Can a person fully understand Buffy and Angel and still live a normal life?

Before I even start this post, I want to make it perfectly clear that I do not mean this question in a pejorative way at all. As I have mentioned, I have a dearly held love of mysteries, from the ‘light hearted’ death and bloodshed of Diagnosis Murder to the more gritty realism of CSI, and as such I can completely understand loving a programme and wanting to watch every episode because it’s so good, even though you know in your heart that reality rarely gets a look in through the entire series. However, there is a difference – as far as I am aware, the subject matter and content of your average mystery is only a stone’s throw from reality. I accept that the likelihood of a disgraced detective with OCD being called in to solve a murder committed by someone in a coma by the careful use of long-lasting glue is pretty slim, but in fairness, if someone did want to commit a murder whilst being in a coma, that would be a potentially viable way of doing it, and it is conceivable that an obsessed ex-detective would figure it out. What I cannot fully ‘get into’ about Buffy and Angel is that, as far as I can work out, to understand any more than half of what is going on in any given episode you have to have seen, understood and remembered a large portion of all the other episodes ever made. I understand that the makers want to reward loyal fans with ‘in’ jokes and more in the way of background storylines, but am I the only person who wants to be able to watch a drama where you can just ‘dip in’? I don’t want a two-sided relationship with a TV programme – I want to be able to watch it when it’s on without having to think long and hard in the breaks about why that person is suddenly in the shit, or trying to work out whether this episode happened before another episode which the plot hinges on. I want to call the shots when I watch TV, and, not content to watch an entire show containing an element or plotline that I do not understand, I then have to do homework to find out what’s going on. I don’t want to have to cram just to be able to keep up, and I don’t want to feel excluded because I haven’t remembered the reasoning behind a particular temporal anomaly or mystical short cut to the mouth of hell. I don’t want to have to even think to myself ‘I could go out tonight and spend time with my friends, but then I’ll miss Buffy and be lost for the rest of the season’. I cannot work out whether I have encountered a problem of genre (in that I am just not that fussed about the vampire/slightly sci-fi nature of the show), commitment (I don’t want to waste four hours watching a series only to miss one episode and find myself unable to catch up) or whether it is simply my inability to accept alternate versions of reality when they are clearly supposed to be imparting a message of ‘this kind of thing can happen to anyone’. I suspect it’s a combination of all three, but I still find myself slightly peeved that a programme seems to have been made specifically for those who want to use it as an alternative to life, despite the fact that most hard core fans I know seem normal until you express confusion over a detail, and then reveal an encyclopaedic knowledge of the underworld, the rules of magic and vampirism and a wealth of secondary knowledge which makes me wonder whether I have ever learnt that much about a single topic in my life. Further to this thought, I am adding a comment which may help me answer that question: On Friday night, the Boy Wonder and I went out with two friends and a couple that we had never met before. After only one glass of wine, I was engaged in conversation with a man I had only met an hour previously about a film we believed to be ‘Evil Dead 2: Dead by Dawn’ (I’m not sure whether it helps to know that neither of us had seen it) whereby I was trying to ascertain whether the man with a chainsaw for an arm uses petrol to power it, or whether it is plumbed in so skilfully that the chain saw part uses up his body’s energy in the manner of a normal limb. I really do find it that hard to suspend disbelief – maybe that’s my problem as I can readily accept that a group of CSIs would turn up to investigate a crime scene with their hair flowing, wearing scanty clothes and no gloves because everyone has moments where they phone their job in from time to time, but I am pathologically unable to accept that a film where a man has his arm replaced with a chain saw wouldn’t make the effort to explain how that worked. Go figure.

Oh FX - why have you forsaken me?

