The Twenty-Ninth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.
Check it out! I'm on IMDB. I appeared on an episode of Comedy Map of Great Britain as myself. I salute the thoroughness of whoever created that page in listing everybody who contributed to that episode, even members of the public chancers like me. It means, much to my pride and delight, that I am listed alongside such luminaries as Rodney Bewes and Helena Bonham Carter. Hooray for the internet.
Yes, another quickie today. But come on, this is gold. It is true what they say about the camera putting 10 pounds on you. I'm sure I'm much thinner than this.
More soonliest.
Thursday
Wednesday
Everyday vs Every Day
The Twenty-Eighth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.
Man, who's idea was it to do one of these every day. Obviously by now I'm flagging with about a week to go to my first agreed rest point. I know it's bad form to do one of these self-referential doohickeys, but there is a point I want to address here.
What's more important at this stage? Keeping to a daily deadline or making sure you have something worthwhile to say?
I've been reading the blog of comics writer and editor Jim Shooter lately. He's done tons of stuff but my own interest in him comes from his work on one of my faves, The Legion of Super Heroes (the black and white Showcase reprints of the 60s LSH tales, many written by Shooter, are my Fourth Comic Book Recommendation). He was also an editor, later Editor in Chief, at Marvel in the late 70s and 80s. This was a time when superhero comics were still found in newstands instead of just specialist shops and so if a title was advertised as monthly it was vital that it shipped monthly. Nowadays, with creators often aiming toward collected editions of their work as their final goal, a 'writer' or artist might fall behind schedule and individual issues appear months apart (interestingly enough, DC's younger-skewed September relaunch of all their titles has made a big deal out of reversing that trend - stories paced for a regularly-shipping (physically and digitally) periodical seems to be their goal). But back then, Shooter often refers to substandard art and scripts being accepted because they had a schedule to keep.
You can see where I'm going with this. Last night's blog was a bit poor and all that was gained from posting it was a headache from lack of sleep after an extra-long day.
Hmm, I feel a graph coming on. If we plotted how late it got against the effects on my poor head it would look something like this:
Obviously, the area under the graph is where we should all be aiming for.
So how useful is it for me to keep churning out any old tat? Well, mostly it's to observe how I write and see if I can exploit any patterns I see to help me form a working methodolgy. Unfortunately, this so far seems to be based around staying up until nearly 2 o'clock every night. What is it about that time that I accept it as a deadline in a way I won't for an earlier, more sensible time?
That's the interesting thing. If it turns out that that's the best time for me to write i can start looking at ways to make sure I can fit that into the rest of my day. At this stage I'm afraid the content is coming second to the process.
Which of course is another roundabout way of me apologising for another lo-fi blog entry ;-) Stick with it though folks, I'm certain that there's better ones on the way. But for now it's enough for me, for now, to keep regular. Which I guess is another way of saying:
More soonliest!
Man, who's idea was it to do one of these every day. Obviously by now I'm flagging with about a week to go to my first agreed rest point. I know it's bad form to do one of these self-referential doohickeys, but there is a point I want to address here.
What's more important at this stage? Keeping to a daily deadline or making sure you have something worthwhile to say?
I've been reading the blog of comics writer and editor Jim Shooter lately. He's done tons of stuff but my own interest in him comes from his work on one of my faves, The Legion of Super Heroes (the black and white Showcase reprints of the 60s LSH tales, many written by Shooter, are my Fourth Comic Book Recommendation). He was also an editor, later Editor in Chief, at Marvel in the late 70s and 80s. This was a time when superhero comics were still found in newstands instead of just specialist shops and so if a title was advertised as monthly it was vital that it shipped monthly. Nowadays, with creators often aiming toward collected editions of their work as their final goal, a 'writer' or artist might fall behind schedule and individual issues appear months apart (interestingly enough, DC's younger-skewed September relaunch of all their titles has made a big deal out of reversing that trend - stories paced for a regularly-shipping (physically and digitally) periodical seems to be their goal). But back then, Shooter often refers to substandard art and scripts being accepted because they had a schedule to keep.
You can see where I'm going with this. Last night's blog was a bit poor and all that was gained from posting it was a headache from lack of sleep after an extra-long day.
Hmm, I feel a graph coming on. If we plotted how late it got against the effects on my poor head it would look something like this:
So how useful is it for me to keep churning out any old tat? Well, mostly it's to observe how I write and see if I can exploit any patterns I see to help me form a working methodolgy. Unfortunately, this so far seems to be based around staying up until nearly 2 o'clock every night. What is it about that time that I accept it as a deadline in a way I won't for an earlier, more sensible time?
That's the interesting thing. If it turns out that that's the best time for me to write i can start looking at ways to make sure I can fit that into the rest of my day. At this stage I'm afraid the content is coming second to the process.
Which of course is another roundabout way of me apologising for another lo-fi blog entry ;-) Stick with it though folks, I'm certain that there's better ones on the way. But for now it's enough for me, for now, to keep regular. Which I guess is another way of saying:
More soonliest!
Tuesday
A Selection of Favourite Anagrams
The Twenty-Seventh of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.
Crikey, it's been a busy old day today. I'm late to bed again and my poor aching head is lacking anything worthwhile to say, so in order to fulfill my contractual obligations let me share with you a list (oh, I do love a list) of eight useful anagrams.
Vimto = Vomit
Santa = Satan
James Tiberius Kirk = Trek Bi Jesus Mark II
Monday = Dynamo
Parkinson = Or napkins
Dennis Waterman = A Midwestern Nan
Darth Vader = Hard Advert
Spectrum = Crumpets
Thank you
More soonliest
Crikey, it's been a busy old day today. I'm late to bed again and my poor aching head is lacking anything worthwhile to say, so in order to fulfill my contractual obligations let me share with you a list (oh, I do love a list) of eight useful anagrams.
Vimto = Vomit
Santa = Satan
James Tiberius Kirk = Trek Bi Jesus Mark II
Monday = Dynamo
Parkinson = Or napkins
Dennis Waterman = A Midwestern Nan
Darth Vader = Hard Advert
Spectrum = Crumpets
Thank you
More soonliest
Sunday
What Katy Did
The Twenty-Sixth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Sunday.
Dear Katy.
Thank you for the delicious cakes.
I have always liked coconut and it was very sweet of you to remember this. You must tell me sometime how you manage to keep the sponge so moist. My buns always come out dry and it was a real treat to enjoy your thoughtful gift with a nice cup of tea.
However, I'm afraid our time together must come to an end. It has been a lot of fun, but your energetic lifestyle - the cycling, the Brazilian dancing, the children's choir not only in Hampshire but also in Bristol - is proving too much for me. I am basically a couch potato who likes to stuff his face full of crisps and watch telly all day - the growing sense of your disapproval as I cram in another bagel during The Mentalist (and the way you frown when I call it El Mentalista) is beginning to get to me.
Also, it doesn't help that I am old enough to be your dad. Just.
I will always be there for you, but it can never be as anything more than a friend. I remember how upset you got when the jealous hags on Mumsnet started carping on about you putting grapes on pizza. If I'm honest, I think it's a bit daft too, but I know it meant a lot to you so I respected your choice. I will always respect you - I just can't be with you.
If this is to be the last time that we contact each other, let me bow out by suggesting a recipe to you that you may wish to try out on your infant charges. It's called Chicken Curry Super Noodles.
First you need a packet of Chicken Super Noodles. Bring a pan of water to the boil, add the noodles and then add only half of the flavour/seasoning powder. Roll up the sachet containing the remaining powder in order to maintain freshness for future use. Then open a packet of Curry Super Noodles. Take out the flavour/seasoning sachet but leave in the noodles. Add half of this sachet to the simmering noodles. Roll up the remaining powder and place both half sachets inside the unused noodle packet. There should still be enough sticky left on the packet that you can more or less reseal it - don't worry if it's not perfect, just make sure you eat this second lot of noodles before they go stale. No-one likes that.
If you have prepared the noodles correctly there will be far too much water in the pan. You can impatiently drain off the excess and lose much of the flavour, or boil the damn things to within an inch of their life probably burning them on to the bottom of the pan in the process. Serve with a meat thing and a peas/beans thing.
You see, Katy - I can cook.
Keep rocking the jeans/leggings and boots look - not for my benefit, you understand, but for whoever is truly worthy of your affection. And cakes. When I see you on cBeebies dressed this way I will imagine you as a beautiful shepherdess looking after your flock.
Thank you for caring for this lost sheep.
love (and biscuits)
Vin
ps, more soonliest
Dear Katy.
Thank you for the delicious cakes.
I have always liked coconut and it was very sweet of you to remember this. You must tell me sometime how you manage to keep the sponge so moist. My buns always come out dry and it was a real treat to enjoy your thoughtful gift with a nice cup of tea.
However, I'm afraid our time together must come to an end. It has been a lot of fun, but your energetic lifestyle - the cycling, the Brazilian dancing, the children's choir not only in Hampshire but also in Bristol - is proving too much for me. I am basically a couch potato who likes to stuff his face full of crisps and watch telly all day - the growing sense of your disapproval as I cram in another bagel during The Mentalist (and the way you frown when I call it El Mentalista) is beginning to get to me.
Also, it doesn't help that I am old enough to be your dad. Just.
I will always be there for you, but it can never be as anything more than a friend. I remember how upset you got when the jealous hags on Mumsnet started carping on about you putting grapes on pizza. If I'm honest, I think it's a bit daft too, but I know it meant a lot to you so I respected your choice. I will always respect you - I just can't be with you.
If this is to be the last time that we contact each other, let me bow out by suggesting a recipe to you that you may wish to try out on your infant charges. It's called Chicken Curry Super Noodles.
First you need a packet of Chicken Super Noodles. Bring a pan of water to the boil, add the noodles and then add only half of the flavour/seasoning powder. Roll up the sachet containing the remaining powder in order to maintain freshness for future use. Then open a packet of Curry Super Noodles. Take out the flavour/seasoning sachet but leave in the noodles. Add half of this sachet to the simmering noodles. Roll up the remaining powder and place both half sachets inside the unused noodle packet. There should still be enough sticky left on the packet that you can more or less reseal it - don't worry if it's not perfect, just make sure you eat this second lot of noodles before they go stale. No-one likes that.
If you have prepared the noodles correctly there will be far too much water in the pan. You can impatiently drain off the excess and lose much of the flavour, or boil the damn things to within an inch of their life probably burning them on to the bottom of the pan in the process. Serve with a meat thing and a peas/beans thing.
You see, Katy - I can cook.
Keep rocking the jeans/leggings and boots look - not for my benefit, you understand, but for whoever is truly worthy of your affection. And cakes. When I see you on cBeebies dressed this way I will imagine you as a beautiful shepherdess looking after your flock.
Thank you for caring for this lost sheep.
love (and biscuits)
Vin
ps, more soonliest
Metro Maps of the Future
The Twenty-Fifth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Saturday.
Short and sweet today, I think. Time has run away with itself once again...
One of my favourite books is Mark Ovenden's Metro Maps of the World, which is basically a collection of tube, subway, light rail or - indeed - metro maps from all over the world. To a rail and map geek like me this book is a source of deep joy.
But we've always liked to look away to the future here at the windmill. And I say unto you now that there is only one thing better than a metro map and that is metro map showing all the proposed extensions and new routes that will be added to the network in the future. Some are official, some are just speculation, all are awesome. Will any of the phantom lines shown on these diagrams come into being? Some are being built even as we speak. Or type. Or whatever you've doing down your way.
Harry Beck's tube map is rightfully acknowledged as a design classsic around the world. It's tricky when you have something that perfect to add to it, but that doesn't mean someone hasn't had a go.
They've been going on about the Chelsea-Hackney line for yonks - don't know whether that'll ever come to fruition. Crossrail's not too far off now though.
It's like a sigil of some kind, some sort of tribal marking. We may think it's showing us stops on the tube, but who truly knows what its sinister purpose is. Don't stare at it too hard.
Manchester's Metrolink tram network is another scheme that's under expansion. Trams to Chorlton start very soon and new line up to Oldham and Rochdale opens next year. Here's the full proposed network (or 'metwork', if you will) - and here's a nifty geographic version.
It's a long way from the plans they had in the 70s for an underground Picc-Vic line.
Actual Picture of the Actual Sel-Nec Underground station at St Peter's Square (from a parallel world where this went ahead):
Cool.
The current New York subway map is fab too.
