My one hundredth scroodl. Go me!
Having donned his best driving bra and taken a firm grip on his joystick, Colonel Wanderbury is looking forward to an exciting evening’s racing, when he discovers to his horror, that the rampaging triffids have completely smashed his Scalextric!
[With apologies to B-movie fans, everywhere!]
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For the past two days I’ve been in Huddersfield at the Subject Specialist Conference, which is part of my PGCE/Cert. Ed. Given that the entire course up to now has consisted entirely of essay writing and spreadsheet sucking, I was expecting the conference to be similarly creativity-sapping. So imagine my delight when, on arrival, we were all given long strips of paper and invited to make some kind of ‘artistic reflection’ during our two days there.
Wow! –official licence to doodle. Usually I’m getting told off for not paying attention in classes and meetings, when I have to keep scribbling to preserve my sanity, but this lot were actively encouraging it. Get in!
Anyway, here’s my effort. It’s the tale of my first day in Huddersfield, from getting on the train at Manchester Piccadilly to falling asleep in my B&B. Some of it was drawn on the Monday, but I finished it today, so that qualifies it as today’s scroodl, in my book. Actual size is about 2-3 feet wide.
All drawn in begged, borrowed and stolen black biros, as eejit that I am, I forgot to fill my drawing pen before I left.
One of the websites I frequent is currently holding a poll to find the “Worst Film Ever”. I added my tuppence worth to the debate and then realised that, with a bit of cynical recycling, I could rehash my post there as a review here . So here it is. Apropos of abso-bloody-lutely nothing, save the fact I’ve not actually written anything for a while, just been re-posting my scroodls:
If you measure awfulness in sheer tedium, as opposed to irritation, then you couldn’t do much worse than “The Last Station”:
Christopher Plummer [as Leon Tolstoy] spends almost the entire film, lying in bed, waiting to die… with a beard.
Full-on beard thrills.
Occasionally his slumbers are interrupted by the arrival of one of either of two visitors; his wife [Helen Mirren], who berates him for toying with the notion of leaving his money to The Siberian Beard Research Collective, instead of her; or a young representative of The Siberian Beard Research Collective, who likewise berates Tolstoy for potential betrayal of beard-dom, should he leave the cash to the missus.
The film continues in this vein for what seems like several days, with Tolstoy contemplating the ceiling and [presumably praying for death] while Mirren and whoever the hell the other bloke is, rotate in and out of his room on a carousel, repeating their demands that they cop for the eventual loot.
There may have been some flashbacks, featuring Tolstoy looking out from behind the different lengthed beards of his youth, but I’m not sure as, by this stage, I was watching my own whiskers grow, as a more action-packed alternative.
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