'huge, queer and tawdry' but 'much admired by the public'

If you're in the mood for something between Flashman and Indiana Jones, I can strongly recommend Peter Hopkirk's Foreign Devils on the Silk Road. For instance:
"He spent three years at Oxford and the British Museum studying classical and oriental archaeology and languages, but omitted Chinese - a gap in his linguistic armoury which was to cost him dear some twenty years later at the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas near Tun-huang."
It's all inconveniently dead camels, monasteries falling into ravines in earthquakes and races with dastardly Germans as Edwardian archaeologists descend on Chinese Turkestan in search of ancient cities lost in the shifting sands of the Taklamakan desert. Which is right next to the Gobi desert, and I'm not sure how exactly you tell where one desert stops and another begins, but the main difference seems to be that the Gobi was considered a bit of a girls' desert in comparison.
There's even a mountain range called Kun Lun, only two apostrophes off the home of Iron Fist - and in this neck of the woods, apostrophes seem to wander quite a bit.

Yesterday, after the Tubewalks, I went to see the Scoop's puppet-laden, song-and-dance take on the story of Jason & the Argonauts, which was played fairly panto-style, and ended in an audience participation dancealong to 'Walking on Sunshine'. They told the audience to stick around for the sequel, Medea, promising it would be "fun". I wonder how many families did that, and of those, how many had any idea what happens in Medea and how many expected more jolly adventures? We'd already seen the harrowing tale of desertion and infanticide on Thursday (Ben says most everything I'd want to about it here), and the idea of having the same cast do both in a double-bill is some flowering of evil genius.
After getting home from that, I'd watched Entourage and We Are Klang on their late showings*, which made for a late start on Friday, in spite of/because of which I had a really productive day. Started with His Girl Friday, because it was too long since I'd seen a Cary Grant film, and what a strange mixture of screwball comedy and film noir it is, with police corruption, corrupt electioneering and suicide all subjugated to the sparring will they/won't they couple. Then finished off a Kate Bush biography of which I'd read two chapters years ago (the writer wasn't great, but even beyond that I suspect she's another of those musicians where the life she lives could never be as exciting as the life implied by the world of her songs). Then sorted out the books on the landing and considered the death of Keith Waterhouse; he wrote a book and a play which I love, and seems to have been basically brilliant fun, so why did I never especially like him qua him, instead just liking those two works in isolation?).
And then, out to Proud. I'd always been fairly certain that Proud would be a dreadful venue, but I seriously underestimated just how bad. It's full of similar tossers to fashionable West End clubs (and similar drinks prices), but here some of said tossers are in Smiths t-shirts, just to remind us how bankrupt the whole concept of 'indie' is these days. 18 Carat Love Affair were clearly getting the same sound mix as all the other bands they put on when they're booking electro-indie by the yard; vocals down (because certainly nobody wants to hear the lyrics of the average electro-indie act), bass up (keep 'em dancing). The bass suited 18CLA, the inaudible vox less so. Once they were done, we fled to brain_opera's party which, like any good party, was deeply strange and went on far too late.
On Saturday there were two more birthdays; this was when I started to feel I was maybe overdoing it.

*Not content with pushing Entourage later and later, this week ITV aren't showing it at all; it's being bumped for Katy Brand's new series and forgettable Tom Cruise flick The Last Samurai. They really are intent on rendering themselves entirely worthless as a channel, aren't they?

Spent the first half-hour or so of Indiana Jones & the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull not really feeling it; the fifties colour was laid on too heavily, the conviction seemed lacking...it felt like watching a tribute act. A good tribute act, sure, but not the real thing. And it didn't help having Ray Winstone along; it really was just that one role as Beowulf where I liked him, although I guess here he was playing a venal berk rather than anyone we were meant to respect. But then there's that map/'plane bit one always needs in an Indy film, and we're in the jungle, and yes, it all fits into place. I stay on the edge of my seat for the rest of the film, except when I'm cracking up at the sheer audacity of it all. I'm not entirely sure I'd want a fifth but yes, this is a worthy addition to the series.

On Saturday the song 'Jolene' became linked in my head to Joe Lean of rubbish indie combo Joe Lean & the Jing Jang Jong, aka Sophie's brother in Peep Show. I have not yet been able to decouple them, so I might as well share the misery.

The Guardian's redesigned Review section announces "Starting next week...52 - a novel in weekly instalments by Jeanette Winterson, Ali Smith, AM Homes and Jackie Kay". A novel called 52, in weekly instalments, with four authors? What a terribly original idea.
(Although, one strand of the first 52 did concern two lesbian lovers hounded by an evil religion, so Winterson at least would have been right at home)

Now if you'll excuse me I need to get some breakfast, clean out my cupboard and watch the season finale of Mad Men. I'm glad that the weather is not of a sort to make me feel like these are bad uses of my bank holiday.