mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

Godwin's law

Tuesday: Ah, Game of Thrones. Yes, I know, you spoiled me. Still, there was my Sean, doing the old Sharpe look, being chippy to popinjays and generally being surly to all and sundry, because he is The Sean and you invite his wrath and mockery at your peril (I understand this allegedly applies both on and off screen, but it's neither here nor there when I'm just hunkered down in a freezing cold room to watch the freezing cold wastes of the wall).

I'm glad I ripped home early/on time so I had all my faffing about done in time to watch it. Oh, and there was faffing about, especially as I seem to be blessed with extra special allowances of clumsy and stupid this week. I'm going to tell myself I'm just coming down with something and not ready to fling myself on the knacker's cart just yet.

Popped the telly on just in time to see the Lotus roll up on the beach in Spy Who Loved Me, which really is the money shot. After that it was just You Only Live Twice redux, now with extra Shane Rimmer (as if all the Thunderbirds sound effects weren't enough, let's throw in Scott Tracy while we're at it).

Btw, one of the aliases Neal uses in my fic is Virgil Tracy, because it amused me to do so. And he's a dick and profiteering of war crimes. I had such a fever dream last night. Too much Doctor Who trailer and Richard Armitage interviews, but in my delerium, no prizes for guessing who the real evil Nazi spy (in cahoots with the baddies from Torchwood, no less) was. And he would have gotten away with it, too, etc, etc.

Mind you, I can see why the Nazis hold such an appeal for Neal: stylish criminal morally bankrupt humanity free violently dangerous and lunatic evil poseurs. Why, it's Neal to a T.

Sorry. I really, really think I must be coming down with something. I'm all wobbly. I read middle ear infections, like constant middle ear infections, are something you can get growing up with a heavy smoker. Thanks, Dad. I damn nearly had to go on the patch after he died. Probably should have, might have smoothed things over. But anyway, all topsy turvy whoo and I haven't had any red wine for weeks (but it feels like I've just downed three glasses very, very quickly).

Wednesday: Oh, please let me get through today without stabbing anyone (Leverage joke). Sorry, it's gonna be a day, I feel it in my creaking bones.

So sad about Margaret Olley: Olley dies as she wanted, with paint still on her fingers.

You don't have to go face down in your own vomit in your twenties to be a legend, you know. I know, harsh, but I feel like being harsh. It's not very clever or cool to waste a life or a talent.

Would that I'd had a talent. I've just wasted a life (in servitude to arseholes). So it goes.

Wow, the PMS is strong in this one.

Friday: I am having a strange day today. Couldn't find my favourite blue coat for love or money, even though I'd looked it out the other day, so I had to wear my long black coat instead. I've never worn it to work, but as I'm popping out after I figured I'd risk it. I probably look like six sacks of badly packed potatoes when I wear that coat but I just love the way it swishes when I walk. In my dreams it's a proper hero coat.

My favourite, and last remaining cool newsagent is closing today, which sucks (enjoy the scans, I won't be able to get any more imported mags unless I'm very, very lucky) but the derro at the station with the old fifties style speaker was playing some crazy Hammond organ version of Save The Last Dance, which cracked me up, so it was hard to feel blue.

Several blocks onward and I stop at the fruit stall, look enviously at the narnies (three dollars each, Australian, no less) then moved across to the more modestly priced Fuji apples when SPLAT! This pigeon wot has been saving up up since Xmas finally decides to unload in a shitty shower like Flashdance. Okay, if I'd still been ogling the bananas I would have copped the lot but I still got a drenching from the splash back. Fortunately the lovely old guy there (the one who gave me all those mandarins gratis last week for my manflu ridden peanut gallery) raced out with tissues and water and sponged me down so I didn't have to do the pigeon walk of shame to the nearest loo (I still remember that pigeon in New York wot nearly killed me with its free falling high velocity poo that smacked me so damn hard I thought it was blood rolling down my back, not just poop).

Would that I'd worn my other black coat, my UK travellin' coat, that is more spongey-offy (hence it's usual UK duty except this winter because it's been crazy cold, for here) but at least it wasn't my blue velvet coat. Thank you, whatever imps hid it from me this morning.

And I'm still not even near the office yet. Burnt myself twice with the hot water tap trying to fill my teapot (I could nuke the water but I'm lazy and I'm used to luke warm tea now, horrible though it is) and now it's time to suck it up and put on my brave face.

Oh, I'm not dead yet, though. I was about to really, properly break up with the tv boyfriend but then I saw those pics of Bomer on my wee beastie this morning. No, not dead yet. Shallow as a very shallow thing, but not dead. Oh my.

