All news should be Yahoo news.
I only have a yahoo email account because I needed it to join Flickr, otherwise I might never have discovered the joy of Yahoo news. However, had I only known the quality of headlines the home page provided (not to mention the shockingly bad spam filters – the other week I won the Irish, Spanish and African lotteries within 24 hours of one another. Yes, the one African lottery. Because there aren’t more than fifty countries there) I would have signed up years ago.
But what has prompted me to write in praise of Yahoo news on this particular day? I’m glad you asked. It can only be the headline:
Flatworms Key to Immortality?
‘Of course not,’ you might think, but there again… it’s a headline you can’t not click.
Even though you know that this is going to be some scientific research in a university somewhere (Dr Aziz Aboobaker in Nottingham, as it happens), the moments between reading and clicking the link are magnificent in their potential.
How do they know flatworms are the key to immortality? Have the authorities uncovered an old man in a hole somewhere who thinks its 1203 and has eaten nothing but worms for centuries? And how do you test immortality, anyway? Stand someone in a bucket of worms and wait?
For me, the headline conjures up an image of a flatworm with the accent and acting prowess of Christopher Lambert in Highlander.
“Och, Docteur Aziz,” it says dramatically, “you know there can only be weun. Hoots.”
In my mind, the doctor is played by an as yet undecided Scottish actor (although if I could cast anyone at all it would be the late great Gerard Kelly, who did a fantastic villain as you’ll know if you ever saw him in Brookside) hell bent on discovering the secret of eternal life through any means necessary.
He has dedicated his life to the cause of immortality but is gradually descending deeper into madness as the secret eludes him. The film of his life starts out with the young doctor playing in the garden and finding Christopher Lambert worm, whom he decides to keep as a pet. As the film progresses we realise this young doctor was not Aziz at all, but his grandfather or great grandfather, who pass down Christopher Lambert worm through the ages. He never seems to get any older.
Aziz becomes interested in science exclusively because he wants to find out the secret of the ever youthful flatworm, but after getting his doctorate and a research position at a university, things begin to spiral out of control. Later scenes in the film include him taking a bath of flatworms, and he would also eat them in increasingly brutal and gory ways.
The Christopher Lambert worm tries to stop him from continuing his worm murders, but to no avail. Aziz kills the Christopher Lambert worm but is then distraught when he realises if the worm could be killed, it is not immortal after all. He goes on to die alone in a hovel on a hill in Italy at the age of 106, surrounded by worm related paraphernalia.
At which point the camera cuts to Christopher Lambert worm, alive and living on a beach somewhere.
You have to admit, this film has basically everything. No bearing on the actual article, of course, but even so.
And that, Dear Reader, is why I like Yahoo News.
Showing posts with label scotland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scotland. Show all posts
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
How to Cope With Short Term Contracts
At the end of March, my current temp contract ends. Having been in the same place for a year (“I’m taking the ‘temp’ out of temporary,” I joked to my peers and oh, how we laughed), I’m a little bit on edge about what I'll do to pay the rent next. Still no joy making enough cash from pitching articles to go full time self-employed, you will be amazed to learn, and when Captain Tact signed up to my agency recently they said they’d probably be able to find him a few hours here and there, but there’s not a vast amount of stuff about and for goodness sake don’t rely on them.
The papers continue in a similar vein, which is a little insensitive given the people who have the most time to read the papers are the unemployed, nicking free wifi from outside Britain’s cafes. The Guardian is probably the worst for this – they keep conducting case studies that actually make me want to cry. The constant commentary on unemployment figures (still pretty high, who knew) is enough to strike fear into the heart of any human and I am terrified by the prospect of joining their ranks once more.
So what is my solution to impending employment tragedy? Well, I am going to leave the country. That’ll show ‘em.
As regular readers may already know, I’m not one of your London based journos whose parents can bankroll them to intern unpaid at a broadsheet for as long as it takes for someone to give ‘em a column; I’m a freelance/office temp in Scotland who struggles to get commissioning editors to reply to the most basic of queries (frinstance ‘do you accept work from freelances, Y/N?’). This means that when I say I’m leaving the country I don’t mean in order to travel around the world for a year, to spend some time writing my new book in America, or even to TEFL for a few months in Asia. Instead, my many months of scrimping and saving equate to having almost enough cash to go backpacking around mainland Europe. For a month.
Still, whilst it might not measure up in terms of distance to the travels of my friends and family (who have variously TEFLd in Thailand, Chile and China, volunteered with animals in Honduras/South Africa and orphans in Sri Lanka, not to mention worked their way round Oz, New Zealand and Canada), it’s likely to be the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. My gap year, lest we forget, was spent working for the council whilst I tried (and failed) to get work as a hack in exotic Dundee.
Captain Tact has been prevailed upon to come too, and assures me he’s looking forward to four weeks of sleeping on trains to avoid paying for hostels, walking everywhere by day to avoid paying for transport, and reading the same book four times to avoid paying extra money for the privilege of taking two books on a Ryanair flight to Berlin. It is the sort of once in a lifetime trip dreams are made of, I’m sure you will agree. I don’t know why all those pesky JSA claimants don’t just save up for an austerity gap month too.*
In the mean time, though, I will keep perusing the job adverts and crying quietly to myself. Hooray!
