(no subject)
Oooh, POTO's on at the £3 theatre this Tuesday and Thursday. Mayhap I shall go, since it is taking Too Fucking Long for my DVD to get here. Plus, you know, Ten Foot High Gerik. Who could say no?
Also, look what I found -
The Rifleman, Napoleon, and the Closet of Symbology
Once upon a time, in a kingdom that existed only in the mind of a Fangirl with too much time on her hands and too much sugar in her bloodstream, there lived four children, whose names were Richard, Harry, Peter and Jack. Now it so happened that the country in which they lived was at war, and so the children had to move from the city to go and live in the countryside with their kindly Uncle Wellington.
Uncle Wellington’s estate was very large indeed, and he taught the children all kinds of fun things, like how to kill French people and other skills one might need in adult life. It would have all been very lovely if it hadn’t been for Wellington’s evil housekeeper, Mrs. Simmerson. Mrs. Simmerson was very annoying indeed, and had a habit of popping up in places she didn’t belong and ruining an otherwise good story. But what was even worse was that she insisted on bringing her even more evil niece, Bitchjane, everywhere, and insisting that the other children played with her. But since they were such nice boys, they tolerated Bitchjane as best they could and tried not to mind when she ran off with their sweet money.
But eventually everyone got sick of Bitchjane, even Peter, who was very gallant and handsome, and Harry, who was so drunk most of the time that he had no idea what was going on, and Jack, who was gallant and handsome and drunk, which you’d think would make him more able to resist the evil of Bitchjane. When this happened, they would hide all over the house until she went away to torment the boy who lived at an estate some miles to the north, and who was called Lord Wesleydale.
One day Bitchjane was being very annoying indeed, and made Richard cry by saying some very mean things which were at least partially true, which as you know, is the most hurtful form of insult. And so Richard ran away and hid in a closet to have a good cry. But the closet was filled with Uncle Wellington’s collection of fabulous military uniforms, including a very fine green Rifleman’s uniform, with all sorts of black lines and silver chains and general coolness. The breeches were quite indecently tight, but Richard decided that so long as he never wore them outside the closet, it probably wouldn’t matter.
“Hmm,” thought Richard. “I really need some boots to go with my new outfit”. And so he went further and further into the back of the closet, until suddenly, there was something icy and damp underfoot and bright light coming from up ahead. He walked towards it, shoving his way through a rack of leather SS uniforms (“I wonder why Uncle Wellington has those,” thought Richard, then wished he hadn’t) and emerged into a snowy clearing (leaving behind his stupid uniform hat, because the Fangirl thinks it makes him look like a goon).
Richard did not say “How very odd”, or anything in that vein. He might have done, had he not been stunned into silence by the appearance of a very strange creature indeed. At first glance, it appeared to be a man walking bare-chested in the snow whilst wearing a pair of very fuzzy trousers (as you know, people will wear some rather silly things if they’re in fashion). But as the figure approached, Richard realized it was a faun. He was carrying a large pile of packages and wearing a warm and fuzzy scarf made of bright red wool and muttering to himself.
“Good day,” said Richard politely, making the faun shriek in surprise and drop all his packages, where they scattered in brightly-coloured piles on the white snow.
“Well, bless my hooves!” said the faun. “What in the name of the Great Lion are you?”
“What do you mean, ‘what am I?’” said Richard, offended.
“Well, you’re not a faun,” said the faun. “Or a centaur, or a satyr, or anything else I’ve ever seen in Narnia. Are you, perchance, a Son of Adam?”
“My name is Richard Sharpe,” said Richard, puzzled by the faun’s strangeness.
“Yes, yes,” said the faun, waving his hand airily. “But what I mean to say is, are you a human being?”
“Well of course!” snapped Richard. “What else would I be?”
“Don’t take that tone with me!” snapped the faun. “It’s not my fault; I’ve never seen a human being before.” He began to gather his scattered parcels, muttering to himself as he did so.
Richard could see that he had upset the faun, so he apologized. The faun looked mollified, and introduced himself.
“My name is Mr. Lawford,” he said. “Would you like to visit my home and perhaps have some tea and cake?”
Richard said he would love to, and so he and Mr. Lawford walked arm in arm to the faun’s little house just on the outskirts of the forest, where they had a lovely dinner of tea and cakes. It was all very pleasant, but eventually it began to grow dark and Richard stood to leave.
“Thank you for a lovely dinner of tea and cakes, Mr. Lawford,” he said, curtseying, “But I’m afraid I must be getting back to my closet now. The others will be wondering where I’ve been all this time.”
All this was said very politely, but then an astonishing thing happened: Mr. Lawford began to cry.
