CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
I write this on the 1327 Cross Country service from Newcastle to Oxford, but I'll be publishing it from home. There doesn't appear to be any WiFi on this train, free or otherwise. Normally, I'd retract my earlier vitriolic ramblings towards East Coast Rail, but you know what? NO WiFi is better than shit Wifi. Because with no WiFi, I don't sit swearing for 15 minutes, willing it do do what it's supposed to. C'est la vie.
And so our week-away is over and we leisurely cruise our way back to Oxford. As much as I love Newcastle, it'll be good to get home again. I highly recommend The Staybridge, by the way. I've not got a massive history with hotels or hospitality, but I found it very relaxed there.
As you're aware, I've taken lots of photos this week, including an unfeasibly high number of a certain bridge (and there'll be more yet to come, by the time I've cropped and tweaked them). But it's not the architecture that makes the town for me, it's the people. These people, anyway:
Massive hugs go, as always, to my bro's, Porle and Ken. Carol and Nicky I know from old, and Lee, Michael and Emma I met for the first time (in person) this week. And because last night they witnessed Porle and myself's ear-bending rendition of Butterfly On A Wheel, and because they didn't throw objects to get us to stop, I love them all dearly. If I recall correctly, fact fans, last night was the first time in about 10 years that Necropolis have performed in front of an audience of any description. The Force willing, it won't be another 10 years before we do it again.
Train people:
1) There's a chap sitting opposite us (aged around 40-50) who's had to buy another ticket. He bought one online and printed it off but it's expired. The inspector-chap said to him "That's a day return and it's got yesterday's date on it". So what I think he's done is go from York to Newcastle yesterday, stay overnight, then try to blag the return journey today. Because logically, he'd have had to come up this morning and get away with using an out-of-date ticket. If he'd had it checked and approved on the way up today, he'd have mentioned this in his flimsy denial of any wrongdoing. Technicalities aside, he protested just the right amount for everyone in this end of the carriage to know fine-well that he'd been busted fair and square, and he fucking knew it. I concealed a smile, anyway.
2) There's a woman with her husband and child in the adjacent seating group. The child's about 6(ish), and is chatty in the way that kids are, but he's not loud and not annoying. Unlike his mother. Every time she tells him to be quiet, she does so in a voice that's much, much louder than his. So that people who haven't even noticed the young one's presence, are suddenly bombarded with this (not swearing, but certainly angry and overbearing) mother. The dad, meanwhile, hasn't uttered a sound. I suspect he's inwardly groaning and wondering how his life has lead him to this point. "Not everyone wants to hear your voice!" she informed her offspring. Meanwhile, the irony of her statement had grown so dense, it started to develop its own gravitational pull.
3) Who the hell gives an eight-year-old an iPad? I mean, she's not exactly 'throwing it around', but it'll end in tears, you mark my words. It's not a fucking Etch-a-Sketch.
4) Two girls got on the train at Derby. A newspaper and an empty Stella bottle had been left on the seats where they wanted to sit. One of the girls picked these up, walked down the carriage in our direction and found another empty seat to put them on. In doing this, she walked further than she would have if she'd just gone back to the door she came in through and put them in the fucking bin, the idiot. No, I didn't say anything. Why should I intervene? If evolution takes its course, it'll be that same stupidity that gets her killed and removes her from the gene pool.
Everyone else on the train is fine. The fact that I can have a beer when I witness these things, is the only reason I tolerate train travel. Well, that and the fact that I don't drive; but then I couldn't have a beer there. Apparently. And all that remains is for me to thank the people who've made this week so great, and you dear reader, for wading through this every day (if this is the first of my posts you've read, why not go back to The Age of Steam, and earn yourself that thank you?).
Normal blog posts will now resume: Film reviews, Star Wars ramblings, and general complaining about people annoying me.
Cheers.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Took some photos today. There'll be more to follow, but for now...
I know what you're thinking; a little bleak; and you're probably right. But there's so much more to think about in those parts of town. There are plenty of colourful, lively parts in Newcastle, but during the day those are the shopping areas. And for the most part, they look just like every other town in the UK.
Look around you.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
I saw someone break their arm tonight. I had to try very hard not to laugh.
We were standing outside Trillians in Newcastle, while Myllyr and Emma finished their cigarettes, when a man came towards us with a bunch of flyers in his hand. Now, after I'd recently come to the conclusion that I'm getting too old to be handing out flyers and that, here was a slightly overweight man, easily in his mid to late 50's, who wouldn't look at all out of place in a working men's club, handing out flyers. The other thing that stuck out to me is, he had a Burzum t-shirt on.
