So that was 2011, was it?
Well, good riddance to the smegger. I'm putting it up on eBay but if nobody wants it by tonight it's going right in the trash where it belongs. If 2012 is no better I'm cancelling my subscription.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Dickens Sickens
What the FUCK is going on at the BBC?
This is the 200th birthday of England's greatest storyteller, so how does the state broadcasting corporation celebrate this anniversary? With a desecration of Great Expectations so unholy that South Park's own version was more faithful to the spirit of the original.
I suppose I should have been warned when they changed the ending of Bleak House to make it less creepy for people with no brains, but I had really been looking forward to seeing Gillian Anderson as Miss Havisham after her magnificent Lady Dedlock in the last adaptation.
Things started promisingly enough. Ray Winstone looks the part as Magwitch, but of course he can only play Ray Winstone so things started to go downhill as soon as he opened his mouth (sorry … "marf").
Mercifully, the art director made a good job of the bleak marshes but he may just as well have set the whole thing in a circus for all the good it did.
Okay, so cutting the book down to three hours is difficult and you're going to have to miss out on a lot of atmosphere and character development and even some minor characters. David Lean managed the task amazingly well.
But to entirely gut the book and replace the story with a completely different plot with vapid soap dialogue and a tragically unsympathetic leading man (apparently he models for Burberry and that's precisely how he acts) is a recipe for disaster.
And disaster is what we've got.
Who is credited as the writer?
Surely Charles Dickens?
No …
A TV soap writer who 'did' Holby City and East Enders.
For fuck's sake.
It shows. It REALLY fucking shows.
Picture the scriptwriting sessions:
"The art director has come up with a really pretty butterfly theme for the credits, so let's introduce a completely new character who collects butterflies, sticks them with needles and then dies."
"Yah! It'll be like … er … some kind of metaphor or something."
"And we'll get rid of most of Dickens' boring old characters and write something that'll appeal to twelve year old teen vampire fans. I mean who needs The Aged, or Biddy? Who needs the Pockets or Trabb's boy or Clara's father? They might have been tremendously important to the story but come on, guys, we're writing a soap here!"
"And don't forget to get Pip and Estella to strip off and stand in a pond and do lots of panting and stuff."
"Yah. Sex it up."
"And Joe's way too simple and dull; let's make him into a boorish thug."
"We want more totty so we'll introduce Clara early and have her swan around and say stupid things like "I knew it was you, Pip. You're such a good friend." like she's on Twitter or something."
"And we want a baddie, so we'll turn Drummle into a scenery chewing stock soap nasty like Phil Mitchell in East Enders."
"And don't forget to get Pip and Estella to strip off and stand in a pond and do lots of panting and stuff."
"I think we did that already."
And so it must have gone on …
I managed to watch the first episode without smashing my telly, but last night's abortion had me gaping in stunned disbelief at the sheer jaw-dropping audacity of the trash writing on display. Dickens must be spinning furiously in his grave. People who've not read his books will think HE wrote this drivel. This utter crap. This cheap, tawdry teen soap.
Gillian Anderson struggles manfully but is hobbled by dialogue so trite it beggars belief and a re-write of Miss Havisham's character that loses any shred of tragedy or pathos.
I couldn't watch.
I had to keep flicking away to a sub-titled Mongolian movie (true … and which was far, far superior).
Some masochistic urge kept me flicking back, however, but the final straw came when Ray Winstone emptied a sack of cash on the floor …
I know you guys are intelligent and you've all read and enjoyed Great Expectations and a lot of Dickens' other books, too. But a lot of people aren't that lucky. Some people might even think that this bilge is what Dickens really wrote.
If you know of anyone like that, please give them a copy of the book. Make them read it and tell them never, EVER to watch a BBC adaptation of any of Dickens' books.
And don't whatever you do, watch this worthless piece of shit yourself. The final episode is on tonight but my TV will be off; I really don't want to see the alien abduction, the scene where the dog rescues Tiny Tim from the well, to have to guess which one's the vampire and which the werewolf, or to watch the execrable East Enders "Nah! Pip! Don't! He's not WURF it!" vomit any longer.
Celebrate Dickens' birthday by re-reading his books. They're wonderful.
The BBC should hang its head in shame.
This is the 200th birthday of England's greatest storyteller, so how does the state broadcasting corporation celebrate this anniversary? With a desecration of Great Expectations so unholy that South Park's own version was more faithful to the spirit of the original.
I suppose I should have been warned when they changed the ending of Bleak House to make it less creepy for people with no brains, but I had really been looking forward to seeing Gillian Anderson as Miss Havisham after her magnificent Lady Dedlock in the last adaptation.
