Psst…you. Yes, you.

Hello ‘Nicky Bond and Writer’s Ramblings’ subscriber!  Here is a sneaky mid-week message in your inbox.  How’s that for brightening your day.

I am sitting in a popular coffee shop that rhymes with Bosta, and working out a few tweaks on the blog.  Hopefully, this arrives as a link in your inbox along with a tempting teaser, rather than the whole post in black and white.  Here is a photo for your viewing pleasure.  

Hello Sailor!

The misguided non-subscribers (who mostly see the blog via Twitter and Facebook every Monday) have a whole four days to wait to see this attractive picture of a cup of tea with skimmed milk.  They must be kicking themselves.

Large tea in a take-away cup with skimmed milk please.

So, Happy Thursday to all subscribers.   Thanks for signing up.

Choose Life. Again.

Exciting times.  Trainspotting is back!  The 1996 film about the abuses of drugs and friendship (that some journalists fretted would glamourise illegal drug use) now has a sequel - Trainspotting 2

I don’t remember watching the horrific ‘dead baby’ scene, or the ‘hunt the suppository in the minging toilet’ sequence and thinking, ‘Mmmm, let me have a piece of that action.’  Nope, not for one second.  Still, hindsight is a marvellous thing, and it is with hindsight that I now write about my own experience of Trainspotting, back in the day. 

It was all terribly exciting, you see.  It was the first time I had seen an 18-rated film at the cinema, and been eighteen.  Yep, I came of cinematic age just as Trainspotting hit the screens.  It marked the beginning of my adult life, and was going to be, I imagined in March 1996, the start of regular cinema trips where quality, thought provokingly edgy films would be available to me on, if not a weekly, then definitely monthly basis.  Now I had turned eighteen, I mused, I would be forever batting away ground breaking dramas, and clever satires, and be spoilt for choice with the eighteen-ness of them all.

The reality of the ensuing years was obviously a little disappointing.   Trainspotting was a one-off.   It bottled a winning formula combining the bleakness of human experience, alongside warmly flawed characters for whom you only wanted the best.  The iconic soundtrack secured its status of cool and it meant that the careers of Danny Boyle, Ewan McGregor and my personal favourite, Kelly MacDonald, were given a helpful shove. 

Does every generation have a film?  If I turned eighteen today, would I be remembering this week’s new releases in twenty years?  It’s possible, I guess.  La La Land  (it opened nationwide on 12th January) is supposed to be impressive.  And doubtless there will be millions across the globe that cite the regular Star Wars, or Marvel output as being the film of their childhood/adolescence/lifetime.  But in the search for billion-dollar box office returns, can studios take risks, cause controversy, and create something truly unique, like Trainspotting, anymore?* 

I have no idea.  All I can offer is an example of my own ridiculousness, to show how cinemas are doing all right, regardless.  I pay about £16 a month for a ‘free’ pass to my local cinema.  To break even, I know I need to watch two films every month.  Reader, in the past year, I have watched one.   Spotlight was a great film, but I’m not sure it was worth the £192 I forked out for the privilege.  With this in mind, I will definitely be watching Trainspotting 2 when it comes out in a few weeks, if only to start clawing back what I am owed.

*Hadley Freeman brings much to this debate (mainly the humour, insight and knowledge that I lack) in the introduction of Life Moves Pretty Fast – The Lessons We Learnt From Eighties Movies and Why We Don’t Learn From Movies Anymore.   Along with the rest of the book, it’s definitely worth a read.

    

Back to the Grind...

Happy New Year and all that jazz! 

Apologies for radio silence for the past three weeks.  I’d fully intended to post something before the end of the year.  In fact, before Christmas I’d written a charmingly unoriginal post about how the death of so many beloved artists over 2016 had provided the positive effect of reminding us of their excellent catalogue of work.  I’d added YouTube links to some of my favourite Victoria Wood sketches, and that was that.  But then George Michael died.  So I spent the last week of the year lamenting that there really was no chance of him becoming Mr. Nicky Bond one day, and I listened to Wham’s Make it Big on repeat.  Time ran away with me.

With added Christmas decoration,
and not a Tom Cruise in sight.

