mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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the joy of seventies coppers

Monday: Um, no scans this week. I had other stuff to do and it was hot. Plus I'm knackered. Running around like a blue arsed fly. Made myself sick on Sunday, but that's what I get for weeding in 38C heat after having yoghurt and berries for lunch.

Today I am weilding the holepunch. You know, I wasted my twenties going to uni at night just so I'd never have to spend all day holepunching again, but sans proper job, it's my "special project" of the week. They didn't even sugar coat it with "as you've got records management experience..." Nope, it was just "holepunch, bitch". So I holepunch (therefore I am?).

Saturday I went to the Granny Smith Day. I always went with mother, previously, but it was too hot and crowded for any real moment of sad reflection, and even when I got up to the park where we always had our lunch (and Peanut Gallery now has a greater appreciation of the skills involved in carrying back two plates of allegedly Dutch pancakes and two coffees across the crowded field and up the hill) because I was too busy whining to myself about my shot ankles and trying to keep the balloons away from the enormous rose bush I'd bought (it was huge, it was mighty and it was cheap, hence my damn fool attempt to drag it home, but we did).

Yes, balloons. Did not take any from Lil Johnnie, though they were my tax dollars at work, but I picked up some from everyone else, except The Greens because balloons are, like, bad for the environment and stuff. So, yes, dear Greens, points for principles, but it did make them look like a bunch of joyless killjoys, because everyone else had balloons. Yep, thanks to the election it was part fete, part one of those political rallies I saw on West Wing (thank you West Wing, gone, but still providing educational value).

The parade was amusing, well not amusing in the way that the new route confused everyone and collapsed into a shambles (unless you're into anarchy and chaos as performance art), or the poor sap dressed as a dancing apple (almost over it but not quite), but the fact that they actually had, for the first year ever, a gay group marching with all the hard core fundies that usually make up the parade. In fact, I had no idea there could ever be such a thing as a gay group there that I avoided them when I saw the rainbow balloons because I honestly thought they were yet another bunch of happy clappers. Sorry (and well done!). But the really amusing bit was the parade order where the gay group followed the Scouts, allowing the Peanut Gallery to quip that he'd never expect to see the only gays in the village marching out loud and proud, but he supposed it was the Scouts' centenary after all (wicked, wicked childe).

So anyway, in addition to the huge rose, I also carried home a huge bottle brush, some other unlabelled shrub, a geranium, some sort of daisy thing (also unlabelled), two pots of herbs, a dragon shaped windchime (huge, twee and I couldn't help myself), two t-shirts, a hat, sweeties and various other odds and sods. Phew. The day was rather ruined by the fact that the bus stop had been moved from the bottom of the hill (where I was) to the very top of another distant hill (so far away as to almost be in another postcode if not actually) and thus it was a hot cranky hike, me with my not quite so portable garden and two ruined ankles. Ouch. And the balloons. Mustn't forget the balloons.

Anyway, Sunday was plating, weeding and watering. Didn't even get around to scrubbing the kitchen floor. Um, shucks?

Didn't watch much (fell asleep during Foyle's War last night and it had Sam West in uniform in it, dammit, one I'd not seen before because I'd missed it and the timer failed and, ack). Did see another episode of The Avengers, sans Cathy Gale this time, alas, but with Steed in fine form and featuring a wrestling scene that was more gay porn than gay porn. Sure, you think I'm exaggerating, but then you'll see it and realise I was entirely understating the gay porness of it all. Truly. I mean, QAF had nothing on this.

It just capped off an episode that started with a torch song comparing love to heroin. Ah, The Avengers, the HBO years. TV really was more grown up and daring in the early 60s. At least, I found it suitably adult and dark, and with the gay porn.

In way of contrast, I saw half an episode of the New Avengers. Gambit and his lime green flat. It was the one where everyone was put to sleep so some clowns could run amok robbing banks and Purdey could run about in her jim jams. Still, no simpering babe, our Purdey.

Unlike the Contessa who has been reduced to girlie tears three times in S2 of The Protectors. Sheesh. Never mind, loved the one in Venice, with John Thaw. Oh, tv heaven. And the one in Spain, where they're all so obviously and terribly sunburnt (it wasn't the print because Bobby Vaughn had white circles round his eyes from his sunnies - hee). Too funny. Only poor Tony, who hardly ever appears now, managed to tan, not burn. Dear, sweet, pretty, pretty Tony. Fave scene is a toss up between flamboyent Tony in purple on the Rialto bridge or tanned billowy cravat Tony saving the day (but never being thanked for it) in the sunburn episode (that had Peter Vaughn as a bad guy, but when is he not?).

