Been caught napping

So! The film done pretty good on its first weekend. It's had mostly rave reviews and the odd bad one, and even its own fisticuffs on the increasingly batshit Comment is Free. (It's like civil war in there, all the damn time - the writers' views seem to align so seldom with those of the commenters, I wonder why they don't... I dunno, start their own paper. Poor nomadic Guardian readers without a home to call their own.) I hauled a bunch to see it on Friday and liked it even more than I did at the cast and crew screening (where I had a very brief and loud conversation with Walter Wolfgang). The bunch also enjoyed it. I was pleased to be a part of it.

Later, there was drinking. Also there was pink vomit on the nightbus, but thankfully none of it mine.

The other good news of course is that Rachel's unwanted company is in custody. It's nothing to get too happy about - the woman needs help - but it needed to happen, and now it has.

So I was thinking - it may just be more procrastination, but I reckon I might try and write something every day for a couple of weeks, or something. I'll have to fight off the guilt that proper political bloggers thought nicely of me for a couple of days when in fact I am not one of them - clever, incisive, thought-provoking, regular-updating them - merely another of a hundred thousand gits who witter on about their washing. Then I can witter about my washing as I please. And perhaps, intermittently, about Tony Blair. If he does anything good like insist that he doesn't want to have a pop at the press, and then describes it as "a feral beast".

Otherwise - TWU is being wonderfully nice, dog is mellow, bed is empty, mattress is inexcusable, work is lame and scant, money is scanter, skin is gothic. Sun is out, though, and so is the asparagus.

I really need to go on holiday, if only to flaunt these two dresses I got from H&M for a tenner apiece and about which I should probably feel very, very guilty.

Taking Liberties: a righteous plug

OK, so here's the thing - Taking Liberties is a documentary about the state of civil liberties as we come to the end of Blair's tenure. I saw it last night (along with Rachel who's in it), and while I can't be totally objective as I did contribute to the accompanying book, it's dead good. I expect many red-faced Sweeney-grade-shouty arguments to spring from its viewing.



It's released in 12 cinemas, mostly on June 8th. If you fancy seeing it, try and make it to the opening weekend - that way it's more likely they'll get wider distribution, and you will have the unconditional love of a load of dedicated and knackered filmmakers.

You can get the book ere and at Waterstones and all that, but I really recommend going to see the film itself. (And yes, Boris Johnson is in it, but don't let that skew your perspective.)

That's quite enough of that

In the words of Richard E. Grant, "Balls." But, like, in a good way.

Flatmate is soon come, and with him half the rent, thank Jebus. More significantly, though, with him comes good company and regular washing-up, no but really, he is very good people as we re-established during his recent visit. We used to sit in a boring job wondering why we'd been blessed with all this brain we weren't using, emailing each other silly crap to stay afloat. One day we emailed entirely in haiku. Heh. He is even more apologetic for his very existence than I am, so I've decided we should have a Sorry Box. At 50p per expression of contrition, I reckon we'll raise enough every week to get shitfaced every Friday.

Not that it takes me much, admittedly.

Other recent badness-cancelling things of late have included my birthday, which involved lots of laughter and love and a gratifying number of bottles for the recycling man. And a cake, even. Blueberry chocolatey cake and candles. I blew them all out in one go. I am big.

Also, this town is great. I know three of my neighbours which is practically worth a documentary. The town itself has got amazing heritage, and here and there some staggering examples of fearsome Art Deco architecture. There's a certain brash confidence and angular arrogance and fearlessness and gorgeousness about things from the 1920s that I love. No sense of how much worse things were going to be - they thought the very absolute worst was behind them. The town hall is this vast breathtaking stern white Russian thing, and the assembly hall next to it is about as amazing with its roof-height glass doors and the shouty motto

FELLOWSHIP IS LIFE - LACK OF FELLOWSHIP IS DEATH

That's me told.

There is also one duck, called Gerald, that sits by the fountain and looks imperious. Good old Gerald.

The downside of all this gloriousness is that the cinema - boarded up for the last two years or so, which is bad enough because me likee films on doorstep - turns out to be a Grade II listed example of Art Deco sexiness also. If it had just been the shitty 60s joint I thought it was it wouldn't be such a travesty that it's lying neglected. It's just covered in nasty white tiles with one of those concretey outcrops over the door and a grotty white vertical cinema sign, and smells of what the Scottish call 'pish'. But the other night I went over the road to look up at the building properly, and it has these long slender elegant windows and is sad and beautiful. Bugger.

Window still isn't fixed. But dog is healthy, blue flowers are sprouting in big clusters in the garden, and I'm grateful for wot I got.

Oh, and that there is a red-arsed bumblebee. It got into my bedroom and the dog nearly ate it. I got it in a glass. It was waving its front legs in the way bees do when they're asking the bee god to come and lift them up. I gave it a blob of Lyle's Golden Syrup. It continued the bee dance of death for a while until it discovered the sticky medicine, then fell to sucking at it with immense and solemn concentration. When it had finished after half an hour or so in a syrup trance, I put it on a flowery plant in the garden. It fell off. I scooped it up again. It sat for a second and then took off, flying off at tree-height.

Ah small things, and small things with furry legs that need sugar.