It looks like this won't change much until 2016 when the T line 2nd Avenue subway opens, New York's first new line for 70 years. But in the mean time, even though the trains aren't running yet, you can treat yourself to a T-shirt
I now return you to the present day. Even though it has ended up being tomorrow again. So much for a quick blog and then off to bed. Oh well.
More soonliest.
Short and sweet today, I think. Time has run away with itself once again...
One of my favourite books is Mark Ovenden's Metro Maps of the World, which is basically a collection of tube, subway, light rail or - indeed - metro maps from all over the world. To a rail and map geek like me this book is a source of deep joy.
But we've always liked to look away to the future here at the windmill. And I say unto you now that there is only one thing better than a metro map and that is metro map showing all the proposed extensions and new routes that will be added to the network in the future. Some are official, some are just speculation, all are awesome. Will any of the phantom lines shown on these diagrams come into being? Some are being built even as we speak. Or type. Or whatever you've doing down your way.
Harry Beck's tube map is rightfully acknowledged as a design classsic around the world. It's tricky when you have something that perfect to add to it, but that doesn't mean someone hasn't had a go.
It's like a sigil of some kind, some sort of tribal marking. We may think it's showing us stops on the tube, but who truly knows what its sinister purpose is. Don't stare at it too hard.
Manchester's Metrolink tram network is another scheme that's under expansion. Trams to Chorlton start very soon and new line up to Oldham and Rochdale opens next year. Here's the full proposed network (or 'metwork', if you will) - and here's a nifty geographic version.
It's a long way from the plans they had in the 70s for an underground Picc-Vic line.
Actual Picture of the Actual Sel-Nec Underground station at St Peter's Square (from a parallel world where this went ahead):
Cool.
The current New York subway map is fab too.
It looks like this won't change much until 2016 when the T line 2nd Avenue subway opens, New York's first new line for 70 years. But in the mean time, even though the trains aren't running yet, you can treat yourself to a T-shirt
I now return you to the present day. Even though it has ended up being tomorrow again. So much for a quick blog and then off to bed. Oh well.
More soonliest.
Saturday
What No Angel Knows
The Twenty-Fourth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.
Peter Falk passed away today. Sad news - he was 83 and had been ill for some time.
I think we both know Columbo has to be my Eleventh Telly Recommendation.
I won't go into detail about the best detective show ever made - a little googling will tell you everything you need to know (or read his collection of anecdotes Just One More Thing, there's plenty of stuff in there). Heck, it's on ITV3 on this Saturday at 2.15 (repeated Sunday morning at 10.40) - just sit down with a cup of tea and enjoy it. I've got the box set of the original 70s run and I still end up watching it when it's on.
There are a couple of loose ends I'd like to go over with you, though (if you don't mind).
First off, how brilliant is the format. You see the murder right at the beginning and the story, instead of being a whodunnit, becomes a study of the methods Columbo uses to wear down and trap the murderer. I like to guess at what point Columbo is certain that the murderer is guilty. Does he always know from the start? I'm not sure, and it's testament to Falk's performances that that ambiguity is maintained - it's not certain whether he's playing the murderer along or is still working it out.
The recurring guest stars are always good value too. Falk's wife, Shera Danese appears several times and there's more than one appearance by the likes of Robert Culp, William Shatner and the Prisoner himself Patrick McGoohan. McGoohan directed a few episodes too. Here's the end of one of his, featuring another recurring element - the tune 'This Old Man' turning up somewhere.
Columbo will always loom large in any account of Falk's career but he did lots of other ace stuff.
He was an accomplished artist.
There's a gallery of his work on his website.
It's as an actor that he's best known, though and he made many films throughout his career. One that made a big impression on me as a child was The Great Race. The evil Professor Fate (played by Jack Lemmon) had a gimmick-laden car called the Hannibal Twin 8 that was awesomesauce. Falk played his sidekick, Max and whenever one of the Hannibal's many gadgets had to be deployed Fate would give the order: 'Push the Button, Max!'
I still say this today when urging No1 son to push the button on a pelican crossing!
Among the many reasons that make The Princess Bride the best film ever is that it has Peter Falk in it. In fact the title of Wednesday's blog, 'Television Was Called Books' is one of his lines.
One of his most peculiar roles is in Wim Wenders Wings of Desire, a film summarised very neatly in this short review here. In it Falk plays himself, an actor making a film in the divided Berlin of the 80s. The city is populated by unseen angels watching over - but never truly experiencing - the lives of its people. It later transpires that Falk himself was once an angel who became mortal so that he could live in the 'real' world and he encourages Bruno Ganz - an angel who has fallen in love with a human trapeze artist - to do the same. It's a hypnotic, ethereal film and Falk's role straddles the different realities within and outside the film.
A very beautiful film.
I think I'll leave the last word to John Cassavetes, Falk's friend who directed him in a couple of his movies and went on to return the favour by appearing in Columbo.
Peter Falk passed away today. Sad news - he was 83 and had been ill for some time.
I think we both know Columbo has to be my Eleventh Telly Recommendation.
I won't go into detail about the best detective show ever made - a little googling will tell you everything you need to know (or read his collection of anecdotes Just One More Thing, there's plenty of stuff in there). Heck, it's on ITV3 on this Saturday at 2.15 (repeated Sunday morning at 10.40) - just sit down with a cup of tea and enjoy it. I've got the box set of the original 70s run and I still end up watching it when it's on.
There are a couple of loose ends I'd like to go over with you, though (if you don't mind).
First off, how brilliant is the format. You see the murder right at the beginning and the story, instead of being a whodunnit, becomes a study of the methods Columbo uses to wear down and trap the murderer. I like to guess at what point Columbo is certain that the murderer is guilty. Does he always know from the start? I'm not sure, and it's testament to Falk's performances that that ambiguity is maintained - it's not certain whether he's playing the murderer along or is still working it out.
The recurring guest stars are always good value too. Falk's wife, Shera Danese appears several times and there's more than one appearance by the likes of Robert Culp, William Shatner and the Prisoner himself Patrick McGoohan. McGoohan directed a few episodes too. Here's the end of one of his, featuring another recurring element - the tune 'This Old Man' turning up somewhere.
Columbo will always loom large in any account of Falk's career but he did lots of other ace stuff.
He was an accomplished artist.
There's a gallery of his work on his website.
It's as an actor that he's best known, though and he made many films throughout his career. One that made a big impression on me as a child was The Great Race. The evil Professor Fate (played by Jack Lemmon) had a gimmick-laden car called the Hannibal Twin 8 that was awesomesauce. Falk played his sidekick, Max and whenever one of the Hannibal's many gadgets had to be deployed Fate would give the order: 'Push the Button, Max!'
I still say this today when urging No1 son to push the button on a pelican crossing!
Among the many reasons that make The Princess Bride the best film ever is that it has Peter Falk in it. In fact the title of Wednesday's blog, 'Television Was Called Books' is one of his lines.
One of his most peculiar roles is in Wim Wenders Wings of Desire, a film summarised very neatly in this short review here. In it Falk plays himself, an actor making a film in the divided Berlin of the 80s. The city is populated by unseen angels watching over - but never truly experiencing - the lives of its people. It later transpires that Falk himself was once an angel who became mortal so that he could live in the 'real' world and he encourages Bruno Ganz - an angel who has fallen in love with a human trapeze artist - to do the same. It's a hypnotic, ethereal film and Falk's role straddles the different realities within and outside the film.
A very beautiful film.
I think I'll leave the last word to John Cassavetes, Falk's friend who directed him in a couple of his movies and went on to return the favour by appearing in Columbo.
Thursday
Not a Hoax, Not an Imaginary Story
The Twenty-Third of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.
This blog starts on York station and will probably make its way back to Scarborough before it's done. I don't think my poor head could manage another 2 o'clock finish so this one's coming to you on the move.
Spider-man is dead.
Don't worry, not the real Spider-Man. You see, back in 2000 (a phrase that still makes my tiny space age brain spin) Marvel comics came up with a new line of comics that started some of their best known characters - such as Spidey and the X Men - from scratch. They called this line of comics Ultimate Marvel and Ultimate Spider-Man was the first title to be launched (and the collection of those superb first few issues is my Third Comic Book Recommendation). (Wait a minute - I haven't made a Second Comic Book Recommendation. Well, it was suppose to be Grant Morrison's Batman Inc. So there you go)
The idea was that a streamlined history - this world would deliberately not feature more than 4 or 5 titles at any time - would be more accessible to new readers. As time passed though, this version of the Marvel universe began to get almost as complex in its own right. Indeed, the recent run of Marvel movies has based much of its background on Ultimate Marvel. In a case of art imitating life imitating life artist Bryan Hitch based the likeness of the Ultimate Nick Fury, head of superspy agency S.H.I.E.L.D., on Samuel L Jackson.
When it came to Fury's cameo appearance at the end of Iron Man who did they cast but...
Ultimate Spider-Man has just reached its 160th issue, with each of those written by one man: Brian Michael Bendis. The first 111 were drawn by Mark Bagley, his collaboration with Bendis being the longest on a Marvel title, outstripping Stan Lee and Jack Kirby's 105 issue run that kick started the Fantastic Four. It's a substantial body of work. And in that latest issue Peter Parker dies fighting the Green Goblin.
I've dipped in and out of Ultimate Spider-Man over the years (I used to subscribe to the UK reprint edition that was available in newsagents here) and I've bought this latest issue today. It's excellent, totally true to the characters Bendis has written for this last decade while underlining the Ultimate universe's raison d'être - things can happen here that wouldn't happen in the regular (Alan Moore called it Earth 616 in a Marvel UK story back in the 80s, of all places, and the handle stuck) Marvel universe.
So does that mean it doesn't count? Or to put it another way is one story more real than another?
Certainly the regular comics Spider-Man is to all intents and purposes the same character that first appeared nearly 50 years ago. (In contrast with DC characters that are regularly rebooted. Heck, they're rebooting their whole line in September - everything back to No1 ). Except he hasn't aged but the world around him has. Why should he 'count' more then when he's clearly as fictional as Ultimate, or Movie, or Cartoon Spider-Man? (An interesting version of this is Grant Morrison's run on Batman these last few years. His take is that everything we have seen in the 70+ years of Batman, from the hard-boiled stories of the 40s, through the wacky 'bam!' 'pow!' adventures of the 60s, to the grim vigilante stuff of the 90s, all took place but over the last 15 years or so of Bruce Wayne's life. Everything counts.)
Followers of Sherlock Holmes consider the stories of Conan Doyle 'canon' even though inconsistencies within them make them no more real than those by other authors. Only certain Star Wars spin offs are considered as true additions to that saga. So clearly it does matter if a story is 'real'. Fiction or not, we feel cheated if we're told something we've invested in didn't happen (I'm thinking Bobby Ewing in the shower in Dallas here, perhaps the most famous example of the 'it was all a dream' cop out). If we say to an author 'I know this isn't real but I'll play along as if it is' the last thing we want is a 'yah-boo, fooled you' betrayal in return.
So when does an honest, non-cheating alternative version count? Well that's easy- when it's good. In long-running narratives like comics or popular characters if something made an impression, or was just plain cool, in a 'what if?' story it quite often turns up in the 'official' version eventually. Villains from the superb 90s Batman cartoon - such as Harley Quinn - moved over to the comics and Chloe from TV's Smallville made it to the paper and ink Metropolis.
So does Ultimate Spider-Man's death count?
It's good enough to.
More soonliest.
(ps Ha! They've just showed Stewie Kills Lois and Lois Kills Stewie episodes on BBC3. What are the chances?)
This blog starts on York station and will probably make its way back to Scarborough before it's done. I don't think my poor head could manage another 2 o'clock finish so this one's coming to you on the move.
Spider-man is dead.
Don't worry, not the real Spider-Man. You see, back in 2000 (a phrase that still makes my tiny space age brain spin) Marvel comics came up with a new line of comics that started some of their best known characters - such as Spidey and the X Men - from scratch. They called this line of comics Ultimate Marvel and Ultimate Spider-Man was the first title to be launched (and the collection of those superb first few issues is my Third Comic Book Recommendation). (Wait a minute - I haven't made a Second Comic Book Recommendation. Well, it was suppose to be Grant Morrison's Batman Inc. So there you go)
The idea was that a streamlined history - this world would deliberately not feature more than 4 or 5 titles at any time - would be more accessible to new readers. As time passed though, this version of the Marvel universe began to get almost as complex in its own right. Indeed, the recent run of Marvel movies has based much of its background on Ultimate Marvel. In a case of art imitating life imitating life artist Bryan Hitch based the likeness of the Ultimate Nick Fury, head of superspy agency S.H.I.E.L.D., on Samuel L Jackson.
