Or, if they didn’t actually plan to blow them up, they at least thought about them a bit. I don’t have to wonder, though, with a Unesco report saying Britain’s monuments are under threat from new developments – maybe we should have just let them.
But anyway, they’re clearly guilty of something. Conspiracy to murder in some cases… plotting to cause a public nuisance in others, which I’ll sharply refrain from commenting on.
As he says, you don’t see (or hear) this too often on acoustic, but he’s done it anyway, and frankly it’s just a whole lotta fun.
I might have made a few mentions of Ambassador Property Management, the people who “look after” 2 Victoria Street in Cambridge and for the last two years have literally allowed myself, Chris and Alastair to drown in our own shit, whilst metaphorically screwing us with our pants on.
Last week the three of us finally said goodbye to Victoria Street, as I took up residence in Bedford and Chris and Alastair moved into a house less likely to spew excrement. And so we also said a sad farewell to all the lovely folk at Ambassador, in particular a man called Graham who seems to have been behind most of the screwing.
Perhaps we should have predicted that he wouldn’t be able to resist slipping out his metaphorical cock and giving us a sneaky last screw as we walked out of the door. As indeed he did. When Graham begrudgingly wrote us each a cheque for the return of our deposits (in full, because try as they might they couldn’t find anything to blame us for), he apparently decided to deduct the sum of £36.11 to cover the cost of transferring the money into their bank account.
To cover the cost of transferring the money into their bank account!!!
I mean – WHAT????? Is that legal? Does it even make sense? Is it one of the costs listed on their website? No it bloody isn’t.
The fact that it’s such a relatively piffling amount doesn’t make it any less infuriating, because it is clearly Graham saying “I can still screw you with your pants on, even if I can’t get my dick in very far this time” – and I have spend the best part of today seething with rage at this arbitary and entirely questionable charge.
Though it occurs to me that since I am no longer reliant on Ambassador for a place to live, there is nothing stopping me from popping in there when I’m next in Cambridge and, if not actually screwing them with their pants on, giving them a demonstration of how it feels to have shit sluiced all over you. So if any of the lovely folk at Ambassador are reading (as I believe some of them have taken to doing, presumably on the look out for something libellous – sorry guys, it’s all undeniably accurate), you can expect a visit from me some time in the next few weeks and you might want to bring a change of clothes to work with you.
Or alternatively write me a fricking cheque for £36.11…
Ken Campbell should be above the fold. (He should have been for most his life; certainly his obituary deserves to be.) Most newspapers are instead pushing Sarah Palin’s daughter being pregnant which, while news, is unlikely to actually change the world much (for once the rational voices are coming from mid-right Conservatives). Perhaps more worthy of discussion is where in hell she gets her children’s names from.
More important than Google’s announcement of a new web browser is the awesome comic introducing it, drawn by Scott McCloud. Also: Chrome? You have to wonder where Google gets its names from, too.
“Gene limiting commitment” (although that’s not exactly what it is) is probably more important than raunchy footage of Marilyn Monroe (no, that’s not exactly what it is either), although the BBC seem to disagree at the moment. At least we know where Monroe’s name came from.
A lot of people (journalists, bloggers, men in pubs) have been mouthing off about how shit Britain is, specifically in comparison to China and substantiated by our eight-minute segment in the Olympic handover – which was, let’s face it, shit to the point of being surreal.
I beg to differ. As a letter to the Telegraph pointed out earlier this week, in Edinburgh during the summer months they manage to pull off a spectacular Tattoo on a daily basis which wows even the Chinese. I would go even further – step outside Edinburgh castle in the month of August and the city is full of similarly spectacular achievements, although many people miss them for all the surrounding shit.
All over the country there are awesome – I’m not being sarcastic – awesome displays of jousting, morris dancing, Anglo-Catholic ceremony, the occasional royal jubilee spectacular (I’m thinking of the fireworks rather than the rock concert). We can do a damn fine state funeral, we can stage mock battles on a huge scale, and a group of amateurs can rescue a real live steam railway and make it run again – yes, it all sounds a bit odd and English, but it’s still impressive, so why on earth do people think we haven’t got anything of value to show the world? We can do spectacular, and moreover we can do it at a fraction of the cost of the Chinese opening ceremony.
All that our eight-minute segment in the handover demonstrates is that the decision about what ought to represent Britain should not NOT NOT be left in the hands of an Olympic committee with no experience of staging a spectacular. Give it to the people who run the Tattoo, give it to Cameron Mackintosh, give it to an amateur railway society for God’s sake, anything to avoid another brainstorming session with some enthusiastic intern saying “hey, how about Jimmy Page and Leona Lewis! On top of a red bus!”
Sadly, I suspect our own opening ceremony will be very much the work of the kind of committee that came up with the eight-minute handover show, or indeed the 2012 logo. If it is then it will at least sum up exactly why Britain so often looks shit in public these days.
So a couple of days ago I decided I really ought to watch the acclaimed episodes from season three of Doctor Who: Human Nature and Blink. And I did. And they’re great. (Well. Ish. Human Nature is the by-now traditional fifteen minutes too long.)
Then I watched all the other episodes of season three that I hadn’t caught the first time round. Honestly? Words fail me, although unfortunately for you not nearly as much as they could.
