So who are you? How old? And you've got a jury with you to verify this? No? Sorry, can't let you in

Afternoon all. The last few grumbles pounded hastily out on my increasingly ailing laptop have, I noticed, been a little bit "out there", sort of wishy-washy arguments with myself (because, let's face it, in reality who is going to read this barely cognitive regurgitation?) about vague themes like genre or far flung futures we're all going to be too old, too ill or dead to see let alone take part in. So this one's a little more down to Earth, here and now, right up your street, okay?

ID cards. No, this isn't talking about government plans to make us all slice a bit of our eyeball off and stick it to a computer chipped credit card next to a pubic hair for DNA purposes just so we can verify that yes, we are allowed to buy that half pint of milk you psychologically stunted whale, yes you, squeezed behind a machine with a conveyor belt and a bigger vocabulary than yours even though it's entire audio output is made up of beeps.

The eyes of the world still turned to space/ the frontier never ends

Every once in a while I have a moment, just a moment, of startling clarity that pierces the otherwise hazily quixotic assumptions I have of what the near future holds for us (more importantly, me) with going into space and crushes my soul as I heavy-heartedly realise that I will never see the day we run day trips to Alpha-Centauri for picnics.



These steely-lit days where the truth of our inadequateness pushes down on me as the sky fell on Atlas' shoulders often leave me feeling crushed with disappointment, and it seems for every brilliant breakthrough science makes three new questions spawn and the horizon, the edge of the universe, moves a little bit further away. Literally.

Sick of sci-fi seen as second rate?

What is this?

Right, this one's a grumble. Sorry folks, fellas and lasses, grab a Scotch or cigar and prepare to pace while wafting it around.

As with so much of what I talk bollocks about (and, unfortunately, I've been told that it's one of the few things I do talk about, at great length until I've committed mass homicide by accident) this is about writing. Well, writing and reading. Genre related stuff. About sci-fi.

It really hacks me off that no matter what you say 70% of people see sci-fi (and fantasy) as the butt end of literature.

So there's a huge amount of shit that gets churned out as science-fiction (and fantasy- probably moreso for fantasy).

Accidental viewing- Clash of the Titans Whisper of the Sort-of-God-People

Ralph Fiennes playing a hairy Voldemort. Liam Neeson playing a less feline, more human Aslan. Sam Worthington being all crop-haired, muscly and wearing a skirt. Greek myths being faithfully rendered in CGI and then left on the cutting room floor to become a mishmash.

When I typed in Get Him To The Greek on a useful hosting site I use, this wasn't the film I thought I'd be seeing. And yet, well, I'm mega happy I did get to see it. Even though, if I didn't have an excellent knowledge of recent films, I might have been convinced it was the Russell Brand feature until the very end, when they finally had the wherewithall to roll the title.

"But the [drama] did nothing in the nighttime." "That was the curious incident."

Ah, reader. I have, it is a shame, been away from the internet for anything other than sporadic glimpses at important emails before the router gave out again after its concerted efforts for a fortnight. However, I have triumphed over the beginning of the robot uprising (the footsoldiers of which are our friends the toaster, the printer, the shower and now, apparently, the commando router).

That said, I wish I could be writing a far more positive comeback post.