No, not a 50s pop group, except in the minds of the Worle Operatic and Dramatic Society.  Last night, they performed Bob Carlton's Return to the Forbidden Planet.  This stage musical is probably the most bizarre to tread the boards of British Theatre, being the alien lovechild of William Shakespeare and Ed Wood.

Imagine, if you dare, The Tempest, with borrowed (and adapted) dialogue from any number of the Bard's works, combined with a dose of Hit Parade classics of the 50s and 60s and a photon torpedo-full of srcewball comedy.  Mix this with Star Trek-inspired sets and costumes and you have, what Carlton described as, Shakespeare's lost rock and roll masterpiece.

I saw the touring version a couple of times in the early 90s, and it was quite a show.  The amateur production was far less lavish, but sci-fi never needed to be lavish.  Until Star Wars, we were happy with wobbly sets and spray-painted hairdryer rayguns.  Why? Because these works had heart, and were unashamed of their limitations.  WODS production was all that and more.

Playing in Weston's Blakehay Theatre, originally built as a Baptist Chapel, the ample cast were crammed on to a small stage, but made use of the balconies for those little asides and for flying a paper rocketship (and Jedi?) across the stage.  A big viewscreen displayed black white film, wobbly special effects, and a green-eyed monster.  It also replayed the narrator, in the original version Patrick Moore, BBC Points West anchor Amanda Parr.

It's a long time since I went to the theatre (Kind Hearts and Coronets about 10 years ago) and this has made me all enthusiastic for drama again.  Forbidden Planet is a hell of a play to pull off as an amateur company.  There must be 20 songs and musical numbers.  The leading lady was a last minute replacement, and had to do much of the show from the script (however, as the science officer, she had a perfect excuse to be carrying a clipboard).  Ariel, the rollerskating robot, was brilliant.  Captain Tempest was Zapp Brannigan reborn.  Miranda went from farmgirl to fox effortlessly.

The chorus in their guises of Zargoodians (gnomes), Zhnorgoidians (beasties), Quwadorgs (witches) and Catmdiquodianoids (our Swinging Space Cats) were amazing, wandering around the stage and the audience, along with their Earthling (human) counterparts.  From the door, where we were scanned with a pink star-shaped hairbrush, to the hall ("May I see your boarding card?"  and the complimentary anti-sickness and anti-madness pills) we got the whole treatment.

The set was replete with monitors, a silver BBC microcomputer, various gadgets and levers.  The Monsters from the Id (Beware the Ids that march) were simple but in the character of classic sci-fi.  The Shakespeare pun were truly awful, as great puns should be.

All in all a great evening out.  We really fell for the Catgirls.

Ryan Inglis is a singer-songwriter we saw performing last night.  He was the interval act at Vamps Comedy Night in WsM.  His style is laidback acoustic guitar and bluesy vocals.  I bought his album, worth way more than the fiver he was charging.  Frankly, he was the highlight of the evening.  I'm looking forward to catching him at The Bottle Bar over the summer.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/somerset/7528165.stm

The Grand Pier in Weston-super-Mare caught fire this morning.  This has made national news, something I didn't expect.  As I watch the news this morning, the flames have gone, and white steam is rising from the scene.

More later.

T.

It's five-to-six on Friday afternoon.  Back last Sunday, I felt an od sensation in my head and fell over.  This happened again later on, and then all through Monday.  On Tuesday morning, I'd had enough and headed for the Doctor's.

The second GP surgery I went to (I'll blog about the first one another time) dealt with me very professionally.  They sorted me an appointment ASAP, passed my symptoms to the GP (this has never happened for me before, receptionists never ask or pass messages like this) and let me turn up rather early - because I told them I wanted to make it while I could stand.

The GP was puzzled, she rang the hospital for advice, then sat me back in the waiting room awaiting an ambulance to Weston General Hospital.  The Ambulance (St John) crew were great, even if they were having to put up with playing Big White Taxi to a confused patient.  En route we picked up a RTC patient who had been knocked off her scooter near the hospital.

I spent the rest of the day at the ATC (Assessment and Treatment Centre?) being examined by 'medics', 'orthopods' and surgeons.  I was admitted about 8pm that night.  Thus began 3 days on Uphill ward.