Now I listened to some Black Metal back in the day (early to mid 1990's), and I've still got some Mayhem and Cradle of Filth shirts kicking around, although I don't really wear them. The point is, if I did wear a Burzum shirt, although I wouldn't look like someone who was into them, I'd at least look like someone who used to be. This looked like a fat man in an inappropriate t-shirt. As he approached us, he said:
"I'm probably ganna get bollocked for this but there's four great bands on over at the Venue..."
As there were bands on in Trillians, this chap was basically trying to poach punters from one venue to another. It's one thing to flyer for an upcoming gig, but another one completely to do it on the night, at a venue with a band playing. He was about to go into Trillians when Karma intervened...
He went to skip up the step and into the venue, but tripped and went down like a sack of shit. Right on his front, face first. He didn't put his arms up/forward to protect himself, he just fell, lay still, then rolled over onto his back with his hand on his face. When he didn't get up, the doorman got off his chair and came over:
"Y'aalright there, mate?" "C**T!"
He then lay there, out of breath, holding his face and saying "…bastard!" over and over again. None of this was aimed at the doorman, by the way. I initially thought he'd broken his nose, as he was making noises about "does it look broken?", but apparently he meant his upper arm. There was a swelling mid-way between his elbow and his shoulder that looked like he was smuggling an egg, so I suspect it was broken. We had to go in then, before I burst out laughing. Not at his pain, or even his hubris, but at the fact that post-fall, he communicated purely by expletives. We're in Newcastle.
The rest of the night was a good laugh, with a girl-band who had a drummer that looked like a bit like a transvestite, followed by a guy-band who all wore red trousers. Don't know the band-names, sorry. They were alright, though. There were a couple of weirdos threatening to sour the evening, but that's to be expected anywhere, not just the Toon.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
All hail the hairy one! Half bear, half dog, all awesome.
This is the first Star Wars figure I ever got. It was after I'd seen and obsessed over the film. My Dad bought him for me from a toy shop in Newcastle. As I recall, Luke Skywalker followed a few weeks afterwards, then R2-D2. After that? All of them, but I can't remember the order, obviously. Chewbacca was always my Dad's favourite. I'm not sure if that's why I got him first, or if he was just the only figure there at the time. Either way, him being my first figure is a bit like the way you remember your first pet. He had plenty of adventures on his own until his mates came along.
Birth of a Wookiee Inspired by George Lucas' Malamute, Indiana (yes, as in: "Indiana? We named the dog Indiana..."), Han Solo's partner and co-pilot was going to be the shaggy sidekick to the lizard smuggler (as in, Solo was going to be a lizard. Not that he was going to smuggle lizards. That sounds like a euphemism). Concept drawings by Joe Johnston and Ralph McQuarrie quickly defined the look of the Wookiee, and once the 7'3" Peter Mayhew had been cast, the suit was crafted from woven Mohair and Yak Hair, and his voice created by Ben Burtt.
Wrath of a Wookiee The amazing thing is, for the most of A New Hope, you shouldn't even like Chewbacca. He's surly, overbearing, sits threateningly at Solo's side in the cantina, intimidates the droids during the holo-chess game onboard the Falcon and isn't afraid to pick up a blaster and start killing at a moment's notice. It's only his rarer moments of confiding with Solo that let us know he's not a complete beast ("Get in there, I don't care what you smell" and "What? I know what I'm doing..."). That, and his eyes. When Mayhew puts on the suit (as he's said on many occasions), he becomes Chewie. And the intelligence that shines from the Wookiee's eyes lets us know that me may be an animal, but he's only wild when he wants to be.
Family of a Wookiee Yeah, we're back there again, I'm afraid. In 1978, The Star Wars Holiday Special showed us what domestic life on the Wookiee homeworld of Kashyyyk is really like. As derided as it's been, the HS has been accepted into Canon, as has the idea that Chewie has a family (that he spends a huge amount of time away from).By the time we met Chewie in ANH, he was already 200 years old (first stated on-record in 'The Making Of Star Wars' documentary from 1977), which in Wookiee terms makes him a young adult. With this in mind his family, comprises of his wife, Malla, who watches cookery shows. His son, Lumpy, plays with his toys and watches acrobatic holovids. It's all very nice apart from his scary terrifying dad, Itchy, who watches creepy videos in the living room. I'm not sure how to describe this, so see for yourself.
Haircut of a Wookiee So, what do you do when you want to put a new twist on a character who doesn't wear clothes? The action figure remained the same for the first three movies (rectified by Hasbro in the late 1990's, of course, with versions featuring death-star-binders, Boushh's-slave-chain and "some snow"). Well, before all that, you could always give him a flat-top and dye some patches of his hair? In 1996's Shadows of the Empire, Chewie circumvents Imperial security by disguising himself as Snoova, a famous Wookiee bounty hunter (rem yeah, I hadn't heard of him either). This subterfuge was the basis of Leia being disguised as Boushh in RotJ, since she already had the outfit from the SotE mission.
