23 December 2003
Movie review: Freaky Friday
I have always been a big fan of the original (1976) Freaky Friday, the grand-daddy of the 1980s rash of body-swap movies, but only on seeing the sequel did I realise how dated it had become. The child in the original (Jodie Foster) is faced with no more daunting a task when she becomes her own mother than attending to the housework and making sure the dinner is on the table in time. Meanwhile her mother, in Jodie's body, is given the rather unusual schoolchild task of engaging in a tableau of water-skiing, hang-gliding and insane car chases.
The tragedy in the original was Jodie Foster's realisation that she would eventually grow up and become her mother. The tragedy of the 2003 remake was that Jodie did not become the mother, and so they cast Jamie Lee Curtis instead. Harumph. Anyway, there the tragedy ends, and the rest of the movie in a mix of funny jokes, strong characters and a fantastic soundtrack. The entire water-skiing/hang-gliding/car-chasing tableau is deleted in favour of a far cooler rock band, and Jamie Lee fixes insane people in her clinic, rather than fixing dinner for her husband.
The film does not deal with the feminist, fatalistic or inverted oedipal issues, and for this I can only thank the gods. Instead it's a big belly laugh and some fun songs.
I have always been a big fan of the original (1976) Freaky Friday, the grand-daddy of the 1980s rash of body-swap movies, but only on seeing the sequel did I realise how dated it had become. The child in the original (Jodie Foster) is faced with no more daunting a task when she becomes her own mother than attending to the housework and making sure the dinner is on the table in time. Meanwhile her mother, in Jodie's body, is given the rather unusual schoolchild task of engaging in a tableau of water-skiing, hang-gliding and insane car chases.
The tragedy in the original was Jodie Foster's realisation that she would eventually grow up and become her mother. The tragedy of the 2003 remake was that Jodie did not become the mother, and so they cast Jamie Lee Curtis instead. Harumph. Anyway, there the tragedy ends, and the rest of the movie in a mix of funny jokes, strong characters and a fantastic soundtrack. The entire water-skiing/hang-gliding/car-chasing tableau is deleted in favour of a far cooler rock band, and Jamie Lee fixes insane people in her clinic, rather than fixing dinner for her husband.
The film does not deal with the feminist, fatalistic or inverted oedipal issues, and for this I can only thank the gods. Instead it's a big belly laugh and some fun songs.
19 December 2003
Movie review: Lord of the Rings: Return of the King
The third installment of LotR is twice as good as the second episode, but only three quarters as good as the first. The plot is too complex to summarise here[1], but a number of points deserve mention:
1. The second-to-biggest baddy, the demon Witch-King, declares that "No man can kill me!" Very boastful indeed for a guy who seconds later lies dead from a single sword strike. He should really have said "I am invincible, but for one fatal weakness: swords can kill me. No one brought any swords, did they?" Yes, Witch-King. Everyone brought a sword.
2. Orlando Bloom fell into the trap of reading out the stage directions, rather than his own dialogue. Examples: shot of the horses being restless, Legolas notes "the horses are restless"; the sun is rising, "the sun rises"; Legolas stands wooden and unemotional, "I'm a pretty shit actor all over". And they still cast him in Pirates of the Caribbean II!
3. A note on gratuitous nudity: there is none! For shame! They have a good looking cast, but the only nudity is Gollum in a skimpy leather posing pouch (and he's computer generated, so doesn't count) and the frightening under-developed Frodo in "naught but his skin", albeit shown only from the waist up.
4. The film goes on for ever and ever - hours after all evil is vanquished from the land, we're still watching Sam get married, a few drinks in the Green Dragon, Frodo writing a letter, Pip choosing tomatos at the market. It's like Peter Jackson just didn't know when to stop.
5. Oh, I don't know. Something about getting off the road.
-----
Footnote:
[1] The plot is too complex to summarise here. Not strictly true: Frodo, Sam and Gollum go to Mt. Doom, Mordor, to destroy the ring. Meanwhile the Mordor armies attack the castle of Brothbeth, and the humans beat them, then attack Mordor to draw attention away from Frodo's progress through Mordor. They are succesful, Frodo reaches Mt. Doom, the ring is destroyed, and all evil is swept from the planet. End.
The third installment of LotR is twice as good as the second episode, but only three quarters as good as the first. The plot is too complex to summarise here[1], but a number of points deserve mention:
1. The second-to-biggest baddy, the demon Witch-King, declares that "No man can kill me!" Very boastful indeed for a guy who seconds later lies dead from a single sword strike. He should really have said "I am invincible, but for one fatal weakness: swords can kill me. No one brought any swords, did they?" Yes, Witch-King. Everyone brought a sword.
2. Orlando Bloom fell into the trap of reading out the stage directions, rather than his own dialogue. Examples: shot of the horses being restless, Legolas notes "the horses are restless"; the sun is rising, "the sun rises"; Legolas stands wooden and unemotional, "I'm a pretty shit actor all over". And they still cast him in Pirates of the Caribbean II!
