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I was in the war, you know…

October 16, 2006

There are certain times in your life when you know you’re getting old. Turning down a night raving in a field in the middle of no where with a load of absolute strangers being so fucked off your bollocks you accidentally piss yourself and don’t realise, in favour of a nice quiet drink down your local with your friends being able to actually hear (and hold) a conversation (and actually saying as much). Then you tootle back home at about 10pm (hey, it’s work the next day and you’ve still got a load of washing up to do, plus there’s the bins to put out, the cat to feed/de-worm and the laundry to sort…) just in time to catch the news with a nice hot cup of Horlicks.

Or you could just watch TV at the weekend. That’s sure to make you feel like it’s time for varicus veins and 100 denier, baggy skin-coloured tights. First off there’s Strictly Come Dancing, with everyone’s favourite slurring chin, Brucey. Let’s not start on how dire the man is live, shall we? The retake was invented for this man…

The line-up is perfect for middle aged, middle class ladies with twin sets and pearl necklaces (not those kinds, don’t be so vulgar…) with Jan Ravens, Carole Smilie, Jimmy Tarbuck… and that bird from Casualty heading the series. Even I was reduced to tears of pride to see Little Louisa Lytton (that little shouty one from Enders) dancing around the floor, boobs only just being held in, like a real grown up lady.

Ahem. Anyway. The producers are obviously trying to pull in a younger audience this year, to rival the X Factor (not difficult, people) and have secured a few down wit da kids in da street celebs. I can just imagine the scene now: Let’s get, um… DJ Spoony. And… Mica Paris… Yeah, they’re young. And Hip. And Happening… And er… a Spice Girl, yes. We need a Spice Girl. They’re still cool aren’t they? Okay… Mel B? No, she’s too crazy and besides, she’s off marrying a crazy American. Mel C? No, she’s too crazy and besides, she’s… well, no one cares what she up to. Geri? No, she’s just too damned crazy. So that just leaves Baby… *I doubt they even bothered pondering over Posh, for various, obvious reasons*. Baby isn’t that crazy, really. And the mums’ll like her. Oh…

And then we shuffle on our zimmer frames to Sunday night and the superb final chapter (gfaw) of Jane Eyre. I can’t tell you how much I despised this book at uni (see previous blog) and I can’t tell you how much I adored this adaptation. It’s really made me see the book in a different light; one that’s not so bogged down in theory and assessment. There I was, on the sofa on Sunday night, blubbing into my Horlicks as Jane and Rochester were finally reunited. But why only four episodes? Sadly, the beeb plans to dramatise Wide Sargasso Sea starting next week (it’s the ‘prequel’ to JE; the story of Bertha), which is a shame because a) it’s not Bronte and b) it’s shite. But hey, maybe I’ll have my expectations confounded again, who knows.

Now enough of this old woman malarky. Has anyone seen my glow stick?

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