Things started promisingly enough. Ray Winstone looks the part as Magwitch, but of course he can only play Ray Winstone so things started to go downhill as soon as he opened his mouth (sorry … "marf").
Mercifully, the art director made a good job of the bleak marshes but he may just as well have set the whole thing in a circus for all the good it did.
Okay, so cutting the book down to three hours is difficult and you're going to have to miss out on a lot of atmosphere and character development and even some minor characters. David Lean managed the task amazingly well.
But to entirely gut the book and replace the story with a completely different plot with vapid soap dialogue and a tragically unsympathetic leading man (apparently he models for Burberry and that's precisely how he acts) is a recipe for disaster.
And disaster is what we've got.
Who is credited as the writer?
Surely Charles Dickens?
No …
A TV soap writer who 'did' Holby City and East Enders.
For fuck's sake.
It shows. It REALLY fucking shows.
Picture the scriptwriting sessions:
"The art director has come up with a really pretty butterfly theme for the credits, so let's introduce a completely new character who collects butterflies, sticks them with needles and then dies."
"Yah! It'll be like … er … some kind of metaphor or something."
"And we'll get rid of most of Dickens' boring old characters and write something that'll appeal to twelve year old teen vampire fans. I mean who needs The Aged, or Biddy? Who needs the Pockets or Trabb's boy or Clara's father? They might have been tremendously important to the story but come on, guys, we're writing a soap here!"
"And don't forget to get Pip and Estella to strip off and stand in a pond and do lots of panting and stuff."
"Yah. Sex it up."
"And Joe's way too simple and dull; let's make him into a boorish thug."
"We want more totty so we'll introduce Clara early and have her swan around and say stupid things like "I knew it was you, Pip. You're such a good friend." like she's on Twitter or something."
"And we want a baddie, so we'll turn Drummle into a scenery chewing stock soap nasty like Phil Mitchell in East Enders."
"And don't forget to get Pip and Estella to strip off and stand in a pond and do lots of panting and stuff."
"I think we did that already."
And so it must have gone on …
I managed to watch the first episode without smashing my telly, but last night's abortion had me gaping in stunned disbelief at the sheer jaw-dropping audacity of the trash writing on display. Dickens must be spinning furiously in his grave. People who've not read his books will think HE wrote this drivel. This utter crap. This cheap, tawdry teen soap.
Gillian Anderson struggles manfully but is hobbled by dialogue so trite it beggars belief and a re-write of Miss Havisham's character that loses any shred of tragedy or pathos.
I couldn't watch.
I had to keep flicking away to a sub-titled Mongolian movie (true … and which was far, far superior).
Some masochistic urge kept me flicking back, however, but the final straw came when Ray Winstone emptied a sack of cash on the floor …
I know you guys are intelligent and you've all read and enjoyed Great Expectations and a lot of Dickens' other books, too. But a lot of people aren't that lucky. Some people might even think that this bilge is what Dickens really wrote.
If you know of anyone like that, please give them a copy of the book. Make them read it and tell them never, EVER to watch a BBC adaptation of any of Dickens' books.
And don't whatever you do, watch this worthless piece of shit yourself. The final episode is on tonight but my TV will be off; I really don't want to see the alien abduction, the scene where the dog rescues Tiny Tim from the well, to have to guess which one's the vampire and which the werewolf, or to watch the execrable East Enders "Nah! Pip! Don't! He's not WURF it!" vomit any longer.
Celebrate Dickens' birthday by re-reading his books. They're wonderful.
The BBC should hang its head in shame.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
One For Speedway.
Speedway posted a nice video today of Eric Clapton and Wynton Marsalis doing a big band Noo Orleans version of one of my favourite old blues songs.
I know most of you have heard all this crap too many times over the years, but Speedway seems to think you need to be able to read music and have a natural ear to be able to play.
Well musical blindness and deafness never stopped me, so I say pick up a guitar and go for it, girl. It's never too late to start playing the blues (especially in this economic climate).
Here's a completely different version of the song: The Blind Willies (Michael and me) inspired by a Pinetop Perkins '78 record of "44 Blues" just for Speedway.
Sorry about the drop-out in the middle; very old and fragile tape recordings tend to do that.
I know most of you have heard all this crap too many times over the years, but Speedway seems to think you need to be able to read music and have a natural ear to be able to play.
Well musical blindness and deafness never stopped me, so I say pick up a guitar and go for it, girl. It's never too late to start playing the blues (especially in this economic climate).
Here's a completely different version of the song: The Blind Willies (Michael and me) inspired by a Pinetop Perkins '78 record of "44 Blues" just for Speedway.
