So it looks like it was 2011 when I was living in London that the annoying thing happened.

I had been a regular customer of the shop when it used to actually sell things that were useful.
Having spent an appreciable chunk of my 1999 student loan on an Alesis DM5 and a dirt cheap practice drum kit, the store in question was actually where I got all the parts to hide transducers in the cheap kit and plug it into the dm-5 for my first ever electric drum kit, which oddly enough actually worked!

Those halcyon days behind me, I had a white macbook which had gone rather slow and grouchy in the cpu temp dept. I cracked the case late one night and pulled out the fluff packed fan and heat pipe arrangement, which included the bit that sucks the heat out of the processor.

When you crack that thermal joint, you obviously need to clean the surfaces and pop a new splodge of thermal paste on before you pop it back together and try to get another 5 years out of your laptop.

No worries, thought I; I’ll grab some paste during lunch tomorrow and have it back together in time to watch telly on it before my cup of tea has gone cold.

Clearly I got the thermal paste from an online marketplace of some kind, as 2mg of thermal paste contains alcohol so you can’t have it, even with a credit card, without photo ID; and I’ve never been back since.

Why am I talking about all this? I weakened. I’ve got a car ECU in its tin which needs programming to run my silly little open top car and I realised I’d need a usb extension cable for the serial adaptor and then I twigged I needed to get the serial port through 90 degrees because the adaptor can’t clear the case and plug into the port.

Needing these parts next day so I can punch the car in the digits tomorrow, I thought… just maybe…

No. They don’t even stock an rs232 that goes round a corner, and they wanted sixteen quid for a usb cable.

Nuff said, I’ve got both bits of plastic coated wire arriving in the post tomorrow for about a tenner delivered. So that toy shop can stay on the binned list

7 years, still counting.

My issues with Skyfail. (A recurring issue in personal ranting)

As an outspoken proponent of girls being basically hard to separate from boys in terms of accomplishment potential, and of boys being similarly hard to extricate from girls in terms of fundamental activity proclivity it might seem strange that I like Bond films.

I do. They’re wonderfully stupid. They’re superhero films. They have wonderful recurring themes. They’re terribly easy to watch, they’re not taxing.

The good are good, the bad are terrible. Everyone is a bit camp and the women are devastating, vulnerable, dangerous and every bit as interesting as the men.

I think my personal favourite is Pussy Galore, who whilst being supremely capable and efficient is incapable of preventing her collusion with the *super*human Bond. He’s not a man, he’s not normal, he’s not a representation of any kind of real thing. His ability to win over women that way is supernatural and a wonderful plot device.

Bond is quite capable of dressing like a bat when the call arises. With an impossible fall, he opens a cheeky parachute. If a diamond hawser is needed, one comes out of his watch. If he needs plastic explosives, he’s got a little toothpaste kit that does the job. The impossible becomes possible by dint of the little things that are rooted in either Q’s farciful arsenal, or in Bond’s innate magic.


On to skyfail however:

When Bond gets shot off the roof of a train by an armour penetrating round from a high velocity rifle into a fricking RAVINE from the top of a bridge; there is no parachute, there is no light aircraft to skydive into, there is no explanation of his survival. He would have bled to death before he even hit the bottom, let alone survived the impact. Crap.

Turning up full in full product placement with a small scar is an insult to the final good films in the canon (Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery, and whatever the second one was)

The bond girl.
This ANGERS me. She’s wheeled out in a casino with the drugged stare of a whipped whore. Afraid, utterly, of her handlers. She’s not in collusion with either side. She can’t change affiliation. She’s PAINFUL.
Barely 14 seconds later she pops up on a stupid island with her gay captor who clearly has no interest in her whatsoever (he’s gay, so he’s not sexually involved with her) and he clearly views her as utterly expendable.
A mute Mr Bond watches the execution of our inspirat^w… I just can’t.

The Bond/evil gay man interchange. I saw this in the cinema and my spine *crawled* as the audience broke into spontaneous embarrased chuckling as the two characters faced off over a game of wank the biscuit in a “server room” in a desert with no cooling, or fan noise.

“Q”… Bloody Q. I last saw “Q” when he was peeing in his pants as Nathan Barley attached a car battery to his ear lobes. It’s all well and good that Pingu managed to get out of Shoreditch, change his jumper and get a job south of the river. But *seriously*. He stands in the middle of a room, connecting a “Scary evil computer” into his LAN with a very techy two etherweb cables.

Now, after it’s completely owned his network from within, he then decides that it would be safest to use the software running on it (which has just cracked his network) as a trusted navigational and diagnostic tool to assist Bond doing whatever he’s doing during that drawn out sequence of mouse trap style trap triggers all of which just fail to do anything significant.

That’ll do for that bit.

Nearly there…

Bond falls through some ice in a frozen lake. That’s fun, that’s dramatic. However I don’t know how he got out. It’s notoriously difficult to climb out of a frozen pond but yet we don’t get to know how he did it… Did he use the flipout ice pick cufflinks Q gave him (nope), did he get a lasso out of his tie and catch a tree? Jet boots? We just don’t know. DULL.

That dude who lives in the big scottish house? He’s kickass… He’s WELL ARD. and he can use shotguns… but even though he’s WELL country, he doesn’t seem to realise that waving a fricking TORCH around on a dark moor will give away his location to those people who HAD A HELICOPTER A MINUTE AGO!!! HELLLLLOOOOOOO.

Crappest plot device I’ve ever seen. It relies on the ignorance of a VERY capable character.

Then finally, as a last two fingers to women everywhere, our Bond murdering field operative decides that a nice desk job and 2.4 children would be lovely because… “ooh, outdoors… it’s a bit scary”

You killed the bond car, you bastards.