An odd weekend all round. I did very little as I intended to put to bed all the remaining work that could be completed at home before the trip to the British Library next week. By and large I just about managed to complete the necessary stuff, although shoehorning it into the thesis looks like it might prove more complicated than I would have wanted. The bees also seem to have been taken care of as I noticed a hole that they could still get into and so I plugged it up with an oily rag, something that apparently puts them to the sword. Touch wood I have heard not a peep since doing that so sleep was back on the agenda, although, this being me, I failed to take full advantage of that opportunity and so I'm still wrecked.
In between work I took some time off to get reacquainted with my old friend television and found him to be just as unsatisfactory as always. The varying joys of Virgin Media's on demand service continue to provide a somewhat frustrating way to kill a few hours. The music section is still overpopulated by too many carbon copy American "r'n'b" singers and whiny indie bands with the same Cockerney/ecky thump/Jamaican patois hybrid accents for my liking, although it did throw up a few gems that I would otherwise have missed, notably A Fine Frenzy and Terra Naomi, both of whom I shall investigate further, as well as old friends who you never see such as the Wonder Stuff. Access to episodes of Karen Taylor when you want them are also a plus - the show is about as funny as trodding on a rusty nail whilst wearing tabi but the buxom lass fronting the show is a holiday for the eyes.
Meanwhile normal TV continued to throw up its share of oddness, not all necessarily good. A Frasier
weekend on Paramount was the perfect excuse to avoid work (just what I didn't need really) as it is the sort of show that you can easily dip in and out of out. 3 in the morning repeats of 3-2-1
were also hard to ignore, largely because it is surely one of the worst shows ever committed to film. Where else can you be met with a woefully bumbling presenter, that old school trick of turning contestants' microphones down much lower than that of mien host, Nigel Lythgoe shaking his non-existent thang and Sinitta belting out covers of popular American hits of the time in a "we couldn't afford Whitney Houston but she's a bit like her" sort of way. However the greatest horror show of all was reserved for the sudden appearance of Duncan Norvelle
. We often hear people lamenting the death of variety and I have been known to spout about how comedy in the past was much better. Mr. Norvelle, however, proves that such a theory is not universal in its application. His act seemed to consist of laughing at nothing whatsoever and giving a flower to a male patsy in the audience who proceeded to follow him to the edge of the stage and make fist gestures in what was one of the most cringeworthy moments of TV I have ever witnessed. Norvelle then proceeded to mumble a load of gibberish which I assumed was a sudden stroke but then realised was actually an impression of Sylvester Stallone as the maestro said "Sylvester Stallone". Oh Lord! In despair I turned over and chanced upon Jerry Springer where a man calling himself Gary Spivey
was doing the old psychic routine. I will pass no comment on the man - sometimes a picture says it all. 100,000 sperm and he was the fastest?!
Well anyway, enough from me. I have been avoiding work more than enough these last few days so I think it is time that I got something constructive done. Cheerio now.