mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

money can buy anything

Well, perhaps not, but I've just put in an order at amazon (exemption re misery) and with any luck I'll be awash with hot blonds and old coppers in a couple of weeks.

Not that I haven't got enough to be going on with, like over a month's worth of House and Life, but still, I needed something shiny to cheer me up, having been unreasonably meh of late. Speaking of House, this article, so much love: Behind the scenes on Bones with Stephen Fry.

This week has found me in John Hurt mode. No, not slashing the boys (though that'd be fun). I'm talking Alien (those of a nervous disposition will probably prefer to skip this post).

It started out innocently enough. I was hungry, but eschewed lunch, being pure and virtuous and running my errands instead. Then a co-worker whipped out a tupperware box of biscuits, left over from an Iranian wedding on the weekend. Now, you know me, always up for an exotic pastry. Big mistake. Cue a portentious Barry Gray sting (and if you've never heard a Barry Gray sting of impending doom you've had a deprived childhood).

On my usual three hour bus trip home, that's three hours of peak hour traffic and wiggly, ziggly side roads and folks getting on and only then deciding to fish for change, suddenly, pow! The biscuits start punching their way out. Full on, these fuckers are just like that bastard alien. Not good. Worse, himself isn't home so instead of doing the Vampire Bill dash through the house as I'd hoped, I had to fuss with the bastard door which has been wedging solidly stuck these last few weeks of dampness. Just the other day it refused to budge or unlock and I tried and tried until I lost track of which way I'd tried twisting the keys and I thumped and kicked and was on the verge of tears, fearing that I'd be arrested for trying to break into my own house or spending a damp night on the patio when the bloody thing just opened. Grrr. So, anyway, much obstacles on the slo-mo dash home, and much lying around going urgle all night. There was also another Hurt quote upon exiting the bathroom, as in a wan faced "Don't go in there."

I know, I'm bad. But points for quoting I Claudius while under duress, surely? No? Okay, then.

I wonder idly how the colleagues fared. Just imagine, Iranian terrorists take out an entire government department with biscuits. It's not very Spooks, is it?

No, more Strange Report, snarks the unsympathetic Peanut Gallery. Oh thanks, the D team. You know, the guys who get the jobs Department S rejects. Yes, I can just see it, you know, the opening credits where the files go from desk to desk before ending up in the Dept s in-tray. I can well imagine certain cases keep going until the end up in Adam's pigeonhole. Sigh.

Sorry, I seem to talking in ITC today. Clearly, a girl needs a nice day at home with a cuppa and a box set - no biscuits.

And sorry I've been offline. Lost all my work access again and I've been busy.

If I had to pick the highlights, it wouldn't be what you think. Not at all. It'd be the little moments, like the old empty merry go round turning around in the rain (how very Torchwood of it) or it'd be that dawn when I put out the seed bell and a few parrots (white cockatoos) dropped into the tree to see what I was up to. Then the whole freaking flock arrived. Not just one or two more or even a family group but the entire load, hundreds of the buggers, perched on every surface, with so many clinging to the hills hoist they sent it spinning around under the weight of them. And I had just one seed bell. And if that wasn't silly/scary enough two more flocks of corellas rocked up as well. So now I have several hundred large birds in the back yard, covering roof, shed, trees, clotheline, fence, all looking at me, and my one seed bell. So I threw it down and thus it was demolished in a rather rambunctious game of seed bell football.

That I liked, because it was real, it was daft and unexpected and I didn't have to pay for it.

Been busy. Work is of the suck, as you might gather, and, of course, the boss hated the new animation. Worse, fandom has offered little consolation. The last weekend should have been the Best Ever, and yet...

Perhaps the time has come to put away childish things, but that way lies bleakness and ironing. And don't even get me started on the camera batteries of bastardry, though to be fair I think it might be the lack of juice here because both my phone and camera work like champions when charged up in the UK, but here it's like, so not interested, goodnight. Sigh.

So, less fun than I'd hoped. Nothing to do with what I was looking at (from a distance), just me, feeling tired, cranky, alone, miserable and too old for this shit, you know? Also felt very clueless and out of loop.