3. A note on gratuitous nudity: there is none! For shame! They have a good looking cast, but the only nudity is Gollum in a skimpy leather posing pouch (and he's computer generated, so doesn't count) and the frightening under-developed Frodo in "naught but his skin", albeit shown only from the waist up.
4. The film goes on for ever and ever - hours after all evil is vanquished from the land, we're still watching Sam get married, a few drinks in the Green Dragon, Frodo writing a letter, Pip choosing tomatos at the market. It's like Peter Jackson just didn't know when to stop.
5. Oh, I don't know. Something about getting off the road.
-----
Footnote:
[1] The plot is too complex to summarise here. Not strictly true: Frodo, Sam and Gollum go to Mt. Doom, Mordor, to destroy the ring. Meanwhile the Mordor armies attack the castle of Brothbeth, and the humans beat them, then attack Mordor to draw attention away from Frodo's progress through Mordor. They are succesful, Frodo reaches Mt. Doom, the ring is destroyed, and all evil is swept from the planet. End.
Dream report: First World War Aeroplane Fun
I was a First World War pilot, doing reconnaissance I guess, and flying all over the place. There was a very exciting mission that took us across the Alps, however something went very wrong and the plane tumbled out of the sky and crashed into the snow. I was initially very worried, since we were in the middle of nowhere and it was very cold, however a recovery team found us very quickly, took me to a hospital, patched up my wounds, and returned me to my family in England. My wife and I sat by the fire in the kitchen drinking hot milk, the kids at my feet, and I knew everything would be okay.
Suddenly, my wife is ten years older, and terrified. "But they never found you" she says blankly, and a chill floods my body, and I wake up to find myself lying in the thick snow of the Alps, the plane crumpled and burning beside me, the rest of the crew dead, my bones broken and a deep cut in my chest, pumping hot blood across the snow. I resign myself to my fate and slump into the snow, waiting to freeze or bleed to death. After a short while a shepherd turns up, alerted by the blazing plane, and digs me out of the snow. He loads me onto his sleigh and drags me home where he feeds me hot soup, and sits me by the fire to recover. He is patching up my wounds when I look into his dark eyes, and realise he is just a hollow shell.
Again, I wake up in the snow, stained deep red, limbs mangled. And again - and again and again - I am saved by someone, restored to health, and then realise it's a hallucination and wake up, broken worse than before, dying in a blizzard on an Alpine outcrop. And when I finally wake up in my real bed, in 21st century London, it takes me a full 15 minutes to believe it.
I think I preferred it when I had insomnia.
I was a First World War pilot, doing reconnaissance I guess, and flying all over the place. There was a very exciting mission that took us across the Alps, however something went very wrong and the plane tumbled out of the sky and crashed into the snow. I was initially very worried, since we were in the middle of nowhere and it was very cold, however a recovery team found us very quickly, took me to a hospital, patched up my wounds, and returned me to my family in England. My wife and I sat by the fire in the kitchen drinking hot milk, the kids at my feet, and I knew everything would be okay.
Suddenly, my wife is ten years older, and terrified. "But they never found you" she says blankly, and a chill floods my body, and I wake up to find myself lying in the thick snow of the Alps, the plane crumpled and burning beside me, the rest of the crew dead, my bones broken and a deep cut in my chest, pumping hot blood across the snow. I resign myself to my fate and slump into the snow, waiting to freeze or bleed to death. After a short while a shepherd turns up, alerted by the blazing plane, and digs me out of the snow. He loads me onto his sleigh and drags me home where he feeds me hot soup, and sits me by the fire to recover. He is patching up my wounds when I look into his dark eyes, and realise he is just a hollow shell.
Again, I wake up in the snow, stained deep red, limbs mangled. And again - and again and again - I am saved by someone, restored to health, and then realise it's a hallucination and wake up, broken worse than before, dying in a blizzard on an Alpine outcrop. And when I finally wake up in my real bed, in 21st century London, it takes me a full 15 minutes to believe it.
I think I preferred it when I had insomnia.
16 December 2003
Life note: Vicious cycle
I'm currently at stage 2 of the Vicious Caffeine Cycle:
1. Sleep badly.
2. Resort to a late afternoon coffee to get through the day.
3. High on caffeine, return to "1".
I'm currently at stage 2 of the Vicious Caffeine Cycle:
1. Sleep badly.
2. Resort to a late afternoon coffee to get through the day.
3. High on caffeine, return to "1".
15 December 2003
Radio note: Radio 4
I didn't sleep last Friday night, so instead got to hear seven hours of the World Service on Radio 4. I am familiar with Radio 4 closing at the end of the evening with "God Save the Queen", but was surprised to find how it begins:
1. The announcer says good morning, and tells an anecdote about "a black hairy pig the size of a goat".
2. Without comment, we hear Rule Britannia.
3. Rule Britannia effortlessly merges into What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor
4. In turn, this merges with Greensleeves and Waltzing Matilda played at the same time.
5. The classical medley comes to an end as it segues back to Rule Britannia. At this point, the continuity announcer seemed to turn up the volume to MAX.
