mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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detectives on the verge of a nervous breakdown

Alas, pop music didn't want to save me, then, or now. Oh well. I'm in a mood, a definite mood. I may take myself outside at lunchtime (barricaded up the wazoo) and get myself arrested for some un-American activity, just because I'm bored and restless.

Okay, enough with the blackhawks. There's only so many times one can hum Ride of the Valkyries before insanity really kicks in.

Meanwhile, up to my arse in work again, actually, drowneded in it, which is a pity because I had a third fic write itself out in my head last night/this morning. I was thinking it was a somewhat Kurosawa version of The Gest, but really, it's just Kill Bill, but whatever. Violence, revenge and mayhem, that's the main thing (besides, it's meant to be cathartic). I could write it out whole, today, and finish it and post it tonight, done deal, but for this thing we call work. Sometimes it's very frutrating to be a wage slave. Oh, to be supported by a rich and indifferent husband, but not me, alas.

Was also discussing how we're targeting entirely the wrong audience with all this guff I waste my life creating, should be the women and kids, the early adopters, not the menfolk, who won't change their ways if you put a gun to their head. Which funnily enough tied in nicely into a study of primate behaviour. But what would I know, as my boss loves to point out, out account of my bovine stupidity. Ah well.

At least there was a brief interlude between desk and bed last night, as, it being late in the evening when my bus timetable slips from erratic to near non existent, and I had some time to kill and I wandered across the road just in time to catch the QE2 departing. What a sight. Very impressive. She cast off and tootled her horn and was off in very ship-shape fashion. I was in deep, powerful envy of the quick and businesslike manner of her departure. Oh, to have a tight ship run by a competent captain. Past the bridge she sailed, sounding her horn again as she rounded the Opera House. Magnificent.

Oh, to be taken away from here. But, no, back on the bus, though I did get to see a protest in my travels, before the cops moved in with shields and batons.

re Life on Mars. I still can't put my finger on it, but there's something not quite right with this second season. There's no great atmosphere, less Sam and Gene, and Sam no longer seems so desperate at all costs to get home, wherever home is. Whatever happened to the bloke who threw chairs across the room in frustration?

And so much for Mr By The Book, stitching up Marc Warren on a police verbal and then watching while Gene tortured yet another interviewee. Wincing a bit, in my book, does not the moral high ground make.

And what's with the whole I can see dead people thing, where token cop dies in one 'reality' and walks through the door in the next. So, hell is other Manchester 1973?

I miss all the quality soundtrack and lighting, too. Where are all the cool camera angles and lighting? It's like when the X Files moved to LA, I swear.

I think the real problem is that they're rushing to get through everything they wanted to get done, thus putting the lie to the whole 'we couldn't stretch it out for three seasons' bollocks. Bollocks, I say. Instead of having armed bastards as a highlight, they rush them through the episode like they're late for a plane or something. Characters show up, say their piece, and leave. There's no set up, none of those goregous moments where Sam would wander the city alone in quiet contemplation or madness.

It's all too rushed, too noisy, too chaotic, too everything at once (like a cheap pizza) and everyone seems to have grown a good deal nastier. It's still good, but it's not great, as I'd hoped. I was expecting more, not less.

It seems to have been infected with the Torchwood virus, where TPTB think that having everyone running around screaming at each other counts as drama. No. There was more drama in one moment where Sam quietly pressed his hand against cold brick than an entire parade of armed bandits and bent coppers. I'm sorry, but that's just the way I see it. It's like watching a parody of the show now. Sigh. Grizzle.

Look what they've done to my show, ma....


Last night's tv covered quite a bt of ground, style and content wise. First up was Robert Lindsay in Who Do You Think You Are (yes, hanging out for Tenner's eppy). There were some amusing pieces about being told to lose his accent at RADA, and then it was off to Gallipoli. It was rather weird, having Gallipoli explained, as its implied knowledge here, it was also weird to hear it discussed without all the reverance etc that usually accompanies it. I was a tad irked though by the divers messing around with boats sunk off shore, considering the Japanese mini sub in our harbour is considered a war grave and any diver found near it would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, but never mind, the Turks have been awfully accomadting about our sacred site on their soil, so fair dues, I suppose. But, still. A definite sense of unease during those scenes, I must say (but I shall resist the urge to dash off a stern letter to The Times).

What is it about such a terrible folly that stirs us so? Probably the idea that it's more heroic to display such qualities as dignity, bravery and duty in the face of failure and defeat than easy victory. Hard men from a hard country, you might say. It tested our mettle and fell into the forging of a nation myth. Also, the whole sacrificing the flower of our youth in stupid foreitgn wars at the behest of arrogant and badly organised foreign powers is just so us, ain't it.

But, as far as traditional generalised national characters go, we've never taken defeat lying down and we always get in and do the job, even if it's futile, stupid and pointless and defeat just makes us more determined. Like the Ashes this year. All that shamefully unsporting crowing and carry on by the Brits after their last win, well, just asking for it, really. Heh. We might never win again, but we showed 'em (take that, Troughton).

But yeah, anyway, to return to the main topic (ahem), weird to see Gallipoli on tv without all the usual nationalist/patriotic trappings. I suspect it might have been a bit like an American watching those "chunky-knit badasses" from Time Team digging up Valley Forge with no real understanding of the symbolism and/or mythology of the place.

