We was getting nowhere

For the first time in a long time, I watched a Doctor Who episode twice.  I used to do this regularly on writer Stephen Moffat's episodes; in fact it usually took at least three watches for me to figure out his plots.  I'm a bear of little brain.

For "Wild Blue Yonder", the second of Russell T Davies' bridging episodes leading up to the intro of the next Doctor, Ncuti Gatwa (whose Rwandan first name is pronounced something like "Shooty" - he's another sexy Scot), the plot is easy enough for me to follow, but I had to go back to check a particular moment.

If you haven't seen the episode and want to avoid spoilers, stop reading.  (But I'm really pleased you're here!)

"Wild Blue Yonder" reminds me strongly of "Midnight", a Tennant episode from his third season,  In WBY, there are also formless malevolent beings who are using enfleshed beings to manifest themselves and take over - in this case, the Doctor and Donna, who have crash-landed on a marooned space-ship hovering in nothingness on the edge of nowhere, due to an accident involving coffee.

As promised, the special was scary, and provided a nice illustration of the advanced acting skills of Tennant and Tate.  Predictably, the Resident Fan Boy was particularly impressed with Catherine Tate's performance, while I admired Tennant's dramatic acrobatics.  Years ago, he switched seamlessly between the frenetic Doctor and the repressed John Smith in "Human Nature/Family of Blood" (my very favourite DW episode).  Here, he transformed himself by adopting the empty-eyed black stare of a predator. Brrrrrr.

Next episode is predicted to be one of Russell T Davies' world-gone-ape**** extravanganzas.  I tend to not quite like those.  We'll see.

When watching the previous Doctor Who special episode "Star Beast", I was startled to hear Donna declare that her grandfather Wilf was alive and well, because I knew Bernard Cribbins had died in the summer of 2022. In fact, I'd screen-saved this rather wonderful re-imagining of the Sergeant Pepper album cover, illustrating Cribbins' career, which went so far beyond Doctor Who:

And then (this is another spoiler - you've been warned), "Wild Blue Yonder" drew to a close, and there was Wilfred Mott, in his wheelchair.  It was the only scene Bernard Cribbins managed to film, a few weeks before he died at age 93.

Which left me with this earworm (composer Ted Dicks and lyricist Myles Rudge).  I've had worse.

Furby or not Furby

Iphis texted me this week.

Have you seen the new episode of Doctor Who!!

Had I seen the new episode -- who does he think I am? (Okay, let's not go there...) I cheerfully replied that I had seen it at the earliest opportunity.  I hadn't planned to, but the Resident Fan Boy had tuned in to  Disney Plus at the moment of release, and I just happened to return from the coffee shop at the same instant.  I sat down to watch a few minutes, and, of course, ended up watching the whole thing, and was late for Demeter's breakfast call.  It was David Tennant, after all, narrower than ever, and now with a deeply lined brow.

Iphis was, I suspect, especially excited about Russell T Davies' carefully inclusive story.  (If you haven't seen the "Star Beast", and wish to be surprised, you might want to stop reading about here - and I thank you for reading at all.)

"Star Beast"'s plot turns upon a number of circumstances, one being the fact that an important security office uses a wheelchair, and a major one being the gender identification of Donna's daughter Rose.  It's the inclusivity that, no doubt, thrilled Iphis and, undoubtedly, irritated and infuriated a certain cohort of Whovians. They're just going to have to suck it up, as I'm sure this is how Russell T Davies intends to continue.  

I understand this week's episode (which begins in less than an hour, as I type this) is supposed to be very scary and not particularly child-friendly, and the finale of this David Tennant three-parter will be over-the-top crazy, which is usually where RTD leaves me behind.

"Star Beast", with all its modern sensibilities, is a bit of the gentler, family-friendly outing, and even features a Furby-like creature called The Meep.  Sounds precious, doesn't it?  (You know you're in trouble if a creature is voiced by the not-at-all reassuring Miriam Margolyes.). The plot reminds me strongly of "Smith and Jones" from Tennant's second season as The Doctor.  You've been warned.

I plan to head out to Demeter before this morning's first broadcast of the apparently terrifying next Doctor/Donna outing - mainly so she gets breakfast, rather than brunch, but also so my hands don't shake the tray.

Comedy as Möbius strip - for dinosaurs

In a year filled with disappointments and delays - not mention the more horrifying life-threatening stuff, reported daily - I got two generous dollops of wish-fulfillment this summer.  Both involve Phoebe Waller-Bridge

First, I notice, quite by accident (ain't that always the way?), that the "Hollywood Suite" set of channels are on free preview, as the specialty channels are, from time to time.  I was startled to see that an episode of the second season of Staged was playing.  I've seen bits and pieces of both seasons on the internet, and have been longing to see it for months.

Briefly, Staged stars David Tennant and Michael Sheen (there yer go) as themselves, Georgia Tennant and Anna Lundberg as their wives/partners (which they are), Simon Evans, the actor/director/writer (which he does), and Lucy Evans as Simon Evans' sister (which she is).  Except no one is playing their real selves, y'see, and some actors are playing fictional characters, and some really famous people are playing -- themselves.

In the first season, Tennant and Sheen, find themselves being hurtled into lockdown and their upcoming theatrical production of Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of an Author is put on ice (probably for the best).  Their director (Evans, who did write and direct both seasons of Staged, no matter what you're told during the episodes) suggests rehearsing anyway, via Zoom.  We never actually see any rehearsing, but we do see a quite a bit of whining, back-stabbing, and sulking.  It makes for entertaining viewing, believe it or not, and captures the isolation and disjointedness of lockdown.  However, watching bits and pieces on YouTube doesn't prepare you for the truly remarkable mobius-strip quality of the transition from the first season to the second season.

The second season hauls us from the parallel universe of the first season, into an even stranger world where Sheen and Tennant are themselves playing another version of themselves, promoting the first season, and being blocked from starring in the American version of the same.  There is no American version, just as Whoopi Goldberg is not, in fact, an agent named Mary with a reputation for attacking people who cross her with Golden Globe statuettes. (And I hope and trust that Michael Palin isn't anywhere as malicious in real life. Ouch.)

Despite these clues, many Staged fans can be forgiven, I suppose, for having some difficulty separating fact from fiction, especially these days.

Anyway, Phoebe Waller-Bridge does appear during the second season, in what is arguably the funniest episode, but I won't spoil anything in case you get a chance to watch it.  (It involves her bladder. And Pavlov's dogs.)

