Friday, 21 February 2014
Duchess of Malfi at Shakespeare's Globe 16/2/2014
Brilliant day out last Sunday at the final performance of the first play staged in the Globe's brand new indoor (and purely candlelit!) stage, the Sam Wannamaker Playhouse. Always wanted to see this one as I mentioned it during my dissertation without actually knowing an awful lot about it. 14 years too late, but it was a really excellent watch. Highlights: lights going out in the 4th act and Gemma Arterton, being tortured by her psychotic twin brother, finds herself clutching what she believes to be her husband's severed hand; some serious heaving bosoms; unexpected singing and dancing; Jacobean smut and gore.
St Vincent live at O2 Shepherd's Bush 20/2/14
St. Vincent in Shepherd's Bush last night - glorious. Guitar wig-outs, ludicrous dancing, pretty ladies, crazy hair, great tunes - what more could you ask for?
Some photos from the actual night rather than videos from other places over the last week or so:
http://www.thelineofbestfit.com/photos/live-photo-gallery/st-vincent-at-londons-shepherds-bush-empire-146472?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+thelineofbestfit+(The+Line+Of+Best+Fit)
And a spot on review:
http://www.standard.co.uk/goingout/music/st-vincent-o2-shepherds-bush-empire--music-review-9143831.html
Squint and you can possibly see us (top left corner):
Sunday, 16 February 2014
Friday, 14 February 2014
Valentine's Day disaster story
From the forums of the Guardian website (article on terrible Valentine's Day experiences):
Oh hands down the worst, though darkly amusing, Valentines Day I ever experienced was about 1998 when I was in my second year at University.
I had quite the unrequited crush on this rather fine young lady, and Valentines day rolls around and I think, well, fuck it, I'll have some flowers sent round, seeing as I was struggling to work up the nerve to declare my intentions and thought at least I could somehow claim the day with a gesture; which with the benefit of hindsight was without doubt the pinnacle of the triumph of hope over experience of my life to date.
So I pick out some flowers, a bunch of lilies (just outre enough to deliver a riposte to the bourgeois rose purchasing classes infesting the campus, but not so avante garde as to seem like I was trying too hard. I got the balance just right and my God, I was the fucking man). It was as this point I should have realised that myself and hubris make a fractious alliance, and that the £20 I was handing over would be far better spent on pints of Bank's Mild.
So I scribble the first thing that comes into my head, a few lines from Blakes "The sick rose". This should have set alarm bells ringing, but it never clicked until later that in my attempt to give my beloved from afar a hint of brooding and dark yearning, what I had actually done was dedicate a verse to her about maggots lurking in the velvety folds of a ripe bud. I may as well have sent a VHS copy of a German shizer porno and have done with it.
But anyway it worked extremely well surprisingly. I got back to my flat, poured myself a bracer, lit a cigarette up and reflected on the various possibilities that could occur, when I could hear my flatmates bed springs hammering as though the fellow was drilling for oil. There were screams, moans, enough to raise an eyebrow and consider putting on Neighbours to drown it out.
And then I saw that fucking bunch of lilies in the kitchen whilst I was hunting for an ashtray.
Oh, she'd loved those lilies. So much so in fact, she'd gone to the flower shop to ask who ordered them, and the owner being caught up in it all had happily given a description of my bastard flatmate who'd been there with me when I bought them. The rest of it is self explanatory, but it gets better. Oh yes, the day wasn't quite through with me yet.
The doorbell goes, and in walks my now getting banged senseless paramours housemate who has just been dumped by her boyfriend (and I use the term loosely), looking for her so she can have a good old cry. Well, clearly her afternoon is fully booked up, so of course she sits down and starts rattling on.
Not only is her boyfriend dumping her, but apparently he is doing it to spare her a life of pain as he has just discovered he has a rare condition that means he is slowly going blind. Quite the advantage I would have thought, because with the best will in the world, and without wishing to be unduly harsh, this girl would have not been out of place guarding the entrance to Mordor.
And so it came to pass on Valentines Day that I sat drinking raw scotch out of the bottle, listening to fucking Gollum going on about how he was the first man she'd met coming off the docks from shore leave who'd stuck around the morning after. Great. The life story of a weeping dock haunting Orc telling me all about how shitty all this trade she's picked up over the months had all developed strange medical conditions, and all set to the soundtrack of the girl I had dreamt of from afar getting smashed in the next room.
Oh hands down the worst, though darkly amusing, Valentines Day I ever experienced was about 1998 when I was in my second year at University.
