The Chocolate Ocelot’s 2013 Fringe - Day Two

The Librarians

The Space on North Bridge

This was rather good indeed. Billed as a dark absurdist comedy, I’d describe it as comic Gormenghasty tale of murder, with a Gilliamesque ravening book monster and a talented young cast of grotesques. There are some really good lines of dialogue from writer Lewis Garvey and the physical acting is excellent, with nary a thrown book prop dropped. Funny, freaky and very watchable.

Nice work from UEA’s Minotaur company, who coped well with a few spotlighting glitches to earn an enthusiastic round of applause from the midday audience. Herself suggests that the make-up (kabuki style, much in the style of the old David Glass Gormenghast stage run from the 90s) could be a little tidier, a little subtler for a small venue with an up-close audience, but otherwise excellent.

Special well dones to Harry Denniston (Mandrake Hardbach) who brought a David Schneidery / Jason Flemyngy feel to the villainry and Michael Clarke (The Burbages, Percival Pulp) for his expressive facial range and array of Rich Fulcher-like characters (mostly murdered in a red-lit musical montage). As is my way, I spotted a couple of the cast later in the Grassmarket (Denniston and Beej Harris) to convey my enthusiasm, and to promise a good review online. And here it is.

Guido!

C Too

Somehow, we’ve never been to this venue before, but C Too, tucked away right by the castle, is rather nice and cosy, almost secret. Guido! is the musical tale of Guy Fawkes, brought to us by the Guidophiles. Another young cast (where do they all come from) of seven, with minimal set, props and costume, they’ve managed a very well performed show.

Good musical numbers with some excellent duetting and ensemble singing. Sometimes we clapped after a number and sometimes we didn’t. We, as the audience, seemed to be unsure about the applause protocols. I would be happy to take a cue from an established source, perhaps someone on the lighting board at the back, or else a sign held up saying ‘APPLAUD’. I’m not fussy.

Coming out of the show, I realised I’d been sat next to the writer/director chap. Good thing I’d not said anything horrid! Went up afterward and congratulated him, and promised a good review (which is this one). He’s doing another show, but like a sad old muppet the title flew straight out of my head, as did the name of the show that the young lady with him was doing. I’m they’re both wonderful though. Anyway, there was much liking of our t-shirts and imprecations to tweet about them, so it was all good.

https://www.facebook.com/GuidoFringe2013?fref=ts

Herself has some observations about the health risks of bare foot performers, as seen in Guido, which I have promised to pass on (lie), but have encouraged her to do so on a viable forum such as Facebook.

Knightmare Live

Gilded Balloon

Welcome, watchers of illusion, to the castle of confusion. Have just come back from Knightmare Live at the Gilded Balloon. Freakin' awesomely hilarious. Great props, all the old music from the TV show, and Olgarth of legend!

Two hundred people in a crowded venue shouting Sidestep Left and Spellcasting S L O W at a grown man in a horned helmet. Go see if you can. Congrats to producer/Treguard Paul Flannery, Lord Fear Tom Bell, Mistress Goody Amee Smith and everyone involved for bringing a well-loved if admittedly slightly creaky children’s game show back to live on stage, with a reverential but tongue in cheek approach. Really ought to go on tour, if only so I don’t have to keep boring you all with my poor recreations of it from now on.

Plus, I had my photo taken wearing the Helmet of Justice.
I'm in a room...

Fast Film Noir

The Space @ Venue 45

Back to that Space. No, not that Space, the other Space. The one next door. Where we saw the Arthur thing. Ooh, it’s confusing for a dullard like me. Booked this show as it contained one of the magic trigger words which will leap out of the Fringe programme at me. Noir, like Zombie, Movie, and Playing And Subverting Traditional Gender Stereotypes are guaranteed to draw me in.

Fast Film Noir began after a short technical delay (I think the strobe light was on the blink. On the blink! Do you – oh please yourself) and we were welcomed into an LA night club in 1934. We know this because a helpful scene-sign (there’s probably a special theatre word for this) says so. Also there are many info sheets about the show strewn on our seats. Three young nightclub dancer ladies are keeping up a rhythmic hoochy coochy hip-dip thing in tune to the beat as we take our seats.

We are then treated to a condensed variation on The Big Sleep, with renamed characters (Munroe/Marlow) and a rewritten, darker ending. The only downside to adapting a Raymond Chandler story (or Dashiell Hammett for that matter) is that the plots tend to be bloody involved, double and triple cross heavy and exposition laden. I have enough trouble following the books, when I can stop and go back a few pages, let alone when delivered in real-time. But that’s just my problem.

But there are some great performances, especially from the statuesque Skye Hallam-Hankin in the Lauren Bacall role of Evelyn. Curiously, the role of Munroe/Marlow has been split over two actors, Nick Brown for the ‘on-screen’ sequences, and the Stefan Fletcher for the narration and bit parts. This can look a bit odd at times, with a double-vision Munroe in matching pin stripe suits and gats in hand, but they pull it off pretty well.

Some rather fine dance and song sequences, including a bit of crazy murderer lady tap, rounded out a pretty fine hour of film noir from the young Braindead theatre company.

Funeral Replacement Service

Necrobus, by Waverley train station

So our final show of the day. Couldn’t resist a play set on a double decker bus going round Edinburgh late at night. The bus itself is black and trimmed in red. Inside and upstairs, there are velvety red curtains and cute little lamps set in the walls. Downstairs there is a coffin.

We are guests at the funeral of bus driver Roger Cocksweets (pronounced co-sweets), hosted by an increasingly fretful chap who addresses us via web cam and TV screen from the bottom of the stairs as we jolt along the cobbled streets. It’s a kind of National Theatre of Brent type thing, with a few planted actors among the passengers upstairs.

At first Herself and I twigged a few more of our fellow passengers as plants, because they seemed to be a bit over the top as they yakked on about the magic shows and whisky tastings they’d been to. But they turned out to be just a bunch of appallingly real people. Worst of the bunch was the American woman with an expression like a slapped arse, who didn’t engage with the performance until absolutely forced to (she was bequeathed a spatula in Roger’s will), and instead sat staring at her digital camera screen.

I honestly don’t get that – you’ve paid money to see something and then sit there totally ignoring it, even when the actors are about three feet from you, tottering up and down the top deck aisle as we lurch around the back of Princes Street. I can only assume she’d been dragged on board by someone else, possibly the guy sat next to her who looked like he’d just realised – too late – that this show would not be his lady friend’s thing.

