That would include me. However, the newspaper is actually above my pay grade. Yes, I can afford the paper itself (once a month or so), but hardly anything featured in it. This is like porn for young professionals and middle-aged, middle-class, country-living gourmet food aficionados (and they would know how to pronounce that properly). The Observer Magazine is both inspiring and depressing to me. It's also something to point at laugh at, when you discover that very often the interviewees will feature with a caption recognising their stylist or preferred fashion designer.

I wonder what mine would read. "Sweater: H&M, £15, now only available in charity shops; Jeans: Levi's bought off the back of a lorry via eBay at knock-down price, quite worn; Shoes: Skechers, bought in Amazon's Black Friday sale and meant to last several seasons; Hair: Blob of Garnier Fructis hair gel applied in a hurry and then styled naturally by the wind."

Labels: personal

The BBC News at Ten led with Dr. Rowan Williams stepping down as Archbishop of Canterbury later this year. He's known for being very kind to everyone, apparently. I haven't really noticed much of that. I'll just remember him as yet another frocked man with too much power on his hands, despite the C of E's rapidly dwindling numbers.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against men in frocks. Archbishops tend to, though. And Williams has stood by this stereotype throughout his reign. Because it is a reign; these people are given immense power over people of their own congregation, church and faith, and for some bizarre reason over people who don't share their faith at all.

A few minutes earlier I had just finished watching a programme about a baptist preacher from Jamaica trying to get the locals of a dozy village in Gloucestershire excited about the church again. He was cheerful and tried his best to include people and even managed to get a couple more visitors to the local church before going back to Jamaica. I didn't hear him say anything negative at all during his time there, and he got them interested in their lost faith again.

I don't think I'll ever understand the need many people feel to gather and praise some higher being who is invisible (in every sense), but it keeps fascinating me--probably because I don't understand it. Too bad so many "people of faith" can't shut up about their faith and how it makes them better human beings than the rest of us (because we're lost/damned/blind/heretics/deviants). It's a bit tiring trying to respectfully decline being bible-bashed at times. I have done my soul-searching and know who I am and what I believe in. Being threatened with hell doesn't affect me, as I don't believe hell exists. I live by the Golden Rule not because of Jesus, but because it is simply common sense and courtesy. Please, PLEASE understand that I would like some respect for my lack of faith as much as you would for your strong belief in a deity.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to binge-drink and swear in front of children.

Labels: atheism, current affairs, personal, religion

So today they decided to go on strike because they wouldn't get paid triple their wages and get a day in lieu for working on Boxing Day. Did they not know what they signed up for when they joined? For the past five years I've had to work through the whole of Christmas, only getting Christmas Day off (and we even had to take out one of our holiday allowances for that, until two years ago), because this is the way working shifts works. If we'd gone on strike every time we didn't get everything we wanted from the company, they'd fire our arses and just get in someone else to do our job. Working for the council/state certainly has more benefits than most jobs in the private sector, so it's time they STFU and did the job we're paying them to do.

Yes, I am pissed off now. They've wasted a lot of time and money for a lot of people, businesses and the city itself, and then add insult to injury by suggesting striking during Christmas, and worst of all, during the 2012 Olympics. At some point they need to grow the fuck up.

Labels: current affairs, personal

This is just not good enough. The infrequent updates to this blog since I joined Facebook and later Twitter is ridiculous. My apologies.

Since last we've moved house, to lovely Ealing from dreadful Stratford (well, it was quickly turning into a hell-hole). I spent all of my savings on the move, and am now spending my time whining about the lack of money. And the cold. Because, friends, I have turned into a Brit. Well, almost. Also, this house is bloody cold all year round. Brilliant if it's scorching outside, but whenever does that actually happen in good ol' Blighty? Well, just about once or twice a year. (I haven't heard of rhetorical questions.)

My job seems insecure; they keep moving people around, others quit and I'm left in the dark as per usual. This started happening just about two seconds after we signed the contract for this place, of course. Fuck you. Anyway, I'm pretending nothing is going on. Alcohol helps. Also, lashes of good telly. We've kept ourselves busy lately (re)watching Fringe, Hornblower, then Sharpe, and next up is a disturbing combination of Eureka, Upstairs, Downstairs (good luck with that before this autumn's revisit to 165 Eaton Place, 35 years after the last series was produced), Dexter and Lie to Me. We'll just have to see.

I think I may have been to the theatre once this year...only I cannot for the life of me remember what that could have been. Maybe it was just a dream.

