The first big weekend of the winter

One promoter's December listings arrived on Thursday, far too late. I replied saying that January would be more use. His reply began "Viola!"
Don't worry, this post will get more interesting. In fact, I think this weekend will need two because I know I can't expect the MTV generation to read anything too epic.

( Alan Moore knows the score )

Afterwards we tested the theory that late licenses lead to a gentler pace of drinking. Clearly it's rubbish; we just boozed until 11, relocated to the late bar and boozed in the same manner until 1. But don't tell David Blunkett, OK?
A new conflict resolution technique was also discovered: just as a disagreement is getting too heated to be fun, a third party says "Peter Milligan, though..." and all swords will be beaten into ploughshares as his genius is universally acclaimed. I for one would be happy to see this used in the world's trouble spots, but once it has produced world peace I think a Nobel for the V would be only fair.

Probably wouldn't have bothered with the work Saturnalia party except that it was being held in Stephen Tennant's old house. No one else seemed aware of this, so I've no idea what their excuses were. Pleasant enough, but I was glad that I had prior gay goth commitments in the shape of B Movie. Excellent as ever, though I didn't quite make it to the end this time. But crucially, nor did I make it to Stanmore.

The second post of the first big weekend of the winter

Saturday was the Monopoly pub crawl. Last year was frantic; this year was postively Stalinist. Having found the hardc0re as they leave the Sherlock Holmes, I make two pubs with them before realising that their pace is no fun. Having recently received the new edition of Britain's second best magazine, The Idler, I realise it is my sacred duty to hang with the breakaway faction of lazy people who wish to savour their boozes. Over the course of the day I will make only six pubs from the list, but je ne regrette rien.
Well, except maybe that picture with the hat.
And the comment "I hate you and everything you stand for, wardytron", which I have to retract when I remember I like Shiraz.
And the statement that I would rather put my c0ck in a grinderthan ever visit All-Bar-One-with-delusions-of-grandeur Henry's again, which was a slight exaggeration.
And the loud explanation of how there's not as much bvggery as you might expect in the world of male homosexuality.

Wake up the next day feeling like Death's decrepit relative - sleeping on floors is never a good idea. On the way home I am convinced I can hear a man trapped in a roadside grit bin. I meet suicideally at Finny P station, but the reassurance obtained from the sight of a friendly face is soon eclipsed by a procession of teeny tiny skaters and I flee.

After some sleep I catch the most horrific episode of Peep Show thus far and then a programme about sea lions and walruses which is very nearly as disturbing. Compared to this, the Jacobean ultraviolence of The Revenger's Tragedy is almost soothing, though for some reason Alex Cox chooses to set his version in a post-apocalyptic* Liverpool. The casting leads to some strange associations; the new Doctor versus Prime from Scream of the Shalka again. Clint from The Smoking Room is a little hard to take seriously as the malcontent b@st@rd Spurio. There's an unrepentant r@pist who was last seen in Press Gang. And Dominic from State of Play is even camper as Ambitioso than he was there.
The main players all convince, though. Christopher Eccleston has always had a nice line in derangement and hair-trigger violence, Eddie Izzard is a perfect Lussurioso and Sophie Dahl is luminously beautiful enough that the part of Castiza finally makes some sense.

*How can they tell? (/Boris Johnson)