One of the reasons I've not blogged for FAR TOO LONG [yes, go on, shoot me already] is that it's Election Season here in UK-onia, and I didn't want to bore people with political shit.

But now, with only eight days to go until the actual vote itself, I'm setting down my choices in my cruddy little area, in the hope that it'll provide some clarity to my thinking.

The "seat" I live in is almost exclusively rural, and rich landowners have always constituted the dominant class. It's therefore one of the safest Conservative seats in the country, and blue posters of the candidate are everywhere as soon as you step out of town [though, amusingly, some of them have been, ahem, "enhanced" by passers-by].

As well as the Con, there's six other candidates standing. Three of them can be instantly discounted from my thinking because they're right-wing nutters [though of the neo-libertarian anti-EU-obsessive rich-tax-avoidance kind rather than the racist sort, thank frog]. That leaves the Lib Dems, Labour and Greens.

- The Green party has always seemed the closest to my thinking, and there are many people within the party who I respect greatly. [Mind you, there's also quite a few who I wouldn't trust as far as I could throw]. Their chance of winning the seat is absolutely zero – they'll be doing well to get even one seat nationally – but a strong showing would add to their momentum.

- Or: The Lib Dems are the only ones with even the slightest chance of beating the Con, they're definitely the least worst of the "big three" parties, and a vote for them is at least a vote for getting a decent bloody voting system. OTOH, it would require me sort of holding my nose, though, it wouldn't exactly be a positive vote for a mandate.

- Or: I could go for the one candidate I respect personally, even though I don't want to vote for her party: the Labour option. No chance of winning here, may even come fifth; the trouble is, a vote for her could look like an endorsement of the sitting Labour government, which I certainly don't support [except to the very small extent that I think a Con administration would be even worse].

- Abstention, or "spoiling the ballot", is *not* an option for me, I've decided. They allow you to be completely dismissed and discounted.

Opinions? Perspectives? I'd like to hear them.

Moon. Last night I was in Cambridge to see Bug and a few of her friends; she'd got the DVD of Moon – [the son-of-Bowie-directed "new 2001", nothing to do with the piss-poor Lost Boys derivation of a similar title] -

It's difficult to talk about the film without giving "spoilers" – the central crux of the film is also one of the things which makes it a pleasing cinematic experience; suffice to say, perhaps, that anyone who comes to the film knowing their serious sci-fi won't be disappointed, even if it's not exactly car-crash-and-popcorn material.

Bug and her friends, Dan, Duncan and Lucy, were charming; the only thing that took a little getting used to is how out here in rural parts you just don't get that level of lordly sci-fi geekiness – we're talking way beyond my general Whomania into authors, series and films that I just haven't got into because I've not got that sort of community to plug into to experience them.

This difference between urban and rural community, especially Cambridge urban which has always, rightly or wrongly, had a reputation as high-level, perhaps even – shush – elitist in some ways, is one of the few things I miss from my London years [now approaching two decades ago].

Even before the days of El Interwebz making it easier to "reach out" to people, you could be sure that however "niche" your particular hobby, fetish or liking, there would be a club, group or regular get-together somewhere within reach of the Underground map.

In those days my "niche" was Thrash Metal, and we had our regular get-togethers at whatever venue was hosting whatever entirely obscure German band.

The nearest thing I have to that is whatever's on offer in Ipswich, and Ipswich is not a go-ahead-do-it kind of town where you have an "intellectual" stratum for the kind of things I'd sign up for. After that it means a trek to Norwich or Cambridge, which are over an hour away, or down into London, which brings its own set of problems.

Perhaps one of the few exceptions to this is the tiny little theatre and occasional cinema fifteen minutes up the road, scene of the acting workshops of last summer and the one before. Although the "acting" bit of it is still on hold – I must drop Mike an email sometime and see exactly how far Henry's got this year – I also meant to inveigle myself into whatever "community" gathered around that place.