Death of a Wookiee In 1999, something traumatic happened (which was pretty much eclipsed by Jar Jar Binks). The R.A.Salvatore book, Vector Prime, was published by Del Rey, set 21 years after the events of Return of the Jedi. At the climax of the story, Chewbacca saves Han Solo's son, Anakin, by throwing him aboard the Millennium Falcon to avoid being killed as the planet of Sernpidal is destroyed. Chewbacca didn't make it to safety. This caused genuine concern (read: "outrage") in the fan-community at the time, some of which still hasn't abated. Due to the nature of the SW timeline, stories have been published since which feature in years prior to his death. But the Han Solo in the years that follow is a shadow of his former self, unable to come to terms with the loss of his best friend.
Return of the Wookiee A prime example of his continuation is in 2005's Revenge of the Sith, where the appearance of Kashyyyk paved the way for the return of everyone's favourite Wookiee. Peter Mayhew returned to play Chewie in a briefer role, with a new suit that kept him cooler than the '77 model. Bearing in mind that a 178yr old Wookiee looks pretty much the same as a 200yr old one, nothing needed to be changed cosmetically. Even after 28 years, the Chewbacca we see onscreen in RotS is undisputably Mayhew's.
Let the Wookiee win... Chewbacca has also made an appearance in this year's Clone Wars finale. The guys and girls at Lucasfilm have finally worked out how to animate fur (and still have it look like a Wookiee), and included him in the season-finalÈ. Peter Mayhew was called in as a consultant to advise on bringing Chewie to life (not for motion-capture, just for mannerisms). Amazingly, they nailed it. The CGI Chewie manages to capture the essence of Chewbacca perfectly, and is a sign of the continuing greatness of this series.
All that remains is for me to thank Mr Peter Mayhew, one of the best and most humble ambassadors for Star Wars we have. The man that brought one of my favourite characters to life. Thank you, sir.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Photos and videos appearing in this blog post are for informational and reference purposes only, and no ownership of copyright is claimed or implied by me. The intellectual and physical copyright of such material belongs to its creators and owners.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Miss Magpie and myself went round the shops of Newcastle today. I was looking for Star Wars stuff (and was semi-successful).
For Miss Magpie, it was shopping and exploration, for me it was shopping and nostalgia. It's been a long time since I hung out on these streets every Saturday, but even so I'm saddened to see neglected buildings in place of the places I loved. It's one thing when JJB Sports is in the unit of the old Our Price in Eldon Square, but it's something else when this is what's become of the Odeon Cinema…
I'll write more about this in a separate blog, but I saw Return of the Jedi for the first time, here. The cinema has long since relocated, of course, and it's not like there's nowhere for film-lovers in Newcastle, but this is essentially a snapshot of the West half of Pilgrim Street. Entire blocks are abandoned and covered in builders hoardings. For the most part, it even looks like the scaffolding's given up. It's not the progress I resent (other parts of Newcastle are beautifully busy, if completely commercial), it's the dereliction of this area, while new-builds are taking place elsewhere. *shrugs* In other news, I learned today that the percentage of Forbidden Planet Newcastle customers with personal hygiene issues is roughly the same as Forbidden Planet London! Someone in that shop fucking stank. And it's not like there was an old tramp in there. The guy I narrowed the whiff down to looked fairly normal, he just had more bacteria. It would barely be worth mentioning, only this was the third shop in a row that we had to leave because of someone stinking. That bad. I kid you not. And it wasn't the same person each time (and no, it wasn't me. I even stopped to consider that at one point).
Other than that, a fairly successful day. We looked around the Laing Art Gallery (free entry, and free screaming child in an echoing space, making me think I was having some sort of horror flashback). I got a Star Wars figure (Bespin Guard, human) and some new shoes. I'm actually more excited about the shoes, and that's not allowed for blokes, is it..?
Off out tonight to meet friends. I'll tell you about that tomorrow. Well, I say 'tell', I'll probably post some photos and pretend I can remember what happened.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
(or Goodbye Broons, Hello BROON!)
And so, from the city where my father was born, to the one where I was. I lived just outside Newcastle for the first few months of my life, then we moved to just outside Durham (around 13 miles south) and moved house a couple of times more over the years, but always stayed around Durham / Chester-le-Street. When relocated down to Kent in '93, it was easier just to tell people I was from Newcastle because a) it's technically true, b) a lot of people in the south have no fucking clue where Durham is, and c) if you say "County Durham" with a Northern accent, an alarming number of Southeners hear the word 'county' and an accent they can't place, then ask what part of Ireland that is. I wish I was kidding.
