mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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the bitterest pill is mine to take

It's wall to wall Richard Armitage tonight (The Impressionists, Ultimate Force, Cold Feet), according to the tv guide, which contains much that is hypocryphal and inaccurate. If so, it'll be a nice bit of sugar to help the medicine go down.

And it has been a week of bitter pills, and I don't mean just the mellow yellows (actually, they were fun, especially the three that tried convince me by way of lurid dreams that the reason I couldn't walk properly was some welcome but rough handling from yon Titus - if only it were true, eh?). Actually, it's not been that bad, hot-bottle-wise, and my stupid insistence on rolling around ill instead of just throwing up (not the clean bathroom!) was entirely my own misery to own.

No, it was the usual merde dump from above that were giving me the worst dry heaves, which is why I had Monday off, knowing my limits. Briefly, suffered through two semi-formal lunches that made rolling around with cramps later a happy relief. Gah, hell really is other people. Especially my family - trying to get them to Watsons Bay and back via public transport was worse than herding cats, with all the wandering off and ticket losing and "I told you to go before we left" that you can imagine, and then some. It wasn't really much, per se, but more than I could handle when not on form, but heaven forbid I should slip and grimace instead of grinning and bearing.

It was all a bit wearing and tearing, especially as I was just feeling a bit like my old self early Saturday morn, which I rarely, ever do, and pleased that I seem to have finally collected, online at least, a bunch of folks whose main hobby isn't putting me down or making constant impossible demands. Just for a bit, after reading my flist, I was pleased with the world and beholden of its wonders. Soon had that knocked out of me.

Which is why I had to have yesterday off. One more day of setting my face in a rictus grin and I knew I'd be stuck like that, like The Joker.

As for fic? Null. Reading? Null. Catching up on tv? A bit better, there. Especially as Mr Postman, no doubt feeling my woe rolling down in thick heavy waves from my window, decided to finally drop off the Yankee parcel he'd been bogarting and happiness and Titus squee! Two lovely, lovely t-shirts and two episodes of Rome! Did I mention how much I love you guys? So I wallowed in Titus squeedom. Seemed only right as I'd been, ahem, dreaming of the lad most vividly. He is a treasure: big and tough and marshmallow soft and all twinkly eyed drop dead gorgeous. A more solicitous assassin one could not hope to meet. He is just adorable. I love a man who knows the correct way to kill and a good peach when he sees one.

Sadly, as the plot must move on, we lost some of my favourite characters (and I can't believe I'm actually about to gloss over plot points for the sake of spoilers over BCE historical events, but there you go). Mind you, the series glosses over a few minor plot points too, compressing the Battle of Philippi into a mere rugby scrum of a few costumed extras. Props to the Brutus and Cassius scenes, or should I say Brutus/Cassius. Wha-hey. Nothing like coughing up blood in the arms of one's beloved to bring forth the tv angst, I say. Farewell to poor old weaselly Cicero, who was really hitting his straps, imho. Ah well, I've still got that magnificent beast, Marky Mark, to look forward to, for a bit, at least. Oh yes, and giggles to the straight out of Days Of Our Lives play book Oh, Octavian, My How You've Grown twixt scenes bit. Hee.

Speaking of Days of Our Lives (oh yes, I knew him when), last night's Supernatural didn't rock quite as hard as the promos suggested it might, and I think I've seen the whole body-snatchers plot enough times by now to be thoroughly bored by it, especially as it was unlikely that either Sam or Dean were going to come a cropper, but I tips me lid to them for sailing very close to the wind in making Dean a somewhat darkly conflicted trigger happy bad guy. In fact, I swear bubblegum pretty Dean is a far more serious badass mutha than Guy of Gisborne could ever hope to be in his wildest dreams (wallowing in Robin's sheets and, oh my, is that why there's always so much laundry hung out to dry at Locksley, with Guy always thinking of Robin while lying in Robin's bed? - snerk).

But I digress. I'm just surprised at how hardcore Dean can be, for a US teen series (or, to quote Faith as Buffy: "You can't do that, it would be wrong"). Meanwhile, perhaps young Dean can take heart from the speech given in the episode of House I watched last night in how it's not quite so icky if you only share one parent - smirk. I'm sure it's the all the WrongBad thoughts about his demon spawn bro that has poor Dean so tense and tetchy these days. Heh.

