#pamela stephenson

[gradexmovies]

[atomic-chronoscaph]

Christopher Reeve and Pamela Stephenson - Superman III (1983)

[classyinfur]

[thechemistryset]

Pete Walker, The Comeback, 1978

[georgefairbrother]

A little golden moment from Not the Nine O'Clock News (BBC 1979-1982).

The Soviet nuclear missiles have been launched, with Armageddon just minutes away, but according to the panellists on Question Time, this is the least of Britain's problems.

"…We’re sitting here talking about a nuclear holocaust, casually discussing the destruction of the entire planet, and ignoring the major issue, which is the appalling record of this Conservative Government…"

[erstwhile-punk-guerito]

[donnahinkleystaceytroy]

[moviesandmania]

BLOODBATH AT THE HOUSE OF DEATH Reviews and free on YouTube

Bloodbath at the House of Death is a 1983 British comedy science fiction horror feature film produced and directed by Ray Cameron from a screenplay co-written with Barry Cryer. It stars comedian Kenny Everett and featuring Vincent Price. The film is an over-the-top spoof loosely inspired by The Amityville Horror and other genre films from the same period. Plot: 1975: Headstone Manor is being used…

[popping-your-culture]

Superman III, full retro review here.

[kwebtv]

Pamela Stephenson and Rod Mullinar in “Ryan”

[thecraggus]

Superman III (1983) Review

Superman III is better than you remember and better than it's given credit for. Take another look...

[badmovieihave]

Bad Movie I have History of the World: Part 1 (1981)

[clivechip]

Friday Funnies

Oh no it isn’t 🤣 In last week’s post, Thoughts On Thursday, I mentioned that I was thinking of bringing back some of the occasional series I had started a couple of years ago. One of those was Saturday Smiles, in which I played some clips to make you smile, but now that I am taking part each week in Song Lyric Sunday I didn’t really fancy the idea of posts on successive days. I floated the idea…

[steamedtangerine]

Pamela Stephenson

[sgiandubh]

Waypoints, Take 2: POV Shipper

It's been touted and mentioned at length. It has been awaited with immoderate, naïve anticipation. It has been read highlighter in hand, in the hope to discern its true meaning and purpose. It also was the last straw for some people, pushing them out of the fandom when above anticipation and expectations proved somewhat hollow.

To the dismayed and the heartbroken, I say: I hope you do realize this is a) heavily edited and b) published with the substantial contribution of a ghostwriter, handsomely paid to neatly round off the edges and fit this travelogue-cum-memoir in a pre-shaped pitch.

This bloke:

The dilligent Matt Whyman, novelist. Agony uncle for several UK press and online outlets, specialized in teenage love and relationships' counselling. British Council executive, with several stints abroad under his belt. Part and parcel of a number of public health awareness campaigns sponsored by the UK Government, with a special interest for above teenage love, sexuality and relationships. And established, top-tier ghostwriter.

Among others, on behalf of Billy Connoly, the "Big Yin" himself, proof that the Scottish mafia is discreet, but by no means inexistent (an excellent thing). Ah, Sir Billy Connoly and his New-Zealander wife, Lady Pamela Stephenson, whom he met in 1979, while filming together a sketch for BBC2's Not the Nine O'Clock News. Chemistry took care of itself, because she ditched her recently married husband and moved in with Connoly in 1981. Both (at least nominally: Connoly considers himself an atheist, nowadays) Roman-Catholic and married at the time of getting together, Stephenson divorced in 1984 and Connoly in 1985 from their respective partners and live in marital bliss since 1989. For some reason, I think these tidbits are important, go figure.

Sidenote: if you haven't already, watch (if still available on Netflix, otherwise I implore you to look for it on other platforms) an exceptional French series, Call My Agent. You will not only love the humor, you will educate yourself with the basic ropes of celeb PR.

At face value, I couldn't think of a more appropriate consigliere to deal with the brief that (spare the failed Everest movie project) prompted this book. It is not that difficult to figure out:

Evoke at length the past to offer a modicum of explanation of the present. Mention traumatic relationship with father to explain fear of commitment in a solid, steady relationship.

In the process, pay lip service to the Narrative, but take substantial liberty and a daring stand when discussing the horrific Wentworth episode-that-nobody-could-watch. Express controlled discontent towards TPTB, to have the upper hand while negotiating a possible season 8 (fun fact, it worked)

Conveniently send into oblivion Flukenzie Floozy, Quarantein Hooter's Madonna and any other two letter combo born from the hyperactive imagination of the Queen of Nothing, while respecting ToS of bachelorhood - it's still good for the Sales Department.

Camouflage reality of S&C entity, under a London Blitz-worthy blanket of smoke & mirrors, but allow leaks that could easily pass for creative license or babble. Shippers will get it. Dots will connect, coins will drop. We shall overcome.

Simultaneously, offer a plausible explanation for the above UFO co-star/bro-sis/Ginger Jesus- Mother Mary relationship, primarily to comfort and control Mordor, that Troll Nursery. Say what the hell you want, including something along the lines of My Little Pony Friendship is Magic, but say it LOUDER FOR THOSE SHIPPER PEOPLE IN THE BACK OF THE COACH. They are used to this one step forward/one slap backward tango and by now, few (if any) will budge elsewhere on the fandom spectrum.

Discreetly crush homosexuality rumors, because they are borderline calumny, at this point in time. However, the Data Lounge crowd could make Mordor look like Bora Bora, so the sooner they get bored and move to the next babyface, the better.

Substantially promote MPC and Great Glen Company, consolidating the image of the giving, thoughtful individual, with a creative mind and savvy enough to branch out in lucrative business projects. Extend fan/consumer/client base to a younger demographic.

Pave the way for exit plan. This report will not discuss it, but hints may have been detected. :)

Wow. This is a mouthful. And I have to say Mr. Whyman did a more than decent job of it, even if for a trained eye the seams are showing, at times.

Like this:

Frazer. You can't make this shit up. This is SRH.

As compared to this (excuse the repetition: the blogger is not lazy - the blogger tries to make a point):

This is Whyman. This has been probably paid extra for. This is painful to read. This failed.

As for leaks, I've found a good handful. Adding all of them here higgledy-piggledy would be tedious, boring and I am not Miss Marple. But I've noticed that feelings hide in plain sight, usually disguised in a song you whistle or some verse you remember, just to keep you company on the road, a propos of nothing (my foot):

I don't know what this woman is talking about, you might say. Whatevs. How about this:

To keep myself sane, I usually rip off a Twix bar or light up a Benson. Others resort to Shakespeare, in lieu of granola bars. The world is a wonderfully diverse place. LOL, don't mind me. I am a dillusional woman, for whom all hope is lost.

Sometimes, this whole pastoral reverie has a Lewis Carroll charm to it (you might want to open this in another tab):

Who is your queen, Sir? Surely not the cheerful woman in leggings, flats and a Playboy T-shirt, huh?

Maybe the key is this childish botanical pun, tucked away at the end of the book:

Knowing that the P in Psillyosam is silent, as in *urv the Psychologist, we read and we grin:

[P]sillyosam Mushroom. Silly O'Sam. Silly, oh Sam.

Hashtag silly. An apt response to lemon and hugs.

To sum it up on a cheerful note, Waypoints is the 4 S book:

Struggles - Success - (fake) Solitude - (with a clear optic to avoid at all costs) Scandal

I thank you for your time while reading this. I hope it was worth it and yes, I confidently rest my case. Until the next memoir, which I reasonably hope would be vastly different.