Counter-clockwise: David Tennant, Michael Sheen, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Simon Evans, Cate Blanchett

I've been becoming a bit of a Phoebe Waller-Bridge fan anyway, so this episode clinched it, even though I had yet to see Fleabag, yet another two-season ground-breaking British comedy which I had also seen in bits and pieces on YouTube. Barely had I finished watching Staged, when Fleabag suddenly became available -- at the last remaining video-rental store in Victoria (because I'm a dinosaur, dammit).

Seeing Staged in context was a mind-bending delight; seeing Fleabag as an organic whole (is that tautology?) blew me out of the water.  Watching clips gives you an idea of the sly and wicked humour.  Watching the show in context blind-sides you with the underlying heartbreak underlying all of Fleabag's seemingly inexplicable shenanigans. 

We're never actually told the main character's name, although it was the Resident Fan Boy who pointed out that "Fleabag" could be a play on "Phoebe".  (It turns out that "Fleabag" is, indeed, Waller-Bridge's family nickname, although she's been forced to point out, frequently, that the characters do not resemble her own family.)  Three other characters are also never addressed by name:  Andrew Scott's notorious "Hot Priest" (who doesn't appear until the second series), Fleabag's father (Jim Paterson), and  "Godmother".  

As much as the arcs of both seasons entranced me, enchanted me, and sometimes devastated me, it is Olivia Colman as "Godmother", who actually had me wincing.  I've known women like "Godmother".  We probably all have.

Shudder. (I've never actually been slapped. Not literally. Really wanted to, though.)

Anyway, these two series are going on my Christmas wish list.  Because I collect DVDs.  Because I'm a dinosaur.  (And because streaming services and platforms giveth and taketh away.)

Can I ax a question?

It was elder daughter's birthday today. And I had to accompany Demeter on her eye procedure appointment. All in the middle of a pandemic.

Which means I missed seeing any of BBC's Big Night In.

But you know I can't resist David Tennant. Even with a zigzag hairband.


(The Doctor W.H.O. reference is really quite clever, isn't it?)

Wha' Who?

Sorry, gotta go to bed, but I found this -- which will only appeal to Doctor Who fans....

....although it's not an inaccurate intro for someone who has never seen the series. Might be a bit off-putting though.

Close calls and the Clash

People have asked me about my summer holiday. I don't think of steeple chases as being holidays. This year's Victoria visit ended in the same tempo as the previous five weeks, that is, manufactured calm stretched over panic.

Having packed on the afternoon of the day before my departure, I noticed an email alert from Air Canada, warning of severe thunderstorms forecast for Toronto and Hades -- my exact route home.  Sitting in Demeter's dining room, I was hit by an avalanche of flashbacks from August 2003.

That was the year the Resident Fan Boy returned to Hades before us, because we'd begun the trip visiting the RFB's cousins in Alberta.  So, on that fateful August morning,  I arrived at Victoria International airport, marshalling eleven-year-old elder daughter and seven-year-old younger daughter, and thinking for three.  The check-in agent offered to switch our tickets from a route through Toronto to a transfer at Vancouver to a direct flight to Ottawa, which would land us in Hades a full hour earlier.  I considered my Virgo husband, all set to meet us at the airport, and refused.

After the long flight to Toronto, I comforted myself and younger daughter with the prospect of seeing the RFB in an hour or so.  Our flight to Hades was scheduled to leave at 4:10 pm, and we boarded at 3:50 pm, so we didn't see the lights go out.

The first indication that we had a problem was when the pilot told us we were unable to disconnect from the boarding tunnel.  The next was when the flight attendants started handing out ice cream bars.  A lady with a cell phone across the aisle informed us that it was the whole American north-east, plus Ontario.  After over an hour, we were told to get out, reclaim our luggage, and re-book.  We descended the escalator into hell.  (My grandmother always said that hell would be like an airport.)

Crowds of flustered people pressed up against dimly-lit luggage carousels.  Backed-up toilets (electronic flushers).  Rows of locked luggage trolleys (electronic release mechanisms).  Piles of pet-carriers containing yelping and dehydrated animals.  Huge line-ups to pay phones, because in 2003, not that many people had cell phones.

I didn't know where to go first.  Where would I take the girls for the night?  How could I explain this to younger daughter, who was begging to be taken "home to Ottawa, to see Daddy"?

It became increasingly clear that our luggage was not going to appear, especially when the generator for the carousel broke down after a couple of hours.  A young man showed me how to use my credit card in the pay phone, and a lady, noticing younger daughter's distress, let me in the line ahead of her.  I called the RFB, but he was waiting for us at the airport in Ottawa, and our answering machine, being electric, didn't work.

Fortunately, I had my address book with me and desperately put a call through to friends in Etobicoke.  Unfortunately, their elder daughter was home.  A nice girl, but not that swift on the uptake:
"Oh hi!  We're having a black-out!"
"Yes, I know.  We're at the airport..."
"Yeah?  Where ya going?"
My heart sank.
"Nowhere.  The planes are grounded."
"Man!  I hadn't thought of that!"
I'll bet, I thought, glancing at the long line-up behind me.  I could hear her father asking who it was.  He was there in twenty minutes, even with no working traffic lights, by which time an announcement informed us that ticketed luggage would be forwarded to the appropriate airport.  This left us in the clothes in which we were standing, but with the books, tapes and toys in our carry-on luggage.  In those days before liquid restrictions, I also had cosmetics and saline solution for my contact lenses.

Younger daughter was beside herself. She clutched my hand from the rear seat of the van, nearly twisting my arm out of its socket.  However, as we entered the dimly-lit hall of our friends' condo building, she turned and asked:  "Are we into Toronto?"  (We had stayed here for a visit during March Break the year before.)  One bowl of melted strawberry short-cake ice cream, and she was much better!

Later, as my exhausted daughters slept, I opened the blinds, got back into bed, and gazed out at a pitch-black city, listening to CBC radio on the headphones of my Walkman, trying not to fret about how I would get the girls home.  The voices on the radio were describing how clear the stars were, but all I could see were clouds of mosquitoes just beyond the screens.

The next morning, I tried to reach the bus depot, and the phone was answered by an agent in Alberta. I tried to reach my travel agent and Air Canada -- nothing but voice mail and busy signals.  I finally phoned Via Rail, let it ring more than two minutes, then got through to book train tickets.  I learned the Resident Fan Boy had managed to book plane tickets.  I thought of the hell we'd left the night before - nothing in the news reports indicated that anything had changed - and decided to chance the train.

