No real news. I mean you all know Paul Newman is dead. I didn't, having spent all Sunday down the back yard hacking my way through poisonous plants, wrestling giant spiders (you know, your usual RKO Tarzan film fare) until I met Himself waving a bottle of mayonnaise under my nose doing the 'I know something you don't know' dance. He gets that from the auld bitch and I hate it. It's one of my big red buttons. It's why I always get in trouble for sharing links and stuff. I can't help it, there will be no 'I know something you don't' dances if I bloody well have anything to do with it. And the interwebs is for sharing info. If that's not your bag, then the interwebs is not for you, quite frankly.
Sorry, socialist down to my bones, it seems. So yeah, very sorry about Paul Newman cause I loved him, but the news of his demise was delivered in such a rancid fashion I just don't wanna know, you know?
I know I've just contradicted myself but bear with. I've just had it with information ostracism this week. Exclusion makes me unhappy. Maybe I should go and pull up another green bin's worth of proscribed foliage again. There's at least some sense of satisfaction and achievement in that (well, not really because there's more than I can do in a week and it all grows back and if I'm working in the garden then the house is a tip) not to mention spider bites, interesting rashes and sunburn.
Sorry, I was in a good mood, optimistic even, but then contrary to all promises the hobgoblin came in and now I am to be bullied all day. Sigh. Not to mention the perfume (gas! gas! gas!) that is making it so hard for me to breathe right now. It's hard to be relaxed when you can't breathe.
I'm also really over people treating me like I'm stupid. I lack Lewis's forebearance in that regard. The only reason I never went to a good school or uni was because my parents didn't feel I was worth spending any money on. That's more to do with their antipathy towards me than any ability I might have shown. I'm really over Morse types who feel like they have to put me down every five minutes lest I think for myself (oh, the horror, the horror).
So, what did I watch when I wasn't Little Miss Scullery Maid and groundskeeper? Some stuff. There was bits of an old Silent Witness inbetween washing loads (Harry with floppy fringe and still living with his mother, how creepy is that?) and thee was Morse inbetween loads of ironing. It was the one where they go to Oz, which is always amusing (filmed in Cowra and Canowindra, apparently, the latter pronounced Canowndra and I tell you that as a favour because it's not a mistake you'll be wanting to make, trust me on this). It's fun because the old street signs with old brands is all very nostalgic, and Lewis gets a touch uppity outside his natural environment and drunkenly bonds with the local constabulary while Morse is pissing everyone off in a 1,000km radius (if not more).
Also, when Morse walks up the steps of the Opera House at the end, he's gonna hafta to walk back down again. Like all modern buildings of the era it confounds expectation, particularly with where the bloody front door is (go down to the underground carpark, follow a dark dank tunnel then knock on a door three times and ask for Bjorn, and if you think I'm kidding you've never been there).
And don't get me started on Oz dialogue as written by poms. And the ubiquitous sheep stations. Ouch. Still, imagine being stuck in a hot 1990 model car on 1990 NSW roads with Morse. For hours and hours and hours. Poor Lewis. No wonder he wedges the AM radio (further torment) to the bad local station. Sorry, reminds me too much of trips I'd rather forget. Also, exhibitionist Lewis as he goes on the side of the road in full view of passing traffic, eschewing nearby trees, which indicate to any fool that there was a town over the next rise (when the gums giveway to poplars and willows you're approaching civilsation, you silly english peoples).
Somehow this episode always leads to painful reminisces of the Golden Fleece at Glen Innes, a subject best avoided.
There was also the Dr Who finale. Cast of thousands and the daleks had built themselves a death star, apparently (all that was missing at the end was ewoks dancing). I'm not over fond of these cast of thousands things because everyone gets short shrift (it would have beeter had it played out over 2 episodes and everyone could have a scene). Gwen and Ianto were certainly put in their place, stuck in that plot device bubble of theirs. Neither Rose nor Donna got the send off I could have hoped for. I mean, the clone, poor bastard, what sort of a life is he gonna have, never being the man? I look forward to him returning dark and deranged at some point (well, it is Who, no cliched left unturned). And Donna? The reset button was unforgiveable.
