Vampire Science.
Books Regular readers will know that Vampire Science has been an elusive book to get hold of. Whilst I've been hammering ebay for the past four months collecting together a complete run of Eighth Doctor novels I just couldn't win a copy of this. At one point I even threatened to read and review the synopsis instead. The best explanation I could find beforehand, at the forums of Outpost Gallifrey, is that it has the distinction of being one of the few early books worth reading - which doesn't bode well for my reading matter of the next few months. Having felt myself compelled to read the book over the past four days I can see what they mean. I couldn't put it down.
Something about the cover suggested the plot would be about The Doctor chasing vampires about Washington, what with the wings and the presidential seal and all. It turns out that's just to signify that the story is set in America again although I think there may be other themes which I'll look at later. The Doctor is instead in his familiar stomping ground of San Francisco trying to stop them from eating anyone else.
The series has done vampires before, on tv in State of Decay and in the Virgin New Adventures. Nicely it's not implicit whether they're supposed to be supernatural but they are extraterrestrial. At it's core this is about a skirmish between two ancient races, with The Doctor representing the timelords. In the first few chapters, he and Sam are in 1976 with the direct approach of a staking through the heart. The crux of the story is that he goes on to try the unconventional approach of trying to cure them of their vampiric tendencies and the need to hunt, he's championing life, even if it is undead.
What's refreshing about that is that he's not fighting the monster but the situation that their state of being engenders. The plot theoretically fails to move forward in places because he's more pro-active with people than situations, fighting the good fight with words and benign actions. He takes Joanna Harris, the leader of the vampires to the funeral of one of her victims (or meals) so that she can see the effects of what she does. It's chilling because we can see that she's unphased; but The Doctor just wants a glimmer and that's what he gets.
Understandably it all feels rather like an episode of the first season Angel when everyone would rally around and go off and hunt some vampires. Buffy The Vampire Slayer is name checked towards the end as a pop culture reference but there are moments throughout which earely evoke that later spin-off. There are very few locations and one is a night club where the vampires hang out. Curiously, another is actually called Angel Labs. And one of the supporting vamps is named Spike and it's impossible not to read his few lines without hearing James Marster's cockney accent.
Much like that series in its later years we don't see the events happening on a wider canvas, we don't really find out how it affects the typical man on the sidewalk. We have a small selection of characters and none feel like filler; all have an importance within the structure of the book.
Joanna Harris is the strongest of the characters in the book. A nine hundred old Vampire, she's tired of the hunt and is looking for a blood substitute. Just when he thinks she's on his side she keeps disappointing him just when he thinks he's got her licked, somewhat like Angel's Darla (especially when you consider what happens to her towards the end of the book). If her cohorts within the vampire group feel slightly generic it is so as not to detract from Harris's uniqueness. Items like Slake need to be pure evil so that she can have that shading. Similarly the coroner, Dr Shackle, worn down after months of talk from Harris is willing to become a vampire so that he can get away from the pointless existence she's convinced him he has.
Much as I love The Brig, it's refreshing to have a different UNIT agent on hand. Adrienne Kramer is not merely a substitute either. Originally created by author Jonathan Blum for Time Rift, an amateur video adventure featuring The Seventh Doctor and Ace, she doesn't entirely trust The Doctor because of his manipulative actions during that largely unseen adventure (not having seen the video doesn't spoil things though). She's not sure that he can actually save the day and is only willing to take his lead if he can give her a convincing reason. Now and then she takes the law into her own hands but interestingly is proved to be right.
Central to the novel though, are the experiences of Carolyn McConnell. We meet her first during that 1976 adventure and there is some great business as The Doctor explains to her some of the mysteries of the universe. He gives her an alert if she suspects that any more vamps are going to show up and it's because of her call that he reappears in 1997. In a series of stunning scenes we get to see how a set of experiences over just a few hours one night can effect the course of a life as it reaches out across the decades. It's all a bit much for her partner James who takes the realistic human action of running away as quickly as he can (and you can't blame him especially after being kidnapped by them).