Our hosts, who had given up their bed to us, tried to convince us to stay, but I had the overwhelming feeling that I had to get younger daughter home somehow.  They relented and packed an enormous care package of cookies, fruit, peanut butter sandwiches, several cartons of apple juice, and bottles of water.  I wondered how on earth I'd manage to cart this along with our carry-on luggage.

At 11 am, Union Station in downtown Toronto was steamy and crowded.  The line-up at our gate turned out to be for the 9:30 am train.  They told me to expect the 12:35 train at 1:45.  Then 2 pm.  Then 2:30.  Elder daughter had assumed the task of checking the notice board, walking the length of the station and reporting back.

I rationed out food to the girls with each delay, buying myself time and giving silent and fervent thanks for the heavy bag of goodies as it became lighter and lighter. I used my new credit card skill to phone the RFB every couple of hours, as my hopes dwindled.  With each passing hour, I wondered desperately if I should find a bus to the airport.  Which would get us home quicker?  Staying here as the trains were steadily delayed, or setting up camp at the airport where, the radio told me, the computers had completely broken down?

"I have a Clash song playing in my head," I told a fellow mum, who was attempting to shepherd half a dozen teenagers back to Windsor. She grinned broadly and began to growl:  "Da-duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh DA!  Should I stay or should I go?"
"If I go, it could be trouble!"  I sang back.
"If I stay, it could be double!" We were both dancing now.  I think we embarrassed the teenagers.


At 3:30, they told us our train was cancelled, and that we would be hooked up with the next train to Ottawa. That's the closest I came to breaking down completely.

At 5 pm, I stumbled up the steps to the train platform and a guard said that this coach was for First Class. Maybe it was the sight of two bedraggled little girls that convinced him to allow us into the railcar -- air-conditioned, comfortable and spacious with, glory be, a food cart with reasonably fresh food.

The train took two hours to reach the Toronto city limits, ordinarily a twenty-minute trip, but rail switches had to be done by hand. Out the window, we saw Lake Ontario and lush fields with butterflies and dragonflies having no trouble keeping pace with the train.

During the seven-hour train ride (usually four hours), we did puzzles, listened to story tapes and the CBC, read books, ate, drank, and chatted with our neighbouring passengers, all from Toronto: an elderly lady determined to attend a wedding, and a mum and her two daughters who had decided to sweat the wait for a family visit to Carp -- I thought they were all very nice, but nuts, but didn't say so, of course!

Younger daughter dozed off, there was a blood-red moon on the horizon, and we stopped off-line to let a luxury American passenger train pass. We could see the fancy lamps in the sleeper cars.

The Resident Fan Boy was waiting for us at the station when we arrived after midnight, some forty hours after getting up to go to the Victoria airport. People jumped the tracks to head for the parking lot; the VIA employees wisely decided to overlook this. Younger daughter wrapped herself firmly around her dad, and we returned by taxi to our stuffy house. The power was back, but air-conditioning was forbidden.  The following day, Resident Fan Boy found our suitcases amongst the hundreds at the airport, because I'd tied gaily-coloured ribbons to the handles.  No one asked him for ID.

All this flashed through my skull in August 2016, prodding me to re-book my flight -- to a 6 am departure the next morning.  I said my goodbyes to Demeter before going to bed, rose at 2:45 am to finish last-minute packing and call a cab at 3:30 am to ensure arrival at Victoria airport at 4:30 am.  My cabbie grew up in Belleville, one of the towns we passed through on that slow train ride thirteen years ago.  He loves Victoria, has no desire to return to Ontario.

Sadly, neither did I.

Pat Bay Highway was like a country road at that hour and I arrived early.  The plane had been described as going to Ottawa, but had a stop in Toronto, descending through thunderheads.  I had to leave the plane, wait in the lobby and then queue with my ID and boarding pass to get back on.

The threatened thunderstorms never materialized.

Jukebox musical treatment for the Doctor

Running out of time for today, so cheating with this very clever Doctor Who fan-vid from about four years ago.  Gotta love the involvement of the Ninth Doctor in this. Di Wey, the creator of this mad musical tribute to David Tennant's Doctor, lives in Brazil and is promising something for the Eleventh Doctor.

For the record, I love Peter Capaldi's (Twelfth? Thirteenth?) Doctor so far, but aside from the first episode of the new season, haven't been beguiled by the plots.  Haven't come across any musical fan-vids for his tenure yet.

Wah-Who Dorey

In a week I can only described as "Mist-mas" -- that is, repeated slow-motion and still-frame shots of the infamous Zapruder footage in which a curtain of red mist sprays from John Fitzgerald Kennedy's head -- it was a mercy to be also assaulted with visions of the Doctor past, present and future, as the world also observed the other 50th anniversary.

For November 23rd this year was like a Christmas Day to millions of Whovians world-wide, ready to watch, re-watch, analyze and dissect the long-awaited episode The Day of the Doctor - both on television and in cinema.

We did both, of course, but there was a price to be paid and rather more than the twenty-two dollars each.  First off, we didn't manage to get tickets for the 2:10 pm (Eastern Standard Time) showing of TDotD, in spite of ordering tickets pretty well the second they became available online here in Hades on October 25, nearly a month before the airing date.  The only show for which tickets were shown being online were for 7 pm our time at the South Keys Cinema which is some distance from our house and more than halfway to the airport.  All other tickets were "encore" presentations the following Monday.  It was a couple of weeks before the Resident Fan Boy noticed that, not only were there shows available at local (-ish) Ottawa cinemas for the exact same time as the programme would be released in Britain (all sold out, of course), but that the show for which we held tickets did not appear at the Cineplex web-site. We fired off an email and a phone message and two anxious days passed, until we were re-assured that, although our show was a "programming error", it would take place anyway.

"We were a bit surprised that this is so popular," said the young fella on the phone.

Well, whew.  We comforted ourselves with the fact that Space Canada would be showing the episode commericial-free, for once, and that we would have the benefit of close-captioning for our first viewing, because, let's face it, David Tennant talks a mile a minute.

Who Day dawned with the first snow of the season, lending even more of a mock-Christmas cast to the afternoon, especially as the pub where we had a quick pre-television lunch was full of families just in from the morning's Santa Claus parade.  We scuttled back home and tuned into Space Canada with minutes to spare.

