This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. It is a place where I can be honest and I appreciate that. Here, I splurge. No one comes out looking good. It is a selfish place written by a pretty selfish person. It is a place of ranting and I am, ultimately, an unreliable narrator. Bear that in mind. I attempt to be honest, but things are very much from my point of view.
Highly subjective views of people in my life proliferate. It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the "Story So Far" Page above. I can also heartily recommend that Dysphoria link if you're questioning or interested. Thank you!
Context:
Character here is the victim of a misfile, hence the comic's title, in Heaven and has had his file tampered with so that page one contains an error - he is now listed as female. Universe changes to accommodate and only he, a new friends and the angel who made the error know of the difference.
I was going to have a good old-fashioned rant about articles, freedom and revolution. Indeed, I had even thought how I was going to frame it all and weave in how it would link to what I plan to do in the place we're buying over the next fifteen years or so. I had an image prepped in my mind, just had to Google it, that would sum stuff up with some choice quotes from illustrative songs. Then I read Calvin's comment on my last post and thought... ya know what, he's right, I need to take some actual time rather than prepping stuff to make my blood boil.
Look, a moderately happy bunny!
So, I have a Bass No. 1 Ale, because I already reviewed it and I don't have to do it again, my nano novel printed out on A3 in size 6 font and the last outing with my laptop. Tomorrow I go back to my new place to set up some teaching resources with an NQT (Newly Qualified Teacher) in my department who starts the same time as me. I'm looking forward to that. Also hoping to inspect a place I may rent for a month close enough to where I work that it won't be bothersome and is cheap enough that I can afford it. So, tonight, a night of novelling into 750words.com (which is a fab place if you like writing).
Yes, this. Driving with a nice jacket and well kept hair. I wish I were so confident. Mind you, checking my privilege, I'd wager she is less confident on the roads than I if my experience when driving a red Micra was anything to go by...
As I'm sure you have all noticed, there's been a lot of beer and ale imbibed at my place over the last week or so. Moving continues to creak ever onward, the latest being that we may not complete and therefore move in until mid-way through September or later. This is bad because I start my new job on 3 September and there is no way on Earth that I shall be commuting that distance every morning. It necessitates renting. There is the option of getting a holiday cottage for a couple of weeks. Of this I approve, it would be fully furnished and with all mod cons and it would be private enough that I could indulge a bit of cross-dressing on an evening. Part of me wants that to be part of the solution, of course.
We ate at a Two for One place and my grandfather paid for everyone. Because he's like that. None of us looked like this because my brother and I were the youngest families there. Our cousin who turned up hasn't a family yet so there were a paucity of younger females.
I have also been to my grandfather's eightieth birthday celebrations, he who has been left behind with the death of my grandmother, and so that's why there's nothing from me over the weekend. We sampled beers together and a good time was had. We also discussed, debated and got cross over Britishness, identity, immigration and the Other. I did goad it a little by explaining my Nazi lesson to my Aunt and finishing by remarking that we were living in the 1930s now, except it was immigrants and not the Jews that were to blame for everything and that we all wanted a scapegoat for the financial crisis. I went further and opined that fear was driving us, our political leaders know this, and play on our fears of the unemployed and those on benefits to cow us and keep us placid as the right wing patriotism grows and we junk the NHS and any kind of support system in the name of efficiency and then we vote Conservative. My brother is a Conservative voter and evangelical Christian. Nuff said.
Not Tilly.
Tilly has touched up the pink dyed hair that she had and then changed it to dark purple as the pink began to fade. The Girlie has pink in her hair (either side of her face, her hair is really long at the moment so that it almost tickles her butt and she has no fringe to speak of) and the Boy has asked for his hair to be red. We are searching for an option for that to happen so that if he gets freaked out we can remove it instantly and, if he likes it, it will hang around long enough for him to enjoy it. And, predictably, I am a little upset and jealous of the fact that my family can do these things to their hair but I cannot dress in clothes designed for women.
Not as offensive as a picture of Osama bin Laden (give him time) but still enough to evoke controversy. I liked the fact that no one could identify him without help.
Yesterday I went to my new place of work to tidy up the mess I left last time. I got a new school laptop which is going to mean that I have to get myself my own way to access the net as the new laptop is more closely monitored than this one. No more anonymous blogging. So, if this place goes dark for a couple of weeks you'll know why. There was no printing available and so no way to redress the balance that I'd spotted in that all my historical figures were male and all my quotes came from men. This is a bad thing and I didn't want any additions to be tokenistic, I wanted something that would be as challenging as having a huge poster of Michael Collins in my room. "Sir," they ask, "Who are all these people?" And I'd introduce Stalin, Henry VIII, JFK, Gandhi and Michael Collins, "He started the IRA." I'd say. "What's that?" they would ask. "Oh, a terrorist group that bombed the UK mainland and fought a civil war, that they won, in the 1920s. The IRA terrorists continued to bomb the UK until 1998 and the Omagh bombing. They've killed more people than Al Qaeda." And then there would be controversy about whether or not he should be on my wall. Which, of course, was the point. I want a woman in that position. I have Henry VIII, Lenin and JFK on my new wall already, now for a controversial woman. And no, not Mary Tudor or Elizabeth I because they're too well know, they're almost parodies of themselves in History. Henry VIII definitely is, but he and Stalin share many similar traits and I like the idea of using Henry VIII to explain the Five Year Plans or the Yezhovshchina.
As it happens there was some beer in the local supermarket that instantly brought back memories of my father drinking and the stuff you saw on TV. I'm reasonably certain that they were once the brewery used in the Rover's Return in Coronation Street but I could be lying.
Tonight it is time to have at BassTrademark No. 1 premium pale ale. I'm still on that vaguely pale ale kick and I keep forgetting how much I like them. Mind you, let's not forget a love of the dark stuff too.
