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

Finally saw Four Lions and...well, in terms of British comedy hitting the big screen, at least it's not Magicians, but it's not Chris Morris at his best, is it? It's not even Chris Morris doing his best War on Terror work. I noticed at the time that none of the reviewers seemed aware of Smokehammer (now, alas, hosting only a tedious cut-up Dubya speech) or the excellent newspaper pull-out 'Six Months That Changed A Year'; some even said explicitly that Morris was 'finally' making his 'first' comment on the terror &c situation. Lazy hacks. So yeah, it's...alright. Obviously I laughed, but I didn't find myself transfixed like I did by The Day Today, Brass Eye, Jam or Nathan Barley. And as so often, I watched the deleted scenes and wondered why they'd been left out. One explains why Waj is even part of the team in the first place, which given his consistent idiocy in the final cut had been puzzling me; another exposes the brilliantly self-contradictory apologist logic by which the Twin Towers attack was supposedly an inside job, but Osama is still a revolutionary hero.

That was definitely a full moon weekend just gone, one of the nasty, tetchy ones where nothing quite works out. Not even the music; Lily Rae fled the stage after a couple of songs because of some sound problem only she could hear, Jonny Cola & the A Grades seem to have dropped their two best songs permanently, and The Melting Ice Caps' band incarnation looks like it's also here to stay. And not that they're a bad band by any means, but there are plenty of good bands, whereas what David was doing at the solo shows was unique. Mr Solo was in band format too, and even the Indelicates' great-as-ever set was slightly marred when, doing the handclaps from 'ATF' with another member of the backing choir from the recording, we were getting evils from other audience members. They don't know. They weren't there.

If anyone is desperate to see my thoughts on the Doctor and Jo Grant's guest appearances in The Sarah Jane Adventures, I already did most of it in the comments over on Diggerdydum. But in summary, isn't it brilliant/mental/a comment on the DVD era that a show for the under 10s can make a big deal out of using a character not seen since 1973, and get how she would have ended up so very right? Typically for Russell T Davies, half the fanservice made no sense whatsoever and nor did the plot, but he got some great emotional moments in there. And because that just wasn't quite enough Doctor for one week, I also watched Tom Baker in Warriors' Gate, one of only two Doctor Who stories I have ever given up on*. But that was many years ago, before I'd seen enough European films to cope with what is essentially Last Year at Marienbad, except starring furries, who in one of the time-zones have been enslaved by Dad's Army. All executed, because this was 1981, with much the same visual effects you'd find on a TotP performance of the same vintage. Obviously.

*The other is The Chase, the sixties story where it first became apparent how lazily and boringly overused the Daleks were going to be. That one doesn't get a second chance, at least not without company and alcohol.

The Foreign Office circulates internally a lighthearted memo suggesting that it would be jolly nice if the Pope started behaving like a civilised member of the modern age; they apologise. The Pope, among his many and various other crimes, runs a global paedophile ring; he has not apologised, much less been prosecuted. And yet loathsome turds like Peter Hitchens and George Carey (the latter a Lord, of course, with a say in Parliament simply because he was in the racket) have the temerity to claim that christians are now the underdogs. When Pope Sidious is where he belongs, behind bars and being regularly raped by his burlier fellow inmates, then you can complain that christians are now the underdogs. And I shall smile benignly, suggest that the term 'prag' might be more precise, and carry on about my day in that brighter world.

Anyway. Friday. Wow. I approached the Evelyn Evelyn show with some trepidation because, while I find complaints about 'appropriation' and such from special interest groups uniformly tedious, I wasn't that impressed with the album either; a handful of good songs didn't save the general effect from being queasily sub-Lemony Snicket. Really, though, it is better conceived as the soundtrack to a show - and in the ornate Bush Hall, with a red velvet backdrop, we got that show played very well. Seeing the twins yoked together, playing guitar or keyboard or accordion with one arm each, or pausing for huddled conferences, the effect is very different. And, just to scotch any lingering arguments about disablism, there was someone in a wheelchair right down the front.
We also got a support band called Bitter Ruin who had very pop voices but cabaret songs - which worked out well - and solo and collaborative sets from Amanda Palmer and Jason Webley. The latter wasn't as good as I've seen him before - perhaps because he'd only just made his way in through the volcano aftermath, but surely that was all the more reason to play the bafflingly absent 'Dance While The Sky Crashed Down'? Palmer I've not seen before, but she was very good, doing a staggering duet on 'Delilah' with Bitter Ruin's female vocalist. Plus, we obviously got Neil Gaiman, initially on soiled kazoo but then with tambourine in one hand and a sign saying LOUDER! in the other.

