…I have the rudiments of a Portfolio site.
Very, very much a work-in-progress.
Maybe add another Very there.
So mind where you step, and watch for wet paint – and go here.
July, 2009:
Joss Whedon’s “Dollhouse”: Why Bother?
But you’re wrong.
(Kinda).
The first 5 episodes are a worrying experience. Your expectations are high – because this is Joss Whedon of “Firefly”, which showed that Mr. Whedon could make TV history in just 14 episodes (New Scientist’s “World’s Best Space Scifi Ever”; inspiration for the name of Google’s next-gen application, Wave; and snowballing quietly onwards).
But after 5 episodes, “Dollhouse” is…erm.
It’s interesting, it’s quirky, it’s morally unsettling, the performances are good, but…
Stick with it.
At episode 6, it gels. It comes together with a bone-jarring *click*, throwing your brain across the room, and you start to see what the story is, and as importantly, what it isn’t.
It’s not Quantum Leap. It’s not Sports Illustrated With Guns. It’s a lovely, nasty little fable about what happens when we think we can separate mind and body using technology. It’s bleak, challenging, adult and far more complicated that it initially pretends to be (which is one of its early faults). And it’s anything but formulaic, as the unaired, DVD-only episode “Epitaph One” illustrates – depicting the end of the line, the culmination of the whole arc, a massive flash-forward to a modern world in pieces. This story overwhelmingly has a direction, and it’s not a happy one.
But early on, this show is tatty. It fluffs the all-important First Impressions part of winning itself an audience. I don’t know if this is because of newbie writers on the team, or Fox’s influence (yes, it’s on Fox – an added frission of fear for the fans), or just Mr Whedon struggling to feel the material. But then it starts coming together, and you realise you’re leaning forward in your chair, anticipating watching it again. It becomes something worthy of the great man’s back-catalogue. It becomes unique.
We have at least one more season.
Consider me a fan.
“‘Dollhouse’ DVD released today: Is it worth your time and money?” – Ken Tucker, Entertainment Weekly.
“Dollhouse: sci-fi series finally hits its stride” - Lucy Mangan, The Guardian.
Train Travel In The New World Order
For some time now, I’ve been working diligently behind the scenes to secretly bring about a brave new global order.
(I haven’t talked about it before now for hopefully obvious reasons).
There will be many sweeping changes, and I look forward to discussing them with you – or, to be more specific, telling you about them in advance. For example, a number of noxious substances will be banned and removed from circulation, including polyethylene telephthalate (PET), supermarket carrier bags, Marmite and Paul Burrell. I’ll be throwing vast sums of money into the space programme, expanding the United Nations and making it illegal for Bill O’Reilly to speak – which are three deeply humanitarian measures that I think are key to the future success of our species as a whole. Wind turbines will have pipes on them so they’ll play a fun tune, instead of that dull whup-whup sound. All sorts of vital stuff. You’ll love.
If you live in the UK, or have experienced its delightfully eccentric (ie. depressingly ludicrous) rail system, you’ll be happy to hear that I will be running my broom through that as well.
Henceforth:
1. If you are at one end of a train carriage and you can clearly hear the voice of someone talking at the other end when a train is underway, you are perfectly within your legal rights to push them off the train at the next stop, independent of where they are actually going. This applies to staff and passengers alike.
2. Ticket inspectors will be fitted with low-power sirens that emit a woowooBLARRG-like noise similar to that currently used by British ambulances – or possibly using the brand new American Howler. Either way, it will be impossible for an inspector to creep up on you and yell “TICKET!!” in your ear, sending you into a panic and into the depths of your bag whilst momentarily forgetting your ticket is on the seat next to you. When all your possessions are fanned out in an excitingly organic circular pattern over two radial metres, the inspector “suddenly notices” your ticket and stamps it “TLD” (I’ve discovered that this stands for ‘Total Loss of Dignity’). This practice will end forthwith.
3. Passengers who fail to clear away empty food or drink packaging will be recorded on CCTV and have their council tax doubled for the period of 1 year. If the packaging is beer cans, 3 years.
4. Rail tickets will reflect the price of all the cheapest single journeys on a route added together, and these totals will be listed as a series of immediately obvious pricing options. As opposed to the current system.
5. If you discover that someone is sitting in your reserved seat, once you show the evidence to them and it is clear that they are aware of the situation, they have 60 seconds to vacate that seat. Beyond this 1-minute period, you are allowed to pull the Emergency Stop cord and bring the train to an unscheduled halt. The person will then be led off the train, trussed to a fence or tree, and pelted with rancid fruit by all the passengers (note: an extra carriage will be supplied to all train services, amply stocked with over-ripened fruit and hand-towels).
6. It will be illegal for anyone over 30 years old to wear shorts on a train. This will be enforced.
7. Describing anything British as “quaint” in a loud American drawl carries the death penalty.
8. All the seats within 10 metres of the onboard toilets will be removed, and special sealed plastic doors will be fitted across the gap, similar to those seen in movies about biochemical terrorist attacks. The toilets will also be fitted with a an automatic sliding door that opens to the outside air, and every 20 minutes, they will slide back for 30 seconds, letting sweet, fresh air roar in. (Note: as a passenger it will be important to be deeply aware of the timing of your visit to the restroom, or alternately how strong your grip is).
