‮hjap‮

Bloody hellfire. Does anyone have any idea how difficult it is to get hold of a plain, white, long-sleeved, women's shirt? They don't exist. Apparently women are not allowed to wear plain white shirts. They're not patterned enough, or frilly enough, or they don't display enough arm, it seems.

This morning I have been in every shop in the city centre that sells women's clothing (except Ann Summers). A good few menswear shops as well, and it appears that men are only allowed to buy shirts now if the shirts are pink.

I very strongly believe that any straight man who wilfully wears a pink shirt should be summarily shot. Why would anyone do that? Why?

~

Last night, recording for Bloodspell with two guys in Seattle via the Miracle of Internet Telephony™. The guys in question are apparently the guys who did The Return, which, if you know anything about machinima, you'll apparently know. If you don't, then it's a machinima, and it's a goodie.

The Miracle of Internet Telephony™ is such that now I can sit in a recording studio in Edinburgh waiting, in real-time, for some guy five thousand miles away to find the right cable. This is the world we live in: an era of globalised procrastination, in which mistakes can be made fifty million times a second. (On which note, I think I'm going to trademark the phrase `terafl-oops'.)

Hugh and I played Guitar Hero while we were waiting. Naturally I suck royally at it, as I suck at DDR, as I suck at PaRappa the Irritating Dog Cartoon Thing, as I suck at the dancing minigame in Sid Meier's Pirates!, or indeed as I suck at anything that requires coordination (like, for instance, all computer games, now I come to think of it). Nonetheless it is immensely satisfying when you get just a few notes right. You instantly transmogrify into some sort of Legendary Axe God. This despite the fact that your avatar on-screen is some sort of cute rock-chick-chicky-rock in a cutoff t-shirt.

After Guitar Hero, when we finally got connected to America and I had to say something into the mike to check the sound levels, possibly not the best choice of phrase was CAN YOU HEAR MEEE, CALIFORNIA!... and not solely because I'd got my geography wrong.

After three or four takes the Dick Van Dyke tendencies had faded from the Skype-mediated transatlantic accents. I was trying very hard not to do one particular line as Patrick McGoohan. Now I realise I should have just gone for it.

~

Various people have suggested I do more of this voice-acting stuff. Some have gone so far as to suggest I get an agent. I must admit I'm considering it; acting is fun, and voice-acting means I don't have to stay slim.

I watched the entirety of Pyramids of Mars the night before recording. Gabriel Woolf is my new idol. (Does anyone have any idea where I've seen that outtake clip from `Eye on Blatchford' before (would you care for some death certificates? Only fifty quid a throw)...? I mean, probably some considerable time before it was filmed last year?)

Challenge For The Day at work is to try to use the phrase abase yourself before me, you grovelling insect in a conversation with a customer.