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In this post: Propaganda Factory learn to free run and rescue a friend. Sort of; I complain about student life; shock news: Doctor Who merchandise is a rip off; musical fusion
On Tuesday, we went free running!
Free running/parkour is at its essence the art of getting from Point A to B in the urban enviroment as quickly as possible. The terms are used interchangeably, though I think technically parkour is more of a speed thing - free running includes more showing off, flips and the like. The world woke up to parkour about five years ago and discovered it was BLOODY AWESOME, with everything from Britain's Got Talent to Hollywood using it's damn coolness on screen.
At it's heart, however, it's still a sport for the urban child, free from rules or responsibilities, as evidenced by the number of homemmade Youtube videos cut to cool sounding music. After months of dedicated training and hard work, me and my cool London crew decided to follow in their footsteps and film some of our moves and shapes. This city - our playground. Here are the results...
It occurs to me the only person reading this blog who will get that allusion is me.
No sooner did she arrive than she was off for Luton. No one really established why we lingered at the station for another hour in the big icy blanket of artificial light keeping the night at bay. It was, as I said, charmingly surreal - from Iacomus and Calypso Twittering at each other across the table as well as chatting, to Calypso ambushing the waiter to establish whether she was more like Catwoman or the Penguin, and Vapilla and Calypso ordering civillised desserts. But in the end, the cold became too much, even hiding under some blankets we'd found in the "garden", and we headed home.
After three months of being here, I find myself wondering - as pretty much the only non-drinker in the kitchen, why am I still the only one to have a corkscrew and bottle opener? My non drinking kudos has just evaporated, however - I am now the happy owner of a cocktail shaker. Like the rest of the miserable vultures, I did pop in to pick at the carcass of Woolworths. It was an upsetting experience for various reasons. It reminds one of Primark now - none of the staff can be bothered to price things, shelve things, replace things. So items are strewn on the floor and in the wrong departments, and they're dirty or scuffed and no one cares. Everything is depressingly dirt cheap. I considered stocking up on notebooks - in the end, I just got a superslim 2009 diary for my pocket next year. And then came the cocktail shaker.
...or have I? Because the other reason it upset me was this. There are 32 figures in the collection, but six you can only buy along with a spaceship in an overpriced special pack. After getting the other 26, I figured there was no point in not indulging in spaceships too - they look terrific in my room, and I managed to buy them all 1/2 price or less. Satisfaction. Collection complete - a pleasant challenge gently conquered, time to waste my money on the BBC in another way. So I was furious to find the new marketing ploy they've come up with to sell off the stock. You can buy the ships in a threepack:
At least, if I decide to give in, Woolworths are happy to swap it for shoelaces.
On Tuesday, we went free running!
Free running/parkour is at its essence the art of getting from Point A to B in the urban enviroment as quickly as possible. The terms are used interchangeably, though I think technically parkour is more of a speed thing - free running includes more showing off, flips and the like. The world woke up to parkour about five years ago and discovered it was BLOODY AWESOME, with everything from Britain's Got Talent to Hollywood using it's damn coolness on screen.
At it's heart, however, it's still a sport for the urban child, free from rules or responsibilities, as evidenced by the number of homemmade Youtube videos cut to cool sounding music. After months of dedicated training and hard work, me and my cool London crew decided to follow in their footsteps and film some of our moves and shapes. This city - our playground. Here are the results...
How cool are we? The highlight was bumping into some genuinely street-cool skateboarders showing off, and atttempting not to get stabbed. Also, a bystander described the first stunt of mine as "the most courageous thing he has ever seen", but we didn't catch it on camera.
To be honest, the video is a failure on both counts. It features some very poor free running, yet is still not quite crap enough to be wholly hilarious. Still, I love my scarf, and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling to see it soaring through the air.
The evening went a bit downhill from there. When I say "downhill", I don't necessarily mean worse, I just mean crazier. Calypso, Iacomus and I headed back to Hampstead for nutella crepes, and Spirita departed to go home to Luton. It was only when we hit Dudin Brown we remembered she'd left her bank card at home, had no change, had barely anything on her Oyster, had only 15 minutes to get to the bank before it closed - and we had her mobile phone. Wherever she was, she was completely stranded.
We made quite an intimidating strike force. In no time, we had a command center rigged up in Dudin Brown kitchen - Calypso manned the telephones, both ours and Spirita's, and dealt both with her when she managed to call from a call box, and her mother when she got through. Iacomus was in charge of the PC, tracking the call box and contacting various student receptions.
Finding ourselves a bit useless, Vapila and I ultimately decided to head back into central London to actually try and find her, bail her out financially, get her home, return her phone or, if necessary, beat her kidnappers to death with toothpicks. A pointlessly noble gesture, but it gave us something to do other than fret; and while we were unsuccessful, it ultimately turned out we were correct in most of our hunches - Holborn Station and the Strand campus was the first port of call for both of us. Plus, dashing off into the London night to rescue a friend gave me a creepy sense of Naked Flame-related deja vu
By the time we arrived at the Strand, Calypso phoned us to say she'd been found and we were all to meet at - where else? - a pub at King's Cross. Here's a picture of John Betjeman's statue, looking quite as bemused as I was to find myself there.
By the time we arrived at the Strand, Calypso phoned us to say she'd been found and we were all to meet at - where else? - a pub at King's Cross. Here's a picture of John Betjeman's statue, looking quite as bemused as I was to find myself there.So that was that. Here we were, in St Pancras station, sitting in the "outdoor garden" of the Betjeman Arms, in fake summer chairs by fake summer umbrellas, just out of range of the heaters and freezing in the dark under the massive Victorian warehouse roof. And ordering some of the most expensive food and drink for the privilege. It was perfectly charming, in a surreal way. And 90 minutes later, Spirita arrived as if nothing had happened. We returned the mobile phone.
These things are meant to be character building, and I learnt something knew about Spirita - she is a mean storyteller. With only a few embellishments, she explained what she had been up to while we'd been worrying; and like all the best stories, I can't remember a word of it. Apart from the embellishments. The bit where she ended up signing her name with the stub end of an eye pencil - or was it her own blood? Or someone else's blood...?
There's still something in the story that doesn't add up. Namely, what she was doing in the 90 minutes between getting in contact and telling us to be at St Pancras, and actually arriving there herself; and how she got there, having no cash, no credit card and nothing left on her Oyster. She's keeping us in suspense on that. To continue with the Flame-allusions, I get the feeling this is going to turn into a "why Ivy objected" mystery, which is made far more exciting and significant by the fact it is kept secret than it actually deserves to be.
It occurs to me the only person reading this blog who will get that allusion is me.
No sooner did she arrive than she was off for Luton. No one really established why we lingered at the station for another hour in the big icy blanket of artificial light keeping the night at bay. It was, as I said, charmingly surreal - from Iacomus and Calypso Twittering at each other across the table as well as chatting, to Calypso ambushing the waiter to establish whether she was more like Catwoman or the Penguin, and Vapilla and Calypso ordering civillised desserts. But in the end, the cold became too much, even hiding under some blankets we'd found in the "garden", and we headed home. I abandoned the party almost as soon as getting back to Hampstead, which was about 11 anyway. I've been too tired to cope for about two weeks now - I just need sleep, and the early sunset isn't helping my internal body clock. It's time for hibernation. Not to mention I'm now too homesick to cope, in a way that no one else I know here can really appreciate. And fed up in most ways - triple fed up of the tube, fed up of being an hour away from anywhere useful, fed up of all my clothes being slightly damp in the morning because our tumble dryers don't work. I'm fed up of people moving my dishes to places in the kitchen I can't find them, of stealing my milk when I've been looking forward to breakfast, and of my sandwiches tasting so rank by lunchtime I'm forced to go to Pret, Eat or the Terrazza for a wrap. I'm fed up of my glasses never looking clean, and especially annoyed that I seem to either have lost two knives and two little spoons, or gained two forks and two big spoons. I'm fed up of eating - I try eating fruit, but I'm not in the mood; nor for chocolate, nor pasta, nor bread, nor meat, nor pizza. I'm subsisting on milk. I'm fed up of charity buckets picking on me, just because I'm blonde, adorable and wearing harmless colours and a smile - it's like being stuck in Season 21.
Actually, there is only one student gripe I've avoided - at least I'm not fed up of being skint. All those Sainsburys basics products have paid off - I'm so gorgeously in the green, compared to my fellow students, fellow Londoners and Woolworths, that at least being 50 minutes from Forbidden Planet still has a certain appeal. I am fed up of living on a budget, but even though I now definitely have the freedom to indulge, I'm still not going to. One carton of sicilian lemonade a week is my little treat, and the occasional Battles in Time cardpack.
No time to talk about Reading now, its only 8:30 but I need a nap...
After three months of being here, I find myself wondering - as pretty much the only non-drinker in the kitchen, why am I still the only one to have a corkscrew and bottle opener? My non drinking kudos has just evaporated, however - I am now the happy owner of a cocktail shaker. Like the rest of the miserable vultures, I did pop in to pick at the carcass of Woolworths. It was an upsetting experience for various reasons. It reminds one of Primark now - none of the staff can be bothered to price things, shelve things, replace things. So items are strewn on the floor and in the wrong departments, and they're dirty or scuffed and no one cares. Everything is depressingly dirt cheap. I considered stocking up on notebooks - in the end, I just got a superslim 2009 diary for my pocket next year. And then came the cocktail shaker.
One of the things I've discovered at uni is fruit juice is phenomenal. Not only is it more convenient than real fruit and vegitables for a FiveaDay hit, it just tastes terrific. I've started picking on mocktails and smoothies when out - but they're always so damn overpriced. Mixology would be a cool skill to bring back, however - and the shaker came with a book explaining how to make them too. Whether I decide to try some proper cocktails, or stick to regular fruitshakes, it's something to practice over the holidays. Doesn't matter if I never use it, because it was £1.57 for the set reduced from £7. Weep for Woolworths. I'm just sad I already bought all the microuniverse figures...
...or have I? Because the other reason it upset me was this. There are 32 figures in the collection, but six you can only buy along with a spaceship in an overpriced special pack. After getting the other 26, I figured there was no point in not indulging in spaceships too - they look terrific in my room, and I managed to buy them all 1/2 price or less. Satisfaction. Collection complete - a pleasant challenge gently conquered, time to waste my money on the BBC in another way. So I was furious to find the new marketing ploy they've come up with to sell off the stock. You can buy the ships in a threepack:
- A TARDIS, which I got with a Sonic Screwdriver Doctor, but with a Doctor in Long Coat figure which is supposed to come randomly. So if you buy this pack you've also got to buy a single TARDIS or you'll never get the other figure.
- A Chula Ship with Captain Jack, as per usual, a set I bought as per usual.
- An Ood - which is meant come randomly - with a "ood transport ship", actually the Sanctury Base rocket, which I already got with a Spacesuit Doctor, but painted red and with a differently designed base.
I'm angry, because I don't have the Ood Transport Ship on a snowy base. I'm angry because I can see it's a Sanctury Base ship, in yellow instead of red, but I still want it so my collection is complete. I'm angry because they cheated - they've mixed in such a selection of "random figures" (Long Coat, the Ood), ships (Jack, the TARDIS) in such a way that you have to buy it, and you have to buy repeats. Otherwise you'd never get a Sonic Doctor, nor one in the Spacesuit if you tried getting the threeset instead of buying them individually. It's a big, horrible con; all the worse because I can see right through it and want it all the same.
At least, if I decide to give in, Woolworths are happy to swap it for shoelaces.
Finally, I'm not a radical feminist, radical pro-censorship, radical anti-swearing or anything, but I found myself getting first disturbed, then offended, and finally really rather angry at this delightful ditty I overheard in Camden, to the point at which I left the shop.
I'm sure there are more insulting, not to mention creative songs in the world. Yet after doing a detailed cross analysis of the complex snippets of lyrics I could remember, I narrowed down the vast selection of possibilities to a single suspect. It is here reproduced for your enjoyment.
Skip to about half way through, it takes a while to get going...
I'm sure there are more insulting, not to mention creative songs in the world. Yet after doing a detailed cross analysis of the complex snippets of lyrics I could remember, I narrowed down the vast selection of possibilities to a single suspect. It is here reproduced for your enjoyment.
Skip to about half way through, it takes a while to get going...
In this post: I meet a fox; a trip to Forbidden Planet; London love
I saw a fox today. I was walking down the alley between Kidderpore Ave and Finchley Road, and there in front of me was a fox. If I were a poet, I'd start off on rusty fur and alert eyes - but it was quite far off, and I'm sure we all know what foxes look like anyway. We've all seen Disney Robin Hood. Anyway, I looked at it, and it looked at me, and we had a nice neo-pagan moment of understanding before it dashed into the hedge and under a fence.
I've never seen a fox before, seeing as Guernsey doesn't have foxes, badgers or other sensible animals. Something to do with continental drift. And then I got Wiley's "Wearing My Rolex" in my head, on account of the fantastic video which has girls dressed up as urban foxes and dancing in dark places:
It's not a song I mind too much, so it could have been worse.
Google have got a new theme function, and I instinctively picked a tree. When they asked me for my postcode, I found out that the background would change depending on the weather. So I've got it set to Guernsey weather, because it makes me smile when it's raining here if it's sunny there...and also quite happy if it's sunny here and raining there...
Not the getting there bit. That was easy. I mean the bit where I considered pawning my clothing for merchandise. It's Roger Delgado. It's big. It's 38% off. It's still £150...
To be honest, I'm just glad that I'm particularly sweet on unpopular periods of the show's history. If they made Valeyard deluxe figures, or Kings Demons iron maiden playsets, or "Build your own Seabase 6" sets, then I'd be in trouble. Still, the Master is special, and this one in particular. I might have told you that I'm writing a comic where the Doctor has to face off all four Masters teamed up and destroying the universe together. I've never had the same "I don't have a favourite!" scruple about him - I think Derek Jacobi is the best interpretation of the role we've ever had, for all three minutes that he is on screen. Yet in my script, in which I am necessarily referring to the various characters as "SimmMaster", "AinleyMaster", "RobertsMaster" etc, I keep accidentally just typing "The Master" when dealing with the original incarnation...
I do feel bad, because there are plenty of people out there who would say Delgado is the only one who actually deserves the title, and I'm not one of them. After Jacobi, I love the lot, and much like the Doctor, I don't think any one interpretation is more valid than another...don't I? Having accidentally done this four times now, I'm starting to wonder...
Anyway, I was good. For one thing, it'd be a creepy thing to have in your room. And also, it's far too big to get home.
That's not to say I behaved completely. The FINAL MICROUNIVERSE SHIP SET was 50% off, which means I now have the lot, all 32 of the damn things, not counting repeats...its a strangely satisfying feeling. But one which should strictly be cancelled out by the fact I got some more Monster cards. They're still really exciting, and I hope to devise some fun games for them too, rather than just using them to scare people on the Tube.
