SDI

I apologise for the lack of posts. I've been struck down by a debilitating strain of Severe Depressive Inertia, which has kept me from blogging, exercising, cooking, shaving, cleaning my house, watering my garden, doing the laundry or performing any task other than watching TV or playing computer games. Everywhere I look in my house there's dust, grime, decay and bugs. It's like living inside a vacuum cleaner bag.


Thus no blogging. In the spirit of my current mood, here is a story about people being mean to puppies.

AndressFest (Part 3)

The final movie of AndresssFest '06 was 'She', a 1965 Hammer production based on a novel by H. Rider Haggard. You'd be hard pressed to find a film more choc-full of rich, kitschy goodness.


The year: 1918. The place: Palestine. British soldiers Horace Holly and Leo Vincey, along with their manservant Job, are relaxing in a tavern over a few refreshing bellydancers. Despite the allure of the rather mesmerising flesh being jiggled at him, Leo is entranced by a solitary young woman in black.

AF'06: You know, I'm not an Islamic scholar, but I'm pretty sure that a burqua isn't meant to be sheer. Or split to the navel.

Leo goes over and befriends her, and, when a fight breaks out (and in Palestine! Who'd have thought?), the mysterious young woman, whose name is Ustane, spirits Leo away to a dark alley.


But there he's thumped over the head and rendered unconscious. This is never good on a first date.


When he awakes, he finds himself in a luxurious townhouse. It is here that he meets Ursula Andress, playing Ayesha. Despite being as blonde and pale-skinned as one of the von Trapp children, Ayesha is apparently the immortal queen of a lost North African city. She believes that our Leo is the reincarnation of her lover Killikrates, whom she stabbed in a jealous rage two thousand years earlier. But she's now prepared to forgive and forget, and she urges Leo to come to the lost city of Kuma to be her consort. He is given a map and bidden to depart at once.

Ayesha: Will you come to me again, across the Desert of Lost Souls, through the Mountains of the Moon...

AF'06: Then it's straight up the I-55 and you're there. You can't miss it.

Why couldn't she just take him with her, you ask? Well, first he has to survive several trials, to prove that he really is the reincarnation of Killikrates. So off he goes into the desert with Holly and Job, who are more interested in finding the fabled riches of Kuma than some really old blonde chick.


And thus the trials begin. First, their waterbags are slashed in the night. Then they're attacked by unpleasant Arab sorts who steal their camels and the rest of their supplies. All seems lost until Ustane turns up with spares. It seems she's taken a shine to Leo, a fact that will not sit well with Ayesha. Ustane urges Leo to turn back and not go to Kuma.

Ustane: There is nothing there but evil, and death.

AF'06: Great! They have a McDonalds!

But Leo is firmly under Ayesha's spell. He leads the others on to Kuma, and is reunited with the lascivious queen. Leo may be smitten, but Holly suspects that Ayesha is not as charming as she appears. First he meets Ustane's father, who tells him Ayesha's other title.

Haumeid: Ayesha is "She Who Must Be Obeyed."

AF'06: That's Rumpole of the Bailey's wife? Man, she's hot!

Then he stumbles across her high priest, Billali, praying to his predecessors, whose twisted, desiccated, skeletal remains stand in alcoves along the wall of the temple.

AF'06: So, Billali...I see your religion worships the Olsen twins.

He also tries to get some answers about the socio-political realities of life in Kuma.

Holly: Will you tell me something? This women Ayesha, why do you all do her bidding without question?

Billali: It has always been so.

Holly: Yes, but why? She's only a woman and alone. You are men and many.

Billali: And like all men we are born, live a span and we die. But she has been here forever. She is like the mountains, like the desert. Changeless, ageless, deathless.

AF'06: Mind you, she tears through the Botox like you wouldn't believe.

Sensing that Leo and his companions still may not quite appreciate who they're dealing with, Ayesha demonstrates her power with the aid of her guards, some rebellious slaves, and the remarkably handy lava pool in the centre of her throne room.

Ayesha: I am She Who Must Be Obeyed. There is only one penalty for those who do not choose to obey; a lesson in obedience. Teach them!

AF'06: Throw them in the Fondue Pit, and bring hither the long sticks with bits of bread on the end!

Leo and the others aren't impressed.

Leo: Was that barbaric execution necessary?

