So, of course, last night, despite having every good and just intention of watching the no doubt excellent Brit telly the ABC was serving up, well, it just wasn't going to happen, not when there was Tufty in the offing. So yeah, I watched Life on Mars. And loved every damn minute of it.
Oh yeah, The Saint is now on Fox Classics (also playing the Bond films, whee, though Monday was George Lazenby, alas), old B/W ones, the one I saw featuring Patrick Troughton. Oh yeah, it was also a case of too many Troughtons on the weekend with Robin Hood on both UKTV and ABC2 and Pat popping up in the Saint and the Goodies on the comedychannel, or just comedy, as it seems to be called this month (and where the feck was Mr Stewart last night, you bastards?). I always find a little Troughton goes a long way - grin (although Pat was reasonably just seriously wicked in the Saint). Still not exactly sure where the Saint was set in that episode, as I'd missed the first five minutes. Somwhere "foreign", obviously, but the bad accents were all over the shop.
Meanwhile, it's all grumble, grumble, grizzle gnash. I always fret about being cranky, stressed and generally burnt out, burnt to a cinder, over Xmas and each year I resolve to do it differently, to be a better person, etc, but basically it comes down to having to work 14 hour days and then having to turn around and do another 14 hours of cooking and cleaning and shopping and card writing and wot not and you're thinking but hey, that's 28 hours and I'll say now you know why I'm in such a frazzled, shitty mood. Throw in some stinky hot weather and standing on the overcrowded bus for hours laden with some very heavy shopping and you've got all the festive fun I can handle. Stamp, stomp, bah humbug, etc, ad infinitum.
And it sucks, because I do try, and this year the universe ate my tinsel. Sigh.
I think the trying is part of the problem, but sitting back isn't going to get the kitchen floors scrubbed, etc, unless one really wants to test the laws of entropy to the limit (and, by god, the kitchen must be edging close to that magic maximum chaos plateau, anyway). So I am once again doomed to lurch towards Xmas (that is if I even get the day off) a frantic, overburdened shadow of my self.
Damn, because Lewis muse is back. And he wants to play.
Never mind. You know you're watching too much Robin Hood, which is crap and overly shrill and preachy (in ways ROS just wasn't, despite all the howls about its chardonnay socialist leanings at the time, and who knew we'd ever be able to acclaim Mr Grace's performance as a subtle and nuanced, who knew that camp ceiling could be broken?) but lookit, pretty boys...where was I? Oh yeah, my semi-tame cockatoos, wicked creatures that they are, must have taken my reading of the riot act to them last weekend on board because, for the moment, they know that "Gisborne time" is quiet time. Ah, if only others were so easily trained, eh?
Biscuit denial is a terrible thing, and I don't do it lightly (they do love their biscuits, those birds, it's like living with a bunch of batty and malicious senior citizens, in other words, just like home used to be). Ah, reminds me of that article where you know you're getting old when the prospect of biscuits excites you more than porn. I reached that unhappy milestone when I heard biscuits being unwrapped and my widdle heart just dropped like a stone when I realised it was for them feathered fiends, not me. So I resumed my interwebbing, crossly uncaring of semi-naked Jared pics when sulking over denied bicckies. Not that I'd normally say no to semi-naked Jared, it's just that afternoon, given a choice between Jared ogling and biscuits, well, I knew I'd finally bellyflopped into decrepitude. Sigh.
Oh, there was a BBC ident on UKTV last night. I know they've bought it out, but, well, that was different. Now if we could only get stuff in a timely fashion (S3 Hustle getting first play at the moment, Spooks woefully behind, Xmas specials 12 months old, etc). You know, if Hallmark could just go with it and turn into ITV proper, well, I'd be happy. I can get those weird British flavoured chips in Treats From Home (lamb and mint? steak and ale pie? marmite???!!!) and a good selection of Brit mags from various newsagents. All I need now is some decent galleries/museums and theatre that doesn't involve ex Home & away cast members and I'll be set. Oh, and a fucking castle. I want a castle, dammit.
Okay, so the UK might still loom large on my horizon for a while yet. At least I didn't go to Bankok/India/Greece/Italy for my hols. Thought about it, but stuck with Blighty. Sigh. Finally starting to shake off this cold. Can I have my holidays on do-over, please? If only life came with a step backwards or undo button.
And can it be Spooks time now? Me wants S7. Me wants bad. Okay, just gonna have to buy one of those cheap notebooks and fry it by overheating the poor little dear (thanks to federal choking of our primitive broadband that barely reaches 1/20 the speed of other countries, and the firewalling of torrent sites, wickedness is difficult to achieve, time consuming and hot, sweaty work). I just wanna see Lucas. Now (not five years from now). I was lucky enough to catch four episodes and I loved it lots, though Harry really needs to rethink his recruiting practices, I'm just sayin'.
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