My plan for tomorrow is to win the top prize in the EuroMillions. Don't know how else I'm going to get any funds.

However, this is merely a bleak, selfish view on things and my life is much better than most others', it's just very annoying that Life is so attached to Money. The Bastard Twins.

In other news, I have been enjoying a lot of brilliant telly and gaming lately, and more is yet to come! Of course Downton Abbey is an important feature on Sundays in this household, although it is being taped for the simple reason that it's on ITV (read: ad breaks) whereas the excellent Single Father (read: David Tennant) is on the Beeb (read: no ad breaks) at the same time. Thank Bob we don't we don't have Sky (can't afford a satellite dish AS WELL), because then we'd have to have a second DVD recorder to tape Thorne on Sky1. Not that it had great reviews, but I quite like David Morrissey. Speaking of which, my old DVD recorder is on the blink (in a "Panasonic-on-the-blink" kind of way, which means it gives out weird error messages now and then but works as it should...most of the time. Sony FTW!), so I have got hold of a few blank DVDs to save the contents of the hard drive. OK, so I got 300. I am very impressed with Total Blank Media; they shipped my DVDs nine minutes after my order was accepted! The most important bit was that they carry Taiyo Yuden DVDs, of course. And yes, I did the "smell test" once I got the discs. Mmmm.

What was I saying? Oh, something about telly shows. Hmm... Right. We're watching 71 Degrees North (a title which should be familiar to Norwegians out there), mostly in order to have a laugh at what we deem to be whiny British celebs trying to survive in minus 40 degrees. HA HA HAAAH! Then again, I've never camped outside in anything below zero (centigrades) myself. #NorwegianGirlGuideFAIL

Well, at least I've managed to pay the gas bill.

You can still cry at my tweets and my new gaming blog (well, it's my main interest, anyway; may as well cave in).

Labels: david tennant, gaming, Norway, personal, TV

It has dawned on me that I may as well realise that my "Doctor Who" fascination wasn't really just a fascination with the Doctor as such, but more of a David Tennant thing. Which, of course, is slightly annoying in the sense that he will never "just" be a terrific actor from now on (because I've liked him as an actor since I first noticed him in Secret Smile back in 2005), but "someone a bit more special", even though this obsession will pass in a few months' time (or sooner, depending on how intense the obsession is.)

Then again, my complete inability to throw away stuff has served me well, in that I yesterday found no less than 46 Doctor Who-related RadioTimes in my "collection", including six Doctor Who audiobooks, and today I've found tonnes of old radio shows featuring David Tennant. The trouble is I think he is really funny (and three shows with Catherine Tate filling in for Jonathan Ross may actually kill me, as they're bloody funny and all--I'm actually crying while listening to them), so this may take some time. Then again, last year's two obsessions (Chris Barrie and Reece Shearsmith, respectively) have passed quite smoothly, as well as 2008's big Greg Proops thing (although they'll still have a special place in my heart and may have guest appearances now and then.)

Oh, anyway. Today's big topic has been the budget, and I'm all out of funny comments already. Mainly because it's a bit shit.

Also, I've tried my hand at writing stuff today. Not for the first time, mind. One of these days I'm sure HarperCollins will be knocking on my door. Not that I'll hear them, as I'm sure my neighbour will drown out all sounds with his stereo, as per usual, the little runt.

Labels: chris barrie, david tennant, greg proops, personal, reece shearsmith, TV, writing

Indeed. Went to the matinée of La Cage aux Folles today. My last visit. At least that's what I thought, until the end where I just knew I have to see it again. Unfortunately, the ticket system on the ATG website is pretty dire and simply doesn't want my fifty-five pounds, so it can fuck off. Anyhoo, I was very pleased to not notice anything particularly less energetic in their performance today as opposed to any of the...eight evening performances I have seen, which was a BIG plus! Lots of OAPs there, though, so they got more response than usual when The Best of Times came on (read: Sing-along time!)

Just need to utter a Happy Birthday to Reece Shearsmith (according to Wikipedia, which has been known to make up things in the past)--was just looking for info on Catterick when I stumbled upon his page. Yes, I am finally watching Catterick. At first I couldn't understand why I hadn't until now, but then it hit me; it first aired in 2004, when I hadn't quite moved to the UK yet, and then by the time the Scandie channels would have been able to afford importing it, I had moved to the UK and forgotten all about it. So far, two episodes in, it's great fun. And yes, it was brought on by the return of Shooting Stars yesterday. (I am usually very pleased with my Amazon Prime membership...next day delivery FTW!) (Although today they delivered only Catterick, which was dispatched after the two items I ordered the night before...it's the luck of the draw, I guess.)