I experimentally got a pack of Series 4 "Devastator!" cards too. When I say "experimentally", I mean "I found out they have a stick of celery card, not to mention a Fifth Doctor, and both are common, meaning I'm likely to find one quite easily and I WANT dammit". Astonishingly, despite the huge 0.8% chance of these two cards coming up, neither appeared. Furthermore, The Devastator set really aren't as exciting as the Ultimate Monsters, and I can't quite tell why. I just assumed that things from episodes I've seen will be cooler than those I haven't; but it turns out that any number of 70s men in shaggy sheets are better than regular humans from modern episodes.
When I get home, I think I'm going to photoshop some deficiencies in the Ultimate Monsters collection - why no Valeyard?
Riding on a high, I went home via my new favourite chain of shops - "Music and Video exchange". Soho has a bad reputation, but it's not as seedy as you'd expect - even at night, I was suprised how safe it still feels. It's just off Shaftesbury Avenue for goodness sake; well lit, even if those lights are advertising all matter of...non-Doctor Who related things. It's very atmospheric, especially in the rain. Plus, already being on the somewhat unofficial side, its a fantastic place for bargain books and videos. I went. I hauled. I have no idea how they're going to pass my luggage allowance.
Who wouldn't go to uni in London? Best shops, whether you like them designer, or like me for bargains; plays, music, films. Dark Knight on IMAX! Guillemots at Barbican! Baker'n'Courtney on the Strand! Six Characters at the Gielgud! John Barrowman in Sainsburies! All the best uni experiences so far, I could not have had in any other city. Why go anywhere else?!
I've procrastinated so long that I haven't actually got around to talking about what I meant to. Ah well. Some other time.
I saw a fox today. I was walking down the alley between Kidderpore Ave and Finchley Road, and there in front of me was a fox. If I were a poet, I'd start off on rusty fur and alert eyes - but it was quite far off, and I'm sure we all know what foxes look like anyway. We've all seen Disney Robin Hood. Anyway, I looked at it, and it looked at me, and we had a nice neo-pagan moment of understanding before it dashed into the hedge and under a fence.
I've never seen a fox before, seeing as Guernsey doesn't have foxes, badgers or other sensible animals. Something to do with continental drift. And then I got Wiley's "Wearing My Rolex" in my head, on account of the fantastic video which has girls dressed up as urban foxes and dancing in dark places:
It's not a song I mind too much, so it could have been worse.
Google have got a new theme function, and I instinctively picked a tree. When they asked me for my postcode, I found out that the background would change depending on the weather. So I've got it set to Guernsey weather, because it makes me smile when it's raining here if it's sunny there...and also quite happy if it's sunny here and raining there...
I've been behaving and working and revising for a week now, and with an exam out the way I treated myself to a Forbidden Planet trip. Also, I was keen to roadtest my new Geeksoc 10% discount card...
Forbidden Planet is ten minutes away from the Strand campus - all you have to do is walk in a straight line, down friendly streets, until it's there right in front of you. Incidentally, for the record, if one was trapped in Covent Garden by evil staff of certain Museum Organisations, and one wanted to know how far Forbidden Planet was, the answer is "way close enough to sneak to without being caught". It's a nice walk, especially because the route goes via Henrietta Street, from the Doctor Who novel of the same name, which gives me a guilty grin every time.
To digress, it's a great book, written in regency style, about a brothel-cum-coven on that road. It's really nice to know something of the history of any area you live in, and now I walk down the Strand and can't help but think "Lord M saw these buildings too". According to a sign there, Covent is a corruption of "convent", as it used to be the garden of a convent. What it didn't say was that Covent Garden used to be a prime spot for houses of ill repute, something I learnt from The Adventuress of Henrietta Street; something else I learnt was apparently there used to be a private indoor zoo on the Strand. Well, Doctor Who was meant to be educational...
Well it was almost a complete disaster.
Not the getting there bit. That was easy. I mean the bit where I considered pawning my clothing for merchandise. It's Roger Delgado. It's big. It's 38% off. It's still £150...
To be honest, I'm just glad that I'm particularly sweet on unpopular periods of the show's history. If they made Valeyard deluxe figures, or Kings Demons iron maiden playsets, or "Build your own Seabase 6" sets, then I'd be in trouble. Still, the Master is special, and this one in particular. I might have told you that I'm writing a comic where the Doctor has to face off all four Masters teamed up and destroying the universe together. I've never had the same "I don't have a favourite!" scruple about him - I think Derek Jacobi is the best interpretation of the role we've ever had, for all three minutes that he is on screen. Yet in my script, in which I am necessarily referring to the various characters as "SimmMaster", "AinleyMaster", "RobertsMaster" etc, I keep accidentally just typing "The Master" when dealing with the original incarnation...
I do feel bad, because there are plenty of people out there who would say Delgado is the only one who actually deserves the title, and I'm not one of them. After Jacobi, I love the lot, and much like the Doctor, I don't think any one interpretation is more valid than another...don't I? Having accidentally done this four times now, I'm starting to wonder...
Anyway, I was good. For one thing, it'd be a creepy thing to have in your room. And also, it's far too big to get home.
That's not to say I behaved completely. The FINAL MICROUNIVERSE SHIP SET was 50% off, which means I now have the lot, all 32 of the damn things, not counting repeats...its a strangely satisfying feeling. But one which should strictly be cancelled out by the fact I got some more Monster cards. They're still really exciting, and I hope to devise some fun games for them too, rather than just using them to scare people on the Tube.
I experimentally got a pack of Series 4 "Devastator!" cards too. When I say "experimentally", I mean "I found out they have a stick of celery card, not to mention a Fifth Doctor, and both are common, meaning I'm likely to find one quite easily and I WANT dammit". Astonishingly, despite the huge 0.8% chance of these two cards coming up, neither appeared. Furthermore, The Devastator set really aren't as exciting as the Ultimate Monsters, and I can't quite tell why. I just assumed that things from episodes I've seen will be cooler than those I haven't; but it turns out that any number of 70s men in shaggy sheets are better than regular humans from modern episodes.
When I get home, I think I'm going to photoshop some deficiencies in the Ultimate Monsters collection - why no Valeyard?
Riding on a high, I went home via my new favourite chain of shops - "Music and Video exchange". Soho has a bad reputation, but it's not as seedy as you'd expect - even at night, I was suprised how safe it still feels. It's just off Shaftesbury Avenue for goodness sake; well lit, even if those lights are advertising all matter of...non-Doctor Who related things. It's very atmospheric, especially in the rain. Plus, already being on the somewhat unofficial side, its a fantastic place for bargain books and videos. I went. I hauled. I have no idea how they're going to pass my luggage allowance.
Who wouldn't go to uni in London? Best shops, whether you like them designer, or like me for bargains; plays, music, films. Dark Knight on IMAX! Guillemots at Barbican! Baker'n'Courtney on the Strand! Six Characters at the Gielgud! John Barrowman in Sainsburies! All the best uni experiences so far, I could not have had in any other city. Why go anywhere else?!
I've procrastinated so long that I haven't actually got around to talking about what I meant to. Ah well. Some other time.
In this post: analysis of London personal ads
One of the joys of London living is being mobbed by chilly workers, at all hours and in all weathers, distributing rather crappy papers such as the London Lite or the London Paper, to keep us all updated on trivial, meaningless information.
The highlight of the mag is the classifieds, which I always read in great detail, with much amusement and contempt.
Never mind the fact they all claim to be fit, even the 50+ ones (today's highlight was a brunette describing herself as "stunningly attractive"). It's the level of pickiness that suprises me. You'd think that having got into a situation requiring you to date via personal ads, you'd take anyone without a criminal record.
It's the race thing that winds me up most of all. Are people genuinely that picky? There's no secret that I generally find dark haired people, of any race, more than blondes; or that every time I think "whoa!" with envy of a girl on the tube, she is inevitably ginger. But it wouldn't stop me looking for someone outside of those perameters, especially if I'd been having love troubles. Yet almost every personal begins "black/white/mixed race/asian/cypriot", as if that matters, and ends with a specific request too. My inferance is that there is still a large number of people with racial issues going on. It suggests that if you didn't state your race, there would be people who'd turn up on a first date and recieve a nasty suprise. And yes, I'm sure there are some people who know their families would never accept particular cultures, but the sheer scale suggests there's something far more going on.
Surely limiting yourself to white men might considerably cut down the chances of finding an ideal "Mr Right"? And it works both ways -
It's the incredible optimism that suprises me - does the 48 year old attractive white male really think he's going to find the 30-47, size 8-12 black woman of his dreams, and then her turn out to be attractive and warm as well. Does the bi guy of the same age actually expect someone of 18-24 to reply? If the strikingly attractive, slim brunette, published writer/poet is so fantastic, then why is she in the classifieds?
There are one or two total no-hopers - such as the woman who starts female, 40, Catholic, by which point my eyes had already flicked to the ad below. Or the ones which start well, and only sting you half way through - "genuine, attractive brunette, refined, sophisticated, young 56..." or this one, which is completely tantalising -
Tall blonde male, 50s, new to area, seeks very assertive female, 30-45, as soul mate, for alternate relationship.
It all seems so nice and pally until it gets to "alternate", at which point the word "assertive" starts to take on interesting connotations involving black leather...
I mean, interests - "socialising". What does that actually mean? I'm stunned by the nuber of people who claim to enjoy "walking". And how many "cinema" people are actually people I'd consider dating; as opposed to chumps who like to see the latest blockbuster twice a year?
Sometime it's the phrasing that makes me laugh - a brunette who has vacancy for white male, clean and well kept. Do you want him neutered and from a reputable animal shelter too? The chump of the pack gives out no information, except that he has a terrible sense of humour, with:
Finally, there's the belly laughs that come from reading between the lines - and I'm afraid these are all in the men seeking men catagory (incidentally, why no room for "women seeking women"?)
Maybe it's my prejudices coming into play, but there's definitely something sleazy about that request. But my favourite is definitely this one:
Obviously, he could be a great chap, sincere and loving; but there's something in the fact that he's an ex public school teacher (and we all know about all-boys public schools...) and seeking someone so incongruously young that adds up to disturbing images of schoolboys in long socks and canings, and unpleasant theories on why he got fired...but at least he's not picky on race...
So who wins? Well, there are two adverts which caught my eye - and neither are ones I can reply to. Still, they both portray their authors as interesting, unusual people, different from the young professional set, and have a real feeling of emotional honesty. I also have terribly romantic ideas of how these ads could turn out:
Wanted: a white South African guy, attractive, romantic, loyal, sensitive, who knows how to treat and pamper a lady, I am divorced, early-40s, attractive.
I just feel something instinctively cinematic about that scenario.
Adventurer, tall, slim, fighting fit, presentable, articulate, world-travelled, attentive, desires gorgeous, glamorous, audacious, praisworthy 60+ lady. Any nationality.
I love the way he doesn't give his age...again, though, I get a real impression of who this guy is, not only from what he says but the way he says it, and have a great image of him and his audacious belle jetting off to find Inca gold or something.
See, the true love in that magazine is the lovestruck column - "You were on the 11:35 from Frognal, wearing a gray hat. I smiled at you and helped you with your shopping. Drink?"
Those things never fail to be romantic...
One of the joys of London living is being mobbed by chilly workers, at all hours and in all weathers, distributing rather crappy papers such as the London Lite or the London Paper, to keep us all updated on trivial, meaningless information.
The highlight of the mag is the classifieds, which I always read in great detail, with much amusement and contempt.
Never mind the fact they all claim to be fit, even the 50+ ones (today's highlight was a brunette describing herself as "stunningly attractive"). It's the level of pickiness that suprises me. You'd think that having got into a situation requiring you to date via personal ads, you'd take anyone without a criminal record.
It's the race thing that winds me up most of all. Are people genuinely that picky? There's no secret that I generally find dark haired people, of any race, more than blondes; or that every time I think "whoa!" with envy of a girl on the tube, she is inevitably ginger. But it wouldn't stop me looking for someone outside of those perameters, especially if I'd been having love troubles. Yet almost every personal begins "black/white/mixed race/asian/cypriot", as if that matters, and ends with a specific request too. My inferance is that there is still a large number of people with racial issues going on. It suggests that if you didn't state your race, there would be people who'd turn up on a first date and recieve a nasty suprise. And yes, I'm sure there are some people who know their families would never accept particular cultures, but the sheer scale suggests there's something far more going on.
Intelligent, caring, honest black African woman, 30s, looking for caring, honest, loving white man, who is my Mr Right.
Surely limiting yourself to white men might considerably cut down the chances of finding an ideal "Mr Right"? And it works both ways -
If you are dreaming of a white Christmas, call now.
Good looking white male WLTM black female, preferably of African parentage, for genuine sincere 1-2-1 relationship.
To be honest, the concept of anything "genuine" and "sincere" that starts in a relationship with such fixed perameters must be very flexible...
It's the incredible optimism that suprises me - does the 48 year old attractive white male really think he's going to find the 30-47, size 8-12 black woman of his dreams, and then her turn out to be attractive and warm as well. Does the bi guy of the same age actually expect someone of 18-24 to reply? If the strikingly attractive, slim brunette, published writer/poet is so fantastic, then why is she in the classifieds?
There are one or two total no-hopers - such as the woman who starts female, 40, Catholic, by which point my eyes had already flicked to the ad below. Or the ones which start well, and only sting you half way through - "genuine, attractive brunette, refined, sophisticated, young 56..." or this one, which is completely tantalising -
Tall blonde male, 50s, new to area, seeks very assertive female, 30-45, as soul mate, for alternate relationship.
It all seems so nice and pally until it gets to "alternate", at which point the word "assertive" starts to take on interesting connotations involving black leather...
I mean, interests - "socialising". What does that actually mean? I'm stunned by the nuber of people who claim to enjoy "walking". And how many "cinema" people are actually people I'd consider dating; as opposed to chumps who like to see the latest blockbuster twice a year?
Sometime it's the phrasing that makes me laugh - a brunette who has vacancy for white male, clean and well kept. Do you want him neutered and from a reputable animal shelter too? The chump of the pack gives out no information, except that he has a terrible sense of humour, with:
Tarzan, 34, seeks Jane to have a swinging time
And then there's the ones which barely disguise what they mean:
Sophisticated Asian female, slim, caring, seeks solvent, mature white
businessman/company director for long term companionship.
Easy going, professional guy, 40s, Scottish, visits London often, no ties seeks interesting lady friend for nights out.
No, mate, you don't want an "interesting friend". You want what Torchwood's finest would colloquially refer too as a "f-k buddy"; you want a girl you can visit in town, and ignore out, and because you have no ties, you'll extend this to her as well, and promise no security or fidelity whatsoever. I dearly hope no one replies to this one...I also want to know whether the man seeking "laughter/holding hands" actually means that, and that alone.
On the other end of the spectrum, there's the honest - if somewhat bizzare - ones:Delicate, petite French female, early 30s, blonde, sexy seeks generous and funny sugar daddy, 40+, for romantic liasons.Sugar daddy?!