And, since they're coincidentally showing an obscure just-post-Franco piece of Spanish cinema that's been recommended to me, perhaps this is the perfect time to start inveigling again…

[This is nothing to do with the brilliant band of the similar name, who I saw live in Cambridge many moons ago....]

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Oh, and just in case: the CCTV cameras on the A14 will back me up on this – the fire in Cambridge rail station that started at 2am was a couple of hours after I'd left the city, okay?

Ooh, that's better.

I had an emo moment – well, morning and early afternoon – earlier today, but a few hours spent in bed with some appropriate depressing gothy bleak 80s miserableness seems to have done the trick of draining off the worst of it.

[yes, it's that damn badly-lipsticked bloke. If you've not got this album, but would like to try out its utterly divine despairness, give me a shout and...]

There's a difference with me between momentary emo-day-ness, which can be nicely solved by lying down with crap music, and actual depression, in which I can't abide any music at all. You'll know the difference, because with the former I moan a bit about feeling emo, and with the latter I don't talk at all.

Also: with the former, I get momentary fleeting ideations of "hey, a drink would be nice right now". Not the latter. Even if I wanted to – which I wouldn't, because in that mood nothing is thought of as "nice" – I could hardly get out of bed as far as the offie [liquor store].

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Good Things:

The old printer, which died last month by having its cartridge carriage fall off as if it had electronic leprosy, is now in the back of Priscilla waiting to be "recycled"; luckily someone else had just got a new one and asked me if I had a good home for their redundant HP.

Priscilla, by the way, is thankfully not affected by the current "sticky pedal" nightmare – she's too old. Her MOT* reminder has just come through, though, so someone will have to get underneath her and have a good poke around. Lucky girl.

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Another Good Thing:

On Tuesday night, I had an epiphany. For the past few months, I've been drawn into weekly hospital-soap Holby City like a fly around a particularly delicious stool; I found myself rooting for some characters [often evil ones] and booing others.

Then, halfway through the episode the other night, suddenly it dawned on me. "hey, this is utter pish!"

I won't be going back to it.

Promise.

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And A Slightly Surprising Thing:

The people of my little town are, well, they're Suffolk. They're not known for their advanced intellectual abilities; yes, I know, that's a country bumpkin stereotype, but like almost all stereotypes, there unfortunately is a small grain of truth for some people behind what gets blown up into complete bollocks for everybody.

I'm thinking of one particular person of my friendship and acquaintanceage, who has arrived in Suffolk from Essex and whose outward personality and identity sometimes reflects the stereotypes of both regions.

So when, over coffee the other morning, she says "oh, I love Shakespeare", it doesn't quite fit…

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* Note for non-UKers: an obligatory annual roadworthiness check for older vehicles. Despite everyone's moans when the time comes around, it probably saves thousands of lives a year; and if you're the kind of stupid rabid libertarian who thinks this is unwarranted over-Government regulation, then get the fucking fuck off my website now. Seriously.

The heavy rain this morning, usually greeted with the kind of "meh" that makes me sound like I'm still fifteen years old, was for once welcomed with open arms here as it slowly helps get rid of the four or five inches of snow that trapped me indoors for the weekend and drove me slightly stir crazy.

I think I've now read every book in the house – with the exception of those dull social work ones which I never read properly for my degree and aren't about to start now – and I'm nearly up to speed on the DVDs-to-be-watched pile, currently up to part four of ten of the last Second Doctor serial The War Games.

My absolute lifesaver over the past week, though, has been the magnificently amazing Zo, whose gift of a bumper pack of Nintendo DS games has kept me sane [whilst ruining my eyesight and giving me a "stylus wound" in the palm of my right hand].

Especially enjoyable is how I've zapped all sorts of things in Space Invaders Extreme – at least until it got to the sodding impossible level four; I've been working my way through New Super Mario Bros, which has all the fun of the original whilst being new enough to be fresh; and I've been working my way through Mario Kart DS trying not to break the buttons with furious stamping.