In other news, I think a Nurofen capsule dissolved in a rather unfortunate manner earlier today due to the lack of readily available water, and my throat is now burning every time I swallow. Nice.

Labels: comedy, league of gentlemen, musicals, online shopping, personal, philip quast, roger allam, technology, theatre

Yep, I should probably 'kiddieproof' this blog, but I'm rebelling against those US-enforced parental lock thingies. Anarchy in your face!

Quick update on the dream front: The other night I dreamt that Jared Padalecki and Chad Michael Murray had joined forces and were fighting electricity for the benefit of humankind. Please bear in mind I don't watch Supernatural or One Tree Hill and actually had to look up their names to figure out who they were; I guess the power of the TV trail is tremendous!

The following night I dreamt about a new, revolutionary product called iLean. Probably manufactured by Apple. It was a gizmo you wore and which would beam info to the headquarters of iLean (again, presumably to the Apple HQ) every time you leaned on something or someone. You could actually earn up to £7,500 a year on this thing. I woke up feeling rather angry my new-found extra source of income turned out to be imaginary.

In between these dreams we went to the embassy in order to vote in the general election, which takes place in September back in Norway. I tried out a new party this time. Well, a new one for me, but as far as I know, the oldest one in the kingdom. I am worried about the right-wing parties, though, which seem to be getting a stronger grip on the population. There's a lot of hatred there. It's scary to see how they condemn right-wing election results in Austria and Denmark when the exact same thing is happening in their own country.

After having voted we went down to Canary Wharf to take in the view, eat at Jamie Oliver's brand new restaurant and then pay Waitrose a visit. We got home very happy and with lots of chocolate. I then realised I had managed to be in the sun long enough to sport a permanent clown mouth (well, hopefully it'll disappear within a week), and so spent the next two hours on the balcony trying to perfect the silly look by showing only my right profile to the sun. We had fun, anyway, doing our best to remember which British comedy shows we've seen (both before and after we moved here). A rather surprisingly large number of shows, I must say! Anyone remember Chalk? Written by the clever Steven Moffat (Press Gang, Coupling, Jekyll, some Murder Most Horrid and Doctor Who). I watched it because of David Bamber (naturally). He also inadvertently (and not literally) kicked my butt so that I finally noticed (and quickly became a huge fan of) The League of Gentlemen.

Speaking of britcom, I also started watching Peep Show the other day (hence the "cockmunchers" in the title). Fun and embarrassing at the same time. I don't often feel I have to look away because the situation depicted is increasingly excruciating to watch, but with this series it happens frequently. Probably also because it is filmed the way it is, so that it immediately feels more personal. With other shows I can just tell myself 'it isn't happening to me', but these guys are staring right at me, damnit!

Enhance your calm.

Labels: comedy, current affairs, david bamber, dreams, league of gentlemen, personal, TV

I am getting fed up of you now. This morning, all the seats in my carriage was taken by young and middle-aged men of all creeds, all pretending to be asleep to avoid the scornful looks they were given by the 20+ women having to remain standing. You keep going on and on about how much stronger you are compared to us, so why don't you get your lazy arses out of those seats and stand instead? You also keep moaning about women wanting both male chivalry and equal rights; tell you what: When we DO have equal rights (and that definitely includes getting paid the same amount as men for doing the exact same job), you can sit back down.

In other news, I'm actually not that cross. :-)

Labels: personal

Twitter. It's been coughing now for hours. My über-funny tweet around lunch time was never published, and the world has suffered a great loss because of that.

The National Lottery. Because all I ever win (with a couple of measly exceptions), if I do, is my stake.

The weather. Because it is suddenly raining and I have no raincoat with me.

I bet you that by the time I get home, the fucking neighbour has turned up his fucking music again and left me with no alternative than to push him off his own balcony. The cunt.

Why bother, really?

Labels: personal

My favourite quote this month, and it's only just begun:

'Now, if you're anything like me, you can often be found standing in the street, laughing at the severely disabled.' (Rev. Bernice (Reece Shearsmith), The League of Gentlemen Live at Drury Lane)

Considering how my life is quickly spiralling downwards due to the noisy neighbour and his nasty ASBO friends, a constant stream of good comedy is necessary. This has led to an almost overdose of The League of Gentlemen (much like Red Dwarf earlier in the year), but it's definitely worth it. The neighbour should be pleased, as it keeps me away from the kitchen knives.