Although there are action sequences, it's more of a character piece about who The Doctor is and how is ideology and choices effect those around him. Yet again we're comparing all the differences between this new Doctor and his predecessor. It's not surprising considering each of the four novels I've read so far have been written as the first story of the series. It's like the opening episodes of new tv series, feeling around looking for what the show is about. Doctor Who does the same whenever it hits a new format. This is the first to actually hammer a new mission for this New Doctor. He's life's champion, with the will to save the breathing even at the cost of his own life.
To this end The Doctor's become a bit of a messianic figure. At one stage its pointed out to him that he's a much more touchy feely character and he really is. Throughout the book he's embracing, hugging, touching people on the arm and putting his hands around their shoulders. He's more of a comforter than he's ever been before. But in a wider sense there is the expectation that if they're trouble brewing he'll show up and save the day and whoever you are in the process. Whole passages are given over to showing the effects he has on people around him, even to the extent of putting the feeling into words. It's the literary equivalent of that speech in Big Finish's Zagreus about him being out there somewhere saving the world or even the universe. He fundamentally wants to save lives in all their forms, with the side belief that all life is worth saving. At the end of the book he even brings the undead back to life.
The book cleverly turn this on its head, making that opinion The Doctor's fatal flaw. There is an excellent moment, similar to that scene between Ninth and Rose in The Unquiet Dead, in which he argues the point with Sam. She's been bitten by one of them and wants to kill them all but he still fundamentally believes that they can be saved. His inaction eventually leads to more deaths; The Doctor finds that his perfect vision of the universe doesn't entire match the reality of the world he lives in. He's flawed. Would the Seventh have made that mistake?
Speaking of Sam, (or 'Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam' as The Doctor puts it on one the pages - you try saying that out loud!) this is the first time since the glimmer we had in The Eight Doctors that we've been able to spend with her. Strangely after two hundred and fifty odd pages, my opinion hasn't changed. I still sort of like her. She's very much the proto-Rose although with the added menace of thinking she's more intelligent than she actually is. There's a significant time gap between this and the Dick's novel so we don't get to see the initial bonding between her and The Doctor. She's obviously had a few unseen adventures with him because there is already much talk of going in and saving the day.
Unlike Rose (or Charley Pollard, the audio companion for that matter) there is a seed of doubt to her that she's aboard the TARDIS because she can't bare to go back to school. There are times during the book when she fulfills the traditional companion role of getting hurt or captured but at others she's superfluous. In places we don't hear her own arguments - we hear the opinions of other characters in a slightly different way. She's not as strong a character as you'd want her to be and I can totally understand the unpopularity she seems to have amongst some fans. There's a great scene in which Kramer talks about the Seventh Doctor's treatment of Ace, all of that character building and we entirelly begin to question what The Doctor's agenda is taking all of these girls of roughly the same age and type around the universe. The way she describes things, it becomes slightly creepy.
Much as I loved The Dying Days, there were so many issues involved within and without its pages, so many leaps of faith for anyone like me who hadn't read the New Adventures I was bewildered. I like being bewildered, which is why I liked that book, but sometimes it's just nice to have a straight down the line bit of story telling which doesn't have another agenda. Perhaps it's why many fans will pick City of Death over Ghost Light when they're looking for something to watch even though they're both classics. On reflection that might not be the best comparison.
I'm not sure how these collaborations fit together but there is a single authors voice in here. Given Blum's involvement after reading Model Train Set, I was expecting something slightly more enigmatic but everything is very literal. When information is withheld its part of the storytelling not for poetic reasons. Inevitably my favourite descriptions are of the TARDIS. He and Kate Orman love this new cavernous interior with all its many details. The aforementioned train set is mentioned (although that story was written later) and we find that a mini which is the hero's transport during the adventure (a Bessie for this new age) is parked in the console room. My favourite is the butterfly collection - the specimens are alive and flying about the space, again demonstrating how The Doctor's thirst for knowledge should never be to the detriment of life itself.