Anyway, the performance itself was pretty good, though the material was a bit light on the comedy in places. The two younger performers, playing the deceased relatives Sharon and Trevor, were very good, especially Sharon’s interpretive dance in memory of Roger. It probably was a shade too long at an hour, and perhaps needed a slightly rethought host character (perhaps less hapless and obviously overwhelmed, and instead outwardly cool and hilariously losing it whenever he stepped off the bus to take a call, in the style of Fawlty).

The main problem though is the format of course. We’re on a double decker bus, so much of the action is taking place downstairs, leaving us with an upstairs TV screen to watch. This kind of forces you into a more passive watching telly at home mode, whether you like it or not. Plus, we’re sat upstairs on a lurching bus circumnavigating Edinburgh for an hour, cobbled streets and all. There was more than one green face by the end of the show I can tell you. But it was still quite an experience.

Have only just worked something out. The bus is part of Ghost Bus Tours. Ghostbustours. Who you gonna call? Only just got that. Tch.

Stuff which is not show reviews

Managed finally to rendezvous with Dr Foot and Mitchell in between The Librarians and Guido!, thanks to some detective work on my part, working out where his texted ‘Jack Ruby’ show was being held. The Space @ Surgeons Hall is a rather nice place to sit, eat and wait for chums to emerge from a show there. Plus we scored some free promotional halloumi.

Catching up with the boys, who are here until Monday, they tell us that The Birdhouse is the mentallest thing they’ve ever seen, Richard Herring is still on top form (which is good to hear, as we’ll be seeing him too), and that K**t and the Gang (which I’ve always wanted to see) is incredibly funny but exceedingly near the knuckle (or possibly halfway up the finger). I should’ve guessed as much from the photo of Jimmy Saville in the Fringe programme. Alumni of the Derek and Clive school of comedy, the boys are fans of the more hardcore turns like Gerry Sadowitz or Jim Jeffries. I may have to sneak along to see K**t myself some time. Probably on my own.

We bid them farewell with fingers crossed that they will enjoy Colin Hoult’s Real Horror Show, which was our recommendation to them. Oh, the crushing pressure of endorsed comedy. ‘Oh, you’ll love this, it’s really funny…’

For the second day running, two fighter jets have streaked over the city at low altitude around 7:30pm. It was feckin’ terrifying. I’m not sure if they’re patrolling at Mach 2 for Al Qaeda outrages at the Fringe, but frankly I and doubtless every pet in the city would appreciate a quieter approach to Midlothian air superiority please, the RAF. Hang-gliding snipers perhaps.

I must say, our timetable t-shirts are proving an enormous success. It’s only been two days, but I’ve not once had to dig around in my rucksack for an increasingly tattered printed spreadsheet. Instead I just squint blearily at Herself’s chest, occasionally jabbing an inadvertent boob whilst searching for our next event. If only I’d had a map of Edinburgh with the numbered venues printed on my trousers, we’d be all set.

But an equally splendid benefit to the t-shirt timetables has been the unexpected amount of social interaction they generate. Only two days in, and we’ve already had conversations struck up with the moderately confused frontman of the Barioja tapas on Jeffreys Street, various young ladies in headsets directing punters around venues, a nice guy working behind the counter at Forbidden Planet (like I wasn’t going to duck in there at the first opportunity), appreciative older Fringers with their own timetables and most recently the chap who runs all the Space venues, Charles Pamment. He seemed to value our passion and support, especially in this first week when shows are really keen for decent reviews early on. A nice chap.

Note of warning to any potential Fringe-goers: the chances of the seemingly random person you end up chatting to in a queue or a venue bar being an actor, writer or director are quite high. So unless you really don’t care about crushing their hopes and dreams with your unvarnished opinions of anything you may have seen at the Fringe, it is best to be fulsome or at least civil in your praise of the event you’ve just come out of. Chances are they wrote it, this is only the second preview day, and they’re in need of positive punter feedback. Play it right and they’ll be all beams and requests for you to tweet your review asap. In fact, it seems to be a good idea to generally slip the word ‘review’ into any conversation with a show-person, as they tend to get the idea you’re a roving blogger with a massive career-making readership, so it’s win-win all round.

A quick note about tickets to the EdFringe organisers for next year: Your tickets contain a lot of information about each event – time, price, production company – but not the venue number. So If I’m sat on a busy street full of venues, say the Royal Mile, with only the event ticket and a tatty venue map that I may or may not have torn out of the back of a Fringe programme in the foyer of the Space on North bridge while nobody was looking, I may have some trouble matching venue to event. Good thing we put the venue numbers on our t-shirts! Hurrah for us!

Seen in a pub window: Haggis Balls In Batter. Poor haggises, harvested for their tender love plums. They cut them off young, you know.

Things you will see a lot of at the Fringe: young ladies in vintage clothing and retro red lipstick. Probably with their thick young hair wound up into pretty rolled-up styles. They all do it just to mock my own ageing lank mop. They’re not even in a show, I’ll bet! Tomorrow there will be lots of upside-down hair spraying afore I venture out. Oh yes.

Observation: The Pie Maker on South Bridge (or possibly Nicolson Street) is, Herself contends, either full or empty. This may indeed be down to some cosmic Either-Or quality of the establishment, or more likely due to it being the size of a cupboard so that three customers feels like Full and one customer feels like Empty.

Seen on the Street near Surgeons Hall, middle aged women clogging to electro music. Clogging is good. It speaks to me in some sort of hillbilly race memory fashion. Herself calls it ‘rubbish stuff’. Much like Jon Snow, she knows nothing.

The traditional pilgrimage to Greyfriars Bobby has now taken place. An unattractive photo of the Ocelot hugging the statue may or may not be available at some point. Nice to see so many other followers (adherents? Bobbers?) of Wee Bobby’s teachings too. I really feel like part of something.

Another idea for a musical, based on the life of the father of psychoanalysis. It’s called Sang Freud.

Tomorrow I am taking Herself to see Avenue Q so we can sing along to The Internet Is For Porn, one of the finest songs to emerge from the musical scene.

The Chocolate Ocelot’s 2013 Fringe - Day One

Right, well, willkommen and bienvenue to the first proper day of the Ocelot 2013 tour of the Edinburgh Fringe. As ever, I am accompanied by my travelling companion, wingwoman and scampo di tutti scampi Herself, with whom I have booked a packed week of events from comedy to musical, dance to magic, and all them other things what are on. Except the kids’ shows, coz that would be weird. Besides, Bagpuss and Friends isn’t on this year.

