Howdy Aliens. How y'all doin'?

Q: Am I going to watch that well known late-eighties “classic” The Abyss?

A: Yes, but I doubt I’ll take it seriously.

There are three main things I remember about this film from many years ago.

1. The bit with the guy having to breathe the weird liquid oxygen so that his lungs wouldn’t collapse under the underwater pressure. “C’mon, you breathed water for nine months of your life, you can do it now....!” Let’s forget the 40 years of your life you didn’t…
2. Mary Elizabeth Manstranowhatsit flashing her boobs on screen. I remember physically reeling from the screen. Of course, it’s all done in the name of realism, she’s having the special electric paddles applied to jumpstart her heart and is currently unconscious. Someone even shouts “I need to have bare skin” before her shirt is ripped open. Just to make the point that it’s strictly necessary and certainly not to keep the attention of any male viewers losing interest with all the hippy style encounters with the strange ‘composed of water’ worm. Funnily enough when I actually do see this bit, it’s not half as horrific as I remember.
3. The worm composed of water. Like an extension of the aliens whilst in the air. Even now, some 17 years later, this special effect is pretty damn good, and the ‘disco lights’ ships are brilliant. It has certainly aged well. I’ll admit to being rather impressed. The alien itself still retains a good deal of annoying schmaltz. Especially the bit where it sadly sniffs at a nuclear weapon. Hauntingly tragic. Blargh. I blame all of this on the saccharine powers of E.T. When you finally get to see the aliens and their weird janky bald glowing heads, it’s a bit of a let down after all the CGI excitement. Also I can’t help but notice, during the ‘oxygenated liquid’ scenes, Ed Harris continually has air bubbles popping from his nostrils. They can create a tube made from water and have it move around, but not conceal a few nostril bubbles? Ah, the vagaries of SFX.

I’m watching the opening and I can’t believe I don’t remember the hilarious guy with the ‘tache. Or that one of them has a rat. The unfortunate rodent serves to be the first tester of the liquid oxygen stuff. It would appear that even James Cameron is unable to get away with putting the rat underwater on screen. I wonder where he got that handy rat-sized cage…?

Huh. Have just found this:

“The film was censored by the American Humane Association for a scene in which a rat is held "underwater": actually, in an oxygenated fluorocarbon liquid used in fluid breathing systems. Five rats were used in the film. The rats were unharmed and one became Cameron's pet, but died of natural causes before the film opened. In England this scene was still replaced with a scene where what happens to the rat is verbally described by the characters, because the Royal Veterinarian thought the experience was painful for the rat.” (www.wikipedia.org)

(Natural causes, huh?) Only in England. We just love rats. You’re only ever six feet away from one in London, I’m told. Poison them with weird chemicals, trap and maim them, but GOOD GOD! Don’t put them underwater in an oxygenated flurocarbon liquid. That’s just plain inhumane.

To keep us entertained, let’s play a little ‘Spot the Stiff’…

Death candidate one: Guy with ‘tache. He’s currently coming down with some kind of compression induced madness and in charge of an underwater vehicle. He dies unpleasantly by drowning whilst screaming and visible through a small porthole in a door. A fitting end. Oh hang on, that was some other moustachioed man. How long have there been two of them? Our whiskery friend is now sweating profusely, twitchy and in charge of a nuclear missile. “We can’t trust them, we’re gonna have to take steps.” He’s now watching everyone else on little video screens and becoming immensely paranoid. Sweating and twitching at an all time high. Then at the watery worm’s first appearance, he slams a door on it. A sure sign of impending doom. Never attack the beast! Now he’s taken over the sub and is ‘about to make war with an alien species!!’ Wooo. I think I love him. He finally meets his explosive end, (or should I say implosive…) with gurning aplenty during an exciting submarine battle. His sub implodes while he does some enraged shouting. Apparently rage is the new black for men with moustaches.

Death candidate two: Woman in the farmer’s hat and dungarees. She just seems rather extraneous to the main plot. Her submarine is hit by a descending ‘crane’. But she remarkably survives. Possibly to die horribly later on. Probably in a heroic fashion. To my ongoing amazement she makes it all the way to the ‘group laugh’ scene at the end. Tsk. I used to rule at this game. I must be losing my touch.