Sorry about the drop-out in the middle; very old and fragile tape recordings tend to do that.
The Blind Willies
Monday, December 26, 2011
What People Really Wanted This Christmas
While I was over at Mum's yesterday I installed a nerd counter on her blog; the same one that I use. She wants to be able to check and see who's watching, to smile at the little flag over Ohio whenever Robyn pops in and to wonder at the weird places around the world where people have discovered her strange little world of live jazz and cakes.
I hadn't checked my own site stats for months, but when I got home I signed in and was delighted to see my Colonial and European Blogville neighbours' calling cards and even one from Chad. Of course, there were unexplained lurkers in such places as Cambodia, Brazil and - weirdest of all - Canada, and I assume that those are the ones who typed the following phrases into Google to end up on my blog.
If any of my Blogville neighbours want to fess up to using any of these search terms, the time to come clean is now.
This is what people around the world, ON CHRISTMAS DAY - were really looking for …
Oh, and today, so far we've had people looking for "Sheep lungs" and "UFO nipples."
Human beings are really scary.
I hadn't checked my own site stats for months, but when I got home I signed in and was delighted to see my Colonial and European Blogville neighbours' calling cards and even one from Chad. Of course, there were unexplained lurkers in such places as Cambodia, Brazil and - weirdest of all - Canada, and I assume that those are the ones who typed the following phrases into Google to end up on my blog.
If any of my Blogville neighbours want to fess up to using any of these search terms, the time to come clean is now.
Oh, and today, so far we've had people looking for "Sheep lungs" and "UFO nipples."
Human beings are really scary.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Regrets … They've Had A Few
I was amazed yesterday morning to find Kellie still alive. Very pale and exceedingly fragile but alive, albeit moving verrry slowly and occasionally sipping water and groaning softly.
Others trickled in during the morning, the trashed detritus of the office Christmas party. Some didn't make it. Those that did avoided the sunlight and the coffee and indeed any unnecessary movement.
As the morning wore on videos and photos began to circulate (mine were merely innocent fun from before the BIG DRUNK took hold).
I saw horrible dancing. I heard chronic karaoke caterwauling. I saw Dale's trousers split wide open and wished I hadn't. I saw things no sane man should ever be required to look at.
Those survivors who could remember vague snippets of the night before regaled me with tales of sexual deviancy, stinking alcohol vomit and drinking the bar dry so the poor staff had to run out to the pub across the street and buy more.
After that, they hit the night clubs for more drinking and falling over/dancing. At some point in the early hours two of the partners remembered that their wives were due to pick them up at the restaurant at eleven. Those two didn't make it in yesterday.
Rather than face the music they hauled the entire crowd off to a curry house to try to eat the alcohol out of their systems.
No chance. Several tales emerged about the taxi rides home, interrupted by regular stops to redecorate roadside verges and fall over.
At some point in the proceedings Emily's camera went AWOL for a while. It wasn't until late morning when she managed to download its contents onto the server that the penis portraits were discovered.
"My memory card has been violated!" she wailed across the office.
Many were the suspects but none came forward to fess up and Emily wisely declined an identity parade.
You've heard me moan and swear about office Christmas parties for way too many years. Having witnessed another one I shall not be letting up.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
Others trickled in during the morning, the trashed detritus of the office Christmas party. Some didn't make it. Those that did avoided the sunlight and the coffee and indeed any unnecessary movement.
As the morning wore on videos and photos began to circulate (mine were merely innocent fun from before the BIG DRUNK took hold).
I saw horrible dancing. I heard chronic karaoke caterwauling. I saw Dale's trousers split wide open and wished I hadn't. I saw things no sane man should ever be required to look at.
Those survivors who could remember vague snippets of the night before regaled me with tales of sexual deviancy, stinking alcohol vomit and drinking the bar dry so the poor staff had to run out to the pub across the street and buy more.
After that, they hit the night clubs for more drinking and falling over/dancing. At some point in the early hours two of the partners remembered that their wives were due to pick them up at the restaurant at eleven. Those two didn't make it in yesterday.
Rather than face the music they hauled the entire crowd off to a curry house to try to eat the alcohol out of their systems.
No chance. Several tales emerged about the taxi rides home, interrupted by regular stops to redecorate roadside verges and fall over.
At some point in the proceedings Emily's camera went AWOL for a while. It wasn't until late morning when she managed to download its contents onto the server that the penis portraits were discovered.
"My memory card has been violated!" she wailed across the office.
Many were the suspects but none came forward to fess up and Emily wisely declined an identity parade.
You've heard me moan and swear about office Christmas parties for way too many years. Having witnessed another one I shall not be letting up.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)