This is a revised version of an editorial written on Friday afternoon which was total bollocks, even by the high “total bollocks” standards we have at TC. Mind you, it wasn’t totally my fault, since I was out of my head on caffeine, with an entire nutritional intake for the day of two large lattes, a Coffee Slimfast and some caffeine pills. This left my mental state somewhere between “wired” and “hyperactive”, with enough nervous energy to power a small Soviet submarine. When I spoke to people, they looked at me even more oddly than usual — I must have sounded like a modem questing for connectivity. It was as if they were scientists, trying to communicate with a dolphin; intelligence present on both sides, just an impenetrable barrier, sponsored by Starbucks.

I generally don’t drink much coffee, preferring to keep the effects of caffeine in reserve. If you have no immunity, then when you need to (all-night video shows), you can give your system a good seeing-to with the minimum of effort. When you’re used to six cups a day, the only option you have left for staying awake involves car-batteries and nipple clamps — which would have made my work colleagues look even more askance at me than my Flipper imitation.

Time also goes by extraordinarily slowly, which is another reason why it’s not good to be caffeined up at work. However, it’s ideal if you’re trying to cling onto every second of your leisure time, like a drowning man lunging for a supporting actress on ‘Baywatch’. Alcohol leads to lost weekends: caffeine finds them, admittedly down the back of the sofa and covered in crumbs. Oh, and speaking of food, at least alcohol is somewhat self-regulating: after a certain point, you want to eat, which helps diffuse the effect. But the more coffee you have, the less you want to eat, which leaves the caffeine to ravage your system in a way reminiscent of Godzilla touring Tokyo.

Like all drugs, however, its effects are partly illusory — not so much mind-expanding as world-shrinking. You give the impression of alertness, but just try and concentrate on something for more than five seconds. This is where caffeine parts company with, say, alcohol and its brethren, which give you the attention span of a Giant Redwood. Caffeine turns you into a living, snarling, spike. On the way home, I was irritated by a couple walking their freakin’ dog, slowly occupying the entire width of the pavement — I was about to push past, when I realised it was a guide-dog. Oops.

I think it was at that point I decided to go home and have a beer, in an effort to take the edge off my keenness, and leave this editorial for review in a less…intense state. Rather glad I did; it took me a good 24 hours for hunger to be other than a distant memory, It probably did help on one score though: the elusive goal of completing the Christmas shopping was nailed on Saturday afternoon, with the single-mindedness of the chemically-enhanced. So I am now at the point where I can sit back smugly and start flicking through the festive ‘Radio Times’, though my complete lack of Christmas spirit is unsurprising — decking the halls with boughs of holly is low on the list of priorities, and as for fa-la-la-ing…wild horses, mate, wild horses. Christmas is not caffeine-compatible!

Normally, this editorial gets written over the Friday “lunch hour” — quotes used advisely since a) lunch occupies about five minutes, and b) it’s usually possible to stretch it to two hours, since staring blankly at my screen and typing is about what I do during the rest of the day anyway, and besides, most people have headed off down the pub anyway. So make that “written over the Friday non-digestive extended break period”. Or, on second thoughts, don’t bother. Anyway, this week, I didn’t get the chance, but that’s no bad thing, since writing this allows me to put off, at least temporarily, one of the worst jobs of the year.

Yes, it’s Christmas shopping time again. I’ve been putting it off long enough, in the hope that maybe they’ll find the body, but even I have finally had to bite the bullet and admit that it’s going to happen again this year, so I’m just going to have to deal with it. Unfortunately, neither of the standard human “dealing with it” options i.e. flight and fight, are applicable. You can run, but you can’t hide from good tidings of comfort and joy. Even the final solution of incoholic altoxication is merely a reminder that there will be worse, far worse, to come. And while punching Father Christmas’s lights out would certainly be an immensely satisfying experience, it wouldn’t help in the long term, though being behind bars would certainly help you avoid Christmas shopping: “Oh, a mail bag — just what I always wanted!”.

I thought about getting on-line, and doing all my shopping over the Internet this year, but that never quite seemed to come off. Partly, the Amero-centric nature of the Web makes it less useful, and partly, the fact that I am really desperate for idea is a problem; if you know exactly what you want, it’s great, but for casual browsing, it’s even more slow and painful than pushing your way down Oxford Street, in conditions reminiscent of Schindler’s List. In the end, I was reduced to typing ‘Hello Kitty’ into Ebay’s search engine, and that was, I would have to admit, pushing the boundaries of Christmas presents further than they should really go, much as I feel sure my mother would appreciate a toaster that singes a picture of Hello Kitty onto each slice (as described in the last TC).

