Last night's post was a touch on the melodramatic side, I'll grant you, but it matched how I was feeling. Gettin it all out onto paper, or pixel-stained post-millennial equivalent, helped a lot.
Wanna know how I know I'm over it? Good, because I'm about to tell you.
Cee Lo Green's seminal ‘Fuck You’ came on the radio while I was settin up the breakfast room for tomorrow. (Minster FM are actually pretty good. They were playin TMBG earlier on.) It was the bowdlerized radio version, natch, but I fixed that while dancin around the tables, arrangin cruet sets, and generally thinking that my life is pretty okay.
Such a deep and meaningful song, too.
And this time I didn't even need the Shatner to help.
I am a fucking genius.
The downsides of living in at work are many and multifarious. For a start, I don't get a day off unless I unplug the phone and refuse to leave the flat—when I will invariably be faced by staff on the way out who have questions. Most recently I spent 42 days at work without a break, and while there were technically one or two days in there when I was not on the rota, I don't count it as a day off if I get eight phone calls within three hours. Just now I had a longish weekend that I took seriously, and today it was back into the fray.
(That worked well. Rocked up all refreshed and ready to go at 9am—okay, 09:20, but I was aiming for 09:30 so I STILL WIN—and relieved
$DM so she could get her breakfast. She'd been at work since 3pm the preceding day. (When I take a weekend seriously, I take it seriously.)
I'll take the phone, said I,
no need to fear, daddy's back. I may or may not have said the last bit out loud. Within thirty seconds I took a phone call from guests who'd just checked in, which went thuswise:
Hello, we booked a Yes. We do. But you didn't book one of those. Welcome back to work, pajh.)
small double room online, and we've just arrived and are surprised to find that it's quite small. We were told that you had big rooms.
On the other hand, the benefits of living at work include, but are not limited to—actually no wait, they are pretty much limited to—that between the hours of 7am and 11pm I have a captive audience upstairs (also known as "my direct employees") for whatever I choose to rant about, or, once or twice a week, as guineapigs.
I may or may not be a good hotel manager. But I'm the kind of hotel manager who will (frequently) run up to his staff with a glass of booze in each hand, and cry:
QUICK, TASTE THIS—WHICH ONE IS BETTER?
Anyway, I pulled this on
$DM last week with the experimental jehane, and it must have gone pretty well, since I let her organize the staff social for this coming Friday, and she wants to bring everybody back to my bar so I can make them cocktails. We don't even serve most of this stuff in my bar, and I'm damned if I'm bringing everyone down to my kitchen.
Anyway. I invented the jehane, and I have since (not because of peer pressure or anything) perfected it. A post like this really deserves pictures, so I apologize for there not being any, but this can be remedied if there is sufficient demand. This is how you make a jehane:( Recipe, with occasional digressions )
It is marvellous and I am a genius.
I'm calling it the jehane because it's sweet, it's refreshing, it involves a little bit of fire up top, and it's never bloody available inna bar when you want one.
We did what we set out to do: punish the Lib-Dems and Scottish Labour for siding with the enemy. Democratically, of course. And we got exactly the worst possible outcome as a result: trounced Labour and handed a majority to the bloody Tories.
It's a pretty slim majority, and I understand that the Tories have a long tradition of backbench rebellion, so a coalition of the Left still has a chance to keep the bastards on their toes. For that to happen, the Lib Dems and Labour need to demonstrate that they've learned their lessons from last night.
I suppose we got exactly what we deserved: more work! It's the SNP's job just now to speak truth to power, as the largest effective voting block of human beings currently in Parliament. Labour have more seats than the SNP, but they'll be a complete waste of space until they decide what the point of them is—and that's assuming they even decide to be on the left. They certainly haven't been for the last twenty years. And the Lib Dems are dead for a generation.
Also—let's be honest—some of these new SNP MPs are going to suck, at least for the next while. Nearly all of them are brand new and most of them, when they were listed as candidates, were in seats where they didn't have a hope. That all changed and now they're in charge. Nicola will sort them out; I've met her and she's awesome.