Thursday: Okay, been busy, but feeling much better. It's cooler, I actually slept properly last night for the first time since I can't remember, my ED opened a door for me (I'm taking that as a good sign) and all this archiving is actually strangely soothing in a same old same old brainless job kinda way. Also, my do it anyway in case they want it website is getting a shoofty by the mandarins, so yay me. They might hate it, but at least the old 'here's one I prepared earlier' trick still works.

Meanwhile, was bemused at the BBC coverage (and elsewhere) of the Californian bush fires. Never mind the people and damage, what about our tv shows, and quite right too (and before anyone complains, you made us tv crack addicts, and like any addict we fret any interruption to supply). I also like the SMH article, because it bemused. Keep eating the tofu yoghurt, people.

Last night was rather good, turning badness into goodness by taking some valuable advice from an exasperated ex-friend, as in why must I make things harder for myself? Because it was the way I was brought up but I'm slowly trying stop doing stuff that way. See it was my turn to do dinner but I got held up at work by last minute flailing of manager (I told them not to push the button but would they listen to me? So much urgent and late-making mopping up after inopportune button pushing) and then due to a complete inability for Sydneysiders to drive in drizzle I sat in traffic for actual hours.

It took me over an hour to creep forward over a section of road that should take two or three minutes at most and I ploughed through my book, watched the sky darken into night and rain squalls descend, and there went my allotted shopping and cooking time. Normally, I'd press on in a fit of stress and anxiety, not to mention cold, wet darkness, but I just decided sod it, it's tinned soup tonight. And as Himself was out (at a function cut short due to rain squalls, had there been a housewife amongst the artistes, highly unlikely, they might have hung a tarp lest the fairy bread run) I just left a tin out and went to bed with fluffy winter pyjamas and a hot chocolate, listened to the rain and dozed off. Marvellous.

I did watch House and Life later though (thanks, pvr!) and enjoyed them (and caught a bit of Farscape earlier, JC is the pretty and angsty). I like the new recruits much better than the old and, well, could care less about the plots, which seems to be the attitude of TPTB. Honestly, these days, the differences between House and Wilson and Jeeves and Wooster are becomming minimal and minor at best.

Life is improving, though I agree with the review that poured scorn on the whole quirky cop show idea. Indeed. Dexter is a quirky cop show. Forever Knight is a quirky cop show. Life is just Damian pulling faces and plodding through episodes rummaged from the Law & Order recycling bins, but I love Damian, so it's not a hardship to watch. And the sidekick is coming along in leaps and bounds - she's a real find. She started off the whiny bitchy cop (think first series Angel) but now she's a fully fledged enabler and it's kinda cute. And, forgive me, but I did raise a smile at the scene where she pulled over the car, annoyed at the toddlers in the back and front seats. Hee. So very the designated adult.

I'm still not sure about the whole Rainman aspect to Damian's character, but the occasional flashes of violence and revenge are pretty cool, in amongst all the fluff, so I'll bear with, for now (but in all things, there is a limit to patience and forebearance).

The roomate and lawyer seem a bit surplus to requirements, especially as the lawyers obvious hots for the ginger nut are going nowhere fast (though points for the RR cameo).

I like it. It just needs better writing and some of the characters to be bedded down or weeded out. I think it might work better if the murder of the week had a bit more resonance with Crews, rather than merely filling in time between demonstrations of oddity. Crews needs to demonstrate his wounded soul a little more, at least for this angst maven. I don't need man tears, just the odd twitch when things cut too close to the bone.

Speaking of man tears (and hello to the intense dreams and baby JP and baby MV on repeats of the Gilmore Girls which I spied flicking around because Foxtel wasn't accessing SciFi for a bit last night), quite enjoyed Supernatural on Monday. It wasn't as great as the flist made out, or perhaps that's because I spoiled myself a wee bit and expectations were unfairly high, but I did kinda like the mini-Dean, twee as it was. Dean's actions were very amusing as he ran the spectrum of oh shit to pride and paternal affection and then regret and disappointment. The Sam as Evil Chosen One plot is still going, and still kinda boring as nothing ever comes of it, aside from JP scowling and looking bovvered a lot. Ya woulda thought that plot was dead and buried (and salted and burnt) but nope. Still, the mysterious possibly evil dead mum bit reminds me of old school creepiness, but I doubt I'm in for old school BBC chills here. Nope, it'll prolly be more DOOL high camp soapy horror, but never mind. Um, guys, you promised more road, less soap, but I'm not seeing it so far.

