Eh by gum.

I hardly need a reason to look forward to the Easter holidays right now. Then along comes Doctor Who and I find myself typing nonsensical keyboard-palm words on youtube with anticipation. HURRYUPHURRYUPHURRYUP.

Ostalgie.

It's a Wednesday. I do Wednesdays now. Wednesdays are cool.


And another Jenny wonder.

Dutch/Deutsch.

Fan(g)girls.

Wait. Did I say I wouldn't mention Being Human again? Sorry about that. One more and then it's out of my system. Three weeks ago when I was stumbling blindly through essay jungle and refreshing the Beeb website more times than healthy, I came across this article and without thinking, the nerd in me picked up her debit card and made some hasty online transactions. Cue four different alarm clocks ringing at 6am this morning and an eight o'clock train from Euston.

I arrived at the NEC an hour later, early-bird ticket in hand, and spent a good fifteen minutes hiding from stormtroopers and ghostbusters as they milled about outside the convention hall (not entirely sure how I coped at Disneyland, but hey). Once inside I wandered around in geeky awe, taking in the comic book stalls and the lifesized DeLorean and the various Doctor Who incarnations (where do they get their brown trench coats from?) In one of the great ironies of my life I love table-based shopping (car boot sales, bring and buy, craft fairs), but I am terrible at interacting with stallholders, so I looked at the wide selection of posters and figurines from a safe distance until Josh arrived.

The highlights of my day (besides spending lots of quality time with my brother, of course) were by and large Being Human related. Following on from an odd Star Wars recruitment drive, Russell Tovey and Sinead Keenan held an amusing Q&A session on the main stage. I almost went as far as to ask a question, but mostly my hand waved about in a sad half-mast position, until the MC looked in my direction, at which point it promtly fell. I did however, pluck up enough courage to queue for an autograph. I stood in line trying to think of something awfully witty to say to them, but when it got to my turn I basically just grinned inanely and gushed, "asdfghkljiloveyou"
and "thankyouforawonderfulseries". It was embarrassing.

We finished off the day with a touch of light shopping (my David Tennant action figure has 3D glasses. What does your do?) and Wetherspoons' most expensive burger, before jumping on our seperate trains home again. My apologies if you find this level of nerdom cringeworthy. I think I actually managed to keep this pretty Being Human-lite (poor Josh had to put up with the rest; "they just seem like really lovely people", "and then I shook his hand" (:)), etc. Sorry Josh.). Just don't be surprised if I dress up as a werewolf next time. Of course I jest (mostly).

Eeeep.

It actually paid off.
Priority QI tickets anyone? Yes please.

Blowing bubbles.

Stephen's first interrail postcard (well, as it says on the back, it's actually his fourth, but I am scanning and uploading these postcards as they stand on the postcard wall and this one just so happens to be the first). I'm glad somebody was able to enjoy Warsaw. Who knew it was an amazing place with a lively night life? Not I. To me, Warsaw is a hot and dusty city with a great museum, a Hard Rock Cafe and a scary Soviet milk bar. I couldn't begin to imagine where the pretty palace on the front of this postcard might be. I really must go back there one day and do poor Warsaw some justice, because one night at the end of a two week holiday clearly isn't enough. Also, I'm pleased to see that Stevie actually used stamps on his travels. My interrail postcards are a big fat disappointment in that respect, because I was far too slow and lazy when it came to post offices (hence all my postcards were sent from Poznan).

Kartpostal.

Jenny doesn't write postcards. But sometimes she sends them.

V for Victory.

We took a sunny Sunday off from work to make a W.I. trip to the Imperial War Museum. I forget about these wonderful museums sometimes, so it was nice to spend a day among the families and the tourists, taking in the Children's War exhibition and the 1940s House. We ate lunch in the cafe, spent a couple of harrowing hours in the Holocaust section (somehow I always end up here when I come to the Imperial War Museum) and, like all good day-trips, we finished up in the gift shop, where I laid my hands on some vintage propaganda.

Life is a cabaret.

I have to admit (and would you believe it?) that I am not the world's biggest Matt Smith fan. Nowadays this has less to do with left-over David Tennant replacement resentment - I think he does a great job on Doctor Who in all honesty (fezzes are cool) - and more to do with this youtube video and the football scenes from the James Corden episode, 'The Lodger'. I imagine that in real life he is like that all the time. The slick Hoxton scenester, as Alice once put it, as we cheered on Team Arthur/Rory (although let it be said that I would not pass on the chance to dance around to the Doctor Who theme tune either). Slight unfounded antipathy aside, however, I have been looking forward to Christopher and His Kind for quite some time now. I find most biographical-novelist-period-drama-type programmes interesting and I am a fan of Goodbye to Berlin and Christopher Isherwood in particular, so it was always going to be good in my book. However, I was not expecting to like it quite so much. The script was powerful, the acting was all-round wonderful and Matt Smith has risen a notch or two higher in my estimations. Although I still maintain he has a square face.