It hisses nicely when opened and pours nicely from the bottle, making a deep amber ale with an energetic head that is more frothy than creamy. Good fresh hoppy nose to it with a strong hint of alcohol in amongst the blooms of lemon, lime and melon. It is tangy rather than sharp, putting me in mind of pineapple cubes come to think of it. It's also 4.4% ABV and the first taste is like an old-fashioned ginger ale as it hits the tongue. There the similarity ends because there's no fiery beast clawing at you as it goes down, instead we have a wave of cream with a twist of bitterness so that it feels like there ought to be a twist of fruit in there. No real malty base to speak of, the hops work with the carbonation like a Base Jumper off a long bridge or a couple of parkour runners doing their thang to sufficiently electronic dance music.
As I continue to drink it this feeling that the hops are diving off something into a long fall is reinforced and the whole thing feels like a whimsical romp through a built up area whilst defying gravity or something. It has a look of something from a bygone age and feels reassuring working class, northern and solid. It'll probably turn out to be brewed down South now. Even so, it speaks to me of ploughmen, oxen, agricultural labour and canals. It is a Turner or Constable painting hanging in the gallery amidst some brilliant modern art. At once out of place but also reassuring and stable, a haven when caught in the whirls of sound, colour and sculptural flicks that make up a modern gallery experience. Nothing too clever, nothing too thought provoking but dependable and unchanging like black jacks or sherbet lemons or mint imperials - a link to one's past through image and smell. A satisfying pale ale with a good colour.
Enjoy this singly on an evening with a proper manly meal. A hunk of rustic bread, some roughly chopped salady things and slices of dry cured meats and some branston pickle on the side. Make sure you have your work suit on and that it is threadbare on the elbows. Leave your chin unshaven, you too ladies, and talk little with that secure satisfaction that today, today you have helped maintain and create empire.
It is the turn of Black Sheep'sAll Creatures with its rather jaunty coloured label and hints toward a TV show that, whilst I've never seen it, remains locked in the popular consciousness as being quintessentially Yorkshire.
It is a lively ale when opened. There is a whisp of carbonation and then the yeasty fizz completely takes over and goes a bit mental as you pour it into the glass. A frothy, slightly manic, head forms and then continues to grow, dominating the glass and then dissipates slowly over the next minute or so. Good, strong hops and malt arrive at the nose and the promise of a good ale lurks within. At 4% ABV it is nicely within my tolerance and, apparently, most Pale Ales. First sip is spicy and strong, a nice bitter hint with the initial fizz followed by a tinge of yeast as it transforms to a smoother taste and then ends on a bitter note toward the end. An aftertaste remains not unlike the creamier draft pints down the pub, in this case I am inexplicably reminded of Caffrey's which I haven't tasted since in my first year of University. I suspect a light malt for that effect.
Subsequent tastes are good, but this is not really a thirst quencher. I've coupled this with some peanuts because, well, I can, and they are being singularly awful. I've had some good peanuts but these are bland and boring. As a consequence I find that the ale holds its flavour a little longer but the saltiness of the nuts is testing the bounds of the thirst quenching qualities and the ale is coming up short in that regard. I like the spice of the hops and the bitterness that they impart as the taste transforms, I even like the carbonation here because it is so absolutely mentile it feels like an excitable terrier. However, as feisty as this ale is, I can't imagine that I would be seeking it out again. It beats Golden Sheep for taste and it's almost on a par with Riggwelter but I am slightly disappointed that one of my favourite breweries has again failed to really grab me with something they've clearly put some time and effort into. It's no Holy Grail (thank goodness) but it does rather pale (ha) in comparison to Lancaster Bomber which is something I find myself rather surprised by.
I think this ale has its place, mind, and that would be with a good dish of food that has a kick to it. A chilli would work well but also a spiced soup or a medium curry. Something against which this taste can fight and thus claim some semblance of excitement to match the carbonation. Wear a flat cap, keep a whippet and hold this in one of those knobbly pint glasses that has a thick handle. Complain about the cost, incomers and the fact that Yorkshire cricket isn't what it used to be. Then drink this and do it all over again. By 'eck, it'll do for thee.
Looking from the ruins of one of the guest houses. These are not my photos. I can't find those. I've had to rely on good old
Mister Google. However, I am sad enough to know where
each one was taken. I have some in snow somewhere.
We've had a friend of Tilly's over the last few days, I think I said, the Boy's Goblin. It's been a good few days. We had two full days out, which is rather unheard of in our family with our two, and the children are predictably shattered from the experience. Having an extra adult whom they both adulated made things much easier though, so that was nice.
It's also helped in the ongoing moving in that the places we went are peculiarly connected to where we live now rather than where we are going to live. Yesterday we went to a place that holds a special part of me forever. I have been leading coursework trips there for an actual decade and so have visited it almost 40 times in that period. I have led tours of it for students about eight times too, so it really is a place that I know exceptionally well and a place in which I enjoy performing, so to speak, by showing people around. The Boy's Goblin was very kind and offered to be shown around, she showed interest and asked questions and I ended up practically running a coursework tour for her. It was like I was saying goodbye to the place in a way that I hadn't done when I last took kids there from school.
My favourite building. That wall you see there is scarred with
history over 850 years and, well, I am a frustrated architectural
historian, so it's a mild nerdgasm for me.
It is Fountains Abbey and, though you won't get me offering paeans of praise on here to it, you will see that I do feel that I will miss the place. A UNESCO World Heritage site with the oldest working mill in the world (850 years in case you were wondering) and the largest vaulted Cellarium in Europe (and thus the world) that also has a pretty location and some of the best thought-out museums that I have seen on such sites. It is one of the best preserved monastical ruins in the UK and has many features that you simply won't find anywhere else as a consequence of it being the wealthiest Cistercian Abbey in the British Isles in its heyday and then, latterly, being considered and rejected for a cathedral before being used as the centrepiece for Victorian water gardens. The main asset has always been the mill that ceased commercial function in 1927 but remains working and used, mainly for demonstrations now but also to provide power for the exhibits and Fountains Hall.
