Bourne On The 31st July

July 31, 2016

We went to the cinema this morning – these early morning Sunday showings are totally the way forward. Apart from today, but I’ll get on to that in a moment.

We went to see Jason Bourne, the latest Bourne movie and the one that’s got Matt Damon back in the saddle. I liked the first three Bourne movies, I haven’t seen the one with Hawkeye in, and then there’s this one. I liked it, but I didn’t like it like it. I wouldn’t cross broken glass in my bare feet, wearing a vest, to see it.

When the films first came out, I bought the Bourne series of novels by Robert Ludlum. I started the first one. And that’s honestly as far as I got. They could use Robert Ludlum books as euthanasia aids, because they are just so wordy when they really don’t need to be. Like there’s no editorial control over the stuff that is put on the pages. One of his books – I forget which – there is an entire chapter where he calls all the characters by different names because even he started to drift off and not pay attention to what was written there.

And I kind of felt that was what this latest film was like. It was very big on words. And, well, how many more people from his past can Jason David Webb Bourne need to kill? There’s a scene early on in the film where Julia Styles’ character downloads ten files of black ops stuff. Bourne has exposed, destroyed and whatever elsed two of them already. That leaves 8 – well, 7 by the end of this film. A little part of me died inside. I sincerely hope he doesn’t have to get involved in all of them.

So, as I say, I liked it but I didn’t love it. Carole said I was too fidgety, so she could tell I wasn’t into it.

But I was also not into the fact that for the first time in ages, I was having to sit next to someone in the cinema. I mean, what the actual F guys? This doesn’t happen. It hasn’t happened in a very, very long time. And yet there I was next to a woman with the largest drink humanly possible and who, on sitting down, whipped out her phone and was all like, “OMG, 16 Facebook notifications. That’s just crazy…”

And then there was a man who started coughing halfway through. But not actually coughing. More like a cough you were trying to suppress for some reason. Repeatedly. He was sitting next to the people we were sitting next to.

Still, it’s Suicide Squad next week.

I guarantee no fidgeting for that one!



July 30, 2016

I didn’t go to Comic Con.

I’m sad that I didn’t. But I’m also super glad I didn’t because I have inhuman levels of mucus in my body and no-one wants to see that at a comvention. Unless it’s a very, very specialised one.

Also, the fact that I was playing Pokemon – on the DS not walking the streets – until the ridiculously early hours of the morning didn’t help. I woke up at half six, I got up at eleven, having fallen back to sleep.

So I clearly needed the shut eye, rather than to share a queue with hundreds of enthusiastic nerds.

And, we think, my snoring saw the postman take pity on us and leave a parcel for Carole on the doorstep, rather than whisk it away to the sorting office. Apparently, snot-enhanced snoring is a new level of loud.

He also probably felt quite guilty as his knock at the door is what awoke me from my slumber fir the second time. The end of snoring obviously being both a blessing and a curse.

Carole’s still refusing to sleep near me though as, apparently, ill me fidgets. Because she’s such a joy when she’s ill! She’s spent the past few nights on the couch, while I’ve starfished in bed.

Our roles have reversed tonight so she’s gleefully rubbing it in by anouncing how comfortable she is.


Pros and Cons

July 29, 2016

It’s Comic Con in Manchester tomorrow. The tickets are sitting on the mantlepiece waiting to be clutched in a hot, sticky non-cosplayed hand.

So naturally I feel like shit and Carole’s off to a baby shower.

I want to go. But I don’t want to go and not enjoy myself because I can’t breathe or ache like an achy thing. I’d love to fill my phone with selfies of me and everyone dressed as Supergirl and text them to Carole as she’s at the baby shower playing pass the placenta, pin the sperm on the ovum or whatever it is people do at these things.

I want to go because of the awesomeness of the chill out room as people enter as strangers and bond over costumes or, I suspect this year, Pokemon. Where kids and adults compliment each other on their costumes, where people unite to form team up photos, or adversarial photos. Where a community fricking rocks it.

I want to see a gazillion Harley Quinns, of all varieties. I want to see Warhammer characters I don’t understand, or comic book characters I do. I want to be completely baffled by the Japanese school girl thing.

I want my body to let me go to Comic Con.

Silent Night

July 28, 2016

Sleeping through the day yesterday caught up with me last night, as I spent a decent portion of the early morning wide awake.

I varied my activities between reading, and lying here listening to the sounds of the street. This is a fricking noisy street after dark.

Mad Cat Woman – her name is self explanatory – was out shoutng at her cats throughout the witching hour. I don’t know what she wanted them to do, or why it was so important that it needed to be done at that time in the morning but cats being cats they were not in the least bit co-operative. Which was frustrating for her, but hilarious for me.

For a good portion of the night, though, some’s burglar alarm was going off. Constantly. It got to the point where, illness be damned, I was considering getting up and finding which house it was before burgling the living dhit out of it myself just to give the alarm a reason to sound.

The idea of a burglar alarm is to act as a deterent to would-be thieves, and to alert neighbours to a potential situation which may need police attendance.