For regular readers of the Pouch, you should know that this year’s Fringe blogologue comes to you with Added Technology! For I have borrowed Herself’s spare digital voice recorder Dictaphone thing, to facilitate note-taking throughout the day. In times past, you might have seen me frantically recording a pithy observation about street performers or student improv troupes on a tiny actual paper notebook with an actual pencil, or else muttering a clumsy mantra of notes to myself until such time as I can reach my laptop back at base.

Not so this year – the thoughts come to you hot and fresh and fast, straight from the Ocelot’s brain to you, via the medium of a small handheld digital thingy that makes me look like a roving reporter or rogue conspiracy theorist. The only downside is that I have to now repeatedly playback my own foul nasal grunts to figure out what on Earth I was saying, but fortunately you are spared this unpleasantness.

Oh, one other fun thing about the Dictaphone – when you use the back and forward buttons to steer through tracks, it makes high pitched bleeps just like an old Binatone Pong machine. Magic.

Not content with Added Verbal Technology, I have also invested in the cheapest possibly (but fetchingly purple) digital cameras this year. So far I have taken two photos, one of a misaligned advert hoarding which has managed to miss out the central section of a woman’s face, in the style of phossy jaw or a radical LeFort surgery, and the other of an impressive radio mast in Harraby, south of Carlisle. Rest assured the Ocelot will be treating you to the entire photo album at the end.

You should be aware that I have not read the instructions for any of my new devices, content to bumble through with the minimum possibly button knowledge. This leaves my brain free for more important things. Like repeatedly singing the first line of the ‘Alexander and Sergei’ Ebony and Ivory ad, apparently. Gah.

Remind me to walk you through (not literally obviously, that would be a squeeze) the contents of the Ocelot’s actual Fringe rucksack, which has been scientifically stocked with everything the hardcore Fringer might need for a day on the streets of Edinburgh – map of venues, rolled up rain poncho thing, shortbread, spare batteries for Added Technology, tissues, souvenir Henning Wehn My Struggle pen, emergency hair scrunchies, super glue for reattaching Herself’s errant gel nails and many more indispensable items.

See also the Ocelot’s Bat-Utility Pants, which were chosen specially from the boys’ section of Peacocks for its superior extra pocketage. Only problem is that a) they accentuate the Ocelot’s already mannish physique and b) they are the unfortunate colour of baby poo (probably ‘camel’).

A final word of praise for the excellent Ashbourne House B&B – they stock their rooms with high quality Johnson and Johnson cotton buds, that most versatile and ear-friendly of implements. Well done the nice lady who runs the place.

We start today in Carlisle, heading out in our trusty vehicle Elwood for points north, choosing to eschew the obvious choice of ‘straight up the motorway to Glasgow and then turn right’ for the more scenic (and direct) route of the A7 (‘historic route to Edinburgh’).

As we leave Carlisle, we see the same blue-haired, large bottomed young lady that we passed yesterday on our way into town. Either this is sheer coincidence or The City Is Full Of Identical Blue Haired Fat Bottomed Girls! I prefer the second theory.

We pass a local police car, bearing the motto ‘Safer, Stronger, Cumbria’ which was no doubt modelled on the ‘Faster Better Renner’ strap line for the Bourne Legacy. Shortly thereafter we pass a building emblazoned with ‘Kengas Living Flame Centre’. I am disappointed to discover that it is shop for stoves and heating, and not a Zoroastrian Temple. Tch.

We drive through Longtown in Cumbria on the A7, which is very pretty indeed, and see a strange conical stone structure up on a hill outside Teviothead. See, that’s proper travellogging right there…

As the day progresses, I find that I become less self-conscious about talking into the Dictaphone thing. At first very embarrassed when talking in front of Herself, I realise it’s much easier to make a verbal note if I speak it directly to her and just happen to have the recorder turned on at the same time. This has the added advantage of making it a more conversational affair between us. This may be the beginning of some sort of popular spoken blog thing featuring the two of us. What are they called? Pods or something? God, my mind is going. Podcasts.

This year our now legendary Fringe timetabling efforts have reached new heights, as we are sporting personalised t-shirts with our week’s events printed thereon, for ease of reference (though this does necessitate a lot of staring at each other’s chests, and invite the same from total strangers, as we soon discover). Not only that, but Herself is now armed with a handy set of laminated A6 timetablets (I just made that up), attached neatly to her hip (not actually her hip, her trousers. Honestly). They also make for excellent fly swatters.

Came up with an idea for a great new Fringe show, combining two popular acts from the Far East, simply entitled Shaolin Ladyboys. I’d see it.

OK enough waffle. On with the show reviews.

Arthur’s Quest: A Medieval Musical

theSpace @ Venue 45

… and not theOtherSpace in the venue next door. We’d sat through 5 minutes of a mixed media two – woman show about a Chinese woman writer in London before we had to sneak out (I let the door bang on my exit, oh the shame) and trot 100 yards down Jeffery’s Street to the right Venue 45. Argh.

Anyhoo, Arthur’s Quest is a nicely short 45 minute show featuring about five performers (a couple more appeared right at the end; perhaps they’re shy) with decent songs and a simple story about a lad and a girl and a wicked step mum in a castle. The chap who plays Merlin (with an accordion!) is like a cross between Matt Smitt, Simon Farnaby (he of Horrible Histories’ Stupid Deaths) and Treguard from Knightmare. Which is a good thing.

The young people can all act and sing and play instruments rather well, and the simple props and back projection works perfectly well in the three sided Space. Well done, the young people. Though as Herself correctly states, there is no earthly reason for the characters to be called Arthur, Merlin or Guinevere, as they’re not that Arthur, Merlin or Guinevere anyway. A Medieval Musical would have been a perfectly good title on its own.

Ben Hart: The Outsider

Underbelly

Ah, Underbelly, how we dislike your cramped multi-storey workhouse venue. But if we are to see this young magician, that is where we must go just this once. The slender Ben Hart is younger than his moody Jensen Ackles promo poster suggests, but he is already an accomplished sleight of hander with an engaging natural manner. Some of the tricks didn't come off (I think, bit hard to tell), and there may have been a couple of stooges in the front row. Still and all, he has very clever fingers and a nice smile, which should take him far on and off stage.

