If you want to look further into the past, start here:
08:36 |
Category: |
0
comments
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.