I wrote a while ago about a dream I had which featured Stephen Colbert and at the end I rhapsodised euphorically about the joys of being able to watch the Colbert Report every night. Either I was tempting fate, or the folks at Virgin media are avid blog readers, checking every customer’s online antics for signs that they are receiving more television channels than those to which they are entitled. Either way, a tragedy occurred, and we are no longer able to get the FX channel. This has deprived me and the Boy Wonder of most of NCIS, the only team in Naval Criminal Investigative Service who never seem to be on a boat, near a boat or even close to water, the latest adventures of Nash Bridges, a man who thinks nothing of shooting five or six criminals before lunch in his own living room, and the ongoing ingenuity of MacGyver, whose relationships with children are never questioned because they always come home with an amazing new skill such as horse whispering, iron bar bending, or opening a locked door using nothing but a light bulb, a piece of pipe and some ice (for further details, please don't hesitate to get in touch). But worse than all this, and in fact worse than many other things which spring to mind, including my ear fleas (more about those another time I promise), is the overwhelming chasm left in our lives by the absence of the Colbert Report. When FX first disappeared, we would be taunted by the sight of Virgin’s snotty pop-up telling us we have not subscribed to this channel and to contact them to do so, but now we are in an even darker place, where we hope beyond hope that one day the FX channel will be restored to us, and so keep it in the ‘favourite channels’ list so that we will know if it does. Yet doing that this means (due to the fact you can’t pick your own order for your favourites channels with Virgin - that would just be too convenient) that every time we browse the on-screen guide there, nestled between the channels we do have, is a greyed-out treasure trove of programmes we want to watch, and at 11 every night we see with regret that the Colbert Report is on and we are missing out. We have tried to get FX back through legitimate means, but for some reason it is only available as part of the most expensive package that Virgin media offer, meaning we would be paying more than twice as much as we currently do for our phone, internet and TV just to have one channel. They will not add just one channel for a nominal payment, and they will not consider offering it as part of a less expensive package. Apparently, a desire to watch FX is inevitably coupled with enjoyment of international sport, endlessly repeating films and a range of reality TV shows that defy any logical mind. For those who just want to enjoy rapier wit and the occasional crime drama, there is no reasonable course of action, and hence I am here, venting my disappointment in life, and planning the day when I ring Virgin media to cancel my contract and say ‘I only wanted to watch FX and you wouldn’t let me so now I am going to the States to enjoy it whenever I want!’. I can’t imagine they would care, but then I live in hope that when our pilgrimage reaches its destination Stephen Colbert will recognise in our eyes that we are truly deserving of our places in the Colbert Nation.

Designated Drivers

I don’t really think about this topic much, but did over the weekend when I realised that the Boy Wonder is not really cut out for being the designated driver. If he is playing, then he tends not to drink anyway, and so will happily drive home, but if not, I really can’t remember more than a few times when he has driven home just so I could drink, and they have normally been from parental visits for some reason. Not that I mind really – when we first got together I couldn’t drive. Having lived in London my whole life, and having had a fraught time learning to drive with the ‘help’ of my father, it never seemed that important to complete the process. When I first moved to Cambridge I lived within walking distance of town, university and work, so never needed to drive then either. However, once I moved in with the Boy Wonder I started to feel guilty that he always drove everywhere and so I had driving lessons with a man who looked an awful lot like Gerry Adams. He did his own talking though, so I knew it wasn’t the real Gerry Adams, and he taught me the rest of what I needed to know to pass my test first time – go me. By this time, the Boy Wonder and I had been together for about three years, so I told him I would drive for the next three years, which I duly did. That was about five years ago, and I am still the designated driver, largely due to the fact that my period of abstinence from alcohol was so prolonged that whilst I was ‘serving my time’ I became a complete lightweight and started falling asleep after a couple of drinks. I also ‘went off’ drinking a bit as I couldn’t find a drink I liked enough to warrant the Boy Wonder driving home. Fast forward to the present, a time when the Bow takes care of all my alcohol needs and we went out last Friday. We had discussed the option of leaving a car in town and getting a cab home, but following the wedding and honeymoon we are both a bit skint, so opted for one of us driving home. A prolonged discussion followed where the Boy Wonder offered to drive, even stating that it was his ‘turn’, then I offered to drive, and it became a case of ‘who will crack first’. I did – I said ‘Alright then, you drive.’ Cue a tragically despondent face from the Boy Wonder, to which my immediate response was ‘Well, you were clearly bluffing weren’t you?’ He claims he wasn’t, but then adds ‘If had known you were going to say that I would have parked somewhere else and got a cab home.’ I order water while he orders a beer, but still the matter is not resolved. We discuss moving the car over dinner, by which point I am beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable about how much fuss is being made over this, and as I still haven’t drunk anything, I offer to drive home again. Boy Wonder is sticking to his guns though, and insists I have some wine. At 3am when we come to leave, and I am still pretty sober having only drunk about three glasses of wine in the last six hours, I realise the futility of this exercise. The Boy Wonder doesn’t want to drive, and I would rather not drink than spend an evening with him looking vaguely saddened by his tee-totality. I also cannot bear another discussion over the matter where he pretends he doesn’t mind, but is unable to arrange his face in an expression that does not convey intense disappointment if I do take him up on the offer. This is not a complaint, but a slightly sickening realisation that I would rather not drink than prevent the Boy Wonder from drinking if he wants to, and I can’t enjoy myself if the Boy Wonder isn’t enjoying himself – I suppose that is a good thing being as we just got married and I should like him and stuff, but it still surprises me how much I really do…

