Grand Theft Telly

The big American television networks announced their lines-up for next season this week, and the news has been pretty interesting. Dead wood like Brothers & Sisters, V and The Event has been axed, seemingly struck by the Curse of Channel 4 - if they buy it in and heavily publicise it, it'll fail. See also Dirty Sexy Money. Meanwhile, remakes of Charlie's Angels and Prime Suspect have been commissioned, as has a remake of Free Agents, a much-ignored and sharply written series from... oh, Channel 4. That explains it.

A larger question is being asked, however. Not the one about how the new version of Wonder Woman from the same creative team as the infamous US version of Life on Mars even got as far as a pilot, but how many of these programmes are actually going to be available to British viewers who don't have electronic equipment bolted to the sides of their houses by multinational corporations.

Lost used to be the one programme that my entire household sat down together to watch. For the first two series, anyway. Then the import rates went up, Channel 4 opted to hang on to Desperate Housewives instead, and Sky bought Lost. You want to watch it. Then subscribe, consumer. And don't imagine that we're putting it on our Freeview channel. We only run that because of obligations to Ofcom, which is why it's filled with cheap documentaries and repeats of Cold Case.

It was at this point that I started investigating what this "torrenting" business was all about. It turns out, it's rather handy.

The same fate had previously befallen protracted right-wing fantasy 24. Two seasons on BBC Two, then WOOSH. Gone. The next two seasons eventually turned up on the aforementioned Sky 3 at about two in the morning. I acquired season five from elsewhere and the remainder is still a mystery. I was hoping that by the final season Jack Bauer was fighting off an alien invasion, since he's already killed every Muslim in the world.
Torrenting was a solution to the Lost conundrum. Seasons three, four and five were delivered to my desktop thanks to some nifty freeware, and the only reason I didn't continue with the final season was the loss of my home broadband connection. So my parents taped it for me. My mum even got up at the crack of dawn to record the final episode on its global simulcast, and watched the whole thing to make sure it recorded without a problem. I wonder what she thought was going on. In any case, she earned a big bunch of flowers for that.

So many other excellent programmes are locked away by Sky, it seems strange that no-one seems to make a fuss. House, Battlestar Galactica, Mad Men, Breaking Bad, Chuck, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Weeds, Futurama. Many of them are produced for the Fox network in the US, which like Sky is a subsidiary of News Corporation, making these deals look the tiniest bit suspicious. You can always buy the box sets, of course, but this is a matter of principle. I expect to see these programmes continue to be shown on free-to-air television, paid for either by the licence fee or advertising, not on a channel for which I need a licence, and a contract with another company, and a man to come to plug in some wires, and EVEN THEN still have to sit through commercial breaks. It's pure greed. Nothing more.

So why do I object? What wrong with Sky? Their business practices leave quite a lot to be desired, for the main thing. As a subsidiary of a multinational media company, it has financial resources to draw upon that cannot be matched by other broadcasters, so it is able to outbid the likes of the BBC and Channel 4 - ITV makes no effort, Channel 5 will shortly stop bothering and few other networks even try. The same company then uses its mouthpieces in the press to attack the competition and try to claim the moral high ground, despite its broadcast news services in both the UK and the United States being at best partisan and at worst guilty of fraud and libel on an unprecedented scale. Even the influence it has over politics is used to expand its domination of the British media - witness the way Rupert Murdoch has been cosying up to the Prime Minster, and how the consultation regarding the complete take-over of Sky has been assigned not to the Business Secretary Vince Cable, an admitted opponent of Murdoch, albeit a professionally-minded one, but to Jeremy Hunt, the troglodyte yes-man squatting in the post of Culture Secretary. And because people keep buying the Sun, keep watching Sky News and keep failing to ask questions, it's only going to get worse until there won't be a medium for you to ask questions  in.

In short, the main reason I haven't been watching Battlestar Galactica is because of David Cameron.

As a quick postscript, there are two other US programmes that are shown on terrestrial, if you can find them. ITV has the rights to the US version of The Office, but the series is so poorly scheduled and promoted it's a miracle I even caught the last series. The other is Community, shown on MTV spinoff VIVA, which I fully expect to lose the rights to the second season, especially since the lack of listings in the Radio Times can't be helping its viewing figures, and by extension its ad revenue.

