mockturle06: (Avengers)

Well, my ovaries have good and proper exploded. It was the full Edwardian drag what done it, which I have a decided thing for, and then, yikes, the floppy blonde hair. I was gone. Gone.

I blame it on far too much Merchant Ivory at a tender age. Yes I do (and as if it wasn’t bad enough, the Guardian decided to get all retrospective over Merchant Ivory and their floppy-haired Edwardian chaps).

But, you know, lawks. If I’m like this now with just the pre-publicity, what am I going to be like when I see the damn film. Well, the complete lack of ANZACs should keep me suitably thin-lipped and dry of eye and dry of seat. So far it looks like the only Australian referenced in the whole damn enterprise is Frank Hurley and his WWI photos.  Like really referenced, like rip-off, like they better hope they’re out of copyright.

But anyway, short story: too much drooling over the Pine and boom, my second period in two weeks, because one wasn’t enough? I thought going crone meant less, not more. I’m gonna be a hollowed out husk at the end of it.

So, aside from the full Edwardian (swoon), there were repeats of Beyond and a brief appearance in Angie Tribeca (père et fils, actually, and my second Pine Snr sighting that week – I really need to get out more).

But that wasn’t my only Chris, oh no. I cheated and saw Guardians of the Galaxy. One of those other Chrises.

Meant to go last week but I had the dreaded lurgy, but I crawled off to see it on the weekend, dosed to the gills on borrowed Codral (I haven’t had it in years, so I’m still coming down). So, maybe it’s the Codral talking, that is, critical faculties not at full strength, but I kinda loved it.

Okay, yes, another decided entry in the sad man-child with massive daddy issues genre (the bit where he played catch with his dad was cringe-inducing) but hey, if films are still being made by a generation with abandonment issues, at least it had something to say about love and friendship and bonds that are stronger than blood (especially as blood kin are always proving perilously duplicitous – see also Lucifer). I do wonder what films from the helicopter parent generation are going to be like. More stifling, less hanging the kids out to dry, I suspect.

I could be crueller, but having been ‘raised’ by biological units with less instincts than reptiles or rocks, or, as Victor Hugo so accurately put it, she was a mother only by accident of biology, I kind of get where they were coming from (alas my surrogate mum met the end I might have wished on others) re the absent and abusive parentals.

But it was funny, the soundtrack rocked, the aesthetics were on point (especially the end credits) and Baby Groot stole the movie (should the flesh and blood actors be worried)?

What I really loved was that the big space battles were not endless, mindless minutes of stuff being mashed, but happening hilariously off-screen, in the background, and/or in between bickering. You know, back to being a means to an end, part of the narrative, not an entire reel of mind-numbing first-person player, for which I care not. That was clever and funny, and, gosh darn it, fresh and funny. More, please.

Finally, a film that was more about characters than explosions. Well done. More like this please.

I’ve also had the good fortune, via an email and a $20 ticket, to see and hear Ian Rankin read from A Clockwork Orange, talk about his early influences, being very funny, and then, then I got my book signed. Squee!

If that wasn’t enough, I managed to go to the talk, get my book, line up, get my book signed, get my big work bag back, walk blocks to bus stop, get on a bus and get home only 40 minutes after Himself who left the city over three hours before me. No, no wormholes or time-travel, it’s just that after 7-8pm the roads finally clear and zoom!

I was actually very thrilled to the point of, my colleagues accused me of, blushing, as I’d intended to see a talk by Mr Rankin in the UK, but that fell through, of course, so to see him out here for the Writers’ Festival, well, wishes do come true (yep, wish for Ian Rankin granted, others, not so much, but the universe knows which would cheer me up most).

It was also a good, if brief night, because I ended up sitting next to this retired lady (never did ask her name, I’m shocking) both in the foyer and in the auditorium (and my seat bought on spec was bloody marvellous) and we were chatting and she asked me what I did and declared it ‘useful’. Ah, some much needed validation at last.

The other talks were interesting (I have whole new uses for ‘oscillating’) and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

So, there I was, drinking French wine, listening to great authors, while Himself was strap-hanging on a dangerously over-crowded bus for hours. Ooops. Needless to say, tea wasn’t that much further on from having a tin of beans lobbed at my head. Ah well, seeing Ian was the only good thing this week.

Badness was waking up to being violently unwell, during a violent thunderstorm, and reading Roger Moore had died. My Saint, my Maverick, my Persuader, my Bond. My hero. I’ve adored Roger Moore since I was a child. I snuck in the theatre to see Moonraker (I never sneak).