Oh, yesterday I ran off early because I was having a really bad day, both allergy wise and dealing with lunatic who'd rather invent their own fiction than adhere to legally determined facts, and it's such a no win argument, even though I have the law, facts and side on my side, but never mind that.

I got home in time to get all my online business done and then sit down for a rip roaring episode of The Big Valley that has to be one of the silliest, most gothic and melodramtic bits of tv froth I've ever had the delight to experience (Google says it's from series two: Down Shadow Street).

It started off with Ma Barkley witnessing a murder by some young swaine she's fond of (eyebrows raise but I say nothing, it's been gentlemen friends every episode I've managed to catch these last few weeks). Turns out he murdered a hooker. Well, that's a bit racy for 60s US tv, as they're not indulging in a great deal of euphenism, for once. Anyways, I wasn't really paying much attention as Ma Barkley wrestles with whether or not to shop the prozzie murdering bastard, but when she finally does decide to shop him, whoo! Away we go! Turns out he's a spoilt rich prozzie murdering bastard and his dad is the judge and he dopes Ma Barkley and flings her into the most gothic old nut house under a false name with capering lunatics and a steely bitch of a 'nurse' who beats up Ma Barkley and flings her in her cell. Golly!

Meanwhile, the boys are all down at the pub. Back to Ma Barkley, who is finally rising in my esteem by the second, she Macgyvers an escape using her shoe and rat cunning, convincing a wandering inmate there's a tea party in her cell, and so she runs up dungeony stairs that last saw the duelling swords of Errol and Basil, ducks and scurries her way out onto the grounds, gets past the fence and oh, the game is up and the evil judge unleashes the hounds! Gosh!

Meanwhile the boys have finally shown up, having extracted the plot from a Chinesse servant in ways so wonderfully, flamboyantly Victorian, complete with threatening him with joss sticks and a live chicken. Oh it doesn't get better than this. Anyway, up they ride and the chase is on. It ends up with a gun fight in an abandoned mine where the rich prozzie murder catches a bullet from his crazy dad's gun and they suddenly decide they've done the wrong thing (Now? Now?) and that makes everything all right, I guess.

Okay, lamest ending ever, but up until then, goodness, it was the most lurid and gothic caper I could ever hope for. That was fun.

Finally, Himself arrived home, doing what I usually do, leaving just an hour later but taking nearly four hours longer to get home because it all just grinds to a stop. So tea, was, shamefully, straight from the freezer, but it couldn't be helped.

In fact, I'm rather tired of these self righteous bastards saying that us out here on the poor fringes don't eat right. There's no public transport so it takes us half the night to get home, there are also no fruit shops or butchers in my postcode, or indeed the next, or the next (I have to get on a bus and go three or four suburbs away before I get 'fresh' produce). So just fuck off. We do what we have to so we've had something, anything to eat, with our poor wages, before we have to be up at 4am the next morning for the grinding journey back into the city. Give us transport, nearby jobs and fruit and veg shops and then scream at us, but not before.

I forgot to mention I'm also wearing my DMs. I looked at them sadly the other day, realising they're my last pair of DMs, as I'm too old for them now, but my, they're a grand pair of DMs, so swish they caught the eye of this guy in Paris and we got to talking and he owned a resturant on the next block and I ended up dining at the family table. That is how cool these DMs are. Neal's hat doesn't get him invites like that.

Anyways, decided to wear them out today because I love them, I like walking in them and I've also killed my other boots. I know, one look at me and you'll think there's a creature who never shifts from her counch, and yet I wore my other boots through to my socks in just a couple of months. I was thinking about getting them re-soled but they're falling apart and not worth it. Cheaper (but far more wasteful, I know) to get a new pair. Well, that's why my family ain't in the shoemaking biz no more I guess (I have shoemakers dotted all over, in amongst the thieves, publicans, theatre goers and music critics).

Meanwhile, in those rare cases when I do get a seat on the bus, I've finished Huck Finn and started re-reading Frankenstein. It's been so long now it's almost like a new text to me.

Anyways, I'm at the preface where Mr Walton is describing his plans for his grand adventure across the Andes by frog to the north pole and he goes on:
"I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man."

Which loses quite a considerable amount of gloss when I remember that I've seen Jeremy Clarkson drive to the north pole in a Toyota. While James May served G&Ts. It's not quite the same now, is it. I'm sure those words held more considerable wonder when I first read the book. Ah, well.