I think I'd rather be in Stratford. Not to be poncy or anything, I just had more fun, and felt slightly less of a twat.

Also had that everything on at once thing again. I did get to go to the show, though. Just for a bit, but it was weirdly fun, mainly because it was a spur of the moment thing and I had no agenda other than to have a wander about, and perhaps that's why it was fun. Saw some cows, marvelled at the lights on the rides, ate oysters, bought myself some curry powder and goat's milk soap and a couple of bangles.

TV? Have barely watched any, and my inability to manage my pvr hits new depths of incompetency/senility every day (though the Foxtel box went out one day, so at least that wasn't down to me forgetting stuff).

Sorry, don't mean to be so miserable, it's just that some folks lately are really into being, well, textbook mean girls, to be frank. Completely and utterly and I feel wretched. And not having the comfort to even sneak read The Guardian in my teabreak. Well, it burns.

Before the mean girls came back from their skiing holidays in the Swiss Alps (yes, full on hardcore Cordelias, I kid you not), I was muddling through, best I could, and coping with my complete lack of internet access by spending my lunch hours in the park with my notebook. No, not a little PC, I can't afford one of those, just old school spiral bound bits of paper and a cheap biro. But it was fun, and Lewis and Hathaway kept me company if nobody else would.

Oh, we just had a fake evac. We all have to muster outside Starbucks, which is hilarious, and a nice little earner for them, I suppose. Not that I have much truck with their coffee, but lately I've developed a lamentable taste for their hot chocolate, which until very recently I'd found excreable, and they do give away the coffee grounds, which the roses love so much, and I feel far too guilty about taking the free bags without buying something (unlike the guy who filled his pockets with chocolates while the newsagent's back was turned this morning). And yet it's always me who is up against the wall being frisked by large hairy security men in shopping malls. Me, wot can't help herself to old coffee grounds. Sigh.

I've also not had much time for Starbucks since they stopped selling all those really sugary mixes, which were so bad, yet always had much the same effect on me as lemon sherbet used to on Bill Oddie in The Goodies. Sorry, still stuck on old tv. And old ads. Though it wasn't just me, as the PG invoked an ancient Picnic ad while watching Maverick (one of the few that actually featured injuns, lately they've all been urbane and town based 19thC Hustle episodes, not that there's the least bit wrong with that and I still adore Mr Kelly - is that like necrophilia?)

Typical. All my latest fancies could be classed under either pedophilia or necrophilia. Damn.

I guess this is what happens when all the guys my age are doing crap American films/tv shows. Sigh. I mean, I try to be supportive, but lately quite a lot of them have been pushing my goodwill and affection to the limits. I'm just sayin'.

So I wallow in old tv. Like Bergerac. Was bemused to see Pendragon Snr himself in one episode (the last time I saw it it was all Giles! but time and television has moved on). First season Bergerac is fun, Dennis Spooner fun, even though we do mock it terribly, like how soused was Jim before not to notice his now ex-dad-in-law had his sticky fingers in every dirty pie on the island, or how quickly the old limp was dropped. And that's before we get onto the fashion, the music and the clunky eighties tech. Later seasons, which I've never even seen, but the PG assures me, are rubbish. But for now: comedy gold.

Much like poor old Torchwood. You know, some shows are always middling, and some hover around good or middling or a bit lame. Torchwood lurches between the really good and the dire. It's like that girl with the curl: when it's good it's really quite good, but when it's bad its an Owen episode. And here's a tip, Torchwood: you know when's a good time to introduce characterisation and back story? Not in the second last episode, that's when. Jeebus. So, bypassing anything to do with Owen, the date rapist with a heart, so we're told, I'll just move onto the Ianto bit.

Now we're a pro-Ianto household, but still. There's old Ianto demonstrating his superior and creepy stalking skills again (and what is it with Jack in hiring stalkers? I mean, seriously). I'd watch him, Jack, he just screams bunny boiler. And the stuff with the pterodactyl was really naff (and isn't that Primeval's manor?) and very, very sub Bringing Up Baby and where, we wondered, was Ianto keeping his cyber girlfriend while all these hijinks were going down? In his parent's basement? Perhaps Mr and Mrs Jones were just so glad to find Ianto dating a girl they were willing to overlook the whole killer robot thing.