Along with the others she included they've been very welcome: that is, apart from the Countdown spin-off game which I beat on Champion level on first try, and I Love Horses which Z rather malevolently added to the bundle knowing that giving me a horsey game was rather like sending Fox News an I Love Socialism title. [Thanks, sweetie ]

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One of the fun things about being indoors over the past few days has been the schadenfreude of watching the news as the fanatic bigots that are the Robinsons implode over in NI.

Ang has documented this much better than I have with good insight into the moral implications for their particular microcosm of society, but one thing I particularly want to point out is how Northern Ireland has always existed in a time-warp several decades behind the "mainland". This may be no exception.

Twenty-five years ago, we [the UK in general] had a Conservative government big on "family/Victorian values", ready to enact a horrendous piece of legislation known colloquially as Section 28 to enforce its "moral" credentials. Like the Robinsons, homosexuality was an abomination outside of "normal family" life.

Then, a few years later, during a campaign which was known as "Back to Basics", the shall we say "interesting" private lives of many Government ministers – including my MP at the time, which gave the little town I worked in a week of media frenzy – were revealed in sordid [and sometimes made-up] detail which convinced them, and the subsequent Labour government, that any attempt to preach sexual morality would only show them up as hypocritical.

The issue's not completely gone away – Cameron has made noises about "tax breaks for marriage" [oh yeah, like I'm really gonna get married just to save a couple of hundred quid on my income tax bill], but has fought shy of trying to take any moral high ground [yet] – but the kind of language the Robinsons have used has been out of fashion – and out of order – here for fifteen years; Iris would have found herself immediately chucked out of any of the three major parties for her stupid rant eighteen months ago.

It may well be, then, that this is part of NI's "normalization" post-troubles; one step on the road from segregational, isolationist, extreme-religious politics to one more closely based on the values that all serious "mainland" politicians now hold.

After all, DUP etc., if you lot keep insisting how you're so sodding British, shouldn't you show it by adopting the greater tolerance and liberalism that we have?

Don't you see how being fanatical about anything, outside of caravanning, canal restoration or collecting horse brasses, is the most un-British value there is?

A tentative and unexciting start to the New Year, as further white cold stuff disruption keeps me firmly indoors as much as possible.

The first morning of 2010 was, of course, a Public Holiday, which meant that the guys who gritted the roads were also on holiday [hey, fair enough, they deserve them too], which meant that I was practising for the Winter Olympics coming back from work.

Civilization, at least as far as my little town is concerned, starts to return to normal from Monday, though, with the cafe reopening after its Xmas break and G. returning to the market next Saturday. Like a flower opening its petals in the morning, slowly life emerges and makes the place feel less like an Antarctic research station1.

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The big cultural event of the season, of course, was the change from Tenth Doctor to Eleventh Doctor; I'll be careful not to provide spoilers here [and so should you in the comments] but I will say that whilst the double-episode itself leading up to it was the usual entertaining tosh [but tosh nevertheless]2, the regen itself provoked several recitations of the ancient Kenneth Williams catchphrase, when events in the old radio show Round The Horne dragged on too long; "stop 'anging it out!"

There was only thirty seconds of Matt Smith as DoctorXI, not enough to give any kind of lasting impression, but enough to whet the tastebuds; it suggested he'll be worth watching, even if it turns into a Baker [C]-type car-crash.

This marks the end of the Russell T Davies era of New Formula Who; a quick look around the forums last night suggested few of the fanboys/girls/trannies will miss him, but taking the longer view, you have to give him credit for so successfully relaunching the series; as the 1996 TV movie showed, there was plenty of scope for messing it up royally and setting back the cause for nearly another decade…3

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I don't do New Year's Resolutions, I can't be arsed with a Review Of The Noughties, and I'm buggered if I'm expending any energy at all on dates and numbers which are, after all, completely arbitrary – the calendar and the year number as we know them are constructs – partly Julius Caesar's fault, apparently, and partly a reflection of Xian domination of Western civilization [if the big JC was a historical figure, the one thing believing scholars agree on was that he wasn't born in what we call 1BC or 1AD].

