caddyman: (Default)
We piled out of the Athenaeum Club, Furtle and I, before 11.30 this morning, which is almost unheard of. I wanted to buy acrylic paints and watercolour pencils and she was on the hunt for a couple of books. We decided then, that a brief foray into the West End was in order and in getting there around the middle of the day meant that we could wander around and visit the various places we wanted before everywhere filled up with the world and His Wife.

The tube journey in was sedate enough, though a squabbling middle age couple got on the train at West Finchley. Once it became obvious to the lady of the pair that her other half was not having any of the furore and minding his own business, she settled down to stare at Furtle and myself in turn. A person really shouldn't get into a staring contest unless they are willing to see it through. Long practice has allowed me to perfect the art of staring at someone and allowing my eyes to drop slightly out of focus as I do so, so I can generally meet there gaze without too much of that uncomfortable feeling that staring at a complete stranger often generates. Anyway, she broke the staring contest first and that was that. Having demonstrated my dominance in a pointless pissing up the wall contest, I was happy to show haughty distain until they got off the train at Camden Town.

Wandering into Blackwells, we managed to find one of Furtle's books - a history of nineteenth century London. Somehow we also managed to come away with three others, too: a history of Prussia for me, a history of the First World War in Africa for Furtle (which I shall read, too) and a shared thriller with the unimaginative name The Shakespeare Code. We ambled to Foyles to find Lady Sale's Journal of the Afghan War, but even they didn't have a copy, which is the signal to give up and get it from Amazon.

Thence to the London Graphic Centre to acquire a brush and the watercolour pencils (entertaining Furtle by pronouncing the word as "pen-sill," just because I could). Next a diversion to Forbidden Planet, which yield a couple of magazines and a comic. A wander then, around the corner to Modellers' World (quondam Beatties) in High Holborn where, after a certain amount of "umming and ahhing" I picked up paints reasonably close to those I wanted. I had to substitute, see. Airfix, even in their new kits, refer to 'Humbrol Paints' and give catalogue numbers accordingly. Humbrol went bust a while back and no longer make paints, so I had to make my best selection from the Revel equivalents. A small thing, but annoying.

Feeling peckish by this time, we endangered ourselves and a rainforest by scarfing back a McDonald's with relish (both actually and figuratively) before deciding to walk back to the tube.

The walk to the tube could have gone one of two ways - either by retracing our steps into the West End and back to Tottenham Court Road for the Northern Line, or we could head of in the other direction and then cut across past Drury Lane and pick up the tube at Leicester Square.

Clearly my knowledge of central London's layout is not as comprehensive as I had imagined. The West End, from Belgravia and Fitzrovia to Bloomsbury, via Soho and Mayfair to Covent Garden is known to me pretty much like the back of my hand. I can make a fair stab at places further west to Earl's Court, too, but the City is pretty much a closed book to me. Clearly High Holborn does not go quite in the direction I thought it did, for when we crossed the road to cut across to where I imagined Drury Lane would be, we found ourselves on Fleet Street via Chancery Lane.

This was unexpected. As was our appearance at Ludgate Circus. It was only when we exited onto the Victoria Embankment next to Blackfriars Bridge that I realised quite how far east we had wandered. Still, it was sunny, if cold and we were next to the river and heading west again. Oddly, it was comparatively warm by the river and we enjoyed the walk past Temple to Embankment, with the vistas of the City and Westminster across the loop of the Thames. It did mean that it was close on 2.30 by the time we got back on the train, though.

Tonight we watched the second half of Manchester United's demolition of Arsenal in the FA Cup (which accounts for why it is so quiet in the pub across the road tonight: all the noise will be in happy Manchester and a little further east in north London in Tottenham, no doubt) followed by the enjoyably lightweight Primeval (watch, enjoy, discard and forget) and then X-Files and the episode of City of Vice we had missed a couple of weeks back (my DVDs arrived this morning). This was unexpectedly difficult as it transpires that Channel 5 had shown a couple of episodes out of order, so we had not missed the episode we thought we had. Confusing.

That then, was our day.

I have a couple more pictures of Opus' doings across the Pond, which I must upload and then I can tell the entire story of his American holiday. They are sadly rather small pictures, having been taken on a relatively old camera phone, but they serve to show that a plush toy gets better holidays than Furtle and me at this stage of our finances.
caddyman: (Default)
We piled out of the Athenaeum Club, Furtle and I, before 11.30 this morning, which is almost unheard of. I wanted to buy acrylic paints and watercolour pencils and she was on the hunt for a couple of books. We decided then, that a brief foray into the West End was in order and in getting there around the middle of the day meant that we could wander around and visit the various places we wanted before everywhere filled up with the world and His Wife.

The tube journey in was sedate enough, though a squabbling middle age couple got on the train at West Finchley. Once it became obvious to the lady of the pair that her other half was not having any of the furore and minding his own business, she settled down to stare at Furtle and myself in turn. A person really shouldn't get into a staring contest unless they are willing to see it through. Long practice has allowed me to perfect the art of staring at someone and allowing my eyes to drop slightly out of focus as I do so, so I can generally meet there gaze without too much of that uncomfortable feeling that staring at a complete stranger often generates. Anyway, she broke the staring contest first and that was that. Having demonstrated my dominance in a pointless pissing up the wall contest, I was happy to show haughty distain until they got off the train at Camden Town.

Wandering into Blackwells, we managed to find one of Furtle's books - a history of nineteenth century London. Somehow we also managed to come away with three others, too: a history of Prussia for me, a history of the First World War in Africa for Furtle (which I shall read, too) and a shared thriller with the unimaginative name The Shakespeare Code. We ambled to Foyles to find Lady Sale's Journal of the Afghan War, but even they didn't have a copy, which is the signal to give up and get it from Amazon.

Thence to the London Graphic Centre to acquire a brush and the watercolour pencils (entertaining Furtle by pronouncing the word as "pen-sill," just because I could). Next a diversion to Forbidden Planet, which yield a couple of magazines and a comic. A wander then, around the corner to Modellers' World (quondam Beatties) in High Holborn where, after a certain amount of "umming and ahhing" I picked up paints reasonably close to those I wanted. I had to substitute, see. Airfix, even in their new kits, refer to 'Humbrol Paints' and give catalogue numbers accordingly. Humbrol went bust a while back and no longer make paints, so I had to make my best selection from the Revel equivalents. A small thing, but annoying.

Feeling peckish by this time, we endangered ourselves and a rainforest by scarfing back a McDonald's with relish (both actually and figuratively) before deciding to walk back to the tube.

The walk to the tube could have gone one of two ways - either by retracing our steps into the West End and back to Tottenham Court Road for the Northern Line, or we could head of in the other direction and then cut across past Drury Lane and pick up the tube at Leicester Square.

Clearly my knowledge of central London's layout is not as comprehensive as I had imagined. The West End, from Belgravia and Fitzrovia to Bloomsbury, via Soho and Mayfair to Covent Garden is known to me pretty much like the back of my hand. I can make a fair stab at places further west to Earl's Court, too, but the City is pretty much a closed book to me. Clearly High Holborn does not go quite in the direction I thought it did, for when we crossed the road to cut across to where I imagined Drury Lane would be, we found ourselves on Fleet Street via Chancery Lane.

This was unexpected. As was our appearance at Ludgate Circus. It was only when we exited onto the Victoria Embankment next to Blackfriars Bridge that I realised quite how far east we had wandered. Still, it was sunny, if cold and we were next to the river and heading west again. Oddly, it was comparatively warm by the river and we enjoyed the walk past Temple to Embankment, with the vistas of the City and Westminster across the loop of the Thames. It did mean that it was close on 2.30 by the time we got back on the train, though.

Tonight we watched the second half of Manchester United's demolition of Arsenal in the FA Cup (which accounts for why it is so quiet in the pub across the road tonight: all the noise will be in happy Manchester and a little further east in north London in Tottenham, no doubt) followed by the enjoyably lightweight Primeval (watch, enjoy, discard and forget) and then X-Files and the episode of City of Vice we had missed a couple of weeks back (my DVDs arrived this morning). This was unexpectedly difficult as it transpires that Channel 5 had shown a couple of episodes out of order, so we had not missed the episode we thought we had. Confusing.

That then, was our day.

I have a couple more pictures of Opus' doings across the Pond, which I must upload and then I can tell the entire story of his American holiday. They are sadly rather small pictures, having been taken on a relatively old camera phone, but they serve to show that a plush toy gets better holidays than Furtle and me at this stage of our finances.

It's looking up

Monday, March 20th, 2006 02:54 am
caddyman: (Default)
I have just watched episodes 5-6-7 of LOST season 2.

I was only going to watch two episodes, but I had to know what happened after the end of episode 6.

Extremely minor spoiler )

It is now too late to watch episode 8.

B*st*rds!

It's looking up

Monday, March 20th, 2006 02:54 am
caddyman: (Default)
I have just watched episodes 5-6-7 of LOST season 2.

I was only going to watch two episodes, but I had to know what happened after the end of episode 6.

Extremely minor spoiler )

It is now too late to watch episode 8.

B*st*rds!

Déjà Vu

Thursday, January 12th, 2006 12:07 am
caddyman: (Default)
I remember years ago, reading an interview with Patrick McGoohan in which he told the interviewer that he had arranged to be out of the country the day that ITV showed the last episode of The Prisoner.

They didn't have an ending, see? Didn't know how to finish an increasingly surreal story line to everyone's satisfaction.

Apparently the ITV switchboard was jammed that night, people phoning in and demanding to know what was going on, and if they were ever going to get any payoff for watching 18 episodes of a story that just got odder and odder for no apparent reason. That must have been some series of phone calls, because there was no ITV network in those days, just a loose alliance of regional ITV companies, so depending upon where you lived in the country, Fall Out was transmitted on anyone of a number of dates from 1 February to 1 March inclusive. I think most of the country watched it on Sunday 4 February 1968.

That was my ninth birthday.

I remember thinking it was great, but without understanding what had happened; pretty much in the same way that I thought the Batman TV series was great when I was a kid, but didn't pick up on any of the knowing campness that made my parents laugh until I was older (and boy did it irritate me when they laughed!). I can remember Dad muttering about a 'load of rubbish'. I think Mum just got on with her knitting.

Anyway, 38 years later, The Prisoner is regarded as a classic, even if no-one understands the ending.

I'm not sure that LOST will hold up that long.

But at least they're not making us wait a year for the second season.

Déjà Vu

Thursday, January 12th, 2006 12:07 am
caddyman: (Default)
I remember years ago, reading an interview with Patrick McGoohan in which he told the interviewer that he had arranged to be out of the country the day that ITV showed the last episode of The Prisoner.

They didn't have an ending, see? Didn't know how to finish an increasingly surreal story line to everyone's satisfaction.

Apparently the ITV switchboard was jammed that night, people phoning in and demanding to know what was going on, and if they were ever going to get any payoff for watching 18 episodes of a story that just got odder and odder for no apparent reason. That must have been some series of phone calls, because there was no ITV network in those days, just a loose alliance of regional ITV companies, so depending upon where you lived in the country, Fall Out was transmitted on anyone of a number of dates from 1 February to 1 March inclusive. I think most of the country watched it on Sunday 4 February 1968.

That was my ninth birthday.

I remember thinking it was great, but without understanding what had happened; pretty much in the same way that I thought the Batman TV series was great when I was a kid, but didn't pick up on any of the knowing campness that made my parents laugh until I was older (and boy did it irritate me when they laughed!). I can remember Dad muttering about a 'load of rubbish'. I think Mum just got on with her knitting.

Anyway, 38 years later, The Prisoner is regarded as a classic, even if no-one understands the ending.

I'm not sure that LOST will hold up that long.

But at least they're not making us wait a year for the second season.

LOST

Thursday, December 29th, 2005 12:15 am
caddyman: (Default)
Now E4 are being a little naughty. Or more precisely Channel 4, the parent channel are.