Unlike The Dying Days this doesn't feel at all like it could be an episode of the new series even though it's still absolutely new. It takes the pace of the tv movie but offers the added addition of a decent plot. That said some of who the Eighth Doctor is continues to parallel the Ninth and he gives a speech guaranteed to raise the eyebrows of anyone who remember what he said to the Daleks at the start of The Parting of the Ways:
"I'm a Time Lord ... from the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous ... I'm a former President of the High Council of Time Lords, Keeper of the Legacy of Rassilon, Defender of the Laws of Time and Protector of Gallifrey. I'm called the Bringer of Darkness, the Oncoming Storm, and the Evergreen Man."
You know what? That last line frightened the life out of me again. Perhaps he should get it printed up on business cards.
As you can see from the length of this review I really, really liked Vampire Science. After the disappointment of The Eight Doctors I was afraid that none of the BBC Books would be as good as The Dying Days. It's less sophisticated, but as I said before, in a good way. Wrapping The Doctor's fate up with the main villain presents us with many heart stopping moments when you wonder if he will survive in his present form. The book's enthralling even when there's not all that much happening, simply because we like being around the characters. But we aren't given any easy answers. Although The Doctor saves the day he fails in what he set out to achieve. He starts to realize that not everyone shares his goal of being life's champion.
Until you've heard it in the original Hebrew.
Film Just in case anyone missed it, here is that excellent Japanese poster for The Passion of the Christ. It's worth investigating to see how a film which fits within one very specific idiology might be marketed in a country were that ideology is, if not entirely alien, not the norm. It reminds me somewhat of the posters which cropped up for the revival of Lloyd-Webber's Jesus Christ Superstar in which the actor playing the messiah stood in a crowded street, although in that case the image was the best thing about the whole ferrago. On the basis of this I'm tempted to go look at the film again. [via]
Road To Beijing: Michelle Dillon
The Road To Beijing Michelle Dillon was fifth in the ITU World Cup on yesterday in Corner Brook, a city of 20,000 in Canada?s easternmost province of Newfoundland and Labrador. Her British team mate Andrea Whitcombe was first:
"The leaders sped through the bike-to-run transition, with Murray emerging first onto the four-lap, 10km hilly run. But Whitcombe soon moved into the lead, with Kornell, Niwata, Swail and Murray close behind. Despite the best efforts of the chasers, Whitcombe coasted to victory as Swail out sprinted Niwata for second place. Kornell posted her best World Cup finish in fourth, and Michelle Dillon posted the fastest run split of the day to round out the top five."Which actually sounds quite similar to her form in the Olympics. [about]
Picture of Another Place
Art Here is a flickr stream for the Gormley installation I nearly ruined myself seeing at the weekend. [via]
You're essentially an employee
Blogs This is an unusual one. A New York Times writer has an article published in which she talks about her nanny and all the 'shocking' things she discovered about her by reading her weblog (which sounds like a column filler but I digress). In the article she doesn't offer a URL or a title or even the name of the nanny. Unfortunately she was naive enough to think that if she printed quotes someone wouldn't just be able to check Google and find the blog. Well they did. And now the nanny has posted a lengthy rebuttle. As Nathan says:
"There is a great rebuttal post where the nanny explains how Olen, the 'reporter', took singular incidents and statements and made assumptions in her article that they were a pattern, how the Times sat behind technicalities in refusing to alter the column before it saw print, and how the blog is, by far, no 'Nannies Gone Wild'. Bravo. Regardless of any mistakes this nanny made, the irresponsibility falls squarely on the 'journalist' who saw fit to publish details of a private citizen's private life."The reporter has evidently thought that since the blog is in the public domain already, re-printing the material in the column is fair game. But the readership of the NYT is vast in comparison to most blogspotters (I should know), so to a degree it's an invasion of privacy since you're shining a floodlight on a subject which before would at best be illuminated by a table lamp. I wonder if there was a discussion about the article going into print between employer and employee. If the reporter had concerns about the blog it might have been more civil to approach the nanny face to face at Starbucks rather an print her concerns in a national newspaper for everyone to read. Told you it was an unusual one.
No boots
Life I ended up throwing out the boots I was wearing yesterday. Too much sand and moisture in the wrong places and a too rich smell. It felt like a waste, but given that I hadn't worn them for over a year anyway fairly natural.
