televisiono

'People have a lot of misconceptions about California, but none of them are really true', says a current ad for that place. Oh, none of those misconceptions are really true, are they? Funny that, because one of my 'misconceptions' about Californians is that they don't properly grasp the concept of 'misconceptions'. Only it seems that this was not a misconception after all...

Advertisements can be irritating. If Dave is alone in the lounge and I hear him mutter: 'Fuck off' it's a dead cert that the ad for match.com has come on. You know, the one that goes:

'I like old movies,
Like Godfather 3.
It isn't considered the best one,
But that's just me.'

It's almost as if 'love' is considered to be more important than a basic grounding in film appreciation. And when did Godfather 3 become an 'old movie'? Or is 'that just me'?

Not that the programmes are much better. I saw Julia Bradbury on Countryfile quite overcome by the sight of some starlings flocking. 'It's so kaleidoscope!', she burbled. 'It's like I'm watching it in 3D!' But - you are, aren't you?

Cultural Highlights 2010: Film

1.) Tam Lin at the Roxy Bar and Screen, Borough High Street. This presented problems in that I am quite happy to go to the cinema on my own but not into a bar. Nevertheless, a rare showing of the only film Roddy MacDowall ever directed was enough to conquer my reluctance. In the end I wasn't convinced that pubs and cinemas go together. Other people are an unavoidable drawback of going to the cinema, but let's not encourage them. Let's not try and pretend that it's a social occasion. This is still the only film I've seen where the screening was interrupted because some pisshead tried to charge up their i-pod in the 'projector'.

As for the film, it's quite entrancing. Roddy isn't in it, but everyone in it talks like him. At the end, as I remember, Ian MacShane is pursued by a bear, and then his arm turns into a snake and attacks him. As I remember.

2.) L'Eclisse at the BFI. This had an introduction by some kind of professor, which was dreary in the extreme, and almost had the audience rioting when he sounded like he was about to give the ending away. He didn't, except to reveal that the ending was 'a montage', but that was almost enough to ruin my night, as I was spending too much of the film waiting for this 'montage', and wondering just what it consisted of. It seemed unlikely, given the nature of Antonioni's portrait of aimless characters drifting through a soulless landscape seething with existential angst, that it would be a sports training montage. Then again, how could I be sure?

However, it's a great film, one of my most enjoyable experiences at the cinema this year. In a way, it's a bit like a horror movie, suffused with the menacing feeling that nothing is about to happen. And, believe me, it does.

3.) Dahmer Vs. Gacy at the Prince Charles. Some films you don't need to actually see. Reading the title is enough. I'm saving my money for Dahmer Vs. Gacy 2: In Space.

ambient metal

Walking to work with Ensemble Economique's Psychical on your i-pod is like walking through the credit sequence of an early 80's horror video. Every third passer-by is one of the damned and even Marks and Spencer's gleams with malice. Work cannot live up to it, even if there's a fire drill. Well not a drill - someone was caramelizing sugar in the canteen, apparently. Not that anything featuring caramelized sugar ever appears on their menu. And obviously there is a very good reason for this.

Outside, confusion! The trees were unsigned! We used to meet at Tree D, but Tree D was gone! Well, it was still there, of course, but nameless now - no longer employed by NHS Blood And Transplant, and flourishing nonetheless. Instead, we all gathered at the entrance, so as to be indiscriminately mowed down by the fire engine, should it arrive.

It did, and not before time. It was cold out there - we could have done with a fire.

Back inside, what was this strange noise in the corridor? An almost musical drone, somehow enchanting. Was it a radiator? Some concealed machine? I stared around, eyes wide with wonder, as if, following it to its source, I might cross over into a magical new land. I haven't yet - however, the sound appears to be ongoing.

Resisting its pull, I returned to work. They are reprinting the Iron In Your Diet leaflet, which I prefer to mishear as the Ironing Your Diet leaflet. I like to think that this was something they encouraged housewives to do during the war, to make the rations seem bigger and 'seal the goodness in', as they might have put it.