Ayesha: It was necessary.

Holly: Why?

Ayesha: As a demonstration of my absolute power. How else could I hold my soldiers and these pathetic creatures as my subjects? How else but by instilling fear and terror into their very souls?

AF'06: Have you considered a frequent flyer points program?

But Ayesha manages to convince Leo that she's not all that bad... using only her diaphanous negligee and her mysterious powers of pashing. Then she offers him a proposition:

Ayesha: Come, I will show you what no other living mortal has seen...

AF'06: Woo-hoo!

Ayesha: ...the Flame of Eternal Life.

AF'06: Oh.

The Flame, burning like an out-of-control barbecue pit in the inner temple, is what gave Ayesha her immortality, and when it is touched by the light of the new moon, Leo can have it too.


All is going well, as long as one doesn't count Ustane being killed by a vengeful Ayesha, and a small slave uprising. Leo is about to enter the Flame of Eternal Life when Billali bursts in and tries to kill him. It seems he wants to be immortal too, at least until Ayesha stabs him in the back, just like she did with Killikrates. She's really got to stop doing that.


With Billali out of the way, Ayesha and Leo enter the Flame together. But it appears that the Flame only works once on any given person. Leo is rendered immortal, but suddenly Ayesha starts to look more like Ursula le Guin than Ursula Andress. Staggering out of the Flame, she dries up into a skeletal husk.

AF'06: Hey! She was Paris Hilton all along!

Still, Leo figures that if Ayesha can wait two thousand years for him to be reincarnated, the least he can do is return the favour. He vows to stay by the flame until Ayesha returns.


And return she did, in 'The Vengeance of She' in 1968. Unfortunately in the intervening three years she'd transmogrified from Ursula Andress into Olinka Berova, and even by the subterranean standards of kitschy low-budget horror the movie was pretty bad. Ursula, on the other hand, went on to even bigger and better things.


How much bigger and better? Try 'What's New Pussycat' with Woody Allen. Try 'Clash of the Titans' with Harry Hamlin. Try more Italian Splatter Horror than you could poke a bloodied machete at!


Like I said a few posts ago, I think AndressFest '06 was a big success. We enjoyed Ursula's fine body... of work, we toasted her birthday with champagne at midnight, and there is NO WAY IN HELL that we are not gathering together in a year's time for AndressFest '07. With titles like 'The Loves and Times of Scaramouche', 'Tigers in Lipstick' and 'The Secrets of a Sensuous Nurse' available, how could we not?

AndressFest (Part 2)

Our second AndressFest '06 movie was 1963's 'Fun in Acapulco'. It was an Elvis Presley vehicle, in much the same direct, literal, no-nonsense sense that the Popemobile is a vehicle for a certain pontiff. Quite possibly against her better judgement, Ursula was dragged along for the ride.


Having been recently fired from his job as a crewhand on a luxury yacht, Elvis finds himself penniless and friendless in Acapulco, the city of fun, adventure and more mariachi bands per square foot than air molecules. But being Elvis, he's not friendless for long, as he strikes up a relationship with street urchin and would-be impresario Raoul. Raoul has heard Elvis sing, and is pretty sure that he can utilise his planet-wide network of "cousins" to make him the Next Big Thing.


Now that they're amigos, Elvis and Raoul go for a bike ride through the sunny, rear-projected streets of Acapulco. It's something you don't see much in movies any more: a grown man riding around on a bicycle with a young boy on his lap. And it's even more rare for them to burst into song.


What the scene really needed was more Ursula, possibly with some kind of sniper rifle. But that's just my opinion. This is probably why I was never asked to direct an Elvis movie.


True to his word, Raoul gets Elvis not one but two jobs at a fancy resort. Elvis is to be a lifeguard by day and a cabaret act by night... now you know where David Hasselhoff got the idea. It is here that he meets Ursula, playing Margarita Dauphin, some sort of Eurotrash royalty reduced to being the social director at the resort. Since everyone loves Elvis, Margarita falls for him right away. And not only does Elvis fall for her, but he also becomes enamoured with her alcoholic namesake. It's probably for the best that he didn't meet a girl named Crystal Meth.


