The War Next Door

So, my final essay for a while is finished. Done and dusted. No longer do I need to think about Japan's pharmaceutical industry and their production and distribution of cocaine between the two world wars - a fascinating topic, but it almost killed me. I typed about 2000 words in 24 hours, staying up to 4am on Thursday night, waking up at 9am the next morning and ploughing through it until just before 2pm to meet the 4pm deadline. Not only that, but my main source was one of the most cack-handedly written texts I've seen throughout my university career (including my own work). Spelling the same name three different ways, non-sequitur paragraphs, little sense of a threaded argument - Steven B. Karch, MD: you are a dolt.

The weekend is my reward. But the jerks next door seem to be having none of it. After the incessant loud music (they've added bad Pink Floyd dance remixes to their repertoire now; there should be a law against radios playing songs that are designed to be 'played loud'), frantic alibi-setting-straight telephone calls, macaroni-window-flinging and shouting matches that would make the cast of Eastenders flee in fear, their ouevre has expanded.

I assume their inquisitive cat (which would regularly peak out the window and stare at us in the kitchen or lavatory) has died, because it its stead they seem to have acquired a dog. A tiny yapping puppy of sorts, and I guess the girl in the room adjacent to mine is its appointed owner. Every time they have an argument (which is pretty much all the time - most recent exchange: "Get the f**k outta mah layf!", "Get the f**k outta mah hause, yeh f**kin' mug!"), the dog won't start yipping and yupping like a flustered chicken. I blame its master. So far her commands have consisted of "Stay there!", "Sit down!", and "Shut up!". Crufts beckons.

But just as this all gets intensely irritating, something hilarious happens and all is forgiven. Couple of nights ago, she had some friends over listening to some godawful music, and the dog was yipping from time to time. Then, all of a sudden, there was shouting and panic: "OH MAH GOT! HE PISSED ON MA DVDS!".

Bless that dog.

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New Year means New Telly, and a chance to catch the second series of two similar shows that hit at roughly the same time when I was in Japan. Charlie Brooker mode activated.

First off is Doctor Who spin-off Torchwood, an absudly silly sci-fi rompathon that plays like an episode of Scooby-Doo in which Shaggy has been replaced by, well, shagging. Much has been written about its bewildering tone and how the very existence of an adult version of a kids programme that retains the same level of scripting and acting but with blood and sex is strange enough in itself (Lazy Town Sleepless Nights? Postman Pat: Off Duty Package Delivery? Rosie & Jim Unleashed - With Extra Hot Dickings?). I managed to catch the first two episodes of the first series, but when I wasn't baffled, I was just plain bored. If it didn't have the Who connection, I doubt anyone would have bothered in the first place.

Yet, here comes another helping. The BBC have uploaded the opening of the first episode of the new series onto YouTube and it seems more of the same. A man with a blowfish for a head driving a sports car being pursued by the Torchwood team in their S&M Ice Cream Van with tinkly blue LEDs. A delerious hostage situation, the hilarious sight of Welsh people holding guns with all the confidence of an archer afraid of targets, some raspy hammy alienspeak and Captain Jack (John Barrowman) dropping in from nowhere to save the day. Surprised they didn't shoehorn in a big gay snog (though I believe you're promised one later in the episode). Touch wood, it'll get better...groan. May I suggest they have a man with a different animal for a head each episode. That's right, not a different animal head, but his all head comprises a scaled down creature with all its appendages attached. A tiger? Or an earwig? Or maybe a bat?

More interesting-looking is ITV's CG-filled family entertainment answer to Doctor Who, Primeval. 'Back for Seconds' scream the trails (surprised Torchwood hasn't gone for 'Second Coming'), as a band of young pretty scientists battle dinosaurs that rip through the fabric of space and time to eat M&Ms (no joke) and feast of Jeremy Kyle's intestines (joke, but one can dream can't they). Starring Ben Miller and that one from S Club 7, its perhaps because it doesn't have the baggage of 45 years of Doctor Who that both hinders and helps Torchwood that it looks like it could be more entertaining, but perhaps not quite as hysterically ludicrous.

Although Primeval starts tonight, I'm afraid I'm going to plump for an evening with Captain Jack instead. Torchwood may not start until Wednesday, but I have rented a DVD classic starring John Barrowman himself...Shark Attack 3: Megalodon...