Then up to Stay Beautiful where I thought we'd only be missing Ladynoise - no sacrifice at all. Except we get in and apparently we've missed a secret show by Adam Ant. Man! But then his band (aka Rachel Stamp) are setting up again and we're going to get to see him after all. This is brilliant, right? Well...no. As soon becomes apparent, he is not a well man. I've seen a few attempts to rework Springsteen's 'Born in the USA' as 'Born in the UK', and it never quite comes off, but this is still a low. 'Land of the brave, and home of the free, but they fvcked it up with CCTV', runs the chorus, biut mainly he's hectoring us about the killing of Sophie Lancaster. An admirable cause and I don't think there's a person at SB who would say otherwise, but for some reason Adam has a really hectoring tone, as though we don't care enough. Is it because we're not singing along to lyrics we've never heard before and he seems to be making up as he goes along? The song rambles along interminably in a way 'Born in the USA' never should; I go to the loo and the bar and when I get back he's still shouting that SHE GOT HER BRAIN SMASHED IN FOR BEING A PUNK ROCKER! I don't even dance to 'Prince Charming' later on, though I'm sure I will again soon enough.

And Stay Beautiful in general? I had a lot of fun, but it didn't allay my suspicions that this is too soon for a reunion. The 'final' one felt like an Event, with all the old hands out again; this just felt like any latter-day SB. And there are worse things to be, of course, but also grander ones. I did particularly like the bit where only one CD deck was working, because I always said that one day Love Your Enemies would be influential.

My hopes were, in all honesty, not high for Are Friends Eclectic? on Friday. It was being held at the Cross Kings (of 'rapey murals' fame) and I've been suspicious of the word 'eclectic' in club names ever since I saw the press for a night which was called simply Eclectic, on the grounds that it played all the different subgenres of drum'n'bass. But xandratheblue and retro_geek were DJing within an hour's walk of mine so it would have been churlish not to give it a try, and I'm very glad I did. With the exception of one DJ who seemed intent only on playing fashionable young people's music in remixes which removed all the good bits (why does a version of Wiley's 'Take That' without the buzzing noise even exist?) and had the treble up too high, the music was a good selection, and there were soon enough people in to obscure the walls. Well, except the one which had anime projected on it, that was fine, especially the one about the flying turtle rescuing its friends from inside a giant stone turtle on some island with an ancient turtle civilisation. Yeah, I know it's a bit of a hackneyed plot but they did it with charm. Hightlights included:
exliontamer doing the best gun action I have ever seen to MIA's 'Paper Planes'.
augstone hanging himself from the ceiling with his feather boa during 'She's Lost Control'.
steve586 using the same feather boa for a spot of skipping, which since he's already in The 18 Carat Love Affair, and 'Skipping' is also an Associates track, set me off on the idea of him doing a comedy quest in the manner of Dave Gorman or Danny Wallace (except less sh1t) where he literally enacts other Associates song titles, by eg driving a white car in Germany or playing the spoons in the nude.
We then made the arguably ill-advised decision all to pile back to Aug's for wine, American confectionery and singalongs. cappuccino_kid was the first to leave, only to find that his door was stuck and nearly have to come back. He managed to kick it in in the end but I was concerned that, being from Belfast, reflex might then take over and he'd try to kneecap the hamster, which would be hard enough sober.
On Saturday, after four hours' sleep, I got up for what was meant to be a lovely walk in the country. Except the member of the party who had suggested this specific walk was 'ill', a story the rest of us soon began to walk. I can hardly complain that the Lea/Lee Valley doesn't even know how to spell itself when I live so close to Har(r)ing(a/e)y, but the directions we had from Waltham Cross station used terms like 'right' and 'left' in ways which didn't really fit the late Soviet concrete feel of the surrounds. Yes, once we found Waltham Abbey it was historically and architecturally lovely, if still rather too actively christian for my liking (even attempting ti claim orthodoxy for the Zodiac on the ceiling). And at first, the riverside walk seemed lovely too. But soon the Tottenham reservoirs were looming on our left (being raised, they essentially look like motorway embankments with the odd life-ring at the top); to our right, a river with no apparent life but the coots, and beyond that, decaying industry. And above us - pylons, diligently following the path. We thought we'd found some signs of rural life with the glimpse of horses ahead, but close up they had upsetting and peculiar growths, which was possibly the last straw (even the horses were out, having moldy bread instead). We bailed at Ponders End - where the only pub seemed to be a Harvester. Cultural tourism ahoy.
Then home via the library for lots of tea, and out again to see the 18 Carat Love Affair, or rather the 14.4 Carat Love Affair, as the bassist was ill (you could maybe subtract further given the fragility of other band members, but the maths would start getting dubious). They were supported by two baffling but keen Japanese bands who had very loud singers; it was perhaps because of this that Steve could barely be heard in the mix when he went for a more subtle/hungover approach. Still not a bad show, though. Headliners Black Daniel were quite something - essentially Har Mar Superstar joining the Dandy Warhols to fill in for a show the Black Eyed Peas couldn't make - but a band like that requires energy, and by this stage I had none. Home again, and bed. Where I pretty much stayed yesterday.

