It's the
what signal, now? Any-road up, right welcome ys'all are, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, to the latest
From The North-type immersive experience in bloggerising from The Stately Telly Topping Manor. And that.
Important
Island of Terror Update: Since
last he did blog, yer actual Keith Telly Topping his very self has been engaged in what promises to be a month-long (at least) trawl through this book about British Science-Fiction movies that he has just completed to first-draft level. It's the usual editing procedure, looking for mistakes, corrections and stuff he can cut until his brain hurts (the latter, since the word-count is
way higher than he assumed it was going to be when pitching the damn thing to his marvellously-lovely publishers back in November).
To date,
Island of Terror: 60 Great(*) British Science-Fiction and Fantasy Movies 1936-1984 ... (* and not so great) is progressing satisfactorily. Though,
as previously noted it is, indeed, geet lush even if this blogger does say so his very self. Especially considering, as this blogger observed when talking to a fiend over a (very civilised and
extremely deserved) dinner out this week (see below), it is in fact
the second book this blogger has completed in less than nine months after near-enough a decade of, lets be charitable and say 'limited' activity. Which, considering that Keith Telly Topping remains '
not a well man' is, he reckons, pretty effing impressive. You should probably take this blogger's word for it, he's a highly-respected author, journalist and broadcaster. When he puts his mind to it.
Though the long, slow days of editing can often be more a little tedious, it's worth remembering that this is the job this blogger
asked for.
And then, on Day Three of the edit, he got to
Devil Girl from Mars and remembered exactly
why he loves this job so much, Pathetic Earthlings.
Something which arriving at
Fire Maidens from Outer Space but two days later merely reinforced.
So, with the majority of all that nonsense and malarkey out of the way, let us begin this latest
From The North bloggerisationism update with what is, clearly, the most important news story to break since
last this blogger blogged to y'all.
This truly
Earth-shattering piece from the Daily Record, in fact.
Which, to be fair, was only marginally more Earth-shattering than
this. Is it possible, one wonders, to fart 'non-aggressively' or even 'passively'? We really
need a legal judgement on this vital issue.
The
Metro - so, not a
real newspaper, then - seem to have become somewhat obsessed with that particular bodily function over the last few years, dear blog fiends. Take
this story from May 2023, for instance.
Or, indeed,
this one from September 2019. One supposes that author Richard Hartley-Parkinson gave himself the rest of the afternoon off after coming up with his opening paragraph: 'A man has been given a community sentence after farting in the general direction of police during a strip search. A judge let rip at Stuart Cook, twenty eight, when he appeared in court for drugs offences after he was stopped by police. Officers got wind that something was amiss when they saw him at the side of the road following a crash at the Lang Stract in Aberdeen. As they approached, their nostrils were filled with a strong whiff of cannabis, so took him into custody.' One imagines you felt pretty smug and self-satisfied after rushing
that from your PC to the copy-desk, Richard? Did your mother never tell you, pal, that it's not big and it's not clever?
Anyway, this blogger's effusive thanks go to his old mucka The Godlike Genius that is Jefferson Hart for discovering the single greatest photograph of John Waters and David Lynch shaking hands outside a Big Boy Burgers ever captured in the history of the world. Bar none. Unless, of course, you know different and have a great photograph of John Waters and David Lynch shaking hands outside a Big Boy Burgers.
Now,
here's a pretty sight, dearest bloggersiationism fiends.
Keep watching the skies. In Bolton, anyway.
On Wednesday, dear blog reader, yer actual that there Keith Telly Topping was waiting in town to meet a fiend outside Haymarket Metro (for reasons which will be explained anon). It was at this point that a young lass (
really young - like fourteen or something) sat down beside this blogger on a bench and declared 'I
love you!' Assuming this to be some sort of Operation Yewtree-type sting scenario, yer actual replied, not unkindly but with as much humour as he could manage in the circumstances: 'You're young enough to be my granddaughter, sweetheart, I don't think so, do you?' 'Maybe I
am your granddaughter!' she replied, furtively with a sly chuckle. Which made this blogger go somewhat faint. 'What's your grandma's name?' he asked, nervously. Well
anything's possible.
Anyway, the purpose of this mid-evening jaunt into Th' Bonny Toon was for this blogger to meet up with his old mate Mick The Mod Snowden who was on his way back to Teesside following a few days work in Germany. It was all arranged hastily and a bit last-minute and Mick had a delay at the airport which meant this blogger (
and his bad back
and his general ill-demeanour) was standing around in the cold for forty minutes more than he'd've liked (particularly as this included getting propositioned by teenagers with too much time on their hands, seemingly). But, eventually (and, I
do mean eventually) Mick arrived and the pair of us hot-limped along to Stowell Street and The Little Asia (happily now reopened after it was shut
the last time this blogger and Young Malcolm wanted to eat there).
Starter.
Second course (stock photo, unfortunately, that was very moment this blogger's phone chose to momentarily die on him).
Main.
Followed by a nice steaming-hot cup of Sweet Joe and much civilised conversation. About, you know,
stuff.
Then, having walked Mick part-of-the-way back to the Central Station to catch the last train to Stockton (doesn't
quite have the same ring as Clarksville, does it?) this blogger made it to the bus stop just in time for the penultimate 12 of the evening. And, then only went and fund himsen' on the bus gannin' yerm with a geet bunch of bladdered-ladgeful-glakes makin' an unholy-palaver on the top-deck. Which was a right-good-laugh as this blogger is sure you can all appreciate, dearest bloggersationism fiends. Particularly the lass that was passed-out on the back seat.
It was all kicking-off (big-style) half-a-dozen seats behind yer actual who kept his heed down, studied his phone closely and tried not to let his mind wander to what was actually
going on back there. Which, frankly, sounded like a a combination of bacchanalia, vomiting and at least one bar-room brawl. Whatever it was, dear blog fiends, it was
loud.
No, siree, someone else's problem.
All that said, mind, this was what was contained in the fortune cookie which this blogger finally opened when he got home. I mean,
uncanny. So uncanny, in fact, that it should really have been a plotline in the 1977 Milton Subotsky UK/Canadian co-production
The Uncanny.
That's how uncanny it was. Which is, in and of itself, uncanny.
On a somewhat marginally-related theme, the following day, these four Proud Walkers arrived in, well, Walker as it happens. This blogger is nothing if not a lover dramatic irony. Plus, a bucket of blood and a packet of giblets, obviously.
Next - what a great pity, this blogger was rather looking forward to watching it on a triple-bill all-nighter along with
Zombie Spank Inferno and
Vampire Lavatory Lust.
Moving on, at speed, to the
From The North Headline Of The Week award nominees and, sad to report, this effort from
Cornwall Live is writing a cheque
the accompanying article can't possibly hope to cash.
Errr ...
ditto.
It's been a while since there's been
a nice juicy 'banned-from-Weatherspoons and not happy abvout it' story for people to get their teeth into. So, here's one.
Typical, innit? You wait ages for one to turn up and then
two come along at once.
This one wins, though. I mean, not by a little bit, either.
Finally, dearest blog fiends, here's the 1980
NME poll-winners page; from a time when the world was just that little bit better and saner. Although, that said, but Bloody Sting
still won Bloody Best Vocalist award. So it clearly wasn't all prefect, even back
then.
And, on
that bombshell ...
