Secret [see-krit]
– noun. Something kept hidden or concealed; a mystery, reason or explanation not immediately or generally apparent; a method, formula, plan, etc., known only to the initiated or the few.
– adjective. Something not on the cover of a tatty celebrity magazine.
Category: Pictures Page 39 of 46
This picture, taken last week, shows you the oh-so-luxurious segregated check-in area allocated to members of a famous hotel chain’s loyalty scheme. A lovely rope separates members from the proles, and they get the privilege of standing on a small mat as they check in. To be honest, I’d feel kind of guilty lording it up so much over the lower orders if it was me, but I’ve always been quite sympathetic to the finer feelings of my servants.
Anyway, I had to stay overnight in a hotel last week, for a meeting the next morning. And within a couple of hours of arriving there – despite it being a reputable chain (though one of its heirs seems determined to sully that legacy if possible) – I could understand why Willy Loman and Alan Partridge alike loathed being away from home so much.
The setting and reception were pleasant enough, but when I checked into my room and dumped my bag on the bed and looked around, I felt a sinking feeling; there was a TV, an ironing board and iron, a selection of menus and other bits of information for guests, and (oh yes) a Corby trouser press. I had, I suddenly realised, become that cliché, the chap who stays away from home overnight for work. I was thankful I’d travelled there by train and taxi, rather than driven there in a car with a suit hanging in the back and ‘Top Gear Driving Anthems 2’ on the stereo, that would have made the picture unsettlingly complete.
Deciding to eschew the bar or restaurant, I instead ordered some room service food, and settled down to see what was on the TV, by way of a mental sorbet. The standard terrestrial channels were there, along with a number of on-screen adverts for the fact I could pay £8.50 to watch Beowulf in glorious normal-sized-TV-o-vision. I decided that I’d rather either see it at the cinema for that cost, or even buy a copy of it for slightly more, and instead opted to watch a Batman cartoon which was on (for reasons which elude me, they had the Cartoon Network in addition to the usual channels).
The food, for the record, was fine, and a bit later on I chatted to my beloved on the phone, which made things feel a bit less grim, but there was something strange about the overnight experience; I was reminded of the narrator in Fight Club talking about his apartment building being a filing cabinet, and the food on planes being single-serving. The hotel felt the same – the room was functional but not luxurious or welcoming, and the miniature toiletries were like a plastic soap-filled summation of the transient nature of it all.
I slept all right, but when I went to breakfast the next morning, there were a couple of chaps in shirts and ties sitting at a table already, eating breakfast and talking about their sales targets. Just overhearing them, I swear I could actually feel my soul shrivelling like a slug in a saltstorm.
I took my tray, and its single-serving breakfast, and sat in the furthest possible corner of the restaurant.
[Telephone connection is made]
Australian National Eric Bana: Hello?
Unknown voice: Eric, baby. It’s your agent here. How are ya?
Bana: I’m fine, thanks. What’s new? Got anything good for me?
Unknown: Well, just got a new script in this morning, but I don’t think it’s quite right, really.
Bana: Not quite right? Why?
Unknown: I’ll send it over, but it’s a historical drama – and after Troy, I didn’t think you’d be into that.
Bana: Hmm, you might be right. Still, what’s it about?
Unknown: That English King, Henry the Eighth.
Bana: What, the chubby King? That’s not very flattering, is it?
Unknown: No, but I think they’re trying to move away from the stereotype.
Bana: I guess so – like Colin Farrell having highlights when he played Alexander the Great.
Unknown: Something like that, yes.
Bana: Anyway, so I’d be playing Henry the Eighth?
Unknown: That’s the offer.
Bana: Who’s the director?
Unknown: Justin Chadwick.
Bana: I’ve never heard of him.
Unknown: No, you wouldn’t have, it’s his first movie.
Bana: Oh, right. What about the screenwriter?
Unknown: It’s Peter Morgan. He wrote that film about the Queen the other year.
Bana: That was nominated for an Oscar, wasn’t it? Hmm, that’s a bit more promising. What’s the basic premise?
Unknown: You play Henry, and the two Boleyn sisters fight over you. I’ll be honest, Eric, I think you’re the last major character to be cast, and the money might not be too good.