Gotta say, I am amused at the huge amount of nothing that was eventually signified by all of Ukip's sound and fury. I am willing to put good money on the fact that not a single one of those 3,881,129 Kippers voted Yes in the AV referendum. One seat they managed under FPTP: no pasaran.
Yesterday was a 33-hour workday that started at 1pm on Wednesday and continued through until 10pm on the Thursday: the ninety minutes sleep I got in the middle doesn't really count. I finally got off to sleep at 3am and then the bloody taxi driver rang the doorbell at 03:30. Got back to sleep at about fiveish and then was up again for work at six. At some point on Thursday, I got to see Jehane for a whole ten minutes and I managed to make it around the corner to vote. During that 33 hours,
$CHEF had made me a bacon sandwich. It wasn't a good day.
I'm still not keen on the SNP. They're too authoritarian for my liking, too nanny-statish, and I disagree with a hell of a lot of their policies. I don't like the way they cosy up to people like Murdoch and Souter and especially—euch—Trump. (Maybe they'll stop doing that so much now.) Ideologically I appear to be a Green— but only a Scottish Green because the party in England and Wales is still stuffed full of anti-science nutjobs. Yesterday, the SNP were the only left-leaning party with a hope in hell, so my vote was obvious. Also I did it to piss off everyone in England. I'd had enough of all the hysterical pearl-clutching anti-Jock media coverage. You're welcome, England. You brought this on yourselves.
So, having cast my vote for the SNP and finally able to tear myself away from the desk at 10pm, it was off down the chippy for a haggis supper, salt an' sauce, anna boatil ay the Bru. I had no particular political motivations for my order—sometimes a man just needs salt an'sauce—but it seemed appropriate. I think I might have gone native.
Yesterday was the first time I've ever voted when the result has actually gone my way. I suspect I shouldn't get accustomed to it.
The next five years are going to be bleak. Look after your loved ones.
Off down south tomorrow for a company meeting. I went to the bank today and withdrew £20 in Scottish fivers,
because I want to piss them off. The bank teller had never heard that one before—seriously? I honestly thought everyone did that—and told me I'd made his day.
All set for this goddamn nine-hour train journey tomorrow. Gots my sound-isolating earphones, emergency Irn Bru (can't buy it down there), emergency whisky (Islay Mist, won't react with the metal in the hunt flask), gots my vindictively pan-European sandwich, and my instructions for haxx0ring free train wifi. Spent some time with stormsearch perfecting my Scots accent.
Michael Mcintyre has this bit that he does about, every time someone wants to spend a Scottish banknote, some mad Scotsman pops up from nowhere and shouts
don't you know that's legal tender. It's funny because it's true, and not, I hasten to add, because Michael makes any effort to make it funny in any way. He crams this bit in to any set he can.
Heard a Scots accent on my way to the theatre tonight. Reminded me of that guy who says: . And off he goes again.
don't you know that's legal tender
stormsearch is not a qualified voice coach and her instructions have been sporadically helpful, but with her experience combined with my voice-talent nollij, we made headway. The word
£ is a particularly difficult word to say in Scots. There's an argument that it's pronounced
poouwnd and another, equally legitimate, argument that it should be pronounced
pnd, and both of these should be done simultaneously, while also pronouncing the
ou as an
ai except that it's really more of an
eh but do it with your face all scrunched up like this. I got there eventually. As is so often the case with learning experiences in my life, whisky helped.
Thus, I am now ready to have the following exchange, should it be necessary, with an unsuspecting southerner:
Good day to you, shopkeep, and what a marvellous day it is indeed. I would like to purchase this bottle of Coca-Cola® if you'd be so kind. What's that? You doubt the authenticity of my cash monies? Well, dear shopkeep, I do so regret that it must come to this, but I fear you leave me little option but to go Full Scotsman on you. Ahem. DON'T YOU KNOW THAT'S LEGAL TENDER, that's a five pooouwnd note ya wee numpty, huv ye no seen a five pnd note before ya great sassenach.
Interesting, perhaps, to note that, although I am a trained voiceover artist and a remarkably good one, it's only been since this week that I've been able to pronounce
sassenach with the appropriate amount of sass.