And the Resident Fan Boy and I had a fine time.  (Younger daughter vanished upstairs to listen to music - you might want to do the same thing if you're still avoiding spoilers.) We cheered and gasped in all the right places - so far as we knew - especially in those tingly few seconds when we thought we might see John Hurt regenerate into Christopher Eccleston.  We hooted with delight when John Hurt's Doctor gave an exasperated "Oh, for God's sake!" in response to Eleven's "Geronimo!" and Ten's "Allons-y!" (Quite right too!) I was particularly relieved that Billie Piper wasn't Rose, and I found this story easy to follow;  I usually have to see a Stephen Moffat story twice before I understand what is going on.

However, we were going to see this story twice and the RFB carefully planned our itinerary so that we would arrive at South Keys Cinema at 7 pm, enough time to find seats for the 7:30 screening.  The #9 bus was spot on time, so it took several minutes of waiting at the Hurdman Station before we realized something was amiss.  Bus after bus went by, none of them destined for South Keys.  When a #98 finally turned up, it was packed with early Christmas shoppers and the driver wouldn't let us board.  Finally a #97 had enough room and, forced to stand, I gazed in despair at the clock on the bus.  It was already 7:10. Yet another day spoiled by OC Transpo, I thought miserably.

By the time we entered the theatre, all seats were filled except the very front row.  About ten feet ahead, the screen towered above us, as we craned our heads to see the bottom half of the images.  Matt Smith's chin looked humongous from this angle, and though I could tell that the eye-stalks of the Daleks were supposed to seem to jut into the audience, I was not in the position to appreciate it.

Knowing that David Tennant would be making his appearance soon,  I ducked out of my seat and made my way to the back, where I stood behind the wheelchairs.  I learned later that the Resident Fan Boy made to follow me, but was sternly ordered back by younger daughter.

And there I remained for the next hour, moving unobtrusively to keep the blood from pooling into my ankles, and marvelling at the 3D effect on Joanna Page's breasts.  Crikey. 

Not in 3D, thank goodness

I had a sneaking suspicion that the cinema crowd had already seen this at home because there were few big laughs in an episode that was pretty funny. One particularly big silence followed one of my favourite gags when Queen Elizabeth I explains that although she had the body of a weak and feeble woman, so did her Zygon double. It was a youngish crowd; maybe they missed the historical reference.

Anyway, we emerged from the theatre feeling pleased, on the whole, that we had been able to see the episode on a large screen in 3D, but annoyed that, at $22 a pop, Cineplex couldn't be bothered to have reserved seating and had the nerve to sell seats that bloody close to the screen. The Resident Fan Boy found a manageable angle, even in the front row. Younger daughter, who was seeing it for the first time, seemed happy enough with the experience. I was, however, still hopping mad at OC Transpo and, feeling that my spitting at the next bus driver would be unproductive, we caught a taxi just outside. Well, someone else had ordered it, but they were nowhere to be seen, so the cabbie told us to hop in and as the wind chill was something like -14, we swallowed our guilt and hopped.

We don't have a red button in Canada, so we didn't see the following spoof by Peter Davison until nearly a week later. It is splendid and takes a few viewings to catch all the in-jokes. Not being a Classic Who fan, I've probably missed a few, but I particularly enjoyed Georgia Moffett-Tennant's method of scarfing ice cream and John Barrowman's darkest secret:

Oh, and non-North-Americans may not get the reference of the title. It's another combination of "Who" and Christmas:

Oh, call back yesterday

I had trouble getting to sleep Wednesday night. For once, it wasn't because I was being attacked by gremlins. It was because I spent the evening watching a play being live-streamed to a cinema, and it was so good that I had to spend a couple of hours trying to calm myself down.

Last night, the Resident Fan Boy, younger daughter, and I were at a Cineplex theatre for a "live" performance (delayed about five hours for our time zone) of The Royal Shakespeare Company's latest production of Richard II.

What made it so exciting? Well, for one thing, we were seeing it mere hours after the audience lucky enough to be physically present in the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon. In fact, we may have had a very good look at you if the cameras aimed where you were sitting before the performance began. (It looked like a younger and prettier crowd than I'm used to seeing at a play, but that's probably why the cameramen focused on them. Cameramen are incorrigible.)

For another thing -- and yes, I'll admit this is the reason I booked the tickets practically the second they became available online -- the cast was led by David Tennant. However, it should be stressed that this was not physical excitement. This time. You'd have to be heavily into androgyny to get hot and bothered by this Richard. When intermission began, I turned to younger daughter and remarked: "David Tennant has been to a brow bar!" She laughed heartily because we've been taking her to a brow bar since last summer because trying to pluck hairs when one is autistic is something best avoided. (Also, I feel compelled to ask:  Was there such a thing as gold nail varnish in 1397?)

This is the first time the RSC has attempted a live-stream-to-cinema event, and they're clearly following the lead of the National Theatre who has been doing successful broadcasts for a few years now, to the benefit of those of us who dwell in Hades and find flying to London to see shows beyond our purses. RSC is still a bit on the learning curve here.  The opening interview between the presenter and director Greg Doran was barely audible against the chatting audience.  National Theatre has evidently worked out better miking procedures.  At the interval, the interviews were held back stage with hand-held mikes, and we were able to fully enjoy hearing the views of Michael Pennington who had delivered the devastating "this sceptred isle" speech as the dying John of Gaunt, and Jane Lapoitaire who, I was astounded to learn, is returning to the stage after a brain injury caused by a stroke in 2000. (Anyone seeing her performance would be floored, aneurysm or not.)

I was a little worried when the play began.  The music was ethereal, the scenery misty and deep, but the voices echoed disconcertingly, a problem I'd never noticed with the National Theatre live-streams.  Nigel Lindsay as Bolingbroke, and his fellow warriors, boomed loud and clear, but Tennant's effete and coy Richard was, at first, a strain to hear.  Later, I either became used to the acoustics, or the technical hiccups were smoothed over.  Also, as Richard made the transition from entitled preener to resigned and doomed loser, his register dropped and his delivery slowed.

Tennant may be the big draw for this production (and an effective one too), but a Royal Shakespeare Company production is, almost by definition, an ensemble piece with no weakest link. It's difficult to single out performances, but darn it, I have adored Oliver Ford Davies since his impeccable jewel of a performance in Ang Lee's film of Sense and Sensibility.  He gave us an irascible Duke of York and, along with Marty Cruikshank as his duchess, and Oliver Rix as his son Aumerle, brought a welcome touch of madcap farce as the dysfunctional York family takes turns pounding on Bolinbroke's door with conflicting suits.

