Anyway, hello. Unfriending amnesty is still on btw. Feel at liberty to say byeee.
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Oh, DVD player, DVD player, you're about one bloody step from me running over you in my car. Over and over again while laughing maniacally, in the pouring rain. Possibly with some blood-curdling music, like The Omen crossed with EastEnders.
I ask you to record *one* thing all week (well, all right , three things this week, but I've been very undemanding all summer) and you can't even bloody crank into action to record The Waters of Mars while I am sweating, swearing and cussing at work until 9pm. Useless godforsaken three hundred bloody quid pile of junk, you are a sack of shite, and I shall never darken John Lewis's towels again. FFS.
So, instead of getting home and watching The Waters of Mars, I am watching I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here and heckling the television like a saddo.
However, I have discovered a very wonderful thing, albeit about forty years after everyone else -- Twitter [@93562710 since you didn't ask]. I don't particularly want it to become a major means of
Speaking of The X-Factor -- much as I love American Idol, and I do, particularly the funny face SCowl pulls when he's trying to suppress the kind of sarcasm that would get him run out of the country (sort of as though someone put the froth on his coffee by snottering into it but he knows he has to drink it. Well, that or wind) The X-Factor is, without doubt, superior.
See, now I *love* American Idol and the singing is probably better -- but did it have a No 1 recording artist running onstage when, say, Sanjaya was singing, with a pineapple on his head? Did it? No! It fucking did not! Total lack of pineapples.
So, you see, if you lot across the Atlantic hadn't had that stropfit in 1776, you too could have Calvin Harris invading the stage with a pineapple on his head while Jedward were "singing". I see that Jedward got through tonight as well, despite having an amount of talent that could only be measured by a mass spectrometer. The irritating little feckers.
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So now I can't check LJ, or go back to Twitter because I am avoiding Doctor Who spoilers. Fortunately, the gorgeous Elbow are on the South Bank Show for a proper highbrow profile thingie. ::::Guy, I luff you, call me:::: (let's see whether the universe is bending to my psychic orders)
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Speaking of spoilers, DO NOT spoil yourself for next Wednesday's Spooks. The episode itself is a bit of a retread of earlier, better stories, with about 40 minutes of low-level tedium with insufficient action from the regulars. But then there's ten minutes of exciting action and ten solid minutes of HOLY SHIT YOU DID NOT DO THAT. In a good way.
I have this theory, based on nothing more than slight spoilers and the fact that it got flap all publicity before it started, that this is the last series of Spooks. I think that maybe Harry and Ruth are going to get a happy ending. But really, who knows -- they could just as easily turn it into Blake's Seven
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My *ahem* has five hours to go. Still I hate my DVD recorder very much.
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But not as much as I hate work at the moment. Let us not speak of it.
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I have not had the greatest of months. Of all the causes of suck -- and lo, they were many -- this was the worst.
My parents are odd sorts and they haven't been on holiday together for, perhaps, thirty years. My dad has, as he often tells me, been everywhere and seen everything (he was a sailor) and now has no desire to go anywhere. I take my mum on holiday once a year because he won't go. However, this autumn my dad decided he wanted to go home for a week and stay his cousin, so he and my mum decided to go together. He books flights and so on, only for the dog to fall ill. I had offered to take Rob for them, to drive up and bring him back to live with me for a week. I am at work for rather a long time but I could have taken him for long walks on the heath near my house and it would have been lovely. But no. My dad didn't want him to be stressed by being on the train so they put him in kennels.
My dad adored Rob, so he cancelled the holiday, only for Rob to get better. So he rebooked a week or so later, but he wouldn't let me come up and take Rob to live with me for the week. You see where this is going, don't you. The lovely Rob passed away on a Sunday morning and I had to try to work out whether to call them or not. I ended up ringing abroad. When they got back my dad said: "You shouldn't have told me, it ruined my holiday" and my mum said: "I'm glad you told me, I couldn't have borne finding out at the station on the way home."
Which is particularly typical of them, but never mind.
I thought they should wait before they got a new dog, because Rob was such a gorgeous old gentleman, but they couldn't bear not having one around. I think they need someone or something around in order that they don't kill each other. It used to be me, which could be why I now live 350 miles away. Accordingly, after further DRAH-MAH which we need not go into here, they got another dog. I give you so much concentrated cuteness that your computer may explode:
This tiny boy is nicknamed Basker, because my dad thinks it very funny to call a very small collie "Hound of the Baskervilles"
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Happy birthday to sharinlilbit
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And now I am off work for a week \0/ x million.