#ow my decrepit arse

[daughteroftitania]

ಠ_ಠ

Wait, you were actually born in the 1900's? Thats so cool

i am going to eat my own entire skin

[rocknvaughn]

You should go to the psychiatrist if you are obsessed with an actor who doesn't know that you exist and really doesn't care. You are an adult who thinks that tv series or film is a reality, spends too much time on thinking about younger man who lives on different continent and will never talk to you on his free will, because fans of your kind are dangerous. My name is Kate and yours? You will not tell, because frankly you are as secretive as most of the people on internet.

Well, Kate, I would say that it is nice to meet you, but that would be impossible, since we’ve never met. (Not to mention a lie, because you’re kind of a b*tch.) 

Which is why the verbal abuse you’ve been spouting at me is utter bullshit. 

The fact of the matter is that you don’t know me. You only know the few things that you’ve gleaned about me from here and from Twitter, and even that information is faulty. 

But wait...let’s put it all out here, so people can see just how lovely a person you really are: 

So, let’s take all these accusations one at a time, shall we?

1. Are you insane? The answer to that would be, why no, no I’m not; thanks for asking.

2. Did you ever think why United Agents are ignoring your tweets to them? Actually, no, I haven’t wondered this at all. I’ve only directly tweeted to them a couple of times over the years, and at least half of those interactions were simply to inform them about people who were impersonating Colin online. I don’t bombard them with tweets; they have better things to do with their time, and frankly, so do I.

3.  You are a psychofan/you should go to a psychiatrist... Well, that’s a hell of a statement to say to someone you’ve never met. And I assume you have some sort of degree that would qualify you to determine who does and who does not need psychiatric help? No? Didn’t think so... *eyeroll*

4. You are disrespectful/a liar. Disrespectful to whom? To Colin, who--by your own description--doesn’t know me and doesn’t care? To other people in the fandom? To people who are randomly abusive to me online? I’m afraid you’d need to be much more specific for that accusation to hold any weight.

5. You are acting like you know Colin, but you don’t and you never will. I have never, ever suggested that I know Colin, save for the thirty seconds where he signed my programme at stage door in 2013. I told him I thought the play was fantastic and he said, “Cheers, thanks a million!” and moved on. Did my amazing presence make an indelible impression on the Irishman in question? *snorts* Not hardly!

That being said, I am assuming this part of the tirade has to do with my remarks both here and on Twitter about Colin’s likelihood to attend Merlin-related Comic Cons or do stage door visits at the theatre when he appears at the National Theatre this summer. 

While I obviously don’t know the man personally, there is some empirical evidence that I use to support my thoughts on the matter. I’ve explained those reasons already, so I don’t see any purpose to rehashing that here. But, for example, if you want to see for yourself how uncomfortable Colin tends to be at stage door, I suggest you search out some of the videos taken from when he was doing Mojo. Personally, those videos make me cringe. 

6. Actors act, they are not the characters they play. Wow...thank you for pointing that out, because clearly, even at my advanced age, I had no idea what the word “actor” meant. /sarcasm

7. You are over forty years old, you are not a child. And your point is...? I’m not allowed to admire a person’s God-given talent or appreciate a handsome man’s looks because I am old and decrepit? You do realize that Colin is 32 years old, right? That means he’s not a child, either. In fact, he might just be closer to my age than he is to yours!

8. You are obsessed with an actor who doesn't know that you exist and really doesn't care. Wait...isn’t that the literal definition of being in a fandom? *eyeroll*

I relatively obsessively follow Colin’s career, yes that’s true. He does technically know I exist, as he’s actually met me, although I would never expect that he’d remember. I would hazard a guess that he cares about me insomuch as he appreciates his fans’ support, but nothing more. I don’t think I am “special” to him in any way, shape, or form, as you seem to be implying. I am firmly set in reality when it comes to that fact. 

9. You are an adult who thinks that tv series or film is a reality. Another incredible accusation, seeing as we’ve never met.  I’d like to know where you got this frankly mad idea, (actually, no I wouldn’t because I don’t care) as it is blatantly untrue. I am well aware of what is reality and what is not, although you are starting to make me wonder about your grip on it.

Also, you do know that some of the characters Colin has played were real life people, right? There’s this thing called research. I might suggest you do some before you go around randomly accusing people of insanity.

 10. You spend too much time on thinking about younger man who lives on different continent and will never talk to you on his free will. Again with the ageism. What exactly is your problem with my age in comparison to Colin’s? You do realise that Colin attracts fans of all ages, genders, etc. because that is what happens when someone is a gifted artist.

Also, I was unaware that there was a formula somewhere that determined how much time devoted to a fandom was too much time. Please, enlighten me as to its whereabouts so that I may avail myself of its mystical powers! (

I have no idea whether Colin would ever speak to me of his own free will, seeing, as you so rightfully pointed out, we live on different continents. Nor do I have any particular interest in trying to make that happen as he has much better things to do than to talk to me. But my point here is: neither do you know what he would do, so STFU, if you please. 

