So. The end of the weekend is upon us, although I'm not exactly living the lifestyle in which weekends mean anything more than closed shops and bigger newspapers. Soon, perhaps, I will be. But not now.

Enjoyed a three-day jaunt to Brighton at the tail of last week, with lovey-dovey couple du jour, Joel and Hawys. Went down on Thursday afternoon, although we cunningly conspired to miss our 3pm coach (the 38 took literally 1 hr 15 mins to get us to Victoria; insane) in order to get any exasperation and tedium out of the way early. It worked, kind of, and the 5pm coach got us there just as efficiently - in fact it was easily the plushest National Express coach I've been on - very good imitation leather seats which recline until your head is in the lap of the person behind you. And great air-conditioning.

The trip served several purposes. Got us out of London for a few days was the main thing - felt like a proper little holiday. Accommodation was free (although difficult to spell) courtesy of Joel's lesbian surrogate mother's (long story) empty pad on a hill somewhere. We also all had people to visit who live or happened to be in Brighton that weekend - boxes to tick in some cases, and genuinely glad-to-see-you meetings in others - in my case Becca, who was on fine form and showed us how to part-ay old skool Brighton-styleeee (cider under the pier, apparently).

Did some proper seaside holiday stuff, too:

(To every anecdote that follows, please add: "...and Joel and Hawys were all over each other like some kind of sexed-up rash, it was lovely/funny/sickly and made me want to smile/laugh/cry" - delete as appropriate, depending on how long we'd been there.)

Friday's weather was lush so we spent the afternoon on the beach, reading the paper and swimming in the sea - it had been ages since I'd swum in the sea and it felt great. Very very salty, too, obviously - felt saltier than normal, and I found it much easier to float in it so maybe I'm not talking shit. A shame that Brighton's beach is covered in stones, however... no-one seems to mention it, it's the town's very own elephant in the corner. In fact, the tourism industry at large seems to be somewhat deluded - all the shops along the sea-front sell buckets and spades, just in case some young kids want to, erm, fill a bucket with some stones. I did try to spark a conversation with a local about how it would be better all sandy and stuff, but he began throwing stones at me... in fairness, if it was sandy then it would probably just be that shitty grey sand which is generally quite depressing. I'd much rather hurt myself every time I walk from the sea back to my towel, thank you very much.

That evening we gorged ourselves on the produce of a local fish'n'chip emporium - the chips and battered sausage and fishcake I had were all top notch (and I consider myself something of an authority on such cuisine) but the mushy peas weren't really up to scratch; they weren't mushy, which is a cardinal sin for mushy peas. They were just peas in a green sauce. Still, the green sauce had plenty of salt in it so they went down a treat.

Stomachs filled and belts duly loosened, we moseyed on into town for the aforementioned cider on the beach. Big bottles of cider always get you really drunk, don't they? I always seem to forget. This summer has seen a rejuvenation of big-bottles-of-cider-drinking amongst myself and my friends, no doubt reflecting our increasingly impoverished lifestyles. I'm glad, then, that I really really like the stuff. It's just hard to quaff a bottle with any real sense of dignity, especially when it dribbles down your chin and all over your top.

Cider drunk, we found ourselves in a club inside what looked suspiciously like someone's house - thankfully this bizarre locale did not reflect the music of choice, although the name did: Funky Fish. Does exactly what it says on the tin, really: plays funky music all night, and smells vaguely of fish. The DJ was good actually - my lack of experience in funk clubs probably stood him in good stead as I can't really tell a good funk mix from a bad funk mix, but some of the bits between songs were better than the songs themselves. All very.... funky. Heard a cracking remix/cover (dunno) of the Radiohead masturbation song from The Bends, and witnessed a Brightonian smackdown of epic proportions: a couple torn asunder, she slapping him and then he retaliating in a way I didn't really expect, by punching her across the room. Bouncers stepped in and all hell broke loose - all in the time it took me to get a pint of XXXX (yeah, XXXX, I know - but remember my impoverished lifestyle, and they weren't selling big plastic bottles of cider over the bar).

After the club closed we had a spliff down by the beach as the rain came crashing down and one hell of a storm raged - I absolutely loved it. The lightning was proper lightning, and was stretching from sky to horizon out on the sea... and then it was all around us, humid as hell, hardly raining, but the atmosphere crackling with electricity. Brought to mind, as any minor amount of rain does, the line she screams in The Perfect Storm trailer: "YOU'RE HEADING RIGHT INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE MONSTER!!!" - something like that anyway. That's where we were headed, and it was damn fun. From there it was back to a friend of Hawys's flat for music and very very strong cider, and then home for a long, well-deserved sleep.

Saturday dawned at about 3 in the afternoon, which didn't leave me much time for ambling and rambling around Brighton before my coach in the evening. The weather wasn't too great anyway, so the three of us headed determinedly into town to find a cafe where we might chow down on the food of the retired: cream teas. And, my goodness, did we find a place... just gorgeous. Just as I tend to forget that a bottle of cider gets you drunk, I also forget just how fucking gorgeous scones and cream and jam are in between my infrequent visits to the South Coast and Devon. Just perfectly made..... melts and crumbles and dissolves in your mouth, and the jam and the cream and the butter are all there too.... ooooooooooohhhhhhhhh my goodness me, I am causing myself to salivate wildly all over the keyboard. Allow me a moment to sit here with my tongue lolling to one side.

...

Ah.

So. That was Brighton.

Today, I had a big portion of scrambled eggs and went to the cinema to see Superman Returns with Katie. Not much time to go on about it too much, but my reaction for the most part was positive. Certainly, the opening hour and 15 minutes had me smiling like the comic-loving teenager I was, cheering when he caught the shuttle, "aaaaahhhhing" when he talks to Lois, and laughing at Clark's geeky ways.

But... it was just so long. Why does it have to be that way? 2 and a half hours is simply excessive for a film of this nature. Brian Singer is a very canny fellow who knows how to put together a svelte, stream-lined superhero blockbuster; his X-Men was little over 90 minutes and felt great, while its sequel was a bit longer but still barely two hours. With this he seems to have BLOATED a bit, and stuck in about 25 minutes worth of unnecessary crap throughout an otherwise damn-fine film.

Brandon Routh, as Clark/Superman, looks and acts just like Christopher Reeve, especially as Clark. I'd read as much in various reviews, but it's so true that it's worth repeating there, italicised, and here, in bold: he looks and acts just like Christopher Reeve. I consider this a good thing, as Christopher Reeve was great as Superman. Other pieces of casting are less successful, however...

Kate Bosworth as Lois. Well. I think she's gorgeous, and her eyes are different colours which I also think is gorgeous. But she looks my age, and not a day older. This is Lois Lane, the cynical, world-weary reporter of Superman lore? No. No, it clearly isn't. This is some attractive post-grad intern who has wrangled a job at the Daily Planet by shacking up with the editor's nephew. I found it totally implausible, and as such did not really like Bosworth's performance... her kid, for example, was supposed to be five years old, but she looked more like his big sister, or babysitter, or whatever. Not his mum.

James Marsden as Lois's Generic Bland Love Interest White. Actually he was alright, didn't have too much to do - essentially exactly the same character arc as his role as Cyclops in Singer's X-Men films; instead of Wolverine slowly stealing his girl it's Superman. Plus he doesn't have to wear a stupid visor so we can see his eyes and his performance seems a million times better.

Kevin Spacey was good as Lex Luthor.

But it was just... too... long.

Kinda like this entry, really. That's me done. Hope everyone's had a good weekend.