Sunday, 29 April 2012

Strategy

I am not a naturally strategic thinker. I know this for one very good reason - I suck at strategy games. In particular Civilization (of various numerals), a game that has devoured many a spare hour of my life since I was about 20.

I find them a depressingly accurate barometer for my life - I'm very good to start with, opening up early leads against my computery opponents and bossing the game. And then...

Well, not much really. Everything seems to be going well so I stop really thinking about it and keep hitting the 'end of turn' button rather than nurturing my civilisation's cities or upgrading their military units. And before I know it the bloody Russians have stolen my capital city and the French have got rocketry and started building spaceships out of cheese. 

Hey, Saladin, do you like hospital food, pal?
It's not a bad way to discover quite what an abysmal completer-finisher I am. Weirdly I play the game much better when I'm slightly drunk, as all the caution of my sober approach flaps away like a vanquished pigeon and I start kicking the living shit out of the Japanese. In previous decades I could probably adopt this approach in the workplace and achieve some spectacular results. These days, however, I'm told that hip flasks and cans of beer in the filing cabinet are generally frowned upon, and besides there is - conceivably - a difference between destroying the digitised Dutch and drawing up a decent digital inclusion delivery model. Though the good thing about bottles of whisky is that not only can you drink from them, you can also hit people with them, a constant temptation in any modern workplace.
 
Oddly, the discovery that I'm not very good at strategy doesn't put me off playing Civilization, because although I'm a very poor strategic thinker, I clearly am an excellent appreciator of tiny animated workers building roads over the top of mountains. Something to be proud of. Now pass the whisky.

Monday, 23 April 2012

Angora

I turned 40 today. As it is for everyone else when they turn forty, no matter that they might be Peter Pan or fat, balding and possessed of nine grandchildren, it doesn't seem possible. As a number it doesn't feel as if it belongs to me at all, but more as though someone has given it to me by mistake, and any moment now they'll come rushing up and say "hey, sorry, that was silly, that's for the greying, old-looking guy over there."

"You know, the one that looks just like you."

And then I wake up.

Unfortunately, I wake up freezing cold. It was sunny when I set out this morning. People texted me and said "look, the sun's come out for your birthday!" It was all joy and tweeting birds. So I threw on my best joy-and-tweeting-birds 3-piece suit and strolled to work whistling a jaunty tune. Now the only whistling is the ice-tinged gale blowing refrigerated drizzle into my 3-piece face.

There's no escape. I'm going to have to buy myself a birthday cardie, just to get through the day. Angora or no, old age clothing here I come.

(it'll probably be red, though, if it helps)

Monday, 16 April 2012

Mutter


I need to get my brain working. Somehow. Although it’s still capable of sending instructions to my mouth to articulate the words of Tony Blair, it is reacting in shock to any suggestion of cognitive analysis of, for instance, anything happening in an office environment. This was acceptable for the first Monday morning after Easter, but the inbox is piling up and very soon my own Spongiform brain is going to get diagnosed by everyone around me. This would be more of a problem for me than it was for Tony. If I get kicked out I’m unlikely to get invited to be a peace envoy for the Quartet, while the only after dinner speaking I have experience of is muttering, “that was nice, is there any pudding?”

With my 40th birthday hoving into view it was inevitable that my body would sent me some sign of impending decrepitude. Its chosen method was to knock me out cold less than an hour into the last night party for War of the Waleses. I then proceeded to sleep through several hours of raucous partying, including – I see from YouTube –  some very entertaining guitar work from John Major. Members of the cast kindly photographed me in my unconscious state – I look really rather peaceful. It’s certainly the best night’s sleep I had all week.

My Post Show Blues (PSB) are rather less than they normally would be, as attention has moved to our one-off, one-hour mini-version for the RSC Open Stages regional showcase next Thursday. Again, it is impossible to know how a half-length version of this play is going to come across, but I do know that it has the potential to be snortingly good fun again and I shall be heartily recommending it to everyone who missed the official run last week. In fact, I might turn into a theatre-promoting version of Pratchett’s Foul Ole Ron and wander around muttering endlessly about how I’m playing Tony Blair one last time; “Bugg’rit. Millenium Dome and Cherie.”  

Perhaps.

There’s even some sentence structure emerging somewhere. When this lunch break comes to a close there’s half a chance of work being successfully navigated. It really, really, really could happen. 