Still despite the happy-clappy ‘close encounters of the third kind’ type aliens, there is some truly terrifying underwater stuff with people going mad inside their suits and loads of heavy breathing and panicking and what have you. As a bit of a claustrophobe, there’s nothing that looks more unpleasant than running out of air deep underwater…Well. I think I can cross submarine travel off my ‘to do’ list.

Today: I am very childish…

…No one’s really surprised, right?

My mother had a strange back spasm earlier today and was unable to rise from her knees, (in a funny way, you know.) I was able to touch her on the head and solemnly say in ringing tones “Arise, Sir Assface!!” Luckily she found it amusing, which meant I had to then take pity on her and lug her to her feet.

I’ve been watching a lot of the World Cup and enjoying some of immensely. Some is a bit dull. I enjoyed watching Ghana the other day, though I missed their second goal discussing The Pook’s phallic banana. Then it became highly amusing when she couldn’t then eat it seriously. How childish are we? Fnnnnaaaarrr!!

In an ongoing theme, this week’s episode of Doctor Who (just after the football) was pretty hilarious. There’s this weird alien (played by the brilliant Peter Kaye) who absorbs people and then their faces appear on his body. Wow. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say. Actually this alien was designed by a little kid who won a competition on Blue Peter. It was called the ‘Absorbaloff’. Only from the minds of children…. Anyway, the Absorbaloff is eventually repelled by the power of his victims pulling him apart. As frequently happens. The Doctor manages to save The Absorbaloff's last victim who is the girlfriend of the current main character, called Elton, bizarrely. You see The Doctor shouting “quick, get a spade!” and then cut back to Elton’s bedroom where he’s talking about his lost love and we get to find out, in a piece of twisty goodness, that her head is now set in the paving stone but she’s still alive and can talk and stuff. (Which is obviously better than letting her die with dignity having been a hero.) While he’s talking, Elton picks up the slab and shows it to the camera then turns it around so it’s facing him and rests the edge of it in his lap. Yes. In his lap. Of course The Pook and I are immediately reduced to fits of purile giggling. There was no need for sharing the joke. The guy had her head in his lap. We are soon jerked out of amusement (yes, I said jerked. You read the title.) by Elton’s rather frank, yet coy admission, that he loved the paved head and that they even ‘had a sex life of sorts’. Really. Don’t be patronising. Everyone was there already. There are children present. And let’s not forget the astoundingly childish. Like myself. Still sniggering several days later.

Number of times I accidentally wrote ‘Bananana’ today: 2 Huh. Such a fun word to type, one gets a little carried away.

I smell a ghostly rat.

I am, as ever, beyond the brink of tired, having been distracted in the early hours of this morning by Derek Acorah being possessed for the nine millionth time on ‘Most Haunted’. He never used to get possessed with such alarming frequency. Just used to mill about and suggest that ‘someone died here…maybe a man…maybe a man called John…’ I’m starting to smell a rat. By all means, it might be a murderous ghostly rat, but the dubious nature of it remains. You’d think by this time Derek would have got fed up with his ‘physical body’ being spiritually molested by various ghostly presences. I suspect that it’s always the same one, following him around. After all they all appear to have the same croaky voice, hobbling limp, grasping claw-like hands and are invariably exciting and dangerous murderers. That said, should I die suddenly and find myself channelled by Derek, I too might be a tad pissed off at being represented in this ‘hunchback of Notre Dame’ style. Plus I couldn’t miss the opportunity to make him say “The bells! The bells!!”or perhaps “The gold is buried in the… crrrk… crrrk… gak… pffft…” But then I’m not a murderer, so I doubt he’d be interested. The deceased never seem to have much to say other than “GET OUT!!!” or a spot of unintelligible muttering.

Of course, then bloody Yvette Fielding pops up with her own unmistakable brand of ‘talking over ghostly noises’. She spends the entire programme shrieking “Shhhh! Everyone shhhh! What was that noise? Did anyone else hear that noise? Shhh! Shhh!” What noise Yvette? All I can hear is the sound of you shushing everyone else furiously, as if they were even making a noise in the first place. You daren’t fart around this woman. Imagine the uproar. “Everyone shhhh! What was that noise? Everyone shut up!! There’s a breeze coming in here! A warm breeze!! Can you smell that? Oooh!! Can anyone else smell that?!! Shh! Shh!”