Of course, the calendar and the year number have a utility value – ensuring that when you say to someone that you'll meet at St. Pancras4 at 1430 GMT on 2nd Jan 2015, you actually turn up at the same time and place and not miss each other by three years – but otherwise, it's a marketing exercise.

This generally negative attitude to New Year's may also be explained by the number of times I got very, very drunk and had to crawl home…5

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1 Which actually sounds better than festive-season-shut little-town, because at least there'd be plenty of penguins to research.
2 Plenty of loose ends and unanswered questions too.
3 This is not to wee on McGann's characterization or performance, which was fine – it was the script and direction which sucked.
4 The question of whether anybody actually agrees on where [or if] St. Pancras station is I'll leave for another time.
5 Most notably in 1990, after an all-night illegal drinking club in Stratford, mooning every few steps of the nineish miles.

Solstice.

For the fourth day running, I've woken up to a scene whiter than an albino who's swallowed a bucket of Daz Automatic, and I've thought "frog that, the car stays at home".

I did enough driving in wintry conditions in my courier days to know that whilst I may be very aware of curbing my appropriate speed for poor road adhesion conditions, there are enough people out there – especially in rural parts like these – who still think 75mph, and hanging three feet from my rear bumper because I'm not doing 75mph, is a bitchenly amazing way to drive to make the whole thing bastardly dangerous on a par with bungee-jumping, lion-taming or Romford-sightseeing.

So, in the absence of any work shifts for a couple of days, I'm taking the official advice, and will only be going out in "an emergency".

[Although of course the Highways Agency's definition of "emergency" probably doesn't match mine, in that it doesn't include the phrase "free sex and money"...]

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I will have to start Priscilla up sooner or later, though, to make sure I can get  to my folks' on Thursday for the "festive" few days.

As usual, I have prepared enough distractions to keep my brain from going completely Radio-Rentals; though as usual, I have to pay for my keep by spending part of Boxing Day with the Evil Sister and family, being a festive "uncle Fish" to her two embryos.

There are a few things on the telly I'm looking forward to, amongst the usual deluge of shitty comedy "Xmas specials" [note to any comedy writer: no lame crap is ever improved by making it a "musical"]*;

* Monday: Victoria Wood night on BBC2. Archive stuff but still knockout brilliant. Also a must-see will be her new special, "Midlife Xmas" on Thursday.

* Tuesday: BBC4 highlights two great, fairly recently deceased, English eccentric geniuses – Oliver Postgate and Sir Clement Freud.

* Wednesday: Ballet Boyz – The Rite Of Spring. A "radical interpretation" of the original ballet, it says here. As regular readers will know, modern dance leaves me cold and perplexed; to me, the Rite's music is enough drama and colour by itself without anybody prancing about in tights, so we'll see if this is an improvement or a distraction.

* Friday: Doctor Who, natch.

* Next Monday: A remake of The Day Of The Triffids, with Eddie Izzard as the evil guy.

I was only nine years old when the 1981 TV version scared the living daylights out of me -

- yes, the plants were rubbery and unrealistic, but I was used to that from early Doctor Who episodes. It was only a year or two ago, when I finally found that series on DVD, that it struck me how little "psychotic vegetation" there actually were in it; most of the time was spent exploring the ramifications of a post-apocalyptic Britain. Maybe time, and the leaps forward in FX, mean we'll get more hot plant-on-plant action in this version.

Whether the 2009 version breaks the normal "remakes are pointlessly pants" rule – most recently confirmed by the insipid, suspense-less US version of The Prisoner – is to be seen, but it may well be, given Eddie's let's-say-chequered acting history, that this will turn out to be either wonderfully watchable or joyfully unwatchable.

I guess that's enough to keep me busy for a few days.

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* or, even worse, an "opera".