The problem was that I was missing a symptom.  I had:

Pressure at the top of the spine
Chill in the same area
Sudden weakness in my limbs

If you add dizzyness and nausea to this, it becomes simple to diagnose and fairly easy to treat.  It's either inner ear, or low blood-pressure.  My blood-pressure is pretty low anyway, though still safe, and my hearing is a bit screwed-up with hyperacusis.  There was only one problem...I wasn't getting dizzy or nauseous.

Hence, three days of an experience aptly portrayed by the TV series 'House'

More later...too tired at the mo.

Your name is Dave.  You claim to be a supporter of Liverpool FC.  On Saturday, you walked into the pub you call your local, to watch Liverpool play Sunderland.  But the pub was showing England v Wales Rugby Union.  You told, not asked, but told the barman to change the channel so you could watch the football.  The barman refused.  He told you that there were people, including other regular customers watching the Rugby.

For the next twenty minutes, you hurled abuse and threats at the barman.  You threatened to assault the barman, the throw the TV through the window, to assault other customers.  You insisted that the big TV in the pub was only for watching football.  The barman and the customers disagreed.  But eventually, with the barman telling the other customers that he feared for his life - FOR HIS LIFE - if he kept refusing you, the others acquiesed and went to the pub down the road to watch the second half.
 
As they left, you threatened to beat them up again.  By this time your mates were there, so you felt safe.  You continued to abuse the barman all this time, even after getting your own way.  Your mates, eventually calmed you down.  Everything you did in that pub is unnacceptable in British society.  But you claim to be British.  You are an ordinary white male.  You drink cider, with a slice.  You sport your LFC hat with something you think of as pride.

You are a violent thug.  Don't imagine for a second that any Liverpool player would feel honoured by your behaviour on Saturday.

After the match, the people you threatened came back.  They chatted with Wales fans they'd met in the other pub.  They congratulated them on Wales' victory.  This is what sports fans do in Britain.  They watch and enjoy sport.  They leave any umburrage on the field, at Twickenham or Anfield.  They respect each other.

But we have one thing to thank you for...

The landlord returned to the pub later on.  He apologised to the other customers for what had happened.  He assured them that it was not acceptable in his pub.

You had a go at him too.  So he told the whole pub, that he would show every Six Nations rugby match live.  Those who didn't like it were free to go somewhere else.

You threw a snit and left.  Thank you for securing us the right to watch good rugby in a good pub.

T.

The move didn't quite go to plan. No van, which has left Ogrek's car, Alli-Kat's car and Ogrek and Chazymyr's spare room stuffed with my stuff. So the two carloads go to the cube tomorrow morning.

Ah well, I guess that's my free week used.

T.

Sometimes I regret not staying in academia. Usually just after new year, when I go back to work. FGW excelled themselves again, a 'lack of serviceable rolling stock' gave us single carriage trains from Yate to WSM. Still, work was fun. Hazel, the Yate AHO manager brought in her birthday cakes, and they'll be more from her team this week. Three people out a team of 6 have birthdays this week!

And I helped someone. I got her the call that told her she was off her four-month wait for a house. That made my day.

T.

Moving house today...

Today, I received a Christmas present from myself. It was a surprise. Mostly, when I treat myself to a 'present' around Christmas, it's the usual trinket I shouldn't be buying but I'm buying for everyone else, so what the hay? This is not that kind of present.

This morning I set off at 10am to walk back from Brean Down in North Somerset. Brean Down is about 4 miles from my friends' house is WSM. That's 4 miles in a straight line. Unfortunately, the Bristol Channel and the River Axe have other ideas. So 4 miles becomes 11.5 miles, via Uphill, Bleadon, Batch, Lympsham and Brean. I walked there on Christmas Day.

Christmas Lunch was chicken in white sauce served with noodles. I was quite proud of it, cooked on a gas stove (aptly named a Pocket Rocket) on a WW2-vintage concrete pad overlooking the Channel. Dessert was Kendal Mint Cake.

The evening was spent with the radio. There was 84 Charing Cross Road with Gillian Anderson, and 80th birthday interview with Ken Dodd. Then nothing but the sea, the wind and the rain until I drifted off to sleep.

