The Carter Resemblance

When I spotted the following headline last night, I let out a little wee in excitement:

E! Online: Matt Damon Confirms He's Reprising His Role as Jason Bourne

Jen and I are massive fans of the Bourne films. We re-watch them several times a year. They're fantastic. If you haven't seen them yet, you should. (Yes, Bill, I'm talking to you!)

[Warning: Potential minor spoilers follow.]

One of the reasons I like the Bourne films so much (other than the fact that they're totally bloody fantastic, I mean), is that certain elements of the ongoing tale of an amnesiac CIA assassin trying to re-discover his past were clearly based on events in my own life.

In the first film, The Bourne Identity, for example, our hero discovers an electronic device buried in his hip that reveals to him the details of his Swiss bank account. He also takes part in a spectacular car-chase through the streets of Paris in a battered old mini. Well, I also have a bank account, and have driven a battered old mini.

In the second film, The Bourne Supremacy, Bourne arrives in Naples by ship. He also takes part in a spectacular car-chase through a tunnel in Moscow. I have also arrived in Naples by ship, and used to commute daily through one of the Mersey road tunnels.

In the third film, The Bourne Ultimatum, Bourne travels to St Pancras Station via the Channel Tunnel. He also takes part in a spectacular roof-top chase in Tangier. I have also travelled to St Pancras Station via the Channel Tunnel, and am rather partial to a tangerine.

As to the fourth film, The Bourne Legacy, Jason Bourne isn't in it—and neither am I.

Oh, yes, and while I'm at it, compare and contrast:

RC v JB
Yours Truly (L) and Jason Bourne (R).

I could probably sue—or, at the very least, insist on a mention in the opening credits of the next movie—but I don't care. The Bourne films are fab, and it looks as if they're finally going to make another one.

I am one happy bunny.

Photobomber

Photobomber
A complete stranger attempting to photobomb me in York last Saturday, and her reaction when I took her photo anyway.

1.5×-scale mechanical Roger Moore

On Tuesday night, I dreamt that Jen and I were in a seaside penny arcade. I don't know why, but I believe the penny arcade was in Whitley Bay on the north-east coast of England. One of the arcade's main attractions was a 1.5×-scale mechanical Roger Moore.

I should, perhaps, explain that the larger-than-life, although otherwise extremely life-like simulacrum of the former James Bond was dressed in a double-breasted khaki safari suit, complete with buttoned pockets, and was poised in mid-backhand-throw. Initially, I assumed that the famous actor's facsimile was about to throw a shaken—a Japanese throwing-star martial weapon. On closer inspection, however, I realised that it was about to launch a toupée.

Roger Moore
The real Roger Moore.

Before I could stop her, Jen inserted a coin in the slot alongside the likeness of the erstwhile Simon Templar and, with a whirring of wheels and a clicking of cogs, the mechanism began to advance towards her, karate-chopping and kicking in an extremely robotic, though disconcertingly life-like manner. Fortunately, Jen acquitted herself extremely well, fending off the likeness of the one-time Persuader's blows with ease.

And then I woke up.

Most dreams are pure nonsense, but it is often claimed that great ideas can also come to people in their sleep. Which was this, I wonder? Is the world ready for a coin-operated 1.5×-scale mechanical rendition of Sir Roger Moore, or is it an idea ahead of its time?

Bilking

I've often thought we needed a word to describe someone (usually famous) dying whom, until you heard the sad news, you wrongly believed died years ago. From now on, I'm going to call it ‘bilking’ (as in ‘Acker has bilked’).

Acker Bilk
Acker Bilk (1929–2014)

Postscript (04-Nov-2014): Damn! I just told Jen my cool new word, and she immediately pointed out that to bilk is already a verb, meaning to defraud or evade (as in ‘to bilk paying one's bill at a restaurant’). But I reckon carrying on living for years when other people think you're dead is a form of evasion, so I'm sticking with my neologism.

Do you see what I did there?

Irish Mick and I went for a slightly up-market pub dinner above Windermere on Tuesday. Afterwards, I went back to the bar:

Barmaid: Did you two enjoy your venison burgers?
Me: Yes, thanks, they were very nice—but they were dead deer.
Barmaid: …?
Me: Sorry, that was just a joke.
Barmaid: …?
Me: … A pun.
Barmaid: …?
Me: … Well, a double-pun, really… Venison: dead deer.
Barmaid: …?
Me: Two pints of bitter, please.