Thus, I now find myself desperately looking for ways to put off the ordeal of central London, three Saturdays before Christmas. I’ve tidied my room. I’ve been to the shops. I am now looking at the pile of shirts in the corner, and contemplating picking up an iron for the first time in years (hang ’em up when they’re damp, after shaking them, and then your body heat takes care of the rest. No-one will mistake you for 007, but it does for work). But I guess I’m going to have to bite the bullet and get on that train, armed only with a razor-sharp credit card — and elbows of steel for coping with the idiots who only come into London once a year, and haven’t grasped the principles of escalator etiquette. Stand on the right, walk up on the left: it’s not hard.

We’ll take the “It is a far, far better thing I do…” speech as read. But if you see someone in a blue leather jacket and a fixed expression, somewhere in Central London this afternoon, best not approach them.

In the interests of my sanity, I’m writing this editorial while simultaneously subjecting myself to Jess Franco’s “Killer Barbys”, a film which does a great deal to restore my confidence in him as the European version of Ed Wood Jr. It’s a particularly dumb horror movie about the titular rock band – actually called the Killer Barbies, so whoever did the credits wasn’t paying attention. Unless, that is, there’s a surprise ending in which they all get massacred by psychopathic barbecues…but I’m not getting my hopes up. Said band’s tour-bus breaks down in the inevitable fog-bound forest, and they find themselves rescued by someone who…well, I’m not quite sure what he is, but I think we can cast doubts on his sanity. It’s all going to end in tears…

You can probably tell, I am right down at the bottom of the video pile, in the unsolicited crap section, enlivened by a steady diet of fourth season Buffy + Angel episodes, courtesy of Chris in the States. These are a real mind-twister when added in to the season 2 Buffy I’m watching on BBC2, and not forgetting the third season which finished last night on Sky. Keeping them straight in my mind is tough, but with a touching devotion to the belief that it does make sense, I’ll pull through. It helps that Buffy 4 is kicking serious butt in comparison: the action sequences are a quantum leap forward, the plots are great, and the characters continue to develop. On balance, it’s probably my favourite TV series just now, with Xena flagging badly in a welter of “drama” — the great thing about Buffy is that Joss Whedon et all never forget it is, first and foremost, entertainment.

I’m not quite so convinced by ‘Angel’, which sees Big Brooding Guy hived off to Los Angeles, along with graduate-level bitch Cordelia and an Irish sidekick to form a detective agency. So far, it has been alright, rather than outstanding: I always regarded Angel as a drip, so was glad to see him leave Buffy. He has toughened up, however, and the presence of Cordelia is very welcome. Irish sidekick, however, seems pointless and I believe he has now left the series. I’ll give it a bit longer, since it did take Buffy a few episodes to find her feet and for the characters to mesh.

This marathon video session is slated to continue for the rest of the weekend, since I’ve got the house to myself, and needn’t worry about the etiquette of inflicting ‘Killer Barby/ies’ on my housemates. I feel the need to sulk in stately splendour this weekend, having had my annual appraisal at work. The words “motivation” cropped up at least four times — usually closely preceded by “lack of”. Can they mean me? 🙂 Well, I suppose it counts as fair comment, and it could have been much worse: “does the absolute minimum work necessary to prevent termination of employment” would have been a fairly accurate assessment.

Perhaps a change of career is in order. I could always wander round graveyards at night. Or maybe lurk in dark corners, brooding and looking mournful. Or, looking at ‘Killer Barb-whatevers’ (the dwarves have just started dancing), I’ve clearly got enough talent to make it in the Spanish horror film industry…

It’s been another one of those weeks…

Last time, you may recall me bemoaning my lack of sleep, following a particularly severe weekender in Birmingham. On the plus side, this week has been a good deal better, at least in terms of pure hours spent worshipping in the fluffy, pillow-shaped temple of Hypnos. Vague qualms, however, are still crossing my mind, since rather too many of these hours have been occurring when I’m not actually in bed. Either I’m preparing to go into hibernation, or I’m suffering from a low-grade form of narcolepsy.

Cinematically, this is a bit of a problem; two planned London Film Festival reviews had to be dropped, simply because I slept through way more of the film that I could justifiably permit. However, in at least one of these cases, it was explicable, since I’d given blood that afternoon — though I had replaced the missing pint, the donations were more amber and foamy than red and sticky. Readers should thus note that, never mind an empty stomach, it’s bad to drink on an empty circulatory system. I admit this is a self-inflicted wound, but understandable unconsciousness is preferable to crashing out in the bog at work. Still, even that has its appeal, as long as you wake up before going home time, you can just pretend to have been in an important meeting.