Blimey, I'm in a right mood today. It must be the comedown after the weekend and yesterday's Doctor Who. Wasn't it brilliant? Didn't you just fall in love with Idris? I certainly welled up quite a bi at the end, but in a very manly, repressed way.

Oh, and the fitness is going well. I've put on weight again, but my appetite is coming under control and I've lost fat and gained muscle. So that's nice. I'm going to try to think of something nice to write about, like why I'd want to live in Brighton, or my favourite shade of green, or which brand of instant coffee is best.

Sorry for the lack of amusing pictures, but the crappy software keeps putting huge gaps in the text when I try to align it to one side. Someone will suffer.

Worth Waiting For

I've been a bit down recently, mainly due to my difficulties in getting the weight off, as well as a couple of minor things at the back of my mind. Nothing to worry about and all in hand now, but not too pleasant at the time.

I've been watching a lot of DVDs and recordings, and over the weekend watched Ice Cold in Alex, and it was that that gave me the undoubted lift I needed. It's based on a true story from the North African theatre of WWII, when an ambulance fleeing the German advance becomes trapped behind the lines, and a captain, his sergeant, two nurses and a lost Afrikaner try to reach Alexandria across hundreds of miles of desert before it falls to the Afrikakorps, struggling against the lack of supplies, each other, and the merciless Sahara.

It's a great story and genuinely inspiring for treating its characters with respect. The Captain, played by John Mills, has been suffering from severe battle fatigue and is descending into alcoholism, but a mistake on route costs the life of one of their party. He vows that he won't touch another drop until they get to Alex. He knows a little bar there where they serve the best lager in the Middle East. The glasses are so cold that dew forms on them, and the beer is the most perfect you'll ever taste. When they get there, not if but when, he'll buy the first round.

The final obstacle the team encounter is simply a steep hill, too steep to drive up. Despairing, the team seem sunk, until the mechanically-minded sergeant suggests backing the ambulance against the hill, putting it into reverse, taking out the plugs and turning the starting handle. This will turn the wheels very slowly, allowing it climb even that steep gradient.

The men take turns and are almost at the top when this happens (go from about three minutes in):

No blame, no recriminations. Knowing you've failed is punishment enough. Just learn from your mistakes and start again.

They make it.

The ambulance makes it to Alex - just - and arrives at the bar. What follows is the most famous glass of beer in cinema history. Probably.

Don't give up. Remember that it's possible, and that you can do it.

Don't be too hard on yourself if you fall. Just pick yourself up and start again, that little bit wiser.

Most importantly, remember that when you've done it, when you've achieved something of which to be really proud, you can think about that feeling of triumph, and know that it was worth waiting for.

Diary

Work, gym, writing, sleep. Life’s just been one long carnival ride for the last week, with all my social fixtures crammed into the next few weeks. The only spot of interest has been tearing through three seasons of Mad Men in as many weeks. I’ve been on the verge of putting Brylcreem in my hair before going to the office and then sipping whisky at my desk.  I wonder if anyone would notice.

I’m also being tougher on myself regarding my weight loss. It’s 75kg by 18 March – when I break up for my birthday week – or I don’t get a new phone. Tough but fair, unlike my meals. Heavy water isn’t just for nuclear reactors; it’s a serving suggestion.

It’s also led me to use the sauna at my gym for the first time. How long are you supposed to stay in there anyway? And why is it so dark? Are they actively trying to create a sleazy atmosphere? According to a friend, it appears to be working.

Diary

The last week has been surprisingly uneventful. Most of my evenings have been taken up with going to the gym, rewriting a script and watching TV - Five USA is finally repeating season 2 of Breaking Bad, hooray - along with a trip to the parents' homestead at the weekend. I rented Sherlock Holmes for us to watch on Saturday night. Dad was a little nonplussed by Robert Downey Jr., but they both seemed to enjoy it. The week before, however...

Being stopped by the police is one of those rare occurrences that may have happened to someone you know. It happened to me as I was cycling through the City on Thursday night. Yes, cycling. Apparently, laddo decided that my lights weren't bright enough, but he'd let me off the £30 fine if I didn't go out with them after I'd reached my destination. A later discussion birthed the knowledge that he was talking through his helmet, that brightness would be entirely subjective, and that he'd probably tried arresting Mervyn King for not having a tax disc, hence being put on traffic duty in a cabin on Fenchurch Street in rush hour.