And I know there's no such thing as legal tender, but the unsuspecting southerner won't.
The 23rd century is going to suck, and this is why: all of those hot alien babes, green-skinned or otherwise, saying
what is this human emotion you call love, to which I am compelled to reply:
baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more.
Buwuh? [Or alien equivalent.]
Honey, you wouldn't understand. It's an Earth thing.
DAMN YOU HADDAWAY, COCKBLOCKED FROM FOUR CENTURIES IN THE PAST AGAIN
My wall planner indicates the phase of the Moon with little moon icons (moonicons). Down at the bottom of the planner, to splain the different moonicons used for the different phases of the Moon, there is a legend, or key. It is (and it says so at the bottom of the planner) a moon key.
It is particularly good at the gibbers phase.
The security light outside my flat door has started strobing. This wouldn't be a major problem but that I'm now unable to pass it without throwing some shapes and singing
THE SYSTEM. IS DOWN.
We bought those security lights so that you could escape the building safely in the event of major power failure. Not so that you could throw light-switch raves.
I am in the process of developin a series of whisky-tasting evenings, themed, with narrative cohesion and everything. Partly this is for work use and partly so that I have something I can do if they ever fire me. The big practice session is tomorrow night. I bought all of the whiskies myself (and did so for the pre-practice session last week, and for the copious amount of targeted bar time it took to select the whiskies in the first place). Next time, I hope to be able to expense this shit.
Thinkin of a name for myself should I ever take the whisky-tastings freelance: I quite like
Six Nine Two Events, or possibly
692 Events, which is a tip of the hat to the 692 illicit distilleries closed down in 1834, eleven years after the Excise Act made it much easier to be a licit one. I like the idea of raisin a glass to those stubborn holdouts who kept to the old ways, as a tribute and a memento mori. Plus, it sounds trendy enough that nobody ever needs to know.
Other possible business name ideas included:
LASER SPLOSION WHISKIES,
DIAL-A-SPLOSION (because somebody needs to have a business called that and it's not my responsibility that dialling for splosions isn't exactly what I offer), and
Whiskypalooza, at which point I gave up.
Experienced my first anti-Scottish racism on Wednesday. I've lived in Scotland for fourteen years now and have experienced plenty of anti-English racism; usually from people in bars who were on my side while England were playing Germany but then, ninety seconds after the final whistle blows, decide to call me an English cunt. Oh how we laughed. Feels odd to be on the other side of it, but not entirely unexpected.
On the train down to That London, through That London, and out the other side Dorset-bound. I am pretty much a London expert now. The first time I went down there as an adult I spent the first day simply riding around the integrated transport system in awe. I thought that having a Lobster card would be creepy, RFID and all that, but it turns out to be fantastically useful—look at me, ma! I can go anywhere! They even have boats!
By now I just huff and glare at the other passengers and catch the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square and then transfer onto the Northern Line to Waterloo without a care. I still find London itself a little creepy. There are no old people in London. There are no disabled people in London—although I did once see someone on crutches. Everyone is just slightly too well turned-out and glamorous. It's as if the entire place, all seven million of them, are one giant Potemkin village. But the integrated transport system: that's nifty, and I can commute with the best of them.
Through London, then, and out the other side. Found myself on the train out of Waterloo sitting at a table with three young urban professionals, all wearing amusing cufflinks on shirts that would cost a week's worth of my salary. From the conversation I judged that they were in the business of buying and selling yachts to other, wealthier, young urban professionals. I was becoming increasingly aware that I was in England and that these were not my people, never were. At this point I was listening to Capercaillie on the ipod and eating a deliberately, relentlessly, nay dare I say it vindictively pan-European sandwich that I'd prepared earlier (sopocka and Leerdammer on ciabatta, trivia-fans) in an attempt to stave off homesickness. It was partially successful and that is because, where sandwiches are concerned, I roll twenties. I had crossed the border five hours previously.
Of the ticket inspector I asked a question which, I thought, would be a perfectly reasonable example of the genre:
Is there wifi?