Atmospheric look up the aisle to the
Chapel of Nine Altars
One of my great loves of the last decade and a significant part of my life, I think I have taken most people that meant something to me to visit whilst I've lived where I do. And now, looking at where we're going to live, we are going to beyond the 'day out' distance for driving, which it was already on the outside of (what can I say, the UK is much smaller than most other countries and our road network lacks the space to be as long-winded as other countries, as a consequence we travel less distance on a day). In other words, no chance of running a coursework on it, less chance of it being a significant part of my teaching any more and limited opportunities to visit. I said goodbye yesterday.
I love what the artist has done here. Tres atmospheric. It's from
the ruins of the Brothers' Infirmary.
Because no post on here would be complete
without a bridal picture, no?
Another of the ales gifted me by my students, this one was done because "you like Vikings". Basically a colleague and I had created, well, he created and I just filled in some details, a double lesson of awesome-ness about Vikings as raiders and traders. It was a fantastic day, I don't mind saying myself, and a supreme act of imagination by my colleague. So, the students were part right. I am fascinated with most things historical and Norsemen catch my fancy (one need only trace the influences in the poetry in this blog) but it was my colleague rather than I that deserved the beer for it.
Nevertheless, tonight it is the turn of Rudgate'sJorvik Blonde that describes itself as 'flaxen blonde ale' and thus straight away gains bonus points!
I was hasty and so forgot to wash up the all important glass and so I cannot comment on the colour. Aroma wise it was dry and strong, which is good in my book, with a good mouthful of hops to bring the bitter and citrus tones that I enjoy in my beers. At 4.8% ABV it is a pretty meaty ale for my latest adventures and showed this quickly in the first mouthful. A good opening of fizz allowing a mellowness and maltiness to peek through and then straight to the bitterness of the hops and ending with a taste not unlike Black Sheep. After taste is a lingerer but this is not a bad thing and brings you up short enough that you want a second taste, so not really a sipping beer as it is a serial sipping beer.
I am impressed by it, despite the weight it didn't have me dizzy or anything like that and sometimes these beers around 4.8% can do that, and it means that I got through the entire bottle relatively quickly. Having it with fish and chips rather than my usual spicy pizza helped and meant that I was able to kick back and relax a little whilst drinking. Alas, it means that I have not got much detail on it. I liked it, I liked it so much that I kind of forgot I was reviewing it at the same time.
Enjoy in the depths of a dark night, wrapped in a fur cloak, whilst reciting tales of Erik the Red in the old Norse language, the crackling flames from your fire making shadows dance off the walls of your round house. Drink through the fronds of a long beard, carefully braided for battle, and use it to ease the legal discussions that inevitably follow any raid as you debate whether there was sufficient permission to take slaves and kill or maim your foes.
We have company from Belgium at the moment. The Boy's godmother who has gained the appellation "Goblin" from both our spawn, affectionately of course. Therefore there's a bit more beer flowing than normal and tonight I have been mostly drinking Timothy Taylor'sLandlord which bills itself as a strong pale ale. The bottle, as you will see below, looks like it has been mostly unchanged since the 1960s and 70s, which, despite the fact I never lived through them, seems almost comforting.
A good nose on this one reminds me of childhood pubs, about which I have spoken before when discussing Thwaites, and so immediately I felt at home with this ale. No whisp of CO2 as I opened the bottle beyond the satisfying snick of the cap coming off and so it won points right there. There is a slight hint of hoppiness in that nose that becomes all the clearer as it is poured out. Once there it has a chestnutty blonde colour that reminds me of the strawberry blondeness I equate with well dyed hair, along with a thin but persistent head that takes a short while to form and then remains languid as it slowly disappears.
First taste is smooth and malty with the hops doing the job of bittering very much in the background, which was nice and surprisingly so. At 4.1% ABV it fits nicely in with the other ales that are making up my current milieu and also has the effect of not making the alcohol overpowering. An uncomplicated taste with a lingering effect of hops rather than malt or yeast, which I applaud. It was being sampled along with some 'posh grub' (our official name for this) made up of chorizo fried and then put over beans, broccoli and pesto. It held out nicely against the strength of the sausage and also against the muzziness of the pesto. This was no mean feat and I've had ales before that fail this particular test. Sovereign, for example, and Goldings, both succumbed to the meal and became listless and background beers. Landlord does a better job of holding my attention and actually helped to clean the palate a little so that it increased my enjoyment of the meal.
Enjoy this with food then, of an evening or on a lunchbreak, and let the beer do its thing. Not one to neck back with any great pace nor is it one to fade away and become something to hold in your hand whilst debating meaty topics. It accompanies these well enough (and did with me) but you don't need them to enjoy it effectively.
Taking a break tonight from the ales that my students gifted to me to enjoy something that Catherine likes. Catherine was drinking proper ale before I even knew the difference between beer and lager and so it was about time that I trusted her judgement and tried it for myself.
It is, of course, Lancaster Bomber from Thwaites and so is something from my own youth and past that somehow passed me by. Part of that may well be because I was rubbish and more interested in not drinking a drop of alcohol in my youth. No, really, I was very proud of the fact that I was teetotal and avoided even eating liquer chocolates! Also, most of the time I spent in University was spent believing that beer was pretty awful. I had a pint of Black Sheep on my first(?) night and then some Carlsberg (ugh) in Freshers' Week and then it was spirits (vodka and coke) all the way - unless I had Pepsi. On it's own. Cans were very cheap. I digress, on with the review.
On opening there is an a hoppy and malty aroma that is pleasant and not a little dissimilar to that of Wainwrightthat I tried a while ago. However, the carbonation really takes a hit of that nose and makes it difficult to judge from the bottle alone. At 4.4% ABV there's not a huge kick to this but when pouring it out there is a definite pungence of alcohol about the whiff that is actually rather pleasing, reminding you that are dealing with a mature ale rather than some natty energy drink.
In the glass I was surprised to see that it actually has a ruby undertone to the nutty brown that it colours. Darker than chestnut, it reminds me of the sheen one gets on conkers in the autumn, and also there's a vinegar like hue there too. But the similarity ends there, thank goodness! There's a froth to begin with but the head doesn't hang around for long, reminding me of the ale I had in the Norfolk Broads by accident, and the fizz seems to have disappeared after a minute or two. Still there on the tongue but not in evidence in the glass. Of course, I haven't chilled it and am tasting at room temperature so that may have something to do with it.