I had quite the unrequited crush on this rather fine young lady, and Valentines day rolls around and I think, well, fuck it, I'll have some flowers sent round, seeing as I was struggling to work up the nerve to declare my intentions and thought at least I could somehow claim the day with a gesture; which with the benefit of hindsight was without doubt the pinnacle of the triumph of hope over experience of my life to date.
So I pick out some flowers, a bunch of lilies (just outre enough to deliver a riposte to the bourgeois rose purchasing classes infesting the campus, but not so avante garde as to seem like I was trying too hard. I got the balance just right and my God, I was the fucking man). It was as this point I should have realised that myself and hubris make a fractious alliance, and that the £20 I was handing over would be far better spent on pints of Bank's Mild.
So I scribble the first thing that comes into my head, a few lines from Blakes "The sick rose". This should have set alarm bells ringing, but it never clicked until later that in my attempt to give my beloved from afar a hint of brooding and dark yearning, what I had actually done was dedicate a verse to her about maggots lurking in the velvety folds of a ripe bud. I may as well have sent a VHS copy of a German shizer porno and have done with it.
But anyway it worked extremely well surprisingly. I got back to my flat, poured myself a bracer, lit a cigarette up and reflected on the various possibilities that could occur, when I could hear my flatmates bed springs hammering as though the fellow was drilling for oil. There were screams, moans, enough to raise an eyebrow and consider putting on Neighbours to drown it out.
And then I saw that fucking bunch of lilies in the kitchen whilst I was hunting for an ashtray.
Oh, she'd loved those lilies. So much so in fact, she'd gone to the flower shop to ask who ordered them, and the owner being caught up in it all had happily given a description of my bastard flatmate who'd been there with me when I bought them. The rest of it is self explanatory, but it gets better. Oh yes, the day wasn't quite through with me yet.
The doorbell goes, and in walks my now getting banged senseless paramours housemate who has just been dumped by her boyfriend (and I use the term loosely), looking for her so she can have a good old cry. Well, clearly her afternoon is fully booked up, so of course she sits down and starts rattling on.
Not only is her boyfriend dumping her, but apparently he is doing it to spare her a life of pain as he has just discovered he has a rare condition that means he is slowly going blind. Quite the advantage I would have thought, because with the best will in the world, and without wishing to be unduly harsh, this girl would have not been out of place guarding the entrance to Mordor.
And so it came to pass on Valentines Day that I sat drinking raw scotch out of the bottle, listening to fucking Gollum going on about how he was the first man she'd met coming off the docks from shore leave who'd stuck around the morning after. Great. The life story of a weeping dock haunting Orc telling me all about how shitty all this trade she's picked up over the months had all developed strange medical conditions, and all set to the soundtrack of the girl I had dreamt of from afar getting smashed in the next room.
Thursday, 13 February 2014
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
Tuesday, 11 February 2014
Monday, 10 February 2014
Romana and Frankie - our new cats!
On Saturday (8th Feb) we acquired two lovely two year old rescue cats, who had come from an abusive household. We were expecting a nervous start from both of them. Within an hour they were already sitting on us. These are our first photos:
Frankie
Romana
And the people they are named after: Lalla Ward as Romana (II) from Doctor Who, and Frank Black (aka Black Francis) of the Pixies
Frankie RomanaAnd the people they are named after: Lalla Ward as Romana (II) from Doctor Who, and Frank Black (aka Black Francis) of the Pixies
Best Doctor Who Non-Fiction Books
The Making of Doctor Who by Terrance Dicks and Malcolm Hulke (1972)
The Unfolding Text by John Tulloch and Manuel Alvaredo (1983)
Special Effects by Mat Irvine (1986)
Cybermen by David Banks (1988)
The Sixties/ The Seventies/ The Eighties by David J Howe, Stephen James Walker and Mark Stammers (1992/94/96)
A History by Lance Parkin (1996 on)
Ace! by Sophie Aldred and Mike Tucker (1996)
The Television Companion by David J Howe and Stephen James Walker (1998)
From A to Z by Gary Gillatt (1998)
I, Who - the unauthorised guide to Doctor Who novels by Lars Pearson (1999)
About Time series by Tat Wood and Laurence Miles (2004 on)
Best Novelisations of 1960s Doctor Who Serials
Doctor Who in an Exciting Adventure with the Daleks by David Whitaker (1964)
The Crusaders by David Whitaker (1965)
The Web of Fear by Terrance Dicks (1976)
The Myth Makers by Donald Cotton (1985)
The Invasion by Ian Marter (1985)
Fury from the Deep by Victor Pemberton (1986)
The Reign of Terror by Ian Marter (1987)
Mission to the Unknown by John Peel (1989)
The Power of the Daleks by John Peel (1993)
The Evil of the Daleks by John Peel (1993)
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