The wimper of the thoroughly Rogered. I had resolved to be a bigger and better person but that was five hours of petty power playing amendments ago. It's Deadline Day and it's just me and a brace of pissing, warring managers. Whimper.
I'm waiting for someone now to task me to task over my description of hormonal, obessive teenaged Billy. It was meant to be a sly reference to Dawson Leary (there's a Jurassic Park reference in there somewhere, trust me) but it just made him sound like Justin, which makes me go hmmm re Dawson's lifelong hardon for Stephen Speilberg. Ewww.
Hey, there were a couple of Sherlock Holmes references in there too, and yes, you can't half tell I was watching Reign of Fire on Sunday. I also re-watched Hart's War (Colin - slurp) and found out who that familiar looking squaddie was: Jonathan Brandis aka Non Threatening Boy (ie teenaged Metro) from Seaquest. Does this mean he still has a career? I'd have thought he'd have been off selling real estate like his erstwhile peers.
So, Friday was the start of Deadline Day and I stayed back late late late. This did not bother me too much as I'd prepared by wearing comfy clothes, buying what I'd planned to watch on dvd so no need to fret over the vcr timer, brownouts or human interference, and an intent to buy thai takeaway on the way home, because I can. A friend is still fretting over the Thai restaurant being far too posh for my suburb. It's never rated more than a fish and chip shop before, so it's all very cosmopolitan. No longer do I have to get on a bus for thai.
I did manage to get home in time for Spooks anyway, after a bus ride worthy of comment - a whole pile of shrieking, swearing, scrapping winos enlivened the journey home. Picked up the most excellent beef salad at the local (I love that) thai joint and settled down for some more silliness. Poor Spooks, it's gone quite bi-polar, never sure if it wants to be Sean Connery or Roger Moore. The main problem is Hugh Laurie, or Major Exposition as we call him. Now I love Hugh dearly but he's so wrong for this. They should have hired Sam West, deftly playing an ultra camp upper class twit of a spy over on Cambridge Spies, but quietly, and with restraint, rather than the end of the pier panto Hugh seems to be employing. Sack Hugh and get Sam or just bite the bullet and bring on the fembots.
Saturday: TV1 brought forth a Charlie's Angels marathon, and as I've always found that a little Aaron goes a looong way it was out in the garden to read then indoors for Roswell et al while I just scrawled away, torturing poor Billy. Ah well, you only hurt the ones you love. :)
As it was my turn to cook Saturday night involved more Thai (yay!) and Mutant X and Star Trek. Mutant X went back to the 70s but it wasn't very 70s and they broke the laws of time travel as defined in the Back to The Future franchise and well, that's just wrong. Trek was boring too and they teased with an away team chock full of red shirts and no massacre. I feel cheated. Never mind, I had thai.
Followed this up with some Talons of Weng Chiang. Now this is where Tipping the Velvet got it wrong: no evil Chinese hypnotists, no pig creatures, no London fog, no chop socky and no giant rats. I mean, really. Ah, this was brilliant. I mean, it's really bad but I just love it so much and it's so awash with childhood nostalgia that it'll never be anything but fabulous to me. Saddos that we are, we also watched the Blue Peter special at the end, because we're always reading about Blue Peter but had never seen it - it gave us Curiosity Show flashbacks - grin. I learnt that you can use a black plastic rubbish bag to make pteranodon sounds, as they do on the Who, and of course I instantly thought of poor Billy being traumatised by plastic bags and lost it entirely. If it shows up in my fic you'll know to blame Blue Peter for that one. Bad, naughty, evil BBC.
Sunday was spent enjoying the winter sunshine again, when it was out, watching the Wattle Birds playing in the mandarin tree (heh, bird fall) and admiring the bright yellow ginko leaves against the coal black sky (meant to take a photo but by the time the battery re-charged the wind had knocked all the leaves off). Spoilt rotton Colin the Currawong, my new familiar, who is so named because his pursuits are of the happiness kind and he is so bloody cheeky and he knows it. Very Colin.
Just going through Bro's massive collection of vinyl, because I'd inadvertantly gotten him back onto vinyl again, and there it was, that op shop bin special that just had to be bought: A Taste of Organ. Tee Hee. I throw down the gauntlet to anyone who can find a funnier album title, and we've already got that collection of Kentucky bluegrass greats: Welcome to KY Country. Snerk.
Oh, and another one of my very favourite actors has died. Always depressing news.