You know the music from Pulp Fiction? The guitar thing? Then you probably know it’s called Misirlou, and is one of the most covered pieces in the world.

Here it is, with electric guitars and bagpipes.

Off Kilter, Misirlou

From Bash.org, IRC quotes to the gentry.

[JonJonB] Purely in the interests of science, I have replaced the word “wand” with “wang” in the first Harry Potter Book
[JonJonB] Let’s see the results…

[JonJonB] “Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Harry.
[JonJonB] “Oh, well—I was at Hogwarts meself but I—er—got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wang in half an’ everything

[JonJonB] A magic wang… this was what Harry had been really looking forward to.

[JonJonB] “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wang. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wang for charm work.”
[JonJonB] “Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wang. Eleven inches. ”

[JonJonB] Harry took the wang. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wang above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls

[JonJonB] “Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed Harry’s wang, tapped the lock, and whispered, ‘Alohomora!”

[JonJonB] The troll couldn’t feel Harry hanging there, but even a troll will notice if you stick a long bit of wood up its nose, and Harry’s wang had still been in his hand when he’d jumped – it had gone straight up one of the troll’s nostrils.

[JonJonB] He bent down and pulled his wang out of the troll’s nose. It was covered in what looked like lumpy gray glue.

[JonJonB] He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wang, and you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground. Then he whirled his wang at the dementors. Shot silver stuff at them.

[JonJonB] Ok
[JonJonB] I have found, definitive proof
[JonJonB] that J.K Rowling is a dirty DIRTY woman, making a fool of us all
[JonJonB] “Yes,” Harry said, gripping his wang very tightly, and moving into the middle of the deserted classroom. He tried to keep his mind on flying, but something else kept intruding…. Any second now, he might hear his mother again… but he shouldn’t think that, or he would hear her again, and he didn’t want to… or did he?

[JonJonB] Something silver-white, something enormous, erupted from the end of his wang

[JonJonB] Then, with a sigh, he raised his wang and prodded the silvery substance with its tip.

[JonJonB] ‘Get – off – me!’ Harry gasped. For a few seconds they struggled, Harry pulling at his uncles sausage-like fingers with his left hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his raised wang.

Happily Ever After.

By Nicholas Avenell 23/02/2001

January 26th.

There is no such thing as a happy ending.
There are no endings, only beginnings. The end of a story is the start of a new story. Therefore to get a happy ending, you must stop the story before completion, because completion in the “And then they were married and they had children and lived happily ever after” sense fails to take in the final and ultimate deaths of both Snow White and the Prattsome Hince.
And the dwarfs, slowly drowning to death in the dust that Snow White used to tidy.
Or the Queen, who is an evil bitch, and appears to remain that way. Doesn’t she get a chance to be good?

No. Because the story ends there. Finito.

By the rambling above, you may gather that Claire and I have split up. A week ago you may have ended the story with us walking, hand in hand into the sunset. Or riding up on the big-wheel, or the kiss at the top, seeing the whole village spread out below us like a map. Not that either of us noticed at the time, being -as we were – Otherwise Engaged.
Either of those would have been a perfect ending to the movie. The Perfect Couple. Living Happily Ever After. The End.

It was an amicable departure. By which I mean that I didn’t say much, and she told me that we can remain ‘Just Friends’. I suppose I could keep track of my ‘Just’ friends, of both the “I love you as a…” and the “Can we remain..” variety.

But I won’t.

And it was amicable. She is moving away. Long Distance Relationships Don’t Work (LDR’s, in fact, do work. They just suck mightily. So I’m told. Oh, and both parties have to *want* them to work. Which screwed that idea) and… and…

…and she wants a new life, and I’m not in it.

30 January

Helped Claire pack, and watched the car pull out and away. She has my address, she has my number.

I’m not going to hold my breath waiting for contact though.

Throwing myself into work. DVD reviews are in, Cinema tomorrow to catch the last release, Films are cowards, I know. They never come singually, but gang up and pounce at you five at a time. Last two tomorrow evening.