But even in an Elvis movie, where the script is generally so brief that you could copy it out with a set of Scrabble tiles, there has to be at least a little conflict. For a start, there's Margarita's ex-beau and champion high diver Moreno, who is not about to let this Americano lothario steal his hot blonde Swiss bikini babe. Then there's sultry lady matador Dolores Gomez, who regards Elvis with much the same single-minded desire as Elvis regarded a good serving of chicken-fried bacon.


But despite the machinations of Moreno and Dolores, Elvis and Margarita conquer their respective fears, doubts and misunderstandings to find true love, after beating Moreno at cliff diving and battling their way through the swarms of mariachi bands who infest every single bloody scene.


'Fun in Acapulco' is the sort of film that you can watch and then ask yourself, "What the hell was all that about?". The simple answer is that it was about Elvis, and about screwing hard-earned dollars out of Elvis' many fans. Poor Ursula wasn't much more than a romantic cipher, whose moods, motivations and personality flip-flopped from scene to scene according to the requirements of the nonsensical script. She looks slightly sad in this movie, meandering around the poolside scenes in a range of bright pastel bikinis and capri pants, not so much inhabiting the set as blending in with it. In the final crowd scene she's almost impossible to see, as her orange and yellow dress is perfect camouflage against the colourful backdrop of cafe umbrellas and tablecloths.


But nevermind that. Two years later Ursula had the last laugh, and top-billing, in the Hammer Studios production of 'She'. But for that, you'll have to tune in tomorrow for the final review of AndressFest '06.




Hmmm, you taste like Quaaludes and pork fat.

Dumbstruck

I don't usually like to link to things posted on metafilter.com: it smacks of laziness. However this collection of nightclub act flyers is just too, too good.




Hey big spender! Spend a little time in therapy to get rid of the nightmares!

AndressFest (Part 1)

I'm pleased to report that AndressFest '06 was a complete success. I had eight guys in my living room, shovelling popcorn into their gobs, guzzling champagne, and watching Ursula Andress cavort about in a range of bikinis and light negligees. If that doesn't meet the criteria for success in AndressFest '06, I don't know what does.


We began at the beginning; Ursula's breakout role as Bond girl Honey Ryder in 'Dr No'.


This was the first true Bond film, and while many of the aspects of the winning formula are in place, there's no Aston Martin, there's no Q, and instead of the traditional 'naked-girl-silhouettes-writhing-about' in the title credits there's a look I like to call 'M&Ms Gone Wild'. But once Sean Connery utters his famous "Bond, James Bond" line just before scoring with a beautiful woman, you know precisely where you are.




James Bond, doing what he does best.


It's 1962, and James Bond has been dispatched to Jamaica to investigate the disappearance of a British agent. With his usual capable confidence he loses a tail, takes out a luckless kidnapper, and has a hotel waiter mix his martini shaken not stirred... which the waiter does with a look of intense glumness, and with a lot more swirling than shaking, since he realises he's making cocktails for a philistine. I mean, who shakes a martini? Come on!


In due course, Bond comes to realise that the missing agent has met with foul play, and the same name keeps coming up - Dr No. It's time for Bond and his Disposable Black Sidekick to investigate what's going on out on the island of Crab Quay.




"Ever feel like you're about to be sacrificed at the whim of the Great Scriptwriter?"


By now, Bond has bagged a number of bimbos who are quite demonstrably not Ursula Andress. It's not until he's out on the island that Ursula is introduced, in what must be one of the most famous Bond scenes ever; emerging from the surf, singing a little song, wearing a white bikini with a hunting knife tucked into her belt.




"So, you're called 'Honey Ryder', eh? Well, it's not up there with 'Pussy Galore', but it's not bad for a first effort."


Of course it's not long before Bond and Honey are captured, and the Disposable Black Sidekick has met the inevitable grisly end of all Disposable Black Sidekicks. Bond and Honey are taken to Dr No's suspiciously well-appointed underground lair, where they are drugged, given some new clothes, forced to endure early 1960s interior design, and finally introduced to "Chinese" criminal mastermind Dr No.




Oh please. David Hyde Pierce is more Chinese than this guy.


As this is the first Bond film, it's not surprising that Dr No doesn't realise the vital importance of properly killing 007 when you have the chance. Naturally Bond escapes from his cell down the air ducts, kills a guard, steals his uniform, sneaks into Dr No's control room and turns the large wheel marked 'Make Island Explode'. It's not saying much for your criminal mastermind credentials when you can be thwarted by a martini-swilling Scotsman.