Executed for Sodomy The Life Story of Caterina Linck

C Nova

Because everyone should see at least one transgender leather dildo sodomy trial play, right? Very well acted by all three female performers, though annoyingly the cast list does not say who plays who. And apparently written by two chaps, who get into the variously-gendered characters’ heads very well.

This is Proper Theatre, inasmuch as there is no set, minimal props and lots of falling down and emoting and stuff. This is Herself’s highlight of the day and it is rather good. I liked the carved wooden guns.

We then explore the rest of the C Nova venue in search off the excellently effed Free Fringe Film Festival. It turns out to be a room tucked away on the second floor, with comfy sofas and a projector playing a series of 5 minute films (all black and white thus far). After some technical problems, it is up and running, and we enjoy a documentary about an insomniac bagel baker on Brick Lane, a man caught wanking before a funeral by his wife (sound quality not good enough for us to catch the punchline of exactly what material online he was using to ‘engage’), and a silent called Who Will I Play With Now?, which featured a rather charming central man-child character.

Worth remembering as a nice dark place to sit down on a comfy sofa without having to buy a drink…

Henning Wehn’s Authentic German Christmas Do

Just The Tonic at the Caves

I am getting to loathe all these ‘venue @ place’ designations. Can it not just be The Caves, or Just The Tonic? It’s like True Steppers featuring Dane Bowers and Victoria Beckman all over again. I don’t know where I am.

Any road up, we joined a somewhat older crowd (and surprisingly German-literate) at this second preview of Henning’s German Christmas show. There are German carols to be sung, which we stumble through at a mournful pace, and I would suggest keyboardist Elaine Cheng steps up the tempo in future gigs. Also, just do one verse of each song. Still, Henning is enthusiastic and entertaining as ever, and where else are you going to get comedy structured around rebuilding Britain’s ailing manufacturing base?

We meet other old people in the crowd with colour coded timetables and exchange mutually congratulatory admirations. But they do not have t-shirts or lammies. Thus we are still win.

Voices In Your Head

Pleasance Beneath

And finally to Pleasance for our last show of the day, which we know little about, but suggests top Fringe comical people responding to an off-stage voice in some manner, perhaps like Snog, Marry, Avoid. As it turns out, there are four guest performers, from whom I recognise Thom Tuck from the Penny Dreadfuls (and Radio 4’s Sketchorama) and Sarah Pascoe. Matt Richardson and Ian Smith (named after the Rhodesia bloke?) I do not know but are also good.

Basically, the disembodied female Voice directs them, through leading and amusing interview questions and a few props supplied by a complicit audience, to improvise weird-ass characters, either singly or in pairs. Tom Tuck’s maniacal brain-napping museum guard Alan and Sarah Pascoe’s queen bee are highly entertaining, but all four are clearly enjoying the freestyling format and rolling up at each other’s performances. My favourite show of the day.

Then back down Cowgate to base camp. With every passing year, Cowgate - Edinburgh’s Gutter - becomes more like Birmingham’s Broad Street, which a slightly dangerous mixture of late night bars, meandering drunken hens on towering fleshtone high heels (what’s with that anyway? Is the intention to look like your own actual feet have hideous pointy heel protrusions?), meandering drunken men looking for a snog and/or fight, and the usual sad smattering of homeless people. This is also, I believe where our fellow Fringers Dr Foot and his heterosexual Fringemate Mitchell are staying, in one of the posher hostels. God alone know if they’ll get any sleep tonight.

Another future Fringe show, a musical based on the words of Edgar Allan Poe: Brimful of Usher.

The Chocolate Ocelot’s 2013 Fringe, Day Zero

Greetings from the edge of England, specifically Ashbourne House B&B in Carlisle, where we have just rocked up after a solid six-hour drive north from the County of Opportunity, making only one slight detour to Brum to drop off an attractive green sculpture of a lady badger with some nice people who make metal things. This is in accordance with one of the Ocelot’s other identities, as a purveyor of fine 28mmm steampunk aminal people. Like the crime fighter Moon Knight, I wear many diverse masks though none, sadly, are of a dashing millionaire, hard as nails mercenary or colourful New York cabbie.

Not the Chocolate Ocelot. Or is it?

But I digress. You join us on Day One Minus One of our 2013 Edinburgh Fringe adventure, resumed after 2012’s exciting tour of the highlands in a crime solving motorhome (no crimes solved). Whilst last year’s roving Scottish hols were both picturesque and um, glenny, we did feel the lack of a week spent tramping the streets of the Athens of the North, being pestered by drama groups brandishing flyers and cramming thirty plus comedy, dance, theatre and musical shows into a single mental week. So Edinburgh, we shall be in you tomorrow.

A brief word on our residence this evening. A very pleasant guest house or B&B (I have no idea what the difference is), Ashbourne House sits on the southern edge of Carlisle, wherein we shall venture in search of food in less than sixty minutes. Our room features a rather comfy bed on which to rest my twingey back (hilariously strained whilst bending down just prior to helping the Ocelot’s father pull down some unwanted tress in the parental woodland. For some reason, my back decided to go before the tree-pulling rather than during. I suspect my body may be manifesting injuries in reverse order, against the natural flow of time, and am expecting further such phenomena in the coming week, like some kind of doomed coffin-dodger from a Final Destination sequel.

(Herself interrupts this narrative to adjust my writing position on the bed to a more back-friendly posture. I am now typing lying down and resting on my elbows, chin barely above the mouse pad. Whilst back strain has indeed lessened, finger-key accuracy has just dropped by 75%. I wonder if this is enough to get me a regular themed writing gig for a Sunday magazine – Slightly Hurty Back Blog – and conclude that no, it really isn't.)

Other features of note in our room: a disturbing buff suede lampshade that looks like it was made by Ed Gein and a swanky slate floor in the en-suite. I note that, upon stepping out of the shower, I do leave a very fetching wet footprint or two upon the dark slate. The sort of well-defined heel-other bit-toes arrangement that, were I to be stranded Crusoe style upon a desert island, I would be proud to leave in the damp sand as I wandered the lonely beach collecting firewood and pondering which eight pieces of music I would have liked to be inexplicably washed up beside me.

Basically like this, but with a shower and small loo.

In other news, the Ocelot has been offered a grown-up job, thus bringing to a close over a year of creatively productive but negatively remunerative activity. Six weeks and counting before I have to start getting up early and getting dressed before lunchtime. It’s like school hols all over again.