Labels: comedy, league of gentlemen, personal, red dwarf

Well me, obviously. Apart from the boy part(s).

I had a revelation today, a rather embarrassing, but also relieving one. I figured out why I never saw the funny side of The League of Gentlemen before. Plain easy: I watched the wrong episodes. No wonder I didn't get it; this dark and surreal series should really be watched from the very start (oh, and what a start; the first 20 seconds of the very first episode had me in stitches), simply because there's a thread through the whole thing. Excellent stuff, I think, now that I'm halfway through the second series (and Papa Lazarou, which I used to despise before, has now become my favourite). So please accept my humble apologies, those of you who tried to make me see the light years ago and always wondered why I, of all people, didn't like the show. After all, my sense of humour is perfectly aligned with the League guys'.

Oh, and I cannot get the theme song out of my head.

Anyway; what a difference a day makes--after a whole week of very sporadic pockets of sleep thanks to the bastard next-door, his mum came back yesterday with an immediate quelling of any loud noises, so we could finally sleep the whole night through. I then woke up to find both my missing copies of RadioTimes and The Stage as well as a lovely-looking pay slip in the post (quickly making my credit card company cross because they won't get any more interest out of me for a while). I also had a very entertaining dream which gave me an idea for a book, and since there is at current no noise coming from the neighbouring flat, I will be able to concentrate enough to write for a bit. The only thing left to make this a Perfect Day(TM) is if I were to win the top prize in the Euromillions tonight. But I am probably aiming too high.

Labels: comedy, league of gentlemen, personal, TV

Once upon a time, I was a little girl in the midst of a lot of crazy boys who loved gadgets and electronics. Having been the first among the lot to own an Amiga 500, I was accepted rather easily even though I was of the female persuasion. I wasn't kidding myself even then; I knew they were after my games, not my friendship. Still, I had a few close male friends and we hung out all the time.

At some point during our early teens, we became interested in other things related to computers, not just games. This was pretty much pre-internet, so don't say 'porn!' even though we all know that's the whole point of setting up a lot of personal computers in a network. No, we were interested in the demo scene, the programming, the graphics, the music. Actually, I am kidding myself. I still did that to get to the games. One of my closest friends and I started our own group. We were in awe of groups like Cryptoburners, Razor 1911, Anarchy, Crusaders, Absence etc., and had seen a lot of demos and intros that they and hundreds of others had made. I had my own little notebook with the addresses of a lot of them. We were going to blend in, no problem.

Naturally, we needed a cool name. Being quite inept when it came to English still, our best bet was to just make sure there were some X's or Z's thrown in for good measure. So we settled on Gritz as our group name. I honestly did not know what 'grits' meant back then, but we thought it looked cool. Also, it was pretty easy to spell using only straight lines, which was what we would need to do in our AWESOME demos.

My friend went a little overboard with the X-and-Z theory and named himself Azz. We DID know what 'ass' meant. Now, why on Io I called myself Leoban, I will never know.

So we were ready to take over the demo scene. All we needed was some programming skills and artistic talent. Unfortunately I couldn't do much, but at least 'Azz' was pretty good with a pencil (his school books were filled with drawings). Then we got to know 'the Animal' (his real name escapes me), who said he could teach me some coding. We were both very serious. I realised pretty quickly his method of teaching basically involved my learning long routines by heart without knowing what they meant. Luckily I am blessed with a very good memory for that sort of thing, but it meant my coding was, should we say limited?

Back at home the only way I could pick up things from there on, was to fiddle with programs others had made, tedious work involving changing one thing at a time, then assemble/compile and run to see what that had changed. Needless to say, I would never become a world class programmer that way, but let me tell you: I learnt a lot about computers! (I tried my hand at easier programming languages, too, like BASIC and my personal favourite AMOS (in which I even made a short game; great fun)).

Still, around this time I found that it was actually quite a lot of fun experimenting with Soundtracker, Noisetracker and, later, Protracker (and even OctaMED), where I could make horrible music only I liked listening to. I am not delusional; it's quite bad, most of it, but I discovered years later that I wasn't half bad as long as I had the right programs and, most of all, enough RAM and a decent sampler. Besides, even Jean Michel Jarre's first few albums are rather on the ridiculous side (yes, I keep reminding myself of that, so perhaps I am a bit delusional after all).