6. The announcer reads out the shipping forecast: a process matched in its length only by its meaninglessness. No doubt there are three or four sailors in the world who tune into the radio to find out whether or not its raining, but it seems a bit harsh to expect the rest of us to listen to it.
I didn't sleep last Friday night, so instead got to hear seven hours of the World Service on Radio 4. I am familiar with Radio 4 closing at the end of the evening with "God Save the Queen", but was surprised to find how it begins:
1. The announcer says good morning, and tells an anecdote about "a black hairy pig the size of a goat".
2. Without comment, we hear Rule Britannia.
3. Rule Britannia effortlessly merges into What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor
4. In turn, this merges with Greensleeves and Waltzing Matilda played at the same time.
5. The classical medley comes to an end as it segues back to Rule Britannia. At this point, the continuity announcer seemed to turn up the volume to MAX.
6. The announcer reads out the shipping forecast: a process matched in its length only by its meaninglessness. No doubt there are three or four sailors in the world who tune into the radio to find out whether or not its raining, but it seems a bit harsh to expect the rest of us to listen to it.
Life note: Rickmas lunch
Ten of my favourite bots came round for a special pirate-themed Christmas lunch on Saturday. Preprandial cocktails and pretzels were cancelled since I'd forgotten to do anything about them, and the potential nonexistence of a main course was averted by the swift cancelling of bathing, hoovering and getting dressed. We ate and drank from 2pm until midnight, with the eleven of us at the start eroding to just Olivia and I at the end, enjoying the company of Captain Jack Sparrow and a half bottle of rioja.
I was woken at 3am that night by a tremendous explosion, convinced a nuclear bomb had gone off in central London. Resigning myself to death I slumped back into my duvet and waited for the flesh to burn off my body. As it turned out, though, the noise had just been Maria upstairs falling out of bed. She's a big lady, but I'm surprised to find she's equivalent to a fifty megaton bomb.
Ten of my favourite bots came round for a special pirate-themed Christmas lunch on Saturday. Preprandial cocktails and pretzels were cancelled since I'd forgotten to do anything about them, and the potential nonexistence of a main course was averted by the swift cancelling of bathing, hoovering and getting dressed. We ate and drank from 2pm until midnight, with the eleven of us at the start eroding to just Olivia and I at the end, enjoying the company of Captain Jack Sparrow and a half bottle of rioja.
I was woken at 3am that night by a tremendous explosion, convinced a nuclear bomb had gone off in central London. Resigning myself to death I slumped back into my duvet and waited for the flesh to burn off my body. As it turned out, though, the noise had just been Maria upstairs falling out of bed. She's a big lady, but I'm surprised to find she's equivalent to a fifty megaton bomb.
Life note: Pop quiz
Q. What do Cornelius Dixon, Humberton Costello, Harriet Castle, Cleo Slade, Sun Bowling and Denver Hollis all have in common?
A. They all emailed me last week thinking I want to spend money making my penis larger. However, they are mistaken.
Q. What do Cornelius Dixon, Humberton Costello, Harriet Castle, Cleo Slade, Sun Bowling and Denver Hollis all have in common?
A. They all emailed me last week thinking I want to spend money making my penis larger. However, they are mistaken.
12 December 2003
Life note: Engagement fun
Ted announced his engagement to Lydia last Monday, just three weeks after it was announced he and Emily had split up. This is fast work. As noted below, I have no idea if Lydia is a nice person or not - thanks to the vagaries of cachaca, vodka and madeira - however Ted seems quite fond of her, so it seems to be a good thing.
If, upon graduation, I had been asked to list my friends in the order I expected them to get married in, I seriously doubt I would have listed Seamus, Luke and Ted as the first three. However, thinking about it, I can't think of anyone I would have listed in the first three, so I shall just resort to a meaningless platitude and say: go figure!
Ted announced his engagement to Lydia last Monday, just three weeks after it was announced he and Emily had split up. This is fast work. As noted below, I have no idea if Lydia is a nice person or not - thanks to the vagaries of cachaca, vodka and madeira - however Ted seems quite fond of her, so it seems to be a good thing.
If, upon graduation, I had been asked to list my friends in the order I expected them to get married in, I seriously doubt I would have listed Seamus, Luke and Ted as the first three. However, thinking about it, I can't think of anyone I would have listed in the first three, so I shall just resort to a meaningless platitude and say: go figure!
08 December 2003
Film review: Paying It Forward
I saw this on TV last night, and it is notable only for its ending. It concerns a young nine year old boy, Trevor, who lives with a hopelessly alcoholic mother and an abusive father. Trevor seeks to improve a world that 'sucks' by doing three good deeds for strangers, and telling each of those to go out into the world and do three more good deeds. And so good deeds happen.
