Today I had the pleasure of being escorted to the pictures, courtesy of the lovely Mr Archer. Before, we had watched Anchorman, first half of. Not being a huge fan of Will Ferrell, I wasn’t expecting much, but it surprised me with some off-the-wall humour. Also the appearance of Jack Black was a pleasant, if mildly traumatic event. Angry biker! Grr!
… Quit glaring at me, Kyle.
And then we went to the cinema and watched the feature presentation - Casino Royale.
Good god, I love Bond films.
Daniel Craig was utterly superb. He portrayed a darker Bond, as has been said in so many reviews, but that inate arrogance was still there - the slight swagger, the bleak humour mixed with self confidence that borders on cockiness, but is in fact well placed confidence. Bond doesn’t reckon he’s the best - he knows it. Yet here, in his first task as a 00 agent, he has to prove it to himself, and he still knows it! Brilliant! Our introduction to him was fantastic.
It doesn’t seem strange to us, now we’re so accustomed to it, that over the years, in over 20 films that span similar plotlines, we’ve had different actors playing the same part so differently. But imagine the controversy if, say, Johnny Depp suddenly quit Pirates of the Carribean and we had George Clooney playing a slick, sharp talking Jack Sparrow. No! It isn’t plausible or possible! Yet this excitement is what draws us to the Bond films, and they certainly wouldn’t be such a great part of us now if not for the different styles of every film.
Oh, but it was splendid. There was torture, there was gambling, there was sex. Whoopee! And, god, the SONG. I am listening to it as we speak and it’s most excellent. “Arm yourself because no-one else here will save you… the odds will betray you.. and I will replace you… … YOU KNOW MY NAME.” And damnit, yes we do!
The one thing that I don’t like about Bond films usually is that Bond doesn’t seem to even notice when he kills someone. Bang bang, henchman dead, we move swiftly one. Well, they’re dispensible, right? Yet doesn’t that make Bond a bit of an antihero? Normally we place such emphasis on love and compassion. Looking at the bigger picture, each of those henchman had family and friends, a life of their own, perhaps pets and hobbies. Yet BANG and down they go. This time we saw that yes, he’s reckless and ruthless… but perhaps not heartless. Daniel Craig had the slightest quirk of the lip, matched with a steely gaze, that speaks words. He’s a superb actor.
The Bond women? Splendid as usual, they fulfilled their functions… the woman who played Vesper Lynd particularly commendable. Also, I must find out who played Le Chiffre. A stunning portrayal of a desperate and cruel man, but one who really seems more cowardly than evil… just wanting to cover his own arse… perhaps the greatest evil of all? The torture scene sent shivers down my spine. It says something when someone being hit in the balls with a large heavy whip can get the largest laugh of the film with the line “Now everyone will know that you died… scratching my balls…”
Brilliant.
And Judi Dench. Well. She was out of this world.
“Christ, I miss the Cold War.”
There was, really, one bad thing about this. Q. Where, oh where oh where was Q? Well, dead, obviously, but oh! When the car crashed, I leaned over and whispered “And Q rolls in his grave. Again.” Aside from that, a brilliant film.
9/10. Possibly, in fact, 10/10. And that’s pretty damn hard to get from me, despite how easily amused I am.
She sprang to her emu, and away she flew,
(It’s the end of the poem - no more rhyming, yipoo!)
But they heard her exclaim, as she drove out of sight,
Geez, that took forever. Probably won’t talk tomorrow, as it’s finally Christmas - but thanks to those who sent presents and cards and what not. Also thanks to Loup, Eiphel and Jim for their help yesterday - they know why.
MERRY CHRISTMAS, MERRY HANNUKAH, MERRY YULE, MERRY WHATEVER YOU CELEBRATE TO ALL OF YOU.
Joyful, blissful thing - came top in my BCS class with an A*! 83%. How on earth?
Aside from that, oh, Goldberg, how I love thee with a passion. You’re so evil and fun to play! Today I have actually found myself becoming Goldberg for the first time - forgetting where I was and who I was, and just utterly immersing myself in the character. Not for too long, of course, which is a good thing, as it can be quite mentally destructive, but wow.