I was, quite simply, besotted with the man. And, to my great relief, he seemed so sweet and wickedly funny on Twitter (his quiet on Twitter had me worried, I wasn’t wrong to worry). To my further relief, most media reports have been tributes, relating fan love for the man, his good deeds and cheeky wit, and his fine turn as a knitwear model. Really, I couldn’t ask for anything else. Vale Roger, my beloved TV idol.

I’m so very, constantly on the verge of tears sad, but also still full of my love for that man. Last night they played Live and Let Die on telly. Roger Moore, immortal, forever dashing.

I think I was oddly happy, too, to discover so many I follow on social media were massive Persuaders fans (points awarded). I loved that showed. And I adored Maverick. But my favourite would have to be The Saint. I don’t know why, but that suave crime-fighting (later, in the silly 60s, giant monster ant fighting) international man of mystery really took my breath away.

Depending on what age I was at the time of viewing, it was either about the clothes and the cars, the grittier black and white episodes where he was more anti-hero with a conscience, more of a crook than a playboy with a heart of gold, or it was the wacky full colour mid-sixties episodes where the previous too cool Simon Templar became a cardigan wearing grump complaining about pop music and teenagers. And I still loved him. There’s a Saint episode for every occasion, if you want black and white noir and Soho nightclubs, go early. If you want giant ants roaming the Welsh hillsides or brainwashed teenagers, go late. I loved that show. I loved Roger.

The Persuaders, well that just seems just get camper with every viewing. I don’t know what they were thinking, but the series is thoroughly enjoyable. Seriously, some episodes feel like Roger and Tony have taken some time out from their holiday to stumble in front of a camera, but the results are joyous.

Maverick I came to late, only having seen the show when Fox Classics played it a few years back now, but I was hooked. Some of the greatest episodes ever committed to film are contained within Maverick, in my opinion. Sadly not many of them were Roger’s, but he had a few crackers, and I still want to know what he did to get a fire hose in the face in one episode because he breaks character and it’s so obviously unscripted but delightfully silly.

Bond, well, technically he was my Bond, but my Dad always preferred Connery (even if he was a lowlander), but Live and Let Die and the Man With The Golden Gun, total faves. I never did get that Saint film I wanted, but as far as I was concerned, the Bond films were near enough.

Oh man, it was such a joy to watch him last night. At least he’s not gone, gone. He’s still there, taking up shelves of my bookcases (dvds,  memorabilia). He’s there, on my playlists. Immortal. Beloved.

But it hurt. And he is gone. No more zingers on Twitter – damn, I’ll miss that. It made me love him so much more, as if that were possible.

Ah, why must you make me live in a world without heroes.

mockturle06: (Dean)
This morning I woke to the news that both Homer Simpson and William Shakespeare were now following me on Twitter. The very idea of it just made me smile. Clearly I preach to a broad church - smirk.
I think it was just cause I posted an article on Simpsons quotes as memes (thus telling the age of writer and reader, and a tweet on going to see the STC briefing for the Scottish play. Alas, I was really tired and kind of fed up so I don't think I got as much out of it as I usually do, but Hugo Weaving was there, right in front of me, and that has to count for something.

What can I say, the moment I realised I was in for another extreme re-imagining of Shakespeare, my heart just sank and everything else was just mechanical listening, though the ghost story was cool (well, somebody had to ask about the 'curse' and at least it wasn't me).
more: full of sound and fury, signifying nothing )
mockturle06: (Dean)
Still with the allergies in extremis, and hacking away at all the weeds and scrubbing away at the mould is supposed to help but in action is really, really not. Didn't get to the scanning as planned because the weather report said apocalyptic storms At Any Minute! What we got was a sprinkle of rain that would have struggled to dampen a tissue.

Instead I'd settled down to the classic old Hitchcock version of 39 Steps and a wicked box of chocs, achieved because I'd idly bet a box of chocs on a completely predictable outcome to the Newsroom finale (yay) and Himself thought he'd better pay up after my rant about other people welching on a bet made fairly and squarely and even written down. I reserve the right to use this further example of lowdown dirty behavour as irrefutable proof that the sods are indeed villainous scum deserving of my scorn and contempt. Fair enough, right? I mean, what would Nucky do?

So, after some frantic drudge work, me, couch, chocs and the wonderful Robert Donat. Hey, a gal's gotta have some happy time. It is the best version of the tale ever filmed, I really love it, and so ripped off some scenes were they were almost unfairly comical in a 'that old trope' kind of way, even though this was the original, or near enough. There were two scenes seemingly straight out of Bond flicks that had me thinking 'hmmmm'.