Five exciting ways to keep cool in the office.

1. Open the window. Attempt to cram your face, or at least part of it through the two inch gap until you are repelled by the pollution.

2. Take off your shoes and socks. Risk looking like a hobbit when you have to answer the front door.

3. Go out into the park and lie in the pond. Risk Weilles disease.

4. Put the fan on. Spend around 10 minutes trying to activate the ‘oscillate’ function by prodding at relevant switch with a pencil. Then sit and enjoy the refreshing sensation of losing an eye thanks to pieces of paper being whipped up tornado style and hurled into your face.

5. Roll up trousers. Ignore other office workers attempting to be funny by leaping up and shouting things like ‘Aye, aye Captain!’ and ‘Avast behind’ whilst you attempt to retain the tattered threads of your dignity.

Or most sensibly, call in sick and spend the day in the garden drinking Pimms. Which did I do? 1, 2, 4 and 5. I passed on 3 on account of not really fancying Weilles disease. But then if the temperature goes up any more I may be throwing caution to the wind.

Cowbells? Bloody COWBELLS?!!

Well. Now I'm really pissed off. Having spoken to my good friend The Pook, it turns out that the world cup opening ceremony involved giant cowbells attached to the waists of around 50 people standing in a circle. They rang the cowbells by gyrating furiously. According to The Pook, this was so funny that she first laughed hysterically and then started choking. A near death experience then. I wish I'd seen it. No one loves ridiculous opening ceremonies more than me. You should see me during the Olympics.

God it's hot in here. I've been forced to put my hair in bizzare shepherdess plaits to keep my head cool. Plus the dog is in here sleeping and smelling like fart. Dirty beast.

Missing the world cup...

Stupid work. I missed the opening ceremony, which promised to be amusing. AND I missed the first match with six goals in total. Though just this second, Equador have scored against Poland, so I feel a little bit better. It's a bit unseasonal, but the only phrase that accurately conveys my annoyance is 'Bah Humbug!'

I thought it would be a good idea, as it was hotter than Satan's bathtub (If he bathes...?) today, to wear a skirt. Huh. Turns out I have a rather mannish stride to balance out my girly throwing arm... I kept trying to walk normally and being restricted by the skirt, which wasn't tight by any means. I looked very much like someone wearing those ankle-handcuff/manacle things like on death row. If I wanted to run up the stairs (let's face it - it's a basic human right..) I had to hoick it up around my knees and make a break for it before anyone saw me. Plus I teamed the skirt with a pair of lethal sandals (how hippy of me) and they kept randomly flying off and left my feet exposed to dangerous falling objects. Like oranges. Seriously. Those citrusy bastards hurt.

Never mind. England play tomorrow so I shall keep my fingers crossed. And my legs. After all, I am a lady in a skirt. Which I so did not tuck into my pants to keep cool whilst hidden behind my desk. Ahem.

Why I love Cliff Richard.

I only wish it was the original video with the roller skates and 80s sony walkmans. I actually hurt myself laughing at that. This is almost as good...



I hope that works. Youtube has a history of fucking with me...

The Queen of sleeping in.

I have spent the last two days pushing the boundaries of sleeping in, like some kind of teenager. Even though it's been a good seven years since I could count myself as such. I actually managed to get up before midday today which means that I might actually get to bed before around three in the morning. Fascinating, I know. Plus, for some mysterious reason, I've even started wearing big woolley rainbow bed socks. Very attractive, granny stylee...

My only aim for the last two days was to register at the new doctor's surgery. And then make an appointment to get all the various ailments I've been saving up seen to. Have I? No. It's only 3.00, I still have time to go. Bugger it, there's no way I'm taking my bedsocks off now. I'll never get my shoes on over them. I'll just have to stay here and watch some more Top Gear. I'd also been meaning to get some writing done today. God knows the novel that will make my fortune won't write itself. Unfortunately there is one vital flaw in my cunning plan. When it comes to writing stories, I'm pretty damn crap. Even I'm bored with the story, which doesn't bode well. Procrastination is the key, as they say... Or is that presentation?

