March 20, 2007
ILLNESS NEWS!
SUNSHINE, SANDWICHES AND SONGS OF PRAISE
Yo yo yo, playas and hataz. I’ve been in bed for a few days suffering from a bout of food poisoning that I believe resulted from the consumption of a bad sandwich on the weekend. Chicken and Stuffing. The thing is I’d had one from Waitrose a few weeks ago while I was shooting this pilot for BBC3 (girl, I’m all over that channel!) and it was delicious so as I was on my way to a screening of Sunshine on Sunday morning I stopped off and got me another from Tesco Metro in Westminster.
The screening was in the Empire Leicester Square. Joe had saved us a few great seats and I was sat next to Edgar Wright who was telling me stories about showing Hot Fuzz to Quentin Tarantino in the screening room of his LA home. RZA from the Wu Tang Clan was also there apparently and Edgar said that both QT and RZA cheered when I died. That’s about all anyone can reasonably ask for isn’t it? (btw. thanks to Edgar for very sweetly singing my praises while doing press, resulting in this mention on a great film site) But back to the screening…Sunshine was thoroughly enjoyable and beautiful, but I love almost anything set on a space ship. The only problem was the sandwich.
I was starving because I’d walked to the cinema from Stockwell as it started out being such a lovely day, plus I hadn’t eaten breakfast so I was really looking forward to that sandwich. I was a little self-conscious though because when you’re in a crowded cinema and you start eating things that aren’t foyer bought you tend to look a bit insane. If you’re sat next to someone who starts loudly unwrapping a tin foil package of rare cheese and ripe meats just as Leonardo Di Caprio is getting intense on your arse you’re going to be within your rights as a consumer to get very passive aggressive about it. But hey, it was only chicken and stuffing and I was REALLY hungry so I waited for a good loud section with a lot of shouting and fire (there are several in Sunshine) then reached into my bag and with one swift movement peeled back the plastic cover on the sandwich packet.
Immediately a pungent gamey waft leapt from my bag like a djin and went straight for Edgar. I felt his eyes dart over, but he didn’t turn his head or cry out so trying not to panic I continued with the manoeuvre. I was sat on an aisle so I leaned away from Edgar and took a bite of chicken and stuffing. It was by no means as good as the Waitrose version. It was all gooey and it really smelled bad. I couldn’t put it back in my bag because I couldn’t see to fit it back in the packet and I didn’t want to get goo over everything so to avoid stinking up the whole of the Empire I just wolfed down that motherfucker.
A matter of minutes later I started to feel a bit nauseated. Nothing bad, just a vague puke suggestion accompanied by a some very mild flu-type aches. By the time I got home home I was feeling properly dodge and after a few hours of unpleasant burp action I got into bed and remained there for the next 48 hours.
When you have children, being a little bit ill like this is kind of like a holiday. You feel guilty because you’re not helping out with family duties (although my wife would laugh at that as I’m usually in my studio shirking family duties anyway) but it’s nice just to lie there and do fuck all. I realised a few weeks ago that if I’m in bed I can get the neighbour’s broadband signal on my laptop so I took the opportunity to go for a surfing party (if you’re reading this Steve or Jane, I don’t think it costs you extra…!) I didn’t get far before I found an American site called Throw Away Your TV which had links to loads of great bits and pieces including Adam Curtis’s 4 part doc, The Century Of The Self which I consumed between fevered naps. How amazing that this stuff is all out there for anyone to see now. Long may that be the case.
Things you read or watch when ill always make a bigger impression on you than they would normally and if you’re watching something as interesting and well put together as Curtis’s progs tend to be, it can blow your mind a little. His show The Trap is also going down a treat although I sometimes feel he’s simply conducting an ongoing experiment in how to unsettle that more or less liberal minded section of society we used to count as middle class but now (in some cases) refer to as ‘Guardian readers’. I guess I’d put myself in that category although I don’t read the Guardian. Anyway, Curtis seems to be on a mission to find the exact combination of words, music and images that will make Guardian readers everywhere think themselves into such a pitch of anxious enquiry and shame at having been manipulated by governments and media for so long that they will simply implode leaving him free to finally bring back That’s Life where I believe he started his career. Still, as a show that exploits the power of the medium to it’s fullest it’s hard to beat. As a pop video for Brian Eno’s early 70’s work it’s also pretty wicked.
Speaking of exploiting the power of the medium, albeit perhaps not quite to its fullest, here’s yet another thing that I started but failed to finish for Time Trumpet last year. Armando got a few people to have a crack at this idea (ie. the old gag of mistranslating songs or hymns) but I didn’t get it together to do any of the ones that made it to the show. I got hung up on the idea that the mistranslated lyrics should make some kind of new sense and because I wasn’t able to make that happen I abandoned it. I was looking through the small portion I did the other day though and the nonsense lyrics were funnier than I remembered them so I finished the piece off for you, my dot chums.