mockturle06 | big tents, giant ducks and card sharks (Reply)

Before I get dragged down by today, I have to tell you about last night. Rotten day, but, oh, the night. Ended up at The Spiegeltent in Hyde Park (our one, not their one) to see the one and only Amanda Palmer, who only just made it, having been snowed in oop north. For a girl who just got off the plane she was rather glam and very nice. She even came out to sign the merch, barefoot and in a yellow silk dressing gown. Gotta love her.

It was grand, too. Himself even broke out the red velvet jacket (how very Pertwee of him), the one that stopped traffic in London, but which I'd not yet seen, and the red embroidered waistcoat (whereas I was making do with my M&S dress, the one I loved but was put down so thoroughly at that other place, being told that if she wore it, the little miss, it'd be much too much and attention grabbing with her good figure and posh shoes and perfect hair, but scruffy old dowdy me dressed it down so much it was barely noticeable and very ordinary. Thanks for that).

So, red velvet, circus tent (eventually, and fie and fie on that ridiculous old woman who let an entire bus load of people in front of us in the queue, who'd never even heard of AP and would be better off sticking to box seats at the opera, harumph, but at least I could bitch and moan and talk Sherlock and Who and Hobbit with the girls I was squashed into behind me) and Amanda Palmer. On stage. At last. (well, it seems an age though it really isn't).

In she walked, just in yellow silk, ukulele in hand, to knock us back in our seats for a (mostly) one woman show with just a keyboard and the ukulele. What a set! What a performance! Sad songs to break the heart, silly songs to smile over, lots of Australian songs from her Australian set (she does seem to love it here). Himself hurf derfing over the Vegemite song, me nearly breaking down during the really downer song.

It was just a magical moment. Back in time for tea and Jack Whitehall on the telly. Ok, that was the best birthday treat ever.

Later...watching Hercule Poirot hand over yet another brow beaten serial killer to Inpector Japp to be arresed under the Spurious Accusatory Ravings Act of 1887 (Amended to the Raving Bollocks Act 1980), whereby a tv detective can make all sorts of wild accusations, with absolutely no burden of proof, witnesses or forensic evidence to back him or her up, and duly have the suspect clapped in irons by credit's roll.

Wouldn't it be fun seeing these cases try to make it to court, although in the age of police verbals, it's probably a done deal anyway. There should be a show of cold case investigators uncovering who really done it, rather than the lady with the unsuitable lipstick being unmasked as really from the lower orders (gasp!) or, worse, foreign (shocker!) who was stitched up for the sake of maintaining the social order. Which is what these stories are all about, maintaining the status quo, either by the protaganist, usually driven by shame, scandal or avarice, and the forces of law and order to restore equilibrium, removing black sheep, moving on gypsies, that sort of thing.

I shouldn't watch such conservative dribble, but as most of these shows are like episodes of Antiques Roadshow with horrible bloody murders (even Boardwalk comes under this banner), I can't help myself. And I am ashamed.

Ah, well. Murdoch Mysteries seems to have finally jumped that shark, but I'm enjoying the Avengers-esqe silly (that's Tara King type silly) so I don't mind. Last Saturday's was so The Fear Merchants it was enough to raise an eyebrow. Did not help that a large spider jumped on my face when I was trying to get to sleep last night. How to be Awake, Very Awake, very quickly, late at night.

And Justified was back. Lots of snappy dialogue and folks getting shot in the head (how sporting do some actors have to be to show up and be shot on camera, thus tidying up dangling plot threads from previous seasons, instead of just being mentioned in passing, as, well, passing). Not a lot of plot, but I supppose it'll pick up. It's usually a slow and convoluted slow burn to the inevitable high noon showdown. And they say they don't make tv westerns any more. Seriously? Have you not seen the hat?

Welcome back, Raylan. All will be forgiven.