We were also treated to a thankfully limited show of bodily fluids, from the sound of Mowbray's spit (spat contemptuously  by Anthony Byrne) hitting the floor,  to the Duchess of Gloucester's streaming nose (dripped in passionate grief by Jane Lapoitaire). This is not an objection; these things added to the visceral nature -- not to mention the vicosity -- of what was going on.

I was grateful that I had recently seen Rupert Goold's television version of Richard II, as it's been some years since I read the play, and this version makes me want to see that version again.  Younger daughter found the play long, although she clearly enjoyed seeing Tennant, but the Resident Fan Boy and I were entranced, and left the cinema energized.

Understandably, the RSC plans more live-streams, and some encore presentations of this production.  I don't know if they will play here; our venue was almost full, but not sold out. If you missed it the first time and the opportunity arises, grab it and go.  Along with top-notch stage craft, you will get a glimpse into how the production was put together, including the extraordinary use of long chains of reflecting beads.  In the meantime, you can watch the production diaries or look at the Richard II blog online.

Best get a good night's sleep while you can.  We're heading back to the cinema to see Tennant again, this time in 3D in the 50th anniversary episode of Doctor Who on November 23rd.

Of burning babes and gin-haired strangers

Well, here it is, the Second Day of Christmas, otherwise known as Boxing Day, but we eschew that questionable Canadian tradition of braving the box stores for bargains and plan to spend the day treasuring our love offerings.

I could, if I chose, indulge in a David Tennant frenzy. Not only is the Space Channel showing a marathon of Doctor Who specials (which, until this evening's Canadian premiere of Matt Smith's first Christmas special are all "Tennanted"), but I got a Tennantude of wonders: People Like Us, the wincingly funny mockumentary from Chris Langham (before he, rightly or wrongly, became a pariah); A CD of Shakespeare's sonnets (DT being among the readers) and an audiobook version of How to Treat a Dragon's Curse by Cressida Cowell, narrated by you-know-Who.

However I also received not one, but two books with 366 poems each, one for each day of a leap year. Eagerly I opened one to see the poem for December 25.

Yikes:

As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow ;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear ;
Who, scorchéd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
Alas, quoth he, but newly born in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I !
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns ;
The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiléd souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.
With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I calléd unto mind that it was Christmas day.

Evidently a poem for one with Catholic tastes, this one is by Robert Southwell, priest, something like sixth cousin to William Shakespeare. Southwell was eventually imprisoned, subject to a variety of tortures by Richard Topcliffe (sadist, rapist, and Member of Parliament) then, of course, butchered on the gallows in that delightful Elizabethan way. He was canonized in 1970.

A little shaken, I turned to the other anthology, and for Christmas Day, found a poem better suited to December 28, but which also fits in spookily with nativity by Peter Anderson, the play I saw at the National Arts Centre earlier this week:

Who's that knocking on the window,
Who's that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Lying on the kitchen floor?

Who is the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?

Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?

Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?

Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?

Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double-talking:

Herod is his name.

This poem, by Charles Causley, was written during a Cold War Christmas and bears marks of the Flanders and Swan ditty "Twenty Tons of TNT" (even though that may have been written later):

Children have no need of sharing;
At each new nativity
Come the ghostly Magi bearing
Twenty tons of TNT

I discovered that Causley's poem has been put to music by folk-musician A Show of Hands. There's a YouTube video set to this. I'm not a great fan of anime, but it's the clearest recording I could find:



So, as usual, even in the glowing haven of Christmas, the world will keep barging in. Well, never mind, this family is wrapping itself up in the Twelve Days of Christmas. I'm off to ferry the out-of-town presents down to their rightful place under the Christmas tree, where we'll gradually enjoy them until January 5th.

Take that, you gin-haired stranger.

Don't be a stranger

Made it! Thirty-one straight days of blogging --- except that my records at NaBloPoMo claim I've only done thirty. Eden Kennedy, if you're out there, it says 31 here at Post-it Notes from Hades, and I've counted my posts at NaBloPoMo. Not fussing, just want full credit.

Anyway, I'll be bidding NaBloPoMo a fond farewell until November 2010, but in the meantime, I'll still be blogging. Just not every blessed day. At least twice a week. I hope.

I've really got to go and bake some hot cross buns now. However as the new Doctor Who season, complete with a new Doctor is due to be transmitted in Britain this weekend (and will no doubt be viewed illegally in this house before the Canadian transmission on April 17 on Space), I wanted to take one last opportunity to sing the praises of the outgoing Doctor, David Tennant. Well, actually I won't be doing the singing. Oh, don't be so relieved; I'm quite a good singer. Yes, really.

Instead, I'm posting this wonderful fan-vid from the meticulous and thorough BabelColour who, by the way, is not a bad way to learn about Doctor Who. Check out some of his videos. The singer here is the rather marvelous Shingai Shoniwa, even if I don't care for her pronunciation of "mischievous":


Oh, and this morning, the man with a mustache from yesterday approached me at the Hurdman Station.
"We're having a good day today," he remarked with a quick glance at younger daughter.
I cocked my head at him, smiling.
"We usually do, you know."

Time flies when you're training dragons

Another 3D IMAX extravanganza. Another five minutes sitting through that increasingly annoying laser show introduction: IMAX....It's Canadian....The sub-base is HERE....Small stuff? I don't think so...

Yep. The novelty is definitely wearing off.

Besides, I'd seen the trailer for this one umpteen times at other 3D screenings and it had the usual shtick: British book, so of course voiced by young American actors playing American high school stereotypes; gruff and stubborn adults with the wrong idea; hero with the right idea and an underdog to protect; lots of explosions and smart-assed humour, etc, etc.

As we set off for Silver City to see How to Train Your Dragon this morning, I comforted myself with the thought that at least we were catching the early show and so would still have Saturday afternoon to play with. Also, David Tennant was voicing someone named Spitelout, so I could at least amuse myself by listening for him...

Somehow, as our hero Hiccup (Vikings need horrible names so the gods won't hurt them, or something like that) bonds with an injured young dragon he dubs Toothless (he isn't), I found myself being won over.

This movie has something that Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland didn't have: it has heart, and it has enough of a story that it really doesn't need to be in either IMAX or 3D. It also featured a really nice soundtrack that enhanced the action instead of distracting from it. I floated through this with a general feeling I haven't had at a movie in a while, that of relaxing into delight, silently thinking to myself: Hey...this is rather good!

Just as our own little claim to fame: one of the directors is younger daughter's ex-tutor's brother-in-law. I can tell you're impressed.