Stupid sub-conscious

I have dreams most nights. They tend towards the stressful and frustrating, but occasionally veer off towards downright terrifying and upsetting or, rarely, into enjoyable. Whilst planning the wedding, I was surprised that I didn’t really have many dreams about it, proving that the lack of stress really was genuine as my dreams are often depressingly literal when it comes to confronting issues which are on my mind. However, since the wedding, or more particularly, since we finished clearing up the wedding on the Monday after and slept for about 18 hours straight on Tuesday, I have been having stressful wedding dreams. In last night’s dream I was trying to make mini muffins for everyone, and the chocolate chips were not dispersing throughout the cooked muffins, just forming a block of chocolate in the middle. I don’t even like muffins that much, mini or otherwise, they weren’t served at the wedding and, more importantly, the darn thing’s OVER! What is my subconscious playing at? I appreciate the fact that my nights leading up to the wedding were relatively dream neutral, but I suspect that did have something to do with extreme tiredness and even more extreme Bow consumption before bed. To have saved up all the pre-wedding stress dreams and inflict them on me now seems both churlish and irrational. If there is some kind of post traumatic stress disorder than only manifests itself after a perfectly happy event, and even then only in dream form, then I wish I didn’t have it. And if I actually have a deeper lying mental health issue, then how can I ever hold my head high in a support group or suchlike when the involvement of mini-muffins is a symptom?

Getting married - so good I’d like to do it again!