And Saturday. Saturday was fun. Okay, now it sounds callous to say I chose the right magic show to go to, but I did. The other one sounded a bit too slick and Vegas, all smoke and mirrors, where this was was just guys doing tricks, old school, and it sounded much more interesting to me. So I went to see Band of Magicians.

You wouldn't think, for someone who has been interested in magic tricks since childhood, and who had a book and had practiced, and even mastered a few (I certainly can do, or used to do, the cutting string trick better than one of the guys), that this was my first magic show, but it was. Lots of coin tricks and card tricks and guessing tricks, but it was pretty cool, and some of the later, more elaborate tricks were fun. It was a fun show.

Three Americans and an Australian, I'll sound overly biased if I say the Aussie was best, but he was, not just clever but very funny with it (maybe the American jokes were just falling flat? You wouldn't think magic was a cultural minefield, but it seemingly is) and very cheeky with it. Part con artist, part magician, I was very impressed.

So that was fun. Also got myself measured as part of the Kaldor Public Art Project 28 (yay, love those).

Quite the cultural day out. I met up with the Scandi friend, we did the magic show, an indifferent Thai dinner (hers was great, mine inedible, service surly) then talk, talk, talk over tea until the sun went down (and time to race home, as the scary people were already creeping out from under their rocks). I completely lost track of the time, so I must have been enjoying myself.

Also saw the giant yellow rubber duck. It's so cute! Yes, I'm mad for rubber ducks. It makes me feel like a kid again (not that I ever had rubber ducks as a kid, but I have a collection from the BM now).

Fun.

photo DSCF0533_zps8f1267d9.jpg

Later still... This place is making me cruel, and I don't like it. Blew past several people trying to ask for money or directions. Don't know, just blew past, and that's just not like me. At least, it wasn't. I guess being distressed all day has hardened me to the concerns of others, but it's not right. Or fair.

Sure, I give up the bulk of my finite time on this earth doing unimportant things I hate for people I can't stand, and I get paid a pittance for it, but that's what we call civilisation. And the Dickensian cruelty that accompanies it, well, that's just shit that happens. The squinty eye that examines every piece of work like a spider, and leaps upon any error, no matter how small, like a rottweiler. The shrivelled pucker who huffs and puffs and groans and flails at the offence my very existence, who moans if I breathe (not that I can breathe here) or staple too loud (god forbid I should have to answer the phone or type). And so it goes. The shrill preen who makes everything my problem to solve, including her lunch order, the menance, the backstabber, the gossip. All day, every day, until I die.

But it's still not excuse to be unkind, just because I'm in so much pain, I cannot ignore that of others. It's wrong. I don't like the person this place turns me into. Actual soul sucking.

And I haven't even moaned about the commute, which is already 1.5 hours longer than last week, and school hasn't even started again. Add another 2 hours and there go my nights as well as my days.

Which is perhaps why, when I was looking forward to Sherlock so much, I found it self-indulgent twaddle. Sigh.

I mean, we've waited two years (more, if one is less self reliant, ahem) for more episodes and we get smug mugging and fan baiting.

Okay, so there were some very nice touches and flourishes re the source material (books and other films, as I discovered when I received a box of Rathbones for xmas that included films I'd not seen, or had not seen for years/decades/centuries including the one where Moriarty goes after the crown jewels), and some lines which wouldn't disgrace a sitcom (so much so I'm expecting the line 'oh, Sherlock!' to be accompanied by canned laughter), but still, but still. Flabby go nowhere plots that brisked over stuff that was cool, or could have been cool had they bothered, to wallow in the shallow end, and what a waste of Lars as a villian (unless he, too, is of the not dead status, which is just getting silly). And does that ending mean the fan-baiting version of both Moriarty and Sherlock giggling away on the rooftop is the closest one to the truth?

Okay, though I would very much enjoy seeing Sherlock battle other villains, I did miss Moriarty. Can't believe I did, but I did. what can I say? I'd grown accustomed to his face...

Miss you? Yes, you loveable scamp, you. Yes, I did.

