I love Blackpool. Love it, love it, love it to bits. It's been, well, months (really, months?) since I watched it last and so I watch it with eyes anew. What a quirky, scruffy mess of tics wee Davey is in this. I mean, last time I got the always eating or drinking thing (much like Brad Pitt in Ocean's 11) but this time it was the constant and excessive littering that bemused me. Oh, and These Boots Are Made For Walking? To die for. And that last hero shot - swoon.
Boy, has the lad cornered the market in quirky, though. How he manages to make such distilled quirk so damn smexy is a question for the ages, yet he does.
T'other Dave has some moves too. Yes, it's another loveable Northern badass, because as shelfish and shallow as Ripley first appears, the cracks are already showing and his downfall is really quite wrenching to watch. He's also gorgeous, in a camel coated, gold lame, hip shakin' kinda way.
Also, I kinda love Blythe, the loveable, long suffering sidekick (but you know by now I have a kink for long suffering sidekicks).
Also, not a merry free zone: spotted a very young and tousled Joe Armstrong loitering with intent to scene steal very early on in the piece (he's one of the kids messing with the machine in the arcade).
Speaking of feeling my age, or at least, thinking upon it again (creak, groan), I was more upset about Gareth Hunt last night than I was during the day, possibly because I had an opportunity to discuss it with someone. It was a shock. I mean, it's one thing for those monochrome chaps to shuffle off this mortal coil, but Gareth was a 70s full colour tv tough guy. It's really quite shocking to lose one of the action heroes of my childhood.
So I was feeling old, mortal and depressed, because tv action heroes, especially the 70s action heroes I grew up with, were indestructible and immortal. At least, they're supposed to be. And while I never really took to Gambit (I was a bit too young and he was way too sleazy) he did absolutely, completely and utterly in every way pave the way for Messrs Bodie and Doyle, and that alone is reason to esteem and mourn. At least, I think so.
Vale Gambit and your awful interior decoration and your tight trousers and silly gun poses.
If they had any decency they'd be sinking a pint for him at The Railway Arms tonight.
The 70's. Bless 'em.
Meanwhile, I'm knackered. The drug dealers were upsetting the possums and, as I only had five hours left for sleeping, I kinda wanted to use all of them but it just wasn't meant to be.
Also, I could finish at least one of these big fics if I wasn't here pushing pdfs today.
Oh, and speaking of Masters (well, I wasn't, but Much was greetin' again), looks like Simmo as THE Master has just moved along another notch towards 'I'll believe it when I see it', though there is a lovely quote from Phil to behold: Martian Simm lands evil Dr Who role.
I just wanna know, are they keeping the funky, frilly costume or are they going with the big black coat with seems so much the tradition these days. Not that I object to John in black leather coats, you understand, oh dear me, no, it's just that it's starting to get a little, well, trite.
I mean, there was Spike and Angel and Guy (with his 12thC drizabone) and the Highlander crew and Crichton on occassion, but when I saw Lex done the big black coat of badness, well, it was just one big black coat of badness too far, you know?
Speaking of black coats and the clicheness thereof, what am I to do if the Hood fic took its cues from the canon texts (well, it's not like they're in much danger of being used in the show, now, is it) and Robin did, actually, smite Guy after a battle of Jedi proportions, he's supposed to don Guy's smexy leather outfit. Now no way is a scrawny runt like Robin going to manage that without looking, well, very silly, but if he just takes the coat, well, is it just too Spike, even if I am trying to be faithful to the primary sources? Or could I just call it homage, as everyone seems to these days?
As for poor Guy, well, I did say it all got a bit Kill Bill towards the end. And what the bloody hell is an "irish knife", with which psychoboy does a bit of "Stuck In The Middle With You" nip/tucking on poor Guy? (Post mortem disfigurement? You nasty sick puppy).
PM update: Just had a yummy lunch with company (salt and pepper squid) then ran yet more errands. At least now I know why I lose more weight when plans are afoot - there's a lot of afoot involved. Which I suppose makes a change from sulking at my desk and googling teeny fan pages (wot a sad life I lead).
They weren't kidding about it being hot, either. Hot, hot, hot. And is the city reverting to its Georgian roots or do other cities feature semi naked tattooed guys walking about the cbd? I wouldn't know, I suppose, as I've only ever seen London in February.
I do raise an eyebrow at the heat though, as I had nowt on my books this weekend except weeding the garden and Dell Boy. And isn't amazing how my weekends have just freed up now that my social life has moved offshore. (Mind you, I have been more than a bit uncharitable this week, snubbing old aquaintances, but I'm just not really up for playing Much in their gang any more, really I'm not: been there, done that, had the soggy tear-stained pillow).
Maybe later, when I get more desperate. Right now a plethora of tickets and email correspondence suffice. Oh yes, and as much as I deeply (to the point of near homicidal rage at time, I must admit) envy and resent those ladies of leisure when I'd much rather be typing le fic than waiting for these pdfs to upload, I suppose it does pay for tickets. Just as well, though, or I'd really be cross.
But yeah, I'm very oversensitive when it comes to poor Much in the show, as I'm always the Much (fetch/carry, baggage, catering, ego fluffing and punching bag). Sigh. Pout.
But anyhoo, was talking about The Impressionists (did I not tell you all to watch it?) and describing how impossibly nice it all was. But what about the funny syphillis? Well you may ask. No green fairies either and apparently they pick up their models at flower markets, no doubt buying posies for little old grandmothers. Sweet, innocent little Monet doesn't drink, doesn't swear, doesn't rat his hair and gets ill from one cigarette... Ahem.
So yeah, a little sanitised, just a smidge, but at least Richard looks gorgeous. My, but he's a damn fine lookin' man.
But damn, I'd sure like to see the HBO version. Now there's a thought: sex, sex, sex and the occassional smattering of paint on canvas. Heh.
Hmm, I'm thinking now if it stays hot I can lock myself in my room and sweat over the fic. Remember the old days when I had to switch over to a wooden pencil in Summer because my hands were too sweaty to hold a plastic pen in the vinyl LP warping heat? Oh, those were the days. Completely ruined my eyes too, writing in the very near dark because it was too hot to turn on the light. Hmm...plan (but of mice and poor Muchs, I suspect I might as well forget about it).
My, it's quiet today. where's the usual 4.15pm bun rush? (I dare not leave though, not after last week). Just jotted off a scene that I thought not too shabby, but on a second reading I realise it's 100% Buffy (the usual second last episode of the season plot). Oh well, at least RTD would approve. Cue Sarah McLachlan. Cue credits.
Never mind, go and read this. Though how they ccould get through that list without mentioning Steve Reeves once...
Btw, have you seen the Ford Harryhausen homage ad? Hee.
PS. We've just got XP installed at work! I kid you not. Up until yesterday it was '95 all the way. And sadly, I'm actually happy about it. Now my software flails about less.
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