When it came to Fury's cameo appearance at the end of Iron Man who did they cast but...
Ultimate Spider-Man has just reached its 160th issue, with each of those written by one man: Brian Michael Bendis. The first 111 were drawn by Mark Bagley, his collaboration with Bendis being the longest on a Marvel title, outstripping Stan Lee and Jack Kirby's 105 issue run that kick started the Fantastic Four. It's a substantial body of work. And in that latest issue Peter Parker dies fighting the Green Goblin.
I've dipped in and out of Ultimate Spider-Man over the years (I used to subscribe to the UK reprint edition that was available in newsagents here) and I've bought this latest issue today. It's excellent, totally true to the characters Bendis has written for this last decade while underlining the Ultimate universe's raison d'être - things can happen here that wouldn't happen in the regular (Alan Moore called it Earth 616 in a Marvel UK story back in the 80s, of all places, and the handle stuck) Marvel universe.
So does that mean it doesn't count? Or to put it another way is one story more real than another?
Certainly the regular comics Spider-Man is to all intents and purposes the same character that first appeared nearly 50 years ago. (In contrast with DC characters that are regularly rebooted. Heck, they're rebooting their whole line in September - everything back to No1 ). Except he hasn't aged but the world around him has. Why should he 'count' more then when he's clearly as fictional as Ultimate, or Movie, or Cartoon Spider-Man? (An interesting version of this is Grant Morrison's run on Batman these last few years. His take is that everything we have seen in the 70+ years of Batman, from the hard-boiled stories of the 40s, through the wacky 'bam!' 'pow!' adventures of the 60s, to the grim vigilante stuff of the 90s, all took place but over the last 15 years or so of Bruce Wayne's life. Everything counts.)
Followers of Sherlock Holmes consider the stories of Conan Doyle 'canon' even though inconsistencies within them make them no more real than those by other authors. Only certain Star Wars spin offs are considered as true additions to that saga. So clearly it does matter if a story is 'real'. Fiction or not, we feel cheated if we're told something we've invested in didn't happen (I'm thinking Bobby Ewing in the shower in Dallas here, perhaps the most famous example of the 'it was all a dream' cop out). If we say to an author 'I know this isn't real but I'll play along as if it is' the last thing we want is a 'yah-boo, fooled you' betrayal in return.
So when does an honest, non-cheating alternative version count? Well that's easy- when it's good. In long-running narratives like comics or popular characters if something made an impression, or was just plain cool, in a 'what if?' story it quite often turns up in the 'official' version eventually. Villains from the superb 90s Batman cartoon - such as Harley Quinn - moved over to the comics and Chloe from TV's Smallville made it to the paper and ink Metropolis.
So does Ultimate Spider-Man's death count?
It's good enough to.
More soonliest.
(ps Ha! They've just showed Stewie Kills Lois and Lois Kills Stewie episodes on BBC3. What are the chances?)
Television Was Called Books
The Twenty-Second of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.
I am illiterate.
I know that will not come as a surprise to anybody who has tried to make sense of by previous scribblings, but amid statistics published by the National Literacy Trust that three in 10 UK children 'own no books' I have to confess that I haven't had a proper sit down read of a novel in ages.
I'm trying to think back to what the last one I read was. Nope - it's been that long ago I can't remember. Away from novels, I did polish off William Shatner's autobiography a couple of months ago, but that was the very definition of a 'toilet book', composed as it was of a compilation of anecdotes that made it easy to dip in to during short trips to the bathroom.
Blimey, the more I think about it I'm not even that good with comics and I'm supposed to be really into them. I've just renewed the three graphic novels I borrowed from the library because I still haven't got round to reading them after three weeks (and coupled with the fact I don't seem to be watching that much telly what am I doing with my time?)
What it is, right (oh, how I hate that phrase. It's almost always followed by the words 'I've got no money to pay for a ticket', or 'I've missed the train I was booked on'. When did I get so cynical? Or is it merely realistic? Am I ever likely to hear someone say 'What it is, right, is that I thought you might like a Fruit Pastille'? Probably not), is that I seem to be tired all the time. Not surprising, I guess, what with it being 3 in the morning now. But whenever I get a quiet moment and start to read I tend to get so relaxed that I drop off to sleep before I know it. A book at bedtime almost never works - I do that 'reread the last paragraph three times' thing regularly as I start to doze.
I have The Visitor by Sheri S Tepper by my bedside.
I haven't picked it up in months as it fell foul of my drooping eyelids (and I love Sheri S Tepper. I haven't read her last few books, but there was a time when I would eagerly consume each new title as it came out. She has a real talent for dropping you right in the middle of a fully created world with its own peculiar society and language and then filling out the details as the plot unfolds. I love her turn of phrase too - dates in The Visitor are labelled ATHCAW much as we would put AD or CE after a year. It turns out this stands for 'After The Happening Came And Went' with no explanation at first as to what 'The Happening' might have been. Today's musings were inspired by the news that her next book will connect together characters and plots from A Plague of Angels and its recent sequel The Waters Rising with ones from her True Game books from, whoa, way back in the 80s, man. So I've got to get reading again...). That will be my next book - eventually.
I've always envied the ability of my friend Lindsay to speed through a doorstep sized Stephen King in an afternoon. My concentration tends to wander too easily. It doesn't help that I have a lousy memory. Oh, trivia and odd details stick there, but I honestly couldn't tell you much of what happened in most of the books I've read. But the sense and the themes, and the odd image, seem to get absorbed into my unconscious somehow. Perhaps, for someone like me, if they could come up with novels in a lotion form that you could apply like sun cream and take in by osmosis that would be a solution (oo, bonus pun points there, I think). That's more or less what I try to do now with audiobooks - absorb a reading when I go on a journey. But the nodding off problems still apply, and the 10 minute walk to work is too short to build up a sense of narrative - gone are the days of half an hour on the bus in either direction and reading a couple of chapters a day. Mind you, it wouldn't be impossible to squeeze in one of Martin Jarvis' fab Just William readings.
And when am I going to get around to 'proper' books. I've done some Brontës, a bit of Hardy, a little Marquez but I keep saying I'll get around to Dickens and Austen one day. When, though? I have a backlog of Paul Magrs and what's that latest Maupin Tales of the City book like? The film of Submarine has made me want to chase up the book and if I reread Hitchhiker like I've threatened to do will I ever make it to Eoin Colfer's follow-up And Another Thing? Perhaps I should stick to non-fiction - those Caitlin Moran and Tina Fey books look good.
Hmm, perhaps I should invest in an ebook reader - something gimmicky to kick start this new literary binge (although it's obscene how much more expensive a Kindle is in this country compared to America). No, an iPad! There we go, I've got an good excuse to get an iPad now.
And if I don't feel like reading anything there's plenty of other stuff I could do on it...
More soonliest
I am illiterate.
I know that will not come as a surprise to anybody who has tried to make sense of by previous scribblings, but amid statistics published by the National Literacy Trust that three in 10 UK children 'own no books' I have to confess that I haven't had a proper sit down read of a novel in ages.
I'm trying to think back to what the last one I read was. Nope - it's been that long ago I can't remember. Away from novels, I did polish off William Shatner's autobiography a couple of months ago, but that was the very definition of a 'toilet book', composed as it was of a compilation of anecdotes that made it easy to dip in to during short trips to the bathroom.
Blimey, the more I think about it I'm not even that good with comics and I'm supposed to be really into them. I've just renewed the three graphic novels I borrowed from the library because I still haven't got round to reading them after three weeks (and coupled with the fact I don't seem to be watching that much telly what am I doing with my time?)
What it is, right (oh, how I hate that phrase. It's almost always followed by the words 'I've got no money to pay for a ticket', or 'I've missed the train I was booked on'. When did I get so cynical? Or is it merely realistic? Am I ever likely to hear someone say 'What it is, right, is that I thought you might like a Fruit Pastille'? Probably not), is that I seem to be tired all the time. Not surprising, I guess, what with it being 3 in the morning now. But whenever I get a quiet moment and start to read I tend to get so relaxed that I drop off to sleep before I know it. A book at bedtime almost never works - I do that 'reread the last paragraph three times' thing regularly as I start to doze.
I have The Visitor by Sheri S Tepper by my bedside.
I haven't picked it up in months as it fell foul of my drooping eyelids (and I love Sheri S Tepper. I haven't read her last few books, but there was a time when I would eagerly consume each new title as it came out. She has a real talent for dropping you right in the middle of a fully created world with its own peculiar society and language and then filling out the details as the plot unfolds. I love her turn of phrase too - dates in The Visitor are labelled ATHCAW much as we would put AD or CE after a year. It turns out this stands for 'After The Happening Came And Went' with no explanation at first as to what 'The Happening' might have been. Today's musings were inspired by the news that her next book will connect together characters and plots from A Plague of Angels and its recent sequel The Waters Rising with ones from her True Game books from, whoa, way back in the 80s, man. So I've got to get reading again...). That will be my next book - eventually.
I've always envied the ability of my friend Lindsay to speed through a doorstep sized Stephen King in an afternoon. My concentration tends to wander too easily. It doesn't help that I have a lousy memory. Oh, trivia and odd details stick there, but I honestly couldn't tell you much of what happened in most of the books I've read. But the sense and the themes, and the odd image, seem to get absorbed into my unconscious somehow. Perhaps, for someone like me, if they could come up with novels in a lotion form that you could apply like sun cream and take in by osmosis that would be a solution (oo, bonus pun points there, I think). That's more or less what I try to do now with audiobooks - absorb a reading when I go on a journey. But the nodding off problems still apply, and the 10 minute walk to work is too short to build up a sense of narrative - gone are the days of half an hour on the bus in either direction and reading a couple of chapters a day. Mind you, it wouldn't be impossible to squeeze in one of Martin Jarvis' fab Just William readings.
And when am I going to get around to 'proper' books. I've done some Brontës, a bit of Hardy, a little Marquez but I keep saying I'll get around to Dickens and Austen one day. When, though? I have a backlog of Paul Magrs and what's that latest Maupin Tales of the City book like? The film of Submarine has made me want to chase up the book and if I reread Hitchhiker like I've threatened to do will I ever make it to Eoin Colfer's follow-up And Another Thing? Perhaps I should stick to non-fiction - those Caitlin Moran and Tina Fey books look good.
Hmm, perhaps I should invest in an ebook reader - something gimmicky to kick start this new literary binge (although it's obscene how much more expensive a Kindle is in this country compared to America). No, an iPad! There we go, I've got an good excuse to get an iPad now.
And if I don't feel like reading anything there's plenty of other stuff I could do on it...
More soonliest
Wednesday
The Shabbyman's Fear of the Haircut
The Twenty-First of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.
Yes, it's Midsummer's Day. You won't get any of that voodoo hoohah round here, mind. Move along...
The more I think about it (Am I going mad or did the word 'think' escape your lips? Oh, that was just an obligatory TPB quote but I'm suddenly very struck with the phrase 'escape your lips'. Merci, Monsieur Goldman), the more the windmill seems an appropriate metaphor type thing. For today the sails seem to be rising - yea, they have fallen of late, and will do so again. But for now Mr Mood is on the up and up.
Partly this is due to payday being T minus 3 and counting away, but it is also down to the extremely scientific process of having all your bad ju-ju moved into your hair and then - having it cut off!
Ah, haircuts. Like taxis, I make use of them on infrequent occasions but don't quite feel comfortable with the processes involved. As a boy, my mother maintained the pudding bowl Purdeyesque perfection of my coif. My first paid for haircut came much, much later. Must have been late teens, at the barbers in the corn exchange in Manchester. I kept it fairly short around that time, getting into my early 20s. Then there was a particularly hairy phase inspired by my friend Andrew Fachau, where I let it get Francis Rossi long. Do you know, I'm not sure when the first beard came along. Must have been around then. Occasional fairly neat crops. Romantic poet longish for my first wedding. And then...
Oh man. There comes a time when every testerone-fuelled man has to face the abominable truth. Yes, everywhere else on your body is getting more unnecessarily hairy on a daily basis, but the top of your head..?