Tomorrow: Carlisle to Edinburgh, possibly via Glasgow, depending on how the universe steers. Then a quick establishment of base camp in the shadow of the castle and off to the first show. Let the madness begin.

Note to self: do not, repeat not, fall into the trap of writing up massively long diary entries for every single one of the next seven (eight? I have no idea) days, with painstakingly obsessive accounts of every bloody show we see, what I thought of them, what famous people I saw on the street, and how much pizza/tablet/shortbread I consumed. Try to keep it down to a page of A4 at the most.

Another note to self: this first day’s entry is already over one page long. I am fail.

On Spoilers

SPOILER ALERT

Do not read further if you don't like to know about things that you haven't read or watched. Plot twists are spoken of, events are revealed, deaths are divulged.

A year or two ago, just before the first Game of Thrones TV programme came out, I was lambasted on an online forum - that bastion of civility and restraint - for spoiling; that is, giving away as yet unbroadcast - or at least unseen by some people - plot. Bear in mind I hadn't even seen the show yet myself, nor had I read any reviews, sneak peaks or indeed any spoilers. So what could I have said that so upset the pseudonymous forumite so?

"Sean Bean's character dies."

(or words to that effect)

You know what I based that statement on? The fact that Sean Bean was in the show and the show wasn't called Sharpe's Dragons. As we all know, Mr Bean (not that Mr Bean), has a habit of playing characters that peg it before the credits roll. And we love him for it.

"All you've got to do is stand, and fire three rounds a minute. Now, you and I know you can fire three rounds a minute. But can you stand?"

Anyway, even though it was meant as a knowing joke about the pigeon-holing of a certain actor, it didn't go down well with at least one person on the forum, and I was duly upbraided for spoiling the forthcoming Game of Thrones TV series for him. Fair enough, you might say, my words were ill-chosen.

But wait a minute, isn't Game of Thrones the TV series based on A Song of Fire and Ice, the best selling book series? And wasn't the first volume, A Game of Thrones, first published waaaay back in 1996, some 15 - count 'em - 15 years prior to the telly series going out? Wasn't it reasonable to assume that the events of this first book at least might well be fair game by now? Especially on a geektabulous forum like this one (frequented by gamers).

So here's the thing - can you spoil something that's already been out in the public domain for 15 years? What about if something's been out in book form for 15 years and we've (I say we, y'know, geeks) been happily discussing it for ages when all of a sudden a TV adaptation comes around, opening it up to a wider audience? Do we then shut up as the work is now available to a whole new demographic (who presumably have not visited the fantasy section of Waterstones or other leading book sellers for a decade and a half)? Is there not a statute of limitations on spoilers?

Then what if they suddenly announce, I dunno, a TV series based on Iain M Banks' Culture books? Apart from that being an awesome idea, do I have to suddenly refrain from discussing the books, in case somebody who A) wants to watch the series but B) hasn't read the books, is listening?

What about the forthcoming Amazing Spider-Man 2 movie, featuring love interest Gwen Stacy? Am I supposed to not say that in the comics Gwen died in 1973? 

The inherent dangers of sudden weblash

Should I pause and consider, before mentioning any work of literature (and yes I bloomin' well am including books and sci-fi, thankyouverymuch) that may be adapted to a visual medium at some point in the future, if anyone present considers themselves to be a member of the set of elements A intersection B (see above)?

Or should I just, like, never talk about anything that might be on TV or film that may have been based on something else? Coz, I'm telling you, if you take comics and sci-fi and TV and films away from me, I'm pretty much a conversational vacuum.

By the way, Vader is Luke's dad, Verbal Kint is Keyser Soze, Bruce Willis' character is a ghost, that's Gwyneth Paltrow's head in the box, and Zakalwe was actually Elethiomel all along. Ha! 

Cycling across the Sahara with the Stereophonics

There are times, just every now and again you understand, when it seems that the majority of posts on one's social network stream are all either overwhelmingly 'gee whiz I'm having a great time' or else 'boo hoo give me a virtual hug'.

The Ocelot, being a sensitive, empathic creature, sometimes finds it hard to keep this accumulated e-motion (see what we did there) - both positive and negative - at arm's length, and must frequently be wrestled quickly away from the keyboard before an insensitive and uncharitable reply erupts forth.

This is in no way the fault of the Facebook posters. It is of course absolutely lovely that they are having a good time and only natural that they would want to share their happy thoughts with all their friends. Likewise, someone who is poorly or down in the dumps would of course want to reach out to their chumly network for support. This is all very human and a major element of the daily Facebook phenomenon.

But.

Some of us are a bit insecure and jealous of you and the great time you're having. Or else we can't afford the great holiday you've been on or the great house you've bought. Or we maybe can't have a baby and are having a really hard time dealing with all the pictures of bouncing bonny sproglings you're posting up every other frigging day so that we can't escape being reminded of our own perceived inadequacy.

In the old days, we could avoid this sort of thing if we really wanted, restricting all such social scorecarding to phone calls from family and sporadic get-togethers with old friends. But social networks can be like plugging in to an endless school reunion that we can never leave, where everyone else is happier, healthier, wealthier and babier than we are. And that can hurt.

Not that we can tell anyone. We can't possibly say that we don't want to see pictures of little Pugsley's first day of big school or hear about an incredible weekend cycling across the Sahara with the Stereophonics for charity (which was nice). Because that would be petty and horrible and small-minded. So instead we scroll down past all that stuff as quickly as possible, being unable even to muster up an insincere Like.

What Facebook needs is an alternative to the Like button, something along the lines of an 'I hate you, you rich/popular/fertile bastitch' button. But such a button does not exist. Nor, the Ocelot would admit in a more rational frame of mind, should it, of course.

Still and all. Sometimes it hurts, y'know? Just sometimes. When it seems like everyone we know is having a better time than us. And ironically, due to the selfish and uncool nature of the pain felt, it would be quite unacceptable to post the expression of hurt up on the one place where it appears to be socially acceptable to express our every innermost hang-up.

What is needed is the virtual equivalent of a soundproofed cell or big empty barn or lonely wood in which to have a quick selfish scream, get it out of our system, and then move on. A sort of Facebook for everyone BUT friends and family.

