ships that passed in the night
Thank God I took that script out of the bin
Aussie archaeologists find rare wooden statue
New Kennedy film could kill off one conspiracy theory
Stallone's no sly guy
Richard Carpenter (screenwriter)
Brothers are last to speak dialect
Piper calls her own tune