In retrospect, I think my pre-emptive smugness about my wedding was not only entirely justified but also wildly understated. Not only did I have a perfect day (and I am assured the Boy Wonder did too) but our planning and consideration outstripped our parents expectations to such a degree that we have both rocketed into place as ‘Those of our children who put on fantastic parties’ in our respective parents’ (and now parents-in-law’s) minds. I confess that the planning and organising process was not really stressful. Elements inducing stress can be roughly divided into two categories: ‘things which were real and genuine problems’ and ‘things that our parents invented apparently in order to try and induce the stress that they thought was lacking in the couple to be’. In case those categories are too vague, feel free to peruse the examples below. Things which were real and genuine problems Problem: Our Belgian wine-dealer friend-of-a-friend telling us the day before we were due to go to France and pick up all the wine that he had not been able to get hold of our carefully selected beverages. Solution: Well, we were going to go to France either way, and given that there is no better country in which to find yourself in need of wine than France, we guessed that we would manage somehow to procure enough wine for our guests. We did not (as our parents seemed to think) think ‘Oh well, no wine for us then. I hope nobody will want any on the day.’ Problem: The people who we had contacted in April about catering equipment deciding in July that they could not fulfil our requirements after all and telling us three weeks before the wedding. Solution: We found another catering company who could supply what we needed – as far as I am aware it was a matter of a couple of phone-calls and then finalising details nearer the time. Things that our parents invented apparently in order to try and induce the stress that they thought was lacking in the couple to be (these will be demonstrated by transcripts of phone conversations): My Mother (MM): Darling – as you’re having cheesecake instead of wedding cake, how would you feel about having one small cheesecake balanced on top of a larger cheesecake? Me: You mean so it looks like a traditional wedding cake? MM: No darling, no not really, I just thought it would be nice. Me: Why on earth would anyone balance a smaller cheesecake on top of a larger cheesecake at a wedding, unless they were trying to make two cheesecakes look like a traditional wedding cake? MM: Well, we don’t have to, I just thought…. Me (realising the error of getting involved in a discussion): That’s fine – if you want to balance a small cheesecake on top of a larger cheesecake in an attempt to not make it look like a traditional wedding cake then fine. I have other things to worry about so you go ahead with whatever you think looks nice. (Incidentally, on the day, the cheesecake ensemble which was not supposed to look like a traditional wedding cake turned up sporting a tiny bride and groom on top of the smaller cheesecake. The groom looked like a more gormless version of Frank Spencer and the bride looked like an even more evil version of a young Margaret Thatcher.) II MM: Have you thought about things like toilet paper? Me : It’s fine Mum – the people supplying the toilets will be providing that. MM: Are you sure? Me: Quite sure. MM: Well, you never know do you? Me: Yes Mum, I do know. The company’s only function is to supply toilets for events – they even have the word ‘Loo’ in their name. If I was going to start a company supplying toilets, one of the first things I would do would be to find myself a really good, reliable supplier of toilet roll. Had I not thought of that, I would have expected that in the previous ten years of business, at least one of my customers would have mentioned that the toilets were all well and good but not much use without loo roll, at which point I would have incorporated it into all subsequent plans for the business. MM (in a tone that remains unconvinced): Well, if you’re sure… I am sure that these two scenarios give you some idea of the way in which we were ably assisted by our families. I think that the problem was that we were not really worried about anything – our friends are all really great, and we knew that if we had to send someone to Tesco with our credit cards on the morning of the wedding to buy enough food and drink for all our wedding guests, they would have done it, and the party would still have been great. Our parents seemed to think that our lack of stress indicated a lack of effort, imagination and understanding of how a party works. I am convinced they were expecting a Strawberry Fair event with dogs on strings, plastic portaloos and not enough food/drink/chairs for everyone. As it was, the fact that we have been to parties before and aren’t idiots meant that we planned a nice event which was made into an awesome spectacle by our lovely friends, a DJ and a band who were awesome, plenty of food and booze, and the astonishingly efficient efforts of our incomparable best man. You know you have the right man for the job when he offers to change his name by deed poll if the fact it is spelt wrong on the marriage certificate invalidates the marriage – that’s dedication. (For anyone who wants to know, the marriage is still valid, despite the inaccuracy). Having said that, after getting next to no sleep in the week running up to the wedding, and only four hours’ sleep on the wedding night, we were pleasantly surprised to find that our parents had done the lion’s share of the tidying up the day after the wedding whilst we were at the pub having breakfast. They had packed away all the icky stuff like glasses and plates, leaving us to sort out everything else, which meant that we were spared the scraping and emptying which would have no doubt taken some of the shine off the newly married feeling. Instead, that was left to the next day when I found out that married life involved a prolonged period of scrubbing out giant pans previously containing curry with a very small sponge and a very cold hose alongside an excitable dog who wants to get into the pans at any cost. Having never done that whilst officially single, I concluded that married life may well not be all it was cracked up to be, although driving the massive pans back to Cambridge and parking perilously on Mill Road with my hazard lights on to deliver them back soon caused the scrubbing to pale into insignificance. Given that I was christened ‘an unconventional bride’ by everyone who was party to my laid-back approach to wedding planning, and spent most of the day witnessing people’s shock and awe at the concept of me wearing a wedding dress, I had not only an awesome time, but the most awesome time of my life. I knew that getting married would be the only important thing to me on the day, and I had a feeling that I would enjoy a big party with all my friends but I had no idea how truly brilliant it would be, to the point where the Boy Wonder and I stayed up till 6.30 before retiring to the super-cool 70's orange and brown campervan (complete with 8 track player) that was our honeymoon suite. And it's only the party bit I want to do again, so there are no plans for an accurate re-enactment just yet...

Getting married - so good I’d like to do it again!

