Time for some nonsense, I think. This post was first published in a scruffier form back in 2010.
Cover of Alien (The Director’s Cut)
Bitch. That’s my favourite word. I love the sound of it, the way it bursts out of my mouth like an alien from John Hurt’s stomach. Titch or itch or twitch; rich, witch, which; glitch/hitch/stitch; pitch, switch or ditch: none of these come close to the satisfying pop of the lips that comes with saying bitch.
Sadly, I can’t ever use it; I don’t swear. Except at the Hub in an argument, but I defy anyone to live with the Hub and not swear at him. It can’t be done. Nor is it possible to avoid arguing with him in the first place. We were squabbling one day when a workman was here and the Hub said to him, ‘Don’t get married, mate.’ To which I unfortunately replied, ‘Yeah, do all women a favour.’ When the workman started crying I had to backpeddle and explain that I was aiming my remark at men in general, not him in particular because I’m sure he is a very nice young man who can fix anything in the house and I bet he could catch mice; Barbara Cartland once said pinkly, ’There’s simply no equality when it comes to mice.’ She’s not wrong.
By this time the Hub was rocking with laughter and declaring himself the winner. I swore.
Philosophy: Who Needs It (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Another favourite word is solipsism. Also another one I can’t use, but this time because, for some weird reason, my brain just doesn’t work that way. I can never remember its meaning, no matter how many times I look it up.
According to Dictionary.com:
1. Philosophy. The theory that only the self exists, or can be proved to exist.
2. Extreme preoccupation with and indulgence of one’s feelings, desires, etc; egoistic self-absorption.
The first time I came across the word solipsism, I wrote it on my A Level English folder, meaning to look it up later. My tutor noticed it and said, ‘Solipsism. Now there’s a word.’
Then he walked away and never mentioned it again. Proving that sometimes it’s better to believe – to paraphrase The Sex Pistols – I am a solipsist.
Waterford Cathedral facade (Photo credit: Fergal of Claddagh). This photo was thrown up by Zemanta when I searched ‘John Hurt Alien’. I think there’s a bug in the system.
Looking for a suitable photo to illustrate this post, I came across the website Movie Deaths.
I thought I was a nerd – I have seen every episode of every series of Star Trek, you know; more than once – but these people are something else. They review movie deaths.
Here is the tummy alien I mentioned earlier:
[T]he baby alien bursts out of Kane’s stomach like a gruesome jack-in-the-box…As the crew watches in utter shock, the alien looks at them, and runs off.
As you do.
- Implant yourself in John Hurt’s body. Check.
- Wait a while. Check.
- Exit in the messiest way. Check.
- Look for Mummy – bunch of weird strangers – no Mummy. That’s a bitch.
- Better run away. Check.
And you should take a look at the comments…
Dr Death: I actually wrote a paper about this at college. Maybe I still have it…
Jonny: not the most honest rendition of the alien bursting out of kanes chest. I have been watching this movie for like the last two weeks over and over again
Mr Biggs Inc: How about sex? not SEX sex, but the face-hugger did get Kane pregnant after all.
There’s always one.
And all of his mates. Wonder if they’ll review the replay of the moment I kill the Hub for always being right in the True Life movie of our story?
Whoops! Sorry, didn’t mean to spoil the ending for you. I hate spoilers. A certain sister-in-law once told me the ending of a 1980s’ mini-series:
‘Let me just tell you this…’
‘…No, I don’t want to know…’
‘…Yes, but she dies.’
Another sister-in-law told me who copped it in Titanic.
Come to think of it, maybe it’s not spoilers I don’t like, but sisters-in-law.
Actually, Movie Deaths is a pretty useful site. I have never seen any of the Alien films and it gave me some interesting details, such as Hurt’s character’s name, and where he was at the moment of death: a sort of latter-day Kane and Table.*
*Pun. – noun.
1. A deliberate infliction of the wince factor on one’s faithful readers. Punishable by desertion in droves, leading to the belief (correct) that only the self exists in one’s personal blogosphere.