Fruity tones on the nose in the first taste, followed by a pleasant low spicy feel to it as it swirls around the tongue. Not too strong, the hops leave a lasting impression before being briefly overtaken by the barest hint of malt. It's not anything that will have fireworks going off in its name or that will make you want to sing its praises but nor is it tasteless or bland. It is a very sessionable ale, one that will stand repetition and being drunk with strong flavours at a meal. I reckon it would go well with steak or, if you are a vegetarian, with a good nut roast: I would suggest that cashews would work well, but ladle on the mushrooms to really complement the taste and spice of the hops. The bottle tells me that they are late hops, whatever that means, but I don't really know how that changes anything. There is a passing resemblance to Late Red so I suppose that's your late hops right there. Not as strongly hoppy as Thoroughbred Gold nor as smooth as Banks's Bitter but I like it.
Overall, this is not one that does well out of being drunk singly. It would be best as part of a session on an evening or as part of a proper meal. It is neither thirst quenching nor so dry that it requires water on hand but, rather, works well and holds its own. Enjoy this after a day at work or on a long evening, it probably wouldn't do so well out in the sunshine or with a curry for example. Let it breathe a bit, give it some room, and hang fire on the bar snacks. Would do well from the pump rather than from the bottle, though from a bottle is still very serviceable. Another sharing beer methinks, rather than a drinking alone tipple.
...a bourgeois construct / So I've given up the bourgeoisie
Okay, my heels are much lower than that, well they're wedges technically. Unless I went with the boots. Mind you, my legs are massively hairy...
I travelled down to my new place of work today and so I had a very long time on my own in the car with music playing to think about things, lots of things, and to think about them pretty hard. I had also entertained the notion, last night before bed (and so through the night as well) of taking my rucksack with me and indulging in some dressing when driving. As it was I did not on the grounds that driving with heels is still something I haven't mastered (and getting in an accident with finances the way they are is not a good plan) and trying to explain to anyone about my driving would be... faintly embarrassing (well, you see officer, I'm not used to driving in heeled boots, so...). Also there was the issue of changing at the other end. I wasn't really going to be a place or position where I would be able to change in private nor would I wish to go en-femme about the area where we're moving to - no sense setting up a reputation ahead of time.
Then there was the issue of driving in a skirt, which I had considered, and rejected because people would be able to look in and see what I was wearing. Yeah, basically there's The Fear going on as normal. It was a shame, because I think I need to do the dressed thing again as it's been so long. However, as I have said on here before, my lingerie needs to be washed before I can reasonably wear any of it again and I'm not at all certain how I'm going to do that without Tilly raising an objection. Or, rather, without upsetting her with the revelation that, yes, I'm still dressing and, yes, I still have clothes that were designed for women. Given previous attempts to raise the subject I'm not sure it would be a terribly beneficial conversation on either part.
...not a competition / but I'm winning
Nearly everywhere looks like this, by the way, and they all have issues with size 14 tops. I mean, really, are women so shaped that only their bottom halves are 14s and their tops 12 or lower? Or up in the 20s? I appear to have it backward being a 14 top half and a 12 lower half generally speaking.
When I reached the place we are to buy I decided to explore the town a bit, after all, I was alone and could move more quickly than last time when Tilly was feeling tender and the Boy was heavy and grouchy because it was hot. I found the main street, choked with charity shops, and so I did my usual trawl. I did not find any tops and purposely avoided skirts and dresses because, as much as I love them, they are not my current concern. There were no real options, like I say, but there are plenty to choose from and it would take a long time for my face to become well known enough to raise eyebrows methinks given the plethora of shops from which to choose. I also discovered a shop that sells wigs, and that's a one time deal methinks if I get the right one, and there were some that had fringes over the eyes - so aces. However, they would set me back about twenty-four of your Earth pounds, so saving up is required for that.
After my decision not to dress I found it strange that I was moved to look in all of the shops and so carefully for a top to match the skirt that I wasn't wearing. Even more so as I still didn't see anywhere in the locale where I would consider it safe to dress and take a walk. The whole process took maybe fifteen minutes in total but it felt much longer. The desire to dress, and to think on the dressing, abated when I was sorting out my classroom to my satisfaction but returned on the drive back from the school. I was testing the route there and back for timing and for ease of driving. It's... not that easy and is likely to be much longer than my commute has so far been. Still, I think the house makes up for that and, if the job is what I think it is, the lack of support procedure will go a long way to making my quality of life high enough to take the hit!
...a battlefield / We are strong
This shirt in fact. For a tenner.
On the way back I got lost and ended up taking a circuitous route back to the place we will be buying, so I eschewed an exact journey and peeled off to the local supermarket to get some food and drink. I hadn't taken lunch and a quick one from the local Co-Op was nice but... small. I found that they had an enormous clothing section upstairs and that there was a sale on. Of course I decided to have a good look. There was a top but it was a tenner and the time was getting on. Deciding that I would be unable to hide the purchase and the time I rejected it and left. On the way back it also rapidly became apparent that there would be no way to smuggle it into the house without being spotted.
Except that there was a call from the estate agents on the way home explaining that there may be delays. To put it bluntly, I may have to rent a place for a month before we can move. Now, if this is the case, then there may be scope for dressing in that first few weeks of an evening. If that is the case then I will be buying that shirt to go with my skirts.
I didn't just think about cross-dressing, I also pondered things like State vs private ownership of services, the conundrum of Non-Profit Organisations and the salaries of their top end employees and the lyrical influences of various groups and songs. I considered wind power versus geothermal on a grand scale and a local one and the efficaciousness of organising things on a local level versus the national level. Sojourns were also had to Russia's anti-gay laws, the nature of equality (opportunity, outcome, start point; economic, social and political; gender, representation and importance) and Physics. It was a pretty long trip.