There follows many scenes of panicked guards, workers and decorative ladies fleeing in random directions. Bond rescues Honey and they escape in a commandeered motor boat, only to have it break down on them just outside the blast zone. What's a British secret agent to do with a nubile blonde all alone in the middle of the Caribbean? Well duh. Cue much pashing and fading to closing credits.


Ursula didn't have much to do in 'Dr No', other than look good in skimpy outfits and run around trying to avoid being shot, blown up or manhandled by uncouth guards. Still, the movie was a good introduction to the Andressian oeuvre, and nowhere near as dire as our second AndressFest '06 movie, 1963's 'Fun in Acapulco'... more of which tomorrow.

Popularity

As every blogger knows, traffic comes to his or her blog via the darndest keyword searches. They seem to fall into four broad catagories:


1) The Latest News

eg "ben cousins cocaine" has made more than one appearance in my logs.


2) Porn

eg "gwyneth paltrow in stockings" - dude, seek help.


3) Specialty Interests

eg "women of the prehistoric planet", and other MST3K delights.


4) Some Combination Of The Above

"ben cousins naked", "cassandra peterson naked", "tom servo naked" etc etc etc.


However there is one search that keeps popping up, month in, month out, despite the fact that I wrote about it only once, almost a year ago. And that search is "Ursula Andress".


Why is everyone interested in Ursula Andress? Wait, let me rephrase that... apart from the two obvious reasons, why is everyone interested in Ursula Andress? And more importantly, if everyone is so interested in Ursula Andress, why is there so little Ursula Andress-related material on the internet that all the searches come to one little thing I wrote back in 2005?


I believe that blogs come into existence for a reason, and I also believe that that reason is usually stupid. There are far stupider raisons d'etre than ill-informed coverage of Ursula Andress, so really, I should get to and give the online public what they want.


To that end, this Saturday night I am hosting AndressFest '06, a cavalcade of Ursula Andress and her fine cinematic oeuvre, timed to coincide with her birthday on Sunday. I will meet with like-minded cinephiles to view such classics as 'She' (Hammer Horror from 1965) and 'Fun in Acapulco' (also featuring an obscure musician of the time named Presley), then blog about it. Ursula Ursula Ursula! Oi Oi Oi!


If you are a local reader and would like to take part in AndressFest '06, email me before Saturday night at the address in the top left corner of my profile. Together we can give Ursula Andress - Bond girl, slave to the cannibal god, and original hot blonde Swiss bikini babe - the cyberpresence she deserves.

Growing

A few people, most notably Mark Steyn, have been writing lately about demographics and the way they affect civilisation, especially modern Western civilisation. With declining birthrates, simple statistics show that the majority of children will be borne by a minority of women, and thus, inevitably, this minority of women (and the men to whom they're partnered) control the future.


This article is perhaps the best at stating the basic, impartial mathematics of future demographics.


"The key difference is that during the post-World War II era, nearly all segments of modern societies married and had children. Some had more than others, but the disparity in family size between the religious and the secular was not so large, and childlessness was rare. Today, by contrast, childlessness is common, and even couples who have children typically have just one. Tomorrow’s children, therefore, unlike members of the postwar baby boom generation, will be for the most part descendants of a comparatively narrow and culturally conservative segment of society. To be sure, some members of the rising generation may reject their parents’ values, as always happens. But when they look around for fellow secularists and counterculturalists with whom to make common cause, they will find that most of their would-be fellow travelers were quite literally never born."


The apparent fact is that civilisations are self-correcting in favour of children, and in favour of the ideas that are conducive to reproduction. Any idea, no matter how wise, attractive or enlightened, that does not encourage women to have babies will inevitably die out when its adherents fail to pass it on to a new generation. We can dream all we want about a future of women enjoying childless existences with fulfilling careers and vibrant social lives, but as a future, it is a physical impossibility. The future can't help but belong to the mothers of large families.

Curses (redux)

My thumb appears to be healing well following my little accident. I was going to post a picture of it, but frankly, the photos I took revolted even me. My thumb looks like an extra from 'Hellraiser'; a fat white maggot that's been gutted then trussed up with fishing line. So I decided to spare you.


Instead, here are the before and after pictures of the Drawers of Doom.