*other than the fact that if you tried to save up for it whilst on JSA it’d take you about twenty years.
The papers continue in a similar vein, which is a little insensitive given the people who have the most time to read the papers are the unemployed, nicking free wifi from outside Britain’s cafes. The Guardian is probably the worst for this – they keep conducting case studies that actually make me want to cry. The constant commentary on unemployment figures (still pretty high, who knew) is enough to strike fear into the heart of any human and I am terrified by the prospect of joining their ranks once more.
So what is my solution to impending employment tragedy? Well, I am going to leave the country. That’ll show ‘em.
As regular readers may already know, I’m not one of your London based journos whose parents can bankroll them to intern unpaid at a broadsheet for as long as it takes for someone to give ‘em a column; I’m a freelance/office temp in Scotland who struggles to get commissioning editors to reply to the most basic of queries (frinstance ‘do you accept work from freelances, Y/N?’). This means that when I say I’m leaving the country I don’t mean in order to travel around the world for a year, to spend some time writing my new book in America, or even to TEFL for a few months in Asia. Instead, my many months of scrimping and saving equate to having almost enough cash to go backpacking around mainland Europe. For a month.
Still, whilst it might not measure up in terms of distance to the travels of my friends and family (who have variously TEFLd in Thailand, Chile and China, volunteered with animals in Honduras/South Africa and orphans in Sri Lanka, not to mention worked their way round Oz, New Zealand and Canada), it’s likely to be the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. My gap year, lest we forget, was spent working for the council whilst I tried (and failed) to get work as a hack in exotic Dundee.
Captain Tact has been prevailed upon to come too, and assures me he’s looking forward to four weeks of sleeping on trains to avoid paying for hostels, walking everywhere by day to avoid paying for transport, and reading the same book four times to avoid paying extra money for the privilege of taking two books on a Ryanair flight to Berlin. It is the sort of once in a lifetime trip dreams are made of, I’m sure you will agree. I don’t know why all those pesky JSA claimants don’t just save up for an austerity gap month too.*
In the mean time, though, I will keep perusing the job adverts and crying quietly to myself. Hooray!
*other than the fact that if you tried to save up for it whilst on JSA it’d take you about twenty years.
Friday, 2 December 2011
Equal Marriage
There is a lot of shouting around the Scottish National Party.
When they won a majority of seats in the Scottish Parliament this year and announced their intention to have a referendum about independence in a couple of years’ time (after proposed changes to the Scotland Bill have gone through Westminster and we’ve seen how they work out), they got shouted at by everyone. Other parties, journalists, people on the internet, you name it.
“HOW CAN INDEPENDENCE POSSIBLY WORK?!” People screamed, “IT’S ECONOMIC SUICIDE! WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF TEH CHILDRENZ?!”
All of which seemed to overlook the fact that ultimately they can only use a referendum to find out what people think. The Scottish Government do not have the authority to pass legislation on this, all they can do is head to London and say “this many people want to have a bash at going it alone.” It has to be agreed by both Westminster and the queen before it can actually happen, and good luck getting it past David ‘Autons are Cool’ Cameron.
AND, even before you get to that point there is no guarantee the people of Scotland would vote yes to independence. The SNP got voted in for a variety of reasons that didn’t necessarily have a whole lot to do with the ‘N’ part of their name. The Scottish electorate were disillusioned with Labour and the Lib Dems and retain a deep seated hatred of the Tories dating back to the 1980s; and over the past four years the SNP have done a pretty OK job of government. We’ve got a lot more libraries left open than they do down south, for instance. And better access to universities. And free prescriptions.
Even so, that doesn’t mean people will vote yes to independence, because all this has been achieved through careful management of the money allotted by the UK government. To my mind, a real test of whether independence is viable would be devolved taxation. If they managed that effectively you could probably colour me swayed.
However, that isn’t what they’re working on at the moment – the latest thing people are shouting at them about is their consultation on gay marriage.
Once again folk are shouting and screaming at Big Eck and pals about the ramifications of something which they’re so far only committed to asking people about. Apparently though, asking the people of Scotland anything at all is irresponsible and wrong.
There was a collection of opinions from some of the detractors in the Scotsman yesterday, which was an illuminating (/jaw dropping) read. According to the article Bashir Maan, a former Glasgow councillor said, “it could be the beginning of the destruction of society as we know it.”
“If there’s no family, what about society? These politicians should look forward and have some foresight – what will become of the family without the union of a man and woman?”
Because apparently if two men or two women are allowed to get married, heterosexuality will cease to exist and people will stop wanting to have children. As a straight person I can testify that the possibility of marriage is the only thing that keeps me coming back to the opposite sex… my attachment to Captain Tact has nothing to do with physical attraction, personality, hormones, or shared experience and everything to do with the fact we might one day sign a piece of paper indicating our matrimonial alliance.
AS IF, as the kids used to say in the olden days. Not that long ago getting married would have indicated I was legally his property; I like to think we've moved on. Marriage is about publicly declaring your love and commitment to one another, if you merely want to procreate you can do that without giving yourself the hassle of having to organise the biggest and most expensive party ever seen.