There was a Silence, the kind of silence you only get when the saloon doors flap and the honky-tonk piano player stops mid-arpeggio. Said silence continued for about two and a half seconds longer than was comfortable, although it felt a lot longer while the Inspector looked at me—inspected me, no less— with narrowed eyes, as if I'd asked him for a happy ending. Eons passed, the civilization of man rose and fell, the civilization of cockroaches rose and fell, the civilization of squid rose and fell. Galaxies collided, then crashed and flew off. Then spake the Inspector thus:
No. The company's owned by a Scotsman.
Funny, that, said I. I've just had free wifi all the way down on East Coast Rail. That one's owned by five million Scotsmen.
Okay, no I didn't, but I was thinking it pretty loud.
The training in Dorset was all about time management, so mostly consisted of
To-do lists are good and
Get a to-do-list. Then there was a section on assertiveness, because the fundamental yet unspoken rule of time management is 1] and an indeterminate number of beers,
$FINANCE_DIRECTOR asked of me my opinion on the possibilities of Scottish Independence. I am a good manager who pays attention to his training, and I seize opportunities as they arise. This was a chance to test my newfound assertiveness, so I told him.
scotm, you would have been proud of me, although I suspect some of my figures were off. And I don't think
$FINANCE_DIRECTOR was convinced.
Currently entrained at 113mph, somewhere between Newark-on-Trent and Worksop, on my way back to a civilized nation, where we have free wifi. And healthcare.
What? I defy anyone to claim that isn't totally valid.
Oh, all right.
I run a place where people pay me money to stay over night. The money goes to people in a bigger business in a big city, and I can use some of it to pay my people for the work that they do. I make sure that the rooms are clean, that the breakfast is made well, that the people who stay here can learn all they need to know about the city they're staying in, that enough people stay with us, and that enough money goes to the people who own the building. Sometimes I have problems making enough money, because the place I live is a city that has ups and downs, and the people in the bigger city who own the building don't always understand that. But I am most interested in making sure that the people who stay with us are happy, and that they will come and stay with us again.
I have to make sure that we don't spend too much money on stupid shit, but only on things we need. I also have to make sure that my people are doing what they are told to do. This bit is the hardest.
There are other things too.
(Created using the Up-goer Five Text Editor, using only the ten hundred most used words in the English language, according to some arbitrary corpus that isn't the one I would have picked had I been in charge of this bloody silly meme. Alas I don't get to be in charge of memes, only hotels.)
(Words I was not allowed to use:
The shirt I'm wearing has gone out at the elbows. That's okay, though, because I wear suits these days. Suit jackets cover up a multitude of sins.
I don't even have to iron any more. You can get away with being reasonably shabby as long as you own a suit while doing so.
Last night I was beset by terrible dreams about my time in Iraq. That time we were holed up in a massive stone cathedral when the Americans deployed their terrifying new petrification weapon on a bunch of insurgents. The screams. Being invalided home on a commercial airliner. It took me a good few hours after I woke up before I realized: hang on, I never actually served in Iraq. But it made for a very interesting morning at work. You weren't there, man, you couldn't know. You weren't there.
I currently have all the influenzas but I am in the process of defeating them with whisky, soup, a steak this thick, the Cure For The Common Cold (Pat. Pending), and more whisky. I have to be well again by 3pm tomorrow or my duty manager doesn't get to go home. And that would be bad.
Well, 2011 sucked, and 2012 was a marked improvement. Got promoted twice in twelve months (once last October and once again this June). Became a posh New Town bastard. Made the best bolognese known to man. Invented Eggs Cumberbatch, because somebody had to. Invented girrawheening, with help from highlyeccentric. Somebody had to.
Bought a new watch. It has a compass and a thermometer and a tide clock. Bought a new Gore-tex® jacket. Bought an incredible new fixed-length 50mm f/1.4 lens for the camera. Despite two promotions, still have no money. I wonder why.
