The final episode of Casanova (I accidentally typed 'epidose' then, which was curiously apt), was blimmin' marvellous. I am not ashamed to say I wept a manly tear, and then, as blokes do, got quite angry afterwards and flicked V-signs at the telly when some Vatican-style Big Hat made a statement about the new Pope having to keep the moral agenda maintained by the old one. Because lying to an entire continent about the effectiveness of condoms against AIDS is quite enormously moral, isn't it? The spokesman then went on to say that in all likelihood, the new Pope would continue to 'hassle the gayers'. Which is clearly my job, only I do it in an affectionate way, which is much better all round.
I can't stand the way the religous right go on about the 'moral majority', as though anyone who can, you know, grasp the concept of basic evolutionary theory, has necessarily jettisoned any concepts of morality or spirituality along with it. Wankers.
On a separate note:
Never mind that shit, what people really want to know is, how can your shirt be so very neatly pressed when there be not a solitary iron in the entirety of your hotel? Hmm?
The answer is simple, my friend, I purchased a travel iron, of noticeable dinkiness.
Did you buy any other undersized travel items for your week-long stay in London Village?
I did, thanks for asking. I purchased a very small can of deoderant, and a tiny tube o'toothpaste.
Did you line them up on the shelf and use the miracle of perspective to pretend your hotel room was much bigger than it really is?
Yes. Although it also looked like I'd mugged a gnome.
Isn't it a bit weird, conducting an imaginary interview with yourself, on a blog already devoted to furthering your growing egomania?
Yes.
NB: Felinity asked when you'll see me at one of these awards ceremonies. The answer, quite possibly, is 'never'. Not, sadly, due to any kind of dignified moral stance, but a weird kind of reverse stage fright where I get so squeamishly embarassed on behalf of the people trying to be funny when they present the awards, only to be met by a wall of sullen silence, that I have to run around in very small circles with my fists clenched until I've calmed down.
I have to go and hide in the toilets at weddings when people make their speeches. Funerals are ok, as people rarely try and be funny at those.
So if you do ever see me at an awards ceremony, you'll know it's one I really really wanted. Or I've made a duplicate me, out of Lego.
11 comments:
I've been to funerals where people tell jokes - probably a down-to-earth kiwi type of thing to do i reckon. don't think it would take off for english funerals.
Yes, there's lots of room for funny reminscences at funerals, but for some reason, at funerals people tend to be funny rather than try to entertain - which is a crucial difference. Whereas at weddings and awards, there's such an arms-crossed, come-on-entertain-me vibe, that only the truly skilled at public speaking can excell.
Stephen Fry, of course, is a genius at this sort of thing. Lord love the man.
A small can of deodorant, a travel iron, and a tiny tube of toothpaste... but no aloe vera cream?
Talk about basic accomodation...
An approach to wedding speeches that has worked well in the past for me is to stay in the pub, drinking and eating ham, egg and chips until all danger of speeches is past.
Then you can go to the hotel, secure a G&T and ensconce yourself in a comfy seat.
We are of a like mind, you and I. This is why the friendship works.
I brought the aloe vera with me by the way - wouldn't want anyone to worry.
Jen: I'm always minty fresh, as well you know.
Did anyone else get annoyed with the evil Eastenders trail and voiceover that came on during the credits of Casanova? There I was, crying happily on the sofa, slowly coming back to the real world, only to be told to watch Eastenders tomorrow while some bloke called Phil started shouting. If I was Russell T Davies and had written such a cracking episode, I'd be mightily pissed off.
Bloody hell yes, I'd forgotten about that. There should have been a black screen and a string quartet for thirty seconds to allow people to decompress, not an clumsy, gear-crunching from a very moving episode of well-written/acted telly to a fat stubbly shouting baby-man being cockney without prevarication. Now I'm angry again. Bah.
A man who has the chance to go to ceremonies, and yet chooses not to. *sigh*.
Can I have your ticket for the next one you don't go to?
Of course the other reason is that I never get invited anyway...
...a weird kind of reverse stage fright where I get so squeamishly embarassed on behalf of the people trying to be funny when they present the awards, only to be met by a wall of sullen silence, that I have to run around in very small circles with my fists clenched until I've calmed down.
I know exactly what you mean. I do it too, except also with characters in books and on tv shows. If they do something I would find embarrassing to do, I can't cope and have to run out of the room. Or throw the book across the room. It depends.
"don't think it would take off for english funerals."
No, you're probably right... with the exception of Graham Chapman's, of course. I don't think I've ever seen a joke told at any other funeral, ever.
Shame really.
Post a Comment