The weekend's viewing:
Anatomy of a Murder: Jimmy Stewart and Lee Remick star in the Murder One of its day, with a surprisingly frank treatment of rape for 1959. Coincidentally, the Saul Bass* titles were homaged in Alan Moore's 'The Anatomy Lesson', which I reread this same weekend because, in the library, I found the new Saga of the Swamp Thing hardcover which finally reprints Moore's first issue on the series, rather than starting with said 'Anatomy Lesson'. Some lovely page layouts, presumably Totleben's, but you can see why prior reprints never bothered with it.
Around The World By Zeppelin, a fabulous compilation of archive footage and diary readings telling the story of a 1930 journey which, were it fictional, would seem heavy-handed. Our protagonist - an aristocratic English journalist, junior partner to an American. They had an affair a while back, and it ended badly, but feelings remain. In Germany, there are extremist riots against reparations; in Japan, meetings hailing a new age of German-Japanese friendship. Stalin blusters as they fly over the endless wastes of Russia, and they are feared lost after a great storm over the Pacific. Back in the US, alive, the men ignore the Midwest passing beneath them, too obsessed with the novelty of being the first airborne traders in stocks and shares. Thinking about it, maybe Glen David Gold or Michael Chabon could do it justice - but they don't need to, because this film exists. Do watch it.
Sons of Anarchy, which having come from a Shield writer, now brings in a Shield actor - and it's poor compromised old Dutch, playing an ATF agent who's a lot more human than he'd like to be. Oh, this is going to be good.

*I always get Saul Bass confused with Lance Bass, the former 'N Sync member and thwarted space traveller. Checking Wikipedia to see if there's any connection, I see no sign of one, but it does claim that his mother's maiden name was Haddock. Is this true? Because Haddock marrying Bass sounds distinctly fishy.

Courtesy of alasdair: Nick Clegg aggressively positions the Lib Dems properly in favour of gay rights, and promises a crackdown on faith schools where homophobic bullying - surprise, surprise - is more common. I don't like the positioning as anti-Tory - because Labour have been guilty of major dereliction of duty on these topics too - but this is the first thing he's done since that pathetic, stupid me-three-ing on the deficit at last year's conference which has made me feel good about his party again.
(On a related-ish note, had our first pub quiz outing in a while on Wednesday under the name Quizlam4UK. Drew the main round - because the Queen's has a fair policy of docking one point for each team member past six - and then missed out on the tiebreak by one measly year. But it's the muffled PA and the music still faintly playing over it during the first half of the quiz which mean we probably won't be going back, not the failure to win. Honest)

The French agency charged with policing online copyright infringement and three-strikes disconnection of filesharers, HADOPI, has a logo which manipulates a copyrighted font without permission. Further evidence (as if any were needed) that these schemes (see also our own Digital Economy Bill) are nothing to do with protecting the rights of creators, they're just about protecting the revenue streams of big business. Although in this instance, they've managed to infringe the copyright of exactly the sort of communications giant they should be protecting, which demonstrates that cluelessness still outweighs conspiracy.