Still, the religious right have spoken and so has Mister Sunshine himself, Gordon Wilson. Leader of the SNP for about a hundred years before Alex Salmond, independence was very much his thing and other matters of policy were really by the by. Notably the SNP were not in power, then.
Wilson reckons that merely asking whether folk think gay marriage is OK will incense enough people in Scotland to turn out and vote an overwhelming ‘no’ in the referendum. A bit like they did when he was in charge and behaving like a veritable homophobic caricature...
If you want to actually be consulted about this, fill in the form on the Scottish Government website here before December 9th.
Come along everyone, let’s join in with the cool kids and shout at the SNP.
When they won a majority of seats in the Scottish Parliament this year and announced their intention to have a referendum about independence in a couple of years’ time (after proposed changes to the Scotland Bill have gone through Westminster and we’ve seen how they work out), they got shouted at by everyone. Other parties, journalists, people on the internet, you name it.
“HOW CAN INDEPENDENCE POSSIBLY WORK?!” People screamed, “IT’S ECONOMIC SUICIDE! WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF TEH CHILDRENZ?!”
All of which seemed to overlook the fact that ultimately they can only use a referendum to find out what people think. The Scottish Government do not have the authority to pass legislation on this, all they can do is head to London and say “this many people want to have a bash at going it alone.” It has to be agreed by both Westminster and the queen before it can actually happen, and good luck getting it past David ‘Autons are Cool’ Cameron.
AND, even before you get to that point there is no guarantee the people of Scotland would vote yes to independence. The SNP got voted in for a variety of reasons that didn’t necessarily have a whole lot to do with the ‘N’ part of their name. The Scottish electorate were disillusioned with Labour and the Lib Dems and retain a deep seated hatred of the Tories dating back to the 1980s; and over the past four years the SNP have done a pretty OK job of government. We’ve got a lot more libraries left open than they do down south, for instance. And better access to universities. And free prescriptions.
Even so, that doesn’t mean people will vote yes to independence, because all this has been achieved through careful management of the money allotted by the UK government. To my mind, a real test of whether independence is viable would be devolved taxation. If they managed that effectively you could probably colour me swayed.
However, that isn’t what they’re working on at the moment – the latest thing people are shouting at them about is their consultation on gay marriage.
Once again folk are shouting and screaming at Big Eck and pals about the ramifications of something which they’re so far only committed to asking people about. Apparently though, asking the people of Scotland anything at all is irresponsible and wrong.
There was a collection of opinions from some of the detractors in the Scotsman yesterday, which was an illuminating (/jaw dropping) read. According to the article Bashir Maan, a former Glasgow councillor said, “it could be the beginning of the destruction of society as we know it.”
“If there’s no family, what about society? These politicians should look forward and have some foresight – what will become of the family without the union of a man and woman?”
Because apparently if two men or two women are allowed to get married, heterosexuality will cease to exist and people will stop wanting to have children. As a straight person I can testify that the possibility of marriage is the only thing that keeps me coming back to the opposite sex… my attachment to Captain Tact has nothing to do with physical attraction, personality, hormones, or shared experience and everything to do with the fact we might one day sign a piece of paper indicating our matrimonial alliance.
AS IF, as the kids used to say in the olden days. Not that long ago getting married would have indicated I was legally his property; I like to think we've moved on. Marriage is about publicly declaring your love and commitment to one another, if you merely want to procreate you can do that without giving yourself the hassle of having to organise the biggest and most expensive party ever seen.
Still, the religious right have spoken and so has Mister Sunshine himself, Gordon Wilson. Leader of the SNP for about a hundred years before Alex Salmond, independence was very much his thing and other matters of policy were really by the by. Notably the SNP were not in power, then.
Wilson reckons that merely asking whether folk think gay marriage is OK will incense enough people in Scotland to turn out and vote an overwhelming ‘no’ in the referendum. A bit like they did when he was in charge and behaving like a veritable homophobic caricature...
If you want to actually be consulted about this, fill in the form on the Scottish Government website here before December 9th.
Come along everyone, let’s join in with the cool kids and shout at the SNP.
Sunday, 22 May 2011
CEC Crackdown on Cars
In a move experts have branded ‘unusually dystopian’, The City of Edinburgh Council announced this week that they would be banning the use of Vauxhall Astras in the city.
“For too long these cars have plagued our streets with intrusively loud sound systems and obnoxious hubcaps,” said a representative from the Transport Department, Anonymous Phelps.
“90% of the complaints we receive aren’t to do with the state of the roads, misspelt signage, or even the dreaded T-word as you might expect. In actual fact, the main concern for the people of Edinburgh is the sudden and dramatic onslaught of these horrible cars.”
New legislation will mean that people driving astras within the postcode area EH1 through to EH32 will be have their cars imprisoned in transparent cells not unlike those used in X-Men 2: The Last Stand. The bulletproof casing is unbreakable, and is thought to be based on a design by NASA.
The council is urging astra drivers to trade in their cars for a more suitable vehicle, such as an Aston Martin or S-Type Jaguar.
“It’ll make us look more classy,” explained the Council Leader at a press conference in Dalry. “The international view of Edinburgh is very much that we’re a working class type of city, which just isn’t the impression we want to promote any longer.”