Okay, so I wasn't watching it properly (I blame the boxset of Rifftrax I was sent on Friday) but it was all 'Richard Hannay, confirmed bachelor' after that sculpture in his hallway, and the scene where he and Mrs Scottish Farmer stare at the page of the newspaper in horror, the page advertising HP Sauce, which got us onto HP Sauce speakeasys and Nucky standing on the beach while squarish bottles tumble ashore. Like I said, not watching it properly. Being very silly. And loving it.
more: I think you're experiencing Captain envy )
mockturle06: (matt and tim)
Okay, Twinings Russian Caravan is still really quite horrid. I thought I'd try it again as, despite my father describing it as tasting like the sweat of the donkeys that carried it across the steppes, I don't mind the T2 or Whittards of Chelsea versions, but Twinings? Bleuck.

Okay, so I did the Social Media course at Sydney Uni yesterday, taught by Laurel Papworth, so, even though it was only a day course, it was a proper course, and it was such a struggle to get the day off, and I paid for it myself, and it was very much worth it as, being so firewalled for years, I'm so out of touch now and completely lacking in the basics. Like adding my contact details (duh). Which I'd not added for good reason, but these days there's no such thing as privacy and I'll just have to own my peversions and maybe that's why nobody ever contacts me any more?

I mean, I even miss the hate mail, how sad is it, I don't even get hate mail any more. I miss the blog trolls. I miss deliberately baiting a certain boy because I'd be bored and I'm a brat and he used to bite so easily it was just a simple matter of finding the trashiest article of particular interest I could find, reposting it and waiting for the angry snap. I used to think of it as a game. I must have been so annoying, but it was fun, in a wicked, taunting kind of way, and like I said, I was bored and I'm a brat. I miss it, though. I miss it a lot.

Speaking of missing a lot, there was a prolonged sulk over not receiving any birthday or xmas messages this year. Well, my apologies, you did send them, and Yahoo just dumped 700+ messages in a folder of undelivered mail, and, slowly working my way through them, I fould them all there. So a very belated thank you (and bollocks to Yahoo). There, too, were all the receipts and tickets for stuff that had caused me so much trouble (phoning airlines and hotels to confirm bookings, double ordering stuff cause I thought the first, and even second, order hadn't gone through), all there. Not a single spam message I note, just the stuff I really needed to see. Nice one, Yahoo.
more: oz kulcha )
mockturle06: (Dean sad)
Remember the days of summer, both of them, snarked the Peanut Gallery. It's turned rainy and cold again.

I know I do keep on about it but I'm not used to it being this rainy and cold, especially in February. It's not right. The last time I remember it being either wet or cold was when I was five. Wet, as everyone else had gumboots except me, and cold because it was the one time I wore the woollen hat my distant grandmother had knitted and posted to me. I loved that hat, but I never really wore it, Sydney winters not being quite on the same scale as Aberdonian ones. But I remember wearing that lovely hat that winter, it was blue, and of wool so soft, and I remember the wind pinching my cheeks. Oh yes, it had little ear flaps that tied under my chin. Yes, it was an ear hat, and there's nothing wrong with those (the only other ear hat I've ever owned I bought in Edinburgh for one Scottish winter and it did remind me of that wee knitted hat, and never as good).

Sorry. So, yes, wet, cold, February. What's that all about?

It does mean I'm wearing my big boots and my old blue velvet jacket, just cause I felt like it, 'kay? Besides, dressing up has gotten me nowhere this week, so I might as well be happy, and the silly blue coat has caused a few people to smile (in pity or approval I know not).
more: you can leave your hat on )
mockturle06: (matt and tim)
That was a very unsatisfying lunch in the park. I had to break off halfway through a scene, and I hate doing that, though I really wasn't on a roll per se, just trying to get down a scene I thought of on Saturday but still haven't managed to get down on paper because stuff keeps getting in the way.

I just wanted to finish it because Neal and Peter are aboout to kick off into a very savage fight. Neal has just accused Peter of only ever dropping by for two reasons, one being illegal search and seizure. Neal has struck the target and they're about to start slinging and flinging, but, well, it might as well be the old lunch time bell from high school, grumble. Back into your corners, boys. Round two, whenever.
more: o brother )
mockturle06: (matt and tim)
Freeman described the show as a "love story" between Holmes and Watson. "Not just a love story – these two people who love and need each other in a slightly dysfunctional relationship, but in a relationship that works," he said. - The Guardian

Well, at least one of my shows isn't afraid to mention the friendship that dare not speak its name.