Politically, swung yet further to the left (while still becoming a posh New Town bastard, yes, it's possible); finally fell off the fence and decided to go full-on for Scottish Independence. So far, I have donated £250 worth of the company's money to the cause (in the form of conference space we weren't otherwise using anyway), and haven't yet signed the Yes Declaration, because I don't like the wording.
Spent far too much time this year concentrating on work. To be fair, there were the two promotions in the space of twelve months, so I had a lot to learn; and now I'm responsible for the livelihoods of nineteen staff, many of whom I consider friends. But I have this down now. In the new year there will be more food, more drinking, and more loving. I was going to add
more dancing to that list, but let's be realistic here.
May 2013 bring nothing but loveliness to all who read this; for Cameron, Osborne and DuncanSmith, may your next shit be a hedgehog. 2013 is when everything changes, and we gotta be ready.
Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious. Glorious!
"What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.
"Eh?" returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.
"What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge.
"To-day?" replied the boy. "Why, Christmas Day."
"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow!"
"Hallo!" returned the boy.
"Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the corner?" Scrooge inquired.
"I should hope I did," replied the lad.
"An intelligent boy!" said Scrooge. "A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they've sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up there -- Not the little prize Turkey: the big one?"
"What, the one as big as me?" returned the boy.
"What a delightful boy!" said Scrooge. "It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck."
"It's hanging there now," replied the boy.
"Is it?" said Scrooge. "Go and buy it."
"Walk-er!" exclaimed the boy.
The shop's closed, ya senile old bastard, chirrupped the boy, returning to his daily business, and plunging Scrooge into a deep despair from which he never fully recovered.
~ FIN ~
This post brought to you by Charles John Huffam Dickens and the fact that the bakery didn't bother telling us that they weren't delivering this morning. Cthulhu eat us first, every one.
When I got to work at seven o' clock this morning, there was a car alarm outside that had already been going off for at least an hour. One of those annoying ones that, in order to comply with legislation, doesn't sound for any longer than twenty seconds. Then it waits 2.5 seconds and then immediately goes off again. And again, and again. I remind you that this scenario is taking place at 7am. And the alarm is on a shitty 1980s Citroen that no one would ever want to steal.
By 8am everyone at work was going a little bit mental. And by "everyone", naturally, I mostly mean me. So I printed out this:
Tonight, a little bit of Ludwig Van, O my droogs. Specifically, the Scottish Chamber Orchestra perform the Choral Symphony at the Usher Hall with scotm and stormsearch. scotm didn't realize that the Choral Symphony was the same one as the Glorious Ninth until the interval. The look on his face reminded all present what the Ode to Joy is about. I should have charged him extra for the tickets.
Speaking of. This was the second time this week that I've spent money to be the youngest person in the room. The pleasant white-haired old gentleman in the seat next to me made indignant snorting noises when he heard me saying before the concert began, perhaps just a touch louder than conversationally, that the libretto to Ode to Joy was
a load of old wank. The house lights dimmed before I was able to explain myself: if you don't speak German, then the Glorious Ninth appropriately remains music.
If you understand German, the last movement of Beethoven's Ninth is an excruciating exercise in George Lucas-level dialogue.
Joy, sing the choir,
joy is a good thing, we'd like more joy please, and less not-joy would be nice too, joy joy joy, joy is cool. Also: joy. Then there's something about
shiny happy people holding hands and the whole thing degenerates into hippydom. I'm working from memory here.
Beethoven wasn't a poet. I'm fairly safe in making this assertion—he has many other sterling qualities—and, besides, and it's been said before. (“That ‘Ode to Joy’, talk about vulgarity! And the text! Completely puerile!”, said Leonhardt.) Schiller, who was a poet, and who wrote the original text that Beethoven adapted, frankly should have known better. It goes:
joy (which is a good thing that we'd like more of) is like a joyful river of joyous joy, but it says it in German, and therefore it still sounds kinda cool.
We, who are privileged not to understand German, can listen to the Ode to Joy without engaging the semantic cortices, and thus we can listen to the human voice in a symphonic setting simply as another instrument. The voice is a flute as designed by David Cronenberg. It sounds fantastic when you put it in an orchestra. It sounds even better when you use a hundred of them. Just please don't think too hard about what the words actually mean.
