The Original One-Eyed Chicklet in the Kingdom of the Blind III

Synopsis

A hungry fox insults a magpie, who cannot reply because its mouth is full of meat. Humming is the only defence, as the cunning fox claims to want to learn the art of song. Eventually, in a rage at the thought of its lyrical role being usurped, the magpie lets the meat drop which is gobbled up by the fox. Meat is the song that the fox really desired. However, the magpie has not lost its musical skills and will still be in possession of its song, even when the fox is hungry for food again that night: "There is meat enough in the world but never enough music."

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In other magpie-related news, I'm getting a lovely big painful tattoo on wednesday. THUSLY:

 

 

Ignore the branch though, the branch is shit.

www.docstoc.com/docs/3236362/Script_Caprica_pt1

Ah, it's like Christmas, if Christmas was actually any good any more.

I'm in the break room at work, Doctors is on on the telly. The incidental music is that version of 'Mad world' by Screamin' Bald Gary Someone from a couple of years back. I guess that means someone just died.


It must be tough to be a doctor.










Also is it just me or would Screamin' Bald Gary Someone be a sort of awesome band name?

Right, well, this is some basic plot for next week's episode of 'Dalek Caan- Phew, What A Loony!':

David Tennant regenerates into Alan Davies.
Meanwhile, on the set of QI, Alan Davies regenrates into Eddie Izzard.
All is well, however, because I have regenerated into David Tennant and will be acting as if nothing's happened for the rest of my/his contract.
Billie Piper will regenerate into Romana, but there's some confusion and a fair few incestuous feelings there and after a while she decides to be John Simm instead.
Donna regenerates into The Catherine Tate Show and I stop liking her quite so much.
Martha just pisses right off.
Ianto admits that he doesn't in fact find Paul O'Grady that funny and stops having to do that horrible fake laugh.
Alan Davies, now Eddie Izzard, bumps into Eddie Izzard in the street and there's a bit of bumbling around; a bit of splashy splashy swimmy swimmy; and then-

TO

BE

CONTINUED




.

Agustera Bar Singer Dust in the wind


*click*

*click*

*click*

Alright. This one goes out to the one-chested man, hope he's listening with both his ears. Hope he knows who he is.

*click*

I'm always so late clambering onto these bandwagon things. I blame my weak ankles. I've never had my ankles tested but I bet they're weak.
Apart from Buffy (a mere season into a seven season run), the Mighty Boosh (which I was quoting before Noel Fielding was actually born, ahemahemahem) and, I dunno, others (Dawson's Creek, maybe. I was 12, I loved Pacey Witter), I never manage to get into a show until it's nearly over. My Twin Peaks awakening happened last year, which turned out to be about a bajillion years after it ended; I gave Roswell a chance when it was on the telly but it was only a couple of months ago that I watched it proper, had a little cry, and decided that I loved it even though it hadn't been acceptable for about a decade; and it took me a good two years after its cancellation to realize that The Office and Martin Freeman may very well be the two primary loves of my life.
Also Firefly. And Doctor Who. Life On Mars. Most films.
I am Harold to a lot of televisual Maudes, if you catch my drift.

Battlestar Galactica is the latest in a long line. I am filled with regret. But it takes finishing uni forevaaaaar and the subsequent discovery of rather a lot of spare time in order to catch up with these things, it would seem.

You can shorten this entry down to 'BSG, though. Phwoar, eh.' if you like.

Also does anyone know where I can get hold of Hyperdrive? I mean for free. Preferrably on a streaming website. I've tried all my usuals but all they have is the first episode, which is the biggest tease since my dad printed off a fake lottery ticket with that weeks winning numbers on it and let me scream and bounce around the living room for a good ten minutes before letting me in on his hilarious charade.



That never happened. Maybe if it had I'd be closer with my family.

Look, I was willing to give it as much a go as the next LOM/A2A fan, but... just...


Not on, America. Not on.

Oh, also. In an hilarious stepping-machine-right-foot-introduction scenario, and with a little help from everyone's favourite invisible bastard gravity, I fractured my big toe. Hello to you, temporary immobility! Do come in.