Bana: Okay, I understand. So who’s attached to it already? Who are the women who’ll be fighting over me?
Unknown: Hold on a second, I’ll just check… yes, here we are. Natalie Portman plays Anne Boleyn, and Scarlett Johansson plays her sister Mary.
Bana: And there are love scenes with both of them?
Unknown: In the script I’ve got here, yes.
Bana: Tell them I’ll do it for ten dollars.
I completed the Silverstone Half-Marathon on Sunday, though not in any kind of impressive time (apparently, there’s a connection between training for physical exercise, and being able to do it. Strange, that).
Anyway, since I seem to have acquired some new readers recently, I thought I’d publish this (admittedly rather low-resolution) picture of me running on Sunday, so you can put a face* to the blog, as it were.
*As Victor Lewis-Smith put it, “it must be a face – it’s got ears”.
Spotted in the London Paddington branch of WHSmith. I like to think that the near-obliteration of the A and the subtle amending of the G into an O is entirely deliberate.
And while we’re taking cheap shots, is it just my imagination, or is that one of the least convincing photo-montage jobs of all time? Sergeant Pepper’s looked more like all the people were actually there, and that was in 1967 or so.
(Note to my American readers: don’t be fooled by Morgan’s appearance on various TV shows over there, he’s not any kind of representative of the UK; for example,not many of us Limeys have been fired from our newspaper editing jobs for publishing fake photos purporting to show British servicemen urinating on Iraqi prisoners. In fact, the number of British people who are on record for doing so is very slight – just 1 in something like 60 million.)
Spotted in London last week, a sharp reminder of the need to always read the small print at the bottom.
In what way are the sweets like a jacuzzi, I wonder?
No wonder the recently-striking members of the Writers’ Guild of America feel they generally got a good deal and ended the strike.
Jon Bowman, a member of the WGA negotiating committee, bears a striking resemblance to Oliver Stone, a writer and director who’s not exactly known for holding back when it somes to voicing his opinion.
I wouldn’t argue with either of them, they both look like they mean business…
So, first there was the film First Blood, the title of which makes sense.
Then the follow-up was called Rambo :First Blood Part II. So, a sequel number with a subtitle-type-thing. Okay.
But the third film was called Rambo III, which suggests Rambo I and II had preceded it, right? They hadn’t, though – unless First Blood Part II was actually called Rambo… but if that was the case, why is the new film in the series just called Rambo? Surely it should be Rambo IV (if it follows Rambo III in the series, which it seems to chronologically), or even Rambo II, to plug the missing gap between Rambo (First Blood Part II) and Rambo III, if it were a ‘prequel’… but I don’t think it is.
Oh, my head hurts from thinking about it all. We know Sylvester can count – he had no trouble using roman numerals on the Rocky films, did he? Then again, he did call the last one by the character’s full name, so maybe I should just stop dwelling on this pedantry.
I have to say, you never have this problem with the work of his french relative Arthur Rambo*.
*This terrible pun first used in my earshot by my father, who used to say that you could tell a person’s intellect by asking ‘what do you think of the work of [phonetic] Ramm-boe?’ I’ve since seen it in other places, including Grant Morrison and Paul Grist’s comic St Swithin’s Day.
It’s often disappointing to realise that a lot of the things you learn at school bear little relation to the real world; just yesterday, I realised that all the hours spent dealing with subjects, objects, predicates and the like in sentence construction simply don’t apply.
According to the Daily Star, it’s perfectly acceptable to construct a headline by putting five nouns in a row.
(I also love the way they’ve referred to Lewis Hamilton by his forename, as if that makes it immediately apparent who they’re talking about. I like to think the staff of the Star did this after a discussion in which they concluded that if they put his surname, the whole nation would have been wondering if they were referring to David, or even Emma Hamilton.)
Delighted to spot this in the Dome on Saturday (no, I shan’t call it after the phone company who bought it for a tenner, as I, like many other people, paid for the thing to be built, so I’ll call it what I blimmin well like).
I like to think the ‘vandalism’ was by a member of the public, though if it was a later correction by a member of staff, that’s not so bad either. Grammar for the people, and used by the people, and all that.