On another note, it's a little bit odd that a film, which to a large extent is about the rise of the Nazi Party in Germany, would fuel my ambition to polish off my German skills and spend some time in Berlin next year, but there you go. I want to be a 'born foreigner' like Christopher Isherwood too.

Six miles deep.

I went to see Submarine with Taylor last night. I wasn't sure what to expect from Richard Ayoade's debut film - I only saw the trailer a week ago - but I really enjoyed it, putting it on my mental DVDs to buy list as I left the screen. Films like Submarine a. make me sad, because I know they won't come to the cinema when I am at home again next year (case in point: Never Let Me Go, The Kids Are All Right, Brighton Rock, etc.) and b. inspire me to buy sparklers and run around on grey beaches at night time. What's more, there is clearly a South Walian niche developing within the media (hence the actors of Gavin and Stacey popping up in every other British production - and why not?). It's enough to make me resent my relatively generic, slightly Manx based, North Walian accent. Or it would be if I had any interest in working within television or films.

Brb. Essays.

Hobbit Shaped Bullet.

George: "I'm doing this because I love you." Mitchell: "I know." (Being Human fans everywhere break down in tears). I don't want to be one of those people that goes on and on about their favourite television programme. But (sod it, I did it with Doctor Who), I feel less like this today:


and a lot more like this:


Sob. That will teach me not to grow so attached to fictional characters. Goodbye Mr Turner, I will miss your lovely face on my television screen. I'm sure if anybody can pull off a dwarf beard it will be you. See you in Middle Earth.

THE END IS NIGH.

When Jenny first mentioned that THE END OF THE WORLD (capital letters required) was taking place at Corsica Studios in Elephant and Castle, she mentioned panic-drinking and stampedes and frenzied sex orgies on the dance floor. So frankly, that part of the night didn't quite live up to expectations and quite frankly, I'm glad. (As an aside, surely that wouldn't be the case if it were in fact the end of the world anyway. It would take far too long to get to SE1 without the London bus service for starters and once there, would you really pay £10 to experience a few cherry shots and other people's sex orgies? No. You would probably stay at home, drink 750ml of cooking sherry and moan about it on twitter, from the safety of your bedclothes.)

Actual fact regardless, however, the End of the World was still a night to remember. Mostly because Gaz took charge of a large 'THE END IS NIGH/DANCE UNTIL YOU DIE' placard and I drank enough apple sourz to enjoy jumping around on the dance floor for a couple of hours. At two or three o'clock there was an announcement to say that the asteroid ('oh an asteroid, was it', mused I) had been averted and we were free to live another day, etc., etc. And so we breathed a collective thank-god sigh of relief a la every Bruce Willis action film and went home for potato waffles. Incidentally, all the photos from the night make it look like I am proclaiming death to those around me, as I only come up to the 'YOU DIE' on the painted sign Gaz was waving.

Speaking of Armageddon, I have it all planned out (should it conveniently happen to take the form of War of the Worlds, that is). It's all about packing quickly and quietly (water, a knife, good shoes) and walking the hell out of London, reaching the Shire-like beacon of North Wales and finding my family safe and sound and waiting for me. Of course, if Armageddon takes place in the style of Deep Impact or The Day After Tomorrow, then Colwyn Bay will be one of the first places hit for sure. But if that is the case, then clearly we're all screwed. What a lovely thing to think about on a Sunday afternoon.

That's not a bear.

There's nothing like these furry things, that bounce around in herds.



Our very first postcard came from London, but we didn't write it.

Fork handles.

Another birthday, another delicious Gabrielle Flexer creation: this time, lime chiffon pie. We are off to the Auctioneer tonight for a repeat of last year's £-a-pint extravaganza (different boys, fewer t-shirts). Happy birthday Jenny (and Laura too)!

Honolulu Heights.

We have been living the life of a supernatural hostel this week. Or rather, Gaz is in London (hereby known as the Big Peach) for a couple of days on official newspaper business, and he is sleeping on our futon. (And by official newspaper business I mean he is reading old copies of the Sun and the Telegraph at the British Library newspaper archive in Colindale; no hack journalism involved to my knowledge). There are beanie hats everywhere and I have been stretching my football knowledge to its limits in order to provide interesting sports-centric conversation, but otherwise he is proving very pleasant company.