Oh, and David Tennant? He's in the cast list, but darned if I know which Viking he is. Elder daughter claimed she could tell from one of the trailers on the internet. She said he says something like "Well, good luck with that." It's his distinctive Scottish accent, she said.

"All the grown-ups had Scottish accents!" I groaned in exasperation.
"No, it was definitely him!" she insisted.
"Which web site?"
"I dunno," she shrugged.

Oh well. I'm ordering one of the audio-books from Amazon.uk. David Tennant narrates all of those...

Why channel-hopping is a bad idea

I really should only watch commercial-free television, at least when I'm alone with the set. This is because I can't resist flipping through the channels with my trusty remote while I wait for whatever I'm watching to return. I've been burned as a result, on three memorable occasions which left me fighting off disturbing images in my dreams and in my waking hours for days afterward. You'd think I'd learn.

There was the time about ten years ago when I stumbled on to a particularly vicious slasher film starring that noted thespian Corbin Bernson. As it was 4:30 on a Sunday afternoon, I was startled, horrified, and traumatized to catch a glimpse of a dentist using the tools of his trade to take revenge on a straying wife.

That cured me for a while, until 2006. Having been seduced by David Tennant (quick break for wishful thinking) into watching Doctor Who, I decided to check out Christopher Eccleston's episodes which CBC was re-running after midnight on Friday evenings. I don't know about your corner of the world, but Friday night in this corner of Ontario, which is in close proximity to the, shall we say, looser province of Québec, is Porn Night. Which, as a relative newcomer to Hades, I'd forgotten. Until I started flipping through the channels at the first commercial break: Lesseee...news...talk show....infomercial...YYEEEIIIKKESS!

See, I don't see myself as a rabid anti-porn crusader. I don't care for it; I don't think it's done any favours for how women are viewed in society, but I don't embark on letter-writing campaigns. However. I don't like being ambushed. Okay, maybe I need another word. Moving on...

You may have heard that Canada is hosting the Winter Olympics this year. If you're in Britain, your intrepid reporters have apparently been telling you that these are The Worst Olympics Ever. Well, maybe so. It's been less than a week, the Summer Olympics at Atlanta are heavy competition for the title, and I'm 3000 miles and three times zones away, so I wouldn't know. I would like to just gently say to the British media: Let's just wait until you're safely shot of the 2012 Olympics in London, shall we, boys? Just sayin'...

Anyway, we all know what the Olympics mean. Commercials. There are about fifteen let's-support-our-athletes-by-buying-this-crap ads in heavy rotation and we've been treated to them since last autumn. My fingers strayed inexorably to the remote....

Bad move, Persephone. On TV5, I was confronted by a rapid sequence of images of Nazis being hanged. By Americans, by Russians, by Poles... As you can imagine, the techniques varied in their efficiency. Frozen in horror, I failed to switch the channel before the documentary-makers felt it necessary to demonstrate why these fellows were being strung up. And I don't mean the stock footage of naked people being driven to ditches and shot, dazed prisoners staggering off freight trains en route to the gas chambers, or the bulldozers burying piles of bodies at Bergen-Belsen. You may want to skip the next paragraph.

A man in a laboratory coat is dispassionately flipping a naked girl. She's, I dunno, somewhere between six and nine. He's gripping her hips, and holding her out at arm's length in front of him, makes her body flick out like a whip, her head snapping back. Crying and crying, she hangs in the air with her knees drawn up to her chest and her back curved over. I couldn't bear to see what he would do next and flipped the channel, gasping for breath, leaning over my own knees.

I imagine, or least choose to imagine, that the makers of La Traque des Nazis (a documentary on longtime Nazi hunters Serge and Beate Klarsfeld) meant well. Why is it, then, that I feel this is feeding into yet another kind of porn? It seems to me that there is an appetite out there for footage of executions and tortures, ranging from those who get the glad-it's-not-me frisson to those who actually like watching this stuff. Does a documentary like this educate, or does it pander to such people? Does it stop such things from happening again, or does it provide (heaven help us) inspiration?

As for me, I've been sitting on those long bus-rides to and from younger daughter's school, gazing out at the bleak landscape and trying to chase away horror and despair with music. This was probably not the best week to get that Beautiful South CD out of the library (geez, talk about "bleak"), but there are songs on my iPod to make my heart lift for a while.

Here are a couple, if your heart needs lifting too. The first is a Great Big Sea standard, and happily, there's a classic 2006 music video by Almost Angst Free Productions (since we were talking about David Tennant and Christopher Eccleston, so why not drag Paul McCann, Tom Baker and Sylvester McCoy into it?): I've probably embedded this one before, but I don't care...

The other is brand new (to me). I was listening to CBC Radio Two yesterday morning while waiting at the bus stop and Bob Mackowycz said this one just makes him "melt". So he played it and I did some mean back-up singer moves in the fresh snow. Fortunately, the street was deserted. Although I did dance into the bus... Forty Days. Hmmn. Well, Lent began yesterday, so there you go. Giving up channel-hopping seems a worthy Lenten goal...

Kicking off (and trying not to skin my toes)

Earlier this week, we left the house in the silvery grey half-light of the early January dawn and noticed that the Christmas lights up and down our street have diminished. Many Ottawans spent the weekend dismantling their Christmas trappings -- including us. I averted my eyes from the black forms of the Christmas trees on their snowy biers awaiting the chipper truck. When I returned home a couple of hours later, there were only scatterings of dull green needles showing where the trees had been, which means only one thing:

Lots of vacuuming. Oh yes, and high time I drop-kicked the blog into the new year (and not the new decade, you clods, that's next year). By way of a feeble excuse, it's been damned difficult to get to the computer at all because elder daughter is frantically finishing "summatives" (major term-end projects, essays, and presentations). Since January is named for the two-faced god Janus, who looks both forward and backward, I thought I'd give a quick rundown of our Hadean Christmas. Last year, I focused on the Twelve Days of Christmas, and this year, I'm focusing on a slightly different twelve:

Twelve Days of Demeter: My mother's visit was dictated by the availability of seat sales, so she arrived December 16th and departed December 28th. I managed to shove out of my consciousness the fact that this is her final Christmas visit to Hades. She has declared that after five Ottawa Christmases, she's had enough, and, as she has also survived the first nine Edmontonian Christmases of my childhood and at least five Prince George Christmases with my sister, who can blame her? However, on the eve of her departure, I went to bed and unsuccessfully wrestled the unpleasant notions that a) this may be our last Christmas together ever, as getting out to British Columbia for two weeks in the winter is prohibitively expensive and complicated; and b) elder daughter will in all likelihood be at university in another city, province, or even country....