Finally, there's the belly laughs that come from reading between the lines - and I'm afraid these are all in the men seeking men catagory (incidentally, why no room for "women seeking women"?)
Down to earth guy, 38, seeks Turkish/Middle Eastern man, for relationship...
Maybe it's my prejudices coming into play, but there's definitely something sleazy about that request. But my favourite is definitely this one:
Distinguished looking guy, 58, ex-public school master, WLTM young guy, 18-30, any nationality, for friendship and fun.
Obviously, he could be a great chap, sincere and loving; but there's something in the fact that he's an ex public school teacher (and we all know about all-boys public schools...) and seeking someone so incongruously young that adds up to disturbing images of schoolboys in long socks and canings, and unpleasant theories on why he got fired...but at least he's not picky on race...
So who wins? Well, there are two adverts which caught my eye - and neither are ones I can reply to. Still, they both portray their authors as interesting, unusual people, different from the young professional set, and have a real feeling of emotional honesty. I also have terribly romantic ideas of how these ads could turn out:
Wanted: a white South African guy, attractive, romantic, loyal, sensitive, who knows how to treat and pamper a lady, I am divorced, early-40s, attractive.
I just feel something instinctively cinematic about that scenario.
Adventurer, tall, slim, fighting fit, presentable, articulate, world-travelled, attentive, desires gorgeous, glamorous, audacious, praisworthy 60+ lady. Any nationality.
I love the way he doesn't give his age...again, though, I get a real impression of who this guy is, not only from what he says but the way he says it, and have a great image of him and his audacious belle jetting off to find Inca gold or something.
See, the true love in that magazine is the lovestruck column - "You were on the 11:35 from Frognal, wearing a gray hat. I smiled at you and helped you with your shopping. Drink?"
Those things never fail to be romantic...
I woke up too early. I wanted a lie in. Didn't get one. Anyway, I stuck on some good music (all the stuff I was listening to c.15th birthday, because Nanowrimo has fixed the memories of that month as very "birthday-ish"), read some Oscar Wilde and spent about 45 minutes on my appearance, which is probably more than the whole previous month combined.
Having opened my cards as they had arrived, I already knew about my shopping trips to Camden, sponsored by both sets of grandparents. It's taken all my restraint, plus the knowledge I'd have no occasion to wear it, to prevent me dashing straight off to pick up the Audrey Hepburn dress I saw there last week...
Team Rodgers also sent a book of Oscar Wilde sayings, capped off by a 
great Stephen Fry essay about his life, works and his approach to playing him in the biopic. The famille Huke sent a terrific scarf - red, pink and black, and in that great long'n'thin style that contributes nothing against the cold, and thus is exactly my sort of thing - apparently, and this is something I've never understood, they use scarves to keep warm on your planet? You'll probably be able to see it in some of the pictures. While in the blue corner, the famille Boyd sent an Emily Strange bag - a brand I've always adored, but been too lazy to actually hunt down - which conveniently arrives just as the bag I've been using all term disintigrates (also, winning the prize for the most adorable card, with sunflowers). My godparents sent me book tokens, which I understand are probably meant to go on Caeser and Plutarch; but might just end up on Cornell and Parkin instead...and Friend 1 had got me racing snails, with which I instantly celebrated my age by playing "Doctor Who and the Invasion of the Giant Snails" with my mini figures...and a Duckter Who rubber duck, complete with S18 scarf. As there's no bath here, and it's neither hygenic nor safe to go near the sinks, I can't wait to get it home at Christmas - it lights up in water too!
great Stephen Fry essay about his life, works and his approach to playing him in the biopic. The famille Huke sent a terrific scarf - red, pink and black, and in that great long'n'thin style that contributes nothing against the cold, and thus is exactly my sort of thing - apparently, and this is something I've never understood, they use scarves to keep warm on your planet? You'll probably be able to see it in some of the pictures. While in the blue corner, the famille Boyd sent an Emily Strange bag - a brand I've always adored, but been too lazy to actually hunt down - which conveniently arrives just as the bag I've been using all term disintigrates (also, winning the prize for the most adorable card, with sunflowers). My godparents sent me book tokens, which I understand are probably meant to go on Caeser and Plutarch; but might just end up on Cornell and Parkin instead...and Friend 1 had got me racing snails, with which I instantly celebrated my age by playing "Doctor Who and the Invasion of the Giant Snails" with my mini figures...and a Duckter Who rubber duck, complete with S18 scarf. As there's no bath here, and it's neither hygenic nor safe to go near the sinks, I can't wait to get it home at Christmas - it lights up in water too!There's probably one I've forgotten...damnation...
After that I decorated the kitchen - cheap fire hazards strung across the fridges and tinsel in the windows, recieved phone calls and generally wasted time till I could start cooking.
I did try to follow a Delia smith recipie for great roast potatoes - boiling them first to make them fluffy, then scratching with stolen salt before roasting in stolen oil, in a stolen baking tray - but it didn't really work in practice. Sustenus showed up exactly when I needed an extra hand to fry the veggie sausages (Iacomus and Spirita are vegitarian), and wake Vapila up, who I then put in charge of the grilling turkey. It all tumbled onto the table at about the same time, and we ate while playing with crackers - I traded a hopping frog for a tiny plastic car, and someone else got the tiniest and most pointless magnifying glass ever. So the only people who arrived on time were the Dudin Brown crowd - though it was fair enough. Nocturna was stranded in Golders Green, Spirita in Brixton, Iacomus oop north and Calypso in Sainsburies - and Transport for London thought it would be funny to shut the Jubilee, Metropolitan, District and Bakerloo lines, i.e. anything which would help one get to Hampstead.
In retrospect, I could probably have cooked in waves if I'd known - but as it was, we smegged some foil and kept it as warm as possible until Calypso and Nocturna arrived. Calypso tucked into the xmas pudding, for which I was very glad, knowing I've another whole thing in the cupboard to finish off - I'm going to be eating the leftovers for the rest of the week! She also brought along some very welcome sherry, as I'd had a craving for something sweet and alcoholic since waking up (I had considered walking down to Sainsburies purely to pick up some my favourite brand Sicilian Lemonade, but decided that was lame...)
Anyway, we had dinner, which was damn fantastic. The potatoes and carrots worked especially well; I made way way too much stuffing; I thought the turkey was far too tough and dry, but nobody else seemed to mind. After that, I opened Vapila's gift -which, due to some unsubtle hinting at the start of term, I already had a good idea of what it was. But I was still very happy to see my replica TARDIS key. According to the websnobs, the dimensions are slightly wrong; but what do fans know? She'd also found a load of cool esoteric info about my birthdate - I was born in the Egyptian month of Menchir, my birth stone is citrine, the moon was waxing crescent and my Native American Zodiac sign is the Owl - which might explain why I've had owls on the brain recently. Also, there was no decent music at the top of the charts that year.
Anyway, we had dinner, which was damn fantastic. The potatoes and carrots worked especially well; I made way way too much stuffing; I thought the turkey was far too tough and dry, but nobody else seemed to mind. After that, I opened Vapila's gift -which, due to some unsubtle hinting at the start of term, I already had a good idea of what it was. But I was still very happy to see my replica TARDIS key. According to the websnobs, the dimensions are slightly wrong; but what do fans know? She'd also found a load of cool esoteric info about my birthdate - I was born in the Egyptian month of Menchir, my birth stone is citrine, the moon was waxing crescent and my Native American Zodiac sign is the Owl - which might explain why I've had owls on the brain recently. Also, there was no decent music at the top of the charts that year.
Nocturna polished off the remnants of the now rather chilly food, but also came bearing some very excellent carrot cake. There was, shall we say, something of a theme for the day - someone single mindedly obsessed isn't all that hard to buy presents for, and I was crazily happy to recieve a Doctor Who UNO set (love that game!) and a Dalek folder (because my Latin teacher keeps asking me about the organisation of my sheets. Stop me if this sounds familiar...). Here I am, now playing Duckter Who and the Daleks with Friend 1's gift. She also got me a Christmas Card...The final guests turned up, only two and three hours late respectively, but I w
as very glad to see them, and there were still plenty of mince pies left. So we overate, and argued about Christmas music (why am I the only one who likes "Stop the Cavalry"?!), and about politics, and because it's got to the point at which our separate senses of humour are starting to bleed together, told a lot of off colour jokes, my favourite being something to do with Hitler's gas bill...the picture to the right suggests how much fun we were having.Angelicus sneaked off at this point to wrap my presents, having run out of time the evening before. He's a music student, I'm a film student, so we talk film music quite often, and he doesn't quite get my respect for Hans Zimmer, nor me his for John Williams. But apart from that, we're solid, and I was happy to unwrap Danny Elfman's "Music for a Darkened Theatre vol. 1", which I actually had considered getting when it first came out. It's music from the first half of his career, very little of which I'd heard. Further to me commenting that not having seen Citizen Kane would be my dying regret, he also got me a copy. So now I have no excuse...and I got calligraphy in my card!
The arrival of Iacomus, media personality, living legend, and "social spastic" (according to the hate mail he had recieved that morning), and Spirita (who can't stand having her photo taken, so I am overjoyed to have any photos to add to my blog) finished off the party. They had jointly teamed up with Calypso to present me with two copies of Photoplay from the 70s (really
exciting, and quite surreal too - one had a Godfather special; the other had Redford'n'Newman pin ups), a pair of white opera gloves, and a fluffy red evening shawl. We'd spotted it on special offer while queuing to meet Tom Baker and fallen in love (now there's a sentence which wouldn't sound so ambiguous in Latin, with proper declining pronouns...). I decided to be good, and decided I didn't really need it - though I obviously did, and had only last week considered going back to pick it up...you can see it in the picture, it's wonderful. Finally, two Doctor Who badges, one with the First Doctor's logo, and the other with the Sixth Doctor's title sequence "because it was the most colourful". Apparently, Spirita had phoned three seperate toy shops, including one in Croydon, and then risked life and limb on the most dangerous street on London to get badge refills...all in a massive bag of sweeties and bottles of Baileys. Picture proof suggests I was impressed.We played UNO until Nocturna had to go; then attempted the Doctor Who board game. It fell to pieces within two rounds, due to the large number of people
playing, but everyone did enjoy it. Calypso had to go then, to get ready for the Cosplay ball, which I ultimately decided I was too tired to attend. It was at this point we had conquered both tables, two out of three ovens and a whole sideboard. Angelicus dropped back in again briefly with his sax, and played the second coolest rendition of happy birthday I've been played all week (sorry, but NO ONE beats Fyfe'n'Magrao with an accordian). I got phone calls from Friend 1, who was preparing to cook her mock Christmas meal for midnight that evening to celebrate the start of December; and later, from Friend 4, who was halfway through helping cook her building's mock Christmas. Vapila, Iacomos, Spirita and I kept playing with the cracker toys, eating and getting paranoid. Iacomos had recieved the most terrific piece of hate mail ever, and with a bit of amateur detective work, had worked out the sender intended to stab him. Probably responsible for the unpleasant dream I had that evening, where a Jokery-clown was stalking me through the Maughan Library with a knife.
Finally they had to go, on the basis it was a two hour journey back to their homes. The rest of the kitchen - who had been politely refusing mince pies all day, even though I was desperate to get rid of the two spare boxes of the damn things - teamed up to get me a birthday card, which rather rounded off the day OK.So that was that. I'd already done the other bit of Christmas, the bit where you slump in front of the TV, on Saturday, by having a quadruple bill of Unearthly Child, Naked Gun, Mallrats and Enlightenment.
This is me. I'm old. And I had a great day.
Back from film studies screening, at a godawful hour of the evening, and with nobody but you lovely people to sqoon at!
Say you've just, I don't know, spent an hour arguing about what film to watch, and you've narrowed down to a choice of four:
According to our lecture, it's known as the "masala principle" - yes, like the meal, which refers to the mixture of spices. Apparently, it's a deliberate ideal of Indian cinema - and one I rather like - to put the audience through the whole gamut of emotion, instead of just focusing on one. We (or at any rate, I) tend to be suprised by cross-genre works - the romance in Rear Window; the thriller in Casablanca. Horror films should be scary, dramas serious. There are no such genres in Hindi cinema - because in general, films are nowhere near that limited.
No wonder they're so popular - during the slapstick bits, I was thinking "Ooooh, Friend 5 will like this!"; and then later, during some of the actiony sequences, I wondered if I should get a copy of Friend 3 for Christmas. When we got into Wild West territory, I wondered whether dad had ever stuck this on while doing something else over a long afternoon. And, of course, if you asked me what the film was about, I'd say "buddy movie" straight off. It even has a coin that keeps coming down heads!
To fit all that in, it's no wonder this epic ran to something like 3 hours - which most of the Film Studies seemed to resent, if the applause and hasty exodus at the end were anything to go by. Lucky for them, then, that the Indian Censor's board actually trimmed it by 16 minutes. I enjoyed every darn minute of it - I feel films should be long. Two years back, I tried being obsessed with Reservoir Dogs, and even though I made a pretty good try, there really wasn't enough there. It's only 96 minutes, and they're a pretty thin 96 at that, and it soon comes to a rather poor choice between writing fanfiction or just rewatching the movie again. Compare to, say, Lord of the Rings - three films, and if that's not enough, some 8 books, not to mention all the scholarship and nerdery those 8 can generate. But there is a point where that runs out too - maybe that's why I've got into Doctor Who in such a big way? Because there are hundreds of episodes - the total running time beats most director's whole careers. And even more books. And an ever expanding series of audio plays. And graphic novels. And then there's the spinoffs. At this point, it doesn't look like I'll reach the end of all that for quite a while.
Which might explain why my regard for Sholay is so high - it's long enough that you can't take it in in one sitting, making it presumably rewatchable. And as it's so cross-generic (is that a real term?), it'll match any mood. You can just sit down and get lost in it. I remember at the time of my Godfather patch, complaining something of this sort: that seeing a film is OK, until it's over - at which point you want to know more, see more, experience more of the backstory and little details, know what's in the rooms the characters don't enter and generally immerse yourself in the world. Being a fan of a long running TV show with myriad cashins and spinoffs appears to come closer to this ideal than any film ever has.
It's such a sixties film too - granted, it was made in the 70s. The Butch Cassidy nod wasn't just for a buddy movie with bicycles: the whole style and use of the camera at times reminded me too.
