Or words to that effect, I meant to jot down the exact quote but lacked writing material and foolishly didn't get it down before it vanished from my poor noggin, nevertheless, I was just extremely bemused that Neil took part in the (deserved, imho via ancient blood feud) dissing of Clan Campbell. Bwahaha!
This, of course, was mainly just to annoy Mr Eddie Campbell, who was onstage at the time, bemoaning the number of Campbells despatched in Neil's story. Neil reposted with something like "Had I known you would be here I'd have made it sixteen," or, again, words to that effect. Snerk.
Yes, Neil Gaiman read The Truth Is A Cave In The Black Mountains, a story set in Scotland (hence the Campbells) on stage at the Opera House, accompanied by a string quartet and paintings by Mr Eddie Campbell. And I was in the fourth row (which shows you how long along I bought the tickets, in view of my sudden penury).
And it was wonderful. Just wonderful, just to be in that moment. And, bonus Kevin Smith - bwee! I thoroughly enjoyed the tale, even though I found it very familiar in parts (he later said it was based on local lore so I suspect that explains it). It was like having someone read to me from the books my grandmother used to send to me. So it was Very Special Indeed.
And, oh my, what is it with the Opera House? I'd never even been before last year and now it's like I'm there every other week. Who is the wild eyed Gen Xer who has taken it upon himself to suddenly start booking men who are absolute heroes in my life to give talks? Good grief, but I'm loving it.
More than that, it's sort of reminded me what is important, or rather, who is important, like going to hear the words of men I've adored since my teens, rather than trying to oggle Mr Passing Fancy (and failing miserably, I might add). So yay for my heroes, yay to them for enduring long flights to come here, yay for them making it on stage, yay for them being even funnier and brilliant in person. Yay to them for just making everything seem so right and easy and just is. No need to try and find something to like, no need to feel like I'm improving myself, no need to feel like I have to follow fashion or worry that I'm not worthy. These are my heroes. I went and saw them. They made me laugh and think, And I did not feel like I was not worthy to hear them. I was just there, enjoying myself. Happiness.
The rest of the weekend? Mostly work (entanglement in brambles, burying dead birds) and some tv. Oh, but what tv.
The second episode of Sherlock. Primed with hot chocolates we pressed play, and happiness! It was sort of like The Adventure of the Dancing Men meets The Sign of the Four, but to us it was like The Talons of Weng Chiang meets a particularly good episode of the Avengers. Which, to us, was just glorious. Utterly glorious. Loved every minute of it (so much so we had an encore screening on Sunday night since we'd already seen Cranford on UKTV).
I've never really seen much of Mr Freeman's work before (couldn't stand The Office, refused to watch the travesty that was The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy) but, oh my, he is a perfect Watson, complete with eye rolling, pouting and I can't stop cracking up over the tanty in the supermarket. So with you there, John. I also loved the well placed annoyance/tanty that became a plot point later on - giggle. Sherlock, afterall, isn't the easiest man to put up with (and, hilariously, some of the worst excesses are straight out of the books).
Poor John's attempt at a date, it was like Coupling meets The Avengers (or Strange Report? Or Adam Adamant?) Oh you get the gist. This showing is a big squidgy love letter to those old ITC shows and I love it so much for that. The museum, especially, set off thoughts of Strange Report.
Oh yes, also love trying to spot when they're in London and Cardiff. It was really obvious this week, but probably because, being a tourist, I knew the Picadilly and Trafalgar Square pretty well, because a) I'd been there and b) got lost there trying to get from A to B (usually the Royal Academy or some theatre or some street where some ancestor got pinched by a Peeler) by way of my not always trusty A to Z (which again, plot point - grin).
I'll forgive the fake Banksy, as I get they were trying to update Sherlock's street urchins and use symbols painted on walls, but that was the only kind of jarring and contrived note in the whole piece. a little too clever, if you'll allow.
Missed Lestrade, too, but a girl can't have everything.
So, wallowing as we were in updated Victorian heroes, we turned again to some more Adam Adamant (note also Mr Gatiss appears in the extras so any similiarity we'll assume is entirely not coincidental), this time thwarting a mad man with the usual plans to wipe out the world bar a colony of hand picked reality show studs (pretty much Moonraker, only on wobbly BBC sets and about fifteen years prior). It did feature dear Annette Andre, ITC staple and Sydney girl (who do so well in spy shows, cf Chuck), this time playing a wicked wench with great aplomb.
And on a completely different note, we watched a couple episodes of The Good Guys, since Life on Mars is still on telly here all over the place (despite taking so long to get here). I've not heard ony buzz in the f-list, but this show is hilarious, everything the US version of Life on Mars should have been, but wasn't. It is very, very silly, but we like silly, and who knew Mr Whitford had it in him, after decades of overly earnest types. If you like rough old coppers teamed up with waspishly earnest young college educated by the book types (and I have boxes of dvds to say that I do, from Streets on San Francisco onwards), then this is for you. I love this show so much, and I still stand by my inkling that Mr Nix has more than a passing familiarity with Hot Fuzz.
It would have been three episodes but I'll spare you the my connection is 19thC copper wire crap woe is me rant just this once.
That was pretty much it, aside from catching up on some High Chaparral while I was doing the ironing (hours and hours of ironing as I've been slack, I will admit). You know how I whine about the lads in White Collar not being as affectionate as I might hope? Well, the High C proves one can have too much of a good thing. As in Hands! Hands! Hands in new places! Oh my word, I never know where to look. More arse grabbing than I need to see in an afternoon, and that's saying something.
That said, I did get to see the pilot with a scruffy and disreputable looking Mano, who got a shout out in one of the Saturday papers. Heh. He's certainly one of the memorable characters of my tv childhood.
In other news, oooh, I feel unwell. You'd think with all this ostracism that I would be getting any of their filthy flu germs. And you'd be wrong. Sniffle. Wheeze.
Meanwhile, I was just reading this little piece:
"And the streets have a name for the girls who can handle such an extreme form of love. They are 'ride or die chicks'."
The journalist quotes associate professor of women's studies at Syracuse University, Gwendolyn Pough, who said that a "ride or die chick" was a girl who would do anything for her man.
"She will put the gun in her purse, she will hide the cash, she will hide the gloves and she will drive the getaway car. Whatever she needs to do for him, she will do … I think a lot of girls do buy into it," Pough was quoted as saying.
I dunno about you, that sure sounds like poor, hopelessly devoted Peter Burke (and his constant covering for bad boy Neal). Oh dear...
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