11. Fans of your kind are dangerous. Fans of what kind, exactly? What is it about me that are you terming dangerous: My interest in the man's projects and being willing to find and broadcast information about his career? My enjoyment of reading or writing the occasional fan fiction? My propensity for collecting memorabilia? My interest in his wardrobe? My steel trap of a mind that holds a multitude inconsequential Colin-related details? My willingness to travel to see his live performances whenever possible? My ability to determine and appreciate his physical attractiveness?

I think those things make me a curiousity at best, but not in the least bit dangerous. And if you actually knew me, this would be obvious.

In contrast, I don’t imagine that I have any sort of place in the man’s life. I don’t expect that I am special to him in any way. I don’t send him love letters or believe that “we are meant to be” or any of that hogwash. I haven’t tried to cut off a lock of his hair or follow him home. I don’t send him tonnes of presents, hoping he’ll notice me. And I don’t think that he owes me anything (besides his body of work) because I am his fan. 

He is a grown man that has his own private life completely apart and separate from mine, and I have no illusions about that.  

12. My name is Kate and yours? You will not tell, because frankly you are as secretive as most of the people on internet. First of all, there are reasons why people are secretive on the Internet...one of them being ignorant and rude people like you. 

Secondly, if your name is actually Kate, then mine might as well be Rasputin...because it’s just that meaningless. You could have literally picked that name out of a hat, since you are just as anonymous as “Kate” as you were after your first anonymous bashing. 

Obviously, you missed the point I was making in my last post, so let me be perfectly clear: it was that if you want to make rude, obnoxious, bullying comments about a person you don’t know, then come out with your screen name attached and OWN your statements. Let people see what kind of an arsehole you really are...but you won’t do that, will you?

Clearly, you have some sort of ax to grind with me. I’ve pissed you off in some way and you’ve decided to come at me like a coward by spamming my inbox with anonymous bashing. Apparently you expected me to be so ashamed that I would curl up, hide and just take the abuse. Well, good luck with that, because I have balls of solid steel and you can kiss my arse. 

Your five minutes are up, and I don’t feed the trolls. Rockn out. 

[thetravellingvagrant]

DAY 14: Timisoara/Belgrade – Tourn apart

SI was barely awake for a minute before I heard a knock on my dorm door. Without waiting for a response, the whispy receptionist poked her head through the gap and told me that GeaTours had just called and they would actually be arriving two hours earlier than previously stated. Which was in forty five minutes. Great. It was a good thing I set an alarm...

With no time, now, for my planned lovely morning bibble, I set about packing, finishing the last of my fairly humdrum Romanian cereal which stacked up very poorly to my previous Moldovan choice (kramsi for life) and waited.

...And waited more. And more. The time when they had said they were to arrive had passed. And then more time than that passed. Unwilling to decant my belongings for fear of them just suddenly turning up and catching me unawares, I instead just sat and stared at a wall, bored out of my nut.

I waited, like that for a full hour and fifteen extra minutes, before the whisp re-appeared, no doubt slightly creeped out by my serial-killer like stillness. She told me they would arrive in ten minutes.

I really question the decision to even bother informing me that they would be early in the first place. If they had just showed up half an hour earlier than I expected, I would have been probably rather pleased with that, but now, because they had told me, they were no longer half an hour early, but instead an hour and a half late. Consequently, I was irritated and my faith in their ability as a company, which was already basically at rock bottom, had plummeted even further.

After another ten minutes, I left the hostel, unable to find the whisp to offer a well-deserved thank you for all her help and waited outside. Another seven minutes passed (of course) before the car showed up.

The car in question was a janky old grey people-carrier, with two rows of seats. In the front set, sat what I assumed was a Serbian husband and wife combo; lets call them Pavel and Pavelina and in the back was a man with a British accent, though not a British passport, named James and I, vagrant. None of us spoke for the entire duration.

The trip itself was honestly, really quite painless. It took an hour less than I expected and we had breezed through the border with as little effort as I ever have, so that was a pleasant surprise. This was offset, slightly, however, by the car itself.

The row of seats at the back, upon which I sat, had loose and only conceptually connected to the chassis of the car. This meant that if I leaned back too hard, the seat would follow suite. I never did attempt leaning back as far as I could to see if I fell arse over tit into the boot, but I suspected that I might, if I did. The car also had little to no heating, meaning that my feet remained uncomfortably cold throughout and its suspension was shot all to buggery, so every tiny bump in the road was amplified one hundred fold by the time the tremors had reached the back seat.