“The thought of people knowing about our homeless population, or the fact that one or two of our residents live in poverty… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. The astra is a symbol of everything we want to distance ourselves from.”
Professor Memory Callaghan of QMU’s Car Driving and Parallel Parking Institute offered a very different explanation for the decision.
“The real reason the council have taken against these cars is because a senior official was caught in a compromising position with one back in November last year,” Callaghan opined, drunkenly.
“Vauxhall threatened to tell everyone and the result was the classic messy break up, with one party leaving and the other threatening to imprison anyone who reminded it of the relationship in bulletproof boxes on North Castle Street.”
Vauxhall declined to comment other than to say merely that this was,
“A silly story, with no basis in fact.”
Well, quite.
Thursday, 31 March 2011
30 Day Song Challenge - Day Nineteen
A song from your favourite album.
I find it hard to come down on the side of one all time favourite album, but I think on balance it's probably 100 Broken Windows by Idlewild. Having said that, mere moments ago I had a whole post typed out about why it was Hope is Important, but then I looked at the track listings again and changed my mind.
This probably isn't a static arrangement.
I find it hard to come down on the side of one all time favourite album, but I think on balance it's probably 100 Broken Windows by Idlewild. Having said that, mere moments ago I had a whole post typed out about why it was Hope is Important, but then I looked at the track listings again and changed my mind.
This probably isn't a static arrangement.
Saturday, 19 February 2011
The River City Blog #7
It's Saturday night, so I'm taking a break from a mammoth catch up on 12 Books in 12 Months (7661 words written today) to watch River City. Such a party animal has never been seen.
In this episode, Gina wants sour faced daughter Jo to organise a fashion show to keep ovarian cancer in the public eye on Montego Street. This, she confesses, is mainly because she was absent for last week's fundraising spectacular, presumably because she was busy ensuring that her other daughter (Mad Ruth - who I just read is meant to have borderline personality disorder, so now I feel a bit bad for slaggin') was safely under lock and key in a psychiatric unit somewhere. Maybe she's hoping that all the excitement will make Scarlett faint again - her family's misery just isn't getting enough screen time at the moment.
Meanwhile Nicole is having a birthday perty, but her ex best friend Carmen has turned all twelve of her mates against her so nobody turns up... except her deeply annoying boyfriend, who wants to get it awn because they have an empty house. Rather unexpectedly Nicole holds her ground on the fact she says she isn't ready for sexy times yet, but in typical soap style her folks (Dr Brodie and Leyla) get home right at the point she is pushing him and his cheap bottle of cider out the door. To them it looks like she is taking the cider from him and planning to get jiggy - they assume she never invited any other guests at all. That, my friends, is irony.
Elsewhere Gabriel urges Jo to let people help her with the fashion show, but her aversion to Amber means she won't go to her for help... This is relevant because Amber owns the only clothes shop in Shieldinch, although god only knows how she makes a living because all I've ever seen her sell is one shirt. Anyhoo, Gabriel goes to Amber himself and sends her to the pub where the most unrealistic journo in the world is telling Jo that whilst it's a nice idea, they gave cancer loads of coverage last week and her pissy little fashion show will interest NO-ONE. Honestly, who does she think she's kidding? Clearly never read a local paper. They print literally everything.
Upstairs, Jimmy hangs round Rrrraymond's toilet failing to cope with Scarlett's illness, whilst she is back at hame asking her mum and sister to help her end it all if things get too much. That's the cancer, not just life in general. Because Scarlett has ovarian cancer - I don't know if you knew that. But she does. When Jimmy finds out (they always find out, on TV) he's not upset by the prospect of euthanasia, but by the fact she didn't ask him to do it, and romantically promises to be there until the last breath is squeezed out of their relationship. Aww.
Oh, but before that he beats up a kid (Nicole's no good boyfriend, actually) for taking the piss out of Scarlett's wig. Said kid then dumps Nicole on the grounds of her parents giving him a bollocking, telling her "she's not worth this amount of hassle." What a charmer. Rather than notice she's well shot of the spotty prick, Nicole proceeds to the basket ball court where she first saw him to bawl her eyes out against a fence. Adolescence is a complicated time.
I couldn't help noticing, though, that for the second week in a row there was no comic relief. I know cancer is srs bsns, River City, but I have come to expect comedy subplots either from Robbie the Big Gay Hairdresser or Annie the Bubbly Barmaid (who still doesn't have a character profile on the website). Sort it out, guys. This is my Saturday night you're messing with.
In this episode, Gina wants sour faced daughter Jo to organise a fashion show to keep ovarian cancer in the public eye on Montego Street. This, she confesses, is mainly because she was absent for last week's fundraising spectacular, presumably because she was busy ensuring that her other daughter (Mad Ruth - who I just read is meant to have borderline personality disorder, so now I feel a bit bad for slaggin') was safely under lock and key in a psychiatric unit somewhere. Maybe she's hoping that all the excitement will make Scarlett faint again - her family's misery just isn't getting enough screen time at the moment.
