A Break To Reality

It occurs to me that I haven't posted about real life for some time, and given that nobody/not many people seems to be bothered about the stuff I'm writing, I thought I'd re-enter reality long enough to tell you about my life currently.

So I have a job in London, as you know. It was due to end in December, but they liked me enough to ask me to stay until the end of March. Maybe then they'll ask me to stay even more. While I like it and the people very much, I just wish they'd say "Yeah, just stay." because this whole uncertainty thing is bugging me. Yet I'm sure that most companies do it this way because Fixed Term Contracts seem to me to involve the same constraints for the employee but the employer has to supply fewer of the benefits given to permanent staff. Very cunning, but that's business I guess. And i hate it.

However, on Tuesday 20th December, I shall be performing at a gig for said company, at a real club in London, barely two minutes' walk from the site of some of my most favourite childhood memories. I've rehearsed and actually sound pretty fucking good. I think this singing lark might have something for me after all.

Am back in the throes of Jim Morrison love. I added An American Prayer to my iPod the other day and although a lot of it is pretentious twatting about, some of it really is very beautiful. I could live without a lament to anyone's cock, but talking about sexually transmitted disease and then saying "I touched her thigh and Death smiled." seems pretty good to me. God love Jim and so do I, even after all this time. And the more I listen, the more I feel like I know him better. The more I listen, the more I realise I don't know him at all. Contradictory fucker.

I'm also off to Dublin (again) in the first week of January for the Vibe For Philo. This is a concert held every year on January 4th since 1987, the first anniversary of Philip Lynott's death. This year will be the twentieth. Twenty years since my wonderful, terrible Philip died. Can you believe it?

Speaking of, there was a show on the music channel 'The Box' the other day called "Rock Deaths" in which a bunch of vapid talking heads discussed with horrifying and distateful glee the deaths of my beloved heroes and some other people too. They trotted out the old chestnut about Mama Cass dying when she choked on a ham sandwich. Now come on, people! That was a cruel final 'fat girl' joke back in the day. She died of a heart attack because she was doing yo-yo diets and crash diets and nonsense because people were so fucking mean to her about her weight! She had to stand next to Michelle Philips, and she would make Twiggy look podgy! I am so disappointed that it's still being put about that way. In Austin Powers it could at least be passed off as a joke, but people might have believed this fucked-up 'isn't rock death kewliez!' show. Mama Cass died of a heart attack. The autopsy didn't find any food in her throat. Check fucking Snopes if you don't believe me.

I also got to see the Philip Lynott segment, which was exactly as I expected it to be: the same idiots talking about himself like he's just another dead rock star. Which he is not. He never was. I'm also heartily tired of people using the 'oh he was a black illegitimate Irishman, can you blame him for taking drugs?' YES I CAN, ACTUALLY. That boy played on his uniqueness and found little in the way of genuine racism at home in Ireland. He was treated as a curiosity, but not necessarily cruelly. His colour meant a great deal to him, but to suggest that his being black was the reason he took drugs and died is not only ignorant, misinformed and frankly racist, it allows him no freedom of choice. Like it or not (and I hate it), I must accept that my great hero took drugs of his own choice. The reasons behind it are his and his alone, and to suggest it's just his colour and his beginnings gives him no chance or choice at all. Grow the fuck up or get off the fucking telly.

But then there was one guy on there who told a story of meeting your man Philip back in the 70s in Newcastle. This guy was all of thirteen at the time and came upon Philip while he was at dinner somewhere. This kid and his brother went up to Phil and disturbed him, begging for autographs. Did he snub them, have a go or ignore them? Did he bollocks. He stood up, posed for pictures and talked to them for a full fifteen minutes, listening to them "like we were a combination of Mick Jagger and the Dalai Lama". See now, for every story of drugs and despair, there are five like this. He just... stories like that remind me that unlike some of our honoured dead, when we lost Philip, we lost a decent human being as well as a great writer and singer. All the stories of his being bastardly are linked to his drug intake (oftentimes when he'd have to take something to get to sleep then be forced awake)... and I just wish I could've been there to try and help my boy. Just... have you ever heard of anyone in more need of a big sister than Philip and his band?

Wow, this turned into a rock and roll post after all. I might as well add that I've now listened to the new album from The Darkness and I think I'm the last person in Britain to yield, but I think Justin's falsetto is now starting to grate on my nerves. A lot of it sounds a bit too Queen, which would be fine if the band were Queen, but they aren't and Justin is no Freddie. I think The Darkness are a band in search of the joke to their punchline, or in search of their own identity. All in all, it's not as good a follow-up as You Could Have It So Much Better by Franz Ferdinand, which I believe is actually superior to the debut. However, 'One Way Ticket To Hell' is an excellent song, which Middle England shock-merchants and coke-heads will likely take as ringing endorsement and the rest of us will get as a relatively stinging anti-drug song. As if 'Stick it up your fucking nose' isn't clue enough.