It's also worth pointing out that since the Tyne Bridge is on the label (and indeed, cap) of a bottle of Newcastle Brown, that visual reminder is what's stayed with me over the years, and I do get a little misty-eyed every time I see it in front of me (the bridge, not the beer. Well, actually…). So Newcastle is, from a certain point of view, home. Even though I only really know my way around the city centre. And even though I haven't spent any significant amount of time here for so long that everything in the city centre has changed, and there's not much need to know my way around.
We'll be doing a bit of the cultural thing here (and there's plenty of it), but I think what I'm looking forward to the most is catching up with friends, old and new. You'll hear about that.
The journey from Edinburgh to Newcastle was uneventful, by the way, other than a high percentage of rail passengers who are apparently unable to lock a toilet door. There was not only the woman who huffily and hurriedly closed the door in my face when I almost inadvertently revealed her to the people at that end of the carriage, but I saw this happen several times over a 90min journey. I can understand why she closed the door, of course, but I thought the angry sigh was a bit fucking rich. Don't take it out on me because you don't know how the lock works. I only hope she's learned her lesson and will in future either sing constantly at a loud volume throughout any toilet motions, or will perhaps phone her travelling companion from within the toilet and get them to confirm that the door is locked and the 'engaged' light is showing on the outside. Perhaps it would be easier for that companion just to accompany her and stand guard outside the toilet, letting prospective users know that "Sorry, there's someone in there, and she doesn't know how to lock the door. If you'd like to take your seat, I'll give you a shout when she's finished."
I shouldn't have a go just at this incapable woman though, because as I said, it happened to other people as well. Was the lock difficult to master? Did the lock require a coin, or a special key from the train conductor? Did you have to solve a puzzle from The Crystal Maze in order to activate the locking mechanism? Was there perhaps a troll or a wizard who asks you a question and won't lock the door without a correct answer?
No, none of these. You turn the handle round and the door locks, and a light comes on outside telling people they can't come in. It is, as the bastard meerkats on the television say, simples. With that in mind, it's amazing how you can convince the public they need insurance from an unfunny talking meerkat, when they can't lock a toilet door. This should tell you all you need to know about people, I think.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Another beautiful day in the hilly city of Edinburgh, and we've got a couple of hours to kill before our train. That in mind, I'm sitting in the park on Princes Street, self-indulgently reflecting on my time here, whilst I listen to a very average bagpipe player up by Waverley Station. He's better than some we've heard, but he's still very average.
It's occurred to me this morning that while I've certainly enjoyed Edinburgh, I don't feel like I've really connected with it at all. It's not the first time I've been here, but as there's been a 21 year gap, it may as well be for all that I remember about it. I've got distant family in this part of the world (not in Edinburgh itself, otherwise I'd have met up with them), and it's where my Dad was born, but I definitely feel like a visitor. I suppose unless you're spending time with family, when you're visiting the city and being in the same places as the tourists, you are a tourist. I don't feel any shame in that, I just thought something might click into place while I was here.
In other news, I remembered to count the number of pubs and bars on Leith Walk, this morning. Twenty three, most of which were open and populated. And with the sole exception of the Theatre Royal bar, there isn't one (not. one.) that I'd consider safe. The 'posh' pubs are the ones that don't have bars (iron or concrete) across the windows. Seriously. I know I keep mentioning it, and I know it sounds snobby, but there's something very scary about a mile-long street of people getting pissed before 10:30am. For once, I'm not even jealous.
Oh, also worth mentioning: They've got free wi-fi in Princes Street Gardens, Edinburgh. Free, mind. East Coast Rail can definitely fuck off. Got to use their train again shortly. Hmmmf.
Goodbye Scotland. It's been emotional.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
These words come to you from The Elephant House, on Edinburgh's George IV Bridge. This coffee shop is where J.K.Rowling used to come to when she was writing the first Harry Potter book. Other authors who've worked here include Ian Rankin and Alexander McCall-Smith. And now me. Just as I'm a volcano-climber, I'm also now as officially a writer as I'm going to get. It's difficult being this great, but I'm managing.
The Elephant House is rather nice, just on the comfortable-side of 'quirky'. The food's great and arrived quickly, but if the counter service is is a little more "leisurely". We queued there for 10 minutes easily, and there were only two customers in front of us. No wonder Ms Rowling had time to write a fucking book...
This is our last full day in Edinburgh, and we did the touristy-thing of walking around the castle and taking photos of everything. Not that anyone could criticise, as we were surrounded by a) other tourists, and b) the staff of the castle, who are effectively profiteering from us. As clichéd as it is, I highly recommend the castle if you get the chance. The views alone are worth it, but there are a lot of exhibitions too, as well as the National War Museum.