The second to last one I watched was Last of the Time Lords. This is certainly the worst writing Russell T Davies has ever done; I would have labelled it the worst writing on Doctor Who ever, including The Invisible Enemy and that strange two-parter that Pip and Jane Baker bolted onto the end of Trial of a Timelord.
But then I watched 42. Oh, my. The list of bad things about this is probably longer than the script itself. Where the season three closer was merely Sci-Fantasy done averagely, this was Sci-Fi written so ineptly I don’t know where to start. The obviously unscientific setup, midsection and resolution? The fact that it appeared to be a reject plotline from a previous Doctor Who set on board a space ship? Freema Agyeman’s breathless decision not to act for a whole episode? I’ve lamented Chris Chibnall’s complete disconnect from science before, but it comes across so strongly in this episode that it really needs mentioning again. And there’s more. So, so much more.
Fortunately Peter Fincham has already been forced to resign, although for less important reasons, so his head isn’t available for this televisual travesty. And I’m quite sure that Jay Hunt will have found plenty to resign over in season four, which I grudgingly will watch over the next few weeks.
I went to one of Henry Wood’s famous Promenade concerts on Tuesday, for the first time in three years. That sounds a little disgraceful for someone who is not only a music-lover but also a professional composer, but what with doing musicals and one-man shows and occasional choir tours this seems to be genuinely the first summer in three years that I’m actually able to make it to the Albert Hall for what is, after all, a mere two months of concerts. Also I had a bad experience with a Shostakovich symphony the last time I went, which left quite deep scars.
Anyway – so delightful was the experience on Tuesday that I even went round and queued again for a second ride, which turned out to be even better than the first (the Tallis scholars on blistering form).
What struck me, not for the first time, is how the Proms manage such an odd combination of high culture and unashamedly tacky. Obviously the high culture comes in the form of world-class musicians singing in a nice (if acoustically-challenged) London concert venue, and it’s marvellous that impoverished freelancers such as myself can, thanks to Sir Henry, get to experience them for a fiver. Obviously at such prices it’s no wonder that some of the people who manage to sneak in bring with them a level of tackiness, but almost as if they feel the need to pander to such people the organisers of the Proms have obviously thought, “hang on, we should probably stretch some blue LED rope lights along the back of the stage in case these common people feel out of their depth in a genuine concert hall”. So suddenly the Albert Hall looks like it’s trying to simultaneously pull off culture and gay bar chique.
It’s also worth mentioning that the conductor’s stand is shaped like a coffin. I suspect that Henry Wood himself is inside.
Still – it’s a shame that they’ve got rid of the water feature. Obviously I don’t know at what stage in the last three years that disappeared, but when I last visited the Proms, a trickling fountain sat in the middle of the auditorium. (They turned it off during the music, but if you got to the front of their queue you could often bag a place to sit on the edge if you didn’t feel inclined to stand through The Dream of Gerontius.) And in case that started to look almost tasteful, the organisers would always ensure that there was a fine collection of inflatable sea life on display as well. Plus, as I remember, a snake coiling round the fountain itself.
I can’t help feeling that the Tallis scholars would have been even more magical with it still there.
So, all acts are now out (or in, depending on which way you look at it). And it’s obvious that Dr Horrible is an anti anti-hero story. Or possibly an anti-anti anti-hero story. Or something.
And, like all good movies, you should watch the credits – not, this time, because there’s an extra scene in there, but because you get to find out the names of the Evil League of Evil (my favourite: Fury Leika). Also, there’s a credit for “BestBot Grip”, which I can’t decide is because Joss Whedon’s started employing Aibos, or is actually a typo for “Best Boy Grip”.
(If I appeared grumpy before, perhaps it’s because I’ve been reading too much uninformed commentary on this. Like the NPR piece that quoted some inept idiot being surprised that Neil Patrick Harris can sing. That’s right, it’s a shock that the guy who’s played the Emcee in Cabaret on Broadway can sing.)
Well, isn’t that typical – Joss Whedon puts a musical online for FREE out of the goodness of his own heart and Aylett gets all critical.
But since we’re in the mood I’ll add the observation that, actually, the songs are not all that great. Oh, I’ve heard much less inspired songs in “real” musicals, but Dr Horrible doesn’t display the versatility and sheer brilliance of the music in Once More With Feeling, and that’s mildly disappointing.
Never mind. I loved it from start to finish and only wish that there was going to be another act every two days for the rest of my life.
Well, I was originally going to wait until all three episodes came out of Dr Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog before commenting, but thanks to James you’ll get my inexpert opinion early. Right now, in fact.
First, as James points out, it’s not the best thing Joss Whedon has done. It’s not Hush, it’s not Objects In Space, it’s not Once More With Feeling. But we have all of them already, so frankly who cares? Dr Horrible is still a joyous little slice of Internetdom, and if you haven’t gone to see it yet, or if you have but failed because of their server issues, then go there now. And if they have server issues again, keep on going until you see it.
Now for the bad things.
But these are gripes, they aren’t complaints. I watched it twice, and I was smiling inside. And outside. And in Sainsbury’s, when I went shopping. Watch it. Then watch it again. Then go to bed, have a dull day at work, go to bed (again), and wake up to Act II. Watch that a lot, watch the first one again a few times, sleep a bit, and it’ll be time for Act III. Seriously, what else do you have to do with your time?
Talk To Rex 