And sticking with France, Alizee's 'Mademoiselle Juliette' video, overlaid with an English translation of the lyrics. I've liked this song and video for ages, for reasons which should be obvious, but I'm still pleasantly surprised by how smart those lyrics are. This is the problem with listening to music in other languages; because there are none where I'm fluent enough to fully follow lyrics (Hell, it's often hard enough in English), I think a buried strain of rockism surfaces in me, so that I'm prepared to take it on trust that Edith Piaf or Serge Gainsbourg's lyrics are terribly witty and wise and passionate, but I presume that Alizee's will just be bubblegum.

Further to the Making Of post, here's me killing zombies in the video for Brontosaurus Chorus' 'Louisiana'. And following up on my Spotify question, which got a lot of very helpful answers from musicians I know, it turns out that even someone at the level of fame of Robert Fripp is not making an acceptable amount of money from the service.

Watching David Attenborough's Life (though I'm an episode behind so no spoilers), one of the main things which strikes me is how stupid creationists are. I'm not just talking about the way in which these animals are themselves evidence for nature as an evolving, changing thing (especially now we can see them learning new techniques, the monkeys in particular so human when they dry seeds before breaking them between stone hammer and anvil). I mean the way that the Argument from Design crumbles because, while there are all sorts of creator you could potentially infer from the nature on this planet, the god of the christians is not among them. That wacky Old Testament guy, maybe, just - he liked his carnage, after all. But no god of love could be responsible for the komodo dragons trailing their poisoned buffalo victim, prodding him with their tongues to see if he's weak enough to eat yet. Or how about the flies which inflate their own heads, and then their eyestalks, for mating display? Some kind of insectoid Tom of Finland might have made them, but that's not who the creationists preach. Hell, their chap seems to like monogamy, so one has to question what he was doing when he made hippos, where one big hippo gets the best bit of the river and all the females, and the other male hippos get sod all. I guess a mormon or muslim creationist might be able to use that, but a mainstream christian? Not so much.

alasdair drew my attention to something really fvcked up - and we're talking more fvcked up than a pocket black hole here - "My original art has been copied by a manufacturer who is now suing me in federal court to overturn my existing copyrights and continue making knockoffs. I have a strong case, a great lawyer and believe that if I can continue to defend myself, the case will be resolved in my favor. If I run out of funds before we reach trial, a default judgment would be issued against me and could put me out of business." In other words, who dares [sue first], wins, so long as they've got deep enough pockets. Not that I'm in a position to help this guy out but I really hope this spreads wide enough that he gets the support he needs and the thieving, devious wretches who are trying to pull one over on him get taken to the cleaners.

Why must reality spoil my fun? Right, you know that berk in the ads saying "with free texts for life, I'd start a superband?" - even aside from how few texts it really takes to start a band, he looks so slappable that you're pretty damn sure any band he starts would suck, aren't you? Last night I finally formulated exactly what manner of suck - I thought it would be Coldplay meets the Chilli Peppers, and they'd do at least one Bob Marley cover. Except once I got home I saw that he's now a TV ad as well as a poster, so now you can hear his 'superband' and they're not even that interesting, just ditchwater-dull indie. Bah humbug.

Whatever David Simon made after The Wire was probably always destined to be a disappointment because frankly, where do you go from there? Usain Bolt's one thing, but in the arts it's pretty hard to beat your own world record. Generation Kill is, by any sane standards, very good. But The Wire means David Simon is now judged by insane standards. Clearly I am going to keep watching GK, and I have every expectation that it will grow on me. But on some level I can't help feeling that I've seen it before. The invasion of Iraq is not an unexamined, forgotten story in the way the decline of America's inner cities is, and a lot of the analyses of the US Marines (the system's inefficiencies mean that even those with the best intentions find themselves frustrated) seem familiar from Baltimore PD. So far, the closest thing to a McNulty seems to be Ziggy from Season 2, and against The Wire's studied impenetrability, having a reporter embedded with the unit seems a little easy, even if he is played by Tobias Beecher from Oz.

True Blood, on the other hand, is better than its creator's last work, Six Feet Under, because True Blood isn't under the misapprehension that it's smart. Honest trash I can handle, it's middlebrow self-satisfaction that gets my back up. The basic concept - with a blood substitute synthesized, vampires can come out of hiding - is not terribly original, some of the characters are pretty annoying, and so far Anna Paquin's psychic powers seem to vary more in accord with plot demands than any internal logic. It could all easily go a bit Heroes if the bad bits start to outweigh the good. But, so far, I'm inclined to keep watching. Just so long as it doesn't go all hugging'n'learning like 6FU.