Meanwhile Nicole is having a birthday perty, but her ex best friend Carmen has turned all twelve of her mates against her so nobody turns up... except her deeply annoying boyfriend, who wants to get it awn because they have an empty house. Rather unexpectedly Nicole holds her ground on the fact she says she isn't ready for sexy times yet, but in typical soap style her folks (Dr Brodie and Leyla) get home right at the point she is pushing him and his cheap bottle of cider out the door. To them it looks like she is taking the cider from him and planning to get jiggy - they assume she never invited any other guests at all. That, my friends, is irony.
Elsewhere Gabriel urges Jo to let people help her with the fashion show, but her aversion to Amber means she won't go to her for help... This is relevant because Amber owns the only clothes shop in Shieldinch, although god only knows how she makes a living because all I've ever seen her sell is one shirt. Anyhoo, Gabriel goes to Amber himself and sends her to the pub where the most unrealistic journo in the world is telling Jo that whilst it's a nice idea, they gave cancer loads of coverage last week and her pissy little fashion show will interest NO-ONE. Honestly, who does she think she's kidding? Clearly never read a local paper. They print literally everything.
Upstairs, Jimmy hangs round Rrrraymond's toilet failing to cope with Scarlett's illness, whilst she is back at hame asking her mum and sister to help her end it all if things get too much. That's the cancer, not just life in general. Because Scarlett has ovarian cancer - I don't know if you knew that. But she does. When Jimmy finds out (they always find out, on TV) he's not upset by the prospect of euthanasia, but by the fact she didn't ask him to do it, and romantically promises to be there until the last breath is squeezed out of their relationship. Aww.
Oh, but before that he beats up a kid (Nicole's no good boyfriend, actually) for taking the piss out of Scarlett's wig. Said kid then dumps Nicole on the grounds of her parents giving him a bollocking, telling her "she's not worth this amount of hassle." What a charmer. Rather than notice she's well shot of the spotty prick, Nicole proceeds to the basket ball court where she first saw him to bawl her eyes out against a fence. Adolescence is a complicated time.
I couldn't help noticing, though, that for the second week in a row there was no comic relief. I know cancer is srs bsns, River City, but I have come to expect comedy subplots either from Robbie the Big Gay Hairdresser or Annie the Bubbly Barmaid (who still doesn't have a character profile on the website). Sort it out, guys. This is my Saturday night you're messing with.
Friday, 11 February 2011
The River City Blog #6
It is the day of Scarlett's ovarian cancer fundraiser, so Montego Street pulls together like never before to raise as much cash as possible. This makes for a deathly dull episode which feels Children in Need-like in length, although I am assured it only lasted an hour. Meanwhile, Robbie the big gay hairdresser is getting grief from a nasty loan shark with designer stubble. He has managed to rack up nearly 4 grand in back rent and the nasty man needs it before the end of the day or he will go visit Robbie's estranged parents in Bearsden and very probably stab them up. Surely these two plot lines combined can only end in disaster?
Blissfully unaware of impending crisis, DI Fraser MSP shows his acting talent by perfectly replicating a cringeworthy speech from someone in local government. And dishes out networking advice to teenagers, apparently. Not that Nicole is likely to follow advice from anyone, however varied their acting ability. God, Nicole's annoying. Not to mention cheeky, manipulative, spiteful and stupid. And she doesn't even have an excuse - at least mad Ruth is mad, but Nicole is just a perfect portrayal of a horrible teenager. Comeuppance is surely due.
In the best moment of a very tedious episode, ex-con Theresa lambasts some small children in front of all their parents, telling one her violin playing was "mince". Which it was, but then spoilsport Jo makes her stop MCing the kid's talent show, which is a terrible shame. She takes over the slave auction, leaving Annie with nothing much to do other than flirt with Raymond (ew) but soon gets ousted from that by Scarlett, so she can do a dramatic fainting thing later on. Thing is, nobody in Shieldinch really cares for Theresa, so the fact she has turned over a new, slightly less criminal leaf has passed most of them by.
Perhaps as part of her campaign to get locals on side, Theresa and her slightly squashed face lie to cover for Robbie when the money is found to be missing, then uses some nefarious contacts to get him the rest. So presumably he'll be back to his usual comic relief role next week, complete with both legs, but the mystery remains, why did she help him? And what does she want in return? Maybe she's going to pimp him out. I can see Theresa strutting about in a floor length fur coat. And the beauty of that is, it wouldn't even need to be an especially long one - she's only about four feet tall.
Blissfully unaware of impending crisis, DI Fraser MSP shows his acting talent by perfectly replicating a cringeworthy speech from someone in local government. And dishes out networking advice to teenagers, apparently. Not that Nicole is likely to follow advice from anyone, however varied their acting ability. God, Nicole's annoying. Not to mention cheeky, manipulative, spiteful and stupid. And she doesn't even have an excuse - at least mad Ruth is mad, but Nicole is just a perfect portrayal of a horrible teenager. Comeuppance is surely due.
In the best moment of a very tedious episode, ex-con Theresa lambasts some small children in front of all their parents, telling one her violin playing was "mince". Which it was, but then spoilsport Jo makes her stop MCing the kid's talent show, which is a terrible shame. She takes over the slave auction, leaving Annie with nothing much to do other than flirt with Raymond (ew) but soon gets ousted from that by Scarlett, so she can do a dramatic fainting thing later on. Thing is, nobody in Shieldinch really cares for Theresa, so the fact she has turned over a new, slightly less criminal leaf has passed most of them by.
