Probably worse that that, I'm a miserable commitment-phobe. Ah, but there are mitigating circumstances! It's the age-old question: does a week of early shifts with no sleep begat the misery, or does misery begat the week of early shifts with no sleep?
Well, no. The week of early shifts are begatted by the evil warlords who control my rota, who are, I hasten to add, not even slightly related to the area of warlording, and are all the very essence of sweetness and light and holiness. The misery is begatted by...yeah, well. You'd have to pump me full of alcohol and listen to me stutter and stumble and watch my stupid face contort with masochistic narcissism to get that little nugget of knowledge, and to any real-life friends who have experienced, or are about to experience, this joyful festive occasion, may I take this opportunity to wish them a very merry Christmas!!!
And thank them massively and profusely because, obviously, you know, thanks. Oh! And sorry as well, but that's about as devalued as a '30s Deutschmark at this point. 500 million sorry-marks to each of you, about the value of a cob loaf, or the wholesale value of a small shrew.
It's fine. Early shifts heighten all and any emotions, and a slight case of the bluesies has thus been overblown dramatically by me into a state of near-mental collapse. The fact is, I ate a burrito this week, and no-one who is the embryonic stages of a nervous breakdown has ever eaten a burrito, because they're such wonderfully joyous foods, so I think I'm probably OK, and so are all the avocados. God bless 'em.
Down to business, then. A mini-blast of good stuff in day-by-day format. Prepare your AIOTM voice!
Monday. Where I discovered the true meaning of nerdgasm: Mark Heap being a silent psychologist for the first ten minutes of the latest Miranda. I can't embed that, obviously, but if you haven't been watching Miranda, you should rectify that immediately. But let's celebrate Mark Heap with one of my favourite Brian moments from Spaced.
WHICH I CAN'T EMBED EITHER. This is not going too well. Let's move on swiftly.
Tuesday. Where this song failed to give me any perspective, but that's not its fault. It's marvellous nonetheless.
Wednesday. Or The Blaady, Blaady, Blaady, Blaady, Blaady Apprentice day, as it has become for me of late, thanks to the very kind people at hecklerspray letting me review it for them every week. I'm churning out about 2,000 words for each one, which is absurd in every way, and easily beats the length of any essay I wrote at university. I'm not even cribbing it from "Apprentice for Dummies" like I did for most of my Freud essays. Here's the sum total of my Freud knowledge now: the one disturbing dream I had about killing my mother and the "All You Want Is A Penis" song from Friends.
Thursday. And BBC4 gently took a sacred bull by its sacred horns and led it into a field laced with landmines and hair-trigger hoof-traps and butchers with lots of pent-up aggression. And you know what? It kind of came out unscathed. This is my tortured way of saying that they made an adaptation of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, and although they gave Dirk iPhones and emails and a rather too prominent mean streak and Stephen Mangan's face, by which I mean hair, it was a worthy programme. As long as you forgot all about the book, that is.
It fared rather better than the film of Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, which was far too cute and featured far too much snogging (Arthur Dent does not have sex! Well, not till the fourth book). But the film did have one redeeming feature: if you grew up with the TV and radio series as I did, when the theme kicked in, it sent one mother of a shiver down the spine. This theme!
Friday. Christmas shopping day. And although I was tempted to jog round the undulating, twinking belly of the corporate beast of Westfield to Eye Of The Tiger, randomly punching people as I went, I decided this may not have been the best way to approach the festive season. After all, I didn't particularly want to spend my actual Christmas inside the belly of Shepherds Bush police station. Though if I did, I could put this groovesome little number on repeat in my brainbox, and jive like the kid with the afro contained in this clip to the sounds of pained strip searches and the sickening crashing of baddie-bonces with the truncheons of justice, and I'd be happy.
Saturday. A day of rest from the internal turmoil of the week, due to a pretty serious slab of sleep, only interrupted by the daily 7am liberal dousing of cat dribble. And suddenly, as if to prove that hey, today will be a better day, the sky released all the pent-up snowy action it had been hoarding for so many days in one great orgasmic dump, and transformed Earlsfield into a snowy wonderland. A quick panic-buy in the local Sainsbury's, elbowing past the yummy mummies loading up their 4x4 tank-buggies scrambling for the last morsels of chorizo and barley wheat for delicious warming tagines, and we were set for an amusing day watching the cat get a year's worth of karmic comeuppance by being perpetually irritated by the snow. Much like this:
Sunday. I saw Catfish, and was puzzled by it. It rang particularly horrendous bells - as regular and patient readers will know, my charge sheet is littered with disastrous collisions between conversing on the internet and real life; but I can't really discuss anything about this film without spoilering the hell out of it, and plus, I haven't stop being puzzled yet.
I was going to show you the trailer, but it a) makes it look like something it's not and b) has all the best bits in it. It's one to go in blind to. Not literally. So here's a nice Adam Buxton music video for no particular reason. One week to go. Let the mince pies roll.
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