BETAMAXNOMATES

Roaches are right scary bastards. Just look at them. There was one in the shower this morning when I went in, just scurrying across the tiles. I'm not ashamed to say that I screamed like a little girl. In a little dress. With little saddle shoes. Little pigtails. I'm not one to be overly perturbed by insects and that but fucked if roaches don't scare the living shit out of me. Their (perhaps somewhat exaggerated) indestructibility is a part of it. That, and the fact that once they find your house they don't leave and they bring all their crusty little mates round too. You load up on traps, sprays and powders until the whole thing escalates into some kind of nightmarish, Burroughs-ian arms race, with you velcro-ing yourself to the ceiling, wrapped in plastic and breathing through a straw. And that's when you have to get 'people in'.
Getting people in is a funny old game in Japan. Since locking your front door is impolite the people tend to just come in of their own accord. It's not unusual to find the postman - often a man of about ninety in a comical uniform - standing, confused and vaguely embarressed, in the living room, eager to thrust a package at any passing paleface and be on his way. The cops wandered in one day too - a pair of them, both in their seventies at least. Very polite they were, asked to see my passport, chatted for a bit then buggered off. All in all, a pleasant, albeit unexpected and on some level probably a bit invasive, experience. They have guns here too so the politeness is undercut with a degree of menace. Also, there is the nagging worry they might suddenly have some flashback of the 1940's and start shooting at the potted plants. Though, thinking about it, that would probably freak the roaches out some. Swings and roundabouts. Apples and pears.

I'm unashamedly excited about Indiana Jones, which is released here this weekend. Despite some less than glowing reviews the thought of Harrison Ford in the hat, the requisite snakes, rats, monkeys, and historically accurate sexism gives me a great degree of trouser pleasure. Not much else to recommend cinematically - I've not seen Gone Baby Gone, though I've heard it's quite good, as is - apparently - In Bruges. The Onion Movie was pretty rubbishy and The Mist straddled a fine line between stupid and clever before deciding to plant its flag firmly in the former. Good ending though. Musically, I've got quite into Tim Buckley. His voice is a bit overbearing at times but he does have a sort of 'mythic' air about him that is undeniably fascinating. A lot of people don't like him because apparently he was a bit of a wanker who abandoned his son (that'd be Jeff Buckley) but in terms of appreciating an artist I tend to put 'mad parenting skillz' somewhere between 'keeping it real' and the ability to 'hold it down'. Elsewhere, the new Sigur Ros album is exactly the same as every other Sigur Ros album. It's all well and good but you do occasionally get the sense that you may have heard this elaborately orchestrated, unintelligibly histrionic wailing noise somewhere before.
That's all for now. I'll leave with a bit of A Bit Of Fry And Laurie. Worth the four minutes and twenty-two seconds just to hear Fry's mangling of the word 'dirty' and Hugh swearing at the end.