As for Mary (Sue), well. I guess it's what you have to do to punch up characters these days. It's the one thing I can't harrumph about as I'd been musing that very morning as to why I had so many psychopaths in my life, including my little tame butcher bird who skips to my feet when called.

My grizzly or grisly thoughts followed on from watching Hannibal on Fox8 (after Grimm), and yes, when you want a dead eyed villain, call a Mikkelsen. Mads in this case, putting me right off my dinner, if I'd had any, with a still pretty Hugh Dancy angsting and twitching about the place. They were talking psychos, and I was thinking I need to revise my xmas card list down - grin.

I would anyway, after that awful xmas where I was only wanted for a favour (from a place I've not worked at since the 90s), then relegated to hired help and finally ripped off of all my housekeeping money which I'd foolishly tucked in the back of my brand new purse. I loved that purse. Note past tense, now it has been violated by thieves, all roughly unzipped and opened and thrown back in my bag.

Damn, that purse was the first (and now only) properly stupid thing I'd ever bought just because (had I known that later I'd have to pay to try to get to Aberdeen three times over I'd have left it on the shelf) but it was a proper Liberty print purse, bought in the Liberty store, wrapped in a purple Liberty box. I loved it.

And they took that away from me. Jerks. So I've been over indulging in chocolate (and straining of zippers). Now for the last five years or so I've been pretty good, quietly disposing of the devil's biscuits, but this year all I got was chocolate. Nothing but. Everyone just figured there's a fat lazy bitch who only wants chocolate. Ta. It's upsetting enough to drive one to chocolate without all the other merde. So instead of throwing out the box, I opened it. And because I've been abstaining for sooooo long, oh man, it's like crack, or at least what I imagine crack must be like.

Let me tell you, trying to go cold turkey isn't making me any happier.

And later still... But cheese and some truly excellent grapes help a bit. As does The Hobbit. Finally rolled off to see it, as I've been either frightfully unwell or busy or both (people can say its nerves but it's more likely the back of the cupboards where the xmas stuff lives is laced with rat poison by that mad old bitch, making my hair fall out from beyond the grave, it's a rare talent, that).

So, yes, Hobbity hobbits, more Peanut and Curly Fu this week than is entirely healthy, but there it is. I just wanted to see Luke evans, because I have a thing for Mr Evans now (caught him in a few flicks while bed-ridden) and not even his native tones could alarm or dissuade me from his charms. Oy.

Anyways, also wanted to see the crackling scenes between Elf King and Dwarf King, oh my. Thranduil is supposed to regard Thorin as nothing more than shit on his shoe, but this Thranduil looked like he wanted to eat him up for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He probably had - grin. Oh my.

Pretty sure I wasn't just imagining it, but no matter. Dame Cumberbatch was taking the fruity actor cup this year, with his arch dragon, skittering around under the mountain like a cat on a waxed floor, or something like it. At least my dear and beloved Sir Ian will have someone to hand the wizard hat to, some day (not too soon, I hope, Ian totally rocked this installment, and how come a septuagenarian is the baddest mutha in all of middle earth, huh? I guess there's a reason why they had to cast Michael as young Magneto. (Speaking of Cumberbatch and Fassbender and oh my keyboard, this).

I do hope they don't emasculate Bard any further by giving over his best bits to other characters. Because, yeah, finally, I've gotten to the grumpy age where I really start cringing and grinding of teeth and muttering 'but it's not in the book' plaintively to myself. But really, the barrel escape isn't cool enough that they have to game it. You have killed...15 orcs. Proceed to Lake Town. Arrrgh (though I know a lot of the early platform games I endured were based on the Hobbit and so it's still recursive but dammit I want a fillum, not an x-box game, thank you).

I mean, fair enough filling in the bits skipped over in the narrative (Gandalf does piss off and drop back in at various points), and I even cope with Legolas being shoe-horned in, but really (and if I want a dwarf/elf romance, I know where to look - smirk).