[Sir Doctor Chicken-Caesar and his faithful companion Donna (whom he affectionately refers to as "Ginger") stumble across a vandalised phone box]

SIR DOCTOR: "Good heavens Ginger!"

DONNA: "What is it Sir?"

SIR DOCTOR: "My nemesis, the Master - he's vandalised the TARDIS! He's removed the dimensional stabiliser so it's no longer bigger on the inside, and he's doused it in some foul-smelling liquid, possibly an alien toxin of some sort.

DONNA: "I see Sir. He appears to have pissed in it as well."

SIR DOCTOR: "The Cad! And what's this? Pictures of scantily-clad ladies with phone numbers? My God Ginger! He's kidnapped all my former companions, forced them to pose in sexy lingerie, and has put their photos here to taunt me! Presumably I ring these numbers to hear his ransom demands, the fiend!

DONNA: "I'm shocked and appalled Sir... were you and 'Dominatrix Debbie' particularly close?"

SIR DOCTOR: "Never mind that now Ginger, I have a cunning plan. We can still access the TARDIS vault, which contains examples of currency from across the Universe." [He proceeds to batter and kick the phone in the hope it will spew forth some loose change] "We can use the money to procure some energy cells which will recharge the TARDIS."

DONNA: "Would these energy cells take the usual form Sir, of a six-pack of Special Brew and a packet of Benson & Hedges?"

SIR DOCTOR: "Remarkably perceptive Ginger! You must have some latent telepathic ability... aha! [the phone finally breaks apart, spilling coins onto the ground. A policeman comes round the corner and sees what they're up to.]

POLICEMAN: "Oi, you two!"

SIR DOCTOR: "Fear not my good Constable, I am Sir Doctor Chicken-Caesar, noted Time Lord and adventurer! You can ring my club and any of my UNIT colleagues will vouch for me."

POLICEMAN: "Right, you're nicked, the pair of you!"

DONNA: "I think he might be one of your nemesis' henchmen Sir."

SIR DOCTOR: "Great Scott! An Auton in disguise! Run for it Ginger!"

[They leg it, as per.]
Dun-delun-delun-delun-delun-DAH-DAH-da-da-da-da-da-dum...

"In a world spinning through space constantly being invaded, where the drunken fat bloke in the park is possibly a Slitheen or something, and the landlord of the pub is definitely an alien scumbag because he's kicked me out on 17 separate occasions, it's the surprising adventures of me! Sir Doctor Chicken-Caesar!"

Dun-da-delun....da-da-da-dum!

-------------------------------------------------

Well I thought it was funny anyway.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one who grew up equating the word 'remix' with shitty unnecessary beatz and whoops and pops all over a song that was only ever quasi-listen-to-able to begin with. This is the constant around which my life revolves. However a few years back I discovered that this is JUST NOT SO some of the time. Revelation, wow!
As a rule I pretty much hate Stars. I don't know why, I saw the video for 'Ageless Beauty' a good while ago on 120 Minutes and since then I've just disliked them with an irrational but fervent intensity and I wish oh I wish Emily Haines hadn't sung for them because their lyrics are shit and her chin is magnificent and frankly she deserves a better promo video than one in which some people lie down on some ice for 5 minutes. Wikipedia tells me that this is, as I suspected, a reference to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. This only adds to my contempt.
However! I do very much enjoy Final Fantasy, always have and always will, and apparently this even covers his remix of 'Your Ex-Lover Is Dead'. Who knew! I didn't.
Just like until a few weeks ago I didn't know that putting a Lush facepack on the soles of your feet and then washing it off and putting a nice clean pair of socks on could make a person feel so good. Really. So good. I reccommend 'Mask of Magnaminty' for this.