Perhaps as part of her campaign to get locals on side, Theresa and her slightly squashed face lie to cover for Robbie when the money is found to be missing, then uses some nefarious contacts to get him the rest. So presumably he'll be back to his usual comic relief role next week, complete with both legs, but the mystery remains, why did she help him? And what does she want in return? Maybe she's going to pimp him out. I can see Theresa strutting about in a floor length fur coat. And the beauty of that is, it wouldn't even need to be an especially long one - she's only about four feet tall.
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Telly
This year, to ensure I update this blog at least once a week, I will be providing a blow-by-blow account of the accidentally hilarious and occasionally very well acted River City, a soap overlooked by most people because it’s set in Glasgow and only on telly once a week.
This week, Stuart Baggs-like entrepreneur/spoilt child-man Fraser decides to build a factory next to Gabriel’s shop. When this fails to impress his rival, he shrieks in irritation, “AND we’re going to tartan week!” Strangely enough, this doesn’t have the desired effect. About five minutes later he loses the land anyway. To a church-run play park! Supported by his ain dad!
Meanwhile, an awkward line of exposition in the shop confirms my worst fears – Rosin moved back up North when I wasn’t looking. Gutted. But never mind, because in the wake of mum Scarlett’s cancer, Wee Boab has stepped up to the mark with some wide eyed, gurning acting to try and keep our minds off it. AND he gets to add some comical not-quite-homophobia to the mix, because Robbie the big gay hairdresser is moving in with him and Deek.
Big Boab is distracting himself from Scarlett’s condition by scaring the crap out of Iona with declarations of eternal love worthy of a teenage blog. On the first date. That goes about as well as you might expect. Fortunately, Scarlett is on hand with sage advice.
“That’s the hing aboot chances,” she tells him. “Sometimes you git mair than wan.”
“D’ye hink?” he asks, somewhat insensitively given her medical condition.
“Well here’s hopin’,” was the wry reply.
16 minutes in to the episode, Fraser decides that the only way to get the land for his factory is to dump a load of untraceable industrial waste on it. The church won’t be able to afford to clean it up, and he will step in to take it off their hands at a reduced rate. No, he did not try any other options first, and yes, for those interested, industrial waste looks like runny lemon curd. For some inexplicable reason, business partner Deek believes the stuff isn’t dangerous and helps out, acquiring a SUSPICIOUS BURN along the way which he can’t tell anyone about. Presumably he hasn’t had enough to angst about lately.
Next day, Gabriel sees Deek’s SUSPICIOUS BURN, as well as Fraser suspiciously advising him to man up about the agonizing pain rather than see a doctor. Gabriel wastes no time in making Deek reveal the oozing wound in front of half the pub. Why didn’t he just roll up the other sleeve to reveal the unburnt arm? Come on people, this isn’t some kind of farce.
Anyway, Fraser does the evil thing and pretends to be as shocked as everyone else, as if the good people of Sheildinch will believe a scrawny house elf could carry out such a diabolical plan unaided. But Murray (Fraser’s dad) is suspicious and does some investigatory journalism to uncover the terrible truth. Just in time for a rainy ending, where Fraser loses the land once more, as well as his business partner and relationship with his family. One hopes that girlfriend Amber will have the good sense to dump him too.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
The Tuesday Play
A modern day soap opera. I imagine this reflects the experience of a lot of other people.
13 Dec 2010 – I order a thing from the internet on the proviso it’ll get to Edinburgh for December 16th
15 Dec 2010 – get an email saying the thing has been picked up at the other end by HDNL 24 hour delivery
15 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “14:19 - the parcel has been collected.”
15 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “15:02 - the parcel has been despatched from depot”
16 Dec 2010 –Tracker says “00:01 - The parcel has been sorted at our hub”
17 Dec 2010 – Snowmageddon has hit England and Citylink has suspended deliveries to Scotland. Crap. Although I've not heard anything about HDNL, maybe they're still managing?
21 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “07:34 - The parcel has been received into depot”
23 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “12:49 - The parcel is in the Depot”
25 Dec 2010 – Christmas happens. My dad does not get his present.
29 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “06:35 - The parcel has been loaded on to the drivers van”
29 Dec 2010 – I stay home all day waiting for the parcel.
29 Dec 2010 – Tracker says “14:51 – the parcel is in the Depot.”
29 Dec 2010 – I try to ring HDNL around 16:00. The system demands I type in the handy fifty-digit code on the calling card they haven’t left me.
4 Jan 2011 – 11:30 I phone the people from whom I originally ordered the thing to see if they are allowed to talk to HDNL, since I still haven’t had a card.
4 Jan 2011 – 11:35 Whist waiting for the system to load, they mention that the snow was an issue.
4 Jan 2011 – 11:36 I mention that I’ve cut them almost a month’s slack because of the snow and the holidays, for something I was meant to get within 24 hours.
4 Jan 2011 – 11:40 She finally manages to get into the system, to tell me that they tried to deliver on the 29th but there was “no access to the property.”
