Et In Arcadia Ego

I've softened a little towards Doctor Who. This is mostly because I'm a softie and a gullible fangirl who, at the end of the day, will sit through anything with a diamond logo on it. The chief problem is, Doctor Who's classic episodes boil down to five men in a bunker or four men in a cave. So why they keep "treating" us to huge episodes on special occasions I do not know.

This morning, I took advantage of the empty house to get in some quality time with my piano. Specifically, to get practicing at "The Curse of Millhaven". It's a Nick Cave song about a sweet teen girl who goes on a killing spree in her little town. I think it reminded Calypso of me - it certainly reminded me of me, and so I am attempting to cover it in my sweetest and most adorable choirgirl voice. There's nothing like transforming your greatest weakness (years of choir training barring any attempts at rock and pop) into your greatest strength.

As an album, "Murder Ballads" has a confirmed death count of 64 - that's an average of 7 per song. "Millhaven" itself is 9 verses long, and I'm having trouble and fun in equal measure trying to vary my playing to keep it interesting. I've got bits here and there sorted, but it's mainly tricky raining in the crazy for verses one to four, and not getting bored or losing momentum before it's time to let rip half way through. I can't match Nick Cave's villainous enthusiasm and heroic tuneless not-really-in-time ranting, but what I am doing sounds fine some of the time. My voice is ripped to shreds, as if I've been chugging alcohol or paint stripper all morning, and it feels great.



In other news, not a night has gone by that I have not dreamt about travelling. My shrink would have a field day with this one, suggesting perhaps I do not feel settled. I keep dreaming about the Tube, although it's more like the DLR. Gorgeous prog-rock vistas with golden monorails weaving between sandy towers and pink clouds, all TFL: Atlantis branch. Nothing like the real Tube, which is a grubby nightmare. And then last night I dreamed about the airport for the third or fourth time, but it was huge like an underground city.

Despite the trauma dreams, it wasn't as bad as all that. As everyone was delayed, there was a rush on the Wetherspoons - but you were only allowed food if you had a table. I ended up on an eight seaters with a motley crew. Three French students, one who ran a vegan restaurant, a second who ran an animal shelter (and was married, which made me wonder if they were older than they seemed) and a third who was makingmovies in London and spent the whole time tetchy because he couldn't smoke. Two old friends from Guernsey who talked about the homeless. One Irish woman who grinned and maintained she hadn't wanted to go home for Christmas anyway, and was happy so long as the Guinness didn't run out. And as for me? Well, the gal with the restaurant explained that bars are traditionally decorated with books because in the past, a place which had books but no music was classified as "a library" and thus came under licensing restrictions. Nowadays, the books are decorative, but the trend started due to this loophole. This Wetherspoons had lots of antiquey books, so once I'd shown everyone some origami and played several competitive games of squares, I raided the bookshelf. Xenophon, The Count of Monte Cristo and Virgil in Latin. So frankly, I was happy.

One of the things that Kept Me Going on my epic airport Odyssey was how much it reminded me of Blake's 7 locations. That's the marvellous thing about all-encompassing obsessions - you can't concieve of how it changes your perceptions unless you've had one. Say, I feel my understanding of the word "compassion" is fundamentally deeper due to my Doctor Who viewing, and that my definition of "interference" is now seriously different. I even got chirrupy and cheerful about the "year-1999" functionality of the railway carriage toilet, because it looked like one of the TARDIS rooms. Certainly there's a running joke that Gallifrey always resembled an airport departure lounge.

But after this morning's dream, I had a horrible thought. It occured to me that, if sci-fi cities tend to look a bit like airport departure lounges, then airport departure lounges must look like sci-fi cities. And if that is the case, how depressing must the future be! All white and shiney and functional. Anonymous, apersonal - seemingly very easy to keep clean, but actually with an all-around grubbiness, like the scuff on airport floors. Euch. Time travel, it turns out, must be as much fun as any other mode of travel...

There are several different ways this thing can be read, but mostly it's a mix of songs I associate with times or people, or which I have come to love, or represents trends, themes, moods or obsessions. Most are several, though that's just the way my mind works, and I invite you to reminice with me, or just to enjoy the music if they all mean nothing.

I'm sure there are some I've forgotten - the my laptop took with it my other Spotify playlist, so it's possible one or two will slip on here later. But rough cut one looks like this. Even listening to "Firestarter" now makes me think oh my goodness that was earlier this year. It seems like forever away.

Songs:

1. Firestarter - Prodigy

2. Vulture - Patrick Wolf.

3. I'm Beginning to See the Light - Ella Fitzgerald

4. Goodbye - Frank Sinatra

5. Little Baby Nothing - Manic Street Preachers

6. Sand in Your Shoes - Al Stewart

7. Mrs O. - Dresden Dolls

8. Intergalactic Space Crusaders - Star One

9. Wouldn't It Be Nice - The Beach Boys

10. Yes - McAlmont & Butler

11. Living is a Problem Because Everything Dies - Biffy Clyro

12. We Are Your Friends - Simian, Justice

13. Red Right Hand - Nick Cave

14. Between Us There Is Nothing - Pete Atkin

15. She Needs Me - Fyfe Dangerfield


Not on the playlist, but perhaps should be:
Bluebells, Oblivion, the Bachelor, or nothing at all? - Patrick Wolf

Between Us There Is Nothing - maybe replaced with Screen Freak?

Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up) - Florence + The Machine. Or maybe the Bachelor cover.

Bat For Lashes?

More Manics? Jackie Collins? Small Black Flowers? Facing Page? Kevin Carter? Or add Little Baby Nothing twice?

Ulysses? U-Boat? Oasis? Astronaut? Wait for Sleep? Pruit Igoe or All That Is Good?

The Decemberists? Lily Allen? Poker Face? Boris the Spider? I Can See for Miles?

It's not like I've had a bad day, but I am ready and waiting to go medieval on the ass of anything that gets in my way. Unfortunately, due to a lack of human candidates, I've been systematically taking fiction to pieces instead a la Samuel L. Jackson. Anyone want to see The End of Time part I cremated? Toodle over to Malcassairo for a veritable barbacue. With that execution complete, I've turnd my attention to my Film Studies coursework: the public crucifiction of City of God, a film that gave me an instinctive squicky reaction first time I saw it. My work has been hampered by not having a copy of the movie - I[ve ordered it off Amazon instead of buying it local, cus our HMV only had it for £18, and I wouldnt pay that much for a film I loved, let alone merely to write an essay about how much I hated it.

