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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

On the way home from Tom McRae on Saturday, I entertained myself on the tube journey from Shepherds Bush to Seven Sisters by pointing out to He Who Only… ever Serenity poster. Every. Single. One. Even the ones hanging in the stations we didn’t stop at. At one point, we stopped and the was a giant poster just outside the window we were facing, and I pointed right at it, arm out full length, and may well have yelled something like “There!”, and only then realised that it looked like I was pointing at the people sitting across from us who had just got on and had missed the preceding five minutes of Serenity based banter on my part, and Serenity based sighing on He Who Only…’s. I am a joy to date, you know.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited about a film as I am about this one. I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to something so much as this. I’ve been following the development news ever since it was first commissioned, while at the same time painstakingly avoiding spoilers from all around, which makes my usual daily visits to Whedonesque very frustrating – so many shiny things to look at, and nothing for me to click on.

I had a dream last week which I woke up from with a deep feeling of dread. I had been attending some kind of fan-based event – something I’ve never done and have absolutely no intentions of doing – and had wandered into some kind of room backstage, in which Gina Torres, Nathan Fillion and Joss Whedon were hanging about. Gina and Nathan were sitting watching Serenity the Big Damn Movie, and Joss invited me to join them – it had only just started, he assured me, and it had, as the first few scenes seemed to be taken directly from one of the episodes of Firefly. But every time I sat down and started trying to get into it, Joss would interrupt me by pointing something out in the other room, or asking me to look at something, or some people would come in and everyone would start standing up and moving around, and I just couldn’t watch the film.

It was horrible. Serenity was being dangled in front of my face, and I wasn’t able to watch it.

I woke up, and it didn’t take me long to work out the deeper meaning of the dream: I’d been planning to go and see Serenity at least twice on the opening weekend, you know, do my own little bit towards getting a sequel to the film. But then all these plans started building up around that weekend: football matches, music gigs, comedy gigs, going for tea at the Ritz, even talk of being tattoed, and it seemed like there’d be no time to fit in one, let alone two, trips to the cinema.

But as luck would have it, there are previews. I forget about previews, always forget to factor them in. I’ve never before been so crazy desperate to see a film that I’ve booked tickets in advance, let alone two weeks in advance, let alone for a preview screening, but the happy joyous news is that on Thursday, myself and the deeply understanding He Who Only… will be skipping our way joyfully (well, I’ll be skipping. I’m sure He Who Only… will be adopting a more manly stride) to Angel where we will be watching Serenity, and I will be squealing with joy and delight.

Shiny!

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