Eleven Doses of David Tennant: Or thereabouts. I know that a rabid British DT fan with absolutely nothing else to do or consider could have treated herself to David Tennant something like seventy-five times over the holidays. That's a bit rich even for my blood, but thanks to the BBC Radio web site, YouTube, Bit Torrents, and the fact that the Space Channel had a marathon showing of all five most recent Doctor Who specials, we got close to satiation. Our Region Two copy of Hamlet from Amazon.uk should land on our doorstep sometime this week; I am not waiting until April...

As a bit of an aside, I understand that at least one person wants to know what I thought of the Doctor Who finale. Elder daughter downloaded each part after it transmitted in the UK (yes, we could have waited until January 2nd for the marathon, but that was with commercials, people, and parts usually get edited out to make room for them --- we've ordered the DVDs, Auntie Beeb...)

Fan wank, I thought, while watching the first part of the finale. As both my husband and elder daughter glanced at me in startlement, I then thought: Whoops. Did I say that out loud?

As of this writing, I have seen all five of the past year's specials at least twice. I never thought I would say this, but I'm rather relieved to see both Russell T Davies and David Tennant go. The specials were not awful, but none of them came anywhere near the quality of the best of the New Who regular seasons.

Now, let this be understood: RTD is a remarkable writer. Bob and Rose is one of the best things I've ever seen on television; Casanova was a great deal of fun, and above all, Davies regenerated Doctor Who from oblivion. However. He tries to do too much with each episode, leaving loose ends and inconsistencies strewn everywhere. Paraphrasing the very words he gave Donna in the closing moments of The Runaway Bride (which, you may be surprised to learn, I liked), he needs someone to stop him. Or at least edit him.

Case in point: What's wrong with this picture? This is a man (okay, a regenerating-type alien) who has fallen many many feet from a diving spacecraft, through a glass dome, landing face down on a marble floor. This has resulted in a half dozen sores evenly distributed across his handsome mug and artfully torn shoulders on his suit. He has been able to struggle to his feet and aim a gun (let's not get into whether this incarnation of the Time Lord would use a gun) at a whole bunch of presumably able-to-regenerate Time Lords and each time he dramatically whirls to point it, he somehow needs to cock the pistol with a loud "click". Just before the mad and doomed Time Lord behind him drives the quintet of power-hungry and melodramatic Time Lords back into the hell of the Time War (again, let's not get into the utter ridiculousness and repetitiveness of Gallifrey closing in on Earth), the Doctor spots his mother (RTD has confirmed this). When the one who "will knock four times" is revealed to be Wilf (which wasn't that much of a surprise to me), the Doctor has recovered sufficiently from the shock of seeing his long-lost mother pushed into Hell by the Master to spend a few minutes wailing about his own demise at the expense of Wilf's life.

That said, I enjoyed myself for the most part. Even got a bit choked up during the long goodbyes. (Elder daughter watched the finale for the first time by herself at 3am in front of the computer and reports that she wept copiously.) However, I'm ready for Matt Smith now, and even more ready for Steven Moffat.

Now. Where was I? (Geez. Maybe somebody needs to stop me...)

Ten So-Called Christmas "Letters": Well, twelve actually, because one person sent me her Christmas newsletters from the past three years, presumably because she's only got around to completing them this year and thinks I want to actually read them. Four years ago, she sent me four years' worth. I write this in the full confidence that she will never read this nor hear of this: No one's life is that interesting. (And yes, I realize this is an ironic statement, coming from a blogger.)

On the up-side, we got fewer newsletters than usual because everyone wants to save on stamps and so are sending mass email mailings of their newsletters which are easily deleted. I repeat these immortal words of wisdom on the subject from cartoonist Sandra Boyton: "If you, too, are contemplating writing fiction for a hostile public..."

Nine Bags of Chocolate: Sent as separate gifts to all four of us. Yet somehow, I consumed more than my share. I plead Purdy's.

Eight Deli Shifts: Elder daughter graduated from babysitting to working at our local supermarket this fall. Although she got four days off (Christmas Day, Boxing Day and the third and fourth days of Christmas), she actually had to ask us to turn off CBC Radio's Christmas music on Christmas morning because she has been Musak'ed into the ground. Retailers crank up the Christmas-related fare even before Remembrance Day and her place of work kept playing "Last Christmas" by George Michaels over and over and over...

Seven Ways of Using an IPod: My big Christmas surprise from my family this year, meant to mitigate some of the 4½ hours (minimum) I spend on OC Transpo each day. I was stunned. (So was Resident Fan Boy, who was convinced Demeter would let the cat out of the bag -- never involve her in the planning of surprise parties.) As I'm dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, I'm slowly figuring out how to work this thing. So far, I can watch videos on it, use it as a camcorder, listen to several CD's either as albums or in shuffle, listen to CBC Radio Two (much better signal than my Walkman), tell time, use it as a pedometer, and record memos to myself. When it unplugs the toilet, I'll be really impressed.

Six Pounds Gained: I suspect this may have something to do with the nine bags of chocolate. And the egg nog. And the mince tarts. And the taking Demeter out to lunch. And the extremely large bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream. And...

♪Five Tourtières♫: We tripled the recipe because elder daughter wanted to do these for her French presentation. Five is too many, even when two go to school and one goes to the office Christmas Eve party.

Four Christmas Carols: In addition to Alistair Sim and Mr Magoo (neither of which we would be without), the Ottawa theatre community (and beyond) offered several versions of Dicken's best-known novella. We took in the National Arts Centre English Theatre's version starring Stephen Ouimette (the ghost in Slings and Arrows, if you're familiar with that gem) which featured narrative devices similar to the RSC's 1980's version of Nicholas Nickleby, along with some fabulous singing. Demeter thought it was amazing. Less amazing was The Farndale Avenue Housing Estate Town Women's Guild Dramatic Society's Production of A Christmas Carol
at the Gladstone Theatre. The acting (and quite possibly the writing) wasn't quite up to it. What can we say? Comedy is hard.