As I say, the ending is the best bit: it turns out one of the people Trevor has helped is a mutant man-dog-beast. Trev found him in the city dump, feeding on discarded chicken bones. He washes and shaves the beast and gets him a job washing up in a local diner. However, Trevor cannot change the man-dog-beast's essential nature, and when the latter scolds his hand on hot washing-up water he goes beserk. The film ends with Trevor turning up at the diner to check on his friend, only to find the mutilated bodies of the diners, the floor a half-inch deep with blood, and the man-dog-beast's tell-tale bloody paw prints across the walls. A tear trickles down Trevor's cheek as he realises that mankind is essentially evil, and that nothing he does can ever change that.
Of course, you only get this ending if you go to bed 45 minutes before the end of the real movie.
I saw this on TV last night, and it is notable only for its ending. It concerns a young nine year old boy, Trevor, who lives with a hopelessly alcoholic mother and an abusive father. Trevor seeks to improve a world that 'sucks' by doing three good deeds for strangers, and telling each of those to go out into the world and do three more good deeds. And so good deeds happen.
As I say, the ending is the best bit: it turns out one of the people Trevor has helped is a mutant man-dog-beast. Trev found him in the city dump, feeding on discarded chicken bones. He washes and shaves the beast and gets him a job washing up in a local diner. However, Trevor cannot change the man-dog-beast's essential nature, and when the latter scolds his hand on hot washing-up water he goes beserk. The film ends with Trevor turning up at the diner to check on his friend, only to find the mutilated bodies of the diners, the floor a half-inch deep with blood, and the man-dog-beast's tell-tale bloody paw prints across the walls. A tear trickles down Trevor's cheek as he realises that mankind is essentially evil, and that nothing he does can ever change that.
Of course, you only get this ending if you go to bed 45 minutes before the end of the real movie.
Market report: Sunday at Spitalfields
Chugging along on the number 8 bus from Bow, Abi and I passed Spitalfields market. I randomly suggested hopping out to have a look around, and what I thought would be a brief jaunt ended up as the whole afternoon there. I managed to get a sizeable chunk of my Christmas shopping out of the way and ate some good old-fashioned Indian food, whilst Abi concentrated on networking with stall holders and designers for future alt.wear articles. She seems to be getting tired of researching bitch-badges and is keen to find a new topic, and it seems slut-badges won't cut it.
I got my niece a bright orange space hopper, which I can't wait to play with on Christmas morning.
Chugging along on the number 8 bus from Bow, Abi and I passed Spitalfields market. I randomly suggested hopping out to have a look around, and what I thought would be a brief jaunt ended up as the whole afternoon there. I managed to get a sizeable chunk of my Christmas shopping out of the way and ate some good old-fashioned Indian food, whilst Abi concentrated on networking with stall holders and designers for future alt.wear articles. She seems to be getting tired of researching bitch-badges and is keen to find a new topic, and it seems slut-badges won't cut it.
I got my niece a bright orange space hopper, which I can't wait to play with on Christmas morning.
Life note: Alex's birthday
I went round to Alex's birthday party early on Saturday, to help Olivia mix up some caipirinha in advance, with which we would greet people as they arrived. Unfortunately, not only did we mix up the cocktail, but we also drank it all before the others arrived. Cachaca is extremely potent stuff, and so for me the remainder of the evening is a long meaningless blur, which ends with me collapsing, and crawling behind the dining table to sleep.
I was disappointed to realise, when I woke up the next morning, that I had no memory of meeting Lydia, Ted's much anticipated new ladymate. Fortunately it turned out we had anticipated this the night before, and Andy had taken lots of digital photos to jog our memories.
Update: It sounds like we will be getting to hear a lot more from Lydia, as she is now planning to marry Mr Coleman.
I went round to Alex's birthday party early on Saturday, to help Olivia mix up some caipirinha in advance, with which we would greet people as they arrived. Unfortunately, not only did we mix up the cocktail, but we also drank it all before the others arrived. Cachaca is extremely potent stuff, and so for me the remainder of the evening is a long meaningless blur, which ends with me collapsing, and crawling behind the dining table to sleep.
I was disappointed to realise, when I woke up the next morning, that I had no memory of meeting Lydia, Ted's much anticipated new ladymate. Fortunately it turned out we had anticipated this the night before, and Andy had taken lots of digital photos to jog our memories.
Update: It sounds like we will be getting to hear a lot more from Lydia, as she is now planning to marry Mr Coleman.
04 December 2003
Plot summary: Love Actually
Colin Firth goes to Andrew Lincoln's mate's wedding to play the trumpet, where Lincoln is apparently in love with said mate's new wife, although all he gets in the end is a kiss for his trouble, and he spends most of his time operating a gallery, where Alan Rickman dances with some tarty woman with a strange mouth, much to Emma Thompson's annoyance. When Firth gets home, he finds his brother has been sleeping with his girlfriend, so he goes to France and gets engaged to a Portuguese woman instead.