I'm also sick at having the Film Department piss angry red ink all over my beautiful essays. And I'm sure my housemates are sick of dealing with my rants every time they return them to me with low marks and pedantic comments. The problem is, the're such a "young" discipline that they're extra stingy as if they've something to prove. Damn sticklers for detail, so no one can accuse them of not being a "real" subject. It's not something wrong with my essay style, either, which has always done OK in other subjects, including uni-level Classics. Classics has matured for a millenia, it's laid back and doesn't expect you to know it all at once. It knows that not doing footnotes exactly by the book isn't the end of the world. Film is quicker in a lot of ways - it has set itself in rigid forms and doctrines so fast, and expects us to be up to speed as well.

This particularly goes for my previous essay, about Women as metaphors for Countries. A topic I was passionate about, which stung, because it felt like they were treading on my passions and opinions. And an essay on which I tried very, very hard on, because I was sick of inexplicably picky marks. I did everything - I spent two hours working on the endnotes, and that's a fraction of the time I spent on the essay itself. I had a virtual breakdown twice over the period I worked on the damn thing. Lower second (brackets low), and seven pages of very petty comments. If the criticism was of my argument, I would be angry - but not offended. As it stands, I don't think it's fair to set an unshakeable 2,000 word limit, then criticise for being "vague". I could qualify statements like "women have been given minority status throughout time", or explore the exact historical meaning of "minority status", or why I believe one of the allegories to be simple, and cite the full name of the academic in the body of the text instead of just in a footnote IF I were given more words. "Isn't all film disengaged from reality?" one irritating nitpick asks. Boy, I could give you pages on that single topic, but that's a tangent and not really the point of my essay - just take me at my word, OK? As it stands, with an inflexible wordcount, I have to be vague - otherwise, I'd have to start chopping out content. And I am still not prepared to hand in what I percieve as a "worse" essay merely to improve the window dressing, even if it means getting a higher mark. I simply refuse to do it - it's a pointless exercise for everyone involved.

Now, maybe it wasn't a great essay. I don't know - I also, on some level, don't care, because I enjoyed writing it and came to a deeper understanding of the films involved. But would it be too much trouble to give me a mark based on what you thought I was trying to say?

Having tried to write an essay "for them", and have it spectacularly backfire, I am trying a different approach. I'm going in the other direction and not trying at all. That's not as bad as it sounds. Instead of systematically collecting sources and constructing an argument, I am doing a run and jump just as I do for my blog. A bit like winding up the world's angriest clockwork mouse then letting it loose. The finished product - and I'm already a page in - will be very chatty in style, and require hardcore refining, but at least it'll get the point across. Hopefully this will cut down how long it takes to write too, and result in something more passionate (if less polished). I'm listening to Amanda Palmer, partly to get into the swing of the songs I know less well, but mostly because it's good music to get angry to.

In other news, the epically lame present of the year award goes to ma, who now owns a CD featuring 13 covers of Sarnia Cherie, the Guernsey "national" anthem thingy. The name means "Guernsey dear", and it's a right dirge, made to be wailed by querelulous old women accompanied on plonky school piano. This CD encompasses Guernsey "artistes" from all walks of life: an eleven year old, seemingly recorded in a bathroom, a harmonica player who grew tomatos during the Occupation, a brass band interpretation and, hilariously, a techno remix. Possibly the most interesting is a version recorded on Liberation Day itself, spontaneously sung by the crowd to the Allied forces - appropriately, this is easily the best and most moving. It's brilliant, bonkers and so very parochial. I've taken a copy of it, though - I feel that, above all, the crapness of it all will make me feel homesick.

This is for my future reference, rather than your edification, but you might still be interested. I've been a pretty good girl this year, so despite the recession and protest action from the reindeer (now we discover why Rudolph had a "red" nose...), Santa managed:

• Patterned tights
• "1001 Films to Change Your Life" - a pretty nice collection, which I've read chunks of in bookshops. It collects films by Mood, as disparate as Wonder and Regret. It's going to be fun to dip into.
• A copy of Fortean Times, my sometime favourite magazine. It reports on the weird and wacky - Jesus images in marmalade, big ghost cat sightings, mysterious UFO sightings - all with a pleasing tone of "benevolent skepticism". Charles Fort, after whom the mag was named, is a bit of a hero - like me, he was "skeptical of scientific explanations, observing how scientists argued accoring to their own beliefs rather than the rules of evidence, and that inconvenient data was ignored, suppresed, discredited or explained away". This month: The Twilight Zone, the Ig Noble prizes, cursed gargoyle statues, and Tommy Cooper in a steak pie. Also, Dennis Wheatly, whose novel "The Devil Rides Out" Spirita owns.
• "This Strange Engine" - Marillion CD
  
• Art papers - soon to be reappropriated for origami
• Spare Parts - Doctor Who CD, classic Cyberman adventure. It's started, by the way, as I knew it would: the era of spotting Blake's 7 castmembers in Doctor Who, not the other way around.
  
• "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" - tee hee.
  
• Delta and the Bannermen - more Doctor Who, and I can't wait.
  
• "Who Killed Amanda Palmer" songbook - unlike the gorgeously irritating Virginia Companion, this one is playable. It still has nice pictures in though. The only downside is, the Xmas holidays mean the whole family is together. So I haven't been able to have a proper bash yet - that music can't be played, merely performed.It turns out the album title is a reference to Twin Peaks and Laura Palmer. Singing a song gives you a different perspective on what it means. In particular Astronaut (wow! chords!), which I gather is meant to be about a literal astronaut. I can't escape the feeling it's about a wife whose husband is being kept alive by machines after a horrific accident. Runs in the Family, frankly, does not work on the piano - but I'm working on it. Ampersand sounds great however it's played, but when I strive to get the rhythm right (one two one two on the top hand, one two three one two three on the bottom) it's exhilerating. Leeds United has lots of instructions reading "improvise something bluesy", which I can't quite do yet, but it cheers me up to see it. Having problems with Blake Says, but it's still lovely to play. The house hasn't been empty enough for me to try Oasis yet. It's just a shame it doesn't have What's the Use of Won'drin in it, but I suppose I can work it out.
  

From my family:

• Art gear - a pencil tin, nice colouring pencils and a new sketchbook. Jolly useful - I can draw, but I can't really do pencil sketches. Not yet at any rate... (grandad)
• Powell and Pressburger boxed set (mater and pater)
• Doctor Who T-shirt (sister of mine)
• A makeup kit (aunt and uncle mark I)
• a donation to the Emily fund (aunt and uncle mark II - may be put towards a copy of Six Characters in Search of an Author)
• a cute keyring, and an ethical "miracle" helping a blind person (aunt and uncle mark III)
  

And my good for nothing buddies:

• one of those mini top hats. You can't even concieve of how fine it makes me look :D And a biscuit, and a pack of jumbo playing cards. The huge, envelope-sized Jack of Hearts is now gracing my top hat.
  
