Hello. I went up north for a couple of days only to discover that a Tory thinktank are recommending that the north be abandoned
@) Finally cracked 40,000 words. Now if only 20,000 of them weren't irrelevant.
ß) I have had a weird week. Nice week of no work, but odd nevertheless. Coinciding with the Olympics, which means I got the happy opportunity to care deeply about a bunch of sports I usually wouldn't give two tosses about.
As I write Britain, or Team GB as the bloody BBC would have us call it, are at number three in the medals table, largely as a result of having the best cycling team in the world. That's not jingoistic hyperbole, it just is. And how fantastic was Becky Adlington with her unaffected manner, two gold medals and posh shoe addiction. Finally something worth being all rah rah rah about. Which is nice given that the BBC usually does well-mannered rah rah rah patriotic bullshit with absolutely nothing to get excited about.
So I have been infected by the Olympics. At least it's better than falling into the black hole of stupid that is Big Brother. (Three years of resistance and counting!)
¶) Hellboy II this week! Guillermo del Toro is my film BFF.
€) I went to see Wall-E yesterday, and after the bravura 20-minute opening section on the deserted Earth I *fell asleep like a big kid*. Hideously embarrassing. I have decided to blame the film and too much sugar from eating white mice.
%) The oddest oddness of the week started with a conversation with my friend M about children, in which he asked me about this circumstance, and said he didn't want this circumstance to happen. Which would be all right except he's brought it up *three times* with me now, so I am wondering what he means by that. I suspect that in three months when I look at this entry I will be thinking "What the hell am I on about?" Being discreet and circumspect is a bitch.
¢) Today there were spoilers on blogs, which made me go \o/. Or more accurately \o/ \o/ -o- \o/ [four spoilery things, see?]
Two of them, in particular, would be the most delightful thing on Earth. I'd forgotten what it was like actually giving a toss about spoilers, particularly ones so far distant that you would need deep space telemetry to work out whether they were accurate. Three of the spoilers are constructed of purest awesome and make me cheerful, so I choose to believe that they are accurate until such time as (a) they are proved false or (b) I can't be arsed with the whole thing any longer. Which might happen.
I always remember reading the blogs of people who were actually in this fandom during the time of great fuckery, and thinking "surely, the batchippers can't be that bad, they can't possibly be that loony" but no, they really, really are. You come upon their journals because they write good fiction, and their other entries seem sensible and then you get into the fandom stuff and you think, Good lord, are you even living in the same world as me, never mind watching the same telly programme? And why are you launching some sort of holy war over fictional characters?
I don't know why I am amazed. I watched X-Files fandom for five years.
‡) The other day I had a moment of poor impulse control and went off on a tinhat expedition in London. If you can guess the nature of my tinhattery, I will SEND YOU STUFF. Or make you a mix or summat. Icons. Something.
I can just hear my gran's voice in my head "You do *right* to call other people batshit, young lady"
She would've used the term batshit. She was offa Hessle Road, one of 13 children born to a man who deserted in the first world war. My great -great grandfather was a Cockney and moved up north, probably for dodgy reasons. It's only my mum that has delusions of clarsiness.
So something extremely odd happened to me on Friday.
Apparently I drove out to Barking and bought a SHEDLOAD of crack, which I smoked. I then soaked a hankerchief in poppers and tied it under my nose, before drinking an entire bottle of absinthe, chased down with some blotting paper LSD, which I had pasted onto the contents of a tube of Refreshers. Lovely.
Dodging several giant purple platypuses who were singing some of the more exciting parts of the musical Miss Saigon, I found myself in the post-industrial wasteland which is Gallion's Reach, with its constant fug of part-processed faecal matter and exhaust fumes (it's a delightful part of the world; in a more charming incarnation it was home to the largest gasworks in Europe). In a smackhead daze, I wandered into a large square building with lots of adverts on the front and discovered a large darkened room.
As I sat down next to Napoleon (a bugger for hogging the popcorn) and Amelia Earhart (so that's where she went!), suddenly, as if by magic, giant pictures appeared on a black screen.
Meryl Streep appeared on my screen and began declaiming European pop lyrics as though they were Ibsen, young men danced in *flippers* and Pierce Brosnan, Pierce Brosnan James Bond 007 Pierce Brosnan starting singing. And he sings like I do the pole vault. Which is to say, OH, GOD and NO.
And lo, I found myself watching what is possibly the worst utterly brilliant movie I have seen since Shining Through
The absinthe, crack, poppers and LSD is the only explanation for it, because surely no one could possibly have thought *any* of that was a good idea.
Mamma Mia is genius. Such a terrible film, such good fun.