Gritz eventually fell apart, basically because we had absolutely nothing to show for ourselves, and because we used our meetings mostly to play computer games anyway. I started my own group after a while, which was even more pointless, as it consisted of only one member. Well, I'm lying. It had three members, but they were all me, really. I just thought it looked a bit pathetic if the same person covered all three main functions. Especially considering how bad I was at all three. At least this way the blame could be shared. Outwardly.

To be frank, I suppose that group never dissolved. Following the proper demo scene code, the group had both a 'Dr.' something and a 'Mr.' something. We specialised in making compilation disks (I was heavily addicted to DiskMaster and loved it when I finally figured out how to make my own startup menus), and I always put some new music on top of the text menus to show off my skills...I probably shouldn't have. I also specialised in ruining my own disks with the Saddam virus, but that's a tale for another day.

My Amiga was covered in post-it notes listing all the Protracker commands, and I was very prolific in my music-making; making a tune a day in periods. My parents probably thought I was doing more sinister things upstairs, but all I did was sitting hunched over my computer, fag in hand, hooked up to the stereo where I heard half the tune in one ear and a different half in the other. It was all great fun and it all sounded rather bad. I have always been hung up in rhythms, though, so I usually started out with the bass drum, snares and hi-hats, then built a song from there. If I weren't pleased with the rhythm, I threw the whole thing away. It also made me aware of tempos and most of all I became a fan of breakbeats.

Well, all good things apparently must come to an end, and I cut down on the music-making quite rapidly when I became a proud PC owner in '98. In 2005 my Amiga was discovered, presumed dead, as I was packing my stuff for The Big Move to the UK, and was quietly put to definite sleep by my dad. I didn't want to know. It took about two months before I wanted to find a new one on eBay, so I guess a part of me will always consider the Amiga to be the best part of my youth.

Labels: computers, personal

Sorry for not having updated in a very long while. Reason? Lack of sleep (annoying new neighbour with a powerful stereo and ASBO friends, need I say more?), a very long shift at work (two weeks, basically) and the release of The Sims 3.

When I say I worked for two weeks straight, that is actually a lie, since I worked eight days, had one day off and then worked four. Still, very straining when you don't get any sleep at all due to your fucking neighbour. And one third of that day off was spent at the theatre having a bloody headache. Don't know what it is, but somehow I always manage to get a blinding headache while in the theatre, no matter what I do to prevent it. The play was miraculously fun, though. What am I saying? It was La Cage. You may kill me now. I've seen it...umpteen times. I've actually lost count. 17 times as a minimum (including Oslo). Once more and I've definitely seen PQ as many times as Dennis in that musical.

Pathetic.

Anyway, so The Sims 3 was released. It's as annoying as the previous instalments, to be honest. You just cannot put it away, yet it's a complete waste of your life. Love the new integrated neighbourhood, though; huge improvement. Also the fact you, in effect, decide what they do while at work or in school. Wonder how many expansion packs they'll release, seeing as this incorporates so many of the previous packs already?

Today saw the long-awaited release of Red Dwarf: Back to Earth DVD (well, 'long-awaited' if you're very impatient) and I devoured it all from about 10am to 1pm. Gave up on the easter egg and just launched the DVD in VLC instead because it allows you to look through the DVD title by title (something you should already know if you're a slightly neurotic geek like myself). Finally found it. As per usual, a bit of an anti-climax. Still, the DVD was packed like the rest. Of the DVDs, I mean. Ooh, err!

So that got me back in Chris Barrie mode/mood, which was just as well as I've had really boring dreams about Roger Allam for the past two nights (blame seeing him by the stage door last week--I'm such a wanker (not in the literal sense...well, not when it comes to this, at least :p )).

And I did the most typical thing yesterday. Now, if you don't follow me on Twitter (and you should--not that it's interesting, but that's where I post most of my random thoughts these days), you wouldn't know much about my new neighbour. To cut a long and irritating story short, he's a pothead who's prolly just moved out and wants to party all night. Fair enough, apart from the fact sound carries really well in this building. He's kept me awake most nights for a fortnight. Until you've experienced that yourself, you won't know what sleep deprivation does to you--how desperate it makes you. Let's just say I've fantasised about murdering him with my IKEA knives. No, I don't think I'd actually do that, but I wouldn't have ruled me out straight away if he were discovered in a pool of his own blood in the foreseeable future. ANYWAY. He knocked on our door yesterday. Keep in mind I want to kill him, right? He asks me if I have some oil he could borrow. I, for some reason, inquiry as to the nature of this oil--of the olive kind, perhaps? He nods. I go get the rest of my olive oil and hand it to him. WHY do I do this? Because, most probably, in The Sims 3, my character would have the trait 'Good'. And possibly 'Coward'.