8 year old me wanted her hair. No, really, that's what I took from this. Sad but true.
Recently there's been a lot going on my household, as I'm sure you've noticed. But, now and again, I like this place to reflect somethings that are a little less serious. So, for this post, I will share the experience of watching one of my favourite films with my daughter.
I remember seeing these posters at the cinema in 1986. I saw it on TV in 1988, we taped it. Yes, my childhood memories of this were a grainy VHS copy from BBC or ITV.
For many reasons that I shan't go into, I decided that it would be a good and nice idea to watch something actively with my daughter. I already do this with My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic with the Boy, so I thought I'd try something with the Girlie. The Girlie is now old enough to watch a film with her Daddy before bed. And I shared an old favourite of mine with her: The Flight of the Navigator. This was made in 1986 and has one of those standard 1980s draw ins of being about a child and aliens. It was a genuine thing back then after E.T.
Anyway, she and I sat down in a specially darkened living room to enjoy the DVD that I recently picked up from a charity shop for a quid. First of all, the experience. We enjoyed it. She sat on my lap and asked the occasional question about the film and we shared a few conversations about what was happening. If you've not seen it then I hope I don't spoiler it too much but here's a basic plotline: David, the hero, falls down a ravine in the woods on 4 July 1978. He wakes up to find everything changed, as it's now 4 July 1986. He finds his family via the Police and then is taken to NASA who have found a UFO that matches a picture drawn from David's head. David gets into the UFO, UFO downloads data from David's mind, buddy movie ensues, sinister plot about NASA and national security is hinted at but never becomes the focus of the film. There is mild peril.
I assume that this shot was in the trailer. That's why the first part of the film messes with you - there are about five fake-outs with the UFO making an appearance. When it finally does hit the screen you almost don't notice, which is good, because the UFO element is not what this film is about.
The Girlie loved it and I loved watching it with her. I was sharing something of my own past and she recognised that but, also, I felt that I was sharing something cathartic with her, like a part of me was being open with her in a way that we hadn't been able to before now. And that was nice. She found it exciting and the peril was mild enough to keep her interested for the whole film without becoming scary or overwhelming. The scenes at NASA when David enters the UFO are pretty powerful stuff for a young person but the Girlie handled it well and was suitably swept by the emotions of the piece too. She really felt for David when he discovered that his parents had grown older, and his brother, but David had stayed the same. She 'got' why that was bittersweet for the parents and just scary for David without it becoming too existential.
We'd pre-watched the the film already, Tilly and I, as I mainly wanted to show it to Tilly. The idea of sharing with the Girlie came after discussion with my brother about watching films with my grandfather and how we'd enjoyed it and thought that he may have done too. They were around the time that Star Wars was being re-released and the Fifth Element so we were older... I don't know, it made sense to me.
I love the design for this UFO too.
The film holds up remarkably well considering its vintage. It never tries to do too much and despite the time travel / space travel plotline it actually remains pretty rooted to the characters. Also, it avoids being a male coming-of-age film, though certainly there's stuff in there that could be interpreted that way, and avoids getting embroiled in Cold War politics - quite a feat. Indeed, one of the really clever things is the fact that the 'future' is 1986 and David's 'present' is 1978. That meant that the film-makers had everything they needed to make it work authentically. Also, they didn't have to draw attention to the differences. They make passing reference to different TV shows and remind the viewer that music videos did not exist in 1978, at least, not on prime time television and there's one scene with a mobile phone in it but, apart from that, it really sticks to the 'buddy movie' and travelogue as David tries to cross the USA to get back home. A lack of pop-culture references actually helps the film, as there's little to really date it, apart from a dig at E.T. for the parents to catch. Effects wise there are a few things that modern viewers would scoff at: the obvious line in the 'seamless' craft for the animation to bring steps down for example, but most of the effects are innocuous and not too flashy, which helps. Oh, and Tokyo, not one of the better sections.
Oh, look, is this one of her first films? As Tilly says: there is no way she was paid enough for this role, no way.
I get the impression there's much on the cutting room floor too. Dr Faraday and the NASA staff lose the UFO at one point and there's no scene with them again until the UFO is falling back to Earth and out-of-control. They seem to have taken the reappearance of the craft rather well and there's a ragged cheer when it pulls up from near certain doom - I smell a missing bit where there's some relief and thus emotional investment at it resurfacing on their tracking systems. Also, in one scene, David awakes with a very 1980s game clutched in his hands, like he fell asleep playing it, and there are a number of references to the toys we see briefly (including Transformers) but there's no exploration of how he copes with them. Even the scenes with Sarah Jessica Parker, for it is she, about changes between 1978 and 1986 are, as one would expect, limited. I get the impression there were a few more of them.
I loved this part the best. Super steamlined alien craft apparently travelling at over mach 10 - yes please!
However, despite some jerky moments the film moves with a decent pace and glides like the UFO from a strange film about being an alien in a familiar place to 12 year old angsting to buddy movie to sci-fi and back to family movie. In just over 90 minutes that's not an easy thing to do. It holds up pretty well, and raises some interesting questions if you wish to delve deeper: like what life was like for David's family in the intervening 8 years (Jeff speaks a little of it and we get glimpses of some pretty terrible trauma, but it gets cut off), the nature of time travel (at the end, what does that mean for 1986?) and what of the alien that David rescues whose planet was destroyed by a comet? Also, David still has all that information in his brain, what's he going to do with that now he knows how to access it? (in 1986 he talks directly to computers monitoring brainwave activity - we call them MRIs I guess)
Overall, it was an enjoyable film with Tilly and just as enjoyable, for very different reasons, with the Girlie too. And it was a part of my childhood that I enjoyed revisiting. Make of it what you will, but I can recommend it to anyone who fancies a bit of fluff on an evening.
