mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

  • Mood:

I'm so tired, of playing, playing with this bow and arrow

An evening with Richard Armitage, and what a fine evening it was. I'd actually had no more hopes than setting the recorder thingy, popping a few pills and nodding off, but instead I found myself happily lost in the viewing/perving experience, quite entranced until I realised it was only four hours away from gettin' up time. Ooops. But he was so very lovely. We had PoncyRichard, ActionRichard and SleazyRichard, all very charming and not the sort I'd kick out of bed for eating biscuits, n'est pas?

I'd not actually seen The Impressionists before (and given that I was Manet'd/Monet'd to death in the 90s, there's probably a good reason for that) but it was actually quite charming, in an extraordinarily low budget kinda way. Looks like one of those proto doco/drama things, ie as well as feasting on the eye candy of Mr Armitage, there were vistas galore and they insisted on educating me on all the history that I missed out on going to a poor school that never taught art. Gosh, but I actually learnt stuff. I did want to slap Monet though, whining about being penniliess, then admiting he was on an allowance. Poncy middle class bastard. Ahem.

Dear Freddy Bazille was slightly distracting, being played by that wanker from Absolute Power. Shame to see him snuffed out, I do so hate wasted lives of extraordinary promise when perfectly useless lives just carry on. It's just so unfair.

Btw, Impressionists slash: too soon? Discuss. (cf The Yellow House).

Anyhoo, more of Richard beholding scenes of wonder and staring out into the middle distance while clutching paint brushes with a sense of purpose next week. Btw, because it's aimed at the tea cup set, there's precious little sex, violence or scandal alas, which makes the boys the cleanest living French artistes ever, but I suspect that's a mere folly of the form, and the pre-watershed timeslot. It's not Moulin Rouge, shall we say. More Room With A View, alas.

Then there was Richard in his snappy little beret being all snappy and surly rugger bugger on Ultimate Force. He doesn't do much but stand around scowling, but it works for me.

Much the same on Cold Feet, except it's more sneering than scowling (see how he honed the mad actor skills he'd need for that blackclad badass that is Sir Guy). He's actually quite the creepy sexual predator and he does indeed manage that skin crawling mix of being drop dead gorgeous, charming and yet sinister, all at the same time. I forsee a sterling career of serial killers in his future. Or maybe I'm just watching it knowing just how ever so slightly disturbed he plays Guy, and it's colouring my viewing, just a bit. Nah, he's a total dick in Cold Feet. But drop dead gorgeous.

And honestly, Maz, if you're gonna go bad boy psycho, then pick the one who still has the house and the Eyptian cotton sheets to roll in. I'm just sayin'. (Pick Robin over Guy...what was she thinking?)

Still had no time to think of fic, let alone anything else. I'm really tired and the muse is just fading away into nothingness. Sigh. I'm also kind of fed up with the story. Enough. I'll let it go its own way, but it's nothing to do with me. Just so long as that's clear. I just can't wrestle with it any more. And is there no one that little psychopath won't seduce to get his own way?

And am I talking about Robin or Sam? Am confoozed.

Mind you, Annie's mood swings seem to blow hot or cold depending on whether Sam is the hero of the hour or in the dog house. I believe the term is fair weather friend. Gene seems to be a stouter all weathers kinda man. Yay Gene.

Oh, and did anyone else watch last Friday's D&P? What was the term they used for when two mirror licking narcissistic A types get a thang going. I had no idea there was an actual word for it, and of course now I've entirely forgotten it. Damn.

Somebody has manhandled my chicken. I feel so...violated. My rubber chicken is there for the purposes of serious IT juju and is not to be messed with. Pout. Now the pc is all playuppy again. They messed with my chicken, man.

Meanwhile, can somebody please tell Manager X that when I tell them I can't make those edits they want because some fekkin eejit locked the file then buggered off OS on holidays, it's not just an excuse to go home early and yelling at me for 45 minutes isn't going to solve the problem, no matter how well the yelling at underlings works on tv. Ain't gonna happen. Sheesh.

I would like to go home now, please. They've started the grinding cramps off again and I would seriously love a cup of tea (but after the three hour commute, not before).
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Tags: dalziel and pascoe, gene hunt, life on mars, richard armitage, robin hood, sam tyler

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