I should make it up to a nice even 10, but nothing springs to mind right now.
Perhaps you could help?
Image: Steve Webel
Ever Get A Tattoo, Mike?
You know, I think I would get a tattoo one day. (And thank you for asking). It would be a small one, placed somewhere off the beaten track, yet somewhere dignified.
In a thrall of gut-wrenched horror, I added this to the Stumbleupon review page:
Seeing these makes me want to burn down the world and usher in a new age of ignorance and darkness.
Anyone thinking of having a tattoo: if you use a photograph, you turn even the most fluffily angelic loved one into a first draft of Herman Munster. It is impossible to make anyone look good. Use the following mental exercise: put “zombie” in front of their name and then imagine it. For example, if it’s Aunt Agatha you’re indelibly daubing onto your arm, imagine it’s Zombie Aunt Agatha. See? That’s how it works.
If in doubt, use henna first. Aunt Agatha will thank you, and probably keep you in her will.
There’s also the degree to which most tattoos are planned in advance, which is of course ‘not at all’. Just as a British kebab changes from a clastic lump of glistening offal (shaved roadkill, if you like ) into something desirable when you’re fuzzy with beer, appalling tattoo designs are transformed into Yes, That’s Exactly What I Want On My Face / Currently Distended Stomach / Ass.
At least, that’s the explanation I’m happy with. I refuse to acknowledge this level of idiocy manifest in my own species. (At the very least, when asked, I expect them to lie, eg. “oh man, I was so completely wasted, which is why I need the loan to have ‘Darth Maul vs. Thora Hird On Ice’ lasered off my face”, and then live with the shame in private for the good of global sanity).
But I’m still fascinated by tattoos. They can look good. Sometimes, not so much, but here and there I’ve seen subtle, understated ink that makes my toes wiggle. We’re talking very small but very distinguished here, on places that you can keep toned up so it doesn’t get stretched and saggy.
So I’d still get a tatoo.
With a few caveats.
1) 6 month planning in advance.
2) So much coffee in my bloodstream that I’m deeply, ear-buzzingly knurd.
3) A signed testimony from 20 friends that I was in my right mind and that they either agreed with or respected my soundness of judgement.
Am I missing the point?
Image: niemster
Journey Home, Interrupted
Oh boy.
I’m sat in an Internet cafe in Kirkwall. The Orkney bus (connecting me with Inverness and all my trains back home) left an hour ago.
I’m a numpty.
Coming back from Greece in ’07, a delayed train screwed me over and forced me to buy new tickets (which I recouped some of the cost of, because it wasn’t my fault). This time, I’ve managed to write down the wrong departure time of the Orkney bus into my oh-so-organised travel notebook, and somehow failed to spot the error when I’ve checked through my notes – even though the right time is on the Orkney bus ticket. I can see exactly how it’s happened, even though it’s truly, gloriously dim of me. It’s most assuredly my fault this time.
So – a nice illustration of these tips in action.
Single rail fare from Inverness to York for tomorrow – £108.
(I may have panicked when I saw this. I may have spat coffee).
Single tickets from Inverness to Perth, Perth to Edinburgh and Edinburgh to York – £68.
Thank god for the extra money I put aside for emergencies, eh?
Blog, Interrupted
It’ll be quiet in here for a bit.
Departing at 12:50am on Friday morning, the train will carry me north, depositing me ignominiously in Newcastle where I have to hang around for hours before riding in the belly of another iron beastie to Edinburgh, leaping off once more, waiting for a few heartbeats and then flinging myself and all my accoutrements onto another rail-worm that drags me up to Inverness, at which point I cower from the rain for an hour until the Orkney Bus eats me whole and takes me to its lair in Kirkwall.
Then I’m camping for 10 days. You heard me. Camping. In Orkney. In this weather. Yes.
(Well, mostly).
I’ll see you around the 20th. Toodle-pip for now.
Ayuda! – Fiesta at the Trafford Centre (Part 1)
When I’m writing about other countries, I’m deeply aware of my journalistic responsibilities. It’s deeply important to portray other nations and other peoples using nothing but honest reportage and cold hard fact, free of cultural bias, jingoistic xenophobia and other popular British pastimes.
In short: I have to be open-minded. I’ll tell you things as they really are. I won’t embellish or muddy. I won’t reinforce insulting stereotypes except when it’s absolutely necessary (for example, when it’s amusing, or when I’m being paid to do so). I won’t shirk my duty to treat the rest of the world with the respect and dignity it deserves. I’ll tell it straight.
On Sunday evening, I went through to Manchester to meet a Spanish acquaintance for the first time.
We’ll call her Carmen.
But before I tell you what she did to me, let’s enjoy a little context.