After the castle, it was a walk down to Greyfriars and a mooch about the vintage-shops in Grassmarket. I've enjoyed Edinburgh very much, and will definitely return. Although I may go for a city-centre hotel the next time round. The part where we're staying (opposite Leith Links) is fine, and obviously Edinburgh is lovely, but Leith Walk in the middle is fucking terrifying.
I other news, my crippling hangover lasted until the early afternoon, and I honestly thought I was going to throw up on our way into town this morning. Since I caught the sun on my mountaineering jaunt the other day, this would have resulted in a man with a bright red nose, being sick in the street before 10am. The people of Leith would have embraced me as one of their own.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to Adam…
…aka BawBag™ (his choice of pseudonym, not mine). We went to The Academy together, as well as hanging out at Lucasforums for a few years.
Ours was (IS) a bromance born eight years ago, of drinking, swearing and Star Wars (in common with a lot of my friends), and this man is at least partially responsible for the best/worst hangover I've had for some considerable time. Ow. Ow, my fucking head.
We met last night for the first time in real life at The Conan Doyle in Edinburgh, which rounded off a day of Miss Magpie and myself strolling around Princes Street and Rose Street, spending a bit of time in The National Gallery of Scotland, then heading up The Royal Mile for something to eat.
They've got some decent beer at The Conan Doyle, including the one that's made my head hurt.
If you ever fancy hanging around a Jedi Outcast/Jedi Academy server with someone who enjoys beating the shit out of people with lightsabers, I can give no higher recommendation than BawBag™
Day three? Dehydrating.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Wear sensible footwear • Take plenty of provisions and equipment • Always follow the path
These are just three of the mountaineering-rules I didn't follow properly today when I climbed a volcano. A pair of trainers, a bottle of water, and a "ooh, is that the path? [2 minutes later, clambering over rock] Ah, no. No it isn't..." attitude got me 251m (823ft) above the city.
Not the flat ledge at the front, but the highest of the two peaks behind it. That's Arthur's Seat, an long-extinct volcano in Edinburgh. I'll be honest, I'm gutted it's not classified as a mountain as I really wanted to put '& Mountaineer' on my business card. Ah well.
Miss Magpie and myself started around 12:45, and I was at the peak at 1:20 or so. Miss Magpie climbed about 66% of a volcano today, before deciding to rest and enjoy the scenery. I won't lie, I was a little short for breath at the top.
So with the 1½ mile walk from Leith into town, the same back again, the walk up and around Regent Gardens and on to Holyrood Palace and up the Royal Mile then half way back down again, we've probably done around 8-9 miles. Early night, then into town tomorrow!
Day two? Tiring.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
So, first night in Edinburgh, a little tired from the travelling, and we didn't want to go too far from the guest-house. Looking at a map, we aren't too far from the Leith Waterfront, which we've been led to believe has been all redeveloped and that. So, rather than openly carry a map around in the early evening (may as well hold up a sign saying 'please mug me'), we judge the general direction and set off for a stroll.
I'm going to go out on a limb (an unresearched limb at that), and say that we had to walk through the old town before we got to the waterfront. We passed probably eight or nine pubs, none of which looked remotely safe. You know that bit in Trainspotting? "Pardon me, may I use your bathroom?" Yeah, all like that or worse.
All of a sudden, we came to a very respectable looking street of bars and bistros opposite the river, which we guessed is the waterfront. We looked over the bridge, but it seemed to go all residential and scary again, so we stuck to this street for the evening. After a walk up and down, The Shore looked worth a punt, and we popped in for a pint of 80/-. Well, I say popped in, we sat outside as it was packed. Looking at the well-to-do bar, Miss Magpie said to me before we entered "Do you think we'll be horrified by the prices?". To which I answered "I get the impression that in Leith, we'll either be horrified by the prices, or horrified by their knives. There seem to be no half-measures here." Friendly staff in The Shore, and two drinks were under £8, so it's already better than anywhere in London.
After being (politely) pestered by a man asking for money to feed his dog (and definitely not his habit), we headed along to a bar called The Waterline, and settled in with some Belhaven Rabbie (very much like Newcastle Brown). Again, a lovely bar, very friendly. A little more pricey than The Shore, but I was on bottled beer, so it's to be expected.
After a while, a pub-golf group came in. I've nothing against pub crawls, and this lot were well behaved, but they were in for ages. This seemed to suggest that as far as the "nice" pubs go, there really is just that street, and a large group of blokes in their mid-20's don't want to go into the regular pubs of Leith. I can't say I blame them.