I call it my satellite dish. And despite what multi-millionaire footballing sophisticate W Rooney esq may think, there's no point trying to cover up ye olde male pattern baldness. Short's the answer - embrace that receding hairline and bald patch (although I hate it getting sunburned as I can rarely find a hat big enough for my huge potato of a head)
Of course, if you're a top comics writer/magician/greatest living Scotsman then the way forward is the shaven head look
(That's Grant Morrison for the less geeky types out there. Big fan of the man - so much so that when I got him to sign a book of his short stories I had to go back and ask him to put my name on there 'cos I was so nervous I forgot to ask him to dedicate it to me :-) )
I've only ever gone for the shaved look once, when No 1 son had the headlice over to stay and so me and him just got rid of it all. And perhaps it was around then that I had the idea of - symbolically, at least - putting all the fear, doubt and general crapulence of the moment into the shaggiest parts of my coat and then shearing it off. Usually it's every month or two when my beard is at its Norwegian Fisherman best, but nowadays I also have regular scalpings thanks to my acquaintance with Brian Tavener, in my opinion Scarborough's finest tonsor, if only for the fact that he has railway magazines for you to read while you're waiting to be seated. A grade no2 all over usually does the trick.
In fact, in happier times my first wife, the inimitable Shu-Shu would wield the clippers for me. Indeed, she came to my rescue last year when, intending to go on my first date in an aeon I had visited a hairdresser that was new to me and had ended up with a nightmare barnet bordering on a mullet. That was not what was needed on what was already a particularly nerve-wracking occasion so, like an editor doing away with the author's worst excesses, she trimmed me down to size. Fortunately the photo I sent ahead to warn the woman I was meeting didn't put her off. No, it was my foul behaviour some months later that managed that.
Which neatly brings me to today (and brings me to today, neatly). The last few months of wear and tear have been cut away with my whiskers and tatty fringe. Tomorrow's looking a lot more clear cut.
More soonliest.
Yes, it's Midsummer's Day. You won't get any of that voodoo hoohah round here, mind. Move along...
The more I think about it (Am I going mad or did the word 'think' escape your lips? Oh, that was just an obligatory TPB quote but I'm suddenly very struck with the phrase 'escape your lips'. Merci, Monsieur Goldman), the more the windmill seems an appropriate metaphor type thing. For today the sails seem to be rising - yea, they have fallen of late, and will do so again. But for now Mr Mood is on the up and up.
Partly this is due to payday being T minus 3 and counting away, but it is also down to the extremely scientific process of having all your bad ju-ju moved into your hair and then - having it cut off!
Ah, haircuts. Like taxis, I make use of them on infrequent occasions but don't quite feel comfortable with the processes involved. As a boy, my mother maintained the pudding bowl Purdeyesque perfection of my coif. My first paid for haircut came much, much later. Must have been late teens, at the barbers in the corn exchange in Manchester. I kept it fairly short around that time, getting into my early 20s. Then there was a particularly hairy phase inspired by my friend Andrew Fachau, where I let it get Francis Rossi long. Do you know, I'm not sure when the first beard came along. Must have been around then. Occasional fairly neat crops. Romantic poet longish for my first wedding. And then...
Oh man. There comes a time when every testerone-fuelled man has to face the abominable truth. Yes, everywhere else on your body is getting more unnecessarily hairy on a daily basis, but the top of your head..?
I call it my satellite dish. And despite what multi-millionaire footballing sophisticate W Rooney esq may think, there's no point trying to cover up ye olde male pattern baldness. Short's the answer - embrace that receding hairline and bald patch (although I hate it getting sunburned as I can rarely find a hat big enough for my huge potato of a head)
Of course, if you're a top comics writer/magician/greatest living Scotsman then the way forward is the shaven head look
(That's Grant Morrison for the less geeky types out there. Big fan of the man - so much so that when I got him to sign a book of his short stories I had to go back and ask him to put my name on there 'cos I was so nervous I forgot to ask him to dedicate it to me :-) )
I've only ever gone for the shaved look once, when No 1 son had the headlice over to stay and so me and him just got rid of it all. And perhaps it was around then that I had the idea of - symbolically, at least - putting all the fear, doubt and general crapulence of the moment into the shaggiest parts of my coat and then shearing it off. Usually it's every month or two when my beard is at its Norwegian Fisherman best, but nowadays I also have regular scalpings thanks to my acquaintance with Brian Tavener, in my opinion Scarborough's finest tonsor, if only for the fact that he has railway magazines for you to read while you're waiting to be seated. A grade no2 all over usually does the trick.
In fact, in happier times my first wife, the inimitable Shu-Shu would wield the clippers for me. Indeed, she came to my rescue last year when, intending to go on my first date in an aeon I had visited a hairdresser that was new to me and had ended up with a nightmare barnet bordering on a mullet. That was not what was needed on what was already a particularly nerve-wracking occasion so, like an editor doing away with the author's worst excesses, she trimmed me down to size. Fortunately the photo I sent ahead to warn the woman I was meeting didn't put her off. No, it was my foul behaviour some months later that managed that.
Which neatly brings me to today (and brings me to today, neatly). The last few months of wear and tear have been cut away with my whiskers and tatty fringe. Tomorrow's looking a lot more clear cut.
More soonliest.
Tuesday
The Away Kit Mentality
The Twentieth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.
A small insight into my personality.
Yes, I want to be 'quirky' and perhaps a little bit 'alternative'. But I've always enjoyed doing this in a low key and pointless way. For instance, the few Man City shirts I've had over the years have typically been away ones. My very first one was the seventies one that looked like this:
only instead of the League Cup winners crest it had the traditional circle badge, thus:
On the orginal issue of the kit, the Canadian version was the cover star! Kind of undermines what I was saying, but also illustrates the satisfyingly arbitrary nature of it all. Ah, here's the one I had:
but my assertion is looking increasingly flimsy as it seems there was another Canadian version:
Although I did go for the 'Dogfight Double' of a Dassault Mirage III vs a MiG15 so I could get them in the Israeli Air Force and Egyptian Air Force markings instead of their regular ones so I think that says something -
Other examples: I had a white Stylophone
I got Stock Car Classy Crashers instead of the regular Stock Car Smash Up
(that orange one always seemed to lose) and I have a thing for White Maltesers. Although you don't see them quite so much these days.
So stick all that on your personality test, Mr Scientologist. Ha!
More soonliest.
A small insight into my personality.
Yes, I want to be 'quirky' and perhaps a little bit 'alternative'. But I've always enjoyed doing this in a low key and pointless way. For instance, the few Man City shirts I've had over the years have typically been away ones. My very first one was the seventies one that looked like this:
I even had a No 8 on the back for Colin Bell - ah, Nijinsky, I never got to see you in your prime, but at least I saw you a few times after you returned from injury (Martin Buchan, hang your head in shame).
Over the years, I've gone away more than home, the red and black stripes being a regular fave (they're back again next season) with the odd maroon version, or that navy and white Kappa job from the 90s. Although I have fond memories of this:
which I had in the early 80s and am tempted to get from a retro shop. It's rubbish polyester mind, so the 70s one at the top in cotton's probably the better bet.
Anyway, I'm straying from the point somewhat - which was that given a choice I'd always go for the second option. On Airfix kits I'd choose the paint job and decals that were different from the picture on the lid. I've always illustrated this by saying that when I bought a Lockheed Starfighter I went for the Royal Canadian Air Force livery instead of the Luftwaffe camo version on the box, but imagine my horror when googling to try and find a picture I discover this:
Although I did go for the 'Dogfight Double' of a Dassault Mirage III vs a MiG15 so I could get them in the Israeli Air Force and Egyptian Air Force markings instead of their regular ones so I think that says something -
Other examples: I had a white Stylophone
I got Stock Car Classy Crashers instead of the regular Stock Car Smash Up
So stick all that on your personality test, Mr Scientologist. Ha!
More soonliest.
Sunday
Happy St Zosimus Day!
The Nineteenth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Sunday.
That's St Zosimus the martyr who was executed in AD110 not one of the other St Zosimuses (yes, there really is more than one St Zosimus!).
Lapsed Catholic that I am (I never practised, although I was baptised as a baby - perhaps 'lapsed' is overstating the case) I'm afraid I don't really have much time for the Zosimuses. I saw a car with a Darwin Fish on it the other day and I was going to namecheck that symbol here until my internet investigations threw up an even more amazing icon for atheism - The Flying Spaghetti Monster
Yes, Pastafarianism has been doing the rounds for a few years now, but I'd never heard of it. It does suffer from that smugness that a lot of atheist satires of religion tend to possess but unlike some religious doctrines that can be equally smug this does make points that can actually be proved in fact. And they do have Talk Like a Pirate Day as a holiday so that's in their favour.
See how easy it is to get distracted. That small wander through the gardens of controvesy was entirely caused by me wanting to obliquely get on to what some of us are celebrating today, namely Father's Day. I'm afraid I didn't send my own father a card, but I did phone him only to interrupt his viewing of the US Open golf so it was a very hurried conversation.
Back in 1999 I decided to have a go at this fatherhood lark myself. By and large I haven't done too badly - two offspring who still seem to enjoy my company despite living apart giving them an easy opt out if they ever decided they had better things to do. At 11 and 3 years of age I'm immensely proud of both of them and despite all the anxieties that understandably go with any parenting, lately I've been happy with what my role in their lives has been and I'm worrying less about what I may or may not be doing and just enjoying their company.
So was any of that reflected in how we spent Father's Day? Well, it's been a tiring week so I'd pretty much resigned myself to this being a fairly low-key weekend. We spent most of the time watching telly or on the computer with the odd walk here and there ('there' yesterday being the Harbour Bar for ice cream. No2 son didn't realise at first that the toddler cone his ice cream came in was edible. Upon finishing, he handed it to his servant for disposal as is his way only for me to sign back to him that he could eat it. Cue an experimental nibble followed by contented munching).
It was as we set off for a stroll today that No 1 son found an envelope in his pocket and handed it over to me. Turns out it was a card from No 2 that he made at nursery - the words on it completely obliterated by green paint. No 1 then mentioned that his mum had given him five quid to get something for dad but he had forgotten about it until now. When a few minutes later I lamented that I had forgotten to get cheese for the pasta we were having for tea he suggested getting me some for a Father's Day gift. So that is what I received: a block each of Red Leicester and Double Gloucester. And when we got back to the flat and No 2 saw the card that I had opened he quickly declared 'mine!' and asked for it back...
I've really enjoyed today. I said earlier that I've been relaxed in the boys' company, but I do still worry it's a bit boring sometimes. So it brought a smile to my face when I took the boys back home to see No2 enthusiastically regale mum with tales of dragons and witches and daleks in what he calls 'old Doctor Who'. And No 1 son? I was just pleased he didn't think getting his dad a present was too cheesy...
More soonliest.
That's St Zosimus the martyr who was executed in AD110 not one of the other St Zosimuses (yes, there really is more than one St Zosimus!).
Lapsed Catholic that I am (I never practised, although I was baptised as a baby - perhaps 'lapsed' is overstating the case) I'm afraid I don't really have much time for the Zosimuses. I saw a car with a Darwin Fish on it the other day and I was going to namecheck that symbol here until my internet investigations threw up an even more amazing icon for atheism - The Flying Spaghetti Monster
Yes, Pastafarianism has been doing the rounds for a few years now, but I'd never heard of it. It does suffer from that smugness that a lot of atheist satires of religion tend to possess but unlike some religious doctrines that can be equally smug this does make points that can actually be proved in fact. And they do have Talk Like a Pirate Day as a holiday so that's in their favour.
See how easy it is to get distracted. That small wander through the gardens of controvesy was entirely caused by me wanting to obliquely get on to what some of us are celebrating today, namely Father's Day. I'm afraid I didn't send my own father a card, but I did phone him only to interrupt his viewing of the US Open golf so it was a very hurried conversation.
Back in 1999 I decided to have a go at this fatherhood lark myself. By and large I haven't done too badly - two offspring who still seem to enjoy my company despite living apart giving them an easy opt out if they ever decided they had better things to do. At 11 and 3 years of age I'm immensely proud of both of them and despite all the anxieties that understandably go with any parenting, lately I've been happy with what my role in their lives has been and I'm worrying less about what I may or may not be doing and just enjoying their company.