• Magic Position Patrick Wolf CD (plus Baileys...and some awesome religious trash)
  
• A recipie notebook, with some handwritten veggie recipies in for me to try from Castelanne. Take that, housemates: I'm gonna come back and cook! I'm particularly looking forward to the Hazelnut and Vegitable Burgers, the Rice Cheesecakes, mediterranean Kebabs and the Thai Vegitable Curry. Also, origami post-it notes.
• And a model Liberator :D

The day passed pleasantly - I watched some Doctor Who in the morning. We watched The Hangover in the afternoon, which is probably better than you think it's going to be, but was still less good than I'd been lead to believe. Still, pretty good movie. Then the Doctor Who special. I'm having problems articulating quite how I feel about it, so I wouldn't hold my breath for a coherent review, or even a coherent conversation on the topic. Except that, when I had an inkling Russell T. Davies might ruin Christmas, this was emphatically not what I had in mind. Similarly, thought I expected to be dreading New Year's Day, I had no idea it would be for these reasons. Right now I'm not sure whether I prefer being disappointed or traumatised. What on earth does he think he's doing? After five years of defending him, I feel a little let down that he feels the need to pack out the episode with everything he's ever been criticised for.

I can't wait to see Lawrence Miles kick it to pieces. He's a genius Doctor Who writer who plunged out of fandom after having fallen out with everyone. He's rude, outspoken and very witty, seeing himself as our own Voice Of The Silent Majority. Unfortunately, he's very often correct even though no one else would dare articulate half of it. I'm reminded of his review of Ancestor Cell:

"What we've basically got is THE INFINITY DOCTORS with all the good bits missing, a desperate attempt to do something big and important which can't tell the difference between "epic" and "just happens to be set on Gallifrey"."

After this, we watched Star Trek. This didn't do much to calm my awful mood. It's a gorgeously shot film - also, considering everything it tries to do, it hangs together very well. But I still wasn't interested in the plot or characters. I'm particularly irritated that Spock and Kirk seem to become friends purely because they are told they are going to be in the future. That's not development - and I winced and shouted "Blinovich limitation effect!" at the screen every time the Spocks were there together. I was also amused that the much slashed Sulu/Chekov pair don't actually exchange a line of dialogue. How cracky is that. My final hurdle is that the Trek crew are working for "the Federation". Now, while it's clearly not the same Federation Blake is trying to take down (or if it is, then Trek is at least a century into the future), I still got a nasty shiver up my spine every time someone mentioned defending it. I even found myself having sympathy for the villain, when he blamed the Federation for allowing his planet to crack like an egg. Overkill: that's just like them...

Thought of the day:
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MoralEventHorizon

Chrismas Eve. You'd think for someone with a not inconsiderable talent with paper would be OK at folding, but I'm appalling like you wouldn't believe.

Blake's 7 is still on the brain - which is good, as far as I can tell, because at least I'm not thinking about Doctor Who. That seems very unreal right now. I've been trying to write about it for months now, but the post keeps spiralling out of control and into spoilers. So I've done a quick list summarising what I'm trying to say:

1. Great script. The amount of zingy one liners is incredible. It acts as a sort of smokescreen for the plot - even if the storyline is average or something you've seen before, the episode will be packed with so many character moments or witty comments you don't really notice. "I think we make a good team." "Well, hurray for us..." You'll just have to imagine that dripping with sarcasm.

2. Internal consistancy. A lot of sci fi shows just whip out the technobabble and brush over the specifics. I'm not claiming that B7 never does this. But things are grounded in a very solid reality. All the tools seem to do things - machinery takes time to mend. No sonic screwdrivers here! A detailed focus on the process of doing things, whether it's operating the spaceship or springing locks gives it an earthy versimilitude. Much like the script, this is a secondary smokescreen. It draws tension out of anything - situations which could be shrugged off in a moment are turned into episode-spanning dilemmas. But it also makes the world feel very real, and that's packed out by nice functional design.

3. Glum As Anything
"Where are all the good guys?" "Could be looking at them." "What a very depressing thought." Morally gray doesn't even begin to cut it. It's not just that this show is dark - it's the way it keeps you off kilter until you genuinely don't know where to stand. The chief antagonist is not only murderous and evil, but heroic and cares about his friends. The central characters are at best antiheroic, and at worst prone to selfishness, hubris and sheer human fallibility. Often, we are not given much help in knowing who is in the right. Even the ruthlessly evil Federation contains otherwise sane figures who sincerely believe the Federation is a force for peace. In short, it's British. The first time the central characters get trapped in a room together they - what else - start to squabble. Here's the edited highlights

B -"Not until free men can think and speak! Not until power is back with the honest man!"
A -"Have you ever met an honest man? Listen to me. Wealth is the only reality. And the only way to obtain wealth is to take it away from somebody else. Wake up, Blake! You may not be tranquilized any longer, but you're still dreaming."
J - "Maybe some dreams are worth having."
A - "You don't really believe that."
J - "No, but I'd like to."

"No, but I'd like to". And in five words, that is the show.

Sweet dreams, kids.

Today's issue: cum militibus circumfudimus; movies; art at the National Gallery; appropriation;

On Sunday I went to yet another protest. You'll remember I was feeling a bit glum about the whole idea. I mean, standing up and shouting is "important" but won't basically change anything. Politicians et al won't listen - it's purely a symbolic act. The problem with this protest is that it was important, one of the ones in which making a visible symbolic act was incredibly meaningful. And also, by it's very nature, ludicrously dangerous. The English Defence League and Stop Islamification of Europe were protesting against a mosque in Harrow. So the good guys were going along to protest against them. The idea that walking straight into a potential street fight would be the most effective protest I'd ever attend was pretty demoralising. It was all Spirita's idea, and I was to meet her up there. She suggested we could be Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I warned her in advance that I couldn't swim.

Still, the tube journey to Harrow was lovely - right to the end of the Bakerloo line, up in the cold north - practically the Arctic. There were fields, trees and a huge wide sky - I read up on representations of cinematic violence. When I arrived, there was a sign up from the Mosque leaders politely asking the anti-protest to go home and not cause a fuss:

Our message to the young people who will be attending is not to fall into the trap from those who clearly want to provoke you into an angry response. Foremost, our message is: if you want to help, then stay away on the day. We have the fullest confidence in the Police to safeguard the mosque. If you are to attend we request that you are not disruptive. We should be open, proud of our faith and behave with the correct Islamic etiquette at all times.

Our message to anti-fascist groups is that we respectfully ask that you do not organize any counter-demonstrations. We value the goodwill of others but believe that a counter demonstration only sows more discord on the day.