It's got all the normal stuff too, like great performances (particularly liked Singh) and very exciting direction. Rajha was impossibly serene, but at least she was nice to look at. Which was pretty much her role in the plot, as far as I could tell. The train heist was great, as was the Basanti's dance at a pivotal moment. Now, that felt like proper Hindi cinema - a gorgeous blend of the Western setting and uniquely Eastern song'n'dance, wrapped up in a sort of concept which wouldn't be out of place in myth - the woman who dances to save her lover (Beren and Luthien before Morgoth, much?). According to our lecturer, most Bollywood movies can be derived from a mythic source - which was a strange thing to say, because I believe that is true of all fiction (i.e. whether you're a Christian or not, the idea of a hero who seems to die, then returns, or the concept of self sacrifice for the good of many are very strong in our culture, literature and movies. And I don't just mean Narnia. Doctor Who, for one, and that's one of the most athiest shows going. Well, maybe humanist - you certainly can't accuse it of a religious agenda)
The other thing I disagreed with our lecturer on was his dismissal of the term "Bollywood". He took it as a suggestion that Hindi cinema is a mere imitation of Hollywood, whereas I have always understood it to suggest an equal status. British, French, Russian, Chinese cinemas don't get their own -ollywood after all, and the Brits in particular are guilty of imitating American films. And especially before showing us a movie which, far from exemplefying the uniqueness of Indian culture, actually clings to an established American genre for its lifeblood. He also suggested there was some colonial sneering in the fact we still call "Bombay movies" B-ollywood, instead of using Mumbai, but personally that's just because I reckon Mollywood would sound daft.
Anyway, I'm still in that "new favourite film" sort of glow, which usually washes off in a few hours. Hope it does, for your sakes, otherwise I'll be making you watch it at Christmas...
There are a few other things worth saying about our Film Studies lectures in general. The first is the demonstration of the maxim "all power corrupts" - our lecturer must have been silently annoyed, like the dripping of a tap, by all those little cinema gripes. Now he's in charge of his own screening, he's elected himself king of his own little kingdom. Not that I mind - mobiles off, food away, all things I agree with. I am also endeared to him by the fact he insists on us sitting through the credits. I hate nothing more than people switching off the DVD halfway through the playout theme. Not counting, y'know, genocide and poverty. The mood just vanishes from the room instantly, but keeping the music keeps the atmosphere and gives you a chance to process your response. Two notable examples are Blade Runner, where I need that dark pulsing Vangelis to deal with the unicorn, and Reservoir Dogs, where the chuckling smirk of instantly "Lime and the Coconut" gives the audience a release for the tension, and provides a great contrast. As if to say to those of us, with tears standing in our eyes and stomachs crunched from sympathetic wincing, "Hey, folks? It's only a movie..."
The other thing is his insistance on using genuine 35mm film instead of, say, projecting a DVD. I think it's just something that only a film buff could understand. DVDs are clean and clear quality - watching real film is akin to the Grindhouse experience. Scratches all over the place, the sound dipping in and out, or vanishing entirely; bits of the image getting lost, or going interesting colours; hearing the reel scratch and seeing the bright flash of colour when it's changed. In Sholay's case, truly inadequate and hard to read subtitles. In terms of immersive hi-def experience, it's easy to count the disadvantages. But I think it's something we all instinctively understand, that watching it on "proper film" is part of the magic, which a DVD can never touch; like a proper music buff refuses abandon LPs.
This has been cross posted to Cinecism, for those of you keeping score at home.
In other news: there are some negative aspects to the student life. One of them is laziness. Imagine me now, gentle reader, eating dry cerial (can't be bothered to go for milk), off a plate (can't be bothered to wash a bowl), with a fork (ditto spoon), while drinking Fanta from a measuring jug - not brave enough to touch the mugs. Now I'm going to attempt to fry pasta without sauce, and eat it out of my top hat with a straining spoon...
- a knockabout buddy comedy about two criminals on the run
- An all-singing romantic musical
- A serious drama about a great man restoring his dignity after terrible tragedy
- An exciting action-adventure thriller, complete with explosions, chases and train heists
According to our lecture, it's known as the "masala principle" - yes, like the meal, which refers to the mixture of spices. Apparently, it's a deliberate ideal of Indian cinema - and one I rather like - to put the audience through the whole gamut of emotion, instead of just focusing on one. We (or at any rate, I) tend to be suprised by cross-genre works - the romance in Rear Window; the thriller in Casablanca. Horror films should be scary, dramas serious. There are no such genres in Hindi cinema - because in general, films are nowhere near that limited.
No wonder they're so popular - during the slapstick bits, I was thinking "Ooooh, Friend 5 will like this!"; and then later, during some of the actiony sequences, I wondered if I should get a copy of Friend 3 for Christmas. When we got into Wild West territory, I wondered whether dad had ever stuck this on while doing something else over a long afternoon. And, of course, if you asked me what the film was about, I'd say "buddy movie" straight off. It even has a coin that keeps coming down heads!
To fit all that in, it's no wonder this epic ran to something like 3 hours - which most of the Film Studies seemed to resent, if the applause and hasty exodus at the end were anything to go by. Lucky for them, then, that the Indian Censor's board actually trimmed it by 16 minutes. I enjoyed every darn minute of it - I feel films should be long. Two years back, I tried being obsessed with Reservoir Dogs, and even though I made a pretty good try, there really wasn't enough there. It's only 96 minutes, and they're a pretty thin 96 at that, and it soon comes to a rather poor choice between writing fanfiction or just rewatching the movie again. Compare to, say, Lord of the Rings - three films, and if that's not enough, some 8 books, not to mention all the scholarship and nerdery those 8 can generate. But there is a point where that runs out too - maybe that's why I've got into Doctor Who in such a big way? Because there are hundreds of episodes - the total running time beats most director's whole careers. And even more books. And an ever expanding series of audio plays. And graphic novels. And then there's the spinoffs. At this point, it doesn't look like I'll reach the end of all that for quite a while.
Which might explain why my regard for Sholay is so high - it's long enough that you can't take it in in one sitting, making it presumably rewatchable. And as it's so cross-generic (is that a real term?), it'll match any mood. You can just sit down and get lost in it. I remember at the time of my Godfather patch, complaining something of this sort: that seeing a film is OK, until it's over - at which point you want to know more, see more, experience more of the backstory and little details, know what's in the rooms the characters don't enter and generally immerse yourself in the world. Being a fan of a long running TV show with myriad cashins and spinoffs appears to come closer to this ideal than any film ever has.
There is another reason I liked it. Perhaps it was deliberate, so as not to isolate us daft Westerners entirely, but I thought it was a bizzare pick to demonstrate Hindi cinema because it borrowed so liberally from American genres. At times it plays like a greatest hits of all the westerns you've ever seen, starting act one, scene one "pan down onto a train arriving at a dusty station". Once they get the "Butch Cassidy with subtitles" bit out of the way, they're straight onto Seven Samuri, protecting a small village from evil bandits, with a bit of Dollars More-style vengeance on the side, and thats even before you get to the 8 minute shot for shot tribute to Once Upon a Time in the West. The use of sound is completely Sergio Leone (the chilling sound of the swing), and there are certain bits of music you'd swore were ripped from Morricone too. Particularly, the whistling (Cheyenne's theme, anyone?), the harmonica (duh...) and that harsh, screaming atonal tune they whipped out for the confrontation at the end.
Now there's nothing wrong, in principle at least, with ripping off other movies. I wrote a western script soon after I'd seen Once Upon a Time in the West, though it owed more to L.A. Confidential now I look at it again; I also wrote a script for a very Coens-y "crime out of control" caper in my Reservoir Dogs patch, and of course, remade Fellowship of the Ring. But none of these - no, not even the remake - were as blatant as a particular patch in the middle of a flashback.
Other than that, I didn't particularly mind. Sergio Leone pinched as much as he was pinched from, and it was a very good "uber-western" if you can stop yourself labelling the influences. It's just...even though Sholay's take on that scene was easily as effective, as scary, as upsetting, it still struck me as something too brilliant and iconic to nab. Especially because the moment the family at the happy homestead showed up on screen, I thought "now I know what's on the way..." QT had the right idea. Pinch the plot of City on Fire - a movie no one's ever heard of - remake it better, and maybe you can get away with it. Although Sholay's influences are very clear indeed, it's crucial to add they match the films they emulate. It's no better, or worse, or even different to any of the movies namechecked above. As such, it's a definite recommend for fans of the genre.
It's such a sixties film too - granted, it was made in the 70s. The Butch Cassidy nod wasn't just for a buddy movie with bicycles: the whole style and use of the camera at times reminded me too.
It's got all the normal stuff too, like great performances (particularly liked Singh) and very exciting direction. Rajha was impossibly serene, but at least she was nice to look at. Which was pretty much her role in the plot, as far as I could tell. The train heist was great, as was the Basanti's dance at a pivotal moment. Now, that felt like proper Hindi cinema - a gorgeous blend of the Western setting and uniquely Eastern song'n'dance, wrapped up in a sort of concept which wouldn't be out of place in myth - the woman who dances to save her lover (Beren and Luthien before Morgoth, much?). According to our lecturer, most Bollywood movies can be derived from a mythic source - which was a strange thing to say, because I believe that is true of all fiction (i.e. whether you're a Christian or not, the idea of a hero who seems to die, then returns, or the concept of self sacrifice for the good of many are very strong in our culture, literature and movies. And I don't just mean Narnia. Doctor Who, for one, and that's one of the most athiest shows going. Well, maybe humanist - you certainly can't accuse it of a religious agenda)
The other thing I disagreed with our lecturer on was his dismissal of the term "Bollywood". He took it as a suggestion that Hindi cinema is a mere imitation of Hollywood, whereas I have always understood it to suggest an equal status. British, French, Russian, Chinese cinemas don't get their own -ollywood after all, and the Brits in particular are guilty of imitating American films. And especially before showing us a movie which, far from exemplefying the uniqueness of Indian culture, actually clings to an established American genre for its lifeblood. He also suggested there was some colonial sneering in the fact we still call "Bombay movies" B-ollywood, instead of using Mumbai, but personally that's just because I reckon Mollywood would sound daft.
Anyway, I'm still in that "new favourite film" sort of glow, which usually washes off in a few hours. Hope it does, for your sakes, otherwise I'll be making you watch it at Christmas...
There are a few other things worth saying about our Film Studies lectures in general. The first is the demonstration of the maxim "all power corrupts" - our lecturer must have been silently annoyed, like the dripping of a tap, by all those little cinema gripes. Now he's in charge of his own screening, he's elected himself king of his own little kingdom. Not that I mind - mobiles off, food away, all things I agree with. I am also endeared to him by the fact he insists on us sitting through the credits. I hate nothing more than people switching off the DVD halfway through the playout theme. Not counting, y'know, genocide and poverty. The mood just vanishes from the room instantly, but keeping the music keeps the atmosphere and gives you a chance to process your response. Two notable examples are Blade Runner, where I need that dark pulsing Vangelis to deal with the unicorn, and Reservoir Dogs, where the chuckling smirk of instantly "Lime and the Coconut" gives the audience a release for the tension, and provides a great contrast. As if to say to those of us, with tears standing in our eyes and stomachs crunched from sympathetic wincing, "Hey, folks? It's only a movie..."
The other thing is his insistance on using genuine 35mm film instead of, say, projecting a DVD. I think it's just something that only a film buff could understand. DVDs are clean and clear quality - watching real film is akin to the Grindhouse experience. Scratches all over the place, the sound dipping in and out, or vanishing entirely; bits of the image getting lost, or going interesting colours; hearing the reel scratch and seeing the bright flash of colour when it's changed. In Sholay's case, truly inadequate and hard to read subtitles. In terms of immersive hi-def experience, it's easy to count the disadvantages. But I think it's something we all instinctively understand, that watching it on "proper film" is part of the magic, which a DVD can never touch; like a proper music buff refuses abandon LPs.
This has been cross posted to Cinecism, for those of you keeping score at home.
In other news: there are some negative aspects to the student life. One of them is laziness. Imagine me now, gentle reader, eating dry cerial (can't be bothered to go for milk), off a plate (can't be bothered to wash a bowl), with a fork (ditto spoon), while drinking Fanta from a measuring jug - not brave enough to touch the mugs. Now I'm going to attempt to fry pasta without sauce, and eat it out of my top hat with a straining spoon...
13:26 |
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RANDOM THINGS I LOVE no1
Women wearing burqas in public
The burqa has become a universal symbol of female repression. But I can't help a small smile of pride when I see women wearing them. Why? Well, even though some must be hating it, and though it conflicts with our ideas of freedom et al - I know many are wearing it through a conscious religious and social choice. With our negative image in mind, it takes extra bravery to adopt a dress you believe to be right, in full knowledge of the stigma and hostility it suggests.
RANDOM THINGS I HATE no1
"Do not play" signs
I hate decorative pianos. The whole point of putting a piano in the corner of the room is so that a passing genius (me, say) can sit down out of the blue and entertain people, right? A lone piano is an invitation.
Women wearing burqas in public
The burqa has become a universal symbol of female repression. But I can't help a small smile of pride when I see women wearing them. Why? Well, even though some must be hating it, and though it conflicts with our ideas of freedom et al - I know many are wearing it through a conscious religious and social choice. With our negative image in mind, it takes extra bravery to adopt a dress you believe to be right, in full knowledge of the stigma and hostility it suggests.
RANDOM THINGS I HATE no1
"Do not play" signs
I hate decorative pianos. The whole point of putting a piano in the corner of the room is so that a passing genius (me, say) can sit down out of the blue and entertain people, right? A lone piano is an invitation.
04:05 |
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Having gone on a Latin binge today, today people will be given Latin derivations of their names. This is cooler, I think, than the Numbers given on a Prisoner day, the Lady ---- of ---- used after reading too many Regency novels, and identifying everyone with a comedy vegitable.
Just back from winning the pub quiz again! Our team, "Yes! The bar's open!" was significantly diminished today, as not everyone could be bothered - but the core was there and that was what counted.
We're a great team, and not for a minute is that anything to do with me. I'm still waiting for my uber-obscure Doctor Who question to come up. No - our success lies in Beormundi and Inritus. Why? They study history.
Not intrinsically a great skill you say - so they can get the history questions right? So what? Wrong, my friend, very wrong. A historian has interest in wars and dates, but also of Geography and Politics too - both old and modern. Combine those questions together, and my rather dodgy film knowledge isn't so impressive. Also, they tend to ask very easy English-related questions, which make me think the quizmasters aren't in that corner of the humanities department.
What I do know is one of them is a massive Bond fan. This is because every time, there are at least two Bond related questions. This week, it was his brand of cigarettes (Chesterfields, apparently) and how many Roger Moore movies (Beormundi and I sorted out them out on the back of a beer mat - there are 7). The question setter also regards him as the best Bond ever.
I do secretly hate the Classical music questions - everyone automatically looks at me, not because I know a lot on the subject, but because I know anything at all. I still feel I have a duty to get it right, however. This week, I screwed up on who composed Carnival of the Animals (Camille Saint-Saens, which I did know I suppose, because he wrote the Swan; I guessed Debussy. I knew it was someone French); but earnt my place on the team on the music round. They ask for Composer, name and Movement name for classical pieces - this week's was Hall of the Mountain King, but I correctly got Edvard Grieg and Peer Gynt to make up the points. Also, I identified the members of Flight of the Conchords. That was my contribution.