And lookit, my favourite tv grifter, getting some respect:

In 1957, he got a call for a humorous new TV western called “Maverick.” Garner’s job was to play a no-better-than-he-had-to-be gambler, a likeable rogue whose charm — and creative approach to the law — always saw him through.

That slippery character would be one that Garner returned to, but with a twinkle that set him apart from other, more anguished anti-heroes.

Garner’s guys were slick (which, not surprisingly, had been his high-school nickname) but they weren’t wounded, or wounding. Yes, they always snagged the best table, the prettiest girl — but they were so upfront about their schemes, you somehow didn’t mind.

more: the owls are not what they seem )
mockturle06: (DeKay)
Hee. Stayed up late last night watching Doctor Who because I couldn't wait and I was being spoiled rotten, but more of that later.
more: pull to open )
mockturle06: (matt)
Well, it finally rained, and rained, and rained on the weekend. At least the tadpoles were happy, out in their rapidly filling to the brim bucket. I wish I could say I did more than to tend to the welfare of tadpoles, but alas not. The interwebs were denied (down to 1.4kbps again, which most sites uncharitably regard as 'disconnected'), and I'm afraid I chose sloth again (despite wearing the faded workpants of industry). I'm still getting over this lurgy, and it's been a rough week, especially when everyone just thinks you just have a little cold and not great hacking pneumonia because how can you possibly get pneumonia in the driest summer on record?

That's what you get for Bunburying, snarks the Peanut Gallery with prim glee. True, one lie does beget others, but I'm rather addicted to Bunburying. Nothing like running away for a bit to restore the spirits (except for the dratted pneumonia, but it can't be helped).
more: potrait of a cheese maker as a young man )
mockturle06: (Neal)
You know, the whole time I was waxing bucolic on Sunday there was a half eaten pigeon hidden amongst the scatter of leaves behind my chair (which I swept up later). The leavings of my hawk, I'm afraid. I should be revolted, but she's such a wonderful looking creature, I reckon she can have a pigeon or two, if she must. Would that I could train her to the lure. I've seen it done. It looks like fun.

Meanwhile, still beastly and grim lunchtime in the park imperiling weather, but not a drop in the garden. Grizzle.

And finally, I'm wondering if somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something, well, I don't know what I did, but...

David Hasselhoff is now following you on Twitter!
more: we don't need this fascist groove thang )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (Default)
Neil Gaiman:
I have been to WalMart at midnight, & returned with a rawhide bone.
I have been to Walmart at midnight, & you should not go there alone.

Heh. Braved the grim, freezing day for a quick lunchtime run to the shops. It is so cold. And I suppose you're all thinking well it should be all grim and freezing cold in December, but it's December, man. I know this is just all part of some fiendish plot to lull me into thinking I can give chocolates as presents this year and then the day will dawn a blazing and blistering 45C and the expensive euro-chocs will just be greasy stains in the bottom of the box. Fool me once, etc, etc. But in the meantime, crikey, it's cold.
more: duck fat splat )
mockturle06: (Dean sad)
It's technically the first day of summer, but it looks like somebody didn't get the memo. Sure enough yesterday was very autumnal, with rain squalls, washed out sunlight, wind tearing yellowed leaves from trees. Today though it's full on winter, all cold lashing rain. To be honest, I could have stayed to watch the Centrepoint tower vanish in the swirling mists and squalls and then momentarily reapppear before being blotted out again, for quite a while, but I didn't, because it was dashed unpleasant being out-of-doors.

At least it wasn't raining yesterday evening, and lucky I decided to pick up a california roll on the way home as dinner was an al fresco affair on the back veranda.
more: why does it always rain on me )

liar, liar

Nov. 16th, 2010 03:16 pm
mockturle06: (Neal)
I wish I could watch whatever show the person who does the White Collar promo clips is watching. Oh, they tease, tease, tease, they nudge and they wink, but when the episode finally unfolds it ends up nothing like the promised and much advertised bromance, and I always (okay, almost always, "Company Man" offered up some treats but skipped the payoff) feel somewhat cheated and ripped off.

Still, I suppose that's Neal Caffrey all over, ain't it. All hat, no cattle.

At least have my wandering, never ending fic to with which play with whether or not Neal is running a long con on Peter, is suffering Stockholm syndrome or is actually and truly dippy for Peter because Peter is the one person who genuinely intrigues him, or d) all of the above.