Three Bags of Popcorn: We also saw three movies. We took in the HD "live" version of the Royal Ballet's The Nutcracker
which is actually quite wonderful. We took younger daughter to see the latest Disney flick The Princess and the Frog which returns to "traditional animation" to re-tell the fairy tale in an oddly desegregated New Orleans of the 1920s. However, as far as younger daughter was concerned, it was a cartoon; there was jazz music; what's not to like? Finally, our New Year's Day film this year was Young Victoria. The only issues I really had with it were a) the film-makers' need to bloody up Prince Albert in the assassination attempt on his wife (yes, he did fling himself over her; no, he didn't get shot, but apparently that wasn't dramatic or cinematic enough); and b) that gosh-awful pop song playing under the closing credits. I've included the link, but really, only if you're curious. Oh yes, and Prince Albert didn't attend Victoria's coronation. (I've been reading Elizabeth Longford's biography of Victoria. Could you tell?)

Two Days of Freezing Rain:As pretty as freezing rain is, it is a pain in the butt, and I'll take a -35 wind chill over freezing rain any time. Okay, not in May.

One Christmas a Year: Which should be enough, shouldn't it? I always thought so, until younger daughter's challenges became apparent. Oh darling. If I could keep Christmas the year round, you know I would. All we can do is try to keep the Christmas spirit burning feebly into this cold new year, especially in the face of distressing news coming from places like Haiti. That is my wish for her, and for you.

Things David Tennant makes me do

Okay, I admit that this is evidence that I may be losing it. See, I put together one of these using my family's heads for Facebook, but then it occurred to me: I have a few pictures on DT on my computer....

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Do you think someone will sue me?

Dave Comedy Therapy

So it's March 9th and after a weekend of sunny relatively warm temperatures, it began to snow again this morning. A light covering of pellets over the stretches of black ice. And there's me heading up to younger daughter's school in boots instead of YakTrax. I didn't do the sideways split this time, but clearly, I have been warned. Elder daughter has crawled home from school, sick. The resource teacher has gently let me know that she needs to know to which school we'll be sending younger daughter next year.

I've decided to blame everything on tomorrow's full moon. I figure the moon can take it. In the meantime, I'm meditating on Daves. The Daves I wish I knew...Oh dear... The full moon seems to have got to him as well... Maybe some other time.

And the Daves I know. I know a lot of Daves. Some of them are Davids, but most of them are Daves. They all have have their own hands, but they come from different mums. If you're Canadian, you can see where this is heading. Here is "Daves", as sung by my fellow Taurean Bruce McCulloch in the old The Kids in the Hall show on CBC:Alas, I cannot find a decent video of "Dave's Holiday" by Patti Larkin. Because that would be perfect.

Bad songs say so little

Okay, the snow banks are crusty and filthy and the edges are littered with doggy-do. I dropped off younger daughter at school really late, and her last words to me, delivered over her shoulder as she stood in the middle of her classroom were: "It's not going to be a great day..."

Seeing as I'm in a crappy mood anyway, I thought I'd adopt a really poor attitude and muse about songs I hate. As almost none of you know (because this was from a really early post when no one was reading my blog), I have a Launchcast station. Usually I concentrate on how it delivers my favourite songs, along with songs it thinks I will like, but it also has a feature where you can, with a click of your mouse, tell it "Never play this on my station again". Of course, if I'm feeling particularly cruel, I'll rate the song at 30 or lower which accomplishes the same thing, just to show how much I dislike and disdain a particular thing-purporting-to-be-a-song.

I thought I'd run a few selections past you today. Now, usually I provide a link or a YouTube video to illustrate musical selections, but these are songs I can't stand, that set me diving at the radio to switch it off, so why torture you? If you're determined to torture yourself, you're welcome to google these things...

This is not a comprehensive list. There are millions of songs I hate. These are titles that occurred to me while sitting in the coffee shop this morning, paying bills. (Another mood-killer.) The seventies are over-represented. Maybe my next post should be There really was good music available in the seventies; it just won't be evident by perusing this list.

Here we go, hold your nose and plug your ears:

1. Hotel California by The Eagles. One of the most pretentious songs ever written, with a melody that goes nowhere. Launchcast has something called "Fan Stations", and I made the mistake of playing The Beatles Fan Station. It played "Hotel California" three times. In half an hour. (A really good idea when selecting a "Fan Station" at Launchcast, by the way, is choosing someone you like who isn't that popular. Stone Roses work well, as do Billy Bragg, or Lyle Lovett. Forget The Proclaimers, their fan station just plays eighties drek. Not that all eighties music was drek -- uh another possible post: There really was good music available in the eighties... I think I'm getting side-tracked because I don't want to list the next one...)

2. Double-whammy here. Kashmir and Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin. I actually used to like these songs, but they've been played to death, and they go on and on and on...

3. For the Love of Him by Bobbi Martin. I feel guilty even mentioning this song, because it's sunk into obscurity and it needs to stay there. Trust me, it was awful. Syrupy, banal, anti-feminist. (Shudder)

4. Another double-whammy: Feelings and My Way by anybody. Cheap shots, I know. Why, why, why are these songs popular?

5. Any song about oral sex. I'm looking at you, Aerosmith. Yeah, yeah, it feels good, it's natural and without it, life would be less pleasant, but the same can be said about taking a dump. I don't want to hear a song about it, okay? Maybe mention should be made of "Going Down" by The Stone Roses, which, admittedly, is a lovely melody; in fact, it's the prettiest little ditty about cunnilingus ever. The problem is... It's about cunnilingus, people; let's not sing about it.

6. Black Water by the Doobie Brothers. I didn't much care for this song in the first place, but there's a really, really disturbing scene in St Elsewhere which is otherwise one of my all time favourite TV series: It's when Boomer is trapped in his apartment with a psychotic rapist/murderer who has been released from prison. Boomer is tied up and gagged in a chair, while his wife is bound and gagged to the bed and the creep starts singing "Black Water". (Double shudder.)

7. Crazy by Gnarls Barkley. Because it drives me cra-a-a-a-ze-e-e-e...

8. The Reason by Hagendaz Hoodenhof Hoobastank. Never has a group name suited a song so well. This is one of those songs that spoiled a summer for me. The radio just kept playing it, and those over-grown adolescents kept whining, whining, whining....

Can we stop now? Looking at this highly unscientific and disorganized list, I see that it consists of songs that I loathed from the get-go, and songs I grew to despise through overexposure. Now, just because I hate to leave you with a bad taste in your mouth and a buzzing in your ears, I'll offer you a song that falls into the second category --- but has been redeemed by my very favourite fan-vid creator The Big Blue Meany. I've said it before and I'll say it again, this woman is a genius, and only she could take an over-blown, overplayed song like "Drops of Jupiter" and turn it into the perfect musical rendition of what happens to Donna in the fourth season of Doctor Who:
Hope your day is shaping up into something better.