Once I got all the paint and varnish off, I realised that to get back to the virgin wood would require a lot more time and effort than I was willing to put into the project. I do not buy furniture in order to spend my Saturdays sanding it for hour upon hour. So I left it with a light patina and gave it a coat of furniture oil. I actually prefer the grey effect of the remnants of the paint to the golden colour of the original wood.


Note the Saw of Pain and Blood lurking in the after picture, hiding under the drawers like a recalcitrant dog.

Dim

On Saturday night I watched a film that could only be described as 'noir lite'. Or possibly 'Lady Noir: A Noir For Women'. It had the requisite hard-baked policemen and beautiful but duplicitous dames of classic noir, but with nice frocks and some truly oestrogen-crazed set design. The film was 1944's 'Laura', or as I prefer to call it, 'Night of the Devil Lamps'.


The film begins innocently enough. Laconic detective Mark MacPherson is investigating the murder of beautiful young up-and-comer Laura Hunt. He starts with Waldo Lydecker, her mentor and the gayest straight man ever to mince his way into a Manhattan penthouse. From there, he encounters Ann Treadwell, an aging socialite, and Shelby Carpenter, a character brought about by the unlikely idea of having Vincent Price play a gigolo. MacPherson has to sort through the sophistries and pretentions of these high-flying low-lifes to get to the truth behind Laura's murder.


But throughout the piece I began to notice a certain unpleasant theme running through the set design: the most hideous faggoty-arsed table lamps ever to house a lightbulb. They're slathered with so much lace, ribbon, ruffles, decorative fringe and pom poms that they can barely be classed as lamps any more. They're just vaguely glowing blobs of bad taste.





Lt. MacPherson suspects Shelby Carpenter as the murderer. I suspect the pleated Devil Lamp with the stupid bow wrapped around it.


Honestly, they've got more decorative frosting on them than a white trash wedding cake.





Booze - a policeman's only refuge when faced with a ruffled Devil Lamp, useless dust gatherers, and the attentions of a suspiciously camp old guy.


And then I started to notice; it's not just the lamps. The light fixtures drip crystal. The curtains are festooned with tassels. The furniture is encrusted with chintz. The end tables are cluttered with kitschy vases and knick knacks. In short, all of the sets look like someone strapped explosives to Barbara Cartland and set her off in the centre of the room.





Lt. MacPherson, rendered unconscious by chintz overload and a gloating fringed Devil Lamp.


I used to think that the 1940s was one of the better aesthetic decades, bridging the gap between the Art Deco and Moderne looks of the 1930s and the mass-produced modernist restraint of the 1950s. But no; it turns out it was more Liberace meets Grandma.


Still, at least there was one exception...





Spill the beans, sister! What are the lamps planning? When do they attack?


Finally, a lamp with a bit of sense! I knew there was a reason why the police are always the heroes in these things .

Busted

Times have obviously been hard since he had to abandon Cloud City...


Landocalrissan Butler, 25, of Winnikee Avenue, entered a guilty plea Tuesday in Dutchess County Court to attempted criminal possession of a controlled substance, a felony. Butler told Judge Thomas J. Dolan he had five small bags of crack in his pocket Dec. 22 when police arrested him on Morgan Avenue. He said he intended to sell the drugs.


I blame the insidious influence of Wookiees.

Curses

On Saturday I bought a neat little chest of drawers from one of the local charity shops. I saw it in the morning but didn't immediately buy it. Later that day I realised that it would be a useful thing in which to store my art supplies, so I went back to the store to get it. There was a young couple standing near it, talking on a mobile, and when I pointed it out to the shop assistant the wife let out a little cry, and actually stamped her foot in frustration. I guess they'd been calling for someone to bring them some cash to buy it.


Too bad, I thought. There's only the quick and the dead in the charity shop bargains game, as I've learnt from being on the 'dead' side of the equation more than once. Of course, I might not have been quite so smug if I'd realised that this fairly innocuous piece of furniture was CURSED.


That's right; I'd just purchased the Drawers of Doom.


The first sign of the furniture's malevolence was visited upon me when I started stripping off the weird layer of Vegemite-like varnish that someone had slathered over a layer of white enamel paint. I had a new tin of paint stripper, sealed with a soft plastic underlid that had to be opened with a rubbery ringpull. And as ringpulls are wont to do when the seal breaks and the inner and outer pressures equalise, it caused a spurt of paint stripper to spray up into my face.