In retrospect, I think my pre-emptive smugness about my wedding was not only entirely justified but also wildly understated. Not only did I have a perfect day (and I am assured the Boy Wonder did too) but our planning and consideration outstripped our parents expectations to such a degree that we have both rocketed into place as ‘Those of our children who put on fantastic parties’ in our respective parents’ (and now parents-in-law’s) minds. I confess that the planning and organising process was not really stressful. Elements inducing stress can be roughly divided into two categories: ‘things which were real and genuine problems’ and ‘things that our parents invented apparently in order to try and induce the stress that they thought was lacking in the couple to be’. In case those categories are too vague, feel free to peruse the examples below. Things which were real and genuine problems Problem: Our Belgian wine-dealer friend-of-a-friend telling us the day before we were due to go to France and pick up all the wine that he had not been able to get hold of our carefully selected beverages. Solution: Well, we were going to go to France either way, and given that there is no better country in which to find yourself in need of wine than France, we guessed that we would manage somehow to procure enough wine for our guests. We did not (as our parents seemed to think) think ‘Oh well, no wine for us then. I hope nobody will want any on the day.’ Problem: The people who we had contacted in April about catering equipment deciding in July that they could not fulfil our requirements after all and telling us three weeks before the wedding. Solution: We found another catering company who could supply what we needed – as far as I am aware it was a matter of a couple of phone-calls and then finalising details nearer the time. Things that our parents invented apparently in order to try and induce the stress that they thought was lacking in the couple to be (these will be demonstrated by transcripts of phone conversations): My Mother (MM): Darling – as you’re having cheesecake instead of wedding cake, how would you feel about having one small cheesecake balanced on top of a larger cheesecake? Me: You mean so it looks like a traditional wedding cake? MM: No darling, no not really, I just thought it would be nice. Me: Why on earth would anyone balance a smaller cheesecake on top of a larger cheesecake at a wedding, unless they were trying to make two cheesecakes look like a traditional wedding cake? MM: Well, we don’t have to, I just thought…. Me (realising the error of getting involved in a discussion): That’s fine – if you want to balance a small cheesecake on top of a larger cheesecake in an attempt to not make it look like a traditional wedding cake then fine. I have other things to worry about so you go ahead with whatever you think looks nice. (Incidentally, on the day, the cheesecake ensemble which was not supposed to look like a traditional wedding cake turned up sporting a tiny bride and groom on top of the smaller cheesecake. The groom looked like a more gormless version of Frank Spencer and the bride looked like an even more evil version of a young Margaret Thatcher.) II MM: Have you thought about things like toilet paper? Me : It’s fine Mum – the people supplying the toilets will be providing that. MM: Are you sure? Me: Quite sure. MM: Well, you never know do you? Me: Yes Mum, I do know. The company’s only function is to supply toilets for events – they even have the word ‘Loo’ in their name. If I was going to start a company supplying toilets, one of the first things I would do would be to find myself a really good, reliable supplier of toilet roll. Had I not thought of that, I would have expected that in the previous ten years of business, at least one of my customers would have mentioned that the toilets were all well and good but not much use without loo roll, at which point I would have incorporated it into all subsequent plans for the business. MM (in a tone that remains unconvinced): Well, if you’re sure… I am sure that these two scenarios give you some idea of the way in which we were ably assisted by our families. I think that the problem was that we were not really worried about anything – our friends are all really great, and we knew that if we had to send someone to Tesco with our credit cards on the morning of the wedding to buy enough food and drink for all our wedding guests, they would have done it, and the party would still have been great. Our parents seemed to think that our lack of stress indicated a lack of effort, imagination and understanding of how a party works. I am convinced they were expecting a Strawberry Fair event with dogs on strings, plastic portaloos and not enough food/drink/chairs for everyone. As it was, the fact that we have been to parties before and aren’t idiots meant that we planned a nice event which was made into an awesome spectacle by our lovely friends, a DJ and a band who were awesome, plenty of food and booze, and the astonishingly efficient efforts of our incomparable best man. You know you have the right man for the job when he offers to change his name by deed poll if the fact it is spelt wrong on the marriage certificate invalidates the marriage – that’s dedication. (For anyone who wants to know, the marriage is still valid, despite the inaccuracy). Having said that, after getting next to no sleep in the week running up to the wedding, and only four hours’ sleep on the wedding night, we were pleasantly surprised to find that our parents had done the lion’s share of the tidying up the day after the wedding whilst we were at the pub having breakfast. They had packed away all the icky stuff like glasses and plates, leaving us to sort out everything else, which meant that we were spared the scraping and emptying which would have no doubt taken some of the shine off the newly married feeling. Instead, that was left to the next day when I found out that married life involved a prolonged period of scrubbing out giant pans previously containing curry with a very small sponge and a very cold hose. Having never done that whilst officially single, I concluded that married life may well not be all it was cracked up to be, although driving the massive pans back to Cambridge and parking perilously on Mill Road with my hazard lights on to deliver said pans soon caused the scrubbing to pale into insignificance. Given that I was christened ‘an unconventional bride’ by everyone who was party to my laid-back approach to wedding planning, and spent most of the day witnessing people’s shock and awe at the concept of me wearing a wedding dress, I had not only an awesome time, but the most awesome time of my life. I knew that getting married would be the only important thing to me on the day, and I had a feeling that I would enjoy a big party with all my friends but I had no idea how truly brilliant it would be, to the point where the Boy Wonder and I stayed up till 6.30 before retiring to the super-cool campervan that was our honeymoon suite. And it's only the party bit I want to do again, so there are no plans for an accurate reinactment