In other news, Terry Pratchett + My Family = the unshakeable conviction that Ben Harper and Commander Vimes are in fact the same guy.
Also, look what I found -
The Rifleman, Napoleon, and the Closet of Symbology
Once upon a time, in a kingdom that existed only in the mind of a Fangirl with too much time on her hands and too much sugar in her bloodstream, there lived four children, whose names were Richard, Harry, Peter and Jack. Now it so happened that the country in which they lived was at war, and so the children had to move from the city to go and live in the countryside with their kindly Uncle Wellington.
Uncle Wellington’s estate was very large indeed, and he taught the children all kinds of fun things, like how to kill French people and other skills one might need in adult life. It would have all been very lovely if it hadn’t been for Wellington’s evil housekeeper, Mrs. Simmerson. Mrs. Simmerson was very annoying indeed, and had a habit of popping up in places she didn’t belong and ruining an otherwise good story. But what was even worse was that she insisted on bringing her even more evil niece, Bitchjane, everywhere, and insisting that the other children played with her. But since they were such nice boys, they tolerated Bitchjane as best they could and tried not to mind when she ran off with their sweet money.
But eventually everyone got sick of Bitchjane, even Peter, who was very gallant and handsome, and Harry, who was so drunk most of the time that he had no idea what was going on, and Jack, who was gallant and handsome and drunk, which you’d think would make him more able to resist the evil of Bitchjane. When this happened, they would hide all over the house until she went away to torment the boy who lived at an estate some miles to the north, and who was called Lord Wesleydale.
One day Bitchjane was being very annoying indeed, and made Richard cry by saying some very mean things which were at least partially true, which as you know, is the most hurtful form of insult. And so Richard ran away and hid in a closet to have a good cry. But the closet was filled with Uncle Wellington’s collection of fabulous military uniforms, including a very fine green Rifleman’s uniform, with all sorts of black lines and silver chains and general coolness. The breeches were quite indecently tight, but Richard decided that so long as he never wore them outside the closet, it probably wouldn’t matter.
“Hmm,” thought Richard. “I really need some boots to go with my new outfit”. And so he went further and further into the back of the closet, until suddenly, there was something icy and damp underfoot and bright light coming from up ahead. He walked towards it, shoving his way through a rack of leather SS uniforms (“I wonder why Uncle Wellington has those,” thought Richard, then wished he hadn’t) and emerged into a snowy clearing (leaving behind his stupid uniform hat, because the Fangirl thinks it makes him look like a goon).
Richard did not say “How very odd”, or anything in that vein. He might have done, had he not been stunned into silence by the appearance of a very strange creature indeed. At first glance, it appeared to be a man walking bare-chested in the snow whilst wearing a pair of very fuzzy trousers (as you know, people will wear some rather silly things if they’re in fashion). But as the figure approached, Richard realized it was a faun. He was carrying a large pile of packages and wearing a warm and fuzzy scarf made of bright red wool and muttering to himself.
“Good day,” said Richard politely, making the faun shriek in surprise and drop all his packages, where they scattered in brightly-coloured piles on the white snow.
“Well, bless my hooves!” said the faun. “What in the name of the Great Lion are you?”
“What do you mean, ‘what am I?’” said Richard, offended.
“Well, you’re not a faun,” said the faun. “Or a centaur, or a satyr, or anything else I’ve ever seen in Narnia. Are you, perchance, a Son of Adam?”
“My name is Richard Sharpe,” said Richard, puzzled by the faun’s strangeness.
“Yes, yes,” said the faun, waving his hand airily. “But what I mean to say is, are you a human being?”
“Well of course!” snapped Richard. “What else would I be?”
“Don’t take that tone with me!” snapped the faun. “It’s not my fault; I’ve never seen a human being before.” He began to gather his scattered parcels, muttering to himself as he did so.
Richard could see that he had upset the faun, so he apologized. The faun looked mollified, and introduced himself.
“My name is Mr. Lawford,” he said. “Would you like to visit my home and perhaps have some tea and cake?”
Richard said he would love to, and so he and Mr. Lawford walked arm in arm to the faun’s little house just on the outskirts of the forest, where they had a lovely dinner of tea and cakes. It was all very pleasant, but eventually it began to grow dark and Richard stood to leave.
“Thank you for a lovely dinner of tea and cakes, Mr. Lawford,” he said, curtseying, “But I’m afraid I must be getting back to my closet now. The others will be wondering where I’ve been all this time.”
All this was said very politely, but then an astonishing thing happened: Mr. Lawford began to cry.
In other news, Terry Pratchett + My Family = the unshakeable conviction that Ben Harper and Commander Vimes are in fact the same guy.