Pynchon

Still here. I have been a bit busy.

Friday night I watched the Blondie documentary "One Way Or Another". It was really good and didn't shy away from the seedier elements of their story including drugs, illness, bankruptcy and disgruntled ex-band members. I must say that I really loved the first two Blondie albums. Although the later albums had some good stuff on them, they were not as good as "Blondie" and "Plastic Letters". That is only my opinion. What do I know? The later albums propelled them to being one of the most successful bands in the world during the period 1978-1981.

I was up at 6am on Saturday morning. Insanity. When do I ever see the world at 6am on a Saturday morning, unless I have to? Served it's purpose, though. I wanted to get the shopping done early and get into town to see an early film. I was at the supermarket at 8am and was on the bus home at 9am. Had a cup of tea and some toast and then went into town.

I tangled with a Goth Girl with large breasts who was manning the ticket office at the Symphony Hall. I think that she had been up all night. He eye makeup was bitty and looked like it had been on for several days. She was dressed in black and looked dirty, dishevelled and sweaty. She yawned and fidgeted. She made no effort to hide her annoyance at being bothered by fucking customers. I bared my teeth and was icily polite to her. I paid for the Flaming Lips tickets and purchased two tickets for the Jasper Carrott Christmas show. Goth girl was mightily put out that I wanted to pay for the tickets with two separate credit cards. I did it on purpose.

"Thank yooooou!" I trilled, as I left her window. Fuck you.

To the UGC Cinema on Broad Street. I was served by a beautiful red headed girl (she used to be blonde, but has dyed it). She is always very pleasant to me. (Actually, everybody at UGC Cinemas is nice to me, even the miserable fat old woman, who is sometimes on the front desk, has been recently known to smile at me.) Anyway, red headed doll. Lovely girl, porcelain like skin, lovely hands, efficient and a friendly demeanor. I said that I wanted to see "Stormbreaker". She gave me the ticket.

"Enjoy the film" she said and smiled at me.

I think that I am in love.

(Hell. You know the point that I am trying to make. That is what customer service is all about.)

"Stormbreaker".



It was OK and kind of fun, but like all action films intended for children, "Stormbreaker" was all a bit subdued and mundane, almost as if the filmmakers were not being allowed to let rip for fear of jeopardising a family friendly certificate. Shame, but what I would say is that the fight sequences, choreographed by Donnie Yen, are very good. You really believe that this 14 year old boy is kicking bad guy ass.

They might do a movie of "Point Blanc", but judging by the lack of audience in the showing I attended (11:45am on a Saturday and no more that 8 people in the audience), I would imagine that "Stormbreaker" is already a flop. At least it did not cost too much money. I read that the budget was only £23 million, with all of it being supplied by British investors. Apparently they were offered £100 million by an American studio, on the proviso that Alex Rider be turned into an American schoolboy, but they turned that offer down. Good for them. At least they were true to the material.

I can imagine "Stormbreaker" being the kind of film I would really enjoy watching on a quiet Sunday afternoon at home, but I don't know that it is worth a cinema trip.

After the cinema, it was down to the Hippodrome where I bought tickets for the Christmas panto "Cinderella" starring Brian Conley for 23rd December. I am apparently distantly related to Brian Conley, but I am not sure how or why. I will have to ask my Mom. I have never met the guy.

I went home. Lorraine arrived not long after me. I told her that I had seen "Stormbreaker". She berated me and said that she had wanted to see "Stormbreaker". Bollocks, had she ever said any such thing. I went off to sulk, but happily came bacdownstairs whenen Lorraine presented the chocolate eclairs that she had bought from M&S.

Yesterday evening my Brother and I took my Niece and Nephew to the Midlands heat of the Masters Football tournament at the Birmingham NIA arena. It is a six-a-side Football competition featuring (mainly) retired Footballers over the age of 35 representing the major teams in a particular region. The Midlands heat featured ex players from Villa, Blues, Wolves and the Albion. We went to it last year when the mighty Villa won the heat.

This year Villa lost 2 games and won 1. We came last. Deservedly. We played like a bunch of women. (I am sure that there are many fine female Footballer's out there, but I've never heard of any of them. If you are a follower of women's Football, please send me pictures of their greatest players, preferably taken in thcommunalal bath's at the end of a game.) Wolves beat Blues in the final, so it wasn't a total disaster.

My Niece and Nephew were in "I want..." mode. I want sweets. I want a drink. I want a poster. I want a programme. I want a T-shirt. I want a kick up the backside. I bought sweets and drinks and a programme. As for the rest of the requests, I pleaded poverty and I chose not to supply the kick up the backside. I was franklsurpriseded. Lorraine have taken my Niece and Nephew out a few times and it has gone swimmingly. Last night I could have dumped the pair of them in the canal. I suppose they are getting older. Pushing the limits and all that.

The Masters Fooball even had a bit of Football hooliganism to keep you happy, if you like that kind of thing. There was a Fat Cunt, obviously upset at his own Fat Cuntness and the fact that his team were playing badly (sadly, he may have been a Villa fan), who took a swing at a Blues fan. The whole area was mmediately swamped by stewards, who had no idea how to deal with it. The Fat Cunt was allowed to stay to watch the rest of the game. Pathetic. Shameful. Disgusting. Very uncool. There were a lot of kids iattendance. They shouldn't be seeing that. Fat Cunt should have been turfed out. Football hooligans are so 1970's, aren't they?

Oh, yes. There were cheerleaders on the pitch. Three average looking girls, who called themselves the Rockettes. At one point they were standing quite near to us and one of the girls turned to another of the girls and asked her to check her arse. Her friend did check her arse. There didn't seem to be anything wrong. Then she asked the same of the other girl. The other girl checked her arse. Nothing wrong. Crisis over. The things cheerleaders have to worry about, eh? They should have hired a professional arse checker. It would be a good job, but not as good as personal masseur to Jennifer Connelly.

(Here is a picture of Jennifer Connelly.)



I took the kids home. They asked if they could go again next year. Maybe. It was late. I managed to catch the last bus home. I arrived home at 12:45am, had a cup of tea and a huge bowl of chocolate ice cream, watched the end of Channel 4's "50 Films You Must See Before You Die" and went to bed.

Fuck me, I felt ill this morning. I did not drink any alcohol last night, but I suppose that I did not drink much water either, so I had the headache from hell. I don't suppose that the chocolate ice cream helped any. I had some bananas, bran, milk and several Ibuprofen. I fell asleep on the settee. I woke up at nearly 2pm feeling better. A bit late to go out. Lorraine got me some soup and I did some stuff around the house and now I am here.

Hi!

I am off to cook some food and watch the remake of "Flight Of The Phoenix". Have a nice rest-of-Sunday, all.