Tuesday, 10 April 2012

Hairstyle

Yes, I'm an inconsistent blogger. Probably stylistically as well as in frequency. But I have been a bit preoccupied this year, often with things with which I shall not bore you, but sometimes with the fun and frolics of the featre.

Waaay back in the second age of middle earth (possibly February), in response to a friend's prodding I auditioned for KDC's "Measure for Measure". Although I'd only seen one KDC production - not one, I'm afraid - to inspire massive enthusiasm - I also know a lot of their active people through association with other groups, so when they announced the other plays in the same season as M4M I kept an open mind and was tempted by the sound of a new play. Since I was attending auditions anyway, I thought I'd try out.

Yes, I'm playing Tony "Demon Eyes"Blair himself.
I've not performed in a great deal of new writing. Actually, I'd not performed in any new writing. I'm a picky son of a bitch, and have been ever since my association with Finchley Youth Theatre resulted in my involvement in the truly execrable "Light in the Village", a play that could not be rescued by a future Eastenders actress and a stylised comedy rape scene (though it did give me further opportunity to confuse acting with shouting).

Since then I've installed an early warning radar system in my brain to weed out shit. I've probably got it set to slightly over sensitive, which is why I've been in so much Shakespeare lately (it's a safe bet). Not having done much (any) new writing, I was more than a little surprised to get through the read through without any red lights flashing and sirens wailing.

My goodness, I thought - could it be that this is actually quite good? So I went for it.

Two month's later, it's opening night. The result of the creative hard yards of three of KDC's finest is "The War of the Waleses", an innovative and fascinating response to the challenges of the RSC's "Open Stages" project. It's the story of the messy public divorce of Charles and Di - obviously the Waleses* of the title - along with the political and media context of the times and the impact upon them. And to RSC it all up, it's told in the style and structure of a Shakespeare history play. But with added newsreaders.

And it's enormously exciting.  The cast is supremely talented, the Director/Writer brilliant (and - best of all - not given to enforcing lengthy and irritating warm-ups) and I get a seriously kick-ass speech. I'm still a bit nervous about the audience reaction - a 'Shakespeare' history play about the mid-nineties could just baffle them - but we've done everything possible to invite them into our quirky little world and make them welcome. If they're willing to be entertained, they surely will be.

On the off chance that anyone reads this, you can get tickets and info here. We're on till Saturday 14th April 2012 (for archive divers).


Finally, I have arranged a "Blaircut" for this play that leaves me looking more follicularly foolish than at any time since, appropriately, the mid-nineties. It's worth coming just to see that.  OK, no it isn't, but it's going to splendid anyway.

* try saying that without the urge to add "My preciousssss..." to it.

More info: http://warofthewaleses.wordpress.com/2012/04/10/all-the-worlds-a-stage/

Tuesday, 20 December 2011

10 Years of Fellowship


10 years ago I got to see The Fellowship of the Ring. I was mildly annoyed not to have seen it the day it came out, but since I'd had a nasty bike accident the day the tickets went on sale I was lucky to only have to wait 24 hours longer. At the time, largely because of expectation, I wasn't entirely impressed. And though I came to love it, I've always enjoyed its flaws, as can be seen from this retelling of the film that I wrote shortly after a second viewing. 

Just to blow my own trumpet, quite a lot of these gags ended up in the 2005 Melbourne Comedy festival as part of Folk-comedian Martin Pearson's hilarious musical one-man show "The Unfinished Spelling Errors of Bolkien". 

The Fellowship of the Ring:
A Plot Précis

Frodo Baggins is a shy Hobbit from the shire. He lives in Bag End, which is technically under "The Hill", but for some reason is actual under "A Hill", since the Shire has turned into the Barrow Downs. His Uncle Bilbo, who hasn’t aged a day since he found a mysterious magic ring (despite in fact now being greyer and more wrinkly) is planning a party of special magnificence for his birthday (Bilbo has concealed from Frodo the fact that it is also the young Baggins' birthday as a mean trick).

Frodo meets Gandalf, who can be recognised by his inability to carry a tune. Frodo and Gandalf smirk at each other for half an hour, then the plot continues. Frodo guesses that Bilbo is trying to hide the fact it is his birthday too, but Gandalf will not tell him.

Bilbo makes some tea. This will obviously become very important later in the film, as great attention is paid to it.

Bilbo has his party, and vanishes before he can wish Frodo happy birthday. Gandalf, perhaps alarmed by the tea making, urges Bilbo to abandon his magical ring, which he does after demonstrating how far he can make his eyeballs bulge.

