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Chrissie

Christmas Entertainment

No updates over Christmas period. I couldn’t be arsed. Actually, I have (yet again) been wondering what purpose this Web site serves at all, and I’m lost for answers. It is something to do when all else fails, yes. I enjoy fiddling with it sometimes. But it doesn’t really say much or do much. It’s just there. Hmmm.

Christmas was quite boring. The television was generally rubbish, so no surprises there. The Only Fools and Horses special was pretty good—somewhat better than last year’s weak effort, anyhow. I OD’d on the soaps a bit, and they were, uh, full of shocks… Jamie died in EastEnders (wow, big surprise), Ray was the stalker in Emmerdale (wow, even bigger surprise), and Richard didn’t kill anyone in Corry (actually, that was a surprise).

The Hound of the Baskervilles film (mentioned here) was fairly good. It wasn’t quite as faithful to the original as had been implied, but I did like it. Although, Richard E. Grant being in it (as Stapleton) made me realise what an absolutely perfect Sherlock Holmes he’d make. Richard Roxburgh’s Holmes was okay, but Grant could have been genuinely great. A missed opportunity.
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General Frippery

Some fairly un-serious things.

Crosswords: I can almost never finish the things. I’m thick.

Archives: Maybe I’ll start them up again, as I’ve been writing more of this nonsense lately.
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Computer Fakery

Since I was droning about Harry Potter earlier… today (er, yesterday), I read the appalling story/rumour that they might use cast-off footage of Richard Harris from the first two movies, combined with his stand-in and computer trickery, to generate an artificial ‘performance’ for the third movie!

I really, really hope this is only a rumour…
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Retail Therapy

Today, being out shopping (for food, not pleasure, alas), I passed a book store and I of course succumbed. Some people buy shoes; some people can’t pass a novelty shop without buying some little cuddly toy; but me, I guess it’s books. It used to be comics more than books, but books are better value for money these days, and comics don’t have many Jack Kirbys out there anymore. (*sigh* I might get nostalgic.)

It was a close one. This store had several copies of Stephen King’s Cycle of the Werewolf, with wonderful illustrations by Bernie Wrightson. I wanted this so much when I heard about it maybe 17 years ago, but amazingly, I have never seen it for sale anywhere. I didn’t even know it was still in print. Anyway, that’s earmarked for purchase v.v. soon. I passed it today.
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Christmas Approaches

I got pretty bummed out yesterday, but it was just over general stuff. Nothing major. Mom was in out-patients briefly, to have a couple of skin cancers removed… not serious, just an unfortunate side-effect of the drugs she takes as a transplant patient. (Kidney transplant, 1990.)

Today, we watched the 1956 Moby Dick movie on Channel 4. I generally don’t watch afternoon films, but I’d actually never seen this one. It was directed by John Huston, screenplay by Ray Bradbury. Anyhow, glad I finally saw it. Gregory Peck—who I’ve always had immense admiration for—was typically brilliant as Ahab. And it reminded me that I’d like to see To Kill a Mockingbird again sometime, as I hardly remember anything about it (I saw it a long time ago). Harper Lee’s original novel is excellent, and would probably be in my top ten list if I thought there was any sense in making in such things.
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The House Must Go

About the house move situation (see August 18th)… the house wasn’t in very good shape, really, and a lot of things have needed to be done. We still need to get a door fitted to the back of the garage—we bought the door, now we need someone to put it on! Dad did all that stuff, and to be honest, my limit is painting walls. The old door was/is falling to bits, literally. Otherwise, I think the place is just about presentable, although I have some tidying to do on my tip of a bedroom.
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The Big Sleep (1939)

I’ve written a few book reviews recently. Here’s one of them:

The Big Sleep (1939)
by Raymond Chandler

This was Raymond Chandler’s first of seven novels, written at the not inconsiderable age of fifty. It introduces the famous PI Philip Marlowe, a character whose virtual twin, Carmady, had appeared previously in a number of Chandler’s short stories.

The Big Sleep (1939)

Chandler has somehow come to embody the genre of hard-boiled detective fiction, although he didn’t (as some people seem to believe) create it. His critical stock, as far as such things are meaningful, has climbed steeply over the years, whereas many of his peers remain in relative obscurity. The Big Sleep is arguably his finest hour, and does much to explain why his work is so highly regarded.
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