So, sometimes I wonder why I grew up to be as un-funny as the un-funniest thing one could possibly ever conceive. I tell a joke, but half way through give the ending away, because I stumble over my words and spend too much time explaining WHY the joke is supposed to be funny, rather than letting the joke make people laugh by itself. Most of the time, I can’t even tell jokes as I literally have the memory of a Goldfish; or a brownfish, or a catfish or whatever no-memory brain fish there are or may be.

How funny are you?

I am around some extremely funny people everyday. Wit is something that I did not inherit from the rest of my family. As I sit there scratching my head in confusion at peoples super fast quips, ricocheting back and forth between one another. I don’t mind being the laugher rather than the laugh. But I do sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I could make people laugh without having to be laughed AT. You know, the whole laugh WITH me and not AT me.

Okay, I am rambling too much here.

My body is refusing to warm up after being sat in the cold library all day. Today there was an interesting seminar/lecture on the Queerness of the Rocky Horror Picture Show (how could that ever be disreputable? I mean, Tim Curry wears lipstick and suspenders for godsake. Of course it is gay, do we really need to discuss how and why it is bloody gay??!!) and the Lesbian dilemma of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz (we shall ignore the gayness of the Lion, because that is almost as obvious as Tim Curry’s rather shapely legs). I now have to ponder the topic of my next Hollywood Musical essay. Race or Sexuality? You choose.

I would love to watch and rewatch Moulin Rouge under the pretense that I am educating myself, but Moulin Rouge doesn’t really fit into the sub categories of the essay question. So, I shall have to be content with secretly listening to the soundtrack on my Itunes, and sneakily watching Ewan McGregor: in tickled delight, on my days off while Scott is at work, blissfully unaware of the heinous crime against any ounce of respectability he thinks I have left, in my living room.

After my lecture I snacked on Sushi (the vegetarian kind, I am not yet brave enough for uncooked poisson) and visited the library to expand the mind and soul with a little research into Frenzy, the 1972 Hitchcock film. It was his second to last film and follows (typically) the story of a man on the run after being falsely accused of the rape and murders of various women around London. “The Neck-Tie Murderer”…but, he  definitely didn’t do it, yet somehow, his ex-wife and his current girlfriend manage to fall prey to the REAL “neck-tie murderer” and he, of course, is left to try and defend his innocence.

My essay for this has me asserting whether this was a late flourish in his extensive career, or a final falling-off. I haven’t quite figured out whether the dank, garish attitude taken in this film sits well with me. Its attempt at black humour verges on the grotesque yet it does provide a startling insight into the human condition and how much we are capable of coping with. It began to remind me a little of the case of John Reginald Christie, an infamous homicidal serial killer who was convicted in 1953. Some of you may know of him through Richard Attenborough’s harrowing performance in 10 Rillington Place, alongside William Hurt (who plays the wrongly accused blue collar male, Evans, who is hanged for the murder of his daughter and Wife, whose ends were actually brought about by Christie.)

Unsurprisingly, this case gets a mention within Frenzy, as two pub-goers comment on the neck-tie murderer. It makes sense that Hitchcock will have recognised the similarities between the two stories; though one was disturbingly real and the other, merely a gratuitous fabrication.

I forget where my initial direction with this blog post was heading and it is at this point that I should perhaps close-up and give only my recommendation to whomever may be reading this - watch both Frenzy and 10 Rillington Place. They are both quite frightful. And you will never watch the Miracle on 34th Street (1992) in quite the same light again.