An acoustic covers duo, The Jaywalkers started up, and we spent the rest of the evening watching them. Miss Magpie has started hearing things in Scotch, and when they introduced their rendition of Bob Dylan's Hey Mr Tambourine Man, she genuinely heard it as Hamish The Tambourine Man. I think it would be marvellous if all bands in Scotland had to adapt their cover versions to be overtly Scotch.
She asked if they knew any Del Amitri, and before you shout cliché, the singer said they only know one. He later said that he'd left the words at home so they couldn't do it. I was under the impression that any band playing within the boundaries of Scotland was legally obliged to know at least 80% of Del Amitri's back catalogue, but evidently not. That's like any band who plays London not knowing Chas & Dave songs, I ask you.
The Jaywalkers are very good, by the way, and seem wasted playing covers. They could quite easily have slipped some original songs into their set, but hey ho. So after a very chilled evening, we took a chilling walk back through the old town and briskly walked through a deserted Claremont Park to the guest house.
Day one? A success.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
I'm on a train as I write this. The excitement, eh? Whizzing through the English countryside at speeds approaching the limits the frail human condition can stand! Isn't it..? Hmm? Nah, me neither, really.
As we left King's Cross, I picked up my copy of Andrew Martin's 'The Necropolis Railway', a Victorian murder mystery set around the railway sheds of Waterloo, and the passenger opposite me was reading some book or other about 'Great Rail Journeys of the UK' that she'd bought from WHS (sticker still on the front). Distracted by the movement, and looking out of the window of this unfamiliar train, the landscape got greener as we got faster and left London behind. It occurred to me that we'd be in Edinburgh in just four and a half hours, and how marvellous these new fangled trains are! Maybe I should pull out my laptop and fuse the age of steam with this digital contraption at my fingertips? At the very least, I should see if I can get free WiFi*.
And so, I opened the computer and set about writing a piece regarding my childhood fascination with all things rail-based… Then I remembered I'm not that fussed about them, actually.
As a nipper, we made most of our journeys by car, with my mum taking the wheel for journeys around as far south as Scarborough, and as far north as Edinburgh (we lived just outside of Durham, so that's about a 150 mile radius, I think). Day trips to Blackpool (and there were many) were courtesy of Bob Smith's Coaches of Langley Park, and once I was old enough to be knocking about on my own, I'd get the bus over to Newcastle for records and beer etc. There is a train line that runs from Durham, through Chester-le-Street and into Newcastle, but we just used to end up getting the bus (the cheaper, but slower option). I think the train stations seemed so far away from where we wanted to be that we couldn't be arsed to walk the extra distance, and pay more for the journey.
On the occasions that we went on holiday 'daan saaf', we got the train if it was with my parents, but went by coach if it was with my grandparents. My granda had a great distrust of trains. "You don't know where they're going," he'd say, "there's nothing on the front like there is with a bus." The big boards with the destinations, stops and platform numbers would be pointed out to him, but four-wheels was his style, and he preferred the coach (after a life of pit-work, he worked in the garage of Bob Smith's and got a lot of free travel. Being "coaches" rather than "buses", they frequently didn't have the destination on the front either, but if you're in another town and you see a Bob Smith's bus, I guess that's the one you want. Either way, I suspect the irony was lost on him, sadly).
It wasn't until I moved to Margate in 1993 that I started getting the train regularly. I got a job over in Whitstable, and the easiest way to work was to get the Connex SE (at the time) line along the Kent Coast which travels from Ramsgate to Victoria. it was only a 20 minute journey, but I felt like a proper commuter. Which is to say it quickly became expensive, tedious and in no way 'exciting'. There's very little excitement to be had waiting for your delayed train due to some selfish bastard who's jumped in front of a train, apparently so wrapped up in themselves, that they don't stop to consider me getting home from work as a priority. Honestly, I ask you. I made the commute until early 2000 when the business moved down to Broadstairs, which was close enough for me to cycle (and sometimes walk) every day.
Once I moved to Oxford in 2001, I was using the train for visits down to Margate, and quick jaunts into central Oxford and Reading. But still no great train romance, and I'm so used to the journey I just blank it out most of the time with a book or my laptop. Like I'm doing now. Oh.
Anyway, I'm on my way to Scotland (then Newcastle) with Miss Magpie, for a week of mooching around and doing touristy things and that. I haven't been to Edinburgh since around 1990, so I'm not going to try and remember any of it (in fact, these may be the last words of mine you read, when I'm stabbed in a pub for having an English accent. I know what you're thinking, "oh, you shouldn't say things like that". But me saying things like that is my insurance policy. My way of making sure it doesn't happen, because that would be ironic, wouldn't it? So ironic, in fact, that it's probably more likely to happen because of me writing this. Oh). And like the bad Geordie I am, I haven't spent any leisure-time in Newcastle for the best part of 8 years, either. I shall pay my penance in many public houses, I assure you.