Which was beautiful, and almost talked me into going home. But as I was there, I figured I should have an explore. I have never seen so many cops in one place - about 20 around the station itself. I went to see what was going down at the mosque and passed 41 police vans on the way. This naturally made me a little unsettled, but I figured I should find Spirita first. In front of the mosque itself were the usual crowd of nuts - misshaven lefties, various socialist newspapers, students from Harrow college. I made some cool single serving friends - including a Brief Encounter fan and a woman who'd had her teeth bashed out by fascists in the 70s. There were probably around 30 anti-protesters, flags and placards and the rest, and not a sight of the other team. It was 12:30, and apparently they were due to arrive at 2.

Spirita showed up at about 1, and we got very cold while chatting to the other protesters. Some media were on top of a building. There was a rally, with loudspeakers, and people wittering about how socialism was the only way. Apparently, the mosque had had letters of support from just about everyone - local Rabbis and bishops, Sikhs, Hindus, Humanists, the police, councilmembers. Very soon after this, Spirita had to leave - Sundance runs off to Bolivia with Etta and abandons me all on my own! What a fine pal. She suggested we could be Mr Orange and Mr White instead, which made me feel slightly better. At two, the lefties - probably now about 100 surged away from the mosque towards the barriers put up by the police in a huge car park. The idea was both teams would be corralled separately, and shout at each other over a wall. For the edification of concerned parentals, though it makes for a less dramatic story, I confess I was standing very much at the back. There's making a point and then there's being ridiculous. I was a good way away from the clumped crowd and ready to dash at the first sign of trouble. I'm not taking a punch for anyone.

Kickoff arrived at 2 - by which time I was perched on a wall away from the action, holding a placard and mentally trying to write an account of the day in the style of Caesar. This is a project I may still try - no one writes Latin prose quite like Caesar. After about fifteen minutes, I went to see if I could spot any fascists. I know they exist, intellectually, but I still felt a sense of curiosity - like viewing rare butterflies or something. The good guys were stretched about 3-men deep, so it was easy to get between them. About three meters away was the other corral, containing about 12 of the villains. It was hard to identify them for sure at first because they looked terribly ordinary. It's not like I expected them to have wings and horns, but all the same.
No, just caps and hoodies. They weren't shouting or anything - just shuffling shamefacedly and chatting with the police. Between the two corrals were six policemen with german shepherds. In keeping with the tone of the day, they weren't yapping ferociously and straining - one had rolled onto its belly and was having a nap.

At this point, everything became very clear. Via a loudspeaker, it turned out the baddies had claimed they would have 1,500 with them - which explained the huge police prescence. According to another single serving friend, there had been previous attacks on this particular mosque which had got very out of hand. It got very cold, started raining and I figured the point had been made and left them all to it.

Even with the request to stay away, I'm glad I went - it was nice to be out in the air and quite a lot of fun, and things didn't turn violent so no harm done, eh?



Calypso and I have seen the Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, and I'm pleased to report it isn't bad - in fact, it's really rather awesome. Beautiful, daft, dark - a tad random, but Gilliam does manage to hold it all together in a way I didn't expect him to. Also, some beautiful shots of Dark London. On the way home we discovered the Sherlock Holmes premiere had been going on. We asked the police, who told us we'd just missed it - but they encouraged us to take one of the huge cardboard posters that had been decorating the barriers. We spent the Tube home cooing about cravats! collar studs! canes! and the thing now has prize of place in the lounge. We are also considering going to see the film dressed as Victorians.

That was Monday - Tuesday was yesterday. I walked down to the National Gallery in the evening to see The Hoerengracht, a new installation based on Amsterdam's red light district. It's somewhere between the world's best A-level art piece and Disney's Pirates of the Carribbean. They have recreated a few streets, complete with bollards, bicycles, street signs, and Amsterdam's famous windows through which girls solicit clients walking past. It's brilliantly tawdry - the girls themselves are all dressed up shop dummies, each placed in a Fassbinder-esque room. You get a real sense of personality from all of them, even little things like the designs of their rooms. Everything is sticky - the installation has been thoroughly glooped, so it resembles something between a car crash and murder scene. Sometimes it looks like tears, other times rain, other times blood. It's uncomfortable, atmospheric, beautiful. In fact, the only thing it didn't inspire me to do was go get myself a prostitute. Even though some of the mannequins were inviting you in, and the act of looking at the art, of course, transformed into audience into unwitting voyeur, it didn't really look appealing. Particularly this woman (can't remember her name - they were all named), who had something horribly desperate about her. I also did some more carol singing in Trafalgar Square, with another churchy charity.

On the way home, Calypso and I appropriated a broken street bollard as found art, and it is now in the hall. That's what students are meant to do, right? Get drunk and pinch stuff? Unfortunately, while Calypso was fairly tipsy, I was both stone sober, and the one technically doing the appropriation. We've lit it up from the inside and it's now pointing up the stairs. Spirita believes, although it is an "effective use of the Space, we should probably recontextualise it on the street". Pretty edge and BarleyThink - get a piece of street junk and transform it into art, then put it back on the street so everyone thinks they're looking at street junk, when actually it's art. Ha! To my mind, however, the thing is obviously beyond repair - the base is misshapen, far from square. It's obviously been hit by a car, and I don't think fibreglass can be recycled. I would sort of like to inform the council that it's missing however. I don't know who I'd phone, though, just like I didn't last week when a hole in the road was SPEWING SMOKE. We have named it Magwitch.

To celebrate it's arrival, we had an impromtu party - lit up the room with sleazy lighting (Hoerengracht was still on the brain), dressed up and put jazz on - starring Spirita as Michael Yorke. After dinner, Calypso and I watched Guns of Navarone. I'd half forgotten how much I adore it. Unfortunately, the disc froze just as our heroes were surrounded by armed Nazis. The DVD player was a free one, so I suppose I shouldn't complain too much, but it was an inconvenient place to stop. We kept going on a laptop, and it occured to me for the first time that I am able to have an accurate guess at the year of a film from the style of violence presented. I've been reading this book by Stephen Prince about "Classical Hollywood Violence", and I must say it's fantastic. Expect a blog about it soon. All about what movies of different eras did or didn't show but from a purely stylistic perspective. This occured to me when Brown stabbed a Nazi, and both characters and the knife were clearly in shot, with no obscuring framing or anything.
From that alone, I figured it couldn't be any earlier than the 60s - and indeed turns out it was 1961.

It also occured to me that, while The Sea Wolves would be exciting - remember, reuniting the key cast of Guns of Navarone and sending them to Portugal? - war movies often tend to be massacres.If either got killed off I would be immoderately distraught,

Twin Peaks continues to be good. We've drawn a map of the characters so we can keep track. I think it's Donna and James on current evidence, but is probably going to be ultimately someone we haven't met. Calypso thinks its Diane.