The changling story was also kinda a damp squib, because you know, it's been down before and so much better and with Ian Hendry (the first Avenger girl, no less).

Also, not a lot of Sam and Dean in the same room this season. Have the boys had a falling out? Whatever the reason, get on with it, this could be the last and only season so don't spare the horses.

Meant to open up a Word doc or three this morning, but despite a decent sleep it was two hours of jackhammers outside the window so bad that everything on the desk was rattling, including my nerves. Then I got sprung having a belated cuppa and peruse of the Guardian (to settle said nerves). Oh well (better that than historical pr0n, I agree).

So yeah, heat stroke on Sunday, hot chocolate last night. Wacky weather, eh?

Um, also watched Doctor Who, S2 (Vol 2). DT is still gorgeous as ever, and weirdly freckly on the loungeroom tv (my telly is too crap for freckles). Watched a repeat of the werewolf one and silly as it is with the kung fu monks and dreary as it is with the whole Torchwood thing (and for an orginsation set up by Royal decree to deal with the Doctor, one wonders what on earth they were doing during the 60s and 70s? Having meetings and writing white papers?). What I do love about that episode is the Doctor and Rose. DT and BP have such an abundance of chemistry, it's a shame we only had a handful of episodes to enjoy it (perhaps that makes it so much sweeter). I know the whole naughty school children thing gets on people's tits at times, mine included, but, by gosh, they were so cute.

What I'd really love though, is for some kind soul to discover more Troughton era stories, especially with Jamie in them. I have barely remembered bits from ancient repeats in the dark B/W days (pre 1975) but it's not enough. Time to copy across those episodes the ABC so kindly played a few years ago, especially the Dominators one (with their fabby John Paul Gautier ensembles).

Tuesday night was the old dvd of Bones again (because I'm always still shuffling about in a char woman capacity while its on Fox8) and this time the murder of the week was enlivened by voodoo. Oh yes. Oh happiness. I do love a voodoo story, and sure I could get all Temperance on the crap anthrpology, but really, it's like voodoo, who cares? Bring on the dead chickens and zombies, I say. Voodoo episodes are always fun (The Saint and Nightstalker, in particular).

Bouyed by said seriously silly cop show I flicked across to UKTV at exactly the moment I thought I would, as he walks into the crazy backwards office, having that very scene much in mind as I walked into that other crazy backwards office o'mine which is always a trip down the rabbit hole (beige computers and all), particularly this week as that radio in the background had left the divas alone for once (thank frell) and was pumping out Queen and the Sweet, so I was already there, right there, and it was good. Because after everything I'd not been able to enjoy the ABC screening of Life on Mars in peace, nor Saturday's, but, at last, I was in the moment enough to just sink into it and wallow in the silliness and joy of seventies coppers. There is so much to love about Gene Hunt (and he's right into the making of breaking Sam, which is as inclusive gesture as you could ever ask for, especially leaving Sam in charge, dropping him right in the deep end). And Sam. again I wonder what on earth I see in that weedy runt, but halfway through as JS starts to get his strut on, there's no question: we're dealing with one sexy, albeit fucked up, wee beast. Oops, not wee. Never wee. Sorry John. (heh!). But Tuesday night, it was all about Gene. Luv the Guv.

I also love how, S1 at least, it's one of those rare shows where it's a different show every time you watch it. Every time, I see something new. Like how Sam's insistence in 2006 that the fibres are what's going to catch the bad guy, and they are. Like how Gene, seeing Sam is upsetting the old bag with his interrogation, distracts her with the biscuit discussion (and how very Bill Bryson British, the obession with biscuits - grin). Gene is watching and gauging Sam all the time, and it's so subtle I'm picking up on some of it only now (usually in that scene I'm distracted because the old bag reminds me of someone I disliked, right down to the drinking tea out of the saucer, very northern english, that).

But basically, it's hard to go past the very physical maleness of it all, especially the bit where Gene brings Sam to his knees. Whoo boy. I was also bemused by Gene's enthusiastic response to Sam's apparently sudden taste for anal sex in Gene's office, not to mention the way Gene manhandles Sam down to the pub. Subtext rapidly becoming text, I fear (and for all the casting of a bird in the sequel, Gene, I feel, is always going to be one of those big boofy blokes who doesn't mind a bird but saves all his bonding for a worthy male friendship).