What intrigued me about this particular performance of the Glorious Ninth was the second movement, which was among the best I've ever heard. The first movement of the Ninth is grand and regal and wonderful, and then there are the second and third movements, which... exist, and then the audience wake up again for the fourth movement and that glorious Ode. This orchestra took the second movement (molto vivace!) and made it their own. It was peppy; it zipped along. It was energetic and vigorous and it had zing. The tempo was such that I wondered if the conductor had some urgent appointment at the bar, and then the third movement was an appropriately reassuring, lugubrious, respite from all this orchestral fanfara that I forgot any such concerns. Usually I, like most of the audience, would be quite happy to sleep through the third movement, because it doesn't count. This third movement was a good one. It was, in a way I've never appreciated before, a welcome respite between the breathless gallopping rhythm of the scherzo and the relentless onslaught of that glorious fourth movement, which amazes all the senses through purely orchestral means and then, as if it was an encore, breaks out the choral section in order to make the perfect more perfect. O that fourth movement. It gets no better.
The solo vocalists weren't quite top-rank and the percussion was a bit louder than it should be, and we were in terrible seats way up in the gods, but that's why we have live performances. The Glorious Ninth will never sound exactly like that again, and it was personal and intimate, and it was marvellous.
We applauded until our hands stang. On the way out, the pleasant white-haired old gentleman who'd been in the seat next me collared me and said:
the words may be awful, but didn't they do them well? Not appropriately placed for a discussion about semantic cortices, I could only agree. And then, perhaps overheard on the way home, as we walk down the main road past the well-known
Oh. So that's where all the cute strippers have gone.
I went to school with her.
A good day and an interesting one. I hope it remains so after I write it down.
or, Look At Me, I'm Important
Writing a reference for one of my staff.
How would you say that the applicant is trustworthy? I would use my lungs to pass air over my vocal chords, modulating them in such a way as to make the following sounds: the app-lic-ant is trust-wor-thy.
In what way would you say that the applicant is reliable? See question above.
Do you think that the applicant will be able to pay bills/rent on time? I have no idea what she spends it on, but I just got her two major pay rises over the course of a year, so probably, yeah.
These days I have some actual responsibilities to undertake, sometimes, and I'm still learning to restrain my natural flippancy on such occasions. One day it might get me into trouble. Until then I still plan on having some fun.
One of my colleagues, previously referenced in these annals as
$MINION, will shortly be squeezing an entire person out of her body. Tough job. I couldn't do it. So naturally, conversation at work over the last few weeks has tended to revolve around notions of expectancy and parturience. Apparently, so
$HOUSEKEEPING_SUPERVISOR claims, the more younglings you produce, the easier it becomes to pop 'em out.
Specific examples were provided. (I've learned that, once you get a mother talking about the human gestation period, it's difficult to get her to stop.) In particular,
$HOUSEKEEPING_SUPERVISOR's fourth progeny, a (now) young lady by the name of Ella, was so eager to emerge into this world that she hurtled forth in the lift on the way up to the maternity ward.
Brief as the lightning in the collied night, I was. (As the bishop said to the actress.) Ere a man hath power to say
behold!, I said:
Is that why she's called Ella?... middle name Vator?
Tumbleweeds rolled through the scene. (That's okay, I have staff to clean the dining room these days.) Somewhere, a lone carrion bird cried out. Not even a titter ensued. I need better staff.
To be fair,
$CHEF sniggered, but only after I'd said
oh come on, that was funny. He's allowed to take an extra couple of seconds. He doesn't speak English.
In other news, I appear to be a manager now. People laugh at my jokes when they feel they have to. Not everyone, but it's still better than previously.
I give in. I've been doing this job for three weeks, and the technique has already been perfected.
We can close Twitter now. Its job is done.
On a related note, were you aware that more pajh-style wit and wisdoms were available in the new, terse yet stylish, 140-character format? Orient your twit-engine at the following cybercoordinates: gominokouhai. Mostly I rant about politics and make series of terrible puns, but if you've been reading this blog for any length of time you probably knew that already.
