Author: James Lark

Evidently somebody has too much time on his hands today. Three posts from Mr Aylett in half as many hours – a treat indeed for his many fans.

Though I would point out that he’s copied the idea of posting about both Harry Potter and Iraq casualties directly from my previous two posts. Never has plagiarism been so brazen, excepting the work of Andrew Lloyd Webber.

The one about Tony Blair chasing women admittedly doesn’t appear to be based on anything I’ve written already, but I bet I had the idea first all the same.

Today’s Independent has a very striking front page listing all the names of the one hundred British soldiers killed in Iraq.

Which is all very moving and patriotic, but for the sake of balance I would point out that to list the names of all the Iraqi civilians killed by our military intervention would take at least 283 front pages of the Independent, and possibly as many as 319.

www.iraqbodycount.net

I think I’ve missed some Anglican directive stating that all sermons should contain an obligatory reference to Harry Potter.

I’ve now sat through several sermons where, for example, the dragon in the book of Revelation has been totally unnecessarily compared to the one in Harry Potter and the Burning Cuplet or whatever it’s called, or the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus upon the cross is said to be “a bit like the sacrifice Harry Potter had to make when he gave up one of his sweets for Hermione in Harry Potter and the Acrobat of Emmerdale.” I find it as much of an affront as it would be to discover porn tucked into one of the pages of my hymn book.

On that subject (sermons, not porn), I preached in my own church yesterday evening for the first time (lay preaching is, in my opinion, to be much encouraged) – and I was more nervous than I’ve been about any improvisation or even one-man show. It’s worse than doing stand-up. The fact that an fairly emminent theologian was in the congregation didn’t help. Not to mention an actress who held on to me afterwards and told me that I had a long preaching career ahead of me but she wanted more of my eyes (criticism noted, my next sermon will be accompanied by eyes aplenty).

As I stepped down from the pulpit I was also overcome by a sense of unease that the whole congregation might be shifting around anxiously, whispering to each other “why didn’t he mention Harry Potter?”

I just typed into google “what to do if you really need to go to bed but can’t quite turn off your computer” and it brought up this.

My word……….goodness knows what kind of dreams I’m going to have.

NB: James Lark is not responsible for the content of external sites. Nuff said.

Do check out the Video Nation website for our little contribution. Oh that they had used more of the hours of footage we shot…

There is now a whole website dedicated to Deon Vonniget here. I mention it through sheer self-publicity and also an inordinate amount of pride at having learned how to make websites in a mere two days.

…there are better poets than her (as she’s well aware) and there’s poetry I find more beautiful. But she’s the only poet who, without exception, makes me smile broadly every time I read her work.

(And yet also occasionally want to cry.)

On the front page of the BBC News website at the moment there is a link to the following story:

“BBC interview with doctor who opted for assisted suicide.”

After re-reading it several times I am now assuming that this is an interview with a doctor, who opted for assisted suicide.

Rather than the sensational story I initially read into the headline, that somebody doing a BBC interview with Doctor Who opted for assisted suicide.

I just received an email from English National Opera inviting me to a concert given by the London Gay Symphony Orchestra. Which is to include Mussorgsky’s Night on Bare Mountain.

Tee hee snigger snigger smirk.

I mean – there are so many smutty puns to be made that they don’t even need pointing out. But I couldn’t help wondering if it might actually have been a deliberate reference to Brokeback Mountain.

Aha! I thought. Night on Brokeback Mountain! A hilarious gay-stroke-classical-music-themed pun. And there must be hundreds of other pieces of classical music that can have their titles similarly twisted for a cheap laugh. An idea like this is surely a goldmine of double entendres that could lead to a list of Finnemoresque proportions.

Except that Night on Brokeback Mountain remains the only gay classical pun I can think of. Possibly the only one there is. Oh, there’s the old joke of calling Vaughan Williams’ Floss Campi – wait for it – “Camp Flossi”… but that joke is as old as the work itself, and apparently it delighted the composer which somehow takes all the fun out of it.

…and, unusually for what is often the dullest day in the whole year, it’s turning out to be one.

Yes. I am very very happy at the moment.

Is it because I had the best fun ever last night? Actually no. Last night I was dragged along to a horrific club by somebody I previously considered a friend. His name is Luke Staiano – I name and shame him here not because I am vindictive, but because he’s constantly complaining that I haven’t named him on this blog. (Also that my Dad didn’t offer him a cake on a previous occasion, but that’s a different story.)

No, the reason I am happy is that today I bought a sonic screwdriver. (Like the one in Doctor Who, if you’re ignorant as to the nature of the tool.)

Both Luke and his housemate Adam (who is a good cook) were scathing about my excitement over a small piece of plastic. What neither of them realised is this: it is simply the best toy in the world.

I have been walking around pretending to unlock doors and explode hidden landmines with it. On the tube I pretended I was making the doors open at each station with it. When the co-op down the road was closed I tried to open the doors with my sonic screwdriver, and when I ended up buying ingredients for dinner at the garage down the road I tried to pay the chip-and-pin machine with it.

(In the last two instances I failed, but I live in hope that one day a fluke of sonic power might make the thing actually work.)

It is impossible to describe, particularly to those unfamiliar with the Doctor’s trusty instrument, just how much pleasure five and a half inches of plastic (six and a half when extended) can give you.

A very happy new year to you all. I’m having one.