Spring madness

This may just be my annual spring round of vowing to live a healthier life. Then again, it may not. Either way, I now have a personal trainer.

The road to this decision began a couple of years ago, when I restarted regular physiotherapy and spent a week at a wellness hotel in the Swiss Alps. It's not just a question of being a bit out of shape and too fond of a pint or two in the pub after rehearsals. I still have incomplete movement following multiple dislocation of both shoulders. And let me tell you: ouch!

Anyway, physical excuses combined with good old-fashioned laziness have sidelined my keep-fit activities too much over the last few years. Hence the personal trainer.

It's certainly not going to be anything like my initial thought of a while ago, which was of a guy shouting at me once a week to pull a bit harder on the rowing machine. Oh no. This is serious. His aim, as he put it, is to help me to change my lifestyle. That's big stuff.

In our first session, it was not altogether uplifting to face the various body mass and fat percentage statistics that were thrown at me. A bit of Bruce? More like a huge greasy blob of Bruce. In sound scientific fashion, we concluded that I'm 'a bit fat'.

I now have a scary new toy in my living room. It's called a 'gymstick'. Let's see how long this lasts. Maybe my room-mate can help?

Me and Mr Bond

Last Sunday, I went to see the latest Bond flick, Casino Royale.

I have a soft spot for Bond films, and this has sometimes been difficult for one or two of my lady friends. For some reason, they have felt that if I watch a Bond film, I am wishing to use Bond as a role model. This is odd. Because if I watch a Bugs Bunny cartoon, they do not claim that I admire Bugs Bunny as a role model.

But Bond is different. These people seem to think that if I watch Bond, this means that I want to be a gun-toting sex-machine who coerces women into bed and throws lesser men off cliffs. Well, that's what Bond is, right?

Yes, but Bond inhabits a two-dimensional cartoon-like universe, where the bad guys always have poor aim and the women always, well, give Bond what he likes, even if it takes him two or three attempts. Bond, like Bugs, is entertainment. (And then the argument goes that such entertainment is a pointless waste of money. But let's save that for another blog entry.)

This is where Casino Royale starts to get disturbing. It starts to attempt to give Bond psychological depth. It starts playing into the hands of those who want a psychological reality in which they can demonise him. And I start to seriously dislike the dude.

I didn't dislike the film, apart from the lengthily drawn-out ending. For me, Bond films are strongest when Bond is at his weakest. The drama is in the struggle against the odds; superheroes who effortlessly crush all before them do not make for compelling narrative. This means that I like the George Lazenby film, On Her Majesty's Secret Service, where Bond gets out of his depth and needs to be rescued. I like parts of Goldfinger because Bond is, frankly, a lousy agent who gets absurdly lucky at the last moment.

In this way, Casino Royale is interesting because Bond is learning his own weaknesses. But then come the cross-references that act as reasons, or excuses, for behaviour in other films. Casino Royale, low on gadgets and high on pumped-up fisticuffs, teaches Bond not to trust, not to love, and to be a ruthless killer and sexual predator.

Perhaps in Bond film 22, Bond should be the bad guy.

Not getting enough (sunlight)

SAD for me and my room-mate.

This sensory deprivation could do us both in.

Something for the weekend, Sir?

Someone, at least, seems to be expecting a good weekend.

Don't you hate it when your room-mate shows you up like that?

Some of us have rehearsals to go to.

A birthday present

My new room-mate.

From charnel and keltanen.

Quim Warrior.

'Nuff said.