On Sunday we watched Wonders of the Universe on BBC2 and took great pleasure in discovering that Brian Cox was once a member of Dare (Paris's dad's band) and that said band went to Disneyland together and lost their car in the car park (thanks youtube!). On Monday we went Quizzee Rascaling at the Auctioneer. I love pub quizzes and I don't go to enough in London. Gaz, Gabby and Jen bonded over a bit of light pennying and we finished off the night with chip shop chips. On Tuesday it was Pancake Day (the latest pancake day until March 2038 if Gaz's wikipedia facts are anything to go by). We had prawn and tuna to start with (much to Gabby's - unjustified, I think - disgust) and then lemon and sugar for pudding. I finally, finally made use of the heart-shaped frying pan that I bought way back when. On Wednesday we set off for Shoreditch, two for one vouchers in hand, where we met up with Sarah and Amber and proceeded to walk to Spitalfields Market. We ate dinner at Giraffe and were so engrossed in North Wales discussion that Gaz thought it was best to check over his shoulder when he mentioned somebody's name in a slanderous context just in case they were listening. Thankfully, we had not been followed 245 miles by anybody we knew. Afterwards we went to Cargo, where Gaz swore at his £4.50 San Miguel, we watched and theorised about an excessive PDA and I took the worst photobooth photo of my life.

To the Manor Born.

It is proving more than difficult to think up new titles for these postcard posts. I apologise in advance for their demise into bad puns and synecdoche. The creative writer in me is failing.

Theatreland.

We are only three months into 2011 and already I've been to the theatre seven times, which must be something of a record.

Spamalot -

In 2008 I went to see Spamalot in London and I have to admit, I didn't really get it. It was Harry's eighteenth birthday present and I think at the time, I had probably seen Life of Brian at a push and I knew the words to Knights of the Round Table, because we liked to sing it in our English class at school. Now though, 2011 Jess sneers at 2008 Jess's Monty Python knowledge. I have truly grown to love those silly English (and American) kniggits over the last couple of years; I own all the films, the Flying Circus box set and a t-shirt, which reads 'Upper Class Twit of the Year' and I have read one and a half of Michael Palin's diaries (plus, by association, I own Around the World in 80 Days and Michael Palin Full Circle too). When Terry Jones came to Theatr Colwyn last Easter, to raise funds for its redevelopment, I rang up the box office and ordered tickets faster than you can say, "Fetchez La Vache!" I have now entered the stage of Monty Python fandom where I can watch a film or a sketch and say with absolute confidence, "Eric Idle, John Cleese, Graham Chapman, Eric Idle, Terry Jones, Michael Palin, John Cleese. Oh look, a Terry Gilliam appearance, that's rare!" Therefore, come January when Spamalot came to Llandudno at long last, I absolutely loved it. I don't share the belief that Eric Idle is milking Monty Python of its last laugh, I just relish the fact that forty years on, I can still go down to the theatre and revel in a fish-slapping dance, or a Knight with no legs or a hearty verse of 'Always Look on the Bright Side of Life'.

War Horse -

I have already mentioned how much I enjoyed War Horse. It was absolutely phenomenal. Once it would have seemed impossible to me that the topic of war could be portrayed so well on the stage, but I have been shown time and time again that this is not the case. Michael Morpurgo's work, I feel, translates particularly well. About five years ago I went to see a one-man production of Private Peaceful at Theatr Clwyd and it was so bare and so raw that I didn't think anything would ever top it in terms of hard-hitting performance. War Horse may well have done that. The story of animals and their mistreatment during times of war is always a difficult one to hear, because we know that these creatures play no part in the beginning of wars, have no say in their involvement and are used more and treated harsher than ever they are in times of peace. I remember watching Atonement and feeling sick at the sight of horses shot on the beaches of Dunkirk; despite the human tragedy taking place around them, their loyalty and their futility stand out to this day. War Horse highlights these injustices - the horses are very much the central characters of the piece - and because of this it is effective and it is sad. However, it is not a play without hope and our affection for Joey, the titular war horse, though tested to the last, is ultimately rewarded.

Blood Brothers -

We went to see Blood Brothers quite by chance. Frances, Martha and I were left in charge of tickets and after a quick look around the kiosks of Leicester Square we were faced with a choice: We Will Rock You (standing only) for £18 or Blood Brothers for £31. Wisely, considering the shopping and the march down the South Bank that followed, we chose the latter. The story of Blood Brothers was one that I knew only vaguely, through my association with various people in various musical theatre groups. It had something to do with Liverpool? and twins? who were... separated at birth? Actually, it was brilliant going into a musical with a minimal grasp of the plot for once (unlike, say, Les Miserables, where I went in singing). In fact, it was brilliant full stop. The character progression from carefree child to tortured adult was portrayed fantastically by the actors and there was a streak of humour running throughout, which rendered the ending all the more tragic. The only negative thing I can say about Blood Brothers is that I had the refrain, "like Marilyn Monroe/And we went dancing" stuck in my head for days afterwards - and I didn't know any other words.