That's it for today. Was supposed to be just an apology, but then I got all riled up from having watched 'Supersizers' from the 80s for no particular reason (other than their opulence and close proximity in time to myself) and felt I had to post something a little more fleshy. Apparently.

Fave song in the charts: 'In the Heat of the Night' (Star Pilots). The PSN Store launched their own 'Vidzone' the other day and that brought back memories...isn't Michael Jackson's 'Remember the Time' as well as Annie Lennox's 'Walking on Broken Glass' just effing brilliant? No? Well, what on Io (Red Dwarf and RIMMER (SO wrong if you've watched a lot of Queer as Folk) are back, dammit!) are you visiting this blog for? We clearly have little in common. Sex, perhaps, but nothing else.

Labels: chris barrie, film, gaming, music, musicals, personal, philip quast, red dwarf, roger allam, theatre, TV

Why do we need ushers? Apart from keeping struggling, young actors in employment, of course. The other day, at La Cage again (probably more on that at a later point), I approached one of the said ushers with my ticket, like I normally do. She was being very cheerful and polite, and said 'you're in seat nine, madam, on the third row'. I said thank you and went to find my seat.

OK, so what just happened?

1. I approached the usher. I always do this. I think it's my way of being polite, because I know perfectly well where I'm seated. It's not rocket science. Maybe I feel sorry for them, standing there by the door like wallflowers.
2. I looked confused. WHY? I mean...just WHY? What a ridiculous thing to do. I approach the usher with an apologetic smile, looking like I have just landed on this planet and want my mummy. I show them my ticket, which I have just managed to read about three times within the last minute all on my own, and want some kind of help. Just to be nice. It's like saying 'I'm an idiot and need assistance. See me wee(p) if you don't help RIGHT NOW.'
3. She called me 'madam'. At some point during the first year that I lived over here in the UK, people went from calling me 'miss' to 'madam'. I hadn't done anything differently, I think, but it happened. I want to blame the stress surrounding the move, which after all gave me my first white strands of hair. (Yet at the same time I sometimes still have to show people my ID when buying alcohol.)
4. The usher read my ticket to me. Let me stress that.

She. Just. Read. It. To. Me.

And then I thanked her for stating the obvious. Because, after all, I am a silly customer who has managed to book and pay for the ticket, dress herself, get on the right tube, find the right street and even find the right theatre and entrance, only to fall at the last hurdle, slowly losing sight of the coveted gold medal.

What utter nonsense.

Labels: humour, musicals, personal, theatre

Yay, we won. Since I'm technically still a Norwegian citizen, due to silly UK laws, I say "we" when speaking about Norway. Unless it's something negative, when it's "they".

Funny bit: Alexander Rybak claiming he won because 'he had a story to tell'. Erm, no. People liked the catchy song. The lyrics were crap!

Extreme tweeting going on yesterday; everyone who'd been dissing Eurovision all week still sat down to watch AND tweet at the same time. It was massive. I would read about 50 updates, send a tweet, then in the meantime about 50-100 new updates had been posted. Let's just say I didn't have the time to read them all. I barely watched the show, only listened to it! Great fun, though. Not such great fun this morning, when I woke up with a furry tongue and a pounding head, wondering what the hell I'd been drinking the night before and why on Io I thought that was a good idea on a work night.

Anyway, I did go to work and am now planning on how to get to the Seamen's Church later on (stop your sniggering!) in order to celebrate Norway's constitutional day with other Londoners. Hipp, hipp, hurra!

PS! If I haven't already mentioned it, you need to watch The Thick of It. I would especially recommend the specials. Excellent stuff. They're so funny, all of them. Guest Roger Allam is brilliant as leader of the opposition. I must have seen the specials four times, and it still makes me laugh out loud. DS.

Labels: comedy, music, Norway, personal, roger allam, TV

Must be the 15th time or so that I see that show. I need a proper tattoo parlour and a proper account balance so I can get that lovely, little tattoo showing my love for La Cage aux Folles that I've been dreaming of for years. It's massive.

Anyway. Proper review for the May 13 performance. Well, as proper as I can make it.