Therefore we give unto you, for a limited time only, the following cathartic explosion of knee-jerk, totally self-absorbed comments the Ocelot would like to make on many Facebook posts, but really, really can't and indeed shouldn't.

#1 
I don't care about your brilliant holiday/party/convention that you just came back from. Why didn't you invite me? I'd have loved to go. Unless it involved a flight or weird food. Or expensive costume.

#2 
I don't care about your incredible new house/job/child/bathroom extension. I have none of these things and now feel sad/poor/lonely/insufficiently plumbed.

#3
I don't care that you're incredibly depressed. Sharing your sadness just bums me out. Suffer in silence like me. Apart from this bit obviously.

Maybe we could have one day a month where we're only allowed to post up funny videos of pets dancing, just to give the socially insecure a break.

Fun and yuks will resume in due course.

Theta Sigma

From the BBC publicity release:

“Follow the adventures of young Gallifreyans learning to ‘master’ both their own incredible abilities and subjects like The History Of Everything and Basic Dematerialisation, whilst struggling with the responsibilities of being young and very old at the same time.

Follow the time-hopping adventures of students and friends like nervous Koschei, swottish Ushas, fun-loving Mortimus and of course bad boy Theta Sigma, as well as their teachers like grumpy old Professor Morbius and exchange student ‘Sally’ from the Draconian Empire.

Pilot episode: ‘The Boy Who’

In the vein of Endeavour, Smallville and (Rassilon help us) Rock & Chips, Theta Sigma is a pitch for a dreadfully predictable teatime Dr Who prequel series, set in the Time Lord Academy on Gallifrey. In fact, given that it will joyfully rewrite existing Who mythology, I would go so far as to give it the newly-coined term ‘preboot’.

Basically Harry Potter with TARDISes instead of broomsticks and sonic screwdrivers instead of wands. Or The New Mutants with Shobogans. Or Primeval with marginally less dinosaurs and running around empty streets.

One of the teachers will almost certainly be played by Anthony Stewart Head or Alexander Siddig.

The Purging of the Pouch

Hello there. You catch me in a light mood today, as I've just had a bit of a purge. A jolly good clear out. Nothing like flushing the old system out to put a bounce in your step. Even as I type, I am glancing down with pride at the large pile spread out at my feet. Ahhh.

I don’t mean that, you filthworm. I mean I've been decluttering the place.

With Herself’s imminent return from the Western Marches after 18 long months providing musculo-skeletal care to the good folk of the principality next door, the Ocelot’s Lair is in need of a little pre-emptive space-making. It’s going to be like moving in together all over again, with all the attendant fun of arguing about how many spare duvet covers we need and who has the best kettle. Thus to avert any unclassy domestic issues before they arise, we have both resolved to junk our junk now and so aid the smooth reintegration of our two households, alike in tat and stuff.

Herself has already set the bar high, with an impressive pile of old clothes and CSI DVDs for the chucking out. Can you imagine, in these days of Sky Living and Channel 5 and TiVoPlayer+ boxes, a time when anyone needed to see CSI that badly that they went out and got them on DVD? Believe me, younger readers, those innocent times did exist.

Anyhoo, encouraged by her wardrobey sacrifices and expunging of Grissom et al of the Las Vegas crime lab, I too have bent myself to the task of purging the place of stuff I can do without. This is no simple task for me, as I am one of life’s hoarders. Not an extreme hoarder you understand; you won’t have to shove the front door open and sidle past towering piles of old newspapers in my stinking cat-infested suburban semi, but I do find it hard to throw things out. Especially books and films and stuff like that. My bookshelves are like personal showcases, like my life’s CV rendered in flat-packed wood. Someone can come in, mooch on over to the row of ceiling-high Billys, cock their head on one side and check out the spines of my book collection. I do much the same at other people’s houses. In residences where there are no books, I find myself at a loss and increasingly panicky.

I have little problem ridding myself of non-readable/viewable tat though; darling little ceramic things that older relatives of a certain age tend to give me for Christmas, the collection of stuffed sheep I have been inexplicably presented with over the years, the half dozen glass vases that came with various Interflora deliveries. The nice people of the local charity shops will be taking receipt of them in short order, I can tell you. I guess it just depends on what you’re into, what you like and what you want to surround yourself with.

For myself, I could never part with my tattered paperback of Brian Hildreth’s How To Survive, nor the Usborne bumper hardback of Monsters, Ghost and UFOs. I can never quite convince myself that I will never need to read those books again, nor want to watch some old comedy series one more time. So hopefully you’ll understand how difficult it is for me to part with any of this sort of stuff. It’s especially hard if it was a special present from someone. I have a copy of Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad given to me by my dad many years ago. He’s written something nice inside, so even though I was a bit too young and never got more than a couple of chapters in (it’s one of the three books I've never finished along with The Lord of the Rings and Three Men on the Bummel), there’s no way I can dispose of it, because it meant so much to the person that gave it to me. In fact I'm beginning to suspect that subconsciously I'm writing this entire piece purely so my dad can read it and lift the obligation upon me to read the damn thing, like some kind of papal pardon.

The three great topics in the modern school curriculum

Contains actual diagrams about gutting and preparing deer

Still and all, space must be made afore the triumphant of Herself to the Shire of Opportunity, so I have just jolly well knuckled down for the last few hours and chucked some stuff out.

Almost.

Well, it’s in piles all around me and hanging from doors, ready for the chucking out. Or giving away to friends. Or ebaying. In some cases I may present the local library with selected items of my superfluous reading material so that in the years to come, like giving away a loved but overly demanding dog to a friend, I can visit them now and again.

Here then is a run-down of stuff that is on the out-pile, followed by fascinating snippets of what each item means to me. It’s going to be like a mass psychometry session, or a time-filling series on Radio 4. Should you feel the urge to take any of it out of my hands, and can promise it will go to a good home, do get in contact.

* * *

The original Star Wars trilogy on VHS ‘in wide screen’. Yes, VHS. Brace yourselves, for there will be more video tape to come. This trilogy was given to me by a workmate many years ago. If I remember rightly, he was (and possibly still is) as much if not more of a hoarder than I. He obsessively collected videos of certain genres, or with certain stars. Somewhere in the Ocelot’s Lair I still have the exercise book he once gave me, filled with delicate entries on every line of every video he possessed, so that I could request to borrow anything I fancied, like an early version of LoveFilm. I seem to remember that he was a fan of certain actors and would track down everything they had ever appeared. Thus he was one of the few people to own a copy of Grease 2, starring the young Michelle Pfeiffer (and Maxwell Caulfield off The Colbys).