The last couple of days have been spent dealing with home stuff. In the course of moving I am learning how much time one must spend by the phone waiting for things to happen. As a consequence we haven't strayed far. Yesterday we went to a local tourist-y spot to meet up with one of the Girlie's best friends. They played well and the roles were reversed from normal, apparently her friend usually winds her up but this time it was her winding him up, mainly due to the fact that we're moving and everything is therefore the straw that broke the camel's back. We spent the evening in the garden and then Tilly and I played on laptops and watched some stuff on TV without really discussing anything - Tilly has started writing again, which is great for her but pants for conversation.
Today we went out to look at getting a tablet after I've returned the iPad we had at work to work. However, plans of playing about with some to get a feel in a shop went down the toilet relatively quickly - Tilly was antsy and the children weren't up for their usual MO of watching the big TVs in electronics stores. The Boy, in particular, was haring up and down. The Girlie was upset because she and Tilly had gone off to say goodbye to the old lady that Girlie has adopted from their weekly bus ride to one of her groups. She was there, which was great, but in a hurry and so there was no conversation nor satisfying meeting. Thus the Girlie was in a bad mood. Tilly was also more antsy than usual, like she was barely containing some kind of explosion. We abandoned tablet shopping and decided to hit the nearest park, this turned into one that the Girlie likes about six miles away. There Tilly had to run off to check a clothing store and the Girlie got progressively more difficult to keep a lid on. So we abandoned in favour of a late lunch. But Tilly had decided to get her hair dyed and so we had to go and get the dye.
We got home two and half hours after we left the park for lunch with hair dye and a hair lightening kit. I looked after the pair of them a bit and then went to get the car vaccuumed - it was needed. Then we had tea, Tilly went to get some more dying supplies from a friend and I attempted to look after the children, with whom I had my own blow up, and we contained it as best we could. Then I looked after the eldest and helped the youngest go to sleep. Tilly dyed her hair pink. She's just painting her nails now whilst I have a beer and a blog.
Trust
Trust women...
We discussed Tilly colouring her hair quite extensively. She's been on about it for about a week now. It's not so much the colour that she wants but the feeling of changing something about her appearance to make her feel better. That is, she is not that fussed about what others will think about her change she just feels the need to change something. I can relate, of course, because what is cross-dressing if it isn't the desire to change things connected with appearance without actually needing that appearance to change. Basically I was minded of my own feelings about women's clothes when Tilly was talking about her hair. That need to feel different even if one didn't suit the changes. The outward appearance was irrelevant but the need to change something about it was huge and entirely in one's own head. She had already settled on a shade she wanted but, over the course of the day, she began to become increasingly agitated about it, eventually saying that any shade would do and that she would probably go beyond the streaks she had originally wanted to just dye the whole of her hair.
This effect had previously been observed in the park when we met up with another of the Girlie's friends. She and him were paddling in the duck pond and Tilly shared how she had been the same at that age. We noticed that the Girlie was getting more and more of her wet, Tilly reminded me that she had been the same as a child, culminating in sitting down in the water and blowing the consequences but being wet and miserable on the way home. I didn't make the connection at the time but this is a lot like how I view my own indulgence in cross-dressing. Anyway, we rescued the Girlie from herself, and today I noticed that Tilly was doing the same with dying her hair. Sure enough, the moment the children were in bed she set about dying her hair and has ended up doing the whole of her head before applying nail varnish to her toes and is now doing her hands in dark purple. I should point out that Tilly never usually paints her nails either.
And I totally get it. I get how when she asks my opinion my answer is almost irrelevant, how she just needs to change the colour of her hair or something about how she looks. It is irrational and it is not unreasonable. I get the fact that she suddenly hates her short hair and wishes she had let it grow out longer rather than getting it cut short a few weeks ago, even though at the time she had an urge to go almost bald. I get that, I get the feeling and I understand. Ultimately, as I told her, I trust her to do what she needs to do to feel comfortable in her own skin. It's her skin after all and I love her for all of her, the outward packaging is in her hands and she will look good regardless because it's who she is that I love most, not what she looks like. Though I will confess to liking the packaging too.
Obey
And I want to use this to talk to her about my cross-dressing. I want to explain how there are similarities, how my cross-dressing isn't a sexual kink, or at least, not just a sexual kink. I want her to understand that my need is just as irrational as hers and how it is also just as reasonable. I want to try and explain that whilst I would love to be able to pass I realise that I never will and it doesn't really matter or make a difference. Like she understands that she doesn't really 'suit' neon pink hair and purple nails (she'll look good in them, don't get me wrong) and looked a little too pale when she was blonde, nevertheless she did it because she wanted to feel like that and wanted to feel like she could look good like that. I mean, she looked good to me, but that's not the point. It was never about looks. She wants to be able to carry the pink hair, but not in a grabbing attention way, in a way that people will notice it and compliment it but not in a way that people see that she's changed her hair. At the same time she accepts that people will notice her hair more than she would like because it is such a bright colour.
It is very like my urge to dress. As the hair colour carries social connotations too where we live. She knows that people will assume that she is from a Council Estate and that she will be subjected to people who will take her hair colour as proof of the fact that she is a Chav. People will prejudge her, unfairly, and she wants to do it anyway because she wants to feel that feeling that the hair dye carries with it. I think that this is similar to my own feelings about cross-dressing. I get that I will never look like a female, I will never pass, and I get the fact that people will pre-judge why I am doing it, they will judge me unfairly and make assumptions that are insulting and incorrect. They will, like Tilly does, assume that it is all about sexual fetish and about getting my rocks off. They may assume that it is about humiliation, they may assume something else, I don't know. They will think that I do it to attract men or to be something I'm not. They will find it distasteful. But it is not really about the appearance. I don't look good in, well, anything; but I know that I do not look good in female clothes - I am too gangly and long and, well, male.
I would dress, I do dress, because of the feeling. I have written about those feelings on here before now. And it is those feelings that drive me to dress, that drive me to check female clothing in charity shops and look longingly at the outfits that women wear. The woman in the carpark with the platform wedges and black blouse throwing away clothes in the recycling bins. The woman with the pink watch and the big sunglasses driving out next to us, the woman with the denim jacket and pedal-pushers in the park, the redhead with the necklace and bracelet pushing her boy in the swings. I want to feel like they felt. I don't wish to be them, I have no desire to attract a male or undertake sexual acts with a male - I am married and that would be cheating among other things. I am secure in my own sexual identity. Hell, I am secure in being a male mostly.