I dunno. Maybe I just haven't forgiven Aidan for pretty much texting in his last season of Being Human. Because I did love him in that, Especially the beloved 'Real Hustle' rant while flailing about in marigolds. Such a delight.

You know, that's what made Buffy and Being Human work so well, the mundane mixed up with the fantastic. Vampires, werewolves, prophecy, bills, groceries, sitting exams. Lovely stuff. Then all those shows, and, indeed, Whedon himself, forgot about the ordinary that made the extraordinary so special. I mean, seriously, SHEILD, when I watched it, made Torchwood look like pure gold in comparison (and really, they're pretty much the same show).

The only two shows that have anything like right now are Grimm (cited on that BBC panel as an approved Buffy replacement) and Sleepy Hollow. Sherlock used to, but it, too, has disappeared up its own fundament and is living in heightened fantasy land, with little of the salt of real life to flavour its fluffiness.

So, yeah, still with the Aidan issues, wondering if they're going to stay true to his character arc in the book. Well, he's got a girl now (hurf derf, you know what that means, even The Goodies sent up that trope good and proper).

And as for the 'is that it?' ending. Well, still not pleased about the three part fillum. Two parts, yes, I can see that might have worked, three has stretched the franchise into flabbiness.

Oh well. At least I did it Gold Class so I had a comfy chair (no cushions) and booze to get me through it. Done now. Tick.

Now there's a way to reorganise my dvd in collection in new and exciting ways, instead of just cataloging according to genre: westerns, supernatural westerns, Victorian detectives, actual Melbourne detectives, supernatural cop shows, Canadian vampire cop shows, etc. What if I coupled up my dvds the way actors couple up? Should North and South now nestle with Pushing Daisies? Ashes to Ashes with Ripper Street? The Sienna Miller sushi sisters shelf of shame? Smirk. Perhaps not. But it would making for interesting playlists.

Oh, speaking of tv vampires, and, frankly, when am I not, I've started giving Copper a go, because 19thC Victorian cop shows are far too thin on the ground for my liking and yes, cancelled, I know, but we're so far behind I've still go a ways to go before the, no doubt, abrupt and unsatisfying conclusion. And it has Kyle Schmid in it, you know, he who played Henry the vampire in Blood Ties (my other Canadian vampire cop show) and Henry the vampire in the US Being Human. Confused now? Well, he's in Copper, so I'm watching it, m'kay?

Meanwhile, the Murder Mower Shop has turned into a gym. There was a mower (and hardware, one presumes) shop, not that far from home (natch), whereupon they sold criminal supplies. I swear, if someone had chopped up a body with a chainsaw, or busted into a bank vault with a sledgehammer, they'd bought it from that shop (passing it daily meant I noticed it's name pop up in the paper on a near weekly basis).

It was like a Supernatural episode or something of evil power tools (although I suspect the far more prosaic answer is that it was just a criminal outfitter outlet). Anyway, it's a gym now. I'll let you know if any more horrible murders happen associated with the premises.

Yes, I am grisly. Comes of learding a hard, poor and sordid life, so they tell me. Ah, well.

Right now: Fighting off a cloud of mozzies (they wew even biting my eyelids, so fierce is the comptition to bite me), but I need to tell you about last night. I saw Edwyn Collins. In Parramatta, of all the places in the world. I never thought such a thing would ever happen, what with Edwyn's story and my geographical isolation. Ye, there he was on stage. wonderful, just wonderful. He still has that amazing voice, and that quirky turn of phrase, and is as cheeky as. He even managed to stand up to do Rip It Up. Oh, man. What a show, and so much love for him. I've been a fan since I first saw parts of Orange Juice's Old Grey Whistle Test set screened on Rock Arena. In other words, for decades (yikes). One of the most influential bands from Scotland (oft cited).

Oh, that was such a pleasure. A treat. Kind of wonderful.

I think I'll finish off on that.

"" (Watch on YouTube)

My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.

big tents, giant ducks and card sharks

Profile

August 2020

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags