Poetic License

Following on from my grand Scottish highlands adventure, I felt compelled to watch Braveheart. It's been a while since I watched Mel Gibson strut around in a skirt doing a grave disservice to historical fact and paraphrasing Shakespeare's St Crispin's Day speech, so it was clearly time to dust it off. Whatever else it may be, it's a well told story that needed more time spent on it before it came out in the cinemas. Some of the time should have been allocated to editing the three hour monster. More of it should have been given over to testing Mel Gibson's accent.

It never ceases to amaze me the way movies gloss over the speech patterns of big name actors. Personally, I think unless the poor accent is for comic effect (witness, Peter Sellers' famous Inspector Clousseau and his discovery of a "berm"), they'd be better off skipping the big name actor for the one who can actually convince me that they're really from that place. And Mel? Well, he might pass in Hollywood, but to anyone who's ever met an actual Scot, his accent is appalling. Not quite as bad as casting Michael Caine to play a German (funniest thing ever to hear a cockney pretending to be German...but not really trying very hard), but really, not too far off from the tragic effect of casting Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman as Irish in Far and Away.

Why do they think that they can get away with not only moving the location of a story from its original landscape (has anyone seen Stirling where the first Braveheart battle takes place? No? How about Bells Beach, where the final scenes of Point Break are supposed to happen, then?), but that they can have unconvincing people cast just for their name? I'm not saying all actors are incapable of accents. Meryl Streep does a great impression of Lindy Chamberlain, to mention one example, but why on earth don't they either screen test them, or at the very least get some proper coaching for them? I'm fine with them using true stories as inspiration - that's hardly a new thing - and distorting the portrayal of certain characters to suit the narrative. That sort of thing has been going on for centuries. But a little consistency elsewhere, please. I'm begging. Because I don't know how many more films I can sit through where the lead is played by someone who seems to have never heard the accent he or she is supposed to be doing.

Perhaps I'd better watch Mel, once more, just to check. Or maybe I'll have to check out Brad Pitt's bad Irish accent in The Devil's Own. It's all research, you understand. I'm willing to put myself through a couple of hours of Brad in the name of research. Now, how to find a copy of that one...

The soup or the burger?

I'm just back from a whirlwind tour of the Scottish Highlands. 5 days, a few castles, hundreds of mountains, waterfalls, wild flowers (that strangely always seem to be purple in the highlands...what's with that?) and one very large reason to...Well, whatever I say there is going to seem harsh to any who weren't on the same bus as me, so perhaps I'd best explain.
See, I was travelling on a tour, organised to the nth degree and generally pretty well run. The group were mostly 20-something, travelling around Europe and making the most of their time, knowing that they were sharing 5 days but, in most cases, would never see each other again once the tour was over. And for most, that was fine; good friends for now, but not forever. Some were thrilled to be tracing their heritage. The descendants of the Campbells and Macdonalds discovered why their clans hated each other. A MacKenzie learned about the downfall of her clan. And somewhere along the way, 23 tourists found a reason for 3 centuries of hatred directed at the Campbells to end; if all the MacDonalds were like our example, it was fair enough that after 2 weeks of sheltering with them during hideous weather you'd want to kill them in their sleep. There's a fairly good chance that sleep would have been the only thing to still their overly loud and energetic tongues.
See, one bad apple can spoil the entire barrel. Or it can unite the rest of the good apples in loathing. If the Campbells had two weeks of hearing the intimate details of the MacDonald's cousin's lives, of being one-upped in every story they told, of having every conversation they had among themselves not only eavesdropped on, but butted into...if they were having a quiet moment to themselves only to have someone stalking their privacy...If the voice that cut through the solitude managed to combine shrill with nasal...Well, I think I can understand why the Campbells banded together to slaughter the MacDonalds at Glencoe.
Certain aspects of what has happened since lends credence to the story. I much the same way that my refusal to loan my hairdryer to the person who burst into my room just as I was re-packing my bag earned me freedom from the promised catch-up back in London (after the tumbleweeds stopped rolling through the gap between the request for a catch up and my answer, that is), I can see why the hatred of several other clans might have seemed worth it to the poor put-upon Campbells. They would never have to deal with another MacDonald. It must have been an attractive dream. It probably all started with sleep talking. The straw that broke the camel's back. Sure the MacDonalds still bitch and moan about it, still ban Campbells from their lands and haunts (signs in bars saying "Dogs welcome, Campbells not", etc) but let's be honest here, if the MacDonalds were all like this descendant of theirs (a person who advocated clubbing seals to death during the Canadian seal hunt, because it is a tradition and has always been done that way), I expect they were fairly happy with the situation. Hell, they probably sell the trees planted in Glencoe that are a symbol of the hatred (the Campbells won't be forgiven for as long as there are trees in Glencoe). If I'd had an axe handy a couple of times, I'm pretty sure I would have used it.
As for the rest of my trip, well, Scotland is a beautiful country, there's no doubt about it. Even the grating annoyance of a fly in the ointment couldn't keep me from enjoying it. But next time, I'm leaving the buzzing creatures to themselves. Either that, or carrying a very large sword in my bedroll. Hey, it worked for the Campbells...

Optimism shmoptimism

It hasn't been the best of weeks, in some ways. Sure, I booked the bargain flight of a lifetime the other day. I finally got back into swing dancing properly. I'm off to Scotland tonight for some relaxation and touring of tourist haunts...but there was more bad stuff than good.

It may not seem like it from what I write here, but I'm generally optimistic. I always, always expect things to fall into place in a way that suits me. They often don't, but at least I will have had the fun of planning for the positive alternative. Even when faced with disaster, I can never quite believe that the perfect solution isn't just coming around the corner. I'd rather be an occasionally disappointed optimist than an always on the money pessimist. But it seems I'm feeling a little negative today, in spite of spending last night cracking up once more about Team America: World Police with C, my newest flatmate ("Har-roh"..."Matt Damon"...too many giggles). So here we go, a catalogue of my woes, if only to make others feel a little bit better about themselves.

As of Wednesday (about 6 hours after booking my return flight home), we're up to round 5 in the redundancy season at work. It's a choice of 2 evils that we face. Either we lose our job and are forced out into perhaps the worst job seeking environment for architects since...well, since before the working life of anyone I know began, or we take yet another pay cut. The bonus this time isn't reducing our hours (although I am hoping that when things turn around, the 4:30 finish on a Friday keeps rolling). It's an extra 5 days of paid leave every 6 months. What if we don't want the leave? Can we take the pay instead? Doubt it's an option, somehow. So now I'm trawling the job ads.There are none for people with my qualifications, apparently, so I'm looking at secretarial work and wondering how people could possibly survive in London on £8 an hour.

Coming as it did just after I'd arrange 2 weeks of unpaid leave, this news was...unwelcome. To say that I was not happy would be to do a grave disservice to miserable people. Same goes with angry. I think it's the fact that everything is so far out of our own control on this one. And if there's one thing I like, it's control. So onto Thursday's disasters.

My plan for the Scotland trip was to fly up to Edinburgh tonight, then spend a leisurely night in a hotel and wander to the start of the tour tomorrow morning. It was a good plan. I booked a flight, a hotel, I was all set. Or so I thought. Now, I'm keeping this one to myself a little...or at least from Flatmate. Because she screwed up booking our return flights from Belfast earlier this year and didn't actually realise until we'd gotten to the airport, already check in online, and trying to get through security to board a flight that wasn't scheduled to leave until the next day. I'm not that bad. I realised what I'd done as I checked in online. I'd booked my flight for 8am instead of 8pm. I don't quite know how I did it. I'm still convinced it was down to an accident somewhere along the way. But whatever it was, I can't get my money back and can't change flights without spending more money than the rest of the trip combined. So now I'm catching a bus overnight in order to join a bus tour for five days. I'm going to be seeing a lot of buses.

But Thursday wasn't done with me yet. Nor were British Airways, apparently. I'm booked to fly to New York over the Christmas/New Year period. Except now I'm not booked to fly back to London, because they cancelled my flight. Nothing major in the scheme of things (in fact, given precarious job situation, may be blessing - there's that silver lining, right there), but annoying, just the same.

I've taken all the skin off a knuckle, and I have no idea how I did it.

I left home on time this morning, but arrived at work 20 minutes late to find the office HR manager standing by reception as I walked/ran/tripped into the building.

It was weigh-in day for my diet and I'm exactly - EXACTLY the same as last week.

I'm in the process of missing a deadline today.

I haven't yet won the lottery. Of course, I haven't yet bought a ticket either, but that's irrelevant if fate decides to take a hand. That waitress who got half first prize when someone tipped her with a share of his ticket never bought one, either.

Last night, I was dancing with someone who announced that they have swine flu, going on to explain that it's no different to any other flu, so it's fine for them to be out and about infecting everyone. No, it's not. I know swine flu is just like any other flu. But I don't want to catch any other kind of flu either. Flu is bad at anytime, but I don't have the time to be sick anyway. I don't care that you think you're not contagious anymore. I don't care that you're not feeling too terrible anymore. I don't care if it's not flu, just a mild headache caused by something contagious. If you're sick, keep your germs to yourself. God knows I get enough of them just from public transport every day.

So with all of that in mind, I'm bracing myself for a catastrophe. Previous efforts have been spectacular, and the worst of them involve physical comedy moments and public transport (how many others have not only done the splits getting off a bus on icy streets, but tripped themselves over and headbutted a train as well? Fallen down stairs in a crowded nightclub while stone-cold sober and been helped out in a wheel chair? Am I alone there?) So, if anyone is nearby when the disaster that is due strikes, I recommend filming it. It's guaranteed to win you money on some home movie competition. And I figure a 50-50 split is about right. Because if these slips get any worse, I'm going to need to cover hospital bills. And without a job, that could be tricky.

Critics and Singalongs

Last night was the first performance of the new show Dreamboats and Petticoats. It was a preview show, so whilst there was a full house, a large portion of the audience seemed to be carrying notebooks and scribbling furiously. Some were media, no doubt, there to review, but others were there because they were producers, directors, choreographers, all closely linked to the production. It was interesting to watch how uncomfortable one of the behind the scenes movers and shakers became when he was not only recognised, but asked to sign a program (I'm still not certain of exactly who he was - there were no head shots of backstage people in the program, I suspect for precisely this reason).

The show itself was jammed with the sort of nostalgia that will reel in the baby-boomers. There seems to have been a glut of these in London recently, with the likes of Jersey Boys, Shout, and Grease opening within the past couple of years. There is clearly a strong market still, in spite of financial woes. Perhaps they're all harking back to a time when, as one of the stars of the show observes, people looked up to bankers. By the beginning of the second act, the enthusiastic performers, who are so young that even their parents would barely remember the 1961 setting of the story, had created something of a stir in the audience. It started as a sigh about halfway through the first act. A hint of humming could be heard. It was like feedback in the early stages of the second act, and by the end, the performers could have played rock stars and held the microphones over the audience for singalong practice, without needing to open their own mouths for the lyrics to be heard clearly. The all-singing-all-dancing finale had everybody, even the most staid and prosaic of reviewers out of their seats.

Along the way, it wasn't just the music that got everything going, though. There were moments of genuine humour. Some of it was, admittedly, the trite sort of thing you'd expect from such shows - with characters named Donna, Sue, Laura and Bobby, there's serious musical fodder, although a teenage boy taunting his sister by singing Bobby's Girl in a high falsetto rang fairly true. But there were other moments which had everyone laughing openly. When a teenage boy, about to be found with a girl in his room, shoves her out the window only to hear her crash to the ground below, it seemed not only appropriate, but hilairious that he would turn to the audience and launch into a song, earning the biggest laugh of the night, other than the banker line.
So, what do I think the verdict of the critics will be, if I am to offer a prediction? I think it will probably be caned, to be honest. Sure, it was fun, it was boppy, it captured a moment in time perfectly, it was entertaining and some of the young actors had superb singing voices. But it also appeals to the lowest common denominator. In short, it's the type of show I love. Something that entertains without making you think. The sort of show that is needed when you're a bit down. But, like romantic comedies and smash-'em-up movies, never the sort of thing that the serious-minded theatre critic would admit to enjoying. But I know better. I saw them dancing in the aisles along with everyone else.

Darcy vs Grant

What is it about Mr Darcy that makes him so...fanciable? I've been doing more chick lit reading than I care to admit over the past year (all in the name of research for thesis, of course) and it seems that the Darcy profile is one that has been copied by authors ever since. But I don't get it, really I don't. Sure it would be nice in theory to have a rich, handsome man telling that in spite of the many negative aspects of a potential union, he can't live without you. In reality, though, he's a smug prejudiced git who can't get over class prejudices until he meets someone who, through force of personality, makes him figure she's just been born in the wrong family. His own family leaves just as much to be desired as the worst elements of the Bennetts. He's opinionated, brooding, and set in his ways. There is no evidence of a sense of humour. About the best that could be said of him, besides the handsome and rich part of course, is that he seems intelligent enough. He domineers and controls his friends and is contemptuous of many. Whilst he may be a good landlord, he wants to keep the feudal status quo.

Personally, I'm not sure I wouldn't take Lizzie's first response and run with it.

And what about Hugh Grant? The sweet but spineless heroes he plays are also fodder for the daydreams of many. How many women have sat glued to the screen watching his wiggling butt in Love Actually as he proves a Prime Minister may be able to mix it with Billy Bob Thornton's smarmy president in defence of all things British (the speech he gives is, in my opinion, one of the better screen political moments that doesn't involve Martin Sheen) but he is still painfully, annoyingly both unable to dance and unable to act in his private life without a swift kick up the behind - or in the case of Love Actually, a letter that all but declares someone is in love with him.
So, in the immortal words of - I can't remember, who was it? - where have all the good men gone, where are all the gods? If the above are anything to go by, they were never truly a part of fiction in the first place. Or at least not in any form that you could live with in the real world.

So not a morning person...

This morning on the way to work, I was attacked. Several missiles were thrown at me. Most missed instead hitting the car I was walking past, but one connected hard enough to leave a mark. Turns out it's not the best idea to walk under a cherry tree on a windy day. The tree will attack, much like magpies during swooping season but far less discriminating.
In fact, today is so far shaping up as a day when I should have just gone back to bed. I brought my ipod into work with me, as usual, but the headphones are still attached to my laptop after late night Spooks watching. My secret birthday surprise visit for my Mum is no longer secret or surprise, because it turns out that my Dad is the worst person in the world to tell a secret to - he didn't even last 12 hours, as far as I can tell. And to add insult to injury, I'm doing door schedules for my current project. For the uninitiated, that means that I have to go through the plans of the as-yet unbuilt building, number each door and fill its details into a spreadsheet. It's tedious enough to be mind numbing, but crucial that I get it right. Given my current state of woolly-headedness, not likely.
But I think I have the perfect antidote. Tonight I'm off to see what promises to be the corniest show I've heard about in a long time. Dreamboats and Petticoats. It's all early rock'n'roll....I'm hoping for comedy gold whether it's intentional or not. If I progress far enough on the road to merriment, I may even find myself singing along, or swaying in my seat. A healthy drink or two with dinner would get me well on the way to that point, I think. Here's hoping.

The Brave

In an effort to placate the gods of Blog, I've just scarfed my lunch (big mistake) in order to take time to write another post. Two in two days. Best be careful though. This sort of behaviour is habit forming, I've been told. Lunch was, to say the least, entertaining. Anyone who's following me on Twitter (that's you, Jones, you and some lovely people who want to help me make money from home) will know that it went badly. Never, ever mistake the amount of mustard you are preparing to put on your Ryvita with ham and salad. Did you know that mustard, when chewed and swallowed, can waft up the back of the nose and cause a sensation of your nasal hair being on fire? No, I didn't know that until today either. I always thought that the mustard gas used in the First World War was named for it's colour. I never realised it was made from actual Dijon mustard.

I was having such a healthy lunch because I'm on a diet. I'm trying to lose the multiple Heathrow injections I've received since arriving here in lovely grimy London town. I'm not entirely certain why, because I actually exercise more here, and eat about the same, but it requires more effort to budge a single gram off my weight here than it ever did at home. So I've sold my soul to the evil empire and signed up for Tesco Diets. And so far it's working. Of course, today should see me lose a little more weight, given that I now have no nasal passages left, but as a general rule, yes, I have lost weight in the four weeks I've been doing this. In fact, I'm about 15% of my way to my 'target weight' (which is considerably lower than the point at which I expect to fall off the wagon and start launching myself at chocolate). I'm rather proud of myself. I'm only about 5kg above what I was when I arrived, all two and a half years (and many times through Heathrow) ago.

So why am I writing about a bloody diet that is clearly causing me pain? Because I can see problems looming on the horizon is why. Many of my friends are on diets. They're often supportive, and we arrange to go out to places where the salads are appetising, the food is cheap, and we can enjoy ourselves without counting either calories or pennies. But I'm about to enter a realm of deep fried mars bars, fast food, and offal for breakfast. That's right. I'm off to the culinary delights of Scotland. And nobody knows how I will escape weight gain, except by malnutrition - because there is surely no goodness in the sort of food you can buy in the places I will be heading. No more healthy salads, freshly steamed fish. It will be survival of the fittest, based on past experience of the budget holiday in Scotland. Except in this context, fittest means able to consume the most fried food without any of it coming back up before you chug some alcohol to deaden your senses.

Perhaps I'm being harsh. But either way, this is the surest test of my dieting resolve yet faced. And I think I'm going to wilt before the onslaught like a 2 week old lettuce leaf.

Genius meets Imbecile

Had a post, in accordance with Sarah's demands for an update. And then I clicked post, forgetting that I was at work and that it had taken me more than 10 minutes to type it all in. It was brilliant. There was humour, wit, pathos. It was the Pulitzer Prize winner of blog posts. I was guaranteed fame, fortune and good grammar, all off the back of this one post. I was, for one shining moment, the most brilliant person to frame a sentence since Oscar Wilde declared "Either that wallpaper goes or I do." Of course, the next moment, I was faced with a screen telling me that Websense was filtering personal sites and could not fulfill my request unless I clicked for an additional 10 minutes of my 120 minute allowance of quota time. I clicked...but too late. My genius will just have to be taken for granted now, without the proof that was in that post. You'll all just have to take my word for it. And I would never stoop to low as to talk myself up. Even in blog form.

Even the brightest among us must have a flaw, it appears. It's not the first time I've had this problem with the web filters here at work. I'm sure it won't be the last. But I have to wonder at the stupidity of it. They're quite happy to allow me access to all number of websites in 10 minute chunks, during my lunch hour. 2 minutes after the clock ticks over, and I'm barred from the lot. But why chose the 10 minute barrier? It seems fairly arbitrary. And it's fine if you're just checking the status of your friends on Facebook, but for writing a literary masterpiece, much like the Lost Blog, it's not enough. There seem to be many offices where filtering is a haphazard affair. Here, for instance, I can't get into Hotmail at any time. I can, however, access Gmail and Yahoo mail. Believe me, I've tried all three (yes...I have that many email accounts. More actually, because there are 2 on some of those servers). I sent an email to a friend a few weeks back that had information about breast cancer in it. It was blocked by their mail filter for profanity. As far as I can tell, it was simply because the word breast appeared in it, along with 'sex' (it wasn't even in that sense of the word - it was talking about gender). It was scientific, health related, but she accused me of sending her porn.

So, creators of web filters of the world, see if you can help me, and others with my level of obviously superior intelligence, given that I can spot the flaws in your system even if I can't fix them. Design a web filter that is intuitive. One that can see the intent of the author. Either that, or get rid of all the bloody censorship and trust to the honest sensibility of your staff to not be looking at anything they shouldn't. Personally, I had always assumed an open plan office was a fairly good solution to the problem. You can never be sure who can see what's on your screen at any given time. A tad big brother-ish, but really, no worse than the parental-style screening process that goes on in here. Such a clever idea, but so...stupid. Damn, kind of like me, in the end, isn't it.