And lastly, because it's getting late: I don't care if Ian Fleming did write it this way, I will never, ever guy the idea that James Bond willingly married anyone as he does in On Her Majesty's Secret Service. It's not George Lazenby. It's not Diana Rigg. It's James. I can't believe that he would enter into such an arrangement with anyone. Sure, Tracy is feisty and rich but it's just like fucking Harry/Ginny... I just don't buy it. To get married, James Bond would either have to be drugged or have a personality transplant as part of one of Blofeld's Unnecessarily Convoluted Schemes. But yes, I still feel sad when she gets a bullet courtesy of Kojak at the end.

A Break To Reality

It occurs to me that I haven't posted about real life for some time, and given that nobody/not many people seems to be bothered about the stuff I'm writing, I thought I'd re-enter reality long enough to tell you about my life currently.

So I have a job in London, as you know. It was due to end in December, but they liked me enough to ask me to stay until the end of March. Maybe then they'll ask me to stay even more. While I like it and the people very much, I just wish they'd say "Yeah, just stay." because this whole uncertainty thing is bugging me. Yet I'm sure that most companies do it this way because Fixed Term Contracts seem to me to involve the same constraints for the employee but the employer has to supply fewer of the benefits given to permanent staff. Very cunning, but that's business I guess. And i hate it.

However, on Tuesday 20th December, I shall be performing at a gig for said company, at a real club in London, barely two minutes' walk from the site of some of my most favourite childhood memories. I've rehearsed and actually sound pretty fucking good. I think this singing lark might have something for me after all.

Am back in the throes of Jim Morrison love. I added An American Prayer to my iPod the other day and although a lot of it is pretentious twatting about, some of it really is very beautiful. I could live without a lament to anyone's cock, but talking about sexually transmitted disease and then saying "I touched her thigh and Death smiled." seems pretty good to me. God love Jim and so do I, even after all this time. And the more I listen, the more I feel like I know him better. The more I listen, the more I realise I don't know him at all. Contradictory fucker.

I'm also off to Dublin (again) in the first week of January for the Vibe For Philo. This is a concert held every year on January 4th since 1987, the first anniversary of Philip Lynott's death. This year will be the twentieth. Twenty years since my wonderful, terrible Philip died. Can you believe it?

Speaking of, there was a show on the music channel 'The Box' the other day called "Rock Deaths" in which a bunch of vapid talking heads discussed with horrifying and distateful glee the deaths of my beloved heroes and some other people too. They trotted out the old chestnut about Mama Cass dying when she choked on a ham sandwich. Now come on, people! That was a cruel final 'fat girl' joke back in the day. She died of a heart attack because she was doing yo-yo diets and crash diets and nonsense because people were so fucking mean to her about her weight! She had to stand next to Michelle Philips, and she would make Twiggy look podgy! I am so disappointed that it's still being put about that way. In Austin Powers it could at least be passed off as a joke, but people might have believed this fucked-up 'isn't rock death kewliez!' show. Mama Cass died of a heart attack. The autopsy didn't find any food in her throat. Check fucking Snopes if you don't believe me.

I also got to see the Philip Lynott segment, which was exactly as I expected it to be: the same idiots talking about himself like he's just another dead rock star. Which he is not. He never was. I'm also heartily tired of people using the 'oh he was a black illegitimate Irishman, can you blame him for taking drugs?' YES I CAN, ACTUALLY. That boy played on his uniqueness and found little in the way of genuine racism at home in Ireland. He was treated as a curiosity, but not necessarily cruelly. His colour meant a great deal to him, but to suggest that his being black was the reason he took drugs and died is not only ignorant, misinformed and frankly racist, it allows him no freedom of choice. Like it or not (and I hate it), I must accept that my great hero took drugs of his own choice. The reasons behind it are his and his alone, and to suggest it's just his colour and his beginnings gives him no chance or choice at all. Grow the fuck up or get off the fucking telly.

But then there was one guy on there who told a story of meeting your man Philip back in the 70s in Newcastle. This guy was all of thirteen at the time and came upon Philip while he was at dinner somewhere. This kid and his brother went up to Phil and disturbed him, begging for autographs. Did he snub them, have a go or ignore them? Did he bollocks. He stood up, posed for pictures and talked to them for a full fifteen minutes, listening to them "like we were a combination of Mick Jagger and the Dalai Lama". See now, for every story of drugs and despair, there are five like this. He just... stories like that remind me that unlike some of our honoured dead, when we lost Philip, we lost a decent human being as well as a great writer and singer. All the stories of his being bastardly are linked to his drug intake (oftentimes when he'd have to take something to get to sleep then be forced awake)... and I just wish I could've been there to try and help my boy. Just... have you ever heard of anyone in more need of a big sister than Philip and his band?

Wow, this turned into a rock and roll post after all. I might as well add that I've now listened to the new album from The Darkness and I think I'm the last person in Britain to yield, but I think Justin's falsetto is now starting to grate on my nerves. A lot of it sounds a bit too Queen, which would be fine if the band were Queen, but they aren't and Justin is no Freddie. I think The Darkness are a band in search of the joke to their punchline, or in search of their own identity. All in all, it's not as good a follow-up as You Could Have It So Much Better by Franz Ferdinand, which I believe is actually superior to the debut. However, 'One Way Ticket To Hell' is an excellent song, which Middle England shock-merchants and coke-heads will likely take as ringing endorsement and the rest of us will get as a relatively stinging anti-drug song. As if 'Stick it up your fucking nose' isn't clue enough.

