Can you get out of the Crimson Room? Took me about 2 sodding hours!
Just some film news today, too zonked for much else really (weekend back in Arbroath with brothers watching the Red Arrows and a Chinook and riding in a helicopter and getting sunburnt and not getting much sleep).
• Moore’s V for Vendetta (trailer, get Standard version, HD is too big for your monitor and doesn’t work for me)
• Linklater’s vision of Dick’s A Scanner Darkly (beautiful trailer)
• Werner Herzog’s Wild Blue Yonder
• Twitch is another one to add for film news
Off to order some curry, need refuelling.
I was shocked and dismayed to hear that Keira twunting Knightly was to appear in a new adaptation of the book with some twonk playing Mr Darcy. I will not be going to see this.
That will be all.
About a million years ago i went to the Povtery March to fight Povtery. I got baked, grilled and toasted in that order. After a wait in the containment pens listening to self-righteous lefty parents haranguing their bored children for a period that felt akin to a lifetime of Silver Ring Thing , I gave up and sacrificed my integrity and sober chastity to a filthy pint-throating in the TSB.
Approaching paleolithic recent history, a last minute folly resulted in the Final Push at Murrayfield. Roaring Flower of Scotland into Bob Geldof’s wrinkles and accompanying Midge Ure in Vienna. Clooney and Sarandon offering tokens. A film of celebs clicking fingers – to demonstrate child slaughter – that was meant to appall brought forth instead cheers of joyous recognition. Eddie Izzard fist-gnawingly saying English culture instead of British and instantly becoming a baffled and unloved corpse on stage. Geriatric James Brown having to retreat behind an unplugged keyboard onstage every 5 minutes to stare panic-stricken and confused into the horde and get his meagre breath back.
Recent history. Attended two barbecues. One lasted until 10am or something. Met a Finnish girl whose only English was “Yeah I know” in Little Britain delivery.
Tanned a bottle of Retsina in 10 mins flat with a Canadian girl. Communicated with a no-English French guy entirely by enacting Splinter Cell in mime.
I pop like 16 boners! Thank you.
Hey peeps, so with a fatal blow to the vagina, I killed the other applicant who was in for the same job in London as me. Now i’m a fully fledged tax paying, bomb dodging, tube loving(!), hampstead wandering camden kid. Show me your rock fingers. Thereyago.
The last week has been pure fukkin mental like. I’ve moved my worldly goods out of chateau lochee road and into my sisters garage, gathered up all my books and told them that their new home is the attic because mummy doesn’t have enough room in her suitcase and booked business flights down, because the baggage allowance is ace and cheaper than getting my dad to drive in his mobile. Breathe. Also sorted out temproray accomodation in a Shepherds Bush whilst I look for someting more becoming of an intrepid young executive such as myself. Decent. I want a fucking mortgage! No chance
Nonetheless, I’ve taken to London like a cat to minstrels and serotonin levels are at an all time high. Go go gadget smile. Anyway, think I may be in lovely Edinburgh for friday, so keep your phones peeled.
I’ve just been reminiscing about Paris and Fireman’s balls. One summer I had three in one night. On Bastille Day/ night before all the firestations in Paris (and possibly elsewhere?) open up their courtyards and put on big parties or Bals des pompiers. They open up bars to sell beer but I think we brought our own vin rouge in plastic bags.
Anyway, I’ve always wondered what would happen if the city went up in flames. I mean what with all those fireworks going off it’s quite likely that there would be a few small fires. Would the firemen put down their drinks, slide down their poles and run off to attend to the fires?
The Storming of the Bastille, 1789
Today is hot enough that the trains were delayed due to the rails becoming too hot.
Too hot. Rails.
No real motivation for posting this last week despite things happening. I will offer this token cinematic sop then and recommend in the strongest possible terms the new film The Descent (definitely decent dialogue; dread), and old films Titus (more delimbing than Sith) and I Heart Huckabees (charming). Off for a cold bath or something.
Summer in a university town is dull dull dull. I even went to the beach but there were nekkid people! It’s the bloody Open this weekend but at least I get a week off work.. yipeee! Might have to try and escape from all those crazy golfers.
Where is everyone?
..Is very big. And I am very small. And have no friends. Last night I slept in a house accross the road from David Bowie, and next door to Darcy Bussel. Tonight Matthew, I’m in a hotel room in the centre of town where I can touch the opposite walls with my arms outstretched. Wanksocks. I’m scared. I like it here, but I am but a weeny tadpole here for the princess kissing, as opposed to being stepped upon inadvertantly. Fingers crossed. Oh yes. Job prospects. I’m doing a trial week at a branding agency in Camden. Maybe next week i’ll pay taxes. Woo fucking yay.
They have Krispy Kreme doughnuts here.
So far that’s my only positive point on the ‘moving to London – pros/cons’ list. If you could help me out with some more i’d appreciate it. Thanks.