I felt I should have got the LOTR question - how many oscars in total did it win? Well I knew ROTK had won 11, and the other two had won some: Inritus insisted FOTR had 7, which already put us on 18. In actual fact, it was only 17. Oh well...
Gemina is our scribe, and really comes into her usefullness during the music round - she's up to speed on all things modern, while my knowledge stops in about 1984. Alacrita is with English; as I already noted, however, the English questions aren't terrifically challenging - more like general knowledge. Her contribution was getting the age that Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison all died at.
Good evening. Love quizzes, especially winning them; but they're still fun anyway. It was particularly satisfying to beat the table next door, who were texting AQA for the answers.This is the third time we've done the quiz, and the third time we've placed - we won a fiver the first time, the next time we got a free pint for coming second - this time, we got both. Total prize was £13, which split between 5 came to £3 each - a profit of £2. This I have put in a pot, and it may go towards more Battles in Time cards next time I'm near Forbidden Planet. You never know...
I let Gemina have my drink - it was late, and I didn't particularly feel like anything, not even a soft drink. I stuck around for a bit after that - the guys played pool, I listened to the Pipettes which they were playing on the speakers. We were going to watch a movie, but it got late.
It's a shame, really, because the highlight of Beormundi's evening was managing to perfectly pot a pool ball, via jumping it over a pool cue laid across the table, and I think the idea was that was what it'd be remembered for. Unfortunately, about five minutes later Inritus almost took out my eye with a pool ball; so next time a ball flew off the table, Beormundi ducked, slipped on the floor, whooshed onto his back and brought down another table with him, and sending a pint glass dizzying across the room.
It was a mercy no one was injured, not even a little. As no one had been, the event was hilarious - Inritus was literally on the floor with laughter, the rest of the bar didn't seem to notice. We cleared up and quietly left. Not going to live it down. Ever.
The only other thing that deserves a mention is a scene I viewed in the Bay Lounge TV room. A large gaggle of guys and girls decended on the sofas, evidently to watch a film, and a small cabal of the girls were saying "We think we should watch The Notebook!" I tried hard not to giggle.
Now I don't know if you've heard of The Notebook, but check out IMDb and you'll discover it's a real girly girl movie, all about tragic lost love. Whenever some well meaning soul on a classic movie board complains that girls under 18 are dragging the rating down, they will always drag up The Notebook as the type of dross we vote highly for. The idea of these poor lads being forced through it was enough to make me smirk. I don't know the outcome...
Just back from winning the pub quiz again! Our team, "Yes! The bar's open!" was significantly diminished today, as not everyone could be bothered - but the core was there and that was what counted.
We're a great team, and not for a minute is that anything to do with me. I'm still waiting for my uber-obscure Doctor Who question to come up. No - our success lies in Beormundi and Inritus. Why? They study history.
Not intrinsically a great skill you say - so they can get the history questions right? So what? Wrong, my friend, very wrong. A historian has interest in wars and dates, but also of Geography and Politics too - both old and modern. Combine those questions together, and my rather dodgy film knowledge isn't so impressive. Also, they tend to ask very easy English-related questions, which make me think the quizmasters aren't in that corner of the humanities department.
What I do know is one of them is a massive Bond fan. This is because every time, there are at least two Bond related questions. This week, it was his brand of cigarettes (Chesterfields, apparently) and how many Roger Moore movies (Beormundi and I sorted out them out on the back of a beer mat - there are 7). The question setter also regards him as the best Bond ever.
I do secretly hate the Classical music questions - everyone automatically looks at me, not because I know a lot on the subject, but because I know anything at all. I still feel I have a duty to get it right, however. This week, I screwed up on who composed Carnival of the Animals (Camille Saint-Saens, which I did know I suppose, because he wrote the Swan; I guessed Debussy. I knew it was someone French); but earnt my place on the team on the music round. They ask for Composer, name and Movement name for classical pieces - this week's was Hall of the Mountain King, but I correctly got Edvard Grieg and Peer Gynt to make up the points. Also, I identified the members of Flight of the Conchords. That was my contribution.
I felt I should have got the LOTR question - how many oscars in total did it win? Well I knew ROTK had won 11, and the other two had won some: Inritus insisted FOTR had 7, which already put us on 18. In actual fact, it was only 17. Oh well...
Gemina is our scribe, and really comes into her usefullness during the music round - she's up to speed on all things modern, while my knowledge stops in about 1984. Alacrita is with English; as I already noted, however, the English questions aren't terrifically challenging - more like general knowledge. Her contribution was getting the age that Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison all died at.
Good evening. Love quizzes, especially winning them; but they're still fun anyway. It was particularly satisfying to beat the table next door, who were texting AQA for the answers.This is the third time we've done the quiz, and the third time we've placed - we won a fiver the first time, the next time we got a free pint for coming second - this time, we got both. Total prize was £13, which split between 5 came to £3 each - a profit of £2. This I have put in a pot, and it may go towards more Battles in Time cards next time I'm near Forbidden Planet. You never know...
I let Gemina have my drink - it was late, and I didn't particularly feel like anything, not even a soft drink. I stuck around for a bit after that - the guys played pool, I listened to the Pipettes which they were playing on the speakers. We were going to watch a movie, but it got late.
It's a shame, really, because the highlight of Beormundi's evening was managing to perfectly pot a pool ball, via jumping it over a pool cue laid across the table, and I think the idea was that was what it'd be remembered for. Unfortunately, about five minutes later Inritus almost took out my eye with a pool ball; so next time a ball flew off the table, Beormundi ducked, slipped on the floor, whooshed onto his back and brought down another table with him, and sending a pint glass dizzying across the room.
It was a mercy no one was injured, not even a little. As no one had been, the event was hilarious - Inritus was literally on the floor with laughter, the rest of the bar didn't seem to notice. We cleared up and quietly left. Not going to live it down. Ever.
The only other thing that deserves a mention is a scene I viewed in the Bay Lounge TV room. A large gaggle of guys and girls decended on the sofas, evidently to watch a film, and a small cabal of the girls were saying "We think we should watch The Notebook!" I tried hard not to giggle.
Now I don't know if you've heard of The Notebook, but check out IMDb and you'll discover it's a real girly girl movie, all about tragic lost love. Whenever some well meaning soul on a classic movie board complains that girls under 18 are dragging the rating down, they will always drag up The Notebook as the type of dross we vote highly for. The idea of these poor lads being forced through it was enough to make me smirk. I don't know the outcome...
15:08 |
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Today I went to my first student protest! Yeah! Oh, we smashed the system all right!
Well, maybe "quietly dismantled" it - everyone was completely pleasant, and disappointingly non radical. Very little chanting happened. We didn't even get riot police - only a nice chap with an incongruously MASSIVE gun who came over to explain that his job was to protect us and our right to hold a protest, enquire politely what our cause was and after explaining his job required him to be neutral and apolitical, give us tacit support.
Anyway, as I understand it, the issues are the least important part of any protest - it's all about shouting, the media and looking cool while stickin' it to the man. Nevertheless, our protest was anti Proposition 8, which to crib from Wikipedia:
Proposition 8 was a California State ballot proposition that amended the state Constitution to restrict the definition of marriage to a union between a man and a woman. It overrode a recent California Supreme Court decision that had recognized same-sex marriage in California as a fundamental right. The official ballot title language for Proposition 8 is "Eliminates Right of Same-Sex Couples to Marry." The entirety of the text to be added to the constitution was: "Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California."
I think we can all agree that that's wrong. If you don't, then it's not "get the hell off my blog" time - I'm interested in what you have to say. But you're still wrong. Do some research on the internet, and the pro-Prop 8 propaganda is really quite disgusting, hilarious and manipulative, whatever you feel on the issue - gay marriage will directly result in cute little children being eaten alive by lions and tigers. Yeh, right. Also, I don't understand how they can say "We're not bigoted, but we don't want our children to learn about gay marriage". It's a contradiction in terms - the implication is, "I don't want my child learning that gay lifestyle is an option".
I sympathise that there is a time and a place for kids to be exposed to ideas like this - or in saying that, am I in fact reconfirming the idea that heterosexuality is "right", and homosexuality, while it should be legal and celebrated, is something that should stay in the minority? I never claimed to be perfect. Certainly it's something I would want to talk about with any child of mine, to let them know I'm open to whatever they want - but all the same, I would feel uncomfortable having this conversation at too young an age, even though in a perfect and equal world there should be no difference or distinction at all. I wouldn't have the horror attack this woman has (http://protectmarriage.com/video/view/5), when her little darling comes home claiming she can marry a princess. And true equality can never happen until a generation of children grow up without bigotry.
I'd been privately fuming about the idea for days now, so when I got an invite to a protest half an hour before it was due to start, it was an easy yes. I joined H--- across the road, and armed with posters, we set off for Grosvenor Square and the US Embassy.
The tube is hilarious on weekends, as someone in London Transport rolls a dice and flips coins and shuts arbitary lines just to see what happens. For some arcane reason, probably related to ley lines and the movement of the moon in conjunction with Venus, this tends to fall on the Jubilee line - specifically, the part of the Jubilee line I need to go anywhere from Finchley Road. So H---- and I craftily attempted to take the Metropolitan Line to Baker Street, then swop onto the Bakerloo line.
Unfortunately, everyone else had had this idea too, which meant by the time we got there it just wasn't funny.
Now, to an angry Londoner, the honour of the tube is inviolate. This is why if a tube train stops, even very briefly, there will be a contrite apology broadcast over the speakers to explain exactly what has caused this two second delay. The explanation is usually still going on with the train moving again. And if trains don't arrive regularly on the platform, CALL THE MAYOR! SLAP A HOMELESS PERSON! I'M GOING TO RITUALLY BURN MY OYSTER CARD! I'M 32.8 SECONDS LATE! So, to an angry Londoner, Tube closure is the equivalent of a basic human right being temporarily suspended - our fundamental right to use the Tube is up there with a right to education and free speech. Only much more important.
It might also explain why Londoners - or was it just me? - find travel anywhere else completely impossible, without the guarentee of a tube line more than six minutes away, all laid out on a nice easy map.
It was at this point I discovered H--- was claustrophobic - although to be honest, normal terms like claustrophobia don't quite cover the Tube at times like this. With the help of Google maps we established all we had to do was keep walking in a straight line and cut across Oxford Street to get to the US Embassy.
We were a bit early - but we found another pair of angry students, and I stuck up my rainbow umbrella to catch attention. We soon found the organisers, who were all very friendly.
I noted, with a little disquiet, that "Emily dressed up for Gay Pride protest" looks exactly the same as "Emily on any other occasion". It also occurred to me, after about half an hour of couples arriving to the protest, that not only was I the straightest person there, but that they had probably all assumed I was dating the friend I had come with (which didn't really bother me so much as amuse)
This did suprise me, to an extent. Or as J--- put it, mimicing some shocked conservatism, "Do you know what, I think some of those people might have been homosexuals!" I assumed most people there would be as I was, concerned liberal Brits without any personal connection to the outcome. Very wrong - the majority were Americans, many of which mentioned Love Exiles, which is a support and pressure group for same sex couples who chose to move away from their home country in order to be together. The only British representation was really from the students - about ten of us.
I hope I remain as I am, an enthusiastic tourist who gets excited on Camden trips, and can't get over the size of the shops or the price of the food. I hope I never become an angry Londoner, because in the whole three hours not a single one came and showed interest in the protest. We were standing inside a safety barrier, and throughout the day people deliberately "walked on the other side"
It's part of the London thing, you see. I'M NOT HERE! DON'T LOOK AT ME! STOP LOOKING AT ME! I DON'T EXIST, AND NEITHER DO YOU, AND NEITHER DO THE HOMELESS PEOPLE, OR THE PEOPLE SELLING BIG ISSUES, OR THE PROTESTERS ON THE STREET! IT'S JUST ME! It's the chief reason I hate public transport, all the people willing themselves out of existance.
Anyway, we put together a petition, and I got everyone's names on a mailing list, and all in all twas very fun.
Pointless, of course, protesting against a resolution that has already been passed, with about forty people in a country far from the epicenter, in front of a building shut for the weekend. But as I said above, protests aren't about the cause. They never change things. It's about being there and making a statement for yourself, a bit like giving to charity to salve your own soul. I'm going to another one on Thanksgiving, and even though H--- and I intend to mobilise Kings to attend, it won't make any more difference.
All that happened, really, was I wasted a day standing outside an empty building, getting cold.
T--- made an interesting point that when it comes to big issues of equality, democracy is never the right way to go. Apparently, if a vote had actually been taken on bi-racial couples in the 50s, it would have been massively opposed. Anyway, E-- and J-- arrived in time for the end of the protest, and we five went for a very expensive lemonade in the warm, followed by a brief trip to Camden, then to a pub. I bought a new top. It's a brown, long sleeved, clingy, plain wraparound top, and is identical to several other items in my wardrobe. But it's also completey eco-friendly, having been made from soy beans, and really cuddly soft. I have propped my "LOVE IS LOVE" sign up in my window, where it can be seen by every passer by. I chose that slogan because it represents my interest in the issue - an emotional, impulsive one. Other people had better signs, which brought up the politics and facts, but I never really got involved with that half. However, if we go again, then I'm making a copy of this one:
Then I went out with S-- and J-- for sushi - in the event, I actually had egg fried rice and dumplings, and they had various pork'n'noodle dishes. And I ordered "Bitter Lemonade" to drink, which unfortuantely turned out to be that foul green stuff which tasted like mouthwash. J-- studies law, and is really into his morals and ethics, so he always has some good conversation.
Oh, and I've just gotta say this here because there's no one else I can complain at: some evil sod has stolen my milk!
Bad move on their part - anything else, I probably wouldn't have noticed, but as I need milk for coffee, tea, hot chocolate, chocolate milk, cereal, angel delight and just plain milk, I tend to check on the amount I have at least twice a day - and this is blatant, mind: I can't even find the carton. Maybe I should do what I did when my Fanta got drunk: namely scrawl:
Well, maybe "quietly dismantled" it - everyone was completely pleasant, and disappointingly non radical. Very little chanting happened. We didn't even get riot police - only a nice chap with an incongruously MASSIVE gun who came over to explain that his job was to protect us and our right to hold a protest, enquire politely what our cause was and after explaining his job required him to be neutral and apolitical, give us tacit support.
Anyway, as I understand it, the issues are the least important part of any protest - it's all about shouting, the media and looking cool while stickin' it to the man. Nevertheless, our protest was anti Proposition 8, which to crib from Wikipedia:
Proposition 8 was a California State ballot proposition that amended the state Constitution to restrict the definition of marriage to a union between a man and a woman. It overrode a recent California Supreme Court decision that had recognized same-sex marriage in California as a fundamental right. The official ballot title language for Proposition 8 is "Eliminates Right of Same-Sex Couples to Marry." The entirety of the text to be added to the constitution was: "Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California."
