Alien tears (think normal tears but stickier and greener, but not bogies) were shed at SiFi Towers on Friday evening, as I geared up for the final foray into the world of Science Fiction, Pies, Fries and (space)Craft beers.
You could tell that God was struggling to come to terms with the end of such a high concept piece, fish were almost literally falling out of the York sky as the weather wrestled between bright beaming sunshine, and dark, moody downpours.
Deliveroo has been summoned for a final time, a Balti Pie from Devon was en route this time. Meaning I'll have tried them all apart from the annoying veggie option.
The dice roll to determine the number of bags of scampi and bacon fries came out at a '5' yet again. NOT happy, as they are so salty, they are hard to eat in huge quantities when compared to the humble Wotsit or Pom Bear. In fact our last four rolls have yielded 6, 4, 5 and 5. And subsequent rolls have meant that 13 of these 20 bags have been the harder to eat Scampis. I cracked on with bag one post haste.
The Twitter beer voters have been slightly schizoid throughout this challenge. One minute, they vote that I drink the traditional, lighter ales. The next week, it'll be all crazy dark Belgian 10%ers. For this weeks trio, they went trad with a crafty glimmer to offer rays of hope amidst the Doom!
Sadly, there'd be no place for Blue Moon, which my 4th boiler quote guy got very excited about when he saw it on standby for tonight. He won, by virtue of being the only one to break off mid sludge filter demonstration to extol the necessities of placing a slice of orange in your wheaty murk.
The Doom was okay, but thin, sweet and a bit lacking, making it no surprise it is much maligned (I did actually enjoy it in a London Wetherspoons in 2020 but cask is always best as we know).
Time for another spin of 'Uncle Matt's Spacemix' and you have to wonder what life is coming to when you are stood in your kitchen in a bucket hat, warbling along with Olivia Newton John to Xanadu whilst drinking Doom Bar. Xanadoom? Thanks.
Suddenly my phone buzzed because Deliveroo were 'nearby'. I went down to the street, where after much confusion (as he was riding a Just Eat bike he'd probably purloined on the way through Acomb), today's driver Diogo of Portugal, presented my food, exchanged elbow bumps, thanked me for the tip which is a first (them thanking, not me tipping, honest!) and sped off. I liked Diogo despite having the voice of Mourinho and the gait of Maradona (despite never seeing him walk).
Shame he didn't get a notepad out to complete the order so I could've called him Diogo Jotter.
I got the mushy peas warmed, plopped some lurpak and black pepper on the dryish mash, cracked open the Cosmic Raspberry, and it was time to go through for the 8th Sci-Fi film.
Film #20 in the Sci-Fi league table was Je t'aime, Je t'aime (finally climbing the dizzy heights of the league just a little too late).
It was a bugger to get hold of. Amazon, no. Netflix, no. YouTube, not with subtitles. EBay, no. I could only find a place to watch it courtesy of a dodgy site hosted in San Diego (not San Diogo sadly) called Veoh.com , so thank you very much to them. It was just there, no sign up or fee required. Huzzah! Probably just had all my details stolen. Double Huzzah!
The quality was therefore fairly poor, it got stuck FOUR times and I had to close and reopen the browser, watching it on a Tablet, in French with subtitles. All of this culminated in making it possibly a less pleasurable viewing experience than would otherwise have been the case.
It told the rather depressing story of a bloke who wakes from a coma having failed in a suicide attempt (how you quite fail at shooting yourself in the chest I'll never quite know).
These rather stern scientists grab on the way out of hospital, and tell him he'll be the perfect guinea pig for their new time travelling machine, which only allows you to go back rather than forwards. Not quite sure why he agrees considering the past led him to near suicide but there ya go.
The experiment worked on a mouse (probably), but because the mouse can't squeak in French, it has no way of telling the scientists whether it was a success or not. So they get this lugubrious loser involved. But the time machine glitches constantly, and he starts reliving his memories in a randomised order. Confusing for him. Confusing for me, who is rubbish at following plots at the best of times!
Being French, this bloke was constantly flitting between his bored, depressed wife and his fancy bit on the side. And we're supposed to like him and sympathise with his hard life.
Amusingly, the depressed wife (who is terminally ill too as her bad luck would have it) keeps blaming a trip to Glasgow on much of her moods. It's not supposed to be funny, it is pretty bleak (the film I mean, not Glasgow).
So he gasses her to death, thinking it'll make both him and her happier, plus his mistress, and probably their cat, but then decides he couldn't actually live without her, so tries to kill himself. The scientists realise there's no getting him out of the time loop so they all just bugger off for a pint, but plot twist, he's somehow broken out of the time machine and is laying on the grass. Confusing? Not 'arf!
I was getting back ache, and had to keep adjusting positions, which eventually almost made it look like I was birthing my iPad.
At least the London Pride was drinking well, and perked me up, beer of the night.
20th best Sci Fi ever? Hmmm, don't think so. Interesting though.
My eyes were too heavy from all that iPad squinting for the usual Football Manager Hungerford Town session, so I put the snooker on.
Little did I know I'd still be there an hour and a half later, because Mark Selby. But that's a different blog for a different lockdown! Whisky, Snooker & Hula Hoops? Lockdown 5.0. (Lockdown 4.0 is something along the lines of Monster Munch, Horror Films and Gin - this past year has taught me, always make pandemic contingencies).
So there we have it! It has been a jolly eight weeks. Mind expanding at least, Sci Fi is not all pointy eared men on spaceships saying 'Illogical, pal' (Star Trek : The Rotherham Years).
FIFTEEN DAYS til pubs open indoors and BRAPA returns properly, with a BANG.
Until then, we have THREE #WWWSI nights for you, starting after 10pm tonight after the Line of Duty finale. Now we're really sucking diesel fellas. Then we're back on Thursday 6th and Friday 14th for the last two.
Happy Bank Holiday, catch ya on the other side,
Si