Sweet suite

The next best thing to a new settee is an old settee with a new cover. Thanks to my dad’s mad upholstery skills, that’s exactly what I had tonight to enjoy Martha Jones upon.

As it were.

I love TV

In all my long years of watching television, I have been variously wowed, cowed, surprised, taken for a ride, impressed, depressed, strung out, wrung out, ridden hard and put away wet (figuratively speaking) and occasionally humbled.

Hours and hours. Cumulative months of tube-gazing, and I have never reacted to an hour of television the way I was hit by Battlestar Galactica’s finale. Cheesy? Manipulative? Out of left-field? Maybe. Jaw-dropping? Indubitably.

I look at all those folks up in arms, crying about how the show’s jumped the shark, is making it up as it goes along etc, etc, and I think: dudes, what you want, TV’s never gonna give you.

It makes me sad.

And then I go and watch it again and think: fuck, who does that? And I’m happy again.

2008? Fuck! And soon...the finale of Friday Night Lights. The end of Life on Mars. Ah me, at least I still have Bleach.

Bleach? What’s that? you ask. Go and find out for yourself, I say. You’ll thank me for it later.

And of course, all new Sopranos and Shield. Happy happy happy.

Salon and on

Two really good interviews in ad-mad Salon today.

First up is a chat with Ron Moore where he discusses some of the synchronicities between BSG and the real world, the Pegasus TV movie, serialisation, ratings, and looks back on some of the successes and failures of season three.

Next up is this great Q&A with Jonathan Letham, who last week offered the option to his latest novel for free, to the film maker with the best proposal. He says some fascinating things about intellectual property, creators’ rights, and how works of art should really be considered gifts to culture and communal property.

Ten years ago today

I have no memory of writing this:

Today is a fine sunshine day. Got up at 9.00 sun a-shine, had croissants and fine coffee for breakfast. Read the paper, everyone in the world is getting on famously and we have all signed an international peace treaty and disarmed all those nasty nuclear weapons. Dissertation is going swimmingly, only 100 words to go. Handing in my graphic novel essay today - glad I got the boys at Vertigo to check through it - I’m sure those original illustrations from “Crusaders” will go down a treat with old Dawson. Looking forward to the party at Piccadilly Hotel tonight - my tux is all pressed and ready. Nice of those chaps at Glenfiddich to send down a crate of their finest. Must dash - have to pack for trip to New York on Saturday. More later. Cheerio. (p.s. isn’t life grand!)

It’s not even my handwriting.

Mercurio on adaptations

Jed Mercurio (creator of Bodies) talks about adapting literary properties to the small screen:

Cynics argue that drama adaptations for television demonstrate a lack of enthusiasm for original material or, worse, a lack of quality in original scripts. I disagree with both propositions. Commissioners crave original drama, and many (if not most) writers prefer to create their own material, and most (if not all) of them feel more attached to their original script than an adaptation. But marketing original drama isn't easy. I've created four original series so far, and every single one felt more of a challenge to promote than to write. The audience doesn't know the story or the characters. That's hard to explain in a trailer or a billboard poster.

Tonys Grounds and Marchant, Stephen Moffat, Russell T Davies, Darren Star, Stephen Bocho and Simon Nye chip in.

Every time I think I'm out...

This keyboard feels funny. I think the old QWERTY fellows are in a bit of a huff with me for not using them for some time. Anyway, I’m back because in the comments of my last, decaying post, Good Dog tagged me with a slow meme that’s been doing the rounds for a while. It’s finally got around to my corner of the blogging universe. Here in the blog at the end of the street, we serve hard liquor for men who want to get drunk fast.

Here are five secrets from my shameful past:

• I have stolen from just about every employer I’ve worked for, except my first, who sacked me for gross mismanagement.

• On a cross-channel ferry, I had a man thrown in the brig for trying to swindle the duty-free, then kept his cigarettes.

• I helped get my RE teacher pregnant, by getting her wasted at an aftershow party on the first weed she’d smoked in years. She banged our school technician, and nine months later...

• I got into a bit of a tussle at Glastonbury one year. When I got back I had to play Little Red Riding Hood’s grandma in front of a bunch of primary school kids, with a Victorian nightie, night-cap and a huge bruised and swollen jaw.

• The Met set up surveillance in my front room to scope out a local dealer. I had very little time to give my own pusherman the heads-up before he showed up for his weekly drop. Another time, the Man almost crashed a chopper in my back garden trying to chase some desperate toerag across half of South London.