And, while we're on grumpy cops in grim cities, forgot to mention I caught most of Rebus on Friday night. For all it's purported grim city streets of grimness, I gotta say there was a lot of I Spy style "oh look, the Royal Mile" going on in a lot of the shots, until we got to the murder scene and I couldn't quite work out where they were. "Wait'll they go to a Tesco's, then you'll know," quips the Peanut Gallery wickedly, re my constant lamentation that friends and rellies always drive me past castles and kirks to get to a Tescos or Asda and I fair bleed from heartbreak (as in I didn't spend two stinking days on a plane to see the inside of a supermarket, thank you very much), so yeah, I know every Tescos and Adsa in and around Edinburgh, oh yes indeedy. It is, as you might gather, a bit of a sore point with me. I think I spent the rest of the episode grumping and muttering and it was so obvious whodunnit (I really do think I'm suffering cop show fatigue).

And that's about it. And now back to holepunching. Yep, this'll clear up the carpel-tunnel. Uh huh.

Friday: Yum chas must be like buses: one waits forever, and then two turn up at once. I am bemused, because I was wishing for some yum cha last night on the bus. I was wishing for a great many things, but yum cha got the nod, apprently.

First, Himself trots home with all manner of buns and dumplings. They were all veggie though and I arched an eyebrow, concerned this wasn't the start of some faddy veganism, but no, it's just that he didn't think he could answer for pork buns after a 100km commute and fair enough. The furthest I've ever carried a pork bun is 40kms, and that's not a claim I make frequently - grin.

Yum cha #2 was today with an impromptu phone call from one of my absent yum cha buddies. It was brilliant and most restorative, even if I did get sunburnt under the sun, stuck at the only table sans brolly (hard to believe now it's all dark and thundery out there but three hours ago it was brilliant blue skies and beating sun).

It's also been a good week for old mates. There was the yum cha, then lunch across the road on Wed with another (I wonder if I did cojur them just from the archiving, as every second file had their names on them, and I oft sighed of fond rememberance). Mate #3 phoned, emailed and snailed mailed (whoo!), so I'm feeling quite the society gal this week, as opposed to the hermit I usually am.

Actually, feeling guilty about telling mate #3 about the Dexter thing, but they're my Dexter buddy and I had to tell somebody (because, like, squee), and it's not my fault they moved to the sticks.

So, last night's telly. It was the love shack episode of Unit One at last. Poor, poor long suffering La Cour. He is so Fischer's bitch, but not one for the succour when they have their awkward attempt at men talk on the windy beaches. and, I gotta ask, what is the point of a Danish beach house? It looked bleak, like Bronte bleak. Never mind, rthe episode was all about Fischer, scowly leather coated Fischer and his violent temper completely cancelling out his career prospects (and how ironic considering a couple of episodes back he was galloping his high horse around re dirty cops and deaths in custody). Ah well, more moodiness from Mads, and that can never be a bad thing. His seduction technique needs a bit of work, though, although the whole "my cock, let me show it to you" is what amounts to foreplay and seduction here, so, well, Mary must feel right at home, eh? Snerk.

Heroes was a deplorably Peter free zone, pout, pout sulk, whine. Do I really have to turn to Gilmore Girls for my fix, because that is, well, that's just pain, is what it is. Nate had finally shaved the beard, prolly because he got tired of being done for a terrorist everytime he stepped out of doors, and, hee, the scene where he sadly fondles the pics of goofy young Pete (they looked like actual snapshots, too). Too cute. The brotherly love burns strong in this one. Other than that, Claire lies to her dad, Matt and Mohinder have yet more domestics and the car load of murdering mutants in Mexico? So bored. But at least the story progressed the tiniest fraction, which was something.

Oh, in answer to my friend who asked what was up with Adrian's hair, well, it was doing the horns thing on Mysterious Ways (ye gods, that show sucks) so I think it's what his hair wants to do, given its freedom.

Which Supernatural character are you?

You're Sam! Smart, kind, and all-around good guy. You care about people and you always try to do the right thing. But there's more to you than meets the eye -- if someone gets on your bad side, they better watch out.
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Tags: cathy gale, david tennant, dean winchester, doctor who, gene hunt, hugh laurie, jared padalecki, jensen ackles, john steed, john thaw, life, life on mars, mads mikkelsen, philip glenister, rejseholdet, robert vaughn, sam tyler, sam winchester, supernatural, the avengers, the new avengers, the protectors, tony anholt

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