I have cheerfully watched every episode of LOST on E4 because they show it one week in advance of Channel 4. I suppose it's meant as an enticement to get people to buy digiboxes as part of Tony Blair's drive to ditch analogue TV, or something.

I now find, having watched the penultimate episode of the season, that E4 are not showing the finale. Instead I have to wait a fortnight, until 11 January, when Channel 4 are showing the final two episodes as a double bill on the same night.

I am officially narked; especially as the story is clearly building up to something in that finale.

Damn them; damn them all.

LOST

Thursday, December 29th, 2005 12:15 am
caddyman: (Default)
Now E4 are being a little naughty. Or more precisely Channel 4, the parent channel are.

I have cheerfully watched every episode of LOST on E4 because they show it one week in advance of Channel 4. I suppose it's meant as an enticement to get people to buy digiboxes as part of Tony Blair's drive to ditch analogue TV, or something.

I now find, having watched the penultimate episode of the season, that E4 are not showing the finale. Instead I have to wait a fortnight, until 11 January, when Channel 4 are showing the final two episodes as a double bill on the same night.

I am officially narked; especially as the story is clearly building up to something in that finale.

Damn them; damn them all.
caddyman: (Default)
Bearing in mind that I'm one week ahead of those of you who watch on C4, and a half season behind those of you who hit the torrents (I've decided not to as I can get it on TV) or live the other side of the Pond, but I am getting completely baffled by LOST. More so than I ever was.

As the back stories unravel, they are rapidly becoming more interesting than life on the island, which wanders aimlessly between the banal and the surreal.

Last week we got Hurley's back story. Poor sod.

This week we got more of Locke's. Poor sod.

I am losing patience with the semi mystical nature of life on the island; the 'clues' and 'leads' keep piling up intriguingly, but do not lead anywhere. I detect the beginnings of mid series staleness, which, considering we are on season 1, is not encouraging. The tantalising almost-revelations about what may or may not be happening on the island are starting to feel like Mulder and Scully's never-ending attempts to break the conspiracy in the X-Files. It started out fun, but just dragged on and on with no sign of a payoff. That's where we seem to be going with LOST. I am willing to stick with it for now, but it's the characters' back stories that are keeping me interested, not the island mumbo jumbo.
caddyman: (Default)
Bearing in mind that I'm one week ahead of those of you who watch on C4, and a half season behind those of you who hit the torrents (I've decided not to as I can get it on TV) or live the other side of the Pond, but I am getting completely baffled by LOST. More so than I ever was.

As the back stories unravel, they are rapidly becoming more interesting than life on the island, which wanders aimlessly between the banal and the surreal.

Last week we got Hurley's back story. Poor sod.

This week we got more of Locke's. Poor sod.

I am losing patience with the semi mystical nature of life on the island; the 'clues' and 'leads' keep piling up intriguingly, but do not lead anywhere. I detect the beginnings of mid series staleness, which, considering we are on season 1, is not encouraging. The tantalising almost-revelations about what may or may not be happening on the island are starting to feel like Mulder and Scully's never-ending attempts to break the conspiracy in the X-Files. It started out fun, but just dragged on and on with no sign of a payoff. That's where we seem to be going with LOST. I am willing to stick with it for now, but it's the characters' back stories that are keeping me interested, not the island mumbo jumbo.
caddyman: (Om)
The Lea mood is much improved; lulled to an impromtu kip, slumped on the bed to the sounds of Lennon on the hi-fi has restored my customary good nature. That and kicking the servants.

I have just watched the latest offering of Lost on E4, which is precisely 1 week ahead of Channel 4, so I shan't say anything specific to ruin it for those of you without digital telly (and anyone on t'other side of The Pond who is interested will have seen it months ago anyway), but it is getting rather odd even by its own standards. Tonight we got Michael and Walt's back story. Passing strange in places, and Walt's comic book seems to have been more important than we previously realised.

On to other matters: I have picked up a copy of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Suzanna Clarke. Wandering around Books Etc this evening before coming back to the Athenaeum Club, I noticed that it has been released in a three-volume edition in a slip case. Very handsome, and priced at £12.99. Even better, however, was the same story in a single volume (a mere 1,006 pages)with a cover price of £7.99. Better still, the latter was being sold at half price. Hmm... £3.98 or £12.99? That took less time to decide than it did to type.