Meanwhile, Liam Neeson's unfeasibly ugly nine year old son, Sammy-o, is obsessed with an American girl, but not one of the four American girls that a character called Colin sleeps with in Wyoming. He ends up chasing her through an airport, just after having played the drums in a nativity play at which the prime minister is found to be kissing his tea lady, who was earlier being kissed by the president, Billy Bob Thornton, during his state visit. Sammy-o is only able to squeeze past the security guards thanks to Bill Nighy's striptease on the Michael Parkinson show, following an agreement that if his atrocious song, so mocked by Ant-or-Dec, became the Christmas number one, then he would play it naked on television.
And there's this woman who has a fat brother, and she spends more time worrying about him than she does sleeping with the enigmatic chief designer Rodrigo Santoro, which seemed to me like some sort of mistake, and was certainly contrary to Alan Rickman's instructions earlier on in the film.
So, just your average boy gets girl, boy loses girl gets new girl, boy has girl gets another girl loses second girl, boy gets girl, boy gets girls, boy gets girl, boy almost gets girl, tard brother gets sister, boy gets girl story.
Colin Firth goes to Andrew Lincoln's mate's wedding to play the trumpet, where Lincoln is apparently in love with said mate's new wife, although all he gets in the end is a kiss for his trouble, and he spends most of his time operating a gallery, where Alan Rickman dances with some tarty woman with a strange mouth, much to Emma Thompson's annoyance. When Firth gets home, he finds his brother has been sleeping with his girlfriend, so he goes to France and gets engaged to a Portuguese woman instead.
Meanwhile, Liam Neeson's unfeasibly ugly nine year old son, Sammy-o, is obsessed with an American girl, but not one of the four American girls that a character called Colin sleeps with in Wyoming. He ends up chasing her through an airport, just after having played the drums in a nativity play at which the prime minister is found to be kissing his tea lady, who was earlier being kissed by the president, Billy Bob Thornton, during his state visit. Sammy-o is only able to squeeze past the security guards thanks to Bill Nighy's striptease on the Michael Parkinson show, following an agreement that if his atrocious song, so mocked by Ant-or-Dec, became the Christmas number one, then he would play it naked on television.
And there's this woman who has a fat brother, and she spends more time worrying about him than she does sleeping with the enigmatic chief designer Rodrigo Santoro, which seemed to me like some sort of mistake, and was certainly contrary to Alan Rickman's instructions earlier on in the film.
So, just your average boy gets girl, boy loses girl gets new girl, boy has girl gets another girl loses second girl, boy gets girl, boy gets girls, boy gets girl, boy almost gets girl, tard brother gets sister, boy gets girl story.
Festival Review: The South London Film Festival
Attentive readers will recall my Set Report of 29 September. It seems that in the intervening months Sabrina has found time to finish up and edit together a rough cut just in time to win "Best New Film" at the South London Film Festival.
Winning "Best Movie" at the South London Film Festival may sound like a big deal, but it didn't really do justice to the film itself since whilst the movie was enjoyable, the Festival itself was utterly pointless. I only caught the second half, but this began with a woman on a trapeze. Trapeze work is clearly a lot of hard work, and takes a great deal of training and skill, however there's little reward in putting in the time to learn since it's utterly tedious to watch. And, perhaps more to the point, its not technically a film.
Next, an American man showed us some of his favourite clips of film in the Cine Club. Presented with tongue in cheek, these clips all had the universal feature of supposedly being funny simply because they were stupid or boring. So we were forced to endure a "3D" version of Hitchcock's Psycho in which the colour seperations were out of synch (funny for two seconds perhaps... but we had to watch the whole bloody thing). There was then a montage of "The History of Film" in which the same joke was repeated fifteen times over - something would happen, and then stop happening very abruptly. Worst of all was a film in which 50 identifcal photographs of Elvis Presley were shown, one by one.
None of this gave me very high hopes for Sabrina's film, The Lighthouse, since the Festival organisers clearly had no concept of quality control. However, despite being a rough cut and without the final soundstrack, her film was genuinely engaging, although the actual meaning of it all was a little vague and Dan and I spent a brief ten minutes trying to work out what had happened, before giving it up and concentrating on getting the hell out of Croydon.
I appeared four times: near the beginning, my lefthand side was in shot. Towards the end my entire face appears. Twice. And in the credits, my name appears. Somewhere near the bottom. In a very small font.
Attentive readers will recall my Set Report of 29 September. It seems that in the intervening months Sabrina has found time to finish up and edit together a rough cut just in time to win "Best New Film" at the South London Film Festival.
Winning "Best Movie" at the South London Film Festival may sound like a big deal, but it didn't really do justice to the film itself since whilst the movie was enjoyable, the Festival itself was utterly pointless. I only caught the second half, but this began with a woman on a trapeze. Trapeze work is clearly a lot of hard work, and takes a great deal of training and skill, however there's little reward in putting in the time to learn since it's utterly tedious to watch. And, perhaps more to the point, its not technically a film.
