Friday, June 25, 2010
You know, I haven't seen an episode of this quagmired sci-fi sitcom since giving up at the end of Season Two when someone was pressing buttons and the island exploded. It had been two years and firstly,there'd been no answers of any kind, and secondly, there'd been absolutely no toothpaste dropped on the island, leading me to shudder whenever Sawyer played kissy-kissy with that one with the hair. I mean, he'd probably smell like one of the 2 girls 1 cup ladies by then. Just no.
Apparently my friends who 'stuck with it' claimed I was missing a treat, but I'm lazy like that so just went straight to the last episode. I don't think I lost (ha!) anything from the look of it, bar Emily De Raven pulling her own ripcord - I mean seriously, she's huge now. To the point I was mixing her up with Hurley in long shots. I was also content to make up the intervening seasons where, in my head, Season Three they found a pet store on the island. Locke chose a gerbil. He called it Jessica. Season Four had an arc about some washed up boxes of jeans, and they put on hilarious fashion shows. The Others wore things made out of hemp. And Season Five: Sawyer actually got some shoulders, rather than his neck sloping down to his arms at 45-degrees like they do. I think my favourite thing about hisDavidoff advert is they've made him look rugged and masculine coming out of the sea, rather than his neck and shoulders were based on the same angle and proportions as a wirecoathanger.
So, anyway. This finale. To me it felt like a school reunion that won't take no for an answer. I could see it trying to scrabble around for answers, but I think the more important question was when did Jack decide to try a kicky side-parting? I don't know, but it would probably involve a lot of angst. Ultimately, the whole affair came across as a very 'male' thing. For example, the solution to all the island's problems was to take the plug out and put it back in again. That's such a 'boy' thing - girls would have sensibly read the manual and called IT by now.
Oh yes, and then it all turned out to be Heaven, of course, which I clearly Took Against. At least 'Ashes to Ashes' had done it with a little more style - though in that show it was more simply a limbo specifically for police officers. One has to wonder whether there's a specific Hell for all professions. For example, I'd personally be in a Hell of graphic designers, which would be very temperamental yet very lovely to look at. Though I doubt very muchthere'd be a Hell for Starbucks baristas as they're probably there already...
Sunday, June 06, 2010
Well, will you look at that..! There's a dastardly pink counter on this Blogger desktop that tells me that This Very Post is my one thousandth entry into the blogosphere. How fancy! I think we should celebrate, don't you? Strike up the piano, let's have a bit of a champagne and a sing-song before the usual happens: I get a bit too drunk and end up waking in an alleyway, wiping some stranger's glop the back of my legs with a McDonald's napkin. And as we've reached the millennial posting, here's some other numbers that have made up the last 999 posts...
I won two awards! That was a shock, because I do just do this to amuse myself; anyone else getting a laugh out of it is a bonus. But yes, proper awards! I didn't even prepare a speech. They were quite prestigious too.
One Christian website tried to buy us. No, no its true. We once had a very strange phone call from an American gentleman who offered to 'sponsor' us, as long as we started covering one or two topics they decided upon, and "toned down the gay stuff". Oh honey, if we toned down the 'gay stuff', you'd get three lines about Girls Aloud, and that would be mostly about how band member Nicola has all the dancing grace of a dog in high heels.
With a bit of digging, we discovered our mysterious benefactor was part of a Christian web ring, leading to the conclusion that The Illuminati were trying to shut us down! A fanciful leap, if you will, but then I think you'll find that 'The Da Vinci Code' was all the rage at the time.
I've had a grand total of two stalkers. Clear proof that the cult of celebrity can affect anyone (though we've had fewer offers of free facials and goodie bags from, say, Grazia Magazine I'm looking at you) turns out that my silver tongue and tiny profile pic in the corner is enough to get anyone fizzing at the bunghole and decide to wait outside the office I was working in to, well in one case give me flowers and profess their undying love; while the other one threatened to kill me. The police were swiftly called and he was dealt with in a unusually expedient manner.