Unless it goes on for hours, in which case it’s an irritant that even two pillows can’t muffle.

It’s already gone off once tonight – bloody persistent burglars!


July 27, 2016

Death continues to stalk me.

Whatever strain if man flu I have, has lead to me spending a mere four hours of the day out of bed. And they were mainly to make toast and top up my lemsip levels.

My head feels like it’s being crushed. My joints ache. And my nose, wow, my nose is pouring out snot – with no warning – like water from a tap.

I’m tossing and turning in bed to such an extent that Carole is voluntarily sleeping on the couch. And I managed to lose three handkerchiefs during the course of last night. I found them all this morning, though, scattered to the winds like an RPG fetch quest.

I’m sweaty and cold and not sweaty but boiling. Window open, window closed. I’m a mish mash of contradictions and misery.

I hate being ill. I was supposed to spemd today helping Carole with her niece and nephew but was, instead, sleeping more than a grumpy teen. Which probably means I won’t sleep tonight and will, instead, lie awake all night going delerious

Yaay for germs.

Anyone want them?


A Spoonful Of Sugar

July 26, 2016

When I was younger, I was incapable of swallowing tablets. I just couldn’t do it. It seemed at odds to everything you were taught as a child about chewing before swallowing and the like. My mum would tell me that swallowing a tablet was easy, but I was having none of it.

Incidentally, in one of the greatest childhood betrayals of my life, it later transpired that my mother – the woman who stood there and told my sister and me that swallowing tablets was easy – has never swallowed a tablet in her life.

So when things occured which needed treating with that old staple of the medicine cabinet (or, in our case, margarine tub) paracetamol, it was dispensed crushed up in a spoonful of jam.

There is not a jam on this planet that can hide the flavour of paracetamol. In fact, I would say there is not a foodstuff on the planet you could hide a crushed up tablet inside a spoonful and let it pass the lips of a child unnoticed.

But times have moved on. I have learnt how to swallow tablets. Mum was right, it is easy. Although there are still the odd few occasions where I am left with the tablet in my mouth having managed to only swallow the liquid intended to wash the tablet down.

I started thinking about paracetamol in jam tonight, as I lay in my death bed fighting off the rigors of whatever strain of man flu is currently making me feel like absolute shite.

Because I’m sure that a Lemsip drink is just a pharmaceutical company’s attempt at the mum method of mixing nasty and nice. Honey and lemon, you think, as you look at the box – those are tasty flavours. You conveniently forget thirty years ago when strawberry jam promised to mask the pure evil of a mashed up tablet.

Has anyone ever drunk a full lemsip without pulling a disgusted face at least once?


Coming Like A Poke-Ball

July 25, 2016

I had a look online today at the latest stories concerning Pokemon Go.

I’ve been playing the game for a couple of weeks now and I still haven’t lured anyone into a van, robbed anyone or unsuitably interacted with a child – all things which are said to happen when you play the game because, you know, video games are bad.

But, it would appear, people are now having to be reminded that they really shouldn’t trespass while playing the game.

Again, it’s been two weeks and I have, so far, not trespassed once.

Maybe I am playing it wrong. Maybe I’m not just supposed to click on the Pokemon when it pops up on the map and then try and catch it. Maybe I really am supposed to walk until my avatar, with attractive long socks, is right on top of it before I start throwing my balls into its face. Even if that Pokemon is in a river, a minefield or someone’s house.

You really wouldn’t think that people have to be told this stuff. But then, two men walked off a cliff while playing the game so there’s not a lot of hope. Maybe it’s actually some sort of Evolutionary test. It’s not just a harmless – and it is harmless, no matter how hard the likes of the Daily Mail will try and make you think otherwise – ramble around catching things that don’t exist in places where they aren’t really there. But which no-one who doesn’t play the game can get their head around, constantly questioning why or how the Pokemon has got where it has got.

Maybe Pokemon Go is the ladder to the next evolutionary step. Those who don’t die for not paying attention attain genetic dominance over people who meander across train tracks and hang out under electricity pylons flying kites to kill the time as they wait for a Voltorb to show up. Maybe, as we evolve to have flatter ended fingers that better allow us to swipe a Pokeball in a straight line and not just hook it to the side so that you end up calling yourself names in the middle of a busy Leeds pavement, hypothetically, it will all be for a reason. Our ability to not walk off a cliff, into traffic or be bundled into the back of a man’s van because we’ve been out at 1am collecting Pokemon from a lure in the seediest part of town will count for something in the coming months.

In much the same way as people say you should have an app which won’t let you call or text people when you’re drunk, Pokemon Go should be fitted with a safety feature in which you have to conclusively prove you are not a fricking idiot before you’re allowed to use it. The Pokemon go players who end up in people’s gardens, or whatever, are the mobile gaming equivalent of truck drivers who happily drive their massive wagons down increasingly narrow country lanes.

That’s not a fair representation of the rest of the lorry drivers. Or the rest of the Pokemon Go players.

Give the rest of us some credit, because I think we’d all happily distance ourselves from them given a choice.