Next, an American man showed us some of his favourite clips of film in the Cine Club. Presented with tongue in cheek, these clips all had the universal feature of supposedly being funny simply because they were stupid or boring. So we were forced to endure a "3D" version of Hitchcock's Psycho in which the colour seperations were out of synch (funny for two seconds perhaps... but we had to watch the whole bloody thing). There was then a montage of "The History of Film" in which the same joke was repeated fifteen times over - something would happen, and then stop happening very abruptly. Worst of all was a film in which 50 identifcal photographs of Elvis Presley were shown, one by one.
None of this gave me very high hopes for Sabrina's film, The Lighthouse, since the Festival organisers clearly had no concept of quality control. However, despite being a rough cut and without the final soundstrack, her film was genuinely engaging, although the actual meaning of it all was a little vague and Dan and I spent a brief ten minutes trying to work out what had happened, before giving it up and concentrating on getting the hell out of Croydon.
I appeared four times: near the beginning, my lefthand side was in shot. Towards the end my entire face appears. Twice. And in the credits, my name appears. Somewhere near the bottom. In a very small font.
01 December 2003
Holiday report: Palermo, Sicily
I spent five days in Palermo, Sicily, last week with Seamus, Lani and Darien. Palermo has a distinct character, being primarily the collapsed ruins of a more prosperous 19th century town, now inhabited by stray dogs and strewn with rubble and trash. The overall feel is downtown Baghdad without the long-haul flight.
With Seamus and Darien on board, the focus of the holiday was naturally alcohol and food, respectively. The rest of the time we did this:
On Day One we started a blood-feud between the cashier and chef in our neighbourhood sandwich shop. Not speaking their language we wrote their screams and violence off as Some Foreigner's Problem, although Darien unwittingly fuelled the flames by confusing them with his fractutured knowledge of Italian. Afterwards we trekked up and down the high street and concluded that although Italians love dangerous driving, bad parking and mangey old dogs, they hate ATM machines. Woozey from lead poisoning and coughing up the carbon monoxide, we sought refuge in a restaurant and stocked up on fried cheese, salmon and steak before collapsing into our beds.
On Day Two we decided to walk along the beach front, hop on a bus and visit Mondello, a nearby seaside town. We found that where there should have been a charming beach front and harbour, the Italians had built a four lane motorway. This says a lot about their approach to life: they always approach it in a car. When we finally got to Mondello we went to a pizzeria that was not serving pizza, played Dance Dance Revolution in the arcade, and sang songs on the beach. Seamus' rendition of the Darth Vader Theme Tune was second to none.
On Day Three we spent half the day trekking through the smog seeking dead people, although it eventually turned out Lani was looking for Bronze age dead people whilst I was looking for mummified Victorians. We compromised in favour of just eating ice cream, then stopped off for pizza, then had a nap, and ate a giant meal.
On Day Four we decided to take the boat out to Ustica, a semi-dormant volcano, and kick back on the beach and be served exotic cocktails by local minimum-wage slaves. A good plan, but foiled in its execution since cursory examination of the timetable showed that it was not possible to get both there and back. We stayed in Palermo instead. We went to one of the largest theatres in Europe, where I asked if I could use the toilet, only to be told "Come back tomorrow".
To Darien's delight we then met two charming Austrlian women, who agreed to come out with us that night. Although we all got absurdly drunk, they remained sober, and so it is hard to guage what they made of us raucously singing happy birthday to a man who lives in Brazil, or of Darien offering four euro to see the rose seller stick a flower in his uretha, or of Darien attempting to glass one of them over an arm-wrestling match.
On Day Five we were hungover, so came home.
I spent five days in Palermo, Sicily, last week with Seamus, Lani and Darien. Palermo has a distinct character, being primarily the collapsed ruins of a more prosperous 19th century town, now inhabited by stray dogs and strewn with rubble and trash. The overall feel is downtown Baghdad without the long-haul flight.
With Seamus and Darien on board, the focus of the holiday was naturally alcohol and food, respectively. The rest of the time we did this:
On Day One we started a blood-feud between the cashier and chef in our neighbourhood sandwich shop. Not speaking their language we wrote their screams and violence off as Some Foreigner's Problem, although Darien unwittingly fuelled the flames by confusing them with his fractutured knowledge of Italian. Afterwards we trekked up and down the high street and concluded that although Italians love dangerous driving, bad parking and mangey old dogs, they hate ATM machines. Woozey from lead poisoning and coughing up the carbon monoxide, we sought refuge in a restaurant and stocked up on fried cheese, salmon and steak before collapsing into our beds.
On Day Two we decided to walk along the beach front, hop on a bus and visit Mondello, a nearby seaside town. We found that where there should have been a charming beach front and harbour, the Italians had built a four lane motorway. This says a lot about their approach to life: they always approach it in a car. When we finally got to Mondello we went to a pizzeria that was not serving pizza, played Dance Dance Revolution in the arcade, and sang songs on the beach. Seamus' rendition of the Darth Vader Theme Tune was second to none.
On Day Three we spent half the day trekking through the smog seeking dead people, although it eventually turned out Lani was looking for Bronze age dead people whilst I was looking for mummified Victorians. We compromised in favour of just eating ice cream, then stopped off for pizza, then had a nap, and ate a giant meal.