Frodo comes home, to find that Bilbo has finally sprung the joke by giving him a wraith attracting ghoulish article of hideous power for a present. Happy Birthday Frodo! Hurrah!

Movie Gandalf then proves himself far clever than Book Gandalf by realising immediately that this must be a ring of power, and a pretty nasty one at that. He dashes off, congratulating himself on saving seventeen years that will inevitably lead to the whole story being very much shorter, thereby appeasing all the critics that thought it was too long.

Unfortunately for the free peoples of middle-earth, Movie Sauron is also a lot brighter than Book Sauron, and decides to torture Gollum with something scarier than a stapler. Gollum, vocalised by a man straining his voice so hard he can only squeak one word at a time, shrieks something that Sauron's minions, being creatures of darkness and used to having conversations with whistling kettles, somehow understand as being vital clues.

Gandalf, walking into a library of ancient, tinder dry scrolls with a flaming torch, discovers a scroll written by Isildurrr that explains how to identify a one ring.
1. Take ring you suspect of being harbinger of doom.
2. Prepare one-hundred ounces of cooking chocolate.
3. Throw ring on nearest fire
4. Control room!*
5. Remove ring from fire.
6. Read horrible writing proclaiming ring as harbinger of doom.
7. Eat chocolate.

Meanwhile, Movie Nazgul have proved themselves more evil than book Nazgul by a) getting to the Shire quicker and b) actually killing someone, instead of letting small old gardeners slam doors on them and merely going 'sssssssss'. Unfortunately they are less scary than Book Nazgul, since where ever they go St Wallonstone's Church Male Voice Choir and seven children with trumpets start playing Mozart's little known "Symphony for Loud Unsubtle Bastards." Gandalf then proves himself far more careless than book Gandalf and again leaves Frodo to walk despite going pretty much in the same direction on a horse. Perhaps he thinks Frodo needs the exercise.

Sam, meanwhile, has joined the quest as a special reward for delivering the funniest line in the film.
Unfortunately the Hobbits are so unfit that their only chance of making he long journey is to slice huge swathes of film out with a penknife. This leads to fairly incomprehensible cutting, but does save on bunions. On the way, they meet Merry and Pippin who decide to join their perilous quest to avoid watching re-runs of "Keeping Up Appearances" on UK Gold.

At Bree, Frodo discovers new respect for his wicked Uncle Bilbo when he finds out that the magic ring that makes you invisible, also turns the visible world into a huge grey blancmange accompanied by the sound of Concorde taking off from Heathrow (described in the book at 'improved hearing') making him wonder how his uncle killed all those spiders and stole from a dragon with all those bloody distractions. The Hobbits take up with a man who likes to pick them up and throw them up stairs because they like his beard. 'Strider' increases his range of Hobbit taunting when he takes up throwing apples at Pippin's head, perhaps as some kind of in-joke for fruiterers.

We cut to Saruman, who reveals that Sauron, the Dark Lord and owner of the Ring, has returned to earth as an "I" rimmed with fire. To emphasise this, we see several shots of a huge flaming letter I surrounded with flame. Chilling. Saruman re-enacts several scenes from "Break Dance: the Movie", before inventing the elevator and sending Gandalf to the top floor as his prisoner.

Deciding to camp on the Watch Tower of Amon Sul (known in the ancient tongue as 'weather top', but excised from the film for being too archaic) because it's the most obvious place for miles around to camp and therefore the Black Riders following them will never find them, the Black Riders find them. The Male Voice Choir and the kids with the Trumpets set up shop somewhere up the hill, then Strider sets fire to the Black Riders, who then become Orange Flickery Riders and run away. But not before the Rotting Zombie King of the Riders has very, very carefully missed Frodo's heart with his knife.

Just in the nick of time, Arwen appears. Because Frodo is fading into the spirit world he sees Arwen, an Elf, as a) a bright and shining figure and b) as wearing a really out of place wedding dress, since everyone wears wedding dresses in the spirit world. Arwen puts Frodo on her horse and then rides the 200 miles to Rivendell in three minutes. Arwen cunningly uses a Guinness advert to kill the Riders, but Frodo is being killed by his contact lenses, which he forgot to bring the cleansing fluid for, so Arwen tries to cry into his eyes to soothe him. Failing in this, she takes him to Rivendell to see Elrond the Half-Opthalmist, who plucks them out in time to save the little tyke. Awwwww.