4 Jan 2011 – 11:41 I am unimpressed, and tell her so, because I know what that means. Like all couriers, they've come along the road, seen someone else on the single yellow outside the flat, and fucked off. There are plenty places to stop, it's just they can't be arsed cause it'll involve walking / possible traffic warden chat. If I had my way, everyone would be forced to use the Royal Mail, who at least make it as far as the front door before failing to get the right buzzer.
4 Jan 2011 – 11:43 She says she will put a note through of the other places I have listed where they could park. This is sweet, but it won’t achieve anything.
*UPDATE*
5 Jan 2011 – 11:45 Tracker still on the message from the 29th ; parcel in Depot. Hate to say I told you so, etc. Sorry, Dad.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Chapter Four
"What are you doing here?"
"I live here," Aloysius said, "what are YOU doing here?"
She smiled like an infection, lips curling back to reveal her forlorn looking teeth one by one.
"Fine, don't tell me," he said nonchalantly, "I don't care, anyway."
He tried to look away from her, into the middle distance, all enigmatic and broody like. But his eyes didn't seem to be under the control of his brain. They kept coming back to the golden curls of her chestnut hair, the perfect circle of her aubergine lips, and the sensible curve of her gargantuan norks.
"They're new," she explained with a sparkle as she caught him looking. "I had a brief stint as a glamour model in darkest Peru."
"I didn't think the glamour industry was thriving in Peru."
"It isn't," she said bitterly, "but I had to fund my top secret research somehow."
Aloysius frowned in the manner of someone remembering something.
"Weren't you struck off, though?"
She narrowed her eyes, and sniffed,
"Wasn't your face struck off?"
"Oh yes, that's very mature isn't it. For someone with a triple masters in medicine, psychology and international law, you can be very childish."
"Well I've got to cater to my audience," she pointed out. "And you aren't exactly the brightest button on the woolen boater."
"Isn't that a type of hat?"
"Exactly."
“Made of straw?”
She said nothing.
They stood a long time like that in the thickening moonlight, shadows collecting about their elbows like moths.
Eventually Esmeralda broke the silence, which was just like her, he thought bitterly. Always ruining perfectly good moments like silence, and holidays, and scones.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" she was saying, not very originally.
"No,” he said grumpily, “cause then you'll be able to come in whenever you want, and you'll slaughter my loved ones and leave roses about the place."
She laughed, a tinkling sound like crystal smashing into a thousand totty little pieces on a kitchen floor.
"This isn't an episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer," she pointed out, truthfully.
"And you're not coming in," he retorted, also truthfully. There was a lot of honesty going on in that garden.
"But Al," she pouted silkily, "I promise to be good. I have missed your dear mama awfully you know. I take it you two are still living together?"
"Actually, Aloysius is just on his way to the flat he shares with his new girlfriend," came the voice of Mrs Hunkington-Smythe from the doorway of the house. "He was just kind enough to pop by to see me after work, that's all. Such a good son."
"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" Esmeralda drawled disinterestedly, licking her thumb. "I've never met a more self involved man than him. And the three of us know better than anyone exactly how much of a 'good son' he's been to you."
"I can't believe you just used air quotes," said Mrs Hunkington-Smyte disbelievingly. "What do you think this is, 1997?"
Esmeralda glared, her soupy eyes flashing with hidden steel and scary wombats.
"Shall we dance?" she asked unexpectedly.
"Don't be absurd," said Aloysius, "why would we do that?"
"You always used to enjoy a bit of a dance after a few beers. How about one more, just for old time's sake?"
"I haven't had a few beers," he said, irritated, "and I wouldn't dance with you if you were the last woman on earth."
She smiled the sinister smile of a shark with above average intelligence that's just hit upon a plan.
"I wouldn't be so sure if I was you," she said, clapping her hands together in the rhythm of 'clappity clap'.
Aloysius's mother was alarmed to see that upon this signal, a cloud seemed to cover her son’s violet eyes, and he moved towards Esmeralda wearing a smile that was seemingly not quite his own.
"You dancin'?" he asked, placing a hand on her waist.
"You askin'?" she replied coquettishly.
"Ah'm askin'," Aloysius said, in a (very) rough approximation of a Glaswegian accent.
"Ah'm dancin," Esmerelda concurred, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other in his hand to embark upon a strange waltz around the moonlit garden.
"What have you done to him," Mrs Hunkington-Smythe wondered aloud as they nimbly dodged around plant pots and snail trails. "There isn't even any music. He needs an accompaniment when he dances.."
Esmeralda laughed, and without warning did the 'clappity clap' move with her feet on the patio. 'Stampitty stamp', she went.
"Urgh," Aloysius exclaimed, pulling away in disgust. It seemed to his mother that he was back to his normal self.
"What happened," he asked, "one minute I'm refusing to dance and then all of a sudden I'm dancing?"
"And you asked her, too," his mother said sadly.
"The hell I did," he spat.
"It’s true, my petal," Esmeralda cooed "you did. But it’s not altogether your fault. Shall I tell you about my little secret?"
"Tell me, and then get out of my life forever," he said, impassioned.