There was one other incident I forgot to mention last week, that totally freaked me out at the time, but which could be the dawn of a new era in work-avoidance. On Saturday night, at the convention in Birmingham, I crashed out on my bed. Twenty minutes later, Chris called, and I spoke to her for three-quarters of an hour. All perfectly normal, you may think, and you’d be right, save for one thing. Lack of consciousness. Lying there, I somehow managed to chat away for 45 minutes, of which I have absolutely no recollection. You can imagine my shock when I spoke to her the next day and, after obvious confusion, we worked out what had happened.

Astonishment and horror eventually gave way to amusement, and an awareness of the potential benefits. No more work — or at least, none you remember, just going through the day out cold, then your alarm goes off at 5pm and you wake up, refreshed and ready for 16 hours of leisure until 9am the next morning. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit of an improvement over the current way?

Doubts may be expressed over this; for example, would you still be able to come out with the polite falsehoods which are needed to oil the wheels of life? Employees “are not at their desk right now” instead of “have been down the pub all afternoon” — does the near-sleep state lead to devastating honesty? Evidently not: about the first thing I said to Chris was that, no, she hadn’t woken me up, I was just waiting for her call. Partly true – technically, she hadn’t woken me – but it’s precisely the sort of polite fib you need a million times a day at work. Lying, it seems, is not a product of the higher functions, but derives from closer to the lizard brain. You’d probably find that Mr. Tyrannosaur was “not in the forest right now” rather than “has been down the swamp all afternoon”.

And that seems like a fine, fuzzy, late-night thought on which to head off to bed…before I fall asleep on the keyboard!

It hasn’t exactly been the most sleep-filled of weeks. I’ve been doing out-of-hours support for work, which is kinda like being a doctor on call, except without the easy access to pharmaceuticals. I have been from it’s ravell’d sleeve untimely ripp’d no fewer than six times this week, to the point where I no longer give a damn about how seriously I misquote Macbeth. The worst was Monday night, on which I said “Hello!” to Mr.Pager no fewer than three times: 03:55, 05:58, and 06:36. Or rather, “Hello!”, “Yes?” and “What the fuck is it now?”, respectively. On the plus side, it does give you a good excuse for staring blankly at your screen.

Things weren’t helped by the severe lack of sleep over the weekend, though this was somewhat more self-inflicted since I was up in Birmingham, at Aya-Next, a Japanese animation convention. I was on the committee, but had adopted the cunning plan of volunteering to edit the conbook, in the hope that, because I’d done all my work before the convention, I’d be able to sit back and enjoy the event. Not quite the case: I learned that “sitting back and enjoying the event” rapidly led to “being given something to do”. I’ve helped at conventions before, but purely as a volunteer, with the ability to say no, but being on the committee, you can’t really do this. There is a LOT of work behind the scenes and I now have a far greater appreciation of those involved…albeit largely of their rank stupidity in agreeing to do it in the first place!

Communication over the weekend was largely by walkie-talkie and earpiece, which led to mild schizophrenia. You’d be talking to someone, and suddenly an entirely separate conversation would start in your ear; you’d try desperately to pay attention to both, but after about ten second, your brain would start frying in its own juices. Had a similar experience visiting Chris in Arizona, when her two kids were both talking to me at the same time, about totally different subjects. After she noticed my bewildered expression and rescued me, I asked her how she’d coped for all these years: “Oh, I just ignore them,” she cheerfully admitted. Dead easy, this parenting lark.

Back at the convention, I still had a grand time. Spent most of Friday on the registration desk, and much of Saturday on the bring-and-buy stall, an opportunity to swap your useless junk for somebody else’s (and flog a few non-useless TCs into the bargain, in my case!). I then girded my loins for Saturday night, the infamous TC live-action all-nighter, at which I show a mix of HK and Japanese stuff, including The Story of Ricky, The Ebola Syndrome and chunks of women’s wrestling. This is really just an excuse to watch stuff I like, video projected onto a nice big screen, but there always seems to be (this must be the seventh or eighth time I’ve done it) enough depraved individuals out there to keep me company.

Sunday was subdued, for some reason probably connected having been up for 32 hours straight by the closing ceremony. But I wasn’t finished yet: this parsimonious Scot could only get a cheap rail-ticket by catching the late train back to London. Mind you, since that meant I ended up having to get a taxi, I’d probably have been better off not bothering! I got home at 1 a.m. — ready and refreshed for a week at work? I think not. I’d like to think that this weekend will largely be spent making up for lost R.E.M. time, but…the London Film Festival beckons. Never mind, “no rest for the wicked”, I’m just too tired to be wicked!