An extremely caustic spurt of paint stripper.


It's a miracle that none of it went in my eyes. It started burning, severely, a second or two after it hit, as if I'd been stung by a swarm of bees. I ran inside, uttering cries of "Ow!" at increasing volume, and stuck my face under a cold shower, which saturated my clothes but at least got the burning down to a dull tang.


Game on, Mr Drawers, I thought. You've drawn first blood. But I have a) paint stripper, b) a paint brush and c) opposable thumbs, all of which I used in my vengeance. Once safely out of the can and onto the drawers, the pain stripper worked a treat. It turned the varnish and paint into something not unlike a thick smear of soft butter.


But little did I know that the Drawers of Doom had only just begun their sinister work.


This morning I happened to wake up early, and decided to spend a few minutes trying to get the ugly wooden knobs off the drawers. They'd been fitted with wooden plugs rather than screws, so the only way to get them off was t0 saw them off. I cut the first one off, and was rewarded with a very nice clean result. I tackled the other one, paying careful attention so as not to scratch the wood. So much careful attention, in fact, that I wasn't prepared when the knob suddenly snapped and the saw plunged down, straight into the side of my thumb.


Even before I looked at it I knew it was bad, just from the pain. Looking only made it worse. The blood paused at the wound, like a hesitant debutante at the threshold of her first cotillion, then came out in what I thought to be an overeager rush.


There followed much running about the house, spreading my lifeblood across every surface. I eventually fashioned a bandage out of tightly wrapped paper towels and a rubber band, which slowed and soaked up the blood loss. Even so, when I caught sight of myself in a mirror I looked like I'd been bleached.


I felt well enough to drive to the hospital where I work, leave a message for my boss with one of the secretaries, then stagger down to the Emergency Department.


The triage nurse in the ED looked up at me from the magazine she was reading as if I'd burst unannounced into her living room. The gall of some people, she appeared to be thinking, turning up wanting medical attention at 8.30 in the morning. She did however dress my wound in something more hygienic that paper towels and a rubber band that was last used to secure a bunch of bok choy.


It took an hour to see an actual doctor, but once I did it was all cleaned up and repaired reasonably quickly. The wound was deep but there wasn't any nerve or tendon damage. All it needed was four stitches, and a tetanus shot in my arm.


I went back up to my office and worked for a while, but I felt like crap so I eventually went home early. Of course when I got there the entire house was filled with the sour, wet dog-like smell of dried blood. There were blood spatters on the hardwood floors and the bathroom tiles, bloodied washcloths and paper towels in the bathroom sink, little smears of blood on some clean T-shirts I'd rifled through looking for a handkerchief to staunch the bleeding, and a bigger smear on my bedsheets where I'd lain for a moment. It looked like I'd spent the morning butchering backpackers.


All because of evil drawers.


So, if worst comes to worst, and this turns out to be my last blog entry, you'll know why. Whatever you do just don't buy the half-restored chest of drawers in my estate sale.

Farscapes

These are just gorgeous. If you painstakingly copied any of them in oils on canvas and hung them on a gallery wall, you'd be acclaimed as an artistic genius.


Well, except the first one. That would just get you acclaimed as a colossal pervert.

Disturbed

I'm feeling tired and rundown today. I didn't get to sleep until after 1.30 this morning, because there's a cricket living inside the frame of my bedroom window, and apparently last night was karaoke night. I all but spraypainted the window with bug poison, but it seems he's got a tiny little set of scuba gear in there and he didn't miss a beat.


I tried setting a radio to a dead frequency to drown him out with white noise, but that didn't work. It turns out that cricket chirping cuts through white noise like a confused pensioner in a 1973 Ford Galaxie cuts through a kindergarten playground. And stupid dead people kept butting in trying to communicate with the physical realm.


So I ended up wadding kitchen paper into little balls and jamming them in my ears, which was uncomfortable but otherwise worked a treat. During the night I vaguely remember tearing them out and hearing about a second of a capella cricket, but I was already tumbling back into sleep and I was gone before I could muster up my previous sense of impotent fury.


The next thing I knew it was 7.15am, and my clockradio alarm, turned up nice and loud to compensate for my ear plugs, gave me Harry Belafonte bellowing about limbo dancing. So all in all, not the best night's sleep.