Funnily enough, the two chracters who had the most promising exit lines are the ones who exited. At least they didn't mess with Sarah Jane, though I miss young, ballsy Sarah. Grumpy Old Sarah just whines a lot. Given time you'd feel she'd move from Davros to mobile use on public transport and the price of bread these days. It's like Germaine Greer with a robot dog (sorry Sarah, and yeah, you were that shrill in the good old days, too, I remember clearly).
But the dismissal of Rose and Donna. And they say SPN is rough on the wimmin.
I've never been fond of RTD scripts: big on cgi and explosions and shouting, not a lotta plot, a touch too much soap, and deus ex machina by the bucketload. It's all a bit childish, compared to some of the very grownup play of the week psychological horror episodes we have enjoyed.
But thar's just me. Everyone has their own Who, and RTD's is unfortunately all the things I loathed about Who (no character development, lots of running down corridors in lieu of plot).
Where are the Who episodes like we were joking about during an episode of Morse that was oddly filmed so it appeared as if the Tower Bridge was stalking Morse, moving from window to window, moving closer and closer until it was pressed right against the window..."But this office is in Balham! Arrrrgh!!!!". (Yes, Morse was treading in Gideon territory, to my inordinate amusement).
Well, that's my Who. Actually, I have a photo that precisely explains my Who - must scan it. Never mind. My Who seems to be a touch closer alinged to Mr Moffat's vision. Roll on 010 or whenever (even though I really will be watching it in cardigan and slippers by then).
Oh, I forgot to mention, there was an entire Morse anthology in the bookshelves I'm not allowed to touch, including an A-Z (that's zed) of Morse, which I was allowed to touch upon receiving written permission, duly considred and vetted. Donning the white gloves, I discovered, at last, some sort of biography of R Lewis (and, even more usefully, where the books and series diverge). Was greatly amused that that the book seemed to be geared to presenting Morse and Lews as "old married couple" and proceeded to present evidence to back up the hypothesis. Heh.
Would have liked to have gotten some writing down, but as I was working from dawn to midnight daily I had to be content with a couple of chapters and the odd glimpse on telly.
Hmmm...old DMs being pressed into service as gardening boots. Didn't get around to doing the veggie garden, it was hot, and I had enough to be going on with. Will build up garden with old newspapers tied up with old rubber bands. Not really caring if one of the birds chokes on the rubber bands as I also spent Sunday afternoon gluing two of my favourite pots back together again (Tarzan's Grip rocks, btw). I left the pots to dry a bit and when I came back my rubber gloves were gone. Ever seen half a dozen magpies look really shifty? Who me? It wasn't me. Surely you can't suspect me?
Wicked animals. Oh yeah, I also found out how my knickers are gettong those odd holes in them. I didn't think it was moths as the moth problem isn't really a problem any more since I started packing the auld bitch's clothes off to the charities. It wasn't moths. I saw what was causing it while I was weeding (and they forgot I was lurking in the undergrowth). The magpies like to hang upside down from my knickers and have the sex. One of things now I know, I can never unknow. I'm not sure which is more disturbing, the violation of my knickers on the clothesline, or the fact that my knickers are seeing more action than I am?
Oh yeah, also watched two episodes of Ashes to Ashes because I'd caught some of Life on Mars on Satuday night while I was working on net. Not as good as Mars, though, but it has its moments. I miss Sam, though. It was Simm night on Saturday because he was gnawing the scenery in the UKTV repeats of Doctor Who, too.
But nothing could beat the opening of the third episode (was it the third?) of LOM with Sam walking down the road, then Gene driving down the alley and taking out the carboard boxes. Perfection. Utter perfection.
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