It was just ever so slightly uncomfortable viewing, which was unexpected. I mean, mentioning Gallipoli without the requisite hat doffing and bowing of the head? Fetch me the smelling salts, stat!

Not that I usually care about such things. Usually, it's the eye rolly, but last night I found myself curiously involved, possibly because it's that kind of show and I do sit up when family histories intersect.

So switching over to Bones for shameless David drooling was quite a gear change, but I managed it somehow. God, he is still gorgeous. The stories seem to have improved a bit, too, less a CSI clone, more its own animal, which is good, but mainly I'm just in it because there's no Angel in the afternoons no more, and, dammit, I need my fix. And fixed I was, nicely.

Right, I'm back. Walked up to the Rocks but it was sans DeadEye Dick, armed police, barricades, blockades and blackhawks, which is probably just as well. So the most unAmerican activity I got up to was walking past Starbucks and picking up a couple of too sweet slices for afternoon tea at a little cafe up the road. It's not that I'm feeling particularly unAmerican, mind (though I wouldn't spit on Cheney if he was on fire) but the Quay was looking like East Berlin this morning and it was...unsettling.

And now, as the afternoon rolls on and the sugar slump hits, I dream of wallowing all weekend in average if not so bad it's vaguely amusing telly. Hmmm...Sean Pertwee toga fest (Cleo even comes with bonus Dick!) or should I rent Alien vs Predator just to see how Sam keeps up his end of the family tradition of wrestling with rubber monsters, and what a fine tradition that is (really, only being slightly persnickety as my earliest memories are of his grandfather, and that does mean something, I suppose, as far as benefit of the doubt goes). But I just know it ain't gonna happen. For starters I've got over a fortnight's worth of flist to plough through and old papers to sort and cupboards to clear...

Oh yeah, and one of these days I'd like to finish another fic. Please?
Squeeze - Cool For Cats
The Smiths - Girlfriend in a Coma
Piper calls her own tune
Chimpanzees 'hunt using spears'
The freewheelin' Mr Ferry
Violent films aren't such a slappy feat after all
And for my acting Oscar, I thank the special effects
Drink 'kills twice as many Scots'
Following the Path of a Medieval Arab Wanderer
Kaiser Chiefs in Concert at Manchester Apollo - February 21, 2007
Cilla Black - Anyone Who Has A Heart
The Cure - Boy's Don't Cry
The Cure - A Forest
Soft Cell - Tainted Love
ABC - Poison Arrow
Altered Images - I Could Be Happy
Altered Images - See Those Eyes
Duran Duran - Careless Memories
Sandie Shaw & The Smiths - Hand in Glove
Barbra Streisand - Cry Me A River
Pretenders - Talk Of The Town
Nirvana - The Man Who Sold The World
The Smiths - How Soon Is Now
Radiohead - Creep
Radiohead - Talk Show Host
Sex Pistols - Pretty Vacant
There is a light that never goes out
The Smiths - The Boy With The Thorn In His Side
Blackpool - The Boy With The Thorn In His Side-David Tennant
Joy Division - Love Will Tear Us Apart
Echo & the Bunnymen - The Killing Moon
Echo and the Bunnymen - Rescue
New Order - Blue monday
Robin Hood's grave 'dug up'
Robin Hood's grave
Robin Hood's grave
Robin Hood's Grave
The Noble Fisherman or Robin Hood’s Preferment
Fishermen face half-ton Colossus of the deep
Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne

Bad Robin, no biscuit:

Much leant heavily against the wall, coughing up bloody spittle. He spat again and then wiped his mouth, taking another shaky breath.

"I hope that isn't from the pork you're serving," quipped a soft voice behind him.

"No," Much answered tiredly, turning to lean back against the wall, composing his features as best he could.

"Some bastard kicked several shades of shit out of me today, that's all."

Robin nodded, and then gave Much the full benefit of the blue eyes, and the smile. Oh, the smile was the killer.

So, he was going to play that game, Much decided with an age old weariness. The old all charm and smiles and kisses and 'I didn't mean it and I won't do it again if only you didn't make me so angry' line that always worked so well, though Much was deeply ashamed to admit it. He'd loved Robin long and deep and was too ready to grab at any show affection, no matter how fleeting or disingenuous. Even now. He felt himself relaxing and offering a smile back, despite himself, despite the fact that he could barely pull his mouth into a smile without screaming.

Robin leant in close, nuzzling softly, brushing against his skin in feather-light touches of lips, breathe and eyelashes.

"I'm sorry, Much," he murmured, and Much closed his eyes, sighing inwardly at his lack of steel when it came to Robin, but he yet to meet anyone who could resist when Robin looked into your eyes and seemed to be speaking to you, only you, as though you were the only person who mattered in the world. In another heartbeat he'd be forgiving him, so Much kept his mouth firmly closed, until Robin threaded it gently with his tongue and Much opened up beneath him, weak willed and water soft as always. No wonder Robin had no respect for him, no wonder Robin thought he could take whatever he wanted from him.

The next thought, about what Robin really wanted, finally hit against stone and he pushed back at last, grabbing and holding Robin and kissing him with a fierceness that shocked both of them, then letting him go.

Tags: fic, life on mars, richard armitage, robin hood, sam troughton, sean pertwee, slash

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