So was any of that reflected in how we spent Father's Day? Well, it's been a tiring week so I'd pretty much resigned myself to this being a fairly low-key weekend. We spent most of the time watching telly or on the computer with the odd walk here and there ('there' yesterday being the Harbour Bar for ice cream. No2 son didn't realise at first that the toddler cone his ice cream came in was edible. Upon finishing, he handed it to his servant for disposal as is his way only for me to sign back to him that he could eat it. Cue an experimental nibble followed by contented munching).
It was as we set off for a stroll today that No 1 son found an envelope in his pocket and handed it over to me. Turns out it was a card from No 2 that he made at nursery - the words on it completely obliterated by green paint. No 1 then mentioned that his mum had given him five quid to get something for dad but he had forgotten about it until now. When a few minutes later I lamented that I had forgotten to get cheese for the pasta we were having for tea he suggested getting me some for a Father's Day gift. So that is what I received: a block each of Red Leicester and Double Gloucester. And when we got back to the flat and No 2 saw the card that I had opened he quickly declared 'mine!' and asked for it back...
I've really enjoyed today. I said earlier that I've been relaxed in the boys' company, but I do still worry it's a bit boring sometimes. So it brought a smile to my face when I took the boys back home to see No2 enthusiastically regale mum with tales of dragons and witches and daleks in what he calls 'old Doctor Who'. And No 1 son? I was just pleased he didn't think getting his dad a present was too cheesy...
More soonliest.
Take Three Girls
The Eighteenth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Saturday.
Rooting through some of my old folders tonight. Interesting to see half-baked ideas or the first steps to a story that never developed into anything. Sometimes you think 'Hey, I might pick up that idea again - I know where I can go with it,' other times, well...
One of the things I came across was from a couple of years ago when a comic company - can't remember who, one of the smaller American ones - asked for pitches for a new superheroine comic. I've never been any good at summing up my thoughts in a sentence or two (you'd never know, would you?) so the ideas I came up with might seem a bit unfocussed. Needless to say, nothing ever came of these. But in lieu of any original thoughts for tonight I'm going to reprint them here. For the record - although I know it's v. unlikely - if anybody did want to do anything with any of these they're welcome to. Knock yourself out.
Rooting through some of my old folders tonight. Interesting to see half-baked ideas or the first steps to a story that never developed into anything. Sometimes you think 'Hey, I might pick up that idea again - I know where I can go with it,' other times, well...
One of the things I came across was from a couple of years ago when a comic company - can't remember who, one of the smaller American ones - asked for pitches for a new superheroine comic. I've never been any good at summing up my thoughts in a sentence or two (you'd never know, would you?) so the ideas I came up with might seem a bit unfocussed. Needless to say, nothing ever came of these. But in lieu of any original thoughts for tonight I'm going to reprint them here. For the record - although I know it's v. unlikely - if anybody did want to do anything with any of these they're welcome to. Knock yourself out.
Square One
Kerry Mathis was one of the big guns - her powers passed on to her as a teenager by a retired sixties supergroup, she was the poster girl for the pre-millenial cape and costume generation. Although a celebrity in her home town, it wasn't long before she moved on up to the Big City, became caught up in galaxy-spanning epic adventures and saved the world on a weekly basis. So it was something of a surprise when she was defeated during a routine slugfest with a c-list villain. Now, ten years after she left to a parade and fireworks, Kerry slinks home with a fraction of the power she once had. She's got to come up with a new costumed identity, play nice with the local hero who took over from her when she went, cope with a town that resents its one claim-to-fame moving away and stay sane despite operating on her folks' doorstep. Oh, and hope the town's small-time villains that she once outclassed don't figure out who she used to be. And pray that the cosmic-powered threats that she used to match don't realise who she is now…
And Bobcat
It had only meant to be a summer job - a little bit of cash after graduation before the life-defining career choices began in earnest. It had sounded like fun - going to the interview in a mask, gaining entrance to a secret base, that kind of thing. It had been five years since Anni gained superhuman speed and agility after a near-fatal allergic reaction to a holiday vaccination (and the trip had been rubbish too) and she hadn't done a thing with her powers. But thanks to the Department of Employment's Sidekick Creation Scheme, Anni got the chance to earn a few quid temping as Bobcat, assistant to the well-regarded heroine known as the Fen Tigress. Anni/Bobcat fell into crime-fighting - it was a doddle, and the Tigress was a right laugh, encouraging her not to take this outrageous lifestyle too seriously. It was more like some weird extreme hobby than a job and Anni enjoyed it so much she abandoned her career plans and signed up for the long term. Money, adventure, impossible stuff on a daily basis, life was perfect. Until the Tigress was arrested for fraud and Anni was assigned a new partner. One that was a strictly by-the-book, self-important pain in the neck. It stopped being fun, and worse, it started to get dangerous. Now, after receiving a secret message from the imprisoned Tigress, Anni has a decision to make. Does she continue the joyless task of playing second fiddle to a hardball? Or does she break out her former boss and go off on a series of not-entirely-legal adventures?
Reality Programming
By the end of the 21st Century everybody's seen everything there is to see. The only entertainment that still holds any interest is Time Tweaking. You know, like when they sent that girl back in time 90 years or so and set her up as if she was superheroine from another world. The people of 2008 thought all that flying about and smashing giant robots and stuff was her trying to save them. So how would it affect future history if anybody ever found out she was fighting not for justice but for ratings?
Yeah, checking the date on the files these are from February 2008. Funny how some ideas just flit in and out and that's it. Riffing on Reality TV seems a bit of a cliché these days, but I could still see some mileage in trying to spoof the current trend for 'scripted reality' like TOWIE and Made in Chelsea. Still, nothing's ever completely worthless. At least that's tonight's blog sorted.
(oh, and since today's title was taken from a TV prog that has a fab theme tune here's a link to it on You Tube)
More soonliest
Saturday
The Joy of Lists
The Seventeenth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.
Hmm. Seems to be a thread of nostalgia running through the last few bloggings. Feeling a bit reflective of late, I guess.
A recurring theme seems to be losing enthusiasm for stuff that seemed way cool when I was much thinner - I mean younger!
Cars. Not only is they a film, like, where they talk that's done on computors. They are actual things that you can drive around in. But I have never done the driving, nor have I desired to. Ah, the geek gene runs too deep. But a consequence of that gene is that while I never learned to drive I did enjoy making lists of cars!
Lists - the comfort food of the anorak mind. Someday I might talk about vacuum cleaners here (it's pretty much the same story really, just exchange the word 'car' for the word 'vac'), but for now join me in the 20th Century at my mother's typewriter...
I was fascinated with the unused red strip on the ink ribbon on my mum's typewriter. Intrigued by it, and also the mechanical splendour of the 'Caps Lock' key, I was inspired to compile lists, with reference to What Car? magazine, of all my favourite cars.
That's right: a list in red ink and CAPITAL LETTERS. Is it any wonder I turned out the way I did.
Oh, that list. I can't get enthusiastic about cars these days, but back then (adjusts rose-tinted specs)... Fiat 131 Mirafiori; Austin/Morris 18/22 series (with the top of the line Wolsley saloon); De Tomaso Pantera; Caterham Cars Super 7 (still going strong - it was Patrick McGoohan's car in The Prisoner ); Vauxhall Chevette; and not forgetting the Triumph TR7. There was some stonkers back then (Polski-Fiat 125! There's another!)
But my absolute favourite - perhaps the only car that could persuade me to learn to drive now if I were ever to get my hands on it - is the Vanden Plas 1500
Oh man, you have just got to admire the genius of taking an Austin Allegro, bobbing that grille on it and tarting up the interior with leather seats and a walnut fascia. I saw one in North Wales as a boy - couldn't tell you what colour it was or anything - but the vague memory of being confronted by one of these beauties haunts me to this day.
There were a series of these lists - I couldn't tell you how many in total. Utterly pointless in the end, but that didn't stop me bringing the full weight of my intellect to bear on such dilemmas as whether to plump for a 1.3 or 1.8 litre engine on the Morris Marina (the 1.8 had the nicer grille). Oh that the decisions of today should be no more complicated than that.
Funny, that's put me in a good mood, that has. I'll sleep well tonight with thoughts of a Ford Granada 3.0 litre coupé to ease me to my slumber. Night all.
More soonliest.
Hmm. Seems to be a thread of nostalgia running through the last few bloggings. Feeling a bit reflective of late, I guess.
A recurring theme seems to be losing enthusiasm for stuff that seemed way cool when I was much thinner - I mean younger!
Cars. Not only is they a film, like, where they talk that's done on computors. They are actual things that you can drive around in. But I have never done the driving, nor have I desired to. Ah, the geek gene runs too deep. But a consequence of that gene is that while I never learned to drive I did enjoy making lists of cars!
Lists - the comfort food of the anorak mind. Someday I might talk about vacuum cleaners here (it's pretty much the same story really, just exchange the word 'car' for the word 'vac'), but for now join me in the 20th Century at my mother's typewriter...
I was fascinated with the unused red strip on the ink ribbon on my mum's typewriter. Intrigued by it, and also the mechanical splendour of the 'Caps Lock' key, I was inspired to compile lists, with reference to What Car? magazine, of all my favourite cars.
That's right: a list in red ink and CAPITAL LETTERS. Is it any wonder I turned out the way I did.
Oh, that list. I can't get enthusiastic about cars these days, but back then (adjusts rose-tinted specs)... Fiat 131 Mirafiori; Austin/Morris 18/22 series (with the top of the line Wolsley saloon); De Tomaso Pantera; Caterham Cars Super 7 (still going strong - it was Patrick McGoohan's car in The Prisoner ); Vauxhall Chevette; and not forgetting the Triumph TR7. There was some stonkers back then (Polski-Fiat 125! There's another!)
But my absolute favourite - perhaps the only car that could persuade me to learn to drive now if I were ever to get my hands on it - is the Vanden Plas 1500
Oh man, you have just got to admire the genius of taking an Austin Allegro, bobbing that grille on it and tarting up the interior with leather seats and a walnut fascia. I saw one in North Wales as a boy - couldn't tell you what colour it was or anything - but the vague memory of being confronted by one of these beauties haunts me to this day.
There were a series of these lists - I couldn't tell you how many in total. Utterly pointless in the end, but that didn't stop me bringing the full weight of my intellect to bear on such dilemmas as whether to plump for a 1.3 or 1.8 litre engine on the Morris Marina (the 1.8 had the nicer grille). Oh that the decisions of today should be no more complicated than that.
Funny, that's put me in a good mood, that has. I'll sleep well tonight with thoughts of a Ford Granada 3.0 litre coupé to ease me to my slumber. Night all.
More soonliest.
Friday
A Matter of Record
The Sixteenth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.
I'm thinking of reading The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy again. It's years since the last time I did - I think my last encounter with the Hitch-Hiker universe was with the film from a few years ago. Didn't really cut it for me. But I was in Waterstone's the other day and I had a quick flick through the latest edition, reading the new foreword penned by Russell T Davies (the genius writer behind Bob and Rose - oh, Ninth Telly Recommendation ahoy. Joyous, joyous telly. Ninth and Tenth Telly Recommendation actually, that's how good it is). I was quite young the first time a read it (an American hardback copy that my next door neighbour's dad had brought back from working overseas. I orginally thought it was an American book), and as funny as I found it it's only as I've gotten older that I've started to understand some of the jokes in there.
In fact there's one joke in particular - in another book written by Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency - that has only relatively recently made sense to me. There's a section featuring an Electric Monk, a robot that saves you the effort of believing in things by believing them on your behalf. A comparison is made with the way a video recorder will watch programmes for you so you don't have to.
In my younger days this didn't make sense to me. Surely you got a video to record the programmes you wanted to watch most of all. In the twenty-plus years since I first read that I have now realised the truth - Douglas was right.
I love my Humax PVR.
You can record off digital radio, the EPG has a search function, you can trim recorded programmes and you can upload files onto your computer. It's ace. But it's also full of telly I haven't got round to watching. The oldest is from 2 years ago - there's Series 4 and 5 of The Wire on there. Also Series 3 of Weeds, Series 2 of Dollhouse. I still intend to get around to watching all that at some point. It's all the stuff that I've recorded, didn't watch and subsequently deleted - stuff from Christmas, various films. The hard drive is more or less full so as soon as something new comes along that I might want to watch space has to be made and quite often the stuff that goes hasn't been watched yet. The most telling thing is when a film that's been on your recorder for a long time gets reshown. And you still don't get around to watching it. I think I've recorded Pan's Labyrinth 3 times - still haven't seen it. But the recorder must think it's good to have watched it again and again like that...