Dave Eggers wrote a book once. But that's not the end of the story, because in this book there was this bit that assured me that all of my preconceptions about the proper usage of the word 'ironic' were pitifully misguided, and since then I've been a mess. He's a shit, I don't care if he vaguely resembles Jon Stewart. I resent the shadow of uncertainty he's cast over my vocabulary.
Anyway. Lies about my resenting Dave Eggers aside, I was going to say that it's ironic that looking back on my old journal entries, I see that I have gaily flung enough words into this ol' wishing well we call livejournal to constitute at least 4 end of term creative writing portfolios. Yet when it comes to actually writing said portfolios I take to tidying and exercise and various other forms of sacrifices to the God of Procrastination, anything rather than having a bash at that old stringing words together thing that I used to enjoy so much.
On second thought, I don't think the word I wanted was 'ironic' at all. I think I was looking for 'tossycock'.

In other news, from here in the magical kingdom of Noneventasia, I’ve just a few weeks ago officially re-entered the world of fo’ shiz singledom. You may not have known it, in fact you probably didn’t because I’m awfully subtle, but I had in fact just spent the past two years or so loitering around on the border of the great and verdant meadow of happy couples. It was starting to look quite pleasant over there and I was considering applying for a visa, or at least faking a marriage for one, but you know what it’s like when you hang about a meadow for long enough. Eventually a farmer will come hobbling all up in your direction, waving a sawn-off shotgun and telling you to get off his land. It’s true of all meadows, even meadows that are in fact poorly thought- out metaphors.

I’m also about to finish university, which is excellent because I fucking hate university. I’m quite scared, and I’ll admit freely that I am a bit worried about having to find a job and perhaps never being able to move out of my parents’ house ever again, but right now that fear is hugely outweighed by joy because I’m about to finish university and I fucking hate university.

Anyway, the point is that once I move home and get a job, my plan is basically twofold. Well, it’s pronged. I have two plans that diverge off of one plan. I have a forked plan. It’s like when Pete Tyler died/didn’t die in Doctor Who and those two universes spawned off from that moment, so basically I’m Rose Tyler and one day I will be trapped in one of these two universes or plan eventualities… or in fact if I die, that would create a third plan eventuality, so… but I’ll be trapped, is the point, in a universe. A plan eventuality. A universe made out of plan.
One of which is to get a job in an office/call centre type place and work there for years and years and years and live solely on the hope that some sort of Tim Cantebury/Jim Halpert type is going to come along and cheer me up a bit by falling in love with me and being all-round wonderful. This plan’s major drawback is that until the arrival of Tim/Jim, it will be incredibly depressing. The plus side is that I get to move out of my parents’ house before we all go insane due to the steady wage.
The other plan is to transfer all of my money and overdraft and everything into an offshore bank account, fake my own death to throw student loans off the trail, and run away somewhere. Just drop off the grid. They do it all the time in films. The pro of this plan is that I get to move out of my parents’ house before we all go insane. The con is that I don’t know how to get an offshore bank account and I’m not very good at keeping my own secrets.

To be fair I was always going to go with plan 1 anyway. But it’s nice to dream. Especially when you dream about dropping off the grid, because that’s pretty much the most awesome thing that anyone could ever do.

I did an elective in medieval studies. Don't ask me why. Medieval mystics starving themselves and cutting themselves all up to shreds for Jizzle Chrizzle- it's been an education in dark ages psychosis.

I've come to the conclusion that Nick Cave is the perfect antedote, so here's some, cleverly camouflaged in appropriate lyricery. Just in case some of you don't already know.

( ... )

My name is Peggy Sweeney. I stubbed my toe just before and I woke up in February. Am I mad, in a coma, or back in time?


( Whatever's happened, it's like I've landed on a different planet. Now maybe if I can work out the reason, I can get back home. )

Ahhh, ahhhh, name the film! Name it! NAME IT.

Nah, don't really, I'm not bothered. It's far too cold to be bothered about a friggin' thing, here in Yorkshire. Not even dressing up like one of the kids from the Narnia Chronicles can change that, I'm afraid- I have a faux fur coat (FAUX YOU GUYS. FAUX. DO NOT THROW RED PAINT AT ME) and several wild and varied layers of material covering my delicate frame, and yet. And yet.