But damn it all, what I wouldn't give for a HBO version of the show where they make good on their promises.

On a happier note I spied several ads for White Collar on W (starting 5 Dec), all of them cute, and yes, there was squee. Audible squee. Oh, show. Oh, Neal. Oh boy.
more: the weather started getting rough... )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (Chuck)
Today, my 'other duties as required' incude: bear fluffer.

There were some great lines on tv yesterday. From The Saint: "People who say money can't buy happiness just don't know how to spend it", and from Maverick: "I'm gonna shoot you so full of holes you're not gonna know which one to bleed outta first". Is that a classic Western line or what?
more: but they do wear tweed )
mockturle06: (White Collar kiss)
Finally, I come to priase White Collar, not to bury it. I know, I'm as confused as you are. I mean, how did they finally manage it? One damn fine episode. All I can say is: fluke.

Or maybe it's just me who loved it, because it was big on the Pete and Neal, and mercifully light on annoying sidekicks. Mind you, I do wish I'd written this before I got to my Persuaders fest, because I just loved the scenes with Neal and Peter in the hotel, Peter being all prissy over the bar fridge, and Neal just sprawling on the sofa. I mean, look at that sprawl. Seriously, if Peter isn't hitting that then he's the world's biggest eejit.

But then, alas, it was a case of not bad for a beginner, but this is how you do it, baby, as Danny and Brett take us on a masterclass of tv hotel hijinks more: doing what comes naturally )
mockturle06: (White Collar kiss)
High tea in a lush Japenese style garden, or whatever the Japanese version of Chinoiserie is, with a jazz band (singing all the big band, Rat Pack songs) and a retro fashion parade. What a wonderful way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
more: worst episode ever )
mockturle06: (matt)
Quote of the week:
"So it is that Britain's latest men's style icon is a fictional asexual sociopath first seen onscreen hitting a corpse with a stick." - Alexis Petridis: No chic, Sherlock

Well, yes, quite. Btw, the dvd finally arrived, via the always slow boat from parts northern. And, since I'm with the Sherlocky news, did we nearly lose John?
Say it ain't so, Martin (though, truth be told, he would have made a perfect Bilbo, can they not delay the film, after all the delays so far, what's one more?).

In more sombre news, the man responsible for so many inadvertently amusing winter night's entertainment has left us. The man who gave us creepy Uncle Buck (hands! hands! hands in new places!), Adam's BFF (the glorious episode with Robert Culp) and non pc giggles aplenty. Vale, David, I could not have survived this winter without you: Bonanza Creator David Dortort Dies at 93.
more: out, damned spot! )
mockturle06: (White Collar kiss)
Or when extraordinarily crap actors happen to good shows, or shows I was watching, in any case.

Monday: I've been travelling via train a lot lately (effing transport) and I noticed the no boozing sign was a crossed out martini glass, ala Ghostbusters. So I had to wonder, who is this phantom martini swiller who clinks the martini glasses on grotty cityrail trains? Because it's so not the place where anyone would ever pour themselves a martini, either shaken or stirred.

I am, of course, imagining some desperate version of Jason King, having lost the Bentley in the GFC, and now drowning his sorrows in suitable fashion every time he boards those vile carriages. Poor Jason, that it has come to this?

Yes, I am easily distracted by unreality.

Meanwhile, we stayed up late on Friday night to discover why there was a disturbance in the force as 7 million voices cried out in dismay. In other words, I watched the last episode of Sherlock.
more: Get Mozzie, too )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (Chuck)
Thurs: The house boy is attempting a Roman dish tonight. Yes, more Italian (just finished off a magnificent lasagne) but this time he's attempting something from Apicius that he saw on telly. He's ground up all the herbs already and had them in a jar. It smelt...wonderful.

I think it'll be much better for us, too, than the piss-taking straight out of a packet 70s repaste that was whipped up last Saturday as a giggle. That's the problem with being children of the 70s. What we ate was so bad, so entirely composed of fifteen syllable chemical compounds, so when we have nostalgia childhood treats we just know we're doing ourselves no good. But still, instant pudding....mmmm....
more: the proof is in the pudding )
mockturle06: (Dean)
Tues: I'm still perusing all the Comic Con palava, and I must say, I'm kinda missing Supernatural right now. The boys look so cute. Damn you, show, where for art thou? (Certainly not in the Channel Ten schedule, that's fer sure). Oh yes, thoroughly spoiled now, but it was worth it for the pretty. Pretty pretty.
more: if you go down to the woods today )


mockturle06: merlin in a hat (Default)

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