In fact, I'm saving up my pennies at the mo so I can afford to upgrade to a recorder that can watch in HD the things I'll never get around to seeing. So at least if I don't see it, I'm not seeing it with the best possible picture quality.
I think that makes sense.
More soonliest.
I'm thinking of reading The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy again. It's years since the last time I did - I think my last encounter with the Hitch-Hiker universe was with the film from a few years ago. Didn't really cut it for me. But I was in Waterstone's the other day and I had a quick flick through the latest edition, reading the new foreword penned by Russell T Davies (the genius writer behind Bob and Rose - oh, Ninth Telly Recommendation ahoy. Joyous, joyous telly. Ninth and Tenth Telly Recommendation actually, that's how good it is). I was quite young the first time a read it (an American hardback copy that my next door neighbour's dad had brought back from working overseas. I orginally thought it was an American book), and as funny as I found it it's only as I've gotten older that I've started to understand some of the jokes in there.
In fact there's one joke in particular - in another book written by Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency - that has only relatively recently made sense to me. There's a section featuring an Electric Monk, a robot that saves you the effort of believing in things by believing them on your behalf. A comparison is made with the way a video recorder will watch programmes for you so you don't have to.
In my younger days this didn't make sense to me. Surely you got a video to record the programmes you wanted to watch most of all. In the twenty-plus years since I first read that I have now realised the truth - Douglas was right.
I love my Humax PVR.
You can record off digital radio, the EPG has a search function, you can trim recorded programmes and you can upload files onto your computer. It's ace. But it's also full of telly I haven't got round to watching. The oldest is from 2 years ago - there's Series 4 and 5 of The Wire on there. Also Series 3 of Weeds, Series 2 of Dollhouse. I still intend to get around to watching all that at some point. It's all the stuff that I've recorded, didn't watch and subsequently deleted - stuff from Christmas, various films. The hard drive is more or less full so as soon as something new comes along that I might want to watch space has to be made and quite often the stuff that goes hasn't been watched yet. The most telling thing is when a film that's been on your recorder for a long time gets reshown. And you still don't get around to watching it. I think I've recorded Pan's Labyrinth 3 times - still haven't seen it. But the recorder must think it's good to have watched it again and again like that...
In fact, I'm saving up my pennies at the mo so I can afford to upgrade to a recorder that can watch in HD the things I'll never get around to seeing. So at least if I don't see it, I'm not seeing it with the best possible picture quality.
I think that makes sense.
More soonliest.
Thursday
Go to Bed, Spotty
The Fifteenth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.
I've sought advice from Shu-Shu, she being a marathon runner and all that, and apparently this is what is known as 'The Wall'.
My solemn promise to you, faithful viewer, is that there will be some sort of nonsense or other for you to digest every day come rain or shine. Current plans have it that I will have a one week break every six weeks. Let's see how that pans out.
In this world of rolling news and RSS feeds, digital channels out the wahoo and that there Twitter it behoves an old soul like myself to remember a gentler, quieter time when if there was nothing to say then everybody would shut up instead. Yes, this is all a bit self-reflexive - talking about not having anything to talk about (and then pointing out that that is what you're doing) - but I checked and you're allowed to do this whenever there's a red moon (just popped outside and it's too cloudy to see if it really is red, but everyone's been saying it is so that's good enough for me).
So tonight we're going to pad things out with a celebration of closedown - back in the day when people weren't afraid to admit they had nothing more to say. As Neil in The Young Ones (to this day, still my favourite TV comedy and thus my Eighth Telly Recommendation) once said, 'It's a sign. It means there's no more telly. It's time to go to bed'.
I grew up in Granadaland and so this is how the day used to end for those of us who lived on the banks of the Irwell. I hope you experience the same tears of nostalgia that I did upon hearing the swell of harp strings at the end of the Granada theme.
Times past, times we will never see again...
However, when we moved barely quarter of a mile up the road the signal from Winter Hill was blocked by the trees in the nearby park (I think) and so we had to retune our telly to pick up HTV Wales from the other direction. Swings and roundabouts, though. While keeping abreast of what was going down in Cardiff Town wasn't that useful it did mean that we got this rather stirring closedown music which evokes memories of a later, perhaps less innocent, time in my life.
(By the way, there's lot's of brilliant stuff like this at TV Ark, where you can easily lose an hour or two wandering through all sorts of long-forgotten gems)
Right, now it is time for bed. I'll leave you with this final closedown clock, which by a weird coincidence is showing the exact time I'm finishing typing this. Freaky.
Goodnight all.
More soonliest.
I've sought advice from Shu-Shu, she being a marathon runner and all that, and apparently this is what is known as 'The Wall'.
My solemn promise to you, faithful viewer, is that there will be some sort of nonsense or other for you to digest every day come rain or shine. Current plans have it that I will have a one week break every six weeks. Let's see how that pans out.
In this world of rolling news and RSS feeds, digital channels out the wahoo and that there Twitter it behoves an old soul like myself to remember a gentler, quieter time when if there was nothing to say then everybody would shut up instead. Yes, this is all a bit self-reflexive - talking about not having anything to talk about (and then pointing out that that is what you're doing) - but I checked and you're allowed to do this whenever there's a red moon (just popped outside and it's too cloudy to see if it really is red, but everyone's been saying it is so that's good enough for me).
So tonight we're going to pad things out with a celebration of closedown - back in the day when people weren't afraid to admit they had nothing more to say. As Neil in The Young Ones (to this day, still my favourite TV comedy and thus my Eighth Telly Recommendation) once said, 'It's a sign. It means there's no more telly. It's time to go to bed'.
I grew up in Granadaland and so this is how the day used to end for those of us who lived on the banks of the Irwell. I hope you experience the same tears of nostalgia that I did upon hearing the swell of harp strings at the end of the Granada theme.
Times past, times we will never see again...
However, when we moved barely quarter of a mile up the road the signal from Winter Hill was blocked by the trees in the nearby park (I think) and so we had to retune our telly to pick up HTV Wales from the other direction. Swings and roundabouts, though. While keeping abreast of what was going down in Cardiff Town wasn't that useful it did mean that we got this rather stirring closedown music which evokes memories of a later, perhaps less innocent, time in my life.
(By the way, there's lot's of brilliant stuff like this at TV Ark, where you can easily lose an hour or two wandering through all sorts of long-forgotten gems)
Right, now it is time for bed. I'll leave you with this final closedown clock, which by a weird coincidence is showing the exact time I'm finishing typing this. Freaky.
Goodnight all.
More soonliest.
Tuesday
Dinosaurs on Venus
The Fourteenth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.
Sausage, Chips and Beans since you ask.
Science, as They Might Be Giants (what? them again. Yes, TMBG easily lend themselves to lyric quotes as the contributors to this site illustrate) once said, is Real. You can prove stuff with it and everything. But when I was a wee bairn (circa AD1976) science was like magic. Rockets! Computors! (they should have stuck with that spelling) Moonbases! Atomic Power! Ah, the future (the native habitat of science) was going to be great.
So, ok, we have iPods and smartphones but where is my transmat? (actually I'm with Dr McCoy there - you wouldn't get me in one of those things). We certainly should have made contact with UFOnauts by now. Very disappointing.
In fact I know roughly the period when I fell out of love with science. It was around 1988 during my abandoned Physics with Astrophysics degree. That's around the time that they tell you that it's not magic but is in fact very hard work that require a lot of high-powered maths. Oh, Professor Brian Cox, there's only so far your populist vibe can take a chap before he realises that Things Can Not Only Get Better But Can Get Worse Too. Is it any wonder that I retreated (albeit half-heartedly) into the world of making things up instead of studying how real things work.
But in the course of making stuff up you want things to have really cool names. Here is where science becomes your friend again, because a lot of science stuff just sounds ace. I know it's annoying for scientists to hear genuine terms bandied about incorrectly (hell, the phrase 'inspired by the science of genes' makes even my lame-ass physics brain start to fizz) but as Han Solo knew when talking about the Falcon doing the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs accuracy shouldn't get in the way of awesomeness (although look here for some attempts to explain away Han's gobbledegook).
Two of my favourite cool science names are the Kuiper Belt and the Oort Cloud.
The Kuiper Belt is where all the space rocks and the occasional dwarf planet (like Pluto) hang out on the edge of the solar system. Not only does it sound fab in its own right, but all the stuff connected with it does too. Trans-Neptunian Objects or TNOs, KBOs (which stands for Kuiper Belt Objects but is hilarious for being the same acronym as Winston Churchill's sign-off of 'Keep Buggering On'), Plutinos, Cubewanos (from 'QB1-O' or 'object similar to QB1' which was one of the first objects to be found beyond Neptune besides Pluto and its moon, Charon). The only thing that would make it sound any more ace was if it was double-barrelled. (What's that you say? It's also known as the Edgeworth-Kuiper Belt? Hot dawg!) Got most of this info from our old friend Wikipedia. More here.
The Oort Cloud is even further away from the sun. It's where all the comets live, nearly a light year away. It's only hypothetical too, which to me is the litmus test for cool science as we don't want any facts spoiling potential awesomeness like when they declared that there weren't dinosaurs living on Venus after all (yes, as a child I had a proper science book that theorised that conditions on Venus might be like those on Earth millions of years ago so there could be dinosaurs. It even had an illustrations. Look, even Carl Sagan thinks there might be dinosaurs there. Or something:
But is there a double-barrelled version of its name for extra aceness? Why yes. It's also called the Öpik–Oort Cloud. That's right - like that guy who left weathergirl Siân Lloyd for a Cheeky Girl.
And that's where we'll leave it.
More soonliest.
Sausage, Chips and Beans since you ask.
Science, as They Might Be Giants (what? them again. Yes, TMBG easily lend themselves to lyric quotes as the contributors to this site illustrate) once said, is Real. You can prove stuff with it and everything. But when I was a wee bairn (circa AD1976) science was like magic. Rockets! Computors! (they should have stuck with that spelling) Moonbases! Atomic Power! Ah, the future (the native habitat of science) was going to be great.
So, ok, we have iPods and smartphones but where is my transmat? (actually I'm with Dr McCoy there - you wouldn't get me in one of those things). We certainly should have made contact with UFOnauts by now. Very disappointing.
In fact I know roughly the period when I fell out of love with science. It was around 1988 during my abandoned Physics with Astrophysics degree. That's around the time that they tell you that it's not magic but is in fact very hard work that require a lot of high-powered maths. Oh, Professor Brian Cox, there's only so far your populist vibe can take a chap before he realises that Things Can Not Only Get Better But Can Get Worse Too. Is it any wonder that I retreated (albeit half-heartedly) into the world of making things up instead of studying how real things work.
But in the course of making stuff up you want things to have really cool names. Here is where science becomes your friend again, because a lot of science stuff just sounds ace. I know it's annoying for scientists to hear genuine terms bandied about incorrectly (hell, the phrase 'inspired by the science of genes' makes even my lame-ass physics brain start to fizz) but as Han Solo knew when talking about the Falcon doing the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs accuracy shouldn't get in the way of awesomeness (although look here for some attempts to explain away Han's gobbledegook).
Two of my favourite cool science names are the Kuiper Belt and the Oort Cloud.
The Kuiper Belt is where all the space rocks and the occasional dwarf planet (like Pluto) hang out on the edge of the solar system. Not only does it sound fab in its own right, but all the stuff connected with it does too. Trans-Neptunian Objects or TNOs, KBOs (which stands for Kuiper Belt Objects but is hilarious for being the same acronym as Winston Churchill's sign-off of 'Keep Buggering On'), Plutinos, Cubewanos (from 'QB1-O' or 'object similar to QB1' which was one of the first objects to be found beyond Neptune besides Pluto and its moon, Charon). The only thing that would make it sound any more ace was if it was double-barrelled. (What's that you say? It's also known as the Edgeworth-Kuiper Belt? Hot dawg!) Got most of this info from our old friend Wikipedia. More here.
The Oort Cloud is even further away from the sun. It's where all the comets live, nearly a light year away. It's only hypothetical too, which to me is the litmus test for cool science as we don't want any facts spoiling potential awesomeness like when they declared that there weren't dinosaurs living on Venus after all (yes, as a child I had a proper science book that theorised that conditions on Venus might be like those on Earth millions of years ago so there could be dinosaurs. It even had an illustrations. Look, even Carl Sagan thinks there might be dinosaurs there. Or something:
But is there a double-barrelled version of its name for extra aceness? Why yes. It's also called the Öpik–Oort Cloud. That's right - like that guy who left weathergirl Siân Lloyd for a Cheeky Girl.