One hour yawnfest...

I’m at work and currently taking a well-earned break from picking tiny clods of paper from the lethal teeth of the shredder with my fingertips. Despite my desire to do this with the shredder switched on for that added danger/gameshow element, I have elected to preserve my fingers for typing purposes, for today at least.

Last night (or was it the night before...? All the days seem to blend into one at the moment.) I watched the film ‘One Hour Photo’. I’d seen a trailer for it yonks ago with Robin Williams doing some bizarre disjointed shouting and workin’ the ‘paedophile-chic’ angle. *shudders* The voice over says something along the lines of ‘Robin Williams as you’ve never seen him before!!’ Thank God, I say. The whole ‘Man-child with a heart of gold’ thing was really getting me down. And I have to admit, I was hoping for something a little more ‘Silence of the Lambs’ish. Huh. Was I ever disappointed. There was all this in-your-face symbolism going on. Yes. Everything’s blank, pale and clinical, like his façade…etc. Symbolism and metaphors and that should surely be going over my head, as per usual, not interrupting my watching of the film.

I did like all the observations from RW’s character’s POV. All the types of people who come in and get their photos, but at some point in the story, someone seemed to get a bit bored and tried to tie up all of the hundreds of loose threads in a glorious monochrome bow. It was OK as a film, but it left me with all these bizarre questions.

1. If RW’s character is, as he professes, one of the best in the photo developing industry, why is he constantly touching people’s snaps with his naked, gloveless hands, thusly covering them with prints? ALL THE TIME?
2. Why does every single picture taken by the main family show them all together clearly against a backdrop with perfect make up and lighting surely unavailable to the common man, including the photo of the husband and his ‘lovah’?
3. Just who the hell is taking all these pictures anyway? I’ve done the traditional ‘Self Portrait’ photo. You invariably get the corner of your chin or something. And I can’t believe it’s some kind of timer photo. No one’s only half way in the picture having been caught short by the camera going off early.
4. Is RW's character a pervert, or what? Has he just (suddenly, right at the end) had a traumatic childhood? Should we address this, Officer ‘Guy from ER’? Perhaps you could just chat to him nicely instead…Yeah….
5. Hey! Is that the Sheriff guy from American Gothic? He was way more sinister than Robin Williams. And a little bit hot too…

Sigh. It’s this kind of thing that leads me to lose focus and dice with death using office equipment…

Roll up! Roll up! It's the stoat and dog show!

My dog Jack needs lots of walks. The park is small. I have to get him to run himself into a coma to get the maximum use out of the walk. Jack likes to chase anything you throw, but after it stops moving, he pretty much loses interest in it. ‘You’re so keen on the thing? You get it.’ He seems to say, while I am doing my best bending, crouching and cheerful voice to get him to bring it back. I do a nice line in violent and shocking swearing at him in a high-pitched cheery voice. He doesn’t know and anyone listening is usually horrified. Ha ha!! The only thing that seems to hold his interest is one of those half size skills footballs you can get on the cheap from £1 shops. And because I have this girly weak throwing arm I have to kick the football, he runs after it, catches it in his mouth, brings it back and then offers it to me before running off with it just as I reach down to grab it. All very normal things to be doing with your time… However, for some bizarre reason, we have started attracting a crowd. People will actually stand and watch me kicking a football around the park like I’m putting on some kind of floor show. This doesn’t pay, otherwise I would be showcasing my rather poor footballing tactics plus dog in Covent Garden. Perhaps Jack could go around with a little coin barrel attached to his collar...But I digress… Basically, if no one’s watching, I’m rather good. The football soars from my foot in a graceful arc to land about 20 feet away. If even one person so much as glances my way during the kick, I am liable to fall heavily over the ball, losing all dignity I may have had. There was the rather memorable time I inhaled a large fly during the run up, miskicked the ball a total of 2 feet away and ended up spitting and snorting in full view of a group of Japanese tourists. With cameras.