Re House, didn't mind the episode I watched last night, though it makes a change when they're not all out of synch like badly dubbed centurions (one of my dvds really, really doesn't like homemade disks). Somehow, being offbeat and snippy seems to have been a part of everyone's contract negotiations this year. So it's kind of odd, leaving only poor Wilson as the, ahem, straight man, but far more amusing as the three lackeys now occassionally give back as good as they get. They kind of remind me now of the gang from Waking The Dead (in fact, the casts are probably interchangeable, so they're not that quirky).

re Buffy, yes, totally watched it last night on SciFi, since I was home and not getting any quality drug addled nap time as hoped (the could slam doors for australia, so hey could, my lot). It another go at the whole Faith's not Bad, she's just Misunderstood thang. (I swear, if I never finish my fic we'll see a Guy pretends to go all Patty Hearst episode anyways).

Oh, yes, how could I forget? Stayed up to watch part one of Gunpowder, Treason and Plot with the very tasty Mr McKidd clad head to toe in black (except for the tasty nekkid scenes, all praise British telly). I just lovely him in this. He's a smidge, but just a smidge, mind, less morose than he is in Rome, and he's got this whole fiercely protective thing going, which sadly Vorenus lost in S2 of Rome (Titus so wears the pants in that relationship, so to speak). Personally, if I had that lad giving me those intejnse looks across the dinner table I'd so dump the feckless Corro bumpkin, no matter how many titles he had to his name. I just loved the bit where Kev declares he can only bring his heart to the marriage. Oh, big girly swoon. And, to borrow from Emma, though the chick in question is technically the the one with most to lose in such a marriage, she was the one with the most to gain (oh yes, you bet I've used this in my current fic).

Oh boy, Kev baby totally rocks in this and I never get tired of watching it. What is it with Scottish men? Some fall to pieces round about thirty, and some really, really don't (Kevin, Douglas Henshall).

And I'm bemused that thus far the BNW is all Kevin, James, Gerard, David and Alastair (does happy SNP dance).

Oh, and it's not for any Scots boy I'm re-reading Austen right now. In fact, it's for the want of one, having exhausted the local Dymock's stock of D&Ps (sigh, pout) and, needing something to keep me from gnawing the seat on the bus, I picked up Jane from the pile o'books. I detect her wicked influence on my fic already, as heroines tire of bad boys and the wild ways and nice guys might actually only finish second last. Tsk. He'll clash with the curtains, you know.

Not that I'll ever finish it. I really would rather finish that last LOM fic, especially now I'm over the whole it has to be perfect thing, and even the it has to be good thing. I'm more than willing to wear dreary and dismal hack work to glue together scenes already writ, but I just don't have time. Sigh.

Besides, if Simmo can't be arsed (and it's really starting to look like he's just there under contractual obligation), then why should I bother sweating blood?

Speaking of which, I think I'm going to toddle off early today. It's rainy, it's muggy and I'm just not up for several games of "I've made ten minor amendments in this eight page doc, see if you can find them". Plus I've already been caught muttering "fekkin eejit" a tad audibly to myself as I played the hunting of the snark. So no to the twelve hour day today, and they can't bite my big fat arse if they don't like it.

But how am I going to stay awake for Richard, especially as it's channel hoping and thinfs never start on time and one can't tune into 7 on Foxtel anyway ("digital" telly, like "broadband", here isn't really up to snuff).

Pout. Whine. Whimper.

Oh, forgot to mention D&P. The "last" of the series (ie, three series or so ago as far as the UK is concerned) and it kind of went out with a whimper, but no matter. The books are just so superior I couldn't help but be disappointed. However, the main horror in last Friday's episode was muppet boy himself, Burn Gorman, and to add to my woes, he wasn't horribly dismembered or anything. It was honestly just your bog standard Midsommer plot replanted in Mid Yorks. Yawn. It's just so dull when the books are so pithy, with very pointed things to say on modern British politics, the human condition, etc. But in the tv version we just get nasty yuppies knocking each other off (and not before time, I say).

Anyhoo, next week we're apparently being treated to series four of Spooks. At bloody-effing last. I suppose it's only because UKTV is chomping at the bit to play it. And I'd be going 'whose funeral, again?' had I not just revisted Spooks via UKTV. Thanks for the reminder. And six of the best to tardy Aunty. Tsk.
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Tags: dalziel and pascoe, dean winchester, jane austen, jensen ackles, kevin mckidd, life on mars, ray stevenson, richard armitage, robin hood, rome, spooks, supernatural

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