Today was my essay consultation meeting with my film studies professor. We get to choose our own esssay title, which is what I've always wanted - yet after a decade of footnote snobbery I find myself terrified. The whole academic machine is designed to discourage originality. How can I possibly add something original? Most proper academics stay "in their place" by merely quoting Fanon, Freud, Malvey and the rest - but they only created something groundbreaking by ignoring everyone else and stating their own opinions.

Ugh. Nasty. Academia regularly comes along with an "abstract", a summary of the essay to come. But I thought I'd introduce my topic with a slightly more entertaining literary convention from the Renaissance: "the argument".

My random-ethnic-food-sampling quest continues! I haven't yet cooked up the falooda or laveeza, mostly because both require a litre of milk. When am I likely to have a WHOLE LITRE of undrunk milk in the house?

But, joy of joys, this week I discovered frozen spring roll paper. A packet of 30 pastry sheets, the consistancy of beige felt, with which I could replicate the chocolate-banana spring rolls popularised by Ping Pong.

What fun! Spirita christened it "a uniquely Thursday night experiment", alluding to the fact Calypso tends to visit home on Thursday and thus wasn't about to correct my reckless lack of experience. She also suggested a saucepan with a centemeter of oil was the best way to cook my creations. Ten minutes of dodging spitting oil later (See! me dive tackle Vapilla to safety. Imagine! Spirita imitating Zhang Zhi. Conjugate! dire parental warnings to prevent it happening again.), I had produced a plate of most edible creations. The banana and dark chocolate was brilliant - so was the rice and fake-chicken and, joy of joys, the cheesy wantons I had produced. The only downside was they were all still slimey with oil, and tasted like heart attacks.

Still, it's a learning curve. I think next time, I will brush them with oil and oven bake them, to see if the result is less obviously unhealthy. Perhaps the greatest success so far has been the semi-fridgecake I have produced. I left a darkchoc+banana pastry, uncooked, in the fridge where it cooled and grew stiff. Gorgeous, and possibly replicating this technique will provide a great method for portable lunches. Sandwiches tend to disintigrate in my bag, as do wraps.

Yesterday was dubbed "the day of Faily Mc Fail" by Calypso, as I did a one man rendition of Black Hawk Down. My "coms" went down (well, my mobile battery ran out) and it threw the whole day out of kilter. I spent two hours walking up and down hills in Archway and Highgate trying to track down the rest of my "unit", all while being shot at by native militiants (sort of...). Calypso got stranded in Reading by strafing. Unlike Mogadishu, Highgate resembles a Victorian picture postcard. Little red houses, all it needed was robins and snow. I touched the statue of Dick Whittington's cat, which a passerby told me was "lucky". I returned to "base" at the Strand, and was most fortunate to run into Vapilla, then Calypso. So ultimately, the day wasn't a total disaster.

And today has made up for it by being lovely. I finished "The Power and the Glory" by Graham Greene this morning. I love him - a particularly English sort of quiet despair. All his characters are pathetically human - resignation, betrayal and cynicism all over the shot. No one can quite destroy a man the way he can - depressing, but in an entertaining way. "Power and the Glory" is about a rather sinful Catholic priest on the run in Mexico. I confess I sleepwalked through it, and didn't fully appreciate it, but enjoyed it all the same. The End of the Affair is meticulously constructed, to be unpacked by GSCE level students. The constant interplay of "love" and "hate" is beautiful. It's only let down by a third-act twist which requires a huge leap of faith to buy. The Third Man, Brighton Rock and The Quiet American are three of my very favourite films. I also enjoyed his book of short stories. In his youth, Greene attempted suicide several times by Russian Roulette: I take this as a sign that Art, or at any rate Providence, was taking care of him for a higher purpose. If only to produce books which, later, I would love.

And at lunchtime, I spent half an hour carolling at Bond Street station with Chislehurst Methodist Church. I was early to meet Ajax, and they were singing in a particularly querrelous, high-pitched, Methodist manner. I've missed all the carol services for this year and fancied a sing song, so asked if I could join in. I arrived just in time for all my faves. It was very pleasant - anyone can be Christian at Christmas - and religion has been on my mind ever since reading the book this morning. i feel rather wretched that, having not been raised Catholic, I am spared the depths of angst plumbed by Greene, Waugh, Scorcese and the rest. I think I'd rather have the complication of a confusing faith than a quiet, atheist life, if it meant I had something to write about.

I wish I was less timid. I'm fascinated in an area of cinema which I can never possibly explore to the full. You know - the violence, the censorship. Unfortunately, sometimes those images are censored for a reason, and it's then that I wish I had a bit more guts.

I've recently reviewed, or in any case talked around, Victim on Cinecism. It's the type of ground breaking movie I can watch (first English film to use the word "homosexual"; banned on that ground in America). But then there's a whole cabal that I would dearly love to watch, so I can think about their representations of violence, but can't face.

Irreversable is the notable one. If I were given courage for 97 minutes, I would watch this legendary exercise in "cinema vomitif". Infamously presented in reverse order, it begins with the most realistic murder ever commited to screen, and if you sit through that, serves up a nine-minute, single-take rape scene as a main course. You might well ask, "why on earth would you want to watch this?". It's a reasonable question, and probably the reason I've yet to put myself through it. Perhaps because disgust should be the reaction of a human viewing violence, and because (in cinema) it so very rarely is. I am interested in a film which does it "properly", as it were. The director's intent was artistic (representing one unfortunate evening in the life of a happy couple), and is notorious for causing walk outs - 200 of the 2,400 viewers at Cannes to begin with. One possible reason is the use of sound - the first 30 minutes uses almost inaudible background noise, fluttering at a nausea-inducing frequency of 28Hz, just like an earthquake. It's just one of the ways this film seeks to make the audience feel extremely uncomfortable.

You can see why this might give me the jitters, a film designed to be unwatchable. I hope you also understand why the temptation is so very strong.

Another one which keeps twitching at the corners of my conscience is Funny Games. Equally irresistable as Irreversable comes this film, made as a comment on the way we enjoy violent cinema. A happy family are visited by two young men from next door, who make themselves at home. Bloody hilarity ensues. It deliberately breaks the fourth wall throughout, with one of the tormenters winking, addressing or otherwise making the audience complicit in the violence - at one point, he lets off killing because he realises the film is not yet feature length and he has to draw it out a bit longer. Michael Haneke (remember Cache, family?) by all this intended us to question violence in the media, and indeed accompanies the film with an essay entitled "Violence + Media".