But that's the thing. Society is pretty accepting of hair dye for women but not for men. I discussed the fact that I had never dyed my hair and that I might try it one day with Tilly. She was rather dismissive. It would look weird, she said; men don't generally dye their hair so it would stand out, she said; men don't really have bright colours so there would be no point, she said; dying hair wasn't really a man thing, she said, it was the preserve of females. And she's sort of right. I dropped the conversation, she persisted in pointing out why me dying my hair was a bad idea, until we moved on to topics about the children.
That, right there, is what inspired me to post tonight. Tilly is right, of course, and it's why my cross-dressing is a non-topic, why she never wants to discuss it or accept it or understand it - it's not done and it's not considered 'normal'. It is uncommon and it is out of most peoples' experience. I don't blame her for that, any more, I had my own strange experience with Toby and that... well, that just messed up my autistic mind because she was not the norm either. Oh, and my cross-dressing was enough to eventually ruin that relationship too (well, combined with my general ignorance and selfishness).
I am late to this. But it is possibly the best protest / form of raising awareness I have ever seen. If all protests were like this I feel the world would change far more quickly. Maybe it's the dance, maybe it's the music, but this is powerful. Also, sad that it came to this. Sad that it had to be done.
Tilly and I are watching Twilight and it is unmitigated shit. We're watching for the reason to pull it apart. I think.
You know, human beings are the worst predators ever conceived. If vampires, or anything of that ilk, actually existed then we, as a species, would wipe them out in short order. And we wouldn't stop. Vampires may prey on human beings but human beings work as a pack, as a group, and we would bring them down. It is a principal failing of most supernatural movies of this form, of most legends, the things that prey on human beings are woefully under-prepared for full scale war with them. Maybe I ought to write that story...
See, this kind of drunk. Except with beer. Because... beer.
Also, yellow. Again.
Tonight I am struggling with a reckless urge to get totally pissed. I was supposed to be travelling about two hours to sort out my new classroom and generally do work-y things but then word came that we were ready to rumble on mortgage for buying. Instead of driving for two hours I spent two hours sorting finances and accounts and details to start the new mortgage ball rolling - we have been waiting a while.
So, stress levels soared and I was running on adrenaline.
We took our children to the library and town to sort out a few things (I cruised the charity shops, ostensibly to look at potential DVDs for the kids, but also checking out tops again) and by the end of that I was crashing. One Morrison's own energy drink later and I have a headache but at least I am awake. Children continued to be difficult (well, maybe just tired) until they passed out. I've had a glass of Leffe Blonde. Now I want to get bladdered. But I can't be arsed reviewing a beer.
Autistic, moi?
Fuck you sexism. Beer and woman, check. Positive image:
check. Redhead? Check. Fuck yes, sign me up.
I also want to over-haul the tags on this blog, there are too many and they are unwieldy. I need a better system. Expect changes to tags tonight, all those readers that use them (so... me).
I want to dress. I really want to dress. But I can't. Most of my wardrobe needs a wash quite desperately. Any ideas how to do that without Tilly finding out?
Addendum:
Fucking hell. Could there be any more sexism in images of people drinking? Pretty much every image of women drunk implies it is shameful and wrong. Pretty much every image of men drunk implies it is some kind of feat to be mastered. Positive images of men drunk are the norm, whereas positive images of women even drinking are rare to the point of extinction. Fucking hell. I thought we'd moved on. I honestly did.
1992. Baby D released a song that would hang around on the edges of the charts and the popular culture that I was aware of for a good few years. To the point where I cannot recall when I first saw the video for it nor when I first heard the song. It seems, to me, to be relevant.
Also, it seems to deliberately fade into a recent Pet Shop Boys track, or rather vice versa, and since you all know what a fangirl I am of them then I guess that makes a lot of sense.
Of course, this track, in turn, seems to borrow heavily from a Pet Shop Boys B-Side released with Winner whose video was relevant to my interests at least, even if I find the track a little weak. Much like I found Later Tonight to be one of the weakest tracks on Actually but most fans seem to find it one of the best on the album, including my father. Meh.
Apparently there is no YouTube video of that particular track either so you'll just have to take my word for it as I lack the facility to make my own videos at present, which is a shame. My colleague had such a facility which he used for an outing for our Year 8s with Vikings but that is a story for another time. I promise you that none of this was the point of this post. That follows after the line break.
Today the car went in for an MOT, giving me some time alone in a place with many charity shops and so, naturally, I went into nearly all of them and had a good look at what was on offer in terms of female clothing. As ever there were few tops that I would look twice at, plenty of skirts that I would happily own and wear and some bridal stuff that had me sighing on the inside that I would never get to wear anything so over-the-top frilly and feminine.
But it got me thinking, as such things invariably do, about self-image and clothing in general. There have been thoughts on this over at Stana's Femulate blog that are much better presented and famous than anything I could cobble together but, because I am me, I'm going to try anyway.
But, you see, there are plenty of women who aren't your
College-Age type who still ooze femininity.
Mind you, even this plays to the stereotype. I know
I'm not any better.
It would appear that most TG people tend to focus on the younger end of the spectrum, or at least, many of the people of whom I am aware do so. That's not to say all, far from it, but there is a definite trope among most TG people that tends toward the young and pretty rather than, say, the older or the less classically pretty. Oh, there's geek chic and the like, but most of the images of this genre tend to be very pretty. Now, that's not necessarily a bad thing. I mean, I get it, most people have views of themselves when they were younger that borders on the rose-tinted or they have internal views that they would like to match that are attractive in ways that they currently aren't. There's lots that makes sense there, I mean, if you're going to be changing your image from one sex to another then you may as well go the whole hog with wish-fulfilment, right? Why stop at just one aspect.
Actually an image on confidence rather than any
kind of body issues but the emotion here seems
to fit.