What Darwin Didn't Know has now, alas, fallen off iPlayer, but if it comes round again as BBC4 documentaries tend to, it's well worth a look. I've been a fan of Armand Marie Leroi since his book and series on mutants, but even aside from his spookily charismatic presenting this is quite a powerful show. That title is a cunning bait for creationists, even more so for the people who maybe haven't fallen for the whole lie but who (as with global warming) have been misled by the airtime the morons and liars still get into believing that maybe there remain doubts. And Leroi goes into unsparing detail about everything Darwin didn't know, guessed, got wrong. Except - Darwin admitted as much himself. And then we go through the history of the theory of evolution up to the present day, drawing in figures familiar (Mendel, Crick & Watson) and less so who filled in the gaps, revised the details, pushed the theory forward. Exactly as Darwin hoped would happen. Because The Origin of Species is not an alternative to the Bible, because the scientific method (done right, at least) is not about clinging to a different, slightly less old book as an equally infallible account of life. The argument between creationism and evolution is not simply a choice of two prophets, two books - it's about totally different approaches, a truth which claims to be definitive versus one which knows it's always provisional and is forever, yes, evolving.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is the book I remember least - except for the ending, of course. Because it's basically Part One of the two-part series finale, isn't it? And the film's not even that - it's Part One of a three-part finale because they're splitting Deathly Hallows in two. Which is why I was surprised by how brilliant the film was, although I shouldn't be, because unlike the books they do consistently get better each time. The camerawork, the lighting, the locations all contribute to a sense of a widening world, but also a darkening one; the book is pared back mercilessly but sensitively, revealing its core. There's also, bafflingly, a sudden jump in the levels of innuendo, which I would say was just the effect of watching a film with curiousbadger except I've seen people who didn't say the same. Little things outside the director's control play into it, too - Luna Lovegood so effortlessly able to steal any scene she's in, or the lad who plays Draco being at that awkward stage of ageing where boyish good looks have yet to become adult handsomeness and the golden boy temporarily looks lumpish.
Also, have I ever mentioned that in spite of everything, I have even more of a crush on Bellatrix than I do on most Helena Bonham-Carter characters?

Lenny Henry talks about his love for A Matter of Life and Death. The programme is probably of more interest to Lenny Henry fans who don't yet know the film than to fans of the film who aren't that bothered about Lenny Henry. I used to like him, years back in the Delbert Wilkins days, and I suppose he still has the Neil Gaiman association, but it still seems slightly odd that we have the same favourite film. Though he is, after all, British, so nothing like as surprising as the show's revelation was that Martin Scorsese is also a massive P&P fan.

UK Drug Policy Commission's report shows signs of the Commission having seen The Wire, calls for 'smarter' drug policing with a focus on harm reduction; Home Office sticks fingers in ears, sings 'na na na I'm not listening'.

The Isle of Lewis, within two days, had its first Sunday sailing of the ferry, and then its first gay wedding. Less than ten days later, a mini-tornado wreaks havoc on the island. If the god-botherers don't capitalise on this, they're even more stupid than I thought.

"Chris Bryant, the new Foreign Office minister, who is gay, has started writing personal letters of congratulations to British diplomats who show public support for gay rights. He is praising them for such support even if it draws anger from national governments or local homophobic groups." Which is splendid news I'm surprised I've not seen more heralded, even if it is coming from one of the same ministers who recently tried to score some fairly cheap points with distinctly nebulous accusations of Tory homophobia - particularly weak given that, while Labour may have made progress with civil partnerships and the like, their consistent appeasement of homophobic monotheist scum has dented whatever pink kudos they should otherwise have earned. Of course, if they really want to cement the gay vote, Gordon could always come out. Not that I have any idea whether those rumours were even true, but if not it'd be even funnier watching him try to fake it.