In this way, time passes.

is it over yet?

I was pleased to learn that they have discovered the cause of male pattern baldness - faulty stem cells, apparently. The same article went on to say that men don't really lose their hair - it is just that their hair is too small to be visible to the naked eye. What a relief. I thought I was going bald, but it turns out I have loads of invisible hair, a whole cloud of the stuff floating on top of my head like candyfloss. It must be pretty long by now, since I only instruct my barber to cut the visible stuff.

A cure for male pattern baldness! Surely this is one of the Signs of the Apocalypse? I notice that flocks of birds have begun their year by falling stone dead out of the sky. This has been blamed variously on 'fireworks', and 'poisoned water sources'. Terry Nutkins appeared on Jeremy Vine to make a case for this last explanation and reassure us that it isn't the end of the world. It's always a bit deflating to hear that. Although if it actually happened the end of the world probably wouldn't be remotely amusing. One would probably even find oneself longing for the golden days of yesteryear when one wasn't being drowned in lava or crushed to death by rocks. But something in me does prepare to heave a huge sigh of relief at the thought of it. I was right not to get a private pension!

Or maybe it's only New Year fatigue - I am ashamed to say that overindulgence in the holiday season has left my guts in quite a state. They have straightened themselves out now - not literally, of course.

oh is it that time again?

We spent New Year in Cambridgeshire, travelling up a potholed track in mist and darkness, so that anything could have been on either side of it. Although in truth, and as daylight subsequently revealed, it was a lot more like nothing. Moist black earth. Misty pylons. An uninspiring shack offering 'Hot Tubs'. Dave's satnav was set to Finnish, adding an extra dimension of bleak alienation. We might have been in Belgium.

Our cottages boasted a hot tub, possibly procured from that very uninspiring shack. Dave and I lifted the lid of it and were instantly gassed. The stench of chlorine lingered in our nostrils as we staggered out into the light, clutching our throats like it was the Great War all over again. People thought we were exaggerating. They learned.

Undaunted, we explored our surroundings further. This 'working farm' was a real playground. Trough full of icy water; rusting hayfork; abandoned septic tank. The kids - if they survived being gassed by the hot tub killing machine - would be in Heaven. Literally.

As for New Year itself, well we are all far too mature now to disgrace ourselves - even Rhys has lost the knack of drinking too much, and Mat had diarrhoea (not a cocktail). We were reduced to watching, with fond nostalgia, fifteen-year old Saskia get drunk for perhaps the first time. Not that we were encouraging her of course - unless you call dancing round her cheering while she downed a yard of Special Brew 'encouragement'.

This didn't really happen, I should point out. Instead we played a game in which you had to place an After Eight on your forehead and work it down to your mouth without using your hands. I wasn't very good at this but that wasn't the point. The point was to take photographs of your facial contortions and put them on the internet to make it look like you are mentally disabled. Happy New Year!

pony moroni

For Christmas I got 'Jack Duckworth's Wind-Up Racing Pigeons'. One lacked a foot, so racing was out of the question. I was inconsolable.

My Mum received the least likely present for a woman in her seventies - a Twilight-themed gift box of shower gels and body lotions. The guy who gave it to her presumably thought Twilight was just another designer brand like Hugo Boss, and mistook the three protagonists pictured on the box for the kind of vacant hollow-eyed models you see in perfume ads. The confusion is understandable - Dave drew my attention to an ad on the TV in which Ralph Lauren was trying to sell something called 'the Big Pony Collection' to men. Is that how men like to see themselves nowadays? As big ponies? Yeah, me and me mates, we're just a bunch of ponies really. Big ponies though. You should see us prancing down the High Street...

Or is it that designers think they can get away with anything as long as it has their name on it? I mean, why not go the whole hog and call it the My Little Pony Collection (including bubble bath)? Are the Care Bears due for a revival?

Heidi got a teddy bear from my Mum which she instantly named 'Teddison'. It was almost as if she was earmarking him for a butler.