The fun part was when I was on my way home, and my brakes felt a little spongy. Once I got in, I got out my tools to tighten them up when - TWANG - the cable snapped. I found a little old man who fixed it in a couple of hours on Saturday, but also imagined what might have happened had they gone while I was descending the steep hill past London Bridge station, which has a pedestrian crossing at the bottom. Carnage.

Having got the bike fixed on Saturday, I embarked on a round London trip, heading from my corner of SE16 across Lambeth and Kensington to Notting Hill, then down Oxford Street and along the embankment for home. I had resolved to make a healthy dinner of my own Prawn Green Curry when I got home, but decided, upon entering the supermarket after 8pm, that I simply couldn't be arsed. I had Chicken Kiev, and am still paying for it.

The reason for the Notting Hill trip was to cash in some old book I had stacking up, mostly of book groups past, and see what the second-hand bookshop there would give me. The answer was, "not much", but my eye was drawn by two things. Firstly, a cut-out of a Cyberman in the window. Secondly, a display case containing some rare Doctor Who novels missing from my collection, with the promise of more in the back.

It's quite hard to describe the feeling of looking through seemingly endless shelves of desirable sci-fi novels. You could call it a mixture of child-like awe and wonderment, with some excitement mixed in. Although I had almost all of them anyway, the urge to grab an armful and take them to the till was hard to resist. Instead, I sauntered up to the cashier bloke and politely asked for the copies of Lungbarrow and Cold Fusion behind him. Those of you in the know, or willing to check on eBay, will realise the improbability of being able to buy both in the same transaction. Suffice to say the price was substantial, but far from unaffordable. I didn't really need those extra teeth anyway.

Friday night was the night of excitement, as far as I was concerned, since this meant the long-awaited release of The Ward. I settled down into my seat at the Empire Leicester Square, having bought a £13 ticket and stocked up on snacks from the tube station, even though I supposed to be losing weight. It was especially nice of the lady at the box office to seat me almost directly in front on someone else, even though the cinema was nearly deserted. As for the film itself, I need only copy my comments from Facebook:

"The film, incidentally, is pretty good. A return to form after the dire Masters of Horror episodes, and with a screenplay that is a lot more sophisticated than it appears. It's still some distance from the glory days of Halloween and The Fog, but it stands comfortably along his later second-string efforts such as In the Mouth of Madness and Prince of Darkness. Recommended."

I also dozed off part of the way through, possibly a symptom of treating sleep as a luxury to be rationed, and often not putting out the light until 3am. An awful habit, I know. There was another trip to the pictures on Saturday while my bike was being fixed. This time: Black Swan. Again, cross-posting:

"It states the obvious at great length ("Did you know that ballerinas have a tough time and are worried about getting old?" Yes, I did, thanks) and mercilessly rips off The Red Shoes and Polanski's Repulsion, adding nothing original. That it has received more BAFTA nominations that The Social Network and Four Lions put together is an embarrassment."

I seem to be in a minority of the sane for calling it "bloody awful". People will be saying Dario Argento is a decent director next.

There's also been a new article for a friend's Doctor Who-based fanzine, which I shall plug when I get confident that people reading this haven't seen me do so elsewhere. I don't want to spoil it, but it mentions dragons, the Foreign Legion and heroin. Combined with a ludicrous workload in the office, where my potential productivity has been catastrophically overestimated, that is largely it.

Except for one thing. My weight.

I've been trying to lose weight for around a year, having rejoined a gym, gone for a run most days, hired a personal trainer and changed my eating habits. But it's very hard. My willpower is pathetic, virtually nil. Last night, the night before I start a new food diary, I had the following for dinner:

Two cheese and onion rolls (like sausage rolls).
Sausage and egg sandwich.
Four rolls with extra light cheese spread.
Two pieces of breaded cod.
A tin of sweetcorn.
Mullerrice.
Two large bottles of beer.