Another Place
My boots were stuck in the sand. Actually they were deeper than the sand. I was in the mud. My boots were stuck in the mud. I tried to pull myself out, but I feel my socks coming loose and the shoe being left behind. I tryed to step forward but I couldn't. I look ahead into the distance and see my Dad running madly forward.
"That's the sandles lost then." He said. He's only in his socks.
We went to Crosby beach today to see "Another Place" or Anthony Gormley's statues. I'd watched the news reports beforehand of teenagers going out to far and getting stuck in the tide, holding onto the figures for dear life. How we'd laughed at the stupidity. So we'd said we wouldn't go out too far. And we hadn't. But that sand looked so stable and I'd stepped forward and plop.
I didn't panic. I wasn't actually sinking. But I wasn't going anywhere else. I eventually managed to pull my left foot out, boot and all. But there was nowhere for it to go but backward, back into a squelch as it went back into the soft sand. My plan was to keep doing this until I hit a hard surface. That lasted about thirty seconds when I realised it would require the right foot to move and it wasn't going anywhere.
My now my Dad had retrieved his sandles and had trotted back over. I put out my hand and he took it and tried to pull. But he was falling towards me so he stepped back again. I'm glad my Dad's here. I imagined the phone call home if I'd been out on my own "I'm on Crosby beach and I'm stuck in the mud." I'm not very practical -- whenever something happens in the real world, usually with nature, I have no idea what to do. I'll struggle through, but my Dad somehow just knows. I've no common sense whatsoever.
"I'm going to have to come out of the boots." I said.
I pulled my left foot out, with boot still stuck in the mud. My foot found some more sand to get lost in, but this seemed safer somehow. I turned and tried to pull the orphaned boot out. I eventually have to dig my hands in and pull the thing up from underneath. It's misshapen and caked in dirt, which scattered off as I flung it backwards towards the steady sand behind. Time to do the same with my right foot. I pulled my right foot out, but this time I started sinking. I panicked and dragged myself backwards as quickly as I could, each step slightly easier. I dragged my way up the stand. I turned back. My boot had been left behind.
By now I'd decided it was a lost cause. I'd walk all the way back to the station and get the train back into Liverpool in my bare feet if I had to. But before I could say anything, my Dad had jumped forward and was throwing himself into a battle with the sand to the pull the boot up. Now he was knee deep and I'm telling him to leave it or then that I'd go back myself, but he'd got both hands in each of the holes I'd left behind trying to find the thing. I tried to direct him to the hole I thought it was in, but I was confused.
Dad found the boot. It was sunk a little bit, and by hand he dug a space around it, throwing the mud from side to side until he could pull it free. Dad turned and handed it to me -- it was full of mud and clay which I tried to shake out as best I could. Dad turned and with much more agility than I had, stepped back up to the steady sand.
We spent the next half hour using the salt water which had been left behind by the tide in some parts of the beach trying to wash ourselves off as best we could. Somehow, while Dad was getting cleaner and cleaner, I was getting even dirtier. I kept joking about how in some places you'd pay thousands for a treatment like that. I had mud everywhere. It was caked up my jeans, up my legs, up my arms. There was even a spot on my face. He suggested I use my sock as a cloth and this worked. But I wasn't clean, just making space in my skin so that I could move my fingers to blow my nose and throw the hair out my eyes.
Eventually we were together enough to walk back up the beach and enjoy the statues. They're an incredible sight, lonely figures looking hopelessy out to sea, unable to move. For those few minutes when I couldn't get my legs to move I know exactly what that was like.
"That's the sandles lost then." He said. He's only in his socks.
We went to Crosby beach today to see "Another Place" or Anthony Gormley's statues. I'd watched the news reports beforehand of teenagers going out to far and getting stuck in the tide, holding onto the figures for dear life. How we'd laughed at the stupidity. So we'd said we wouldn't go out too far. And we hadn't. But that sand looked so stable and I'd stepped forward and plop.