Apart from mourning the death of my first human crush (at age 6) I also managed to read a couple of books, watch a few films and eat all the cheese in Christendom.  Between mouthfuls of Stilton, I thoroughly enjoyed Lee Child's Night School – which I read from start to finish over a fourteen hour period, last week.  (Period of time, not lady period.)  I can't for the life of me remember what happens now, but it kept my attention for as long as it lasted, with a 2.50am finish time.  Sometimes that's all you need from a book.  

House of Cards with Cardinals.  
Kinda.

I also devoured Robert Harris' Conclave, which was worth taking a little more time over.  Without wishing more premature death on the world, I now feel confident I know what will be going on behind the Vatican’s closed doors when the current Pope breathes his last.   Intrigue and scandal!  That’s what.  Just as I did when I watched Netflix's The Crown, I read it with a constant eye on Wikipedia to see if the real life historical events that were referenced really did go down as described.  It seems they did.  A jolly Papal romp with learning too.  Win.

Film news now.  Over the Christmas break I re-watched Private Benjamin and remembered how funny Goldie Hawn is, and whilst Star Wars fans went straight for their Princess Leia memories to honour the life of Carrie Fisher, I turned to When Harry Met Sally – one of the smartest, wittiest comedies ever written.  (Nora Ephron rocks.)  Fisher’s Marie has all the best lines – “Oh, I’ve been looking for a red suede pump" – and for my money is a far more likable character than Meg Ryan’s Sally.  But what do I know.    

And so here we are.  The end of a lazy, indulgent few weeks, and now a brand spanking New Year, with all the fresh-start mentality that it provides.   I don’t really do resolutions, but read more books, lose the cheese-guilt and keep on keeping on, seem reasonable plans to follow. 

Happy 2017, y’all.  Let’s have a good’un.

Cheese

Sucking the Season Dry...

Three years ago my parents downsized and decamped from the family home.  So this is the 3^rd year I have hosted the annual Bond Christmas dinner (conversely on Boxing day) and the 3^rd year I have been far too stressed about serving raw turkey and seating fifteen comfortably, to enjoy the experience. 

This is OK though.  I have learnt that it is all over by Christmas dinner anyway.  All the festive glow and warm, cosy, seasonal cheer has well-evaporated by the time the main event comes.   I now make sure that I have sucked dry the glad tidings from every early opportunity I can, long before we hit Christmas week.

 

•   November is when my Christmas playlist gets its first airing.  Every car journey, no matter how short, is accompanied by the instrumental music to Home Alone.  Every.  Single.  One.

•   Around this time is when I start scouring the Good Food Channel for repeats of Nigella's and Jamie’s festive offerings from years gone by.  Nothing is as christmassy as watching five different recipes for roast potatoes in one evening.   Promise.

•   Christmas shopping is a nightmare.  Yeah, really.  Yet there is something lovely about being around the bustle when you smugly know you’re all done, and don’t need to search for that elusive present for the random in-law.   I will train it into town at some point next week, just so I can wander about with a cup of tea, get cold, and be excited at the feeling of it all. 

•   Now that we are well into December, I get to watch proper Christmas films.  Prior to December, I make do with Christmas specials of TV programmes.  So far I’ve seen off Midsomer Murders, Poirot, and Gavin and Stacey.  Now that we’ve reached the twelfth month, it’s time for the real deal.  Classics such as It's A Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34th Street, and more recently Elf, are all essential viewing.   (At the time of writing, Elf has yet to appear on the schedules.  There aren’t many films I will regress to watching on DVD, but this is one).   Obvs it is the law, but no Christmas film can be watched without fairy lights on, main lights off.  Standard.

•    Finally, a recent tradition (blame Nigella) is ham.  The Domestic Goddess has convinced me it is of the UTMOST importance that a ham should be cooking, pretty much 24/7 all through December.  I am restricting myself to participating in this tradition for 23^rd and 24^th December only, when I will be recreating her twenty-four hour, black treacle ham recipe for the second year running. 

With all that seasonally cheery build up, I really won’t care a jot come Boxing Day, about who has to sit on an upturned laundry basket to eat, or who has become a vegetarian since the previous year.   I will be prosecco-ed up to my eye balls, and long past worrying. 

Season's Greetings one and all.