"Oh, I think this revelation is going to require you to be sitting down."
Aloysius's face looked murderous, which was probably because he wanted to kill her.
"So," she ignored him breezily, "Who's for a cup of tea?"
Mrs Hunkington-Smythe reluctantly moved back from the doorway, and they retired to the kitchen to discover THE TRUTH.
“It’s like this,” Esmerelda began, placing the teapot on the table and removing a packet of lemon puffs from her coat pocket.
“I’m allergic to those,” said Aloysius.
“No you’re not,” said his mother, surprised.
“Yes I am. They bring me out in spots. Don’t you remember when I was small and I had one of those at Auntie Vivica’s house and then I broke out in spots?”
“That was measles.”
“Anyway,” Esmeralda interjected in the manner of one who had thought her audience might be a tad more receptive to what she had to tell it, “it’s like this.”
They gazed at her, expectant but preoccupied by the fact she had got into their house again.
“…. Basically I learned hypnotherapy and practiced on you.”
“Is that it?”
“Well, yeah, in a nutshell. Sorry, it sounded more dramatic than that in my head. I guess its because I’ve been carrying it about for years, never telling a living soul, and the guilt has weighed heavy on my mind and made the crime seem disproportionately large.”
“Well no, its still a huge invasion of privacy,” said Mrs Hunkington-Smythe, “I just thought there would be a lot more preamble than that.”
“Yeah,” said Aloysius, “I was banking on another six hundred words or so, for my part.”
“Meh,” she said, sipping her tea.
“So have you programmed him to do other things as well,” Mrs Hunkington-Smythe asked slowly.
“Course I have,” Esmeralda grinned, “but nothing bad. I wouldn’t make him rob a bank or punch a granny.”
“Undo it,” Aloysius said angrily, “un-hypnotise me at once or I’ll call the police.”
“I wouldn’t trust her to do it,” said his mother, “what if she just conditions you to react to something else?”
“Fair point,” Esmeralda admitted, “I’m entirely capable of doing that. And given I’m not really sure how to undo it, I’m more inclined to have a bit of fun with you whilst you’re under my total control.”
Aloysius shivered, and not with the cold. It was because he was anxious and freaked out and stuff. Which you would be, if your ex girlfriend – or boyfriend – had access to your brain.
“What can you make me do?”
“Well, there’s the dance. Aaaaand… I can make you buy me cocktails. Aaaaaand… turn off Match of the Day because you think you’re having an allergic reaction to it.”
“Are all of these going to be things that make him a more attentive boyfriend?” Mrs Hunkington-Smythe enquired, interested in spite of herself.
Esmeralda looked at her feet.
“Yeah, totally,” she said.
And she seemed to get away with it, for the time being at any rate.
“This could be a huge money maker you know,” Aloysius’s mother said thoughtfully. “If you marketed it right. Ooh, you could be the saviour of celebrity relationships – charge them extortionate amounts to condition them into doing little things that make them stay the course.”
“I know, right? But then the magazines would be gunning for me because they’d have nothing to print.”
“Oh yeah, that’s a point.”
“Get out,” said Aloysius.
“But I haven’t finished my tea,” she said, pointing at the cup somewhat needlessly to illustrate the fact.
“Take it with you then.”
“That’s my good china – never mind,” Mrs Hunkington-Smythe protested.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Moira,” Esmeralda expostulated extravagantly, I’m not stealing your china. And I won’t be hanging around either.”
“Why did you bother to come in the first place?” Aloysius asked bitterly. “If you hadn’t, I’d never have known there was a problem. And now I do know, its like I can never escape you.”
Esmeralda smiled.
“Oh,” he said, in realization. “That is why you came.”
“Well done,” she said, getting up to leave. Her pockets squeaked as she moved. “That’s basically it. Well, there was one other, little thing.”
“I actually couldn’t care right now,” he said, “get out.”
“I think you’ll be interested though, genuinely.”
“Send me a postcard.”
She nodded her assent. “I might just do that. Unless you want to swap email addresses…”
He snorted derisively, and a bit of snot came out. It wasn’t hugely attractive, but sometimes people aren’t when they’re angry. That’s just a fact of life, which you’ve probably observed yourself when you’re just a hundred or so words shy of your target daily word count and are finding it difficult to concentrate on what you’re doing.
Esmeralda wrinkled her own nose like a rabbit - not a cute one, but equally not a snottery one. Definitely an evil one though, with fangs instead of claws, and a canon for a tail, and laser eyes.
“Oh well… nice seeing you,” she lied.
“Mmm.”
“Take care of yourselves.”
And off she went, walking out of his life into the night for the second time.
“Al,” Moira Hunkington-Smythe said weakly, “I don’t feel very well.”
Her body convulsed uncomfortably for a few unimaginably lengthy seconds, then all of a sudden, she flopped in her wheel chair, and lay deathly still.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
A Birthday in the Aeon of Discord
It is my hope that if you click on the picture, it will take you to The Chutney Exhibition. Alternatively you may click on the purple words, with similar effect. If you are an aspiring writer, cartoon-er, something else interesting and creative; or if you want to follow the work of those who are in a voyeuristic sort of way, you should have a look or maybe even get in touch.
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