I'm in Devon at the moment, wrestling once again with the most erratic cursor of our age. But before heading down here (maugree Sunday's efforts to beat previous records for One Of Those Days), I spent Friday confirming that the Landseer may be considerably more pleasant under its new management, but remains too expensive to be a viable local watering hole, and Saturday listening to country, and then watching the Indelicates. Now, I may previously have mentioned that they're a bit good, but I somehow failed until this unfairly truncated and thus blisteringly, magnificently angry performance to realise that they are, quite simply, the best band of our generation. My only regret is that thedavidx wasn't quite drunk enough to do a Jarvis during their closing cover of 'Earth Song'.

May have mentioned this before, but I'd have a lot more time for christianity if they made something of today. At present it's the awkward, slightly embarrassed non-Bank-Holiday of the weekend, in spite of marking the best bit of the story - the Harrowing of Hell. Where Jesus goes down to the Inferno, and busts out all the righteous men who lived before he came. I mean, sod Mel Gibson's SM epic, this is the Jesus film I'd watch. Think the prison break from Watchmen, but with Jesus as Nite Owl, the Holy Ghost as Silk Spectre and Moses as Rorschach. Plus demons.
Today also marks 383 years since Sir Francis 'Not That One' Bacon caught his death of cold by stuffing a chicken with snow - which I now discover took place on a journey between Gray's Inn and Highgate, ie very possibly along the Holloway Road. Last night I too faced a bathetic yet appalling incident on the Holloway Road, to wit, a Brummie ZZ Top covers band polluting Big Red, and not even playing the good songs. So we pissed off to another pub where the only distraction was the BBC showing of The Others, which we loudly spoilered before realising that some of the patrons in the other room were properly watching it. However, when the end was reached, they appeared not to have registered our unwitting intrusion. Possibly ( spoilers ) Or possibly they were just drunk.

This evening: Doctor Who, The Indelicates and Mr Solo. Which between them are keeping me going though the morning oppresses with a quite supernal greyness.

Yes, I should be out enjoying the sun, and everyone else will be so this will go unread, but I'm waiting for the washing machine and I have a week to get down before it slips my mind. A week spent mostly in Devon, where some newly-revealed clay from about 150 million years ago had its first encounter with the mammalian age when I plunged in up to the knees while looking for ammonites, and I went to Jasper Hazelnut's cafe, and saw someone with a hare lip outside ads for Third World children for the first time I can remember, and couldn't really blog on account of a deranged cursor. The train to Devon is lovely, following a stream much of the way and passing fields with cows, and llamas, and in one case horses and chickens grazing contentedly together.

And when the nights drew in, what did I watch?
Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle: good, but perhaps not as good as we all expected after his long absence from our screens. An out comics fan has no place attacking adults for reading Harry Potter, but beyond that, simply filming stand-up feels weird, like watching a straight filming of a stage play.
Given Mad Men's scrupulous sixties style, what the blazes were they doing soundtracking the opening of last week's episode with the Decemberists? Yes, they sound timeless, and it wasn't as if Don Draper was getting into MIA, but it still threw me.
I only watched the first episode of Party Animals, but my mum's a fan and had missed the final episode, so I watched along - an unusual experience for me, who is never normally a casual viewer. The main interest, of course, being to see what the Eleventh Doctor's performance was like. I'm still mainly repeating 'Trust Moffat. Trust Moffat' to myself. Andrea Riseborough and Excelsor from No Heroics were good, though, if basically playing the same characters (the devious slapper and the smug git).
The Tomb of Ligeia is the last and not the best of the Roger Corman/Vincent Price/Edgar Allan Poe films, in part because one of the major roles is the possibly-possessed cat, and as anyone who's seen Breakfast at Tiffany's will know, cats can't act - they can at best be thrown onto the set by the AD. Typically, the film owes as much to Poe's 'M.Valdemar' as 'Ligeia', but more than anything else Vincent Price seems to be playing James Robinson's Shade, right down to the hat and the glasses. No bad thing, obviously.

"The Pope also warned of a threat to the Catholic Church...from the "growing influence of superstitious forms of religion". Next week; why racism threatens Nazism. Sidious' deranged ramblings about condoms in Africa are, of course, a despicable attempt to take advantage of the vulnerable, but closer to home, last night on Stroud Green Road there was a team, dressed like bouncers, of 'Street Pastors', strolling around at closing time looking for the lost and lonely like so many spiritual date-rapists.
(And with perfect timing, as I finished writing this some more of the scoundrels came to my door. Given I'd discharged my bile here, I didn't even have enough fire left for more than a curt 'No Thank You' and a slammed door)