So far, so fascinating. But Haneke didn't feel the arthouse film reached its intended audience. So he remade it three years back in America, shot-for-shot, using a translation of the script and the result was also named Funny Games. Equally fascinating, and a film I also intend to watch...but not quite yet...

In the same line is Man Bites Dog, about a documentary crew trailing a serial killer. Obviously also commenting on participating in violence you view. And finally, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, also treading this water, but also because most cine-violence studies reference it. Unlike classic groundbreakers (Clockwork Orange and the like), these films have all been made in the last two decades, making them potentially quite nasty.

What a curse! Accidental research means I know exactly what is contained in each of these films, but I feel unable to sit through them - even in the name of academia. Crying shame, though, because the temptation will keep tickling till I do.

In other news: why have I only just heard about "The Sea Wolves"? Another men on a mission flick from the team that created The Wild Geese - a good if obvious film. It's nicely constructed, exciting and pleasantly dark, but signposts far far too early on which of our heroes is going to get it. And the political soapboxing stuck in my throat too ("I bleed red like you, white man" e.t.c. Someone get Ed Zwick on the line, we've found his stolen stilton).

So far, so average - but this new zoological outing stars Gregory Peck and David Niven. Gregory Peck and David Niven. You mean there has been what what is basically a Guns of Navarone sequel floating around for decades, and I only just heard about it? Surely, if someone was filming Guns of Navarone/Wild Geese crossover flicks, I should have been informed? Plus, both films are set in 1943, making it vaguely plausible that The Sea Wolves features Miller and Mallory under cover names.

Keeping you all updated is impossible! So much great stuff is going on, and the more stuff which happens the less time I have to type.

I attended the climate protest on Saturday. I had intended to go, then decided not to bother (what the hell difference is it going to make? And I hear a girl got assaulted on Reclaim the Night, so my faith in protests is even lower than usual), and then ended up going by accident. I was hunting down posh origami paper on Carnaby Street when I heard the unmistakeable sound of a protest-monitoring helicopter. I crossed into Piccadilly Circus and bumped into a huge number of blue protesters, with , mercifully, only a scattering of socialists.

(Socialism is causing me problems. All the ones I encounter in London offend me. They're like the world's worst stand up comics, concluding every joke with a single punchline (i.e. "The enviroment/economy/civil rights is in chaos! Become a Socialist!), and like the world's worst gatecrashers, show up for whatever protest action is going. I feel very sympathetic to their cause - capitalism, commercialism, there's so much wrong with it - but am doubly depressed by my leftie leanings. Everyone becomes a socialist at university, then stops when they have a mortgage. The inherent hypocracy of this, and knowledge that it's a phase even while I'm in it, is very demoralising.)

They happened to be going the same way as me, so I grabbed a placard and walked from Piccadilly to Whitehall, then left them to their futile shouting and jumping about in favour of the uni library. The placard is now next to the anti-BNP one in my room.

Then I spent a lovely afternoon folding in the Maughan. There's something enjoyable about using glue in a place like that. I'm making some dragons as a favour, and enjoying it immensely. There's a debate in the world of origami as to what the point should be. I am of the school of fun folding - I believe the finished product isn't so important, so long as the folding process was entertaining. I rarely have the excuse or inclination to produce something beautiful. Which is strage when you consider we are basically talking about Art here, and I'd (probably) sink a ship for the most beautiful song ever written.

Normally, folding shapes is purely to amuse my hands - folding to amuse someone else's eyes is a slightly different dicipline, and I'm enjoying the oppertunity. Particularly to use proper Japanese patterned paper. I don't bother with it usually, and it is an extra challenge - you've more room for mistakes in one-colour paper. The finished product is incredible, much better than in that photo.

I've got myself a Doctor Who lunchbox using some of my birthday cash. I hope this will encourage me to make lunch in the mornings - instead of considering it, then feeling guilty about using a plastic bag; or forgetting, then being too cheap or lazy to hunt out food. Also, it says "exterminate" when you press the front. It's pretty huge, so I have packed it with non perishables as if I were going on arctic expedition, on the grounds that I will doubtless forget to refil it.

Sunday's treat was Fyfe Dangerfield (Guillemots frontman - keep up, keep up!) playing in a park. I headed on down to Bethnal Green, and spent fifteen minutes rooting around in trees trying to find him. Finally, I spotted a crowd in front of a bandstand - I climbed through one fence, and over another to get there. Fyfe wrote up the playlist in chalk, like a specials board, and captioned it with "all served with chips and salad". "Does anybody here have pliers?" went up the call, as one of his guitar strings snapped. It was quickly fixed though. I spent the entire thing wedged between the ear and cheek of a sitting woman, and the bum cheeks of an incredibly irritating one or two cameramen, sound-recordists or people who were sufficienly "with" the event, that none of the 20 or so fans standing behind them could tap them on the shoulder and punch them in the face. This was very frustrating, more so when the singing began.

Playlist:

Faster than the Setting Sun (as the sun was setting, aptly enough)

Livewire

She Needs Me (lovely chunky chords! I liked this one most)

Any Direction

It was just him and the guitar, with the light playing off the trees - and also, his foot on his keys to create a beat. Always the improviser, he ditched the guitar after Any Direction and continued singing, chinking along on the two chalk sticks. They snapped almost instantly, which brought a laugh, then a huge cheer and an end to what was almost a nice afternoon. Then I went down to a table by the lake (complete with a fountain and all sorts of waterfowl) and did Latin there till the sun set. Lovely!

I wanted to tell you about Beautiful Thing, Hamlet and Inherit the Wind, but I'm posting this from the library and am running out of time.

But one thing I have to mention is Chinatown, oh Chinatown! The final film in the Kings noir series. I have attended almost all of these - free, on Monday evenings, accompanied by about five minutes of academia and on a massive screen. And usually, featuring the projectionist screwing up. I'll talk about the program as a whole when I have time.

And to cap it off, the topic was neo-noir - of which Chinatown is a perfect example. I was reminded of L.A. Confidential all the way through - same location, same stylised story, and also the same composer using the same lonesome trumpet theme. I was interested by it's use of sunlight. L.A. C, notably, takes place entirely at night - it's a shock when the sun turns up in the final scene. Chinatown is almost more dark and threatening for being set mostly in day, under an unforgivingly cheerful sky. When I came out I was thinking one was as good as the other, but as I thought about it more I've come around to thinking Chinatown might be better. Which is a scary thought, because L.A. Confidential has always been my benchmark "great movie". And I did think about it, I have been thinking about it constantly. I couldn't get to sleep for running it over in my brain. I'm not sure what about it has caught my attention so fully, but you heard it here first, folks (off the record, on the QT and very hush hush...) - this is a love affair blossoming into life.