On Day Four we decided to take the boat out to Ustica, a semi-dormant volcano, and kick back on the beach and be served exotic cocktails by local minimum-wage slaves. A good plan, but foiled in its execution since cursory examination of the timetable showed that it was not possible to get both there and back. We stayed in Palermo instead. We went to one of the largest theatres in Europe, where I asked if I could use the toilet, only to be told "Come back tomorrow".
To Darien's delight we then met two charming Austrlian women, who agreed to come out with us that night. Although we all got absurdly drunk, they remained sober, and so it is hard to guage what they made of us raucously singing happy birthday to a man who lives in Brazil, or of Darien offering four euro to see the rose seller stick a flower in his uretha, or of Darien attempting to glass one of them over an arm-wrestling match.
On Day Five we were hungover, so came home.
Diary note:Oh, heck.
Oh heck, I see I haven't added to my diary for about a month. I do have several excuses, but since they all involve tiny cats with giant heads sitting on my face you will clearly see them for the lies they are. This is a shame since I've done lots of amusing things I've been keen to share, like the time a man got angry with a phone on the underground, or the time a tiny cat with a giant head sat on my face.
The missing month of November 2003 will pose quite a mystery when I am a hundred and ninety years old, a frail shell of my former self, my brain a mishmash of failing biology and malfunctioning cyber implants. I would like my future self to believe I had been doing something exciting - perhaps chasing the bunyip through the Argentinian rain forest, or exporing the dens of arctic windermice - and so I should leave the month undiscussed. However, the tax man likes me to be more specific, and so here is a summary:
1. Tongs trip to Pinglesleeve Park: Mid-November, I stayed in a trailer park near the New Forest Otter/Owl sanctuary with the Tongs. We learned to hate Southampton; went paddling in the November sea; sun-bathed on the November beach; took a ferry to the Isle of White where we climbed along the cliffs, clambered around a decaying WW2 rocket testing base, ate humbugs and sat by a roaring fire in lovely pub (rather than vice versa); played Dance Dance Revolution Euromix; danced to the Chihuahua song with three five year-olds at an early afternoon disco; had a fire on the bleak November beach; played Tong Pop Idol; played crazy golf; ran around the New Forest and swung on the rope swings people had left there; scared a horse; became addicted to pork scratchings; and watched the Hollyoaks omnibus, which was nice.
2. Cinema fun: I went to see The Matrix: Convolutions. I had expected a pile of cack like the second one, and so was pleasantly surprised that it pulled itself up to the league of minor action movie. I loved the squid dance in Zion - a better battle strategy might have been to attack the human scum, rather than spiral around in the air.
4. New venues: On Abi's birthday we were introduced to the Nordic Bar, a splendid pub where a bottle of wine is half price if you agree to go on a Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday. For us, who drink all week round, this would appear to be a god send, although when I attempted to return a few days later with Fergal it smelled of sweat and urine. I hope that wasn't because of something we did during Abi's birthday.
5. TV review: Smallville - Season One: I watched this one weekend. Not an epsiode went by in which Clark Kent didn't save someone from a burning car, encounter a foe who had gained mysterious super powers from meteor rocks, and rely on Mr and Mrs Kent for some timely homespun wisdom. Although a little formulaic it's full or pretty people, and that's what television is really all about. One issue is that the character motivations make no sense: spurned Chloe is far hotter than uninterested Lana, and Whitney (after his hair cut in episode 14) is a much better catch than Clark.
6. Matt Barnes' house warming party: Matt and Celene had an extremely exclusive house warming party; Olivia and I were the only ones invited. We had the types of fun I normally choose not to experience: watching Pop Idol, singing songs from Phantom of the Opera (I got to be Sarah Brightman's laugh), eating curry on the floor and crowding around Matt's computer, viewing photographs of the very room we were sitting in. I drank lots of wine.
8. A laughably atrocious train journey: the morning after Matt's house warming, Olivia and woke early and set off at 7am to catch a train to London to watch the crucial England rugby match. Despite Railtracks's claims to the contrary, there was no train for an hour and a half. Also, it had been raining and UK trains are not geared up for such conditions. Our 45 minute journey gradually expanded to four long, bleak hours. Olivia made the trip bearable for herself by singing and dancing 'Spirit in the Sky', however it is a moot point whether this made it bearable for others present. We finally arrived in London in time to see Jonny Wilkinson kick the ball a few times and win the match single-handedly. Good boy.
9. Letters to the Times: TimmyB and I now communicate solely through the medium of emails sent on behalf of Matt Barnes to the editor of The Times. To our knowledge the editor has yet to find one worthy of printing, which I can only put down to the fact that editors are not as interested as Matt in the sexual experiences of horses.