I really shouldn't have been surprised when I tipped the scales at 84.2 kilos this morning, a full kilo off Monday and some margin from my target of 75. Superhuman effort in resistance and a hard 20 minute run has managed to cut it back to 83.2 kilos as of after dinner this evening, but if I'm going to get this weight thing licked, I'm going to need help.

Which is where you come in. All I ask is for a bit of encouragement. A kind word when the number goes down. A mean one - but not too mean, I bruise easily - when it goes up. No cash, no sponsorship, just a few keystrokes when you can spare the time.

Thanks in advance, so you'll feel guilty if you next see me wearing a smock like Dom DeLuise.

My plan is to get the weight off by my 30th birthday - late next month - and reward myself with a HTC Desire, my first posh phone. If you see me still using my ancient slip-top one, remember to ask me what the scales said that morning.

"No coach parties, please."

Anyway, that's enough misery. Let's finish with a song.

Diary

The sum total of my life over the last few days is not entirely thrilling. The jollity of work continues, though I've finally got on top of things, while my evenings remain busy. Thursday was the monthly anarchic Doctor Who fan meet in Central London, where I was pleased to meet with a few friends for a nice chat and a couple of drinks, as well as welcome a new fellow turning up for the first time.

He gravitated towards us by my name-dropping of elder statesman script writer Terrance Dicks, and stuck with us for the rest of the evening, amused by our slagging people off behind their backs. It's fun to be a fan.

A bit of rereading on Friday, after I decided to go back to the "How to Write a Script" book I won at a pitching event a couple of years ago for help in sprucing up my work. Three-quarters of an hour and judicious use of a highlighter later, I felt satisfied that I'd done something.

The weekend has been very lazy, with a lot of sleeping in and staying up late. I was invited to the 30th of an old school friend on Saturday night, so I got plenty of exercise thanks to the 85-minute round trip by bike. Attempting to run over urban pedestrians on two wheels put me in mind of GTA: Canterbury. The party was good fun, and afforded the opportunity to catch up with some welcome old faces, as well as resist one well-lubricated lady trying to make me dance. I don't dance.

Plans for today including squeezing in an hour's reading before getting out of bed, cycling into town, running at the gym and taking some lunch in to see The King's Speech. I did none of these. Instead I got up late, took the tube, had lunch in Eat and mooched around HMV, since the film isn't showing in Central London. How dare they.

Diary

Dear me, back to the grindstone.

I was caught taking Female Portuguese Housemate's clothes out of the washing machine on Monday. What did she worry I would do? Try them on?

The return to the office was as fun-packed as might be expected, especially with the news that the person who was supposed to be covering for me over Christmas was too busy to do anything of the kind. I have literally spent the last two days doing nothing else, while the accounts department hassles me to finish up the special spreadsheet for the end of the year. Not only is this a bit rich coming from people who've kept me waiting with worse excuses in the past, but it seems that even the real pen-pushers are trying to push me around. Apparently they got a bollocking for it, though. Serves them right, big meanies.

The other delightful aspect of leaving the cozy comfort of the Christmas holidays for the harsh psychological beating of January is getting back into a keep fit habit. In my case, I start this by having scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast. Only following orders.

My personal trainer - yes, I have a personal trainer - advised this for the combination of protein and carbs. It seems to be protein all round, since I managed to lose a fair bit of weight before Christmas while having steak and chops for dinner. I am also now capable of press-ups.

I know you want to eat me.

The routine I have to get back into is not too tough. After washing down the eggs with orange juice, I can have a yoghurt mid-morning, soup for lunch - with my own choice of flavours. Today, Chicken! - and some fruit mid-afternoon. A sensible dinner, lots of water and the occasional filter coffee without sweetener, and I'm well on the way to being a miserable sack of undefined flesh. Which is where the daily hour of exercise comes in. Running during lunch or after work, cycling around the place and press-ups and stomach crunches before getting in the shower all add up to making my grey bulbous body even more odd-looking. But apparently I'll live longer than you, so I get dibs on your stuff.

The other routine to back into is working on my scripts and attempting to interest people in them. I've started re-reading and redrafting I.T.D., the first of the magnum opi, but hit a slight snag last night when I dozed off after page 8. That I managed to bore myself is criticism that I shall ignore.

Now for a bit more, then tea, then off to see 127 Hours. I may report back.