Shiny shoes. I must get some very shiny shoes for him.
Had great fun strangling McCann, and gently threatening Petey - felt like a complete bastard, really cruel and twisted, but in the same way a bloody dangerous and deceptive man. Can’t wait for tomorrow, when I do Goldberg’s breakdown. Seriously, Simey, *ducks* I know you’re a weird bloke, but since when have you had THREE NAMES, and who the HELL is Benny?
For those of you who don’t know (and where have you been?) I am of course talking about the Birthday Party, to be performed on the 15th and 16th of February. I love my character - glad, at last, because I do a better Goldberg than a McCann, and it seems like he was written for me. Didn’t like him so much at first, but it turns out Dom does know what he’s doing after all! (Who’d've thunk it?)
Oh, gosh, the excitement of the bit where I destroy Stanley’s brain, where I feel Lulu up outrageously, where I shout at Meg and terrify McCann. And where, as we discovered to our collective surprise, it is revealed that perhaps there is something between Petey and Goldberg that none of us dreamt existed…
For that’s the thing with Pinter, you see. The lines are garbled nonsense. Our interpretation is a completely different play to any that has ever been done - it is how we choose to portray the lines, with our insular acting, not acting off each other but playing to ourselves that create the piece. And what difficult fun it is.
Oh, before I forget, congrats to Messers Jim and Sophie, who got A’s on their BCS also.
Well, nine days to go, and it’s getting to the point where Christmas can no longer be ignored. The time of year when you just have to give in, sing carols, rope a couple of big strong men in to do the lights for you (I had to make do with Jim and Ben instead… ) write cards, and take part in that most exciting ceremony, The Putting Up Of The Decorations and the Dressing Of The Tree.
That happened today, and was great fun. Highlights included me FINALLY getting hold of Doctor Who Magazine, us mistaking Jimmy for a tree and decorating him, dancing round my bedroom to the Chillis, and… yeah, just generally a very fun day. EXCEPT FOR THE TICKLING, WHICH WAS NOT ON. Oh, and also, I am apparently not so heavy Jimmy cannot carry me a short distance, which is impressive.
And there’s nothing to blog about, except this floaty sort of emptiness inside me - like an apathetic depression, but not in an overly bad way, and it’s only happened int he last few minutes, and it’s making me feel quite hollow, and I don’t like it. Whee. Help.
WARNING: This rant is not for the squeamish, or the males, or the squeamish males. It is all about periods and menstruation, written by a period-suffering female. It may also contain sexist or feminist comments that the author would not normally make. The author accepts absoultely no complaints, negative feedback or trauma that comes from this rant, especially if it comes from a fucking bloke, because now is not the fucking time, alright?
CUT, to spare your innocent eyes.
For one moment, let’s pretend there’s a god, because frankly, we need a scapegoat.
God: Hallo, I’m God.
Women of the World: Wow, you’ve really bollocksed us up, haven’t you?
God: I’m so-
Women of the World:*PUNCH GOD IN THE FACE*
Women are the ones who have to get pregnant and give birth. Women have to grow breasts. Women have to wear bras. During puberty, women have to endure all sorts of snide comments in PE. Women have to be viewed as sex objects or freaks of nature. Women may be more intelligent or even stronger - they may also not - but they are still incapable of a) dealing with spiders, b) changing a lightbulb or c) having a bath for 3 days a month.
Know why?
The Crimson Tide. Sounds like a Steven King or Jeffrey Deaver novel, doesn’t it? Well, if it did, the blurb might go something along the lines of
“Fiesti Herowyn has it all - the perfect hardhitting crimefighting job, the perfect sharptalking boyfriend, the perfect life. But something is stirring in the shadows of Fiesti’s womb. And once the Crimson Tide strikes - she can forget wearing those nice white knickers.”
Periods. They hurt like fuck, over 70% of women who get them don’t want children at that time, so why do we need them? So that the men can have something else to feel superior about? No, I’ll tell you why we have them. Because women need to bitch.