I've had three boyfriends since I started. Bless two of them. Of course in the gaps were several also-rans, and innumerable Gentlemen Callers who incidentally taught me "I'm cumming..." in lots and lots of languages. There was that joyous summer where my front porch saw more foreign footfall than the UN building in New York. Understandably, those numbers I'm a bit hazy on.
I've spent a grand total of one morning working on a film set, met Doctor Who while he battled Daleks in Manhattan, had a piece of artwork I'd done appear on the BBC News site and in several newspapers, been threatened with legal action once, bought Kate Mulgrew a schooner of wine (and watched her glug it in one as I walked away), got one cat (who's currently on my lap and going to town on herself like no-ones business. I mean really. She's lapping away at her twinkle with all the vim and vigour as a secretary at a Muller Lite yogurt), been interviewed by people for their dissertations on blogging and had strangers shake my hands in bars because I'd made them laugh so much at work that they'd snotted tea. That's a pretty cool list, if you ask me.
And its taken seven whole years to get this far. I know other people pump these things out, their fingers dance across the keys like Jennifer Beals in her audition try-out, but I'm a sedentary creature. I take time to write, mostly because I have the attention span of a oooh look, someone's sent me an email with a link to some free porn and possibly an off-shore African bank account. I must assist!
You see? It's a slow process for me. But I love it so. You can't do all those things listed and not believe you're doing OK, can you. So thank you for sticking with me through all these. A thousand more? Oh go on then..!
Now, where's my champagne? Mummy needs her medicine...
'Peter Pan' seems pretty gay-friendly, right? A boy who refuses to stop having fun and turning every girl into his 'mother', thus instantly eliminating any sexual tension between them. And the only other women mentioned are mermaids - who want to keep hold of you in their fishy domain for the rest of your life (their words, not mine). Oh and Tigerlily, who is so clearly on the Girl Bus, with all her fighting, and sudden friendship of Wendy. I've never given it much of my time; I'm more into 'Alice in Wonderland' myself. And I can't stick fricking 'Wizard of Oz' - Dorothy is such a bore; she lands in a brand-new fabulous place and spends her time trying to get back to flat, grey Kansas. The present Mrs Binding agrees, equating Dorothy one of those dramatic, tiresome girls at a party who makes a big show about having a horrid time, and getting all her friends to take her home.
Anyway, I digress. I was at the Barbican on recently to see a performance of 'Peter Pan' that tries so hard to stretch the source material, yet despite all efforts, was still a glorified pantomime. I shan't bore you with my review of the play; there's a far better one that the present Mrs Binding has written over here. But I will tell you that the audience you get at the Barbican are a little more... well, lets just say I didn't hear the few opening lines of the play because of all the children around me eating healthy probiotic musli bars, their alice band-sporting mummies shushing them while rummaging about in their giant Lana Marks handbags for a tissue. And swear to Cher, when one child was asked by his father whether he'd read 'Peter Pan' he responded with 'I think I do, yes. But mummy may have brought it me in Norwegen..." Also overheard was a ten-year-old in front of me saying "Well, what do you expect from the Lib Dems?" to his eight-year-old sister, and the child to their left getting told off for playing with his Blackberry during the first half. Very odd for a play that is about people refusing to grow up.
Thankfully the audience interaction for the moment Tinkerbell dies was dropped from this version of the play; I could imagine the harried mother in front leaning across her brood to say "Don't clap, children. Navvys 'clap'. We applaud". Here, Tink was played by a ball of fire bobbing about the stage that went out as she died. This left Peter gamely trying to get her going again with a serrupticious flick of his flint lighter (quite visible from our seat) and it took a quite a few goes to get going again. Clearly this Peter didn't quite believe enough. Yet when the lights went up at the end, dotted throughout the Blackberry-carrying children were scores of the aforementioned Gentlemen Who Can't Catch. You didn't need to clap your hands to believe in fairies, you clearly just had to stay around the Gents loos long enough.