First things first, I believe Duncan Smith stood in as Tabarro instead of Robert Maskell. Other than that they were all there. Especially the Cagelles, they were very much there. In my opinion they have certainly benefited from the move from the Menier (even though it pains me to admit it, it was actually even better at the Playhouse Theatre, which of course is a good thing, considering the excellent Menier production); they now have more room to play in, and they have grown into the roles to such a degree that they are definitely acting more now (not 'just' dancing--and before anyone hits me over the head; their dancing and acrobatics have always been nothing short of amazing). They've basically become more bitchy, something I find adds to the whole story.

Speaking of dancing, by the way; what on Io happened to Philip Quast since we last saw him? Perhaps the larger stage has done him wonders as well, because I was pleasantly surprised at his moves. Elegant, at times flamboyantly so, I would say. Especially the double back-flip which received a standing ovation. OK, I lie. But I'm certain I'm not dilly-dallying far from the truth if I say I think people would have given him a standing ovation had he done a double back-flip. Followed by a hurried search for a chiropractor in the house. But I digress (should be written on my headstone).

Right, now for the Change of the Decade. Well, the change from Graham Norton and Stephen Pacey to the surprising duo of Roger Allam and Philip Quast, respectively. 'Surprising' mostly from a personal perspective, perhaps, as I never thought I'd be able, nay allowed to see them perform on stage together. After yesterday's performance this will go down as my favourite version of my favourite musical. It couldn't possibly get any better than this, could it? If so, I dare not go see it, as I prefer my heart to be whole and in working order.

Some of us get a little carried away at the theatre, but we're usually calm and collected elsewhere.

This time around the Georges/Albin story seemed more real; I was going to say I believed they were partners, but that would have been a fib (or 'wishful thinking' as some of my slash-loving acquaintances would point out). Of course I didn't. But by Gog, they were so much more compatible than any of the previous pairings I have witnessed.

And here comes the clinch, the whole reason for you to go see the show if you have been the least bit half-on, half-off the fence up till now: They've cast an actor to play Albin. I know how that sounds, but wait for it. You see, the part of Albin is a very emotional one; he's a drama queen, ok, but it's all a façade--he's a vulnerable man who is both overly effeminate and as such should leave no doubt in anyone's mind about his sexuality, and yet so far back into the closet I have a feeling he sometimes has tea with Aslan. All brought on by society, as per usual. (How long have poets, playwrights and even screenwriters been writing about the struggle for freedom from the firm grasp of society? Digression again, sorry.) So the role of Albin cannot--well, shouldn't--be filled by someone who is just one thing, someone who cannot cope with both the out-and-out flamboyancy and the defencelessness which, after all, are two extremes switched between at increasingly fast intervals during the play. I was swept away by Allam's acting and for the first time, in 15 performances, felt that Albin really was Jean-Michel's maman.

(Of course, this means that I am dissing Dennis Storhøi. I may have to lie down and die. At least repent.)

If anyone thinks I'm saying Philip Quast isn't an actor, they should probably read the whole thing again and pay attention this time. I'm probably saying that everyone who's played Albin so far hasn't been an actor, so bring on the insults; I don't care. (I think it's been known for a while that I wasn't a fan Douglas Hodge's interpretation...)

Now then, now then, now then. For the slightly more personal and short review:

It's brilliant! Buy tickets now or lose out on something spectacular! Truly! This cast should be there all through summer (please consider holidays, days off sick etc.--annoying, I know, but it turns out they're actually...shh, don't tell anyone...real people! Who'd've thunk?), until Aug 26, but don't hold me responsible if they're not. Write to your local MP instead. I want you all to be more politically active.

And fabulous hair! PQ no longer looks like my uncle. He now looks like a Clubland version of my uncle. Urgh. Oh yeah, and I caught one of the roses and stole it thought 'finders keepers'. Currently starting to collect dust with all my other theatre memorabilia. I have tickets for two more performances (so far) because I thought 'hey, I think this may be the best version ever and I have a Mastercard!' Hopefully I won't try and beat my ten performances in five months record from Oslo 2004...that'll be a bit expensive (and stalkerish). Not to mention pathetic--I have to keep chanting 'it's just a play, it's just a play'.

Well, I hear there's a Eurovision Song Contest semi final I have to cast my vote in tonight, so got to go!

Labels: dennis storhøi, music, musicals, personal, philip quast, roger allam, theatre, TV

Had another weird dream last night, just remembered it and cringed a little bit.