I think we can all agree that that's wrong. If you don't, then it's not "get the hell off my blog" time - I'm interested in what you have to say. But you're still wrong. Do some research on the internet, and the pro-Prop 8 propaganda is really quite disgusting, hilarious and manipulative, whatever you feel on the issue - gay marriage will directly result in cute little children being eaten alive by lions and tigers. Yeh, right. Also, I don't understand how they can say "We're not bigoted, but we don't want our children to learn about gay marriage". It's a contradiction in terms - the implication is, "I don't want my child learning that gay lifestyle is an option".
I sympathise that there is a time and a place for kids to be exposed to ideas like this - or in saying that, am I in fact reconfirming the idea that heterosexuality is "right", and homosexuality, while it should be legal and celebrated, is something that should stay in the minority? I never claimed to be perfect. Certainly it's something I would want to talk about with any child of mine, to let them know I'm open to whatever they want - but all the same, I would feel uncomfortable having this conversation at too young an age, even though in a perfect and equal world there should be no difference or distinction at all. I wouldn't have the horror attack this woman has (http://protectmarriage.com/video/view/5), when her little darling comes home claiming she can marry a princess. And true equality can never happen until a generation of children grow up without bigotry.
I'd been privately fuming about the idea for days now, so when I got an invite to a protest half an hour before it was due to start, it was an easy yes. I joined H--- across the road, and armed with posters, we set off for Grosvenor Square and the US Embassy.
The tube is hilarious on weekends, as someone in London Transport rolls a dice and flips coins and shuts arbitary lines just to see what happens. For some arcane reason, probably related to ley lines and the movement of the moon in conjunction with Venus, this tends to fall on the Jubilee line - specifically, the part of the Jubilee line I need to go anywhere from Finchley Road. So H---- and I craftily attempted to take the Metropolitan Line to Baker Street, then swop onto the Bakerloo line.
Unfortunately, everyone else had had this idea too, which meant by the time we got there it just wasn't funny.
Now, to an angry Londoner, the honour of the tube is inviolate. This is why if a tube train stops, even very briefly, there will be a contrite apology broadcast over the speakers to explain exactly what has caused this two second delay. The explanation is usually still going on with the train moving again. And if trains don't arrive regularly on the platform, CALL THE MAYOR! SLAP A HOMELESS PERSON! I'M GOING TO RITUALLY BURN MY OYSTER CARD! I'M 32.8 SECONDS LATE! So, to an angry Londoner, Tube closure is the equivalent of a basic human right being temporarily suspended - our fundamental right to use the Tube is up there with a right to education and free speech. Only much more important.
It might also explain why Londoners - or was it just me? - find travel anywhere else completely impossible, without the guarentee of a tube line more than six minutes away, all laid out on a nice easy map.
It was at this point I discovered H--- was claustrophobic - although to be honest, normal terms like claustrophobia don't quite cover the Tube at times like this. With the help of Google maps we established all we had to do was keep walking in a straight line and cut across Oxford Street to get to the US Embassy.
We were a bit early - but we found another pair of angry students, and I stuck up my rainbow umbrella to catch attention. We soon found the organisers, who were all very friendly.
I noted, with a little disquiet, that "Emily dressed up for Gay Pride protest" looks exactly the same as "Emily on any other occasion". It also occurred to me, after about half an hour of couples arriving to the protest, that not only was I the straightest person there, but that they had probably all assumed I was dating the friend I had come with (which didn't really bother me so much as amuse)
This did suprise me, to an extent. Or as J--- put it, mimicing some shocked conservatism, "Do you know what, I think some of those people might have been homosexuals!" I assumed most people there would be as I was, concerned liberal Brits without any personal connection to the outcome. Very wrong - the majority were Americans, many of which mentioned Love Exiles, which is a support and pressure group for same sex couples who chose to move away from their home country in order to be together. The only British representation was really from the students - about ten of us.
I hope I remain as I am, an enthusiastic tourist who gets excited on Camden trips, and can't get over the size of the shops or the price of the food. I hope I never become an angry Londoner, because in the whole three hours not a single one came and showed interest in the protest. We were standing inside a safety barrier, and throughout the day people deliberately "walked on the other side"
It's part of the London thing, you see. I'M NOT HERE! DON'T LOOK AT ME! STOP LOOKING AT ME! I DON'T EXIST, AND NEITHER DO YOU, AND NEITHER DO THE HOMELESS PEOPLE, OR THE PEOPLE SELLING BIG ISSUES, OR THE PROTESTERS ON THE STREET! IT'S JUST ME! It's the chief reason I hate public transport, all the people willing themselves out of existance.
Anyway, we put together a petition, and I got everyone's names on a mailing list, and all in all twas very fun.
Pointless, of course, protesting against a resolution that has already been passed, with about forty people in a country far from the epicenter, in front of a building shut for the weekend. But as I said above, protests aren't about the cause. They never change things. It's about being there and making a statement for yourself, a bit like giving to charity to salve your own soul. I'm going to another one on Thanksgiving, and even though H--- and I intend to mobilise Kings to attend, it won't make any more difference.
All that happened, really, was I wasted a day standing outside an empty building, getting cold.
T--- made an interesting point that when it comes to big issues of equality, democracy is never the right way to go. Apparently, if a vote had actually been taken on bi-racial couples in the 50s, it would have been massively opposed. Anyway, E-- and J-- arrived in time for the end of the protest, and we five went for a very expensive lemonade in the warm, followed by a brief trip to Camden, then to a pub. I bought a new top. It's a brown, long sleeved, clingy, plain wraparound top, and is identical to several other items in my wardrobe. But it's also completey eco-friendly, having been made from soy beans, and really cuddly soft. I have propped my "LOVE IS LOVE" sign up in my window, where it can be seen by every passer by. I chose that slogan because it represents my interest in the issue - an emotional, impulsive one. Other people had better signs, which brought up the politics and facts, but I never really got involved with that half. However, if we go again, then I'm making a copy of this one:
Then I went out with S-- and J-- for sushi - in the event, I actually had egg fried rice and dumplings, and they had various pork'n'noodle dishes. And I ordered "Bitter Lemonade" to drink, which unfortuantely turned out to be that foul green stuff which tasted like mouthwash. J-- studies law, and is really into his morals and ethics, so he always has some good conversation.
Oh, and I've just gotta say this here because there's no one else I can complain at: some evil sod has stolen my milk!
Bad move on their part - anything else, I probably wouldn't have noticed, but as I need milk for coffee, tea, hot chocolate, chocolate milk, cereal, angel delight and just plain milk, I tend to check on the amount I have at least twice a day - and this is blatant, mind: I can't even find the carton. Maybe I should do what I did when my Fanta got drunk: namely scrawl:
WILL
THE
THE
BASTARD
WHO PINCHED
MY FANTA
KINDLY
FEEL MY
WRATH!!!!!!!!
And complete it with a doodle of an angry-me, wielding an axe, in marker pen down the side of the half empty bottle. It's getting towards the end of term - in the last few weeks, my fanta and milk, and mug, and someone elses orange juice and fish pie have been unceremoniously pilfered. I wouldn't mind so much, except as I said, my milk is my treat of the day, and I didn't have the heart to sink to their level and "borrow" some for my own cereal this morning...
Finally, I have discovered I am an incorrigable collector. I think it's one of the major propellors behind my Doctor Who obsession - having to track down the videos, the books, the audios, the satisfaction of the chase, the thrill of success and then getting to tick them off on a nice neat list. You wouldn't think that I had a strong organisational streak, but I do - and it comes out for my crazes in the form of meticulous databases and neatly ordered videos.
I've realised this as a result of collecting the new Battles in Time cards: the Ultimate Monsters series. Much like the microuniverse figures, where I knew I was being ripped off but did it anyway. Only Battles in Time cards are far cheaper (£1.50 for 9, instead of £9.99 for 7), and there are several thousand of them as opposed to only 32 figures. Plus, as they're in collections, if I get to a point where I've just got my 8th Draconian card, I can move onto the Invader, Devastator, Annahilator or Exterminator series instead and have a fresh start. It's a quick and easy pick-me-up for the end of bad days, and unlike the micro-figs, take up far less room.
It's actually rather embarassing, actually. I picked up the starter mag, which came with four packs of 9, on the basis of someone on the web mentioning there was a Sutekh card. Now, Sutekh is pretty much my all time favourite Doctor Who villain - threeway tie between him, the Master and the Valeyard. My instant reaction was "OMG I want a shiny Sutekh card!", calmly noting that as it was marked as "Super Rare", it would be a great excuse to collect the series.
After flicking through the magazine I established a couple of cards I'd aim to find. These were Sutekh, the Master, Sharaz Jek and Omega, because they're all cool. Incidentally, there isn't a Valeyard card, else that would have been top of the list.
So with that said, J--- and I took it in turns to open the packets and see what was inside.
Well the first card I got was Sutekh.
In the second pack, I got Sharaz Jek. The third pack was really rather lousy. And in the fourth pack, I got the Master.
Is the universe trying to tell me I should be spending my cash more constructively?
You can view my collection on http://www.battlesintime.com/collection.php, by typing Unmutual into "view friend's collection" and then clicking on Ultimate Monsters
Finally (honestly, this time), I have just got a new copy of Dorian. It is purple, and one of the most unpleasant things I've ever seen. It does feel quite nice to read, however - and I got it from a second hand bookshop which I have been pestering for several weeks now.
03:54 |
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I think I have just accidentally let one of my longest running and most beloved characters die. I didn't mean to. I was just writing about Alec's party, you see, and it kind of slipped out, and then he kind of slipped off. I am quite distraught, both because of my depth of feeling and the suprise nature of his passing - which was mercifully peaceful to the last, and he departs in hope of a better world. His death, which has yet to be discovered, is likely to cause great distress when it is found to at least one other character of my aquaintance; and great embarassment to the host of the party in question, who intended the event mainly to be a twilight house to mark the end of the Flame, with lots of questions asked but not answered, and lots of hints half acted on - suggesting at futures, but not confirming them.
So you see, this all comes as a bit of a shock. I'm going to see what I can throw together as mourning garb - none of the regency websites I have found so far have a section detailing the protocol following the death of a character, even one as close as Nathaniel was to me.
No funeral will be held, at his request; but cards and flowers are greatfully appreciated in memoram.
So you see, this all comes as a bit of a shock. I'm going to see what I can throw together as mourning garb - none of the regency websites I have found so far have a section detailing the protocol following the death of a character, even one as close as Nathaniel was to me.
No funeral will be held, at his request; but cards and flowers are greatfully appreciated in memoram.
03:39 |
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Sainsbury's basic range is cheap, and it's cheap for a reason. Goodness knows what they make some of their proudcts out of. Despite that, sometimes you can get away with it. Here's a brief guide:
OK
I bought shampoo and conditioner for under 50p combined, and at the size of the bottles I think I'll still be using them at Christmas. Yes they look like gloopy alien spit, and yes there isn't a comforting picture of leaves on the bottle to trick you into thinking you're using genuine Mayan leaf extract instead of a chemical goop, but they work well enough.
The cereals are brilliant. As long as you can put up with the rip-off names, there's nothing to seperate them from the kellogs/nesquik equivalent. Plus, the boxes are massive.
It's quite hard to get dried pasta wrong.
The breakfast juices are stunning! I've had a lot of their sicilian lemonade, and am now enjoying their rum-less morning Mojitos. They're some of the nicest I've ever had.
This is also the best place in London to buy Doctor Who figures. But they don't taste so nice...
Go for basics yoghurts! You can buy four generous sized yoghurts for about 27p, and they're perfect.
Passable
The blackcurrent doesn't really taste like brand squash, but it is still drinkable. Actually, this goes for a lot of products - not identical to what you're used to, but nice in their own way. Lemon squash, angel delight and the biscuits also come into this catagory.
Avoid
Nevereverever buy own-brand pizza. They're tasteless and the base just disintigrates. Just bite the bullet and buy a proper one. it'll only be £2 more expensive, and it's more wasteful to be cheap and buy something inedible. Plus, they taste rank cold. If you must, at least buy a sauce - L&P, Ketchup, plum sauce, anything.
The Bargains
You can't go far wrong on a store which has had a Buy 1 Get 1 Free on both my staples, pasta and pizza, for the past few months...also, Jelly Babies are half price.
OK
I bought shampoo and conditioner for under 50p combined, and at the size of the bottles I think I'll still be using them at Christmas. Yes they look like gloopy alien spit, and yes there isn't a comforting picture of leaves on the bottle to trick you into thinking you're using genuine Mayan leaf extract instead of a chemical goop, but they work well enough.
The cereals are brilliant. As long as you can put up with the rip-off names, there's nothing to seperate them from the kellogs/nesquik equivalent. Plus, the boxes are massive.
It's quite hard to get dried pasta wrong.
The breakfast juices are stunning! I've had a lot of their sicilian lemonade, and am now enjoying their rum-less morning Mojitos. They're some of the nicest I've ever had.
This is also the best place in London to buy Doctor Who figures. But they don't taste so nice...
Go for basics yoghurts! You can buy four generous sized yoghurts for about 27p, and they're perfect.
Passable
The blackcurrent doesn't really taste like brand squash, but it is still drinkable. Actually, this goes for a lot of products - not identical to what you're used to, but nice in their own way. Lemon squash, angel delight and the biscuits also come into this catagory.
Avoid
Nevereverever buy own-brand pizza. They're tasteless and the base just disintigrates. Just bite the bullet and buy a proper one. it'll only be £2 more expensive, and it's more wasteful to be cheap and buy something inedible. Plus, they taste rank cold. If you must, at least buy a sauce - L&P, Ketchup, plum sauce, anything.
The Bargains
You can't go far wrong on a store which has had a Buy 1 Get 1 Free on both my staples, pasta and pizza, for the past few months...also, Jelly Babies are half price.
If you don't have any good ideas, why not have a peruse of this? All things I've been wanting for a while, so they're all a little on the inconvenient or pricy side, or I'd have got them myself.
But I'm always happy for suprises too.
WHO-ee STUFF – all likely to be a little overpriced
Generally, anything will prove popular, especially featuring docs 3, 5 and 6. Avoid new series merchandising crap unless it’s really cool.
DVD/VIDEOS
The Awakening/Frontios (comes as a two pack)
I’d really like something else with the Delgado master (Terror of the Autons, Mind of Evil, Colony in Space, the Daemons, the Time Monster.. Not claws of axos or Frontier in Space, I already have those) (likely to be surprisingly pricey, so get the cheapest, I’m not picky)
Attack of the Cybermen, oh pretty much anything.
BOOKS
Just War by Lance Parkin (warning! Probably expensive!)
Cold Fusion by Lance Parkin (again, unreasonablyexpensive!)
Times Champion by Craig Hinton (a bit tricky to get hold of, but it’s the only ever Valeyard book, so...http://www.timeschampion.co.uk/)
AUDIOS (google Big Finish)
“He Jests at Scars”. Note that this really is my no.1 want this year.