Grease 2 was originally a live-action Gelfling adventure 

Silverado. VHS. I'm not sure why I have a copy of this. Possibly I got hold of it as background research for a Wild West freeform (dressy up and pretend) game I played some years ago. Not a massive fan of Silverado. It’s got lots of unshaven guys in long coats riding around a lot as I recall. Plus John Cleese as an unlikely sheriff. For what it’s worth, my character in the freeform was based on Danny Glover in the film. Yes, I know.

Sleepy Hollow. VHS. The one with Depp and all the British character actors. Perfectly good Tim Burton film. It’s just that I've seen it a bunch of times and don’t need to actually own it. In retrospect it always bugs me that the Johnny Rico guy gets killed in this (sorry, spoiler alert) since he puts up a good fight against the headless horseman. Also, whatserface from The Addams Family is in this, all growed up (kinda) with blonde hair and the most incongruous ‘child’s head on a woman’s body’ I’d seen until Lily Cole came along. She looks like a Cluedo piece.

Her from Sleepy Hollow

Hammer House of Horror. VHS. This is the 1980 TV series, an anthology show along the lines of Tales of the Unexpected and well, Hammer horror films. Lower budget than the movies, but still boasting an impressive British cast like Denholm Elliott, Peter Cushing, Diana Dors and so on in thirteen 50-minute chunks. Nothing wrong with this, but I just don’t have the space.

The Ultimate Ball Juggling Video. VHS (unsurprisingly). I think my parents got me this after we saw a juggler at some living history place. He was probably dressed in motley doing a bit of shtick in the grounds of a stately home. Or maybe he was just busking at Covent Garden. My memory betrays me. At any rate, I was taken with learning to juggle, and with the aid of this video, 6 weeks of almost breaking every window at the back of the house, and a lot of dropped tennis balls, I got the hang of it. Never managed four balls though, or any of the tricky reverse cascade stuff (or was that a dangerous space manoeuvre in Star Trek: The Next Generation?). But I am still indebted to Max Oddball and Sean Gandini for their wise tutelage, though they know it not. This and my ability to come up with punning shop names are what will stand me in good stead come the inevitable collapse of civilisation.

An actual shop selling actual juggly things

Home taped stuff. My God, the stuff we used to tape. All of us used to, didn't we? Only I've never got round to chucking it out, unlike the rest of you with your iTabs and Skype+ boxes and what have you. Remember what it was like when there wasn't any TV on demand? No YouTube, no DVD boxsets? Sure, there was video - VHS and Betamax - but the chances of anyone actually selling tapes of your favourite programme that went out on BBC2 at 6pm every Thursday or ITV at 11pm every Friday were remote. And if you didn't watch it on that day at that time, that was it buddy. No +1 channel, no catch up TV, no naughty downloads. You miss it, for whatever reason, and you just don’t get to see it. 

Thanks to a particularly ill-timed family wedding one Saturday in the 1980s, it would be years before my brother and I would finally see the Robin of Sherwood episode Herne’s Son (part one). I think. Though it may have been Dick Turpin or the all-but forgotten Oliver Tobias vehicle Smuggler. I'm definitely losing neurons by the cupful here.

Dick Turpin about the house and sidekick Swiftnick

My particular treasure trove of home taped telly includes: The Simpsons (can you believe that there was a time when it wasn't on Sky bloody One all the bloody time?), Red Dwarf series one to seven (God, I used to love Red Dwarf. Then Back To Earth cured me of all that) and random episodes of Frazier, Buffy, Smack the Pony and Chris Morris’ out-there comedy Jam.

Jam: Mr Lizard

What I'm not chucking out (and praying that the tapes still play in my antiquated VHS machine) are my lovingly recorded runs of Seinfeld and Larry Sanders, from a time when they were shown on BBC2 back-to-back in the 90s. Happy days. Not the show Happy Days, the BBC2 Sanders-Seinfeld thing. As well you know.

I’m also hanging on to a few select commercial VHS tapes from beloved old series, even though I could probably go out and get them on DVD or just run them on YouTube if I were so minded: the tragic, shocking climax of the BOB plotline in Twin Peaks, and the first few episode of classic Star Trek (including The Cage pilot episode, The Corbomite Maneuver featuring scary old Balok, and Where No Man Has Gone Before, when Kirk’s mate becomes the Beyonder or something).

Balok. Still scary after all these years

I think I was taping a lot of these shows not just for myself, but in the secret belief that at some point in the future they would be needed by the nation. You know, in case all other copies of the programmes were wiped or there was a fire at the BBC or something. Then I would be like one of those guys who audio-taped old Doctor Who episodes back in the 60s and 70s who were now being hailed as far-seeing saviours of our collective cultural heritage. Thus far, I have not been approached by the British Film Institute for my valuable collection of early Simpsons. Amazingly.

I did do nice yellow drawings of Bart and Lisa on the sides of the tapes though.

* * *

OK, so much for the videos, now for the books. Didn't really want to chuck any of these out. I mean it’s not like they’re going to stop working, unlike the VHS tapes. And yeah, I suppose I could just try to get some of these on one of your new-fangled Kimballs or whatever, but I really need to alleviate the bookcases of around two feet’s worth of extraneous reading material that I've been shoving in here and there in a most unattractive fashion, like an eccentric television academic or idiosyncratic detective (both of which I admit are firm role models).

Most if not all of these are in fair decent nick. I tend only to read things once, and since I no longer do the train thing into work and back every day, my books are less likely to look like they've been kicked down the school corridor by the class bully several times.

Charlie Brooker’s Dawn of the Dumb, and The Hell of It All. Writings and news columns from the excellent Mr Brooker, whose various TV commentary shows I have loved (though not the ill-considered panel show You Have Been Watching). My inspiration when it comes to spleen venting of all kinds.

Christopher Lee’s Tall Dark and Gruesome. An autobiography. I do admire Mr Lee’s body of work, but autobiographies really aren't my thing. Unless they’re funny and made up (see Les Patterson’s The Traveller’s Tool).

I, Partridge: We Need To Talk About Alan. Rigorously faithful mock-autobiog of Steve Coogan’s monstrous TV alter-ego (or one of them at least. I rather liked his showcase series Coogan’s Run, much in the vein of the earlier Seven of One from Ronnie Barker. But I digress). Entertaining, but only needs to be read the once.