I'll be posting up a few photos of things that catch my eye (so probably bad grammar on signage, rather than breathtaking architecture), as will Miss Magpie. Her pictures will be prettier than mine, but they'll be taken in the same places. Think of it like a comics-crossover. Like when Marvel did Secret Wars, and everyone was appearing in everyone else's comics. Only there'll probably be less superheroes in mine...
Anyway, I'm going to go and enjoy the train journey now, and pretend I'm not trapped in a speeding metal tube with jabbering children and a lady sitting opposite me who, while she's pleasant enough, won't keep still (and hasn't even started her new book about 'Great Rail Journeys of the UK'. The sticker on the front of her book was 'Buy One, Get One Half Price', but I've no idea what other book she bought. She's not reading that one either).
The only age of steam I shall be experiencing is if I buy a coffee from the pleasant man with his inconvenient snack-chariot.
Post Script: Left Oxford, beautiful sunny day, looking to be a scorcher in the afternoon. Arrived in Edinburgh, pissing with rain, go figure. Many thanks go to the beautiful people of Twitter for letting me know that it's Summer in the South, and Grim Up North. Always.
*Oh, and East Coast Railway? If you're going to offer 15 minutes of free WiFi, maybe you should make it not shit-slow and laggy and barely connectable. That way, I might be tempted to actually pay for some extra minutes. As it stands? Fuck you, I'll be posting this up at Starbucks. Cross Country offer free WiFi for the whole journey, and web pages load in under a minute! Tch.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
As you've probably gathered by now, I'm frequently a Star Wars apologist. That's mainly because I don't enjoy slagging off the things I love (picking holes, though? not the same), but also because I'm always finding more things to love about it. Let's face it, SW doesn't need slagging off by me. There are already plenty of outgoing souls on the internets, ready to brave the criticism of their peers by tearing a strip off of arguably the most successful and influential film series of all time.
And I know, you should never go beneath the line, Which is to say 'the comments section'. For beneath the line, there lie the trolls; ready to vent their ill-informed, mis-judged opinions. This applies to the entire internet. The more room for outspoken idiocy, the worse it gets (eg. any story on immigration or asylum). On this occasion, however, I have ventured into the 'invitation to cretins' sections, purely to illustrate my point for the entry. Honestly? I didn't have to look very hard.
The following comments appeared this year under news stories related to SW. A small-but-vocal minority aren't concerned with the quality of the Special Editions or the Prequel Trilogy (although there are plenty of those as well), but about something more specific. See if you can get the drift:
This is from the story on Den of Geek about the release of Star Wars on BluRay.
This one is from a story on CNet about the Star Wars films returning to cinemas in 3D, starting with The Phantom Menace.
And this particular piece of genius, is a commenter on an IGN story, about a billionaire donating half of his money to charity. Yes, you read that right. AdioRocks doesn't think that's enough. He/she evidently either gives billions to charity every year, or over 50% of his/her earnings, anyway.
Yes, this is about the common misconception that George Lucas is a greedy man. According to the naysayers, he loves nothing more than ways of dreaming up schemes for fleecing money out of gullible fans, with barely any concern for the quality of the product. He probably has a vault filled with money which he dives into like Scrooge McDuck! Why, you've only got to look at the way he behaves in public to see that he's spending his ill-gotten gains almost faster than he can accumulate them!
You probably know which side of the fence I'm on. I'm going to explain why, in my humble opinion, not only are these (and many other) commenters incorrect, but also short-sighted, spiteful idiots. *breathes*
George Lucas didn't get into movies to make money; What he wanted to do was tell stories. Rather than work in his father's hardware store, he graduated USC as a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Film in '67. He directed two feature films to great acclaim, THX-1138 and American Graffiti, then started work on a story which had been knocking around his head for a few years. Star Wars. The success of his first two films gave him some leeway with getting studio attention, but all they were really interested in was a finished movie.
Star Wars was an ambitious project, to say the least, and he was hampered by studio interference all the way. The things he wanted to commit to film couldn't be just accomplished in 1975, so rather than compromise his vision, he started his own companies to create the tools that would do the job. Skywalker Sound, Industrial Light and Magic, THX Sound, LucasArts, and recently Lucasfilm Animation were all created not to keep costs down, but because there weren't any others doing what was needed.