The most unpleasant foible of this vehicle, however, had to be its exhaust, which apparently, was pointed not safely out of the arse end of the vehicle, but somehow directly into my face. The entire thing stank of petrol fumes and my window did not open. Even if it did, I probably wouldn't have opened it, as it would have only served to drop the already sub-zero temperature inside the cabin.

Consequently, I sat, for the entire three hour journey, inhaling engine fumes and feeling every shudder of every little bump in the road. As you could probably guess, by the end, I felt like a smashed in turd.

GeaTours seemed to be quite proud of their commitment to dropping passengers off right at the door of their destinations (which, I suppose, is fair, because so far they didn't have much else they could cling onto). As we neared my destination, I was asked by the driver where I was to be dropped off.

“Oh, uh, Gavrilla Principa Boulevard” I replied.

“Yes, but where?!”

Fuck, I didn't know. I was happy enough to get dropped off on the right street.

“Anywhere is fine”

they wasn't an acceptable answer. The driver asked Pavel to find out for him, so he could continue driving. I showed him the pinpoint on the map, which I had screencapped earlier. Pavel did not know where this was (despite the fact, as it turned out later, we were already literally right on it at this point).

“You have number for person you stay with?”

I told him I did.

“give me it, I call for you”

Mate, a) you're not even the driver, this is weird and b) I was still like fifteen minutes early for the very earliest check in time that Jelena, my host had offered me.

“No, that's ok, I can find my own w-”

He held his hand out, seemingly quite annoyed now, though I'm not sure why. Fucking hell, fine. I punched the number into my phone and handed it to him then watched, mildly embarrassed as he and Jelena had a protracted conversation in Serbian.

Eventually, he handed my phone back to me.

“You wait by this street corner here” he gestured some fifty yards backwards.

...Not exactly to the door, but ok. Fine, I was happy just to be allowed out of the car.

I jumped out and waited where I was told, until Jelena arrived, flustered and apologetic for being late, even though she was not, nor, if she was, was it in any way her fault.

Jelena was very nice, though a touch over-intense. She walked my to the flat talking about how I must have a shit opinion of Serbia because everyone in the western countries does. I told her I liked Serbia, had been before and very much enjoyed it, but she didn't seem to listen. She had already begun talking about football.

“Glasgow rangers, or Celtic?”

Jesus fuck, this again.

“Oh, uh, neither. I'm not really a football fan”

“From UK, not football fan!”

“I know, I'm squandering all the best stereot-”

she cut me off to show me a bureau de change and to bureau de change the subject once again.

This continued, with only the initial six or so words of any given avenue of conversation being spoken, before moving onto the next topic, prematurely, until we arrived at the flat. She showed me inside and explained, at great, withering detail exactly how every aspect of it works. How keys functioned, how hot water works, how the heating works (it doesn't), how the fucking bed works (you lie on it.). After my lecture, she left, telling me as she did that I looked suspicious. I still don't really know what she meant by that. I had assumed she meant that I looked like I was experiencing suspicion, rather than I looked like a suspicious sort, but, with the benefit of time, I am now not so sure.

The flat itself is very much the GeaTours of apartments. There isn't a more fitting word for it than Janky, other than the phrase I used in the notes I took for this entry; “nightmare shit hole”.

Everything is sort of creepy and decrepit and cramped (the bed, for example, wholly prevents the living room door from opening entirely). There's a laughably shit looking washing machine in the hallway

heelo cheeldren, am vashi, de freendly Serbian vasheenk machin.

an equally ugly looking fridge in the bedroom, with cutlery and a hot-plate stacked on top of it, but no sink- I suppose I'm expected to fill pots and wash dishes with water from the bathroom sink, which is...unusual to say the least- The walls are pock-marked with scrapes, chips and dents from previous tennants and the place is either far too cold, or far too hot, depending on the time of day. Still, I only paid about £15 a night for the privilege of being here, so how angry can you realistically get?

Thoroughly fucked from my juddery inhalation session, I decided to treat myself to a nap, to see if I could sleep off my headache, somewhat. By the time I woke up, my headache had vanished, though, so too had most of the day. Mildly peeved by this, I decided still to venture out to first, an ATM to collect my requisite serb-bucks, then to a very nearby 24 hour supermarket to buy some wafers, because, if I'm back in wafer-land, what am I, not going to buy wafers? Come on; and finally to a Chinese take-out place which Jelena had recommended, having neither the inclination nor ingredients to cook in Jelena's maddeningly confusing kitchen.

The Chinese, which I ate while watching a truly cringe-inducing episode of the apprentice was delightful, though I have no idea if I enjoyed so much due to the actual food, or because it was the single measure of comfort I had allowed myself in some time. It's all academic, I suppose. At least it wasn't microwaved chips.

After my second of the two nice meals I did not cook on this trip to date, I did very little of general interest with the rest of me evening, opting, instead, to spend it watching crap, writing blog updates and christmas shopping on amazon. And then I went to bed. I don't owe you anything.