And that's where we'll leave it.
More soonliest.
Monday
Serving Suggestion
The Thirteenth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.
Not much of a cook - don't know if I mentioned that. No, usually for a meal I limit myself to tins, packets and frozen muck (hey, Mr Cauliflower Cheese Grill! Spin that wheel!). But that's not to say that strict procedures in the preparation of that food are not adhered to (man, that was some crazy double negative jive. I know I should go back and edit it, but this is all about being 'in the moment' so instead of a quick delete, you get a line and a half of me going on about, yes, I'm aware of it.)
The most important of these is that for your tea there must, must, be three things only on your plate.
There should be a meat thing (now, of course I am a vegetarian - not for any ethical reasons. I just hate vegetables and think they should be destroyed. Eat them to death!) which, ideally, should not be meat.
There should be a chips thing.
And there should be a peas/beans thing.
e.g.
(those are Quorn sausages (pronounced 'Quern' with a slightly Nordic accent), by the way. Not sure about the haphazard grouping there. And the seasoning looks a bit modern, but you get the idea.)
I don't want to encourage the meat eaters among you but if you are going to insist on eating flesh then acceptable items for the meat thing are fake veggie sausages, chops (pork or lamb, they're the main ones), burgers, pies, pasties, kiev thingies at a push or probably fish (not sure what the point of fish is, so that's open to debate. (Fish Fingers, naturally, require custard)) Obviously, I would prefer it if you went for vegetable fingers (pronounced 'veg-a-bull' with a silent 't'), cauliflower cheese grill, vegetable grill, individual pizza (not ham), Linda's pie, onion bhaji, veg spring roll or nut cutlety things.
The chip thing is usually chips, but also includes Bachelor's savoury rice, Super Noodles (one half packet, reseal with half sachet of flavour powder safely tucked within for later use), potato waffles, wedges, baked potato (as long as it's microwaved - I'm not waiting an hour for a spud), hash browns or - for the young-at-heart - Smiles.
The peas/beans thing encompasses tins of enhanced beans (tiny sausages), spaghetti (also bolognese), ravioli, sweetcorn, pasta shapes (the Spider-Man ones are really cool).
You can't go far wrong with this formula, but as always to prove the rule there are some exceptions.
Fried eggs can sometimes be used in the peas/beans category but only if they have been duly authorised as eggabeans. This can be achieved by the person making the meal first asking this question of a potential diner: 'Do you want eggabeans with your tea?' The diner may then choose to have egg instead of beans.
The most important variation is Egg and Chips which is the only two item tea allowed.
Ideally this should be made by my Mum. Moreover, to be appreciated correctly it must be only Egg and Chips. People who think sausage, egg and chips or egg, chips and beans are a good idea are instruments of Satan and must be stoned until they recant their unGodly ways.
We're running out of time so we'll have to leave the question of sauce for now (and the phenomenon of 'Sauce Bottle Equalisation' or SBE). Also, those of you wanting to read my opinions on The Toast Cycle will have to be patient. Let's not get carried away here.
More soonliest.
Not much of a cook - don't know if I mentioned that. No, usually for a meal I limit myself to tins, packets and frozen muck (hey, Mr Cauliflower Cheese Grill! Spin that wheel!). But that's not to say that strict procedures in the preparation of that food are not adhered to (man, that was some crazy double negative jive. I know I should go back and edit it, but this is all about being 'in the moment' so instead of a quick delete, you get a line and a half of me going on about, yes, I'm aware of it.)
The most important of these is that for your tea there must, must, be three things only on your plate.
There should be a meat thing (now, of course I am a vegetarian - not for any ethical reasons. I just hate vegetables and think they should be destroyed. Eat them to death!) which, ideally, should not be meat.
There should be a chips thing.
And there should be a peas/beans thing.
e.g.
I don't want to encourage the meat eaters among you but if you are going to insist on eating flesh then acceptable items for the meat thing are fake veggie sausages, chops (pork or lamb, they're the main ones), burgers, pies, pasties, kiev thingies at a push or probably fish (not sure what the point of fish is, so that's open to debate. (Fish Fingers, naturally, require custard)) Obviously, I would prefer it if you went for vegetable fingers (pronounced 'veg-a-bull' with a silent 't'), cauliflower cheese grill, vegetable grill, individual pizza (not ham), Linda's pie, onion bhaji, veg spring roll or nut cutlety things.
The chip thing is usually chips, but also includes Bachelor's savoury rice, Super Noodles (one half packet, reseal with half sachet of flavour powder safely tucked within for later use), potato waffles, wedges, baked potato (as long as it's microwaved - I'm not waiting an hour for a spud), hash browns or - for the young-at-heart - Smiles.
The peas/beans thing encompasses tins of enhanced beans (tiny sausages), spaghetti (also bolognese), ravioli, sweetcorn, pasta shapes (the Spider-Man ones are really cool).
You can't go far wrong with this formula, but as always to prove the rule there are some exceptions.
Fried eggs can sometimes be used in the peas/beans category but only if they have been duly authorised as eggabeans. This can be achieved by the person making the meal first asking this question of a potential diner: 'Do you want eggabeans with your tea?' The diner may then choose to have egg instead of beans.
The most important variation is Egg and Chips which is the only two item tea allowed.
Ideally this should be made by my Mum. Moreover, to be appreciated correctly it must be only Egg and Chips. People who think sausage, egg and chips or egg, chips and beans are a good idea are instruments of Satan and must be stoned until they recant their unGodly ways.
We're running out of time so we'll have to leave the question of sauce for now (and the phenomenon of 'Sauce Bottle Equalisation' or SBE). Also, those of you wanting to read my opinions on The Toast Cycle will have to be patient. Let's not get carried away here.
More soonliest.
A Circle in a Spiral, A Wheel Within a Wheel
The Twelfth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Sunday.
It occurs to me that now might be a good time to explain the title of this blog.
I'm always fascinated by the echoes and patterns that turn up in people's lives. I don't believe in Fate, but it's strange how there's something like it in the way we group our experiences together and try to make something out of it. We latch on to an idea and soon we see it reiterated in other parts of our life.
And that's why I like windmills.
I couldn't tell you the first time they figured in my life, but they seem to be all over the place.
Since I share my name with Meneer Van Gogh the noted artist I thought I might find inspiration for my blog in his paintings. I wondered if he'd used a windmill for a subject and was pleased to find that he had painted several during his time in Paris. Both Vincent and the windmills lived in Montmartre, and the Blute Fin (the name comes from the French verb Bluter - to sift, the flour that was ground there) is still there today. Here's its Facebook page.
One of these paintings made the news in Feb 2010 when it was finally attributed to Van Gogh some 35 years after it was claimed as his work.
In fact if you put the name of this blog into Google it'll try and give you one of the other Vincent's pages instead of mine. The cheek.
Windmills have turned up elsewhere in my life too. I used to meet my ex-girlfriend for lunch in the Windmill pub in Swinton. I wonder if it's still there...
(Apparently it was in 2008)
I'm a big fan of They Might Be Giants (oh, they're probably going to figure here a few times on this blog and rightly so. Going to see them next month so let's make one of their fab new tracks Can't Keep Johnny Down the Third Music Recommendation). They took their name from a 1971 film starring George C Scott and Joanne Woodward, where he thinks he's Sherlock Holmes and she's his psychiatrist named Dr Watson. The film takes its name from Don Quixote tilting at (you've guessed it) windmills because he thought they might be, well, giants. I've got Don Quixote resting on my bookshelf unread, but I'm down with the whole 'impossible dream' thang. I can dig that.
And of course I courted my first wife with the promise of finding a disused windmill on a housing estate in Kidsgrove. Ah there it is. Although you might be able to see it better from here.
We even spent our wedding night at the Windmill Hotel in Scarborough
Our key wouldn't work in the door so we had to spend an hour in the Toy Museum they used to have downstairs drinking tea while they called out an emergency locksmith. Nice breakfast, though.
So I have something of an affinity for windmills.
I also like octopuses, but any mollusc-related thoughts must wait until another day.
More soonliest
It occurs to me that now might be a good time to explain the title of this blog.
I'm always fascinated by the echoes and patterns that turn up in people's lives. I don't believe in Fate, but it's strange how there's something like it in the way we group our experiences together and try to make something out of it. We latch on to an idea and soon we see it reiterated in other parts of our life.
And that's why I like windmills.
I couldn't tell you the first time they figured in my life, but they seem to be all over the place.
Since I share my name with Meneer Van Gogh the noted artist I thought I might find inspiration for my blog in his paintings. I wondered if he'd used a windmill for a subject and was pleased to find that he had painted several during his time in Paris. Both Vincent and the windmills lived in Montmartre, and the Blute Fin (the name comes from the French verb Bluter - to sift, the flour that was ground there) is still there today. Here's its Facebook page.
One of these paintings made the news in Feb 2010 when it was finally attributed to Van Gogh some 35 years after it was claimed as his work.
In fact if you put the name of this blog into Google it'll try and give you one of the other Vincent's pages instead of mine. The cheek.
Windmills have turned up elsewhere in my life too. I used to meet my ex-girlfriend for lunch in the Windmill pub in Swinton. I wonder if it's still there...
(Apparently it was in 2008)
I'm a big fan of They Might Be Giants (oh, they're probably going to figure here a few times on this blog and rightly so. Going to see them next month so let's make one of their fab new tracks Can't Keep Johnny Down the Third Music Recommendation). They took their name from a 1971 film starring George C Scott and Joanne Woodward, where he thinks he's Sherlock Holmes and she's his psychiatrist named Dr Watson. The film takes its name from Don Quixote tilting at (you've guessed it) windmills because he thought they might be, well, giants. I've got Don Quixote resting on my bookshelf unread, but I'm down with the whole 'impossible dream' thang. I can dig that.
And of course I courted my first wife with the promise of finding a disused windmill on a housing estate in Kidsgrove. Ah there it is. Although you might be able to see it better from here.
We even spent our wedding night at the Windmill Hotel in Scarborough
Our key wouldn't work in the door so we had to spend an hour in the Toy Museum they used to have downstairs drinking tea while they called out an emergency locksmith. Nice breakfast, though.
So I have something of an affinity for windmills.
I also like octopuses, but any mollusc-related thoughts must wait until another day.
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Sunday
Wagging It
The Eleventh of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Saturday.
In my younger days I wasn't entirely as conscientious about turning up for school/college/work as I might have been. I have played darts in an afternoon while listening to Mike Sweeney on Piccadilly Radio, I have missed rehearsals because I have been feeling a bit down and once I didn't even turn up for my first day on the job because I was caught in traffic and the resulting prolonged thinking time made me want to do something else. Desperately.
I have cooked my goose with the civil service. They were worried when they used to see me sitting outside with my head in my hands and during one bout of absence sent people around to a) make sure I was ok and then b) tell me not to bother them any more.
I'm not sure I have a work ethic.
And yet...
Maybe it's having a family, maybe it's having a job I don't entirely hate, maybe it's even having grown up a bit, but recently I've gone to work when I'm supposed to. I even got a letter thanking me for it this morning. Even now that's an odd feeling.
So tonight I'm going to share with you that letter interspersed with pictures that may or may not be relevant.
Here it is:
Dear Vincent,
Twelve Months 100% attendance achievement - 2010
Congratulations! You are one of 75 members of the First Transpennine Express Stations and Revenue Teams who have maintained a full attendance record during 2010.
We regularly monitor staff attendance through the year via the company's Managing Absence procedure but have also taken the opportunity to recognise, on a positive basis, all our colleagues who have had no sickness absence at all throughout the last calendar year.
Your 100% atttendance record is very much valued and appreciated. Thank you once again!
More soonliest.
In my younger days I wasn't entirely as conscientious about turning up for school/college/work as I might have been. I have played darts in an afternoon while listening to Mike Sweeney on Piccadilly Radio, I have missed rehearsals because I have been feeling a bit down and once I didn't even turn up for my first day on the job because I was caught in traffic and the resulting prolonged thinking time made me want to do something else. Desperately.
I have cooked my goose with the civil service. They were worried when they used to see me sitting outside with my head in my hands and during one bout of absence sent people around to a) make sure I was ok and then b) tell me not to bother them any more.