Well that's all a bit Python. I've no idea what I was going to say there. This is what comes of trying to type these things on the sly twixt jobs. Tsk, I know, but I'm bored and frustrated and, well, there it is. At least Google+ hasn't been firewalled yet by the IT stasi (nor tumblr, to my great amusement, but I resist the urge), so come visit me. Did I mention I was bored?

Oh, I know what I was going to say (poor old enfeebled brain, it takes a while to get going these days, like an old car in cold weather). I was going to say it's dashed difficult already to read Frankenstein without casting Mr Cumberbatch and Mr Miller in the roles, but I don't see that as such a crime.

Does anyone remember an atrocious and sickly sweet sitcom where some American doofus inherited the monster and kept him in his basement? I can't remember much but I do remember it as being very buddy buddy. Ah, thank you Google. It was called Struck by Lightning. Canned in America but it says the UK got the series. So did Oz but that's neither here nor there, I guess. I just seem to remember the credits had the boys together, man and monster, to the song You Are So Beautiful.

I'm fairly sure it'd land squarely on my 'please no' list for unlikely friendships, but I remember my nascent slash antenna being twigged by the series, that's all. Then again, I seem to remember most of the summer tv shows, that is, shows canned in the US and flogged cheap to impoverished countries, of that particular era had points of interest to this young girlie at the time. Clearly my slash goggles came online years and years and years before I hit puberty (like nearly a decade but I was a freaky late developer). Either that or I've always watched telly wrong and there's just no saving me.

Speaking of ye olde television shows, I disturbed the Peanut Gallery with my ability to launch into the entire theme from Black Beauty on cue (well, I was a young girl once, you know). I'm not sure how we got to that from watching Hex (smoulder smoulder you magnificent Irish bastard, you) but we did. Of course this meant while I was washing up my crumbling old brain, like an old dog desperate to please its master, decided I wanted all the themes from my childhood tv shows so I ended up humming Wombling Free and Grange Hill (Oi! Tucker!) as well. Zoinks.

Ah, it was perfect park weather this lunch, but I'm a touch pigeon phobic right now (well, only really because I'm going out tonight and would rather not make things worse than they already are). Pity, because part three of the fic is rollicking on in entirely unexpected ways. I've rewritten a pivotal scene a dozen times already in my head, so you'll never see the original nasty version. I had to temper it a little, after all, as the boys still need to be actually talking to one another for plotty purposes. It really was nasty, but I think I'll save it up for when Peter finally blows in part five. It's a long time coming, I'll say that much.

Poor Peter, he breaks my heart when he describes how he's bargained himself down from hoping to change Neal for the better to just damage limitation. Oh, Petey. Leopard, spots, has he seen Bringing Up Baby?

Sunday: So it was off to the theatre again to see yet another turn of the 19thC dysfunctional family but this time nobody shot themselves in the face, possibly because they were English. Ye, Mary Poppins, and why not, I say? It was good clean silly fun and, had I seen it at a younger, less jaded shoot myswelf in the face age I'd have been truly delighted when Bert tap danced on the roof of the theatre, upside down, or when Poppins herself flew out over the audience. I do like a bit of theatrics in my theatre, a bit of show. The sets, trickery, costumes and performers were all top notch. It was like proper, like those Broadway shows i saw, complete with souvenier stalls. Yes, I bought one of the flashing rum punches, with the flashing LED glass. My inner child squealed for one and as much as my mother's voice still squawks in my ear 'what do you want that for? Waste of money!' I finally told her to shut up cause it looked like fun and life is for experiencing, even if it's the momentary pleasure of an icy red cordial buzz in a silly blinky glass.

But yes, the show. Well, it was Mary Poppins, wasn't it, do I really need to do a recap? Our Bert was wonderful (watching the original while ironing on Saturday arvo I realised they'd slowed down all the songs cause DVD couldn't dance, and yes, the English are still right to be up in arms over that accent - people have gone to war on less flagrant insults). Loved the songs, loved the dance numbers, loved the messages about not forgetting that inner child and bullying.

A grand night out. Also, I finally got my gnocchi at one of my fave stops with my fave minxy ittle waiter and it was good. Very good indeed.

Last night though, the kettle, the good kettle, the ceramic kettle, it ceased to be. Complete disaster, and, for the second week running, I failed to manage a cup of tea and Torchwood 9last week we had no cable). It's the small things that irk one most I find.

Ah well, lovely day today. I intend to be lazy. I feel I need a lazy day.

A colourful life, celebrated frame by frame (Margaret Olley)

Godwin's law

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August 2011

TV Week

30 July - 5 August





Tags: alexander skarsgard, big valley, hawaii five-0, james bond, magazine scans, matthew bomer, sean bean, thunderbirds, white collar

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