I didn't panic. I wasn't actually sinking. But I wasn't going anywhere else. I eventually managed to pull my left foot out, boot and all. But there was nowhere for it to go but backward, back into a squelch as it went back into the soft sand. My plan was to keep doing this until I hit a hard surface. That lasted about thirty seconds when I realised it would require the right foot to move and it wasn't going anywhere.
My now my Dad had retrieved his sandles and had trotted back over. I put out my hand and he took it and tried to pull. But he was falling towards me so he stepped back again. I'm glad my Dad's here. I imagined the phone call home if I'd been out on my own "I'm on Crosby beach and I'm stuck in the mud." I'm not very practical -- whenever something happens in the real world, usually with nature, I have no idea what to do. I'll struggle through, but my Dad somehow just knows. I've no common sense whatsoever.
"I'm going to have to come out of the boots." I said.
I pulled my left foot out, with boot still stuck in the mud. My foot found some more sand to get lost in, but this seemed safer somehow. I turned and tried to pull the orphaned boot out. I eventually have to dig my hands in and pull the thing up from underneath. It's misshapen and caked in dirt, which scattered off as I flung it backwards towards the steady sand behind. Time to do the same with my right foot. I pulled my right foot out, but this time I started sinking. I panicked and dragged myself backwards as quickly as I could, each step slightly easier. I dragged my way up the stand. I turned back. My boot had been left behind.
By now I'd decided it was a lost cause. I'd walk all the way back to the station and get the train back into Liverpool in my bare feet if I had to. But before I could say anything, my Dad had jumped forward and was throwing himself into a battle with the sand to the pull the boot up. Now he was knee deep and I'm telling him to leave it or then that I'd go back myself, but he'd got both hands in each of the holes I'd left behind trying to find the thing. I tried to direct him to the hole I thought it was in, but I was confused.
Dad found the boot. It was sunk a little bit, and by hand he dug a space around it, throwing the mud from side to side until he could pull it free. Dad turned and handed it to me -- it was full of mud and clay which I tried to shake out as best I could. Dad turned and with much more agility than I had, stepped back up to the steady sand.
We spent the next half hour using the salt water which had been left behind by the tide in some parts of the beach trying to wash ourselves off as best we could. Somehow, while Dad was getting cleaner and cleaner, I was getting even dirtier. I kept joking about how in some places you'd pay thousands for a treatment like that. I had mud everywhere. It was caked up my jeans, up my legs, up my arms. There was even a spot on my face. He suggested I use my sock as a cloth and this worked. But I wasn't clean, just making space in my skin so that I could move my fingers to blow my nose and throw the hair out my eyes.
Eventually we were together enough to walk back up the beach and enjoy the statues. They're an incredible sight, lonely figures looking hopelessy out to sea, unable to move. For those few minutes when I couldn't get my legs to move I know exactly what that was like.
Troubled Diva I
Elsewhere I'm part of a round robin guest blog thing at Troubled Diva. For some reason I always end up being more introspective and frank on other people's weblogs.
Updated 30/01/2016! Here's the contents of the above link for posterity:
Consequences: Post 7
There's no motivation as strong as love. When I was fifteen I used to leave the house at the same time every morning to make sure that I was on the same bus to school so that I could see a girl I was in love with. I would only every see her for about ten minutes, and she had no idea (unless she noticed me trying not look to look like I was looking at her). I ended up speaking to her twice and I knew it wasn't to be - her ambition was to be a solicitor, mine was to even get into a university. Those measures of success were being drilled into me, and seemed to matter, at least at that age.
I suppose you're expecting me to say that her ambition inspired my own and that motivated me to better things. Disappointingly it didn't. Even now, I don't measure my own success or lack of against anyone else. I have ambitions and dreams, a career I'm working towards but it's on my own terms its not because of a road map drawn up by anyone else or because I see someone else's life and want to emulate them. It's too easy in this life to have a role model to aspire to be then to fail, wasting a life and potential you might have in other areas.