Over the years, these companies have worked extensively both outside of the Star Wars universe, and for other film-makers. ILM have become industry leaders in visual effects. The Abyss, Terminator 2, Jurassic Park, Pirates of the Caribbean and Rango would all have looked completely different (if they were feasible at all) without ILM's involvement. Skywalker Sound is also industry-leading in its complete audio creation and production services. Its technicians and staff have won or been nominated for an Oscar every year since 1977.
Every advance that Lucas' companies have made has been shared with the industry (yes, at a price, that's how business works).
These companies exist to share the technology. For years, GL's companies have been behind the major steps in the making and showing of feature films (including the push to get digital projection into cinemas, necessary to display the current wave of 3D movies).*1
The film industry would not be where it is today without the work (and money) of George Lucas.
Outside his work life, he's always been a champion of education and educational charities. In 2005, he gave $1 million to help build the Martin Luther King, Jr. National Memorial in Washington D.C. To quote Wiki: "On September 19, 2006, USC announced that George Lucas had donated $175–180 million, to expand the film school."
Then, in 2010, George Lucas pledged half his fortune to The Giving Pledge, a movement which donates money to charitable and philanthropic causes.
Sharp-eyed readers will recall not reading about Lucas turning up at premieres in a Hawaiian shirt, chicks on each arm, a massive cigar, and a swimming pool the size of a football pitch. He's not interested in that. He wants to keep telling stories, and let others tell their stories more clearly. If you don't like his stories, that's a different matter altogether. Leaving all of this aside; even if George Lucas was the most blatantly greedy slimebag on the face of the planet; even if he kept changing and re-releasing Star Wars purely so he could heat his house by burning £100 bills; here's the news, naysayers:
You don't have to spend any more money on Star Wars! You can be perfectly happy with the versions you've got in your house.
No-one's forcing you to watch 'new' Star Wars. Or to moan about it.
Thank you.
*1 Speaking of which, GL's imminent forthcoming release of the Star Wars films in 3D won't be using the standard conversion technology for movies shot in 2D. For the 3D releases, Lucas had ILM build a system from the ground-up. He wants Star Wars to be in 3D on his terms, because it can look better than the current conversions (eg: Clash of the Titans).
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Photos and videos appearing in this blog post are for informational and reference purposes only, and no ownership of copyright is claimed or implied by me. The intellectual and physical copyright of such material belongs to its creators and owners.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
A lot of other reviews have focused on the Scream Trilogy's deconstruction of the genre, and how it started cleverly but tailed off towards the third film. If I'm being entirely honest, I enjoyed that aspect in the first film, but thought it was already lazy by the second, never mind the third. Especially with Wes Craven's New Nightmare pulling much the same trick around much the same time. This fourth instalment is so self-referential that they've forgotten to put the tension in the film that would make it work.
For a movie that enjoys claiming it's rewriting the rules, it's surprisingly identical to its predecessors. If you can leave behind the constant exposition and identikit cast, it's okay.
Anyhow, this is the first Scream I've seen in the cinema. My introduction to slasher-horror was through home video, and for the most part, that's the way I like it. The thought (and indeed the minimal experience I've had) of sitting in a room of jumping, screaming people failing to be able watch a film fills me with dread. Sadly, it's the only dread I did feel tonight. Even the rest of the audience behaved themselves for the most part. The jumps and shrieks are in the right places, but only (as is becoming too frequent for my liking), if you haven't seen many horror movies before. The cast are competent in what they're doing, and the editing and direction seems fine. But then, it did in the other films, too. It's the concept that needs an overhaul.
I can't work out if it's a good thing that the film knows it's by-the-numbers. Probably not, though. Speaking of numbers, putting that many references to Facebook and Twitter into your movie will date it faster than calling it Scream 2011. Props also go to Woodsboro police force for allowing everyone in the neighbourhood to contaminate a crime scene. No wonder they keep getting killed as fast as the kids…
I didn't expect a lot, and I wasn't let down. Oh, as a side note: There are sixteen stabbings in this film, thirteen of which are fatal. There are also two gun deaths, one is a chest-shot, one a head-shot, both at point blank range and both fully shown on camera. That's a bodycount of fifteen people, killed by real-world weapons (ie not by the supernatural etc). The BBFC have rated this film Certificate 15 as it "Contains strong violence, gore and language". I'm not having a go at them for that. I understand that times are changing and kids are exposed to horrible things on the news on a daily basis. But…
The same BBFC have also rated Your Highness a Certificate 15, as it "Contains strong language, sex references and comic bloody violence". Which, if you read my review, basically means is has the fuck-word in it a lot. Again, I can't blame the BBFC for this as the film seems to have intentionally bad language just to raise the certificate.
But isn't there something a little bit fucked up with a system that puts the lazy use of bad language and fifteen explicit onscreen deaths in the same bracket? DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