I'm not sure I have a work ethic.
And yet...
Maybe it's having a family, maybe it's having a job I don't entirely hate, maybe it's even having grown up a bit, but recently I've gone to work when I'm supposed to. I even got a letter thanking me for it this morning. Even now that's an odd feeling.
So tonight I'm going to share with you that letter interspersed with pictures that may or may not be relevant.
Here it is:
Dear Vincent,
Twelve Months 100% attendance achievement - 2010
Congratulations! You are one of 75 members of the First Transpennine Express Stations and Revenue Teams who have maintained a full attendance record during 2010.
We regularly monitor staff attendance through the year via the company's Managing Absence procedure but have also taken the opportunity to recognise, on a positive basis, all our colleagues who have had no sickness absence at all throughout the last calendar year.
Your 100% atttendance record is very much valued and appreciated. Thank you once again!
Saturday
Ossie's Dream
The Tenth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.
The Flat's quite tidy at the mo. It's quite pleasant, really. So this is why people keep their homes clean. Nice, but I don't think it'll catch on.
Oh it was the last episode of series 3 of The Mentalist tonight (or as it is known in the MH family El Mentalista) and it was a good one. Yes, faithful viewer, this is my Seventh Telly Recommendation.
Now the creator of El Mentalista is a chap by the name of Bruno Heller. He's British, the brother of novelist Zoe Heller and I have a feeling he's a Spurs fan. Why?
In tonight's episode there were 5 possible suspects for the bad guy. One of whom was named Osvaldo Ardiles. A perfectly ordinary sounding name among the Hispanic population of California, but to those of us who remember our 80s footballers more famously the Tottenham and Argentina midfielder.
Of course, 30 years ago Ossie helped Spurs to win the FA Cup. Oh, that hurt for a long time. In fact it's only this year that the pain has subsided. Oh, Tommy Hutch scoring at both ends - that's still one of the fate's great injustices. I don't know if there is such a thing as Karma but surely some was reclaimed by the way that this season Peter Crouch, the man whose goal effectively prevented Man City from making the Champions' League last year, scored the own goal that helped us on our way to Europe this year. Is that a bit of a stretch? I don't think so.
(Last minute edit: and I've just realised that one of the scorers from the 1981 replay was Garth Crooks, born in the Potteries and a successful Stoke City player before joining Tottenham. Is this why Stoke were the sacrificial lambs to Man City's victory this year? Well, is it? Think about it...)
I had some vague notion that Ossie wore the No1 shirt in the Argentina squad that won the World Cup as hosts in 1978 - unusual for a player other than a goalkeeper to wear that number. I was 9 during that World Cup - of all the things to stick in my mind. A bit of Googling reveals that's not quite right. Ardiles was No2, but No1 was worn by an outfield player: midfielder Norberto Alonso. I can't ever recall seeing that anywhere else.
Right. Always end on a song. Here's Ardiles and the rest of the accursed 81 FA Cup squad along with Chas and Dave. May their shells be blighted.
More soonliest
The Flat's quite tidy at the mo. It's quite pleasant, really. So this is why people keep their homes clean. Nice, but I don't think it'll catch on.
Oh it was the last episode of series 3 of The Mentalist tonight (or as it is known in the MH family El Mentalista) and it was a good one. Yes, faithful viewer, this is my Seventh Telly Recommendation.
Now the creator of El Mentalista is a chap by the name of Bruno Heller. He's British, the brother of novelist Zoe Heller and I have a feeling he's a Spurs fan. Why?
In tonight's episode there were 5 possible suspects for the bad guy. One of whom was named Osvaldo Ardiles. A perfectly ordinary sounding name among the Hispanic population of California, but to those of us who remember our 80s footballers more famously the Tottenham and Argentina midfielder.
Of course, 30 years ago Ossie helped Spurs to win the FA Cup. Oh, that hurt for a long time. In fact it's only this year that the pain has subsided. Oh, Tommy Hutch scoring at both ends - that's still one of the fate's great injustices. I don't know if there is such a thing as Karma but surely some was reclaimed by the way that this season Peter Crouch, the man whose goal effectively prevented Man City from making the Champions' League last year, scored the own goal that helped us on our way to Europe this year. Is that a bit of a stretch? I don't think so.
(Last minute edit: and I've just realised that one of the scorers from the 1981 replay was Garth Crooks, born in the Potteries and a successful Stoke City player before joining Tottenham. Is this why Stoke were the sacrificial lambs to Man City's victory this year? Well, is it? Think about it...)
I had some vague notion that Ossie wore the No1 shirt in the Argentina squad that won the World Cup as hosts in 1978 - unusual for a player other than a goalkeeper to wear that number. I was 9 during that World Cup - of all the things to stick in my mind. A bit of Googling reveals that's not quite right. Ardiles was No2, but No1 was worn by an outfield player: midfielder Norberto Alonso. I can't ever recall seeing that anywhere else.
Right. Always end on a song. Here's Ardiles and the rest of the accursed 81 FA Cup squad along with Chas and Dave. May their shells be blighted.
More soonliest
Friday
The Cost of Solving Everything is Everything
The Ninth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.
I had completely forgotten I’d ordered it! That’s how bright I am. My Mister Fantastic t-shirt, imported from the US. Fanboy joy!
I was going to let this garment’s arrival be the springboard into a paean to how brilliant the current Fantastic Four comic is (it’s called FF and was and is my First Comic Book Recommendation) but to do so would include many spoilers or be too vague so take my advice and treat yourself to a volume of Jonathan Hickman’s run. It’s set fair and square within the Marvel Universe so some comics nous would come in handy but don’t panic. It starts with the Dark Reign tie-in, which is cool and foreshadows some of the later stuff, and then kicks off in earnest with Volume 1.
It's ace. It's one of the few comics that I immediately reread - for pleasure and to pick up on the stuff my tiny mind missed the first time round.
I suppose this blog has just turned into one big recommendation tonight. Sorry about that - been a bit busy so run out of time. Normal service will be resumed soon. But I'd hate for you to have come all this way for nowt, so his a little spot the difference for you. Which of the following is the super-smart stretchy superhero with the hot invisible wife and which is the slightly overweight nerd with a train set under his bed? Look carefully now...
See? It's not as easy as you might think, is it?
More soonliest
Wednesday
Three Hygiene Stars (out of Five)
The Eighth of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.
My a-ha CD/DVD combo turned up today. That was good timing wasn't it?
Just a quick thought. Today I cleaned my bathroom (overdue). Did a bit of scrubbing, etc. and it was generally a lot cleaner than when I started. Not Kim and Aggie clean, but fairly fragrant and I got most of the muck off the shower door so I think I haven't done too badly.
That got me to thinking about the Five Star Hygiene ratings they have on food shops. I noticed Poundland had the full five the other day. But it is a sliding scale and there must be some places that only have three stars. Is that a bad thing? Obviously it's not as good as spotless top marks.
The upshot is when I looked at my bathrooom after I'd finished it wasn't perfect but it was well above my normal low standards. A three star rating if you will.
It was then that I realised that what you're really looking for in keeping your digs clean is a compromise between the amount of work you want to put in and the amount of embarassment your living like a pig will cause should anybody actually come round and disturb you.
I've illustrated this in a graph:
As always, the area under the graph is the ideal place to be.
Hey, I was checking the spelling of 'mither' and the site I was looking at pointed out that it's an anagram of 'hermit'. Makes sense - a hermit won't want to be mithered.
More soonliest
My a-ha CD/DVD combo turned up today. That was good timing wasn't it?
Just a quick thought. Today I cleaned my bathroom (overdue). Did a bit of scrubbing, etc. and it was generally a lot cleaner than when I started. Not Kim and Aggie clean, but fairly fragrant and I got most of the muck off the shower door so I think I haven't done too badly.
That got me to thinking about the Five Star Hygiene ratings they have on food shops. I noticed Poundland had the full five the other day. But it is a sliding scale and there must be some places that only have three stars. Is that a bad thing? Obviously it's not as good as spotless top marks.
The upshot is when I looked at my bathrooom after I'd finished it wasn't perfect but it was well above my normal low standards. A three star rating if you will.
It was then that I realised that what you're really looking for in keeping your digs clean is a compromise between the amount of work you want to put in and the amount of embarassment your living like a pig will cause should anybody actually come round and disturb you.
I've illustrated this in a graph:
Hey, I was checking the spelling of 'mither' and the site I was looking at pointed out that it's an anagram of 'hermit'. Makes sense - a hermit won't want to be mithered.
More soonliest
Reasons to Stay Indoors
The Seventh of June Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.
I don't like this day quite as much as I used to.
Where's my spy camera? Where's my spy camera? Where's my SPY CAMERA!?
Always seems like a bit of a risk ordering something from Amazon Marketplace rather than the main site. Yes, you can read the reviews and what have you but when they don't say they're going to post immediately it can be a bit worrying. And all to save a couple of quid. Was it worth it?
The item in question is a CD and DVD combo of a-ha's farewell concert in Oslo entitled Ending on a High Note. I went to see the Manchester leg of the same tour. A bittersweet experience. It's always a shame when a band you admire decides to call it a day. You can take some solace in their solo work, but it never seems quite the same. Think about it - George Michael was never much cop after Andrew Ridgeley packed up his goodies and surfed off into the sunset.
The top Norwegian songsters split for the first time back in the early 90s. Not long after Morten Harket brought out a solo album called Wild Seed. There are some good songs on there, and you've got MH's extraordinary voice (there you go. I bet you didn't know that the MH in Vin MH stood for 'Morten Harket', did you? Neither did I...) but it's missing something.
Mostly what it's missing is the song writing skills of Paul and Magne. Especially Paul. He went on to found the group Savoy along with his wife, Lauren. There's a real sense on their albums of him cutting loose with the stuff he really wants to do and has been unable to in a-ha. But the fact remains, as good as Paul's voice is it's not as striking as Morten's.
(Nevertheless, I think Savoy are the most satisfying of the a-ha spinoffs so my Second Music Recommendation is their 'best of' collection Savoy Songbook Vol1)
I saw that Queen documentary that was on over the Bank Holiday the other day. It was the same there too. There's something about the tension in these groups that helps produce their best work when they're recording together. The solo stuff is a bonus but it never seems to completely cut it.
A couple of compare and contrasts to finish off with.
The original Savoy version of Velvet from 1996 and a-ha's 2000 cover version.
Magne's song The Longest Night with a chorus added by Paul to make Foot of the Mountain.
More soonliest
I don't like this day quite as much as I used to.
Where's my spy camera? Where's my spy camera? Where's my SPY CAMERA!?
Always seems like a bit of a risk ordering something from Amazon Marketplace rather than the main site. Yes, you can read the reviews and what have you but when they don't say they're going to post immediately it can be a bit worrying. And all to save a couple of quid. Was it worth it?
The item in question is a CD and DVD combo of a-ha's farewell concert in Oslo entitled Ending on a High Note. I went to see the Manchester leg of the same tour. A bittersweet experience. It's always a shame when a band you admire decides to call it a day. You can take some solace in their solo work, but it never seems quite the same. Think about it - George Michael was never much cop after Andrew Ridgeley packed up his goodies and surfed off into the sunset.
The top Norwegian songsters split for the first time back in the early 90s. Not long after Morten Harket brought out a solo album called Wild Seed. There are some good songs on there, and you've got MH's extraordinary voice (there you go. I bet you didn't know that the MH in Vin MH stood for 'Morten Harket', did you? Neither did I...) but it's missing something.
Mostly what it's missing is the song writing skills of Paul and Magne. Especially Paul. He went on to found the group Savoy along with his wife, Lauren. There's a real sense on their albums of him cutting loose with the stuff he really wants to do and has been unable to in a-ha. But the fact remains, as good as Paul's voice is it's not as striking as Morten's.
(Nevertheless, I think Savoy are the most satisfying of the a-ha spinoffs so my Second Music Recommendation is their 'best of' collection Savoy Songbook Vol1)
I saw that Queen documentary that was on over the Bank Holiday the other day. It was the same there too. There's something about the tension in these groups that helps produce their best work when they're recording together. The solo stuff is a bonus but it never seems to completely cut it.
A couple of compare and contrasts to finish off with.
The original Savoy version of Velvet from 1996 and a-ha's 2000 cover version.
Magne's song The Longest Night with a chorus added by Paul to make Foot of the Mountain.
More soonliest
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