Russell Kane’s The Humorist. One of many dark stories written by comedians that I've read over the years (Charlie Higson, Hugh Laurie, Adrian Edmondson even). Not bad stuff, but pretty dark, as I say. On the plus side, it weaves Lenny Bruce, Bill Hicks and Graham Chapman into a plot involving the deadly power of comedy. He probably wanted to call it The Killing Joke, but that title’s already been used.

"Nein, sagt er..."

Grant Morrison’s Supergods. A cross between a history and an autobiography, this starts off describing the rise of the superhero archetype in American comics, then covers the Scottish writer’s own rise to comic stardom, whilst periodically going off on one about magic and the nature of reality, this being Grant Morrison after all.

John Scalzi’s Redshirts. Entertaining fiction about a group of folks who slowly come to realise that they’re expendable extras in an ongoing sci-fi story. Works well right up to the point that they start time-travelling and going to back to the modern day to meet TV producers, at which point it’s no longer the fun Trek-spoof it started off as. Padded with short stories about secondary characters for the final quarter of the book, possibly to bring it up to some notional minimal word count.

Jack McGee’s Rapscallion. Basically this is Sharpe’s Bow Street Runners. Entertaining historical action. Two of the other books in the series, Ratcatcher and Resurrectionist, dip their toes in the Jules Verne and Gothic genres.

John O’Farrell’s An Utterly Impartial History of Britain. An entertaining enough read (but rather thick) paperback covering 2000 years of British history from the former comedy scriptwriter. Trouble is, I do find myself having to wade through this sort of factual book, rather than lapping it up. Give me a children’s Dorling Kindersley book about the same thing any day, with colourful maps and bite-size factlets dotted about. Or a documentary on telly with moving pictures and stuff. Or even better, Horrible Histories, the greatest educational kids show for adults.

It doesn't matter if you don't have children. Just watch it.

Ed Glinert’s The London Compendium: a street by street exploration of the hidden metropolis. Just one of several ‘hidden cool stuff in London’ books I have or have had. I'm wading through another just now, by Peter Ackroyd. But see the above comments about my inability to absorb factual books (you should have seen me struggling through a whopper on Stalingrad, or one about Thermopylae). By rights, I should have absorbed enough Londonian trivia by now to qualify as a blue badge guide or to knock out a psychogeographical mystery worthy of Christopher Fowler or David Aaronovitch. Instead I struggle to recall the names of the city’s great necropolises and lost tube stations and if Bazalgette built the sewers or hunted the Ripper. But hey, that’s what the internet’s for, right?

Brian Cronin’ Was Superman A Spy? One of many books containing interesting background trivia on American comics. In fact I've just finished reading Cronin’s Why Does Batman Carry Shark Repellent as well. “You’re throwing out comic book trivia, Ocelot? But surely this is your most favouritest thing ever! Are you unwell?” True, my little Pouch Potato, true, I am indeed loathe to part. Fascinating titbits about the Black Panther and the Howling Commandos are very much my thing, indeed they would certainly form one of my chosen specialist subjects if I were ever brave enough to go on Mastermind (I'm not). But space, our old enemy, is against us here.

Frank Plowright’s Comics Guide. From 1997. One of those price guide things that true investors would have to buy every year to keep up to date. I'm a collector, but not a seller, so I only really bought it for the handy summaries of each comic series listed. In this day and age of wikimatic information, it’s not so important. It does have quite a nice cover from the excellently pseudonymous Frank Quitely though, and because all the characters have their backs to us, we don’t have to see the weird way he draws mouths.

Is it me or does Frank Quitely's Superman look like Terry Christian?

Gary Larson’s Unnatural Selections and Cows of Our Planet. Far Side cartoons, which I love. See also Calvin & Hobbes and Dilbert. Do people still make these sorts of books? Do other people still buy them in this era of hilarious cat videos posted to out Facebook timelines?

John Gray’s Mars / Venus book. Simplistic and prone to stereotyping, but it has proved useful to me over the years, though I cherry picked behaviours from both side of the fence, natch (like when to go into the man–cave).

Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics and Making Comics. Two clever, weighty examinations of what comic books are all about, Read ‘em a couple of times. Maybe a bit too clever for me, or maybe I just didn't need to know about all the method and philosophy stuff. A bit like when I went to evening classes about appreciation cinema – I started to switch off when the teacher got going about milieus and two-shots. There’s a good diagram on pages 52 & 53 of the first book.

Understanding Comics

Gotham by Gaslight. The first (I think) ‘elseworlds’ comics from DC. Batman vs Jack the Ripper in turn of the century Gotham! Decent enough idea. The artwork by Hellboy creator Mike Mignola hasn't dated well though, but it could mainly be the late 80s colouring process which makes many of the characters look jaundiced.

52, volumes one to four. These are collections of DC comics from a few years ago, just after one of their periodic Crisis events. Not sure why I bought volume one, though the reason for buying the remaining three volumes was simply that I already had volume one. I am sucker for a complete set, and thus the comic publisher’s target audience in many ways. It’s a bit sprawling, covering dozens of characters over a fictional year in the DC universe. Check out the cool double page spread of Rip Hunter’s time lab in volume one, pages 138 & 139. Partially written by mad Grant Morrison.

52: Rip Hunter's cool time lab

Ruth Brown’s The Story of Greyfriars Bobby. Some of you who have read the Chocolate Ocelot’s Fringe may be aware of my reverence for the noble mutt, who has been immortalised as a statue in the centre of Edinburgh. This slim, ridiculously slim actually, hardback book is aimed at children and maudlin adults such as myself, so that they may periodically torture themselves with the sad tale of the dog that sat by his master’s graveside. Herself probably bought this for me to mock my love of this ‘stupid made-up publicity stunt’ (her heartless words).

Oh the nobility

Countdown Annual 1972. Bought from a charity shop for £3. British kids annual featuring Jon Pertwee’s Doctor Who, Captain Scarlet, Thunderbirds and other TV shows. Smells a bit funny.  Includes actual science about the Apollo space programme, a badly drawn UFO strip, and a rubbish Who adventure featuring ambulatory master-plants. Smells a bit. Yes, I know I said that already, but it really smells.

Countdown. Very poor indeed

So there you have a list of the crap I'm throwing out. Let the bidding frenzy begin.

Anybody? Anybody? Tch.