Life is currently an unending, relentless nightmare, but I have
701 Greatest Hits of the 1980s on
.flac and you, dear reader, and the rest of the benighted universe that spawned you can kindly fuck off and leave me to it for an evening.
I'm currently up to B. And this one has Bonnie Tyler.
(I'm amused that I go into a directory marked
701 greatest 1980's music hit Singles and think, ooh, what should I listen to next, so I hit double-tab to bring up autocomplete and the computer asks me if I want it to
Display all 699 possibilities? I'm glad that penelope has my back. BitTorrent, you have failed me for the last time.)
(It has Bonnie, but there's no sign of Video Killed the Radio Star. And they have the wrong Spandau Ballet track, but so does everyone, and one can't have everything.)
Also: The Doctor's Wife. OHMYGOD YES.
Hello Paul, your Star Trek costume has arrived. Bloody hell, my life just took a weird turn.
However it's just a top, so if you could please wear black trousers and shoes... welcome to the wonderful world of movie stardom. Please provide the bottom half of your own spacesuit.
Has anyone seen my legs? They don't appear to be below my waist, where I normally keep them.
Playing the Star Trek psycho (it's just occurred to me: That Scene with Janet Leigh wouldn't have worked nearly so well with a sonic shower) tomorrow and Friday, and then, on Friday, I have to change out of the Starfleet uniform and run off to audition for a completely different piece. Specifically, I need to stop killin' dudes, cross town, and do a romantic scene with a beautiful twenty-year-old. I can't see this ending well, and not only because the romance is written by Dostoyevsky.
I mean that quite literally. Dear old Fyodor Mikhaylovich is not particularly renowned for his mastery of the screenplay as an artform, largely due to his untimely death some years before the genre was invented. This script is lifted straight out of the book into a single fixed scene, one set, one shot, no direction, and no regard given to how films work. I gather this company have previously only done stage work: it shows. More work for me. Would be a good part, though.
At regular pays-the-bills work today I've received a single-sentence email (
Can you please confirm that we have a reservation with you for 2 people for 2 nights Nov 11-12) in 100-point Arial text, taking up four screens and requiring me to scroll. I don't respond well to being shouted at. I've considered answering in 200-point ALL CAPS AND BOLD FOR GOOD MEASURE, or maybe whispering a reply in Flyspeck-3. Neither option amuses me sufficiently. I think I'mma sophisticate this up.
my dear mister price
your reservation stands firm
like the ancient oak
Better idea: commission Brian Blessed to phone him up and reconfirm.
Somebody has left a pamphlet in the office about the evils of caffeine. I'm very glad they did. It reminded me that I have a cup of tea brewing. Mmm, tea.
Today's constitutional crisis, threatening to rock the very foundations of the Scottish establishment, is that Our Eck reckons that the Stone of Scone is a fake. I'm not sure what constitutes
fake when we're talking about rocks. Is it secretly made of plastic? Is it just rock veneer on a cardboard facsimile? Is it somehow less rocklike that we've been led to believe?
I've always thought it was a pretty stupid national symbol in any case. Down south, they have the Crown Jewels in all their resplendent finery. Up here we have a chunk of rock, and we're proud of it.
Mind you, Edward I the
Scots-Hammer went to the trouble, in 1296, to raise an army and come all the way up here in order to steal the same said chunk of rock. Who's looking foolish now?
And theories persist that instead of the historic throne of Scottish kings, he was given a toilet seat instead. Who's looking foolish now? I've often wondered how that would have worked. Let's imagine it together, in Braveheart-style glorious Technicolor™-o-vision:( Lights! Camera! Irish Army Reservists! Action! )
From the article, Professor Ted Cowan says:
How credible is it that you can just make a replica of something like that in five minutes because Edward I of England is coming to steal the real one? Actually, it's really very credible indeed. It's a rock. You can find them just lying around.
The Professor, we're told, is
one of Scotland's most senior historians. And yet he doesn't seem to know the scarcity value of rocks. I think Edinburgh isn't what it used to be.
 Pun not intended, I swear.