"Excelsis Dawns", "The Gathering", "Circular Time", "Spare Parts", Doctor Who and the Pirates", "Jubilee" - any of these would make me rather happy
Non WHO-ee stuff
MUSIC
Black Hawk Down CD
This Strange Engine (Marillion)
Warriors at the Edge of Time on CD (Hawkwind)
Brick: soundtrack
Al Stewart!
I have: Orange, Past Present and Future, Modern Times, Year of the Cat and Piece of Yesterday.
I want: anything else! Though preferly not live albums.
FILMS
Youth without Youth
Day Watch
Across the Universe
anything good
GRAPHIC NOVELS
Lucifer - the Divine Comedy
Hellblazer - Dangerous Habits
Watchmen (this is currently well reduced on Forbidden Planet. Jus make sure it's the actual comic, not a book about it)
OTHER
Sponsorship for a shopping trip to Camden
Almost anything with the words “Oscar Wilde” on the cover, as per usual
A special treat pack of the Doctor Who "battles in time" cards. Particularly, I want one from the "Ultimate Monsters" series, so skip if that's too complicated for you....
The Good Shopping Guide (PS, Amazon has some of these dirt cheap for second hand; I'm all for recycled birthday presents)
But I'm always happy for suprises too.
WHO-ee STUFF – all likely to be a little overpriced
Generally, anything will prove popular, especially featuring docs 3, 5 and 6. Avoid new series merchandising crap unless it’s really cool.
DVD/VIDEOS
The Awakening/Frontios (comes as a two pack)
I’d really like something else with the Delgado master (Terror of the Autons, Mind of Evil, Colony in Space, the Daemons, the Time Monster.. Not claws of axos or Frontier in Space, I already have those) (likely to be surprisingly pricey, so get the cheapest, I’m not picky)
Attack of the Cybermen, oh pretty much anything.
BOOKS
Just War by Lance Parkin (warning! Probably expensive!)
Cold Fusion by Lance Parkin (again, unreasonablyexpensive!)
Times Champion by Craig Hinton (a bit tricky to get hold of, but it’s the only ever Valeyard book, so...http://www.timeschampion.co.uk/)
AUDIOS (google Big Finish)
“He Jests at Scars”. Note that this really is my no.1 want this year.
"Excelsis Dawns", "The Gathering", "Circular Time", "Spare Parts", Doctor Who and the Pirates", "Jubilee" - any of these would make me rather happy
Non WHO-ee stuff
MUSIC
Black Hawk Down CD
This Strange Engine (Marillion)
Warriors at the Edge of Time on CD (Hawkwind)
Brick: soundtrack
Al Stewart!
I have: Orange, Past Present and Future, Modern Times, Year of the Cat and Piece of Yesterday.
I want: anything else! Though preferly not live albums.
FILMS
Youth without Youth
Day Watch
Across the Universe
anything good
GRAPHIC NOVELS
Lucifer - the Divine Comedy
Hellblazer - Dangerous Habits
Watchmen (this is currently well reduced on Forbidden Planet. Jus make sure it's the actual comic, not a book about it)
OTHER
Sponsorship for a shopping trip to Camden
Almost anything with the words “Oscar Wilde” on the cover, as per usual
A special treat pack of the Doctor Who "battles in time" cards. Particularly, I want one from the "Ultimate Monsters" series, so skip if that's too complicated for you....
The Good Shopping Guide (PS, Amazon has some of these dirt cheap for second hand; I'm all for recycled birthday presents)
02:21 |
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Sorry for the paucity of blogs, I've been far too busy living to talk about it.
Last night I went on a Lungbarrow hunt. Before you start conjuring images of me with a spear, chasing small yellow fluffy creatures much prized for the sweetness of their meat through the undergrowth of Hampstead Heath, Lungbarrow is a Doctor Who spinoff novel from the 90s that for various reasons, has aquired such a status that aquiring a copy usually requires you to sell one of your children or morgage your house.
Not that a copy of Lungbarrow is my ultimate aim - you can read it for free on the BBC website, and I never have because I think the content would wind me up. Though buying it for 70p in a second hand bookshop would be the equivalent of coming across a £100 at the side of the road. No exaggeration. I wonder what the ettiquette is there - discovering an item you know to be worth a small fortune, for sale at nowhere near its value in a charity bookshop...do you just buy it quietly? Do you tell the shop assistant, and risk them bumping the price or putting it on eBay instead? Do you offer them a guilty tenner instead, or is this even worst?
Anyway, if I had discovered a copy of Lungbarrow, I'd be far too busy choosing a pacific island to buy with the proceeds to be blogging here. I just use the word to mean "something unremarkable, of immense value to a small cabal of people" - indeed, me. Actually, my ultimate aim of these hunts shifts, but this week's was:
Last night I went on a Lungbarrow hunt. Before you start conjuring images of me with a spear, chasing small yellow fluffy creatures much prized for the sweetness of their meat through the undergrowth of Hampstead Heath, Lungbarrow is a Doctor Who spinoff novel from the 90s that for various reasons, has aquired such a status that aquiring a copy usually requires you to sell one of your children or morgage your house.
Not that a copy of Lungbarrow is my ultimate aim - you can read it for free on the BBC website, and I never have because I think the content would wind me up. Though buying it for 70p in a second hand bookshop would be the equivalent of coming across a £100 at the side of the road. No exaggeration. I wonder what the ettiquette is there - discovering an item you know to be worth a small fortune, for sale at nowhere near its value in a charity bookshop...do you just buy it quietly? Do you tell the shop assistant, and risk them bumping the price or putting it on eBay instead? Do you offer them a guilty tenner instead, or is this even worst?
Anyway, if I had discovered a copy of Lungbarrow, I'd be far too busy choosing a pacific island to buy with the proceeds to be blogging here. I just use the word to mean "something unremarkable, of immense value to a small cabal of people" - indeed, me. Actually, my ultimate aim of these hunts shifts, but this week's was:
- A copy of the Picture of Dorian Gray that I don't yet have.
- And anything else Oscar Wilde related. Biographies, other books, anything pretty
- A replacement beret. You never know...
- The Guns of Navarone novel - for what is basically an airport paperback, you see this in second hand book shops very rarely. I loved the film, loved the book sequel Force 10 from Navarone, and this is a bit of must buy literature.
- And yes, some Doctor Who related stuff. Videos are always great - jackpot would be Cold Fusion, Dying Days, Just War (or Lungbarrow, so I can flog it for megabucks), or anything with the words "third", "fifth" or "sixth" on the back cover...
It's a defence mechanism, really. Going into a second hand bookshop with some specific aims in mind lessens the chance of buying anything else. Like the collected Green Arrow/Green Lantern crossover comics collection, which I almost gave in to. Or the Blake's 7 video which I really did give into (I'm suffering from a lack of bad 60s sci fi since my Pertwee video broke, y'see...)
It's having the travelcard that does it - the ability to just pick a bus and go anywhere, basically for free. They're £64 for a month, which is more or less equivalent to taking two £2 tube journeys for 31 days. What the travelcard does cover is the guilty trips - the "I'm going to get a bus from the campus to the tube station", and leaves a glorious margin for error. Wrong destination? Just get off, try again. This gave me the luxury to experiment with a new bus, which heads to Camden then Hampstead Heath instead of straight up to Finchley. And as soon as I hit Camden, I hopped on and off the same bus route for the next two hours, stopping at areas which had lots of charity shops or just looked interesting. Didn't find anything, but it was fun - Camden has some great shops, including a great vintage clothing store (just keep repeating: Jon Pertwee is not, and never will be a fashion icon...) and a shop filled with wonderful instruments, which Dorian's chapter 11 would have died for.
The tour culminated at one of the more remote branches of Hampstead Library, which I've had my eye on since week one for two reasons. One of them is called Deep Blue by Mark Morris, and involves Tegan, Turlough, Mike Yates, the Brigadier and the Fifth Doctor. Nuff said. The other is The Dictionary of the Khzars, and I have been longing to read it ever since it was in Oxfam back home. Every time I was in town, I'd get closer to buying it on a whim. Then one week, I discovered it was on the 1001 book list - rushed back to get it, and...well, you can guess how the story ends. It's proving to be worthy of my fanatical devotion, and I recommend it to everyone. This library is situated in Keats' house, aptly enough, and is one of the scummiest buildings you could ever visit. It's even got a cat which prowls around, and looks disapprovingly at whatever you're reading like the world's pickiest English teacher. But do not be decieved! Of the three I've visited so far, its Doctor Who collection is by far the widest.
So no purchases, tho perhaps that's a good thing - I did still walk away with two books I wanted to read. Deep Blue turned out to be pretty good, but too violent. Yes, Doctor Who books have the freedom to show things they couldn't on TV, but there's still a point that if you dish out too much blood, it becomes hard to imagine the characters in the situation, because (in TV terms) its so unlikely.
And it was more useful than the Lungbarrow hunt I conducted earlier in the week. Every day, the bus passes a shop called "Park Video" - books, videos, dvds, all in a shabby window that just screams "we've got Planet of the Daleks!" before turning onto Baker Street, home of the London Beatles store. So I went in earlier than necessary and hopped off to take a peep. Turns out it's a Muslim bookshop. I hate subject-specific bookshops - the Christian bookshop on Mill Street, Karnac Books on Finchley Road which only sells self-help, and all the Law bookshops on Chancery Lane. I still get that "ooooh, books!" rush, but in a disappointing collection of things I could never be interested, and the sure knowledge that a battered Dorian Gray will not be there, no matter how hard I look. The worst thing is, I've been in expectation of discovering something wonderful there for so long that I still get a flush of curiosity when I pass, even though I know nothing's there. The Beatles Shop (next door to the Elvis shop; across the road from the Rock and Roll shop) was also pretty neat - the musical equivalent of my own little shop on the Strand, that demands my attention every time I pass, and has prior claim to most of my loan...
06:15 |
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Today I went and got myself on the blood doners list.
I've been abstractly meaning too for a while, but never had a good oppertunity until now - posters all over Hampstead, nothing to do and nobody about to point out why it might be a bad idea. And besides, when your hero is a guy who rescues planets, it's hard not to feel inferior merely throwing small change at charity boxes (you may laugh, but my flamboyant phases do tend to coincide with the swell of my Oscar Wilde worship, and the whole World Book Day and Christmas Tree stunts came at the height of my Godfather thang. If you tend towards imitating your heroes, it's nice to idolise someone who'll make you do some good)
I don't have a problem with needles, or with blood, but I was rather nervous. Probably because I know from experience what feeling powerlessly faint is. But I might not have bothered if I'd thought it would be easy. The venue didn't help - under a massive glass canopy which diffused sickly light into the room, making me feel quoozy and look pale before we started. To be honest, I didn't know what to expect - whether it was a sign up, a check up, or whether they'd actually have blood bags on hand. Turns out it was all three - don't get me wrong, all the bad things are coming out in the blog because it wasn't a nice experience, but I don't regret anything. I'd recommend it to everyone (did you know that only 5% of people who can donate actually do?), and I feel it could be very addictive.
So they signed me up, and then they checked out I didn't have anything infectious or nasty (three or four moments there I thought they'd say "sorry, no can do" - from already having cut myself yesterday, to having taken loads of neurophen recentlty, to being far too small or having a history of keeling over), and then shunted me onto a needle and bed. The atmosphere, as I've pointed out, was unpleasant - all I could see was this domed glass roof, and gave the whole thing this sickly nightmarish feel.
As soon as you register something is wrong, you're bound to feel worse - a bit like cutting your finger, and having that abstract moment when you can see there's a wound, but haven't worked out it should be working - so I looked in the other direction, and it was fine. Except that the tube (and now we're going to get icky) was laying across my arm - I didn't see it, but after a few minutes I felt it. Lazy authors trot the phrase "warm blood" out so often it's cliche, but they're right, and it's a very horrible sensation to know it's drifting out.
But my doctor was lovely - we talked horror movies and halloween (apparently, some kids stole some blood a few years back), and said some interesting things about the separation between culture and religion (much in the way halloween is basically Christian, but has been commercialised and made part of the culture; he is a Muslim, and was explaining how the veil is a cultural thing, not a religious one). He also noted how suprisingly empty it was - which struck me as weird. Giving blood is a very easy thing to do; it costs you nothing; it's directly contributing; and like how Oxfam now asks you to buy schoolbooks or camels instead of aimlessly donating, has a very human face. I've never found another form of charity that is so satisfying. According to the literature, each donation you make (a pint and a bit) can save up to 3 people- from accident victims, to people in operations, to people with the plain bad luck of a nasty lifelong genetic disorder.
It was very bizzare. When you hurt yourself, your body tells you it's unwell - and you can target the pain. So, twist yer ankle, your ankle hurts; get a headache, your temples will throb. This was distinctly unpleasant, because it was everywhere, and nowhere, and you can feel something is wrong but it's a shivering, directionless weakness that makes you feel rough all over.
Mentally I knew I was fine, I could walk, get to the tube and get into lessons, but it was the piano that cinched it. In the corner was a piano - my gosh, I miss my own piano - and would have given anything to play it. I could abstractly visualise walking out of the hospital fine; but the piano was more tangible, and I knew I could not have rattled out Firth of Fifth - anything - on it in my present state. I felt very puny with everyone paying me attention - it's not like I was properly unwell or anything, or done anything to deserve it. But they made sure I was very well hydrated and fed, and I hung around there for about 20 minutes.
Anyway, wonderful experience. OK, no, it was highly unpleasant, but I'd say yes again in an instant. And my gosh, so should you! Do I feel good about myself? Last night, Jon was loudly expounding that all human action is basically selfish. Its a view I often agree with - after all, you don't just give money so children will be fed; you give to salve your own conscience that you are able to eat. Even if it gives you pleasure to know they are better treated, there's something in there for you. Miss Geach told us once that she gives to charity, but as a direct drain from her account so she doesn't know where it's going, which is interesting - striving to be purely philanthropic, to give the aid and cut out the emotional dimension entirely. When the doctor asked why I had decided to donate, I told him it was because I wanted to help. It stemmed from a sense of powerlessness against the unpleasantness of the world, and afterwards I actually felt more embarassed than a sense of pride, and really rather stupid at putting myself into this situation in a strange city when I had travelling and lessons to concentrate on. I did take a sticker "Be nice to me - I gave blood today", but I felt like a bit of an idiot wearing it. I suppose, like Miss Geach, people who advertise their goodness have always irritated me - like that craze for bands. On the one hand, it's raising the profile of the charity - like support ribbons. On the other hand, it is a bit "look at me!". I don't like wearing poppies for the same reason. I took the sticker on the doc's orders, in case (he said) I had to have a lie down in the middle of the street or something. In actual fact, I was fine after I left. I took it easy, drunk and ate a lot (another of the hospital staff made sure I was well loaded with snacks, just in case, and they did make me feel better), and arrived in good time for my lectures.