This morning I got up, ate a breakfast of cereal bars and more kencake and washed-up. Then I went for a poke around Brean Down Fort. Also known as Palmerstone Fort, this was part of the 1870's defence against French invasion...until one soldier fired his carbine down the vent shaft of Number 3 Gunpowder Magazine, with predictable results.

Although I had planned on getting to Howe Rock, where there is an old WW2 searchlight emplacement, the route last night looked treacherous. This morning it was impassable owing to the tide. In fact, the sea was good 40 feet closer than when I had pitched up.

Still, I set out for home...and nearly bottled it after 2 miles. Really, what a wuss! I rang a friend after feeling a give in my dodgy right knee. But she didn't answer. So I pushed on. I nearly bottled again a Bleadon and then at Uphill, but I did some self-motivation. I got back to my friends' house about 3ish.

I dumped my stuff in their spare room, took of my sweat-saoked fleece and my boots and socks. Then I received my present. It was staggering and unexpected, a total surprise.

I went looking for peace, tranquility, solitude and contemplation, and found them in abundance. The present was there when I got back...

Achievement.

T.

So it's Christmas, and to avoid any big hits with depression, I am getting away from everyone and everything. I'm off hiking and camping in Somerset for two days.

I've done the important stuff: route, kit, checked tent, weather check (bright days and a damp night, moderate wind from the northwest) and notified people so they know where I am going and when I'm due back.

Merry Christmas, I might have some snaps if I remember to buy a disposie tomorrow.

T.

Today is May Day. Normally I'd be LRPing up a hill near Wigan, but finances got in the way this year. Instead, I've been spending the weekend with friends. Yesterday, I took my friend Em (Columbus) round a few art shows in Burnham-on-Sea. It was amazing stuff. We were particularly taken with Tim Duke's art work.

Then I had to screw it up. I got my timing wrong, and left us running for the train at Highbridge station. I hate running for trains, it's one plus of not living in London anymore is I'm not having to run for trains everyday. Em, however, is awaiting major surgery at the moment. Running is very painful, and something she is advised to avoid.

No one can screw up a day out like me. At least we caught the train. I hope I haven't put the dampener on the rest of her weekend too. I am such an idiot.

Still here are a couple of art links from the day:

www.northsomersetarts.org.uk
www.damianleigh.co.uk

For someone who didn't expect to get past 25, turning 36 is a bit of an achievement. By wonderful coincidence, I manage to be half-irish (and half-english, in case you're wondering) and get born the day after Saint Patrick's Day. So I get a double-header celebration.

Last night I was taken out in Weston-super-Mare by two of my oldest and dearest friends, Mark and Em. A few beers, some good music selections, and a solid verbal assault on Eurovision made a good night out...and helped shift some of the grief of last week.

I could have hoped for a better week, and that hasn't taken the shine of the weekend, but did coat it with a good layer of crap for my friends to chisel away first. I always get depressed around my birthday, I used to think it was about getting older, but now I think it's just part of my depression-cycle. Actually having some power to predict a oncoming down is very handy, so I don't feel so bad about knowing that the latter part of March is going to be rough. At least I know.

Depression can make you feel grateful for the most unlikely things.

But last week, things took a bit of a nosedive.

I should start by saying that I don't cope with stress and depression all that well at the moment. This is because my main coping mechanism was impulsive deliberate self-injury (SI). After the stuff with the cops last year, I decided to really get to grips with it, and I've been SI-free for nearly four months now. But it does mean that everything is just that bit harder, because I can't just rise to the point where I snap and start hurting myself, I have to find something else to do instead. But currently it's just turning into self-hate instead. But at least self-hate is quite as dangerous. At least not for me.

I also have some phobias, and the biggest is dogs. This is the proper debilitating fear thing. It affects almost every day of my life, from walking down the street to watching TV. But at least at work, there are no dogs. Until Wednesday...

I was taking a phone message for one of our examiners, when the dog in the room with the caller barked, loudly, down the phone. Not only has this left me with a sore left ear four days on (off to the GP next week for that) but it left me barely functional for two days. When I get a shock, I just go throught the motions of being alive and trying to get on with things. But everything just falls apart when I get home. But I haven't harmed myself. So that is a plus, I suppose. It's hard to convey terror on here.