It’s an established fact. Leave two women alone for long enough and eventually one of them will start to bitch or whine. It’s centuries of oppression inbuilt, combined with the everyday toils of human life, that gives us this need to complain. But whenever a man tries to join in, we don’t necessarily want to talk about it. Again, the mistrust of centuries. So what do we do? We pick a subject they can’t relate to - possibly even feel slightly guilty for being unable to relate to - and don’t want to.
But hell, how they hurt. And the worst thing is that it never stops. There’s PRE menstrual tension, POST menstrual tension, and just plain old DURING menstrual tension. And you can’t postpone it and say ‘Oh, I’m in a play this week, can I have it on Saturday?’ Nope, sorry Madam, your white costume will have to go slightly red at the back. (This happened to me once. It also happened with a pair of jeans. In public.) If your lunar cycle is uneven, you can never tell when it’s going to start, and therefore are often walking around with sticky red knickers that will need a thorough wash and disinfectant by HAND, and, worse, sticky red thighs. In PE. Not nice.
And then there’s the choice of things to do about it. Pads or tampons? Oh, so difficult to choose… shall I go for the large obstructive one that rubs against my genitals, causing a constant sense of irritation, itching, and pain, whilst being obvious through the trousers, or the little stick of cotton wool to shove up my fanny?
I hate that word, fanny. I much prefer cunt, but everyone else hates it. What is the proper thing to use these days? Vagina sounds so bloody clinical, and pussy’s just disgusting. Why am I even discussing this?
And the smell! Don’t even get me started on the smell! Just suffice to say I’m not meant to have a sense of smell and just ICK ICK UGH.
And the MEN DON’T HAVE TO HAVE IT. This is the worst thing about it. Men cannot even begin to think about - to concieve how bad this is. I once discussed it with someone who said “Ah, but men get inappropriate erections, and at least girls can hide periods.” Believe me, other girls do notice you’re on, so we get the flack from our own gender, and no girl’s going to be looking at your crotch anyway. If they did, they wouldn’t notice. Honest.
And they heighten your emotions, leaving you even more frustrated and angry and emotional than normal. When you’re a hormonal teenager, that’s a very bad thing. And you can’t go around saying “I’m sorry for screaming, I’m on my period.”
And these bloody ridiculous patronising sanitary towel packets. ‘Always’ not only have interesting and FUN FACTS for you to read whilst you’re sellotaping more bits of tissue to your knickers, such as “During your period, you are more beautiful!” and “Chocolate is good whilst you’re on your period because it releases endorphins!”, but now they have hit rock bottom.
My pads now say “Have a happy period!” They even provide a French translation. “Bonne et hereuse semaine!”
What the shit. I bet their advertising person is a man.
Their WEBSITE, however,is even better. This allows me, should I so wish, to send an e-card to my friends wishing them a happy period too! But this… this really just takes the biscuit. Empowering, they call it.
You see what I mean when I say that it is not easy being a woman. As I speak, more bloody eggs that I don’t intend to use are preparing to shed more blood. That’s the grossest thing.
“Why are you so crabby today?” Er, hello, my vagina is fucking bleeding? If a bloke’s penis started bleeding, he’d be down the hospital like a shot, whinging and crying in a manly fashion. Women? Oh, yes, let their groins drip blood everywhere, as long as they’re quiet about it.
“I don’t trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn’t die.” - Mr Garrison, South Park.
I can totally see where he’s coming from. No other animals do it, you know, they just menstruate without the periods. Brilliant idea.
I’m going to be killed due to Not Having Done Physics tomorrow! Hoorah! But, to be honest, I don’t actually care.
Also, tomorrow we have PE. I hate PE. I think tomorrow I’ll write a really long rant on menstruation.
There is remarkably little to blog about, except for the fact that I have been ill all week and my chest feels like it’s imploding. This is a considerable improvement on yesterday, which was spent throwing up or coughing feverishly.
Ooh! Remembered! Something utterly weird and hiLARIOUS here. Seriously, how weird is that? I didn’t even know they could bend that far!
) write cards, and take part in that most exciting ceremony, The Putting Up Of The Decorations and the Dressing Of The Tree.