Oh, I have my new writer, BTW. Name of “George”, apparently. Poor sod. I expect he has some nom de’plume he’ll want to use instead. The question is, will the big magazines take any notice of anyone who doesn’t use their real name?
Read the flick-pages. Still nothing. I keep sending them the magazine. For Christ sake, I leave this god-forsaken dump in *Five Months*. I *Have* to get a job by then or it’s another year at the Fuckit & Run, serving lager to overweight football addicts who wouldn’t recognise a real soccer-ball if it bounced against their stomach. Most would probably not even fucking notice.

Anyway, George is apparently showing his face in the office tomorrow. Meanwhile I need to find someone to take to the screening.

31 Jan. 9am

(From office, emailed home)

George showed up. George is, in fact, Georgina. Bet Central had a mightily loud giggle at that one. Bastards. Writing style is flowing, slightly academic, and just a touch too serious for the stuff we normally put out. Better get to work.

3rd February

George & I went out to the screening, and then out for a meal to talk the films over. Nothing fancy, just a Maccy-D. Inteligent. Film-buff. Occasional (she says) weekness for romantic comic-dies. That might be a problem.

5th Feb

Weakness! *HAH*.
What she should have said is: “My critical senses go into overload”, She ripped the fucking thing into confetti! The page of this magazine should be placed in a steel box lest the thing contaminate the very earth.
Fucking *hell* the girl is good.

10 Feb.

Flick with G, For fun rather than for the mag. Proper meal this time, restaurant recommended by the foodies.
Went up to the river. Didn’t even notice the trash :).
Sat by moonlight discussing the film.
Then we stopped discussing the film.

11/2
Slept late.

No, In case this is found, nothing happened.

Not sex, anyway. Just talk, sleep. Friends. Lovers in all but the physical act.

14
I still can’t bring myself to write out that full date, not after last year.
Letter from Claire – and a card – saying how much she enjoys her new place. New boyfriend. That makes me feel better, I suppose. It isn’t really *that* long since we split.

G. comes back from her family today. Not much chance of a movie, what with the date, anything not a R-C will have been shunted for something that is.

I’ve been reading this diary again.

There are no happily ever afters.

That doesn’t mean that the happiness cannot last for a fairly long time.

Tomorrow she might have to move away, or I might catch her with the entire football team (Happy Valentines Day *sigh*) or she might do a Gemma and just dump me in the public eye (Front page of the /fucking/ magazine. Bitch).

But for now. For this moment, and for this day, I am in love, and she loves me.

And the only we need is the Happily Ever Now.

In responce to a number of complaints (Two, in fact) the Gallery – ever the black sheep module of AqCom since it (unlike everything else) hasn’t been completely rewritten since 2001 – has been updated. The huge list of all images down the right has gone, the default thumbnail size has been increased (This only affects galleries after CCDE 2003), and you now have – gasp – next and previous buttons to navigate the gallery. Code is online as ever, and whilst it still is nowhere near as robust as anything else on the site (An added forward-slash totally buggers it) it’s an improvement on the useibility monstrosity that was there before.

The Scene: A school stage, after hours. Two sixthform (17ish) students are in the remains of school uniform (smartish shirt/trousers, Shirt is undone at the neck) rehersing for a performance this evening

Ian

“What? Arms across? Worthy? Methinks you should hold them open when a friend’s so near.

The man has got the vapours in his ears. I must expell this meloncolly spirit..”.

Damn. I’m going to have to start that one again. Starting positions.

Ian

Si? The lack of response to your first name is only slightly more strange than your failure to pick up on the orignial mistake. But not by much. Simon? The man has got the bloody vapours in his ears. SIMON!

Simon

Hmm?

Ian

It lives! It breathes! It is alive, I say, Alive!

Simon

Ian, old chap

Ian

Yes frankenstien?

Simon

Go find a cliff to throw yourself off

Ian

Aha. So you are alive after all, I was begining to wonder if I wasn’t going to have to do this thing this evening by myself. What’s wrong?

Simon

Nothing that can be classed as new

Ian

Ha. So we are doing the wrong play then

Simon

And what play should we be doing?

Ian

Why, As You Like It, by old WS,

‘From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind.

Her worth being mounted on the wind

Though all the world bears Rosalind‘

That is, I assume, your major problem.

Simon

Furthest thing from my mind

Ian

Do we detect the foul stench of falsehood from my friend? I belive we do

Simon

Ha. Shall we go back to As You Like It then?