I was backstage at the theatre where they are currently performing La Cage aux Folles. It was the opening night for Roger Allam and Philip Quast; very topical in other words, as that actually happened yesterday evening. There were a lot of giggly fangirls there (I think this was brought on by having seen lots of giggly fangirls (and -boys) at the Comedy Store on Sunday; Allam/Quast don't usually have giggly fans); most of whom were about 18-20 years of age. I sat down in the corner, where the fan club president and vice president were sitting. To my knowledge, neither have an official fan club. Anyway, I thought I was safe there; I would just sit and watch for a bit and then go home, as I didn't have a ticket. The theatre was built in such a way that there was a huge panorama window facing the auditorium, so basically anyone could see the show for free, if they didn't mind being about three storeys higher than the stage.

Apparently, the two guys had agreed with the fan club that they'd stop by before the show, so they approached our little corner. Since I was sitting there, I guess they thought they should humour me as well. I was, however, trying to ignore them by reading my book. Allam would have none of that, however. He stood before me and stared at me until I put the book away, then sneered a 'and which year are you in?' I was perplexed. I tried to explain that in fact I was 31 and couldn't possibly be taken for anything below 25, but he insisted I was a pupil and should be treated as such. Quast took one look at me and then ignored me completely. Evidently, they both loathed me and I felt belittled in my own dream, so quickly left.

I am guessing this is my way of telling myself something I'm already aware of; that I'm afraid of seeming desperately stalky, but then apart from the occasional 'ok, it's slightly freakish that you turn up for a charity gig way beyond your price range' I'm not actually stalkerish in any way. Hmm...I think. Unless they're extremely wary of having people go see their show twice in as many months. Oh deary me. In that case, it's their problem. ;-)

The dream was fun, though. I mean, I've never thought of any of them as being complete bastards towards their fans (rather the opposite), so clearly this was just a figment of my imagination gone haywire.

Labels: dreams, greg proops, musicals, personal, philip quast, roger allam, theatre

I had this surge of energy flowing through my body just now; brought on by an instant of feeling elated and euphoric, really. I love those moments. Too bad they don't last very long, but it does help creating inspiration for the remainder of the day, I find.

Well, it may seem like I'm lapping up anything that's posted on Twitter, but there are a few things I have to share now and then because I agree with them or feel the same way. Today it's Robert Llewellyn's musings on Twitter itself - he's had some (and I say some) bad feedback when plugging his excellent online show Carpool on Twitter, but hey, a good thing cannot be repeated too often, can it? (Well, to be honest, it can, but I don't think Llewellyn's overstepped that mark - there are way more annoying tweeters on my list that I still follow, so it's just a matter of patience and the ability to ignore certain tweets and re-tweets, I guess. Also, I am biased, since I like the show so much.)

In other news, yesterday's celebration of Queen Beatrix didn't pan out very well for a handful of people; sad to see that the one time one of my favourite countries is in the news, it's because of some tragic event. Apparently the driver died earlier this morning.

Also, I think eating noodles in the office should be punishable by death. Or at least banned. Every bloody day someone (usually several people) in this office eats stinky noodles, with all the slurping that brings. I mean, for gog's sake, how difficult could it be to go somewhere else for those 15 minutes? And why the hell do they need to eat no less than three meals each during office hours? At different times, of course, so that we're basically listening to slurping all day long.

Labels: current affairs, personal, technology, work

Just updated my film collection. 1270 films by now. A few more awaiting 'approval'.

Labels: film, lists, personal

I should apologise for leading some of you astray yesterday with my highly uninteresting dream about John Barrowman. Apparently the post turned up in so many searches the trackers could hardly keep up. So if you're here for a second, wasted time in as many days; I apologise for luring you in once more. There's still nothing to see here.

Listening to some Erik Satie again; very relaxing indeed! Just watched the Drinking with the girls documentary from BBC3 or 4 last week, and although it was fun, it was also a bit disturbing in a way, and I needed to relax. So what better way, when you don't have any alcohol? ;-)

Ooh, and Depeche Mode were on Jools yesterday. I missed/ignored it, so had to download the programme today. Jools Holland is pretty crap at interviewing, but presents us with a nice and varied array of musical guests.

New business idea: Tweeting for a living! Seems a lot of people are already doing that, actually. Or someone should have a word with their bosses...

By the by, remember Carpool with Robert Llewellyn! Lots of fun to be had. He just said he would plug the show only once a day from now on, so obviously he needs all the publicity he can get! ;-) Look out for Carpool episodes from the US in the coming months, too.

Labels: music, musicals, personal, technology, time wasting