I really don't know that much about the background to the story, other than the adverts that appeared around various Tube stations over the summer, but it is some months - or in fact some years now, since I read a fantasy meisterwerk, so I am looking forward to it. The prose of the first 20 or so pages apes a pleasantly Victorian ornate style, but without the stodgy blandness of so many of the so-called "greats".

I have probably mentioned before that there are very few of the 19th century classics I actually like; they are literature to build an Empire to, which is precisely what happened. No telly, no radio, few organised sports, little entertainment for the common bloke, beyond addling his brains on beer and gin. No wonder we ended up ruling a third of the planet. There was bugger all else to do for entertainment.

And yet it wasn't always that way: read Walter Scott, or even Richardson's Pamela, epics literature from the 18th century and it proves that it wasn't always the way with classic English Literature that it could only be enjoyed by people with broom handles up their arse, and collars starched up to their ears. The 19th century has much to answer for.

Anyway, as I type it is nearly half past the Pumpkin hour, so I shall love you and leave you, one and all. I'm off for a shower and then some proper kip (provided the early evening nap didn't ruin it for me, on which occurrence I shall probably be back here whinging about something inconsequential.

It's a hobby.
caddyman: (Om)
The Lea mood is much improved; lulled to an impromtu kip, slumped on the bed to the sounds of Lennon on the hi-fi has restored my customary good nature. That and kicking the servants.

I have just watched the latest offering of Lost on E4, which is precisely 1 week ahead of Channel 4, so I shan't say anything specific to ruin it for those of you without digital telly (and anyone on t'other side of The Pond who is interested will have seen it months ago anyway), but it is getting rather odd even by its own standards. Tonight we got Michael and Walt's back story. Passing strange in places, and Walt's comic book seems to have been more important than we previously realised.

On to other matters: I have picked up a copy of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Suzanna Clarke. Wandering around Books Etc this evening before coming back to the Athenaeum Club, I noticed that it has been released in a three-volume edition in a slip case. Very handsome, and priced at £12.99. Even better, however, was the same story in a single volume (a mere 1,006 pages)with a cover price of £7.99. Better still, the latter was being sold at half price. Hmm... £3.98 or £12.99? That took less time to decide than it did to type.

I really don't know that much about the background to the story, other than the adverts that appeared around various Tube stations over the summer, but it is some months - or in fact some years now, since I read a fantasy meisterwerk, so I am looking forward to it. The prose of the first 20 or so pages apes a pleasantly Victorian ornate style, but without the stodgy blandness of so many of the so-called "greats".

I have probably mentioned before that there are very few of the 19th century classics I actually like; they are literature to build an Empire to, which is precisely what happened. No telly, no radio, few organised sports, little entertainment for the common bloke, beyond addling his brains on beer and gin. No wonder we ended up ruling a third of the planet. There was bugger all else to do for entertainment.

And yet it wasn't always that way: read Walter Scott, or even Richardson's Pamela, epics literature from the 18th century and it proves that it wasn't always the way with classic English Literature that it could only be enjoyed by people with broom handles up their arse, and collars starched up to their ears. The 19th century has much to answer for.

Anyway, as I type it is nearly half past the Pumpkin hour, so I shall love you and leave you, one and all. I'm off for a shower and then some proper kip (provided the early evening nap didn't ruin it for me, on which occurrence I shall probably be back here whinging about something inconsequential.

It's a hobby.

LOST

Thursday, October 13th, 2005 12:32 am
caddyman: (Default)
And before I forget, pleasant as it is to watch Evangeline Lily swimming around in the skimpiest of thongs, this TV show better start paying back soon with some answers or it will be losing an audience member.

LOST

Thursday, October 13th, 2005 12:32 am
caddyman: (Default)
And before I forget, pleasant as it is to watch Evangeline Lily swimming around in the skimpiest of thongs, this TV show better start paying back soon with some answers or it will be losing an audience member.

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