Oh, and the knife + nostril? Best reaction EVER from an audience. I felt sure the scene was sufficently famous that everyone would know about it, but apparently not. There was a hugely satisfying gasp, of a kind I've never experienced. Maybe the last time something similar was when Bilbo leaps for the ring in Fellowship - at which point the audience, myself included, lurched in their chairs.

This week I saw a Hitchcock film I actually liked - his first, The Lodger, or, A Story of the London Fog, with a live score improvised by Minima. The story is based on the Jack the Ripper murders, and concerns a mysterious "lodger" whom, we begin to suspect, has some very interesting nocturnal activities. There will be spoilers below, but for this very rare silent film you are never going to see. So I advise you keep reading.

I adored it, start to finish, but my feelings exploded into a bit of a wordvomit, part justification and part exploration revolving around Jack the Ripper. My least favourite obsession - I know, in part, where it came from, but I'm not particularly proud of it. The way I see it is: at least I'm honest. And it's not so much the history that fascinates me, as the way the world at large has attempted to make their obsession reasonable. And it's this in turn, I like to tell myself, that makes my interest acceptable. All those ideas are coming out in a splurged, tinged with the reek of academese, but do try and keep up as I think I'm attempting to say something valuable.

There are no footnotes because these are all my ideas, but you can take it as given that many of them have been expressed more eloquently by people with careers.

People love nosying into violent murder. It's hidden between the respectable sheets of the "London Lite", or made "OK" by the ten o'clock news - but secretly, everyone is fascinated. The interesting thing about Jack is the way this fascination is allowed to be public. There are Ripperology conventions, and the fella's had cameos on Twilight Zone, Star Trek, Babylon 5, Smallville, X-Men - even a namecheck in Doctor Who - in a way I can't see Ed Geind doing any time soon.

It's an example of cinema (and more widely, of course, fiction) mediating images and making it "safe". Smoking looks pretty cool on screen, so do car chases, gunfights and all sorts of behavior we should find reprehensible. Another example would be how we can watch the news impassively, almost on autopilot, without engaging with the reality of any of the stories. Poor Saucy Jack has been mediated in this way for a good century now - we are safe from engaging with the real life corpses of five real, dead women because he has been made successively more fictional, more and more safe.

One example of the "fictionalisation" process is the use of Ripperologist terminology. Those five victims are popularly referred to as the "canonical" five, to separate them from other deaths attributed to him (sometimes up to 20). But the use of the word "canonical" is telling - a word which means not only correct, but someone has decided its correct. An aspect of fiction - someone has decided how we're going to pass this story down. Medea kills her children, and all pre-Euripidean versions where the kids make it are non-canonical.

Of course, there's time and decency. And all serial killers go through a version of this - because we are also piecing them together from news reports - but because Mr Jack remained a mystery, there's room for us to write whatever we like straight over the top of him. The Jack we have is a heavily romanticised figure: The Lodger portrays him as beautiful and sad - Gotham by Gaslight makes him maladjusted, but intelligent. This is another way of rendering him "safe" - as Oscar Wilde puts it, "we praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. "

The looping together of history and fiction finds it's home in the Gothic Horror genre, and so he inherits many of the vampire traits. Dangerous, but also sexy - aristocratic - villainous, but on some level a heroic social rebel. The Lodger in particular portrays him with waxy pale skin and a huge black cloak, while Anno Dracula reveals he is actually Jack Seward of the original novel. Dracula. The Last Sherlock Holmes Story melanges him with that other great Victorian Gothic figure - as does Exit Sherlock Holmes. The animated Van Helsing preview also takes Jack on - this time, he's actually Mr Hyde. You can bet he's in League of Extraordinary Gentlemen too. Magic and sorcery get their turn also- From Hell figures him as a Freemason trying to...do whatever Freemasons do, Matrix is using the killings to power some sort of super-magic-McGuffin, and Yours Truly, Jack The Ripper has them as an attempt at immortality (more of that later). He's mixed up with Crippen, Spring Heeled Jack and Sweeney Todd - appropriately, those three figures are in turn are real, sort-of real and fictional.

So he also gets constructed as part of the archetypal Gothic-Victorian landscape: taxidermy, heavy mahogany, gas lights, cobbles, shadows, and in particular, fog. The Lodger is subtitled "a Story of the Londern Fog", as if the fog were somehow implicated in all that ripping - similarly the Buffy the Vampire novel which takes him on is called "Blood and Fog". In the Doctor Who novel Matrix, the Fog decends when Jack does. The novel is set in an alternate London where the killings never stopped, ultimately plunging the country into chaos as the paranoia and killing turn into a sort of epidemic:

"Following the Ripper murders, the citizens of London rose up against the authorities who were unable to protect them, and a period of civil unrest followed. Then, during World War One, rumours of atrocities drifted back from the front lines -- and when the shell-shocked veterans returned, something evil returned with them. Ever since, London has been under siege from the walking dead, social order has broken down, and gangs of youths who worship Jack as the new Messiah roam the streets. The Americans took control after the war with Hitler and put London under quarantine, but all they've done is contain the problem"

Army crackdowns, Jacksprites everywhere, zombies and rationing. And fog, lots of fog: in the universe where Jack's spectre never left, neither did the Fog.

The lingering spectre is a powerful image, because it's not altogether incorrect. The fascination hasn't left. Perhaps it's the draw of an unsolved mystery. That's the significance of the fact he was never caught, nor even found - because he hasn't left either. Those novels with immortality attempts are perhaps deeper than they intended to be. Certainly, he's been regarded as the father of the modern serial killer (more because he was the first to be widely reported by a hysterical Victorian newspaper machine). From Hell gives Jack an out-of-body experience through time, where his spirit literally inspires Peter Sutcliffe, Ian Brady and William Blake.
And much like Matrix, From Hell at one point claims that he kickstarted the entire 20th century, and was the culmination of the Victorian period. "Jack" says:

"It is beginning, Netley. Only just beginning. For better or worse, the twentieth century. I have delivered it."

And Alan Moore says:

"the Ripper murders — happening when they did and where they did — were almost like an apocalyptic summary of... that entire Victorian age."

I mean, for goodness sake! Remember what we are actually talking about: one very pathetic fella who diced five women in gory detail. Yet the cling he has on the popular imagination is immense - he was voted "The Worst Briton in History" - when we can'tt even know for sure if he is a Brit.

Ah, all I want is half a year to construct a proper essay on this theme!


As for the film.

I had suspected from the start that the Generic Production Code Thingy would impact the movie's ending. I can't recall exactly what the rules were in 20s Britain, but I assumed it would be similar to America's of the same time. Bad must be punished, and the audience's sympathy must not be with crime. The downbeat ending is a relatively new innovation in screen terms.

