Kalashnikovs in schools March 24, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Films can be too queer. Because my Deutsch is so stunningly crap, I am provided with an extra excuse to almost never watch the TV. But after a working week that any dog – dog? – would be proud of, it was still nice to flick the TV on this evening as the computer beckoned teasingly from across the room to see if there was anything that could match the joys of work and the net. The TV in this humble abode had died recently. Or rather, not the TV, but its black box. You don’t seem to be able to have TV reception in Berlin without a box, rather than just the twisted coat-hanger that did for us when I was a lad. (Excuse the slip into Yorkshiredom. I’ve never been north of Watford in my life.) Anyway, the purchase of a new box – chrome, not black – ushered in a (short) era of televisual excitement in the BiB household as, mysteriously, this box gives us a whole different set of channels. I am stalinistically loyal to the BBC so almost puked with joy when some international version of it popped up before my eyes. But it only seems to play the in-betweeny jingly bit all the time and then provide a countdown to the next jingle. Which is no good to man or beast. Anyway, this evening, wine polished off, I flicked languidly from one channel to the next. Mostly just total puke, of course, and quiz shows with tough anagram questions along the lines of, “…the clue: German city – B-R-E-L-I-N,” and that drag queen – sorry, drag queens are the theme of the day – who reads the horoscope. And then Dolph Lundgren appeared. I languorously called out to the Russian. “Dolph.” He dashed in. “Has he got his kit off?” (Rough translation.) But, to our great surprise, Dolph seemed to have gone mature. He appeared to be playing a school-teacher. “There’s no way he’ll get his kit off in this,” we (probably) both thought, bilingually, and the Russian slunk back off to the mystery of the next room and I flicked onwards. “Odd,” I thought. “You’d think Dolph had been typecast by now. But maybe at 50, or however old he is, he’s just not rippling enough to play the get-your-kit-off roles anymore.” My thoughts turned to the computer, purring ignoredly in the corner, and maybe even the chance for a bit of sneaky blogging. “One last flick,” I thought, and by the time I got back round to Dolph, his shirt was ripped, the gleam on his pecs would have had any bootblack breathless with admiration, and he was brandishing a Kalashnikov and crawling through lift-shafts trying to beat the clock in a tense will-it-or-won’t-it-explode thriller. Too odd. He really should grow up. Still, he’s looking in fine fettle.