King Lear -

Before Vicki booked our tickets for King Lear, the name Derek Jacobi meant nothing to me. Then I saw the King's Speech and I was able to put a face to the name - he was the old man, playing the Archbishop, yes, yes. Then, on the night of the play, I read the programme and I realised that I did know Derek Jacobi after all - he was the Master, pre-John Simm, in Doctor Who, isn't that funny?! All of which meant nothing when it came down to his performance in Lear; he was outstanding. The thing is, I have a funny relationship with King Lear. In my head it's hilarious; I think of A Level English Lit one-liners like, "Base, base, bastarding, base" and "Out, out vile jelly" and it cracks me up (we were a very odd English Lit class, probably a nightmare to teach). I remember the shambolic stage performance we saw in Chester in year twelve: the cello lady and the wailing during the storm scene and I can't help but smirk. But then I see a truly mind blowing performance like this and it reminds me all over again that King Lear is a play about betrayal and insanity and loneliness and it is dark and it is powerful and it is very sobering indeed (although, I do confess I smiled when Regan screamed, "Wherefore to Dover?"). I sat through Jacobi's performance on the storm-struck Heath, through his whispered, "blow wind and crack your cheeks" monologue and my mouth literally hung open. Wow. I actually cannot think up words enough to describe how good it was - only, I feel awfully sorry for those people who missed out on a performance later in the week, when Derek Jacobi lost his voice.

Batman the Pantomime -

(I decided I would spare you a shoddy photo - half featuring a blurred Charlotte, half featuring the back of somebody's head - for this one). Another wonderful OULES performance and hopefully not the last I will attend; I am honestly planning to make the trek down to Oxford next Christmas and Easter if I get the chance. If not, it was a very fitting end to my run as an Official Charlotte's Fan Club Ltd. member (sob). The cast seems to have swelled since Beauty and the Beast and I'm pleased to see it is doing so well (five stars in some Oxford University paper, don't you know). There were superheroes and villains, memorable songs, at least one reference to gin and Charlotte was a very victimised, not at all smiley victim. What more could you ask for?

The Mikado -

Okay, I admit it. Clearly it is not just my knowledge of highly regarded actors that is useless. I had never heard of Gilbert and Sullivan before today. Well, never heard of them is perhaps going a bit too far, but they were definitely muddled up with Gilbert and George at the back of my mind somewhere, if I knew them at all. Hence, Gabby's dad asking me at frequent points throughout the Mikado, "are you sure you don't know 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow' (etc.)?" Um, no, sorry. So how did I fare on this, my first Gilbert and Sullivan experience? Well actually, I loved it. The ENO put on such marvellous shows. The set was interesting (although I hear it is usually grander when the traditional Japanese stage-directions are used), the singers were excellent (I felt like Alfie Boe was a real celebrity opera singer, because I had seen him in the Les Mis 25th Anniversary concert and Ko-Ko reminded me of a friendly Severus Snape) and the songs were funny (although Gabby and I had no time for the Stephen Fry slander in the alternative "little list" song). Also, we went on a tour of the Coliseum beforehand and I'm pretty sure I was sitting on top of Fred, the resident ghost!

The 39 Steps -

Today we went to see the Mikado, which was planned. Today we also went to see The 39 Steps, which was very much not. I have been hoping to watch this play for quite some time now. Every time I walked past Piccadilly Circus I would look at the Criterion Theatre and think, "How? How can it possibly be the winner of the Best New Comedy award?", which would then fade into a steady internal grumble about John Buchan and the inevitability of war and bi-planes in the Scottish Highlands and so on. Thus, when Gabby's dad suggested over lunch that we found some tickets for this evening's performance, I was completely for it. And you know what? Shut up internal grumbles. It was very funny and very much deserving of its Best New Comedy award. Clearly it deviated from the Buchan novella and possibly from the film* as well (I'm not sure, I haven't seen it), but in many respects it was better than my memories of the book would allow. The fact that there are four actors to a dozen different parts and it is set in the funniest little theatre you could imagine, only add to the fun and the quick character cross-over scenes in the Scottish hotel? Well, they were my favourite. *(Edit: I have since seen the Alfred Hitchcock film version and it makes a lot more sense now. They are practically identical).

There are so many other things I want to see in the theatre this year, particularly before I leave London in the summer. I would love to see Benedict Cumberbatch in Frankenstein (although I fear that tickets are long since sold out for that), I want to see Matilda if and when it comes to London and I want to watch a play at the Globe. I am certainly off to a good start though.

Also, do you see how bad a student I am? I love everything. I find this every single week in my Literature and Film class. I am far too easily pleased. Other people come in and say, "well, I didn't think much of that", and I will always think to myself, "don't be silly, it wasn't that bad." My tutor will say, "I never watch films that are less than ten years old" and I will sit there and quietly pocket my Cineworld unlimited card. I suppose it makes my 'reviews' a bit untrustworthy/ overzealous, but at least I am always guarenteed my money's worth in life.