My own self-image, as I have discussed on here before, is generally negative. I avoid looking in mirrors. Oh, I use them to brush my teeth or check that my hair hasn't done that thing it did back in school where a few would club together and raise an antenna for radio stations (yes, I got teased about that a lot as a child) or my calf-lick hasn't gone utterly mad or that my hair isn't doing my mushroom attempt to look like a nineties reject wedge style. Maybe I even look closely at my teeth to check there isn't food in them or wonder at how yellow they are (and I even use whitening toothpaste) naturally. I might even cast a quick eye over my beard to see if I can get away with not shaving for a while longer (I'm very very lazy about that). In the shower or after a bath I may even taunt myself with a look at my pigeon chest with the hair sprouting from my nipples and not much anywhere else. In the bath or shower I will inspect my other body hair for signs of dirt or unhealthiness hidden by it, or check out various body parts but this is very much in a disinterested fashion. Unless I look like a dangerous homeless person I generally won't look too closely. Indeed, I can go weeks without looking in a mirror at all.
It should, therefore, come as no surprise that I don't really consider what I look like in women's clothing. When I was looking at all of these clothes in the charity shops I was thinking primarily of how it looked rather than how it would look on me. When I wear these clothes I don't really consider how I look in them, mainly because I think I already know that answer: I look like a tit. Instead I focus on how they feel and what they, the clothes, look like. So much so that I really avoid looking in any kind of reflected surface when wearing them.
Yes, that dance. I did it in a
Goth club before moving on
to the very popular
'guess the weapon'
were we mimed various
weaponry a la 'Spaced'...
Dressing is, for me, an intensely private experience. My low body image is magnified a thousand fold when I am dressed en femme but not in such a way as to prevent me doing it, more like the same sort of way I avoid dancing in public spaces or in the view of people generally. In clubs I tend toward 'inappropriate dancing', that is, I dance in a way that deliberately avoids matching the style of music being played. I mosh to ABBA, I do the Staying Alive dance to Metallica, the Blockbusters dance to Death Metal... you get the idea. The point is that this way I can deliberately dance badly in view of real people. My mad-ex Toby once said that she was ashamed to be seen near me when I danced - I should point out that I was dancing properly then. Tilly has pointed out that I have no rhythm and has said many times she would not go clubbing with me again (in her defence, I got spooked the one time she did go to a club with me and ended up hiding behind a pillar before starting an argument that totally and irreparably damaged our relationship). So, now, I dance in private, where no one can see me. It is the same way when I am dressed.
I would look horrible in any of these.
I can dance on my own in a club where there is no one I know. I've done this back in the day, after University but before marriage. I can do the same dressed, I have done with my shoes that one time, because people who I do not know don't really exist for purposes of shame or privacy. But I went to pretty extravagant lengths to keep what I was doing secret even from these people.
Then there's the clothes, I tend to turn my nose up at most tops made for females, there are so few that appeal to me as there are so many I find myself rejecting. I can't do strappy tops or low-cut tops or low neckline tops or slightly see-through tops or sleeveless tops because of a lack of natural cleavage and the fact that my underarm hair resembles an entrance to Hell. As a consequence most blouses are out (transparency or low neckline issues) as are most t-shirts (underarm hair) or just plain tops (strappy and low-cut). I wonder how women cope. By contrast I am happy to consider skirts and some dresses, even women's trousers. Go figure.
It's been a long-ish day with some highs and lows - we went to the seaside today you see with the childrens, and so I am now going to kick back with another of the beers that were kindly bought for me by my students before I left my last school.
This one is the Wold TopAgainst the Grain which I confess to have been looking forward to. It was bought because my lessons are apparently very much against the mainstream, thus against the grain (this was a compliment, I think: I shall take it as such anyway). Also, the artwork on the bottle (see below) is very close to the Socialist Realism style around the Five Year Plans (actually, I think it's more like the style associated with Constructivism, which is far superior). Bless my students, we hadn't studied the Soviets yet so they must have gleaned that tidbit from a colleague of mine.
Actually, I was a little too eager to try this wheat-less ale with its promises of being gluten free and totally organic. Plus, it was from a Yorkshire brewery within the Wold Top stable and I do like my Black Sheep so it was even more appealing. So eager, in fact, that I didn't bother pouring it out and instead had it straight from the bottle. I haven't done that for a while. Also, I didn't take the time to do a proper aroma check. Suffice to say it lived up to the promise of a citrus tang in the air and the carbonation wasn't so strong that it knocked that out. Taste was similarly satisfying, definite hit of the hops (no idea what kind but lacking the spicy warmth of Fuggles) followed by a pleasant smoothness and a hint of malt. Or, at least, something very like malt. It was lovely and light on the tongue and the palate, keeping that hoppy taste as I got further down the bottle, and never giving in to its own strength, at 4.5% ABV.
I had it with a takeout pizza (oh the humanity) and it held its own very nicely over the artificial taste of that. It was surprisingly good with the saltiness of bad takeout too, perhaps that just enhanced the taste. The smell stayed pleasant over the evening. The overall taste didn't diminish either, as it sometimes does with these ales as the alcohol seems to take over, so that the last sip was as satisfying, and oddly thirst-quenching, as the first. Other things to report are that it doesn't quite behave the same way as other ales I've had. Bear in mind the fact that I am a colossal lightweight and most ales have me pleasantly drunk and bloated by the end of an evening. This did not do that. Even now, at the end of it, I do not feel the usual bloatedness that I have come to associate with drinking ale over spirits. I put this down to the lack of gluten but I could be wrong.
Whilst not my all time favourite beer this is definitely worth a repeat performance and definitely worth having more than one in a sitting.
Enjoy on its own or with a hearty meal in good company. This can be large or small. Have wide-ranging and convivial conversation in the continental style and accompany with a long day out if you can - the fresh air will complement the taste and the smell nicely. Laugh and repeat for as long as the night is amusing. This is sessionable ale and will stand you in good stead for a good few hours if you treat it right.