That said, I'm thirty now and I still don't have a clear direction. I'm still waiting, what plan I do have in flux because of my own little long game. I'm not quite were I expected to be now, perhaps a touch behind, but no one gets perfection, there's always a niggle. Is my niggle that I'm not in love at the moment? I used to get it all the time, the stomach cramps, the inability to form actual words when someone is around, the not knowing were to put my hands. Perhaps I grew tired of it not going anywhere; I hope my subconscious hasn't decided that it's had enough with all that and in the words of the song I'll never fall in love again. I'd hate that.
Updated 30/01/2016! Here's the contents of the above link for posterity:
Consequences: Post 7
There's no motivation as strong as love. When I was fifteen I used to leave the house at the same time every morning to make sure that I was on the same bus to school so that I could see a girl I was in love with. I would only every see her for about ten minutes, and she had no idea (unless she noticed me trying not look to look like I was looking at her). I ended up speaking to her twice and I knew it wasn't to be - her ambition was to be a solicitor, mine was to even get into a university. Those measures of success were being drilled into me, and seemed to matter, at least at that age.
I suppose you're expecting me to say that her ambition inspired my own and that motivated me to better things. Disappointingly it didn't. Even now, I don't measure my own success or lack of against anyone else. I have ambitions and dreams, a career I'm working towards but it's on my own terms its not because of a road map drawn up by anyone else or because I see someone else's life and want to emulate them. It's too easy in this life to have a role model to aspire to be then to fail, wasting a life and potential you might have in other areas.
That said, I'm thirty now and I still don't have a clear direction. I'm still waiting, what plan I do have in flux because of my own little long game. I'm not quite were I expected to be now, perhaps a touch behind, but no one gets perfection, there's always a niggle. Is my niggle that I'm not in love at the moment? I used to get it all the time, the stomach cramps, the inability to form actual words when someone is around, the not knowing were to put my hands. Perhaps I grew tired of it not going anywhere; I hope my subconscious hasn't decided that it's had enough with all that and in the words of the song I'll never fall in love again. I'd hate that.
Festival
Film I don't know why I feel so disappointed because really, making a film about the Edinburgh Festival is an impossible task, for the simple reason that every one of us who's been there has had a different experience, and any script which tries to capture everything is going to fail. Just can't be done. Writer/director Annie Griffin has said that she pitched Festival as something akin to Altman's Nashville, and you can absolutely see the influence as the narrative takes in an epic sweep of characters at all levels of the fringe, from the household names to the one woman shows at nine in the morning. Which is problem one - Altman had three hours, Griffin gives us 107 minutes.
When the film works, it's excellent. I loved the story of the three Canadian performance artists, one of which becomes infatuated with the wife of the family whose flat they're renting out for the duration. I loved the girl running the one woman show about William Wordsworth's sister Dorothy. I loved the quiet battle against despair of the famous comic's agent, played with great poignancy by Raquel Cassidy. I loved the documentary style moments that took in the flavour and sounds of the festival creating a good sense of place It's these were the most evocative stories, the ones which I could identify with. A concentration on anyone of these characters, a filter of the story through their experience would have worked really well. By seperating out of the screen time amongst fifteen odd characters it feels weaker, unfocused.
What derailed the film and my enjoyment was the slow concentration of the story around the erzats Perrier award and the politics of the people and the voting. Somewhere in there someone makes an impassioned speech about how the festival used to be about Scandinavian dancing in the streets, but has slow become about an unfunny comedian winning an award. Which is ironic because that's exactly what happens in the film. Just when something glorious happens to the Canadians, we cut away to one comic chasing a bimbo around a hotel room or another having a post coital argument with a journalist and frankly it's just unpleasant. To take the Altman comparison further it's like taking Gosford Park and editing in large chunks of Pret A Porter.
Shame.
When the film works, it's excellent. I loved the story of the three Canadian performance artists, one of which becomes infatuated with the wife of the family whose flat they're renting out for the duration. I loved the girl running the one woman show about William Wordsworth's sister Dorothy. I loved the quiet battle against despair of the famous comic's agent, played with great poignancy by Raquel Cassidy. I loved the documentary style moments that took in the flavour and sounds of the festival creating a good sense of place It's these were the most evocative stories, the ones which I could identify with. A concentration on anyone of these characters, a filter of the story through their experience would have worked really well. By seperating out of the screen time amongst fifteen odd characters it feels weaker, unfocused.