‘All the world is a stage,

And all the man and women are merely players

They each have their entrances and their exits,

and one man in his life plays many parts

Ian

Nah, Skip to

‘…and then the Lover,

Sighing like a furnace, with a woefull ballard,

Made to his mistriss’ eyebrow;‘

That’s your problem then. You are identifying with the depressingness of Jaques, whilst I am going for the lightness of Touchstone

Simon

The Rosalind poetry was by Orlando, and spoken by Rosalind herself

Ian

Pedantry is the last resort of the losing party. The point is still valid, you are mooning over yonder fair maiden, instead of doing something about it

Simon

There are complications

Ian

She’s female. There always are, It goes with the terror

Simon

You mean territory

Ian

I know what I mean

Simon

She is a friend, I don’t want to spoil that

Ian

So you prefer to moan about it to me, yes?

Simon

It’s an easier option

Ian

Come on, lets get back to this scene. We only have a few hours left before curtian. It’ll take your mind off it

Simon

You mean this scene? This scene were two friends are discussing My charector’s love life, or lack of it, because he hasn’t tried hard enough in your Charecters opinion?

Ian

Yes. ‘Tis indeed the picture of Worthy, but the life…

Simon

Where they then go on to discuss your charector’s love life, which is being hampered only by your complete and total stubboness. I mean your charectors, obviously

Ian

Shut up. ‘But the life has departed. What? Arm’s Across…

Simon

And correct me if I’m wrong, But the stubbonness in question is on the inability of one party to do an action. Good morning Mr Pot, Can I help you?

Ian

I told you to Shut Up. And besides, there are complications on this too. You don’t know what you are talking about.

Simon

No, Mr Plume, I have no idea. Mainly because every time I enquire as unto the name of this Miraculous Helen, this Misstriss of Troy, This Slivia to your captian Plume, Juilet to your Romeo, Jessica to your Roger Rabbit, I am so vigourously repulsed, that I dispair of ever finding…

Ian

OK, alright. For fuck’s sake, It’s Rosalind.

Long Pause

Simon

Have you ever had a moment, an instant which seems to drag on for hours, an event of such earth-shattering magnetude that it would take you days to see the extent of it? A point when you can see the world shatter into equal pieces and fall away from you. And you stand, in blackness, and in total deprevation of reality, stripped of all the layers of cotten wool designed to insulate you from the real world. You can analize every insult two of your friends have directed at each other, every conversation they have had with each other, and with you, that you have been party to. And woe betide that you should find something. and at that point, all your elequonce, all your studied phrases and dramatic emphasis will leave you. Everything will leave you. a broken shell.
You bastard.

Simon

‘You absolute and total and utter fucking bastard. So you have been egging me on for the past two fucking years to ask out your fucking Girlfriend?

Ian

She isn’t my girlfriend. She refused to go out with me until I told you

Simon

Nice to know she was thinking of me

Ian

Don’t be like that.

Simon

Like what? Like fucking what? Like I’ve just been betrayed by my two best fucking friends?

Ian

There was no fucking involved

Simon

Shut the fuck up! And when were you going to tell me? When were you going to pop the bubble and actually do what Rose…

…that’s it, isn’t it. That’s what this mysterious friend of yours wanted. The Canyon in your relationship. The thing you had to do before it went any further. Fucking Jesus! I’ve spent the last two weeks counsuling you to ruin my fucking life!

Ian

But I didn’t

Simon

No. You carried on stringing me along. You were still trying to get me to ask her out three minutes ago! Why? Why continue? So that I found out from her lips rather than yours?

Ian

Yes

Simon

What?

Ian

I knew how much Rose meant to you…

Simon

…Means to me. But carry on…

Ian

alright, Means to you. So I couldn’t tell you. I’ve been trying for weeks now

Simon

how… how long has this been going on for?

Ian

It’s three weeks since she told me. Three weeks since she gave me the ultimatium

Simon

And how long have you been seeing Rosalind for?

Ian

I told you, she refused to see me properly until I..

Simon

Don’t fuck with the words, Ian

Ian

A month tomorrow. Simon. Simon! You can’t go now!

Simon

Yes, actually, I fucking can. Exit, stage right. Exuant Omnes. Pursued by a bear-stard, like as not.

Ian

Where are you going?

Simon

I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I get there

Ian

But… The Performance?