And lastly, because it's getting late: I don't care if Ian Fleming did write it this way, I will never, ever guy the idea that James Bond willingly married anyone as he does in On Her Majesty's Secret Service. It's not George Lazenby. It's not Diana Rigg. It's James. I can't believe that he would enter into such an arrangement with anyone. Sure, Tracy is feisty and rich but it's just like fucking Harry/Ginny... I just don't buy it. To get married, James Bond would either have to be drugged or have a personality transplant as part of one of Blofeld's Unnecessarily Convoluted Schemes. But yes, I still feel sad when she gets a bullet courtesy of Kojak at the end.

The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex and Cleobloodypatra

So, Rome courtesy of the BBC and HBO has arrived at the Cleopatra chapter. Glad to see they're not painting her as a sex-crazed vapid bint or anything... snerk. One finds it disheartening that 2000-year-old Augustan propaganda is still rife. Your girl Cleopatra was an intelligent and cunning woman.

Anyway, more important things: I finally saw the entirety of The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex. Those of you who know me may be surprised that I haven't seen it through before, not least because I've had the Errol Flynn Signature Collection in my possession since it came out the same day as Episode III. Anyway, I've always wanted to devote my time and attention to it as it so richly deserves. That and I have a great and hearty dislike of Her Majesty Bette Davis. I've a few ideas why, not least that one must be either a Bette or a Joan person, and I am in the latter's camp. The stories my Flynn told of the filming of this particular picture hardly lends itself to a sympathetic rendering of her character.

So, it's not a bad film. Lushly filmed, beautiful music. Even acted pretty well. Adored Alan Hale as the Great and Legendary Hugh O'Neill, cos he always steals whatever scene he's in. Olivia de Havilland beautiful as ever, possibly even more. Errol both beautiful and devilishly charming.

Bette Fucking Davis. I know there are those of you (hey Elise!) who adore The Bette, but I swear I started getting motion sickness from watching her fidget, shake and otherwise twat about. She must have had quite the job digesting all the scenery she chewed up. Such were her histrionics that next to her, Errol 'Hardly Brando' Flynn gives a sensitive, understated performance.

More than that, there's fuck all chemistry to go along with it. Compare it to his other turns opposite Miss de Havilland, and you'll see what I mean. Still, he's beautiful and charming and all the things I have loved so much about him over the years. The nonchalant 'all things considered I'd rather be on the Sirocco' attitude most of all. All falls apart in the last scene or two, though. Perhaps it was the first thing filmed or perhaps he'd got sick and tired of Herself whacking him in the face.

But it's still a pretty fine film, and it's all in spite of Bette Davis. Bloody woman. Give me Mildred Pierce any day of the week.

Whatever, I'm off to bed.

The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex and Cleobloodypatra

So, Rome courtesy of the BBC and HBO has arrived at the Cleopatra chapter. Glad to see they're not painting her as a sex-crazed vapid bint or anything... snerk. One finds it disheartening that 2000-year-old Augustan propaganda is still rife. Your girl Cleopatra was an intelligent and cunning woman.

Anyway, more important things: I finally saw the entirety of The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex. Those of you who know me may be surprised that I haven't seen it through before, not least because I've had the Errol Flynn Signature Collection in my possession since it came out the same day as Episode III. Anyway, I've always wanted to devote my time and attention to it as it so richly deserves. That and I have a great and hearty dislike of Her Majesty Bette Davis. I've a few ideas why, not least that one must be either a Bette or a Joan person, and I am in the latter's camp. The stories my Flynn told of the filming of this particular picture hardly lends itself to a sympathetic rendering of her character.

So, it's not a bad film. Lushly filmed, beautiful music. Even acted pretty well. Adored Alan Hale as the Great and Legendary Hugh O'Neill, cos he always steals whatever scene he's in. Olivia de Havilland beautiful as ever, possibly even more. Errol both beautiful and devilishly charming.

Bette Fucking Davis. I know there are those of you (hey Elise!) who adore The Bette, but I swear I started getting motion sickness from watching her fidget, shake and otherwise twat about. She must have had quite the job digesting all the scenery she chewed up. Such were her histrionics that next to her, Errol 'Hardly Brando' Flynn gives a sensitive, understated performance.

More than that, there's fuck all chemistry to go along with it. Compare it to his other turns opposite Miss de Havilland, and you'll see what I mean. Still, he's beautiful and charming and all the things I have loved so much about him over the years. The nonchalant 'all things considered I'd rather be on the Sirocco' attitude most of all. All falls apart in the last scene or two, though. Perhaps it was the first thing filmed or perhaps he'd got sick and tired of Herself whacking him in the face.

But it's still a pretty fine film, and it's all in spite of Bette Davis. Bloody woman. Give me Mildred Pierce any day of the week.

Whatever, I'm off to bed.