University's bloody rubbish, isn't it? God. I have to write a 10,000 word novella- a frigging novella- in 19 weeks. I've decided on writing about some bollocks about satirizificying Deep Impact after spending five minutes staring intently at one of those posters urging me to worry about my carbon footprint and taking entirely the wrong message from it, I'm sure. See, this guy's going to find out that we all have five years to get the frig off of the planet before it electrocutes us or burns us all as witches or whatever, and subsequently goes on the run from the police when they're not actually chasing after him at all. A man who tries and fails to commit suicide will also be in on it all. Global warming will be a massive lie. It's going to be about littering.


... it's really one of those ideas that sounds a lot better at 3am, garbled and confused over MSN. It sounds genius then, I swear. I tried my best to convey the sort of drooped eyelid mess that suits the idea just then, just for you special people, but I think perhaps your keen youthful minds will have seen through that to the real heart of the matter. So I'm not going to pretend that I wouldn't have picked something else to write about if ideas weren't always so scarce to me these days. I'm just not a bloody writer, that's the real issue. I'm a bum, destined to die falling up some stairs at the age of 27. If only society catered for people like me.

Fie to this anyway, I'm moving to Mexico soon enough. All I'll need is a dvd player and series 3 of Teachers, fourteen last packets of Benson and Hedges and Brad's 'The Big Sleep' book mug.

Ahahahaha. Ahahahah. Ahhhhh.
Aheh.

Hmmm.

You know, for all my determined shunning of overt sentimentality, this does move me somewhat. A little. What a difference a year and a half makes, eh.

(Your LiveJournal auto-post: 'LiveJournal Haiku!Your name:tinfoilsallyYour haiku:slept with peoples wives whenthey were playing snooker he wasblonde and wore loafersUsername: Created by Grahame')


...utter, utter, utter fucking RUBBISH. That, that arse hiding in the parentheses right there m'friends, that's why the Terminator trilogy's so misguided and generally off the mark- you can't have a revolution without decent bloody literature and from what I've seen of these auto-post things, robots can't write for shit. The internet really has nothing to offer any more, has it? Ah well, at least you're all still young and vital and sickeningly attractive, eh. Least I can count on that.

Hello again, though. Been meaning to do a cursory little update for a while now, but being the slack-jawed imbecile I am I have instead spent my time taking copious bus rides to the furthermost corners of this fine nation (Leeds) in order to persue what I've heard people call a 'fun summer'. Well. I moved into a new house in Headingley, it has very steep stairs and high ceilings. The stairs aren't steep enough to touch the ceilings, but sometimes if you stay quiet round a corner and watch for ages (or maybe you could set up a surveillance camera and film for hours and watch the results fast-forwarded, that might be a bit easier; but if you move now they'll know, they'll know you were watching and your cover will be blown, and you'll never get this chance again; you're like Bill Oddie; you're like David Attenborough; you're like the last dogger hiding in the bushes at Pex Hill at 5am after the chavs have come and called you all perverts and chased everyone else away; if you move now you'll snap a twig and they'll know you're there; you've got no time to be setting up surveillance equipment, just stay there and watch, you fool; crouch; CROUCH), if you do that you can see them inching closer to each other for a bit of a kiss and a cuddle while they think nobody's watching.
When this happens I tend to stride out from behind my hiding place, laughing and pointing at them, "Look at them," I say, "caught red-handed as they would be if they had any hands." And look at me, look at me swinging my arms and swearing my tits off and shouting that I knew they weren't just friends. How glorious.

That's what I'd write about if I was a robot, anyway.

Mingle² - Online Dating

But that's not important. What is important is this:

'This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

fucking (11x) fuck (6x) piss (3x) death (2x) shithead (1x)'



Well, it made me laugh. I'll be honest, the only reason I'm on here is because I get to put my location as somewhere other than 'Widnes ho de fucking ho' or some pert little song lyric. Ahahaha look at it, look, it's somewhere new.

I'm on holiday. The internet's everywhere these days, appaz.

I like you, Clarence man. Always have, always will.

Maybe 'Pump Up the Jam'?





What about 'Move This'? Do you know that one?