Through a few shots of wooden garden furniture in black and white which are perhaps supposed to represent a troubled subconscious, we see Frodo awake. Gandalf is there. Frodo, whose eyes seemed to have recovered, asks why Gandalf doesn’t join them. The wizard recalls being saved by a moth, but doesn’t actually tell Frodo any of this, and says simply that he was "delayed", so that the Hobbit probably thinks he lost his car keys or something.

Elrond convenes his Council, by which he means that everyone there behaves as if they lived on a Council estate. Several important characters appear. Legolas the Blonde Elf (not described as such in the book), Gimli the Ginger dwarf (not described so in the book) and Boromir the fair-haired, bearded Man (not described so in the book). At this stage the audience is advised to forget all the reviews praising Peter “Pyjama” Jackson for sticking closely to the book.

The Council argue a lot about very little. No one explains why they can't use the ring. They just say "we can't use it", and almost everyone nods and agrees (the only time they do). Pyjama invokes "The Ladybird Book of Racial Tension" and stages a race war at the council, with Elf and Dwarf and Man all getting hot under their very well designed collars. Frodo, representative of a race that no one has yet learned to hate (give them time) therefore volunteers to carry the ring, purely to stop the violence. Elrond smirks.

To save costs, Pyjama superimposes the characters on film stolen from the closing reel of "The Sound of Music". Legolas shows himself to an expert ornithologist by announcing that the approaching flock of Saruman's spy birds are "Crebain out of Dunland" instead of the erroneous but briefer and possibly more useful "duck".

The presence of large crows forces Gandalf to entirely rethink his plan (Film Gandalf is rather less good at planning ahead than Book Gandalf) and he decides that they should climb right over the top of the highest mountain they can find, because Legolas informs them that Crebain out of Dunland are a southern genus and cannot survive in the thin, cold air of mountains, where their sub-species the Hooded Crebain exist instead. Needless to say, this plan is shit too.

Scottish Ginger Gimli suggests that they go through Moria. Film Moria is nearby, and to the knowledge of the whole company appears to be comfortably settled by Dwarves, with no suggestion of contact having been lost years ago. This worries Gandalf, if only because he can’t stand the thought of all those unconvincing Scots accents. Fortunately, all the faux Scots have been killed Cockney Orcs, and things go very well until Gandalf is apparently killed by a giant, fire-breathing goat. And that's diplomatically skipping over the well-endowed cave-troll…

Blonde Bearded Boromir, showing his sensitive side (not described so in the book), asks for the Company to have a moment to mourn. But Aragorn knows that they must complete the story within three hours, and hurries them on to the Terrifying Realm of the Evil Elf Queen Galadriel, who tries to drive Frodo mad by whispering things inside his head. She tries to take the ring but, just in time, someone at Weta accidentally hits the "reverse image" key, and she turns inside out for a moment. This so unnerves her, she gives up her attempt on the Ring, and agrees to help the company.

The Company take to boats, and sail down "Anduin", the 'Vaguely Sizeable' River. They pass by the Argonath, huge graven images of Isildurrrr and Elendil, saluting Hitler. A cute tweeting bird wanders in from a Disney film for no apparent reason.

The Company stop at Parth Galen. Frodo and Boromir argue. Frodo realises the problem with the fair hair and beard when he announces to Boromir "you are not yourself". Boromir mumbles several things, which might well be "yeah, and like you're a fifty-one year old, hypocrite" before falling over and getting covered with leaves. Frodo escapes into the Giant Grey Meringue, and climbs an unnamed hill, sits in an unnamed seat and mysteriously sees The Dark Tower and the giant, flaming "I" of Sauron. Frodo is so weakened by his quest, that the simple act of taking off a gold ring causes him to fall off the stone seat in exhaustion. He meets Aragorn, who carefully ways up the dangers of the corrupting influence of the ring and of journeying 250 miles through enemy territory on one’s own, and bravely sends Frodo away. The audience are probably meant to realise how serious this whole corrupting lark therefore is, but actually it just makes Strider look like a bit of a git (Cruel Strider now joins Wicked Bilbo and Smirking Elrond, not to mention Scary Galadriel, as being corrupted by the evil power of the script writers).

Frodo runs away. Strider faces Orcs alone, but they do their best to help by only attacking him one at a time.