A man gave me a ticket for the tube. He'd reach the end of his journey, and gave me his day travel pass. I don't know if it was because I looked woozy - apparently, people do it all the time - but it struck me as a beautiful thing to do, especially because the people I meet on the tube/bus are the no.1 reason this city is depressing me at the moment. It's the way they pretend they're not there, and neither is anyone else. I don't want to get back at Christmas and find the same shutters have slammed down behind my eyes, and I've turned into one of those zombies who try to sink into the shadows and ignore hobos without blinking. You know the early scenes of Shaun of the Dead, making the point that we're zombies already? It is exactly like that. To have a fellow passenger acnowledge I exist was therefore something of a treat.
I did stumble out of Latin early, feeling faint, and went for a lie down, but I've been fine ever since then. Our teacher had us singing a drinking song - which was great, but it sounded more like a funeral dirge. The lack of alcohol probably had something to do with this (I've felt like a booze up all day; which is ironic, being the only one so far at uni when I've been given medical orders not to drink). Our Latin teacher is darned cool - she rattles along in Latin half the time, even when she is defining latin words, she'll define them using other Latin words. What is phenominal is that I understand her. I suppose it makes sense - my Latin has always been a reactive, instinctive thing, and listening allows me to strip to the core of what's being said quickly without fretting about tenses. She is very enthusiastic, very keen for us to be interested and has a knack for picking fun translations - Seneca is a right bundle of laughs. At the moment we're doing his catty account of the death of Claudius. The first day, we had to write down our email address, what we'd studied and any requests. I was the only one who had one - I voted for some fiction or poetry, and to cut back on the history. The obvious response is "but the histories are interesting too", but I live in hope.
Film studies was more interesting this week - we were talking composition, and unlike the mise=en-scene last week, it's something I really haven't considered often. I'm still fuming from the seminar last week - overanalysis really gets on my nerves, and any literature/media type course will be full of it. Basically, it's treating it like individual works of art - where lines fall, how characters are divided or placed together. How much a director has thought about how he'll place the camera, or not at all. Then we watched Angst essen Seele auf - fear eats the soul. An interesting film. Set in the 70s, an older woman decides to remarry. Two problems - he's over twenty years younger than her, and he's a Moroccan foreign worker.
I discovered I was the only person who'd enjoyed it when we all trooped down for the Film Studies social evening. The plot was serious, the drama slow and weighty - but the cinematography was so beautiful. And I don't mean misty trees and sunrises. I mean grotty, garish, finding a beauty in the everyday world. Not even finding a beauty - forcing a beauty out of unwashed dishes and clashing curtains. Fassbinder makes it beautiful. I was stunned. In my book, good colour control is making a muted tone pallette, shades of blue with a dash of red; lots of white, Hero-style coordination. He manages to pull beauty out of colour chaos. For me, watching this was so incredible that it entertained me despite the kitchen-sink daytime-TV nature of the plot.
I had a wrap at the Knight's Templar - one of the nicest bars I've ever been in. I hadn't managed lunch, because I'd been at the hospital until 1 and didn't have a chance to go home, and then film went on until 7, so I'd been coping on the crisps and biscuits provided by the nurses. Everyone in my party was leaving early, so I got a bus home. My arm still stings a bit, the finger where they took the sample from is very wrinkled but I'll worry about it tomorrow, and I feel very tired. I'm leaving the other plaster on for now. It's 16 weeks until I can do it again - bring it on!
And I've turned down an invite to the Autumn Ball tomorrow. Reasoning follows:
1 - Its £20 a ticket
2 - I have no shoes
3 - While I do have people to go with, their names are not Lauren, Hannah, Jessie, Anne or Beth, thus making the whole excercise a more expensive version of what goes on nightly in out kitchen - namely people who aren't that keen on each other trying to make conversation like they are.
4 - the last ball I went to with Lauren, Hannah, Jessie, Anne and Beth was terrible anyway. This is because they call it a "ball", which conjures up unrealistic images of high school romance and waltzing, when what they actually mean is "the same parties you go to every week, only with better dresses".
5 - the last ball I went to resulted in a three day misery binge on girly weepie movies, because it didn't live up to said expectations.
6 - the music will be terrible.
7 - I want to have an early night.
8 - I'd rather go to the Geek tea in Chinatown, and while there's still time to go afterwards, I want an early night. There's no point going to a £20 ball then leaving after an hour.
8.5 If I'm getting back to Hampstead on public transport, I'd like to do it sooner rather than later, thanks. To get home at 2 in the AM requires me to leave the party at 12.
9 - I will not have fun (see all of the above).
What no one has realised is that the best bit of the ball is the dressing up. If I could dress up, then cut straight to the bit when I get to lever my heels from my aching feet and happily fall-a-dreaming then I would. I do inevitably feel bad about all this. But I can't help being a party pooper. I have realised that having good, honest fun is not something I'm very good at.
I am happy. Honestly. Writing brings out my bitterness - it's why I do it. I don't bother writing down every little thing that makes me happy, because they don't stick in the mind the way the little irritations do. I do sound very negative, but I don't mean to.
I've been abstractly meaning too for a while, but never had a good oppertunity until now - posters all over Hampstead, nothing to do and nobody about to point out why it might be a bad idea. And besides, when your hero is a guy who rescues planets, it's hard not to feel inferior merely throwing small change at charity boxes (you may laugh, but my flamboyant phases do tend to coincide with the swell of my Oscar Wilde worship, and the whole World Book Day and Christmas Tree stunts came at the height of my Godfather thang. If you tend towards imitating your heroes, it's nice to idolise someone who'll make you do some good)
I don't have a problem with needles, or with blood, but I was rather nervous. Probably because I know from experience what feeling powerlessly faint is. But I might not have bothered if I'd thought it would be easy. The venue didn't help - under a massive glass canopy which diffused sickly light into the room, making me feel quoozy and look pale before we started. To be honest, I didn't know what to expect - whether it was a sign up, a check up, or whether they'd actually have blood bags on hand. Turns out it was all three - don't get me wrong, all the bad things are coming out in the blog because it wasn't a nice experience, but I don't regret anything. I'd recommend it to everyone (did you know that only 5% of people who can donate actually do?), and I feel it could be very addictive.
So they signed me up, and then they checked out I didn't have anything infectious or nasty (three or four moments there I thought they'd say "sorry, no can do" - from already having cut myself yesterday, to having taken loads of neurophen recentlty, to being far too small or having a history of keeling over), and then shunted me onto a needle and bed. The atmosphere, as I've pointed out, was unpleasant - all I could see was this domed glass roof, and gave the whole thing this sickly nightmarish feel.
As soon as you register something is wrong, you're bound to feel worse - a bit like cutting your finger, and having that abstract moment when you can see there's a wound, but haven't worked out it should be working - so I looked in the other direction, and it was fine. Except that the tube (and now we're going to get icky) was laying across my arm - I didn't see it, but after a few minutes I felt it. Lazy authors trot the phrase "warm blood" out so often it's cliche, but they're right, and it's a very horrible sensation to know it's drifting out.
But my doctor was lovely - we talked horror movies and halloween (apparently, some kids stole some blood a few years back), and said some interesting things about the separation between culture and religion (much in the way halloween is basically Christian, but has been commercialised and made part of the culture; he is a Muslim, and was explaining how the veil is a cultural thing, not a religious one). He also noted how suprisingly empty it was - which struck me as weird. Giving blood is a very easy thing to do; it costs you nothing; it's directly contributing; and like how Oxfam now asks you to buy schoolbooks or camels instead of aimlessly donating, has a very human face. I've never found another form of charity that is so satisfying. According to the literature, each donation you make (a pint and a bit) can save up to 3 people- from accident victims, to people in operations, to people with the plain bad luck of a nasty lifelong genetic disorder.
It was very bizzare. When you hurt yourself, your body tells you it's unwell - and you can target the pain. So, twist yer ankle, your ankle hurts; get a headache, your temples will throb. This was distinctly unpleasant, because it was everywhere, and nowhere, and you can feel something is wrong but it's a shivering, directionless weakness that makes you feel rough all over.
Mentally I knew I was fine, I could walk, get to the tube and get into lessons, but it was the piano that cinched it. In the corner was a piano - my gosh, I miss my own piano - and would have given anything to play it. I could abstractly visualise walking out of the hospital fine; but the piano was more tangible, and I knew I could not have rattled out Firth of Fifth - anything - on it in my present state. I felt very puny with everyone paying me attention - it's not like I was properly unwell or anything, or done anything to deserve it. But they made sure I was very well hydrated and fed, and I hung around there for about 20 minutes.
Anyway, wonderful experience. OK, no, it was highly unpleasant, but I'd say yes again in an instant. And my gosh, so should you! Do I feel good about myself? Last night, Jon was loudly expounding that all human action is basically selfish. Its a view I often agree with - after all, you don't just give money so children will be fed; you give to salve your own conscience that you are able to eat. Even if it gives you pleasure to know they are better treated, there's something in there for you. Miss Geach told us once that she gives to charity, but as a direct drain from her account so she doesn't know where it's going, which is interesting - striving to be purely philanthropic, to give the aid and cut out the emotional dimension entirely. When the doctor asked why I had decided to donate, I told him it was because I wanted to help. It stemmed from a sense of powerlessness against the unpleasantness of the world, and afterwards I actually felt more embarassed than a sense of pride, and really rather stupid at putting myself into this situation in a strange city when I had travelling and lessons to concentrate on. I did take a sticker "Be nice to me - I gave blood today", but I felt like a bit of an idiot wearing it. I suppose, like Miss Geach, people who advertise their goodness have always irritated me - like that craze for bands. On the one hand, it's raising the profile of the charity - like support ribbons. On the other hand, it is a bit "look at me!". I don't like wearing poppies for the same reason. I took the sticker on the doc's orders, in case (he said) I had to have a lie down in the middle of the street or something. In actual fact, I was fine after I left. I took it easy, drunk and ate a lot (another of the hospital staff made sure I was well loaded with snacks, just in case, and they did make me feel better), and arrived in good time for my lectures.
A man gave me a ticket for the tube. He'd reach the end of his journey, and gave me his day travel pass. I don't know if it was because I looked woozy - apparently, people do it all the time - but it struck me as a beautiful thing to do, especially because the people I meet on the tube/bus are the no.1 reason this city is depressing me at the moment. It's the way they pretend they're not there, and neither is anyone else. I don't want to get back at Christmas and find the same shutters have slammed down behind my eyes, and I've turned into one of those zombies who try to sink into the shadows and ignore hobos without blinking. You know the early scenes of Shaun of the Dead, making the point that we're zombies already? It is exactly like that. To have a fellow passenger acnowledge I exist was therefore something of a treat.
I did stumble out of Latin early, feeling faint, and went for a lie down, but I've been fine ever since then. Our teacher had us singing a drinking song - which was great, but it sounded more like a funeral dirge. The lack of alcohol probably had something to do with this (I've felt like a booze up all day; which is ironic, being the only one so far at uni when I've been given medical orders not to drink). Our Latin teacher is darned cool - she rattles along in Latin half the time, even when she is defining latin words, she'll define them using other Latin words. What is phenominal is that I understand her. I suppose it makes sense - my Latin has always been a reactive, instinctive thing, and listening allows me to strip to the core of what's being said quickly without fretting about tenses. She is very enthusiastic, very keen for us to be interested and has a knack for picking fun translations - Seneca is a right bundle of laughs. At the moment we're doing his catty account of the death of Claudius. The first day, we had to write down our email address, what we'd studied and any requests. I was the only one who had one - I voted for some fiction or poetry, and to cut back on the history. The obvious response is "but the histories are interesting too", but I live in hope.
Film studies was more interesting this week - we were talking composition, and unlike the mise=en-scene last week, it's something I really haven't considered often. I'm still fuming from the seminar last week - overanalysis really gets on my nerves, and any literature/media type course will be full of it. Basically, it's treating it like individual works of art - where lines fall, how characters are divided or placed together. How much a director has thought about how he'll place the camera, or not at all. Then we watched Angst essen Seele auf - fear eats the soul. An interesting film. Set in the 70s, an older woman decides to remarry. Two problems - he's over twenty years younger than her, and he's a Moroccan foreign worker.
I discovered I was the only person who'd enjoyed it when we all trooped down for the Film Studies social evening. The plot was serious, the drama slow and weighty - but the cinematography was so beautiful. And I don't mean misty trees and sunrises. I mean grotty, garish, finding a beauty in the everyday world. Not even finding a beauty - forcing a beauty out of unwashed dishes and clashing curtains. Fassbinder makes it beautiful. I was stunned. In my book, good colour control is making a muted tone pallette, shades of blue with a dash of red; lots of white, Hero-style coordination. He manages to pull beauty out of colour chaos. For me, watching this was so incredible that it entertained me despite the kitchen-sink daytime-TV nature of the plot.
I had a wrap at the Knight's Templar - one of the nicest bars I've ever been in. I hadn't managed lunch, because I'd been at the hospital until 1 and didn't have a chance to go home, and then film went on until 7, so I'd been coping on the crisps and biscuits provided by the nurses. Everyone in my party was leaving early, so I got a bus home. My arm still stings a bit, the finger where they took the sample from is very wrinkled but I'll worry about it tomorrow, and I feel very tired. I'm leaving the other plaster on for now. It's 16 weeks until I can do it again - bring it on!
And I've turned down an invite to the Autumn Ball tomorrow. Reasoning follows:
1 - Its £20 a ticket
2 - I have no shoes
3 - While I do have people to go with, their names are not Lauren, Hannah, Jessie, Anne or Beth, thus making the whole excercise a more expensive version of what goes on nightly in out kitchen - namely people who aren't that keen on each other trying to make conversation like they are.
4 - the last ball I went to with Lauren, Hannah, Jessie, Anne and Beth was terrible anyway. This is because they call it a "ball", which conjures up unrealistic images of high school romance and waltzing, when what they actually mean is "the same parties you go to every week, only with better dresses".
5 - the last ball I went to resulted in a three day misery binge on girly weepie movies, because it didn't live up to said expectations.
6 - the music will be terrible.
7 - I want to have an early night.
8 - I'd rather go to the Geek tea in Chinatown, and while there's still time to go afterwards, I want an early night. There's no point going to a £20 ball then leaving after an hour.
8.5 If I'm getting back to Hampstead on public transport, I'd like to do it sooner rather than later, thanks. To get home at 2 in the AM requires me to leave the party at 12.
9 - I will not have fun (see all of the above).
What no one has realised is that the best bit of the ball is the dressing up. If I could dress up, then cut straight to the bit when I get to lever my heels from my aching feet and happily fall-a-dreaming then I would. I do inevitably feel bad about all this. But I can't help being a party pooper. I have realised that having good, honest fun is not something I'm very good at.
I am happy. Honestly. Writing brings out my bitterness - it's why I do it. I don't bother writing down every little thing that makes me happy, because they don't stick in the mind the way the little irritations do. I do sound very negative, but I don't mean to.
13:50 |
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