10. Office warming party: We all went round to Arkansas' new office to welcome his business to its new home and to drink his white wine in large quantities. If you are lonely and seeking love on the internet I sincerely hope you use his service - Arkansas can snoop on all of the personal messages you've been sending, and report them back to us in the pub. We also went to a cool bar where hipsters stood around quietly appreciating the live jazz, and Olivia, Arkansas and I crowded round the front of the stage and did the bouncing-shouting-punching dance.
12. The Doors: I got a new front door, exactly eleven months after my last door was broken into kindling by the fire brigade. As if to celebrate, the house across the street burned down and the Fire Brigade spent all night making a terrible fuss about it.
Oh heck, I see I haven't added to my diary for about a month. I do have several excuses, but since they all involve tiny cats with giant heads sitting on my face you will clearly see them for the lies they are. This is a shame since I've done lots of amusing things I've been keen to share, like the time a man got angry with a phone on the underground, or the time a tiny cat with a giant head sat on my face.
The missing month of November 2003 will pose quite a mystery when I am a hundred and ninety years old, a frail shell of my former self, my brain a mishmash of failing biology and malfunctioning cyber implants. I would like my future self to believe I had been doing something exciting - perhaps chasing the bunyip through the Argentinian rain forest, or exporing the dens of arctic windermice - and so I should leave the month undiscussed. However, the tax man likes me to be more specific, and so here is a summary:
1. Tongs trip to Pinglesleeve Park: Mid-November, I stayed in a trailer park near the New Forest Otter/Owl sanctuary with the Tongs. We learned to hate Southampton; went paddling in the November sea; sun-bathed on the November beach; took a ferry to the Isle of White where we climbed along the cliffs, clambered around a decaying WW2 rocket testing base, ate humbugs and sat by a roaring fire in lovely pub (rather than vice versa); played Dance Dance Revolution Euromix; danced to the Chihuahua song with three five year-olds at an early afternoon disco; had a fire on the bleak November beach; played Tong Pop Idol; played crazy golf; ran around the New Forest and swung on the rope swings people had left there; scared a horse; became addicted to pork scratchings; and watched the Hollyoaks omnibus, which was nice.
2. Cinema fun: I went to see The Matrix: Convolutions. I had expected a pile of cack like the second one, and so was pleasantly surprised that it pulled itself up to the league of minor action movie. I loved the squid dance in Zion - a better battle strategy might have been to attack the human scum, rather than spiral around in the air.
4. New venues: On Abi's birthday we were introduced to the Nordic Bar, a splendid pub where a bottle of wine is half price if you agree to go on a Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday. For us, who drink all week round, this would appear to be a god send, although when I attempted to return a few days later with Fergal it smelled of sweat and urine. I hope that wasn't because of something we did during Abi's birthday.
5. TV review: Smallville - Season One: I watched this one weekend. Not an epsiode went by in which Clark Kent didn't save someone from a burning car, encounter a foe who had gained mysterious super powers from meteor rocks, and rely on Mr and Mrs Kent for some timely homespun wisdom. Although a little formulaic it's full or pretty people, and that's what television is really all about. One issue is that the character motivations make no sense: spurned Chloe is far hotter than uninterested Lana, and Whitney (after his hair cut in episode 14) is a much better catch than Clark.
6. Matt Barnes' house warming party: Matt and Celene had an extremely exclusive house warming party; Olivia and I were the only ones invited. We had the types of fun I normally choose not to experience: watching Pop Idol, singing songs from Phantom of the Opera (I got to be Sarah Brightman's laugh), eating curry on the floor and crowding around Matt's computer, viewing photographs of the very room we were sitting in. I drank lots of wine.
8. A laughably atrocious train journey: the morning after Matt's house warming, Olivia and woke early and set off at 7am to catch a train to London to watch the crucial England rugby match. Despite Railtracks's claims to the contrary, there was no train for an hour and a half. Also, it had been raining and UK trains are not geared up for such conditions. Our 45 minute journey gradually expanded to four long, bleak hours. Olivia made the trip bearable for herself by singing and dancing 'Spirit in the Sky', however it is a moot point whether this made it bearable for others present. We finally arrived in London in time to see Jonny Wilkinson kick the ball a few times and win the match single-handedly. Good boy.
9. Letters to the Times: TimmyB and I now communicate solely through the medium of emails sent on behalf of Matt Barnes to the editor of The Times. To our knowledge the editor has yet to find one worthy of printing, which I can only put down to the fact that editors are not as interested as Matt in the sexual experiences of horses.
10. Office warming party: We all went round to Arkansas' new office to welcome his business to its new home and to drink his white wine in large quantities. If you are lonely and seeking love on the internet I sincerely hope you use his service - Arkansas can snoop on all of the personal messages you've been sending, and report them back to us in the pub. We also went to a cool bar where hipsters stood around quietly appreciating the live jazz, and Olivia, Arkansas and I crowded round the front of the stage and did the bouncing-shouting-punching dance.
12. The Doors: I got a new front door, exactly eleven months after my last door was broken into kindling by the fire brigade. As if to celebrate, the house across the street burned down and the Fire Brigade spent all night making a terrible fuss about it.