So that was Torchwood and the story of how a rather unloveable bunch of losers with really serious issues were stuck together. And Gwen is such a bitch. And can PC Andy have his own show?

Last night's Maverick was making bold claims about three brothers belonging to a prominent land owning family. It was obvious even in the black and white days? Snort!

Well, they weren't mentioned by name, per se. It was just the three Wheelwright brothers, one dressed head to toe in black, a dumb burly one called Moose and a rather girly one called, oh dear, Small Paul. They owned most of the state, several silver mines and a ranch called the Subrosa. It was all very sub par, but poor Bart found himself caught trying to set up mail order brides, all of whom were ex working girls (here the story turned into My Fair Lady for a bit) who had been sent for because the Wheelwright boys were more interested in stamp collecting, rock candy and each other than girls. I'm sure I was missing more than I was getting re a great many of the nods and winks, and personally I think Bart, who had to be surgically seperated from Doc Holliday a few weeks back, should remember his own glass enclosed residence, but we were laughing like drains. Hijinks ensued, Bart managed to make several slurs on the Wheelwright name and it all sort of resolved itself. And they called the episode Three Queens and I'm pretty sure they didn't mean the showgirls.

It was a really silly episode, but, oh my, the slurs - wheeze! And then Bonanza came on. Could not watch. Oh dear. Maverick, you bad boy, you.

I've also seen the Millennium Falcon. Yesterday was sucky and after having my absolute best work dismissed in very nasty fashion at yet again (getting rather tired of everyone scoring my life like East German judges) it was a choice between a severe fonging or museum and I chose museum (though it was a close run thing, I can tell you). Popping in just before the PH museum closed did lessen the rugrat infestation just a little, though it was rather amusingly full of very keen Dads and their bored and restless spawn. As always, it was a very cut down version of a travelling Star Wars exhibition but at least there was the MF, the Landspeeder, a tie fighter, and x wing fighter, and my personal favourite, that old tauntaun model from Empire. I squeed over that, cause I'd always wanted to see that up close. Proof positive that Ewan McGregor is a shortie was offered under glass, and Darth is no giant either. And as much as I loved the chunky buttons on the costume, I'm not sure Darth, limited by helm and breastplate, would have ever been able to button the buttons. I now imagine him stabbing wildly, doing the chesty equivalent of bum dialling and having a great whine about it before throttling an underling or three. Yup, Darth has lost the magic. Or at least a good deal of it. Sandman costume was fun. Weapons in disappointing number, and what was with Palatine's lightsabre? Ooo er. The peanut gallery snarked that it probably had several settings and the trick wasn't to mix them up. I'm just saying. You go see it and see if you don't raise an eyebrow or two. Also, Harrison Ford was a lot thinner in the 70s than when I last saw him - smirk.

Right now I am completely wasted from having stayed up to the wee hours (and when you have to get up in the wee hours to go to work, it burns) trying to catch up on net stuff re the whole no access thing, but at least that meant I was up to see my pvr throw a wobbly during a lovely close up of Mr Purefoy in the rather risible Frankenstein that I was watching at midnight. At least seeing the machine do that made me think that it might be more a technical fault than senility for the lack of success re saving telly for later. Not sure if that's any confort, though ($$$).

Folks is also choking me with perfume again. Some days it's really like ...can't...breathe. I guess I'm too tired to deal today.

PM update: Oh, what a day. The pc is stuffed, the printer is stuffed, the network is stuffed, I've been dealing with telcos all day, and finally ended up with a file number at the ombudsman, such is my progress (ie, not), and I can't even get a drink of water because the water is off. One of those days where taking a hammer to something, anything, while perhaps not satisfactory or resolving of issues is nevertheless necessary.

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Tags: department s, ewan mcgregor, james purefoy, lewis, maverick, spooks, star wars, strange report, the goodies, thunderbirds, torchwood

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