In actual fact, the Lodger cops out not once but twice. Our Jack can't get away with it, and is inevitably caught by the police. But then, in a second startling twist, we discover that he's not guilty at all but is an innocent party also tracking the Avenger. Which is pretty limp and unexpected given what's gone before. But by the time this is revealed, the damage has been done. You've already had the thrill factor of seeing a beautiful girl seduced by a monster - the "spectacle", if you like - and of sympathising with a vicious killer, because it's been so heavily hinted it is him throughout. The Lodger has as good as done the crimes - or, by the end of the movie, it doens't matter that he hasn't. It may as well have been him. The shock twist almost makes it all more obvious. IMDb confirms what I'd already guessed: Hitchcock wanted an ambiguous ending to the film, but the studio wouldn't allow it to be implied that the lodger might actually be the murderer. I still think it's pretty ambiguous, or perhaps I just wanted it to be. There are also strong overlaps with Psycho - blondes in bathtubs, rented rooms as dangerous spaces, or spaces disjointed from conventional morality, not to mention twisted sexuality and an innocent on the run.

Innocent. Pah.


A good essay on the Lodger is here:http://www.cinemademerde.com/Essay-Lodger_Hitchcocks_First_Film.shtml

I'm 20 - Hurrah!, or something like it. I'm now officially older than Rose was in Series 1 of Doctor Who, and I haven't even saved the world once yet. Wikipedia tells me that...

• Twenty is the age of majority in Japanese tradition. Someone who is exactly twenty years old is described as hatachi.
• Twenty is the atomic number of calcium
• Age 20 is the age at which Levites in the time of King David were allowed "to do the work for the service of the house of the Lord", the Temple in Jerusalem.
• The Twenty Year Curse refers to the pattern of presidents of the United States who were elected to office in 1840, 1860, 1880, 1900, 1920, 1940, and 1960 to die in office. This pattern ended with the 1980 presidency of Reagan, who survived his time in office and, notably, an attempted assassination.
• In the 1974 sci-fi film Dark Star, Exponential Thermostellar Bomb number 20 threatens to detonate in the Dark Star's bomb bay
• A 20-minute-long program of advertisements and trailers shown before some films playing in American movie theaters is called "The Twenty" (spelled "The 20wenty"). Ironic, as it seems to take far longer than that.
  
• Cigarettes are usually packaged with 20 in each pack.
• "T" is the 20th letter in the alphabet.
• Twenty, a village in Lincolnshire
  

For future reference:

Twin Peaks: Series 1 (materque pater)
We've watched the first episode, and it's - well. I've always known it was creepy, but it is going to take some serious effort on my part to get through the entire series - possibly waiting to watch it during the summer, when it doesn't get dark at 2 in the afternoon. And the dwarf hasn't even shown up yet. It looks like the David Lynch phase will have to be a very short one, because my tolerance for threatening television is low. Still, I am going to persevere because it is so very good - well directed, a wonderful atmosphere of menace, wonderful use of mundane/"dead" spaces, and I'm already fond of the characters. Coming from a "small place" myself, I loved the depiction of how the discovery of a body ripples through the community. I also like the way the crazy unfolds slowly over the course of the 90 minute pilot. Oh, also - one of the main music cues is almost identical to Garth Merenghi's Darkplace: Romford, twinned with Twin Peaks.

"I Lick My Cheese" and other notes from the Frontline of Flat Sharing (soror meis)
I wonder why my sister thought this would be appropriate? I myself am a serial note-writer, and brought post it notes specifically for the purpose. The highlight of our kitchen at the moment reads "Where Now For Man Raised By Puffins?"

"Querelle" and "Victim" (Avus meis)
I picked up my two most-want to see movies, courtesy of cash from my grandpa. Can't wait to watch them. I picked them up from a cute independant bookshop too, which made me feel like a happy liberal.

Number 3 (aviaque alterus avus meis)
My grandparents sent cash and instructions - and I got something I'd been ogling for some time. If a cardigan was a frock coat. Half purple spiderweb, half stagecoach greatcoat, half woolly wings. Three halves because it's a fairly big item of clothing. I'm in love.

Socks, underwear, more socks (avunculusque amita)
Just as I was running out! Means I can delay doing the washing for another few weeks at the very least.

Donations to the Emily fund (alterus avunculusque altera amita)
Yet to be spent, but I'm eyeing up an Oscar Wilde tour of London.

It's late and I want to go home, so everyone else gets generic squeeing:

Pete Atkin Songbook vol 1 (amica Calypso)
Music of Big Finish: Sylvester McCoy (amicus Jeremiah, signed no less :D)
food! (amicus Ajax)

The one I've doubtless forgotten, and will be offended that I forgot. Parce, mea culpa.

Sorry about the Latin - I figure using more casual Latin will improve my knowledge quickly. So you'll have to just keep up.

The powers that be are sitting in session over my future as we speak. Cross your fingers.

Finally, the bullshit of the week award goes to this website:

Very, very bad baby name site

1. Should you be encouraging anyone to name their child "Galaxy", whether male or female?

2. The fact you could name the pitiable puella a variant such as Galaxia or Galaxie does not make it any better. Neither does persuading the deluded parent to nickname them "Gala"

3. "Galaxy is either a spaced-out airhead or a future astronomer." Actually, I think you'll find it's neither. I think you'll find it's a GRAVITATIONALLY BOUND SYSTEM OF STARS, STELLAR REMNANTS, GAS, DUST AND DARK MATTER.

4. Is Galaxy really from Latin? I think you'll find it's Greek, adopted into later Latin. And it doesn't mean "universe": technically speaking it means Milky Way.

I'm tempted to believe the website does have it's tongue in the right place - they have a list of "preppy and socialite names", "musical names" - including the deligtful Jazzmyne, Ballad and (what else?) Music - names for Harry Potter fans, Trekkies, and Hippies. But I'm rather terrified that someone might take it seriously...

I know I get pretty scornful about lots of popular female institutions, but sincerely daft baby names irritate me more than any other. It's up to you if you want to wear ludicrous little pointy heels for every occasion; get paranoid if you don't wear makeup every waking second, even for a quick dash to the shops; or spend so much on your wedding that you miss the point of the marriage, and are still paying it back by the time you get a divorce - and it's up to me to snigger at you for being a sucker. Different strokes for different folks.

But it's seriously unfair to inflict pretentious names on innocent little designer babies. At least when I declare I'll be naming my sprogs Sierra Leone and Vespasian, I know I'm mostly joking.

Have a scroll through this List of Lists and tell me your favourite parricide-inducing baby name.

(and to be fair, Vespasian was one of the cooler Roman emperors, and you could abbreviate it to Ian without anyone batting an eye...)