Meanwhile, Merry sees Frodo and tries to get him to join him and Pippin. But Frodo has had enough of Merry's misshapen face and runs away. The Orcs see Merry & Pippin, but Blond, Bearded Boromir blows his bass kazoo and fights the Orcs. They shoot him three times. Puzzlingly, the crippled Boromir is then completely ignored by the fleeing Orcs, and then Lurtz conveniently takes half an hour to draw back his bow (the first sign of the crippling brain disease of delayed killing that the Orcs suffer from, perhaps because of the bits of chopped up Orc in their feed) , just giving Cruel Strider time to have a fight with him and chop his bits off. (much cheering)

Boromir dies, and his bass kazoo is cloven.

In a moment of panic, Sam realises that the film is running slightly under its intended length, and he throws himself into the river to fill up an extra minute. He and Frodo then leave.
The remainder of the company, Cruel Strider, Blond Legolas and Ginger Scottish Gimli throw Boromir's body over a wet cliff and then run after the bad guys with a needlessly macho five-syllable sign off. But it's a moot point whether it's any worse than "forth the three hunters".

The film ends with Sam and Frodo looking at some spiky rocks.

Cue soppy generic Enya mush.

THE END

* an injoke after someone posted a translation on-line of the scene where Gandalf reveals the ring to Frodo. As he throws the ring in the fire, rather than shouting "wait", Babelfish rendered it as "Control Room". Although this classic is lost to posterity, you can get a flavour from the surviving translation of the Ring Verse:

Three rings the Elbe kings highly in the light filters
The dwarf rulers in their halls from stone
The mortal one eternally death expire, to 9 The dark gentleman on dark throne
In the country Mordor where the shadows drone

A ring it to farmhands to find in the darkness drive it all and eternally bind
In the country Mordor where the shadows drone


Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Puerility

My mum once banned the watching of Blackadder on the basis that it was puerile. This was a touch harsh on a number of levels, the most important being that 1) I was a child, and therefore it would be very appropriate for me and 2) no it bloody wasn't. It was occasionally bawdy, and seldom but sometimes scatological - but no more than the average Shakespeare comedy. Fortunately, mum has now seen sense and views BA as a comedy classic. Indeed she denies using the word with regard to Mr Adder, but given it was the first time I'd ever heard anyone use it and I had to go and look it up, she's not getting away it that easily.

We re-edit reality to suit us all the time. I have a few Indian friends who are now trying to suggest that when they predicted a 3-1 kicking of England by the India team they were kidding. Yes, that will be why you bet a tenner on it. And how many psychopathic mass killers do you know who have totally sublimated their murderous impulses and have no idea at all how many blondes they've killed in their bathtub until they find bloody hairs in the plug hole. Honestly, it happens all the time.

Take this very morning - I reported to my Beloved that a male friend (known here as TLSoM) had made a Facebook posted which asked "Have you seen Bridesmaids? It's actually very funny." Since she has seen and liked the film, her response was the slightly testy "oh, he's surprised it's funny because it's a bunch of of women, and women can't be funny, is that it?"

I gently reminded her that her reaction to the trailer before she had seen the film was something like "Christ, they've tried to make some sort of female version of The Hangover - that looks awful".

I still haven't seen it. It looks puerile to me.



Friday, 11 November 2011

Degenerate

I'm degenerating. It's like being Doctor Who, but instead of turning into Matt Smith I just turn into a fractionally older version of me, one that gets sore thighs after climbing long staircases or has weird niggling pains that won't go away even though there's clearly nothing actually wrong.

It's one of the joys of creeping up on 40. I'm still trying to work out whether the aching shoulder joints I'm getting in the morning are because of a new mattress (which is otherwise extra comfy) or because my body just can't handle sleeping on its side any more and is rebelling. I could be facing a whole new era of sleeplessness, since I can't sleep on my back (and sleeping on your front is frankly weird).

But I can't let it bother me. If I get worried about this, what will I have left in the tank to rail against the fact that my last tooth has fallen out and that tourists keep mistake my legs for the tube map?

Maybe ageing won't be that bad, and rather than look in the mirror and be disgusted by what I see, my perceptions will adapt and I'll be vaguely revolted by how smooth and shiny young people are, as if they were blank-faced aliens or were all in the process of very slowly being suffocated with white plastic bags with eyes drawn on them. Perhaps we fall apart so slowly that we only really notice when a doctor takes one of our legs away and refuses to give it back.

So I shall ache in a more upbeat fashion. For a little while.