What derailed the film and my enjoyment was the slow concentration of the story around the erzats Perrier award and the politics of the people and the voting. Somewhere in there someone makes an impassioned speech about how the festival used to be about Scandinavian dancing in the streets, but has slow become about an unfunny comedian winning an award. Which is ironic because that's exactly what happens in the film. Just when something glorious happens to the Canadians, we cut away to one comic chasing a bimbo around a hotel room or another having a post coital argument with a journalist and frankly it's just unpleasant. To take the Altman comparison further it's like taking Gosford Park and editing in large chunks of Pret A Porter.
Shame.
Wordless
Life During the two minutes silence I bowed my head, close my eyes and listened. There was still sound. The broken fan in the office clattering away. The sea gull on the buildings nearby. The cars and vans still driving past. The rustle as wind throws papers from someone's desk to the floor. The creaks of chairs. The wood settling on desks. The ping of an email arriving. My own breathing. It was more of a wordless two minutes, our country rendered voluntarily speechless because there's nothing else the majority of us could do.
Expletive deleted
Words When I was at primary school, everyone was gifted a small blue pocket Collins dictionary as part of our English education. In an idle moment tonight I wondered how complete the Wikipedia might be. Reference the entry on profanity, which includes links to entries on many of the more useful swear words, some of which somehow didn't turn up on Live 8 the other week. Also with added fictional curse words, you cake taker.
Morse coded
TV The Morse spin-off Lewis is going ahead. Much of the original team are there, so it might still have the quality. Will the same theme music be used?
Erm...
Life I was in WH Smiths at lunchtime buying a card and noticed that their Get Well Soon cards are stored in the same rack as the Sympathy cards. It made a very uncomfortable connection for me, linking illness to death in that way; I imagined some circumstances when it could be quite upsetting for some customers.
Athens of Liverpool
The Weather Remember I mentioned yesterday how warm it was around here? According to the local paper, it was as hot as Athens:
"TOXTETH was hotter than Tenerife as blazing sunshine sent temperatures soaring in the city.I'm just a street away from the hot spot. It's a bit cooler tonight, but not much. What happened?
Merseysiders basked in a heat-wave that saw the region as hot as Athens yesterday - with the glorious weather set to remain for the rest of the week.
Some forecasters expect the sun to keep shining for St Swithin's Day on Friday, with temperatures staying at around 70F."
Like Water For Chocolate
Film I've always said that watching Like Water For Chocolate on the night it was released in the UK, was the moment when I knew that my life long romance would be with the cinema. It was at the Hyde Park Picture House in Leeds in a sold out performance (which is the sort of thing which happened in 1993). I was so wrapped up in the film and its love story that I began shouting at the characters on screen so loudly, the person sitting next to me got angry and told me to sush (which of course they were right to). This is something which hasn't happened before or since. It taught me that cinema has the power to transport, and a hundred moments of laughter and tears have confirmed it. Waiting for the dvd release of Star Wars was one thing, this was another. Now here it is coming to Region Two in a month's time. I hope it's as good as I remember.
Kareem and I
Photography

Kareem and I II
Originally uploaded by Shavar.
Shavar Ross, actor, is posting photos from his past to flickr. For this extraordinary shot he says: "Circa 1982. Universal Studios' Lot. Hollywood, California. Second photo of me with basketball great Lew Alcindor (aka: Kareem Abdul Jabbar) on the set of "Diff'rent Strokes". Shavar was a guest star on the show for many years.
Kareem and I II
Originally uploaded by Shavar.
Shavar Ross, actor, is posting photos from his past to flickr. For this extraordinary shot he says: "Circa 1982. Universal Studios' Lot. Hollywood, California. Second photo of me with basketball great Lew Alcindor (aka: Kareem Abdul Jabbar) on the set of "Diff'rent Strokes". Shavar was a guest star on the show for many years.
edit
Firefox Edit the menus. Something else for me to fiddle about with when I should be blogging. Which is what I would be doing if the heat wasn't sapping every ounce of productivity out of me.
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