Wednesday, January 31, 2007


Well, I feel the need to get some fic into this blog to hold true to my promises, but my writing is fairly fruitless at the moment. I've decided to get back into my alt-22 projects, though, so I'll be posting parts of Attack of the Cybermen here weekly. The great part about this is that the entire first episode is written, so that gives me a few weeks to write the rest of it.

For those of you not aware this is part of the 'Alternate-Season 22' project I'm involved in, along with other people trying to undo the incredibly bad work of a certain Doctor Who script editor.


(A lingering, slow moving panning shot of space, focusing on distant stars, swirling galaxies. The camera slowly comes to a rest when it is hit by the glare of a close sun, but which is soon blotted out, by a strange, spinning metallic cylinder.)


(It is a small, uncomfortable-looking room, centred around a glowing dome in the centre of the room, that shows the Time Vortex spinning violently. The whole room is shaking around, as if caught in turbulence, with sparks leaping of exposed wiring. There are four stations on the walls - each consisting of bars for armholds and futuristic headsets. All four are occupied: there are BATES, STRATTON, PROSER, and GHAN - all are wearing matching light-blue uniforms. They shout to make themselves heard)

GHAN: I think we're losing Nav Control!

STRATTON: We will if you don't calm yourself down! Bates, what's the bearing?

BATES: No idea - there's too much interference!

GHAN: We're breaking up!

STRATTON: The only one breaking up here is you!

(At that point a valve seemingly busts and they are flooded in steam.)

PROSER: (coughing) Power levels are dropping fast, we'll need an emergency landing-

STRATTON: It's a hostile system, Proser, you must be mad.

PROSER: We can't cope with the drain! I'd rather land now than crash!

GHAN: (grimacing) Don't say that word, please...

BATES: What's causing the drain?

PROSER: Same thing causing the interference! Oh, god... hold on tight

(The cabinet is thrashed around wildly, while all four of them scream in terror. Ghan loses his grip on the bars and begins to bounce around all four walls of the small cabinet, off his crewmates who groan in response. As suddenly as the turbulence started the cabinet comes to a complete stop - for the first time since the scene began. Ghan lies groaning on the floor. There is a buzzing noise and the scanner-dome displays the Seal of Rassilon.)

BATES: Oh, no....

(The image of the seal is soon replaced with the coy face of a young blond woman, vaguely reminiscent of Romana.)

STRATTON: Time Lord?

TIME LADY: Of course. We are the Celestial Intervention Agency... the Agency has spoken with you and your colleagues, Commander Stratton. At length. Sadly you don't seem to have listened.

STRATTON: We’re our own people. We have our own rules. You cannot stop us.

TIME LADY: Can't we? Are you moving now, Commander Stratton? No, you are not. But you should be thankful - the alternatives will not be to your liking.

STRATTON: How about you start talking straight?

TIME LADY: Very well, Commander Stratton. You have no defensive capabilities, no navigational powers, and are in full traction-lock of our TARDISes. You can't run and you can't fight. You must surrender yourselves, it is your only option. Do it before we lose patience and we will be lenient.

PROSER: Wait a minute, if you've got us trapped, why are we even having this conversation?

TIME LADY: You have NO advantages.

PROSER: But why? You could have us all shipped to a penal colony by now.

GHAN: Don't tempt her!

BATES: (realising) It's the door! (grinning) They can't get through the door.

STRATTON: (grinning) Not exactly God-like powers, eh?

TIME LADY: (unamused) The locking system of your vessel is exceptionally complicated. Beyond even our skill. All we ask is that you surrender yourself and open the cabinet. Judgement will be passed upon you, but we can assure no physical harm shall be done to you.

STRATTON: What about metaphysical harm?

TIME LADY: Clever, Stratton. No doubt your cleverness had a part to play in your impressive rise through the ranks, but it must have deserted you when you considered even for a moment you could get away with this. The eyes of the Time Lords have been on you for a very long time… Lintus. We knew you would be the most likely to challenge it. We were ready for you. Now, will you surrender yourself?

BATES: Give it in, Stratton. It's not worth it.

STRATTON: She can't DO anything to us! It's an empty threat. Talk, that's all those Time Lords are.

TIME LADY: Is that your final word, then, Mr Stratton?

STRATTON: Yeah, tell your bosses in the High Council that it's over.

TIME LADY: No. I'll tell them YOU'RE over.

(There is a loud banging noise, and BATES, STRATTON and PROSER are all screaming, terrified.)


(The Time Cabinet, shooting space so quick that stars flash past blindingly, heading towards a small yellow planet...)


(With a loud crashing noise the cabinet comes to a smashing halt - throwing STRATTON, BATES, and PROSER down onto the floor - at the same instant the lights cut out, and after a few seconds of darkness in which we hear crying, red emergency lighting kicks in. We see GHAN, huddled up in the foetal position in a corner, crying. The others are sprawled on the floor, looking sore.)

PROSER: We've landed.

BATES: (with a small laugh) Don't think we need a navigator to tell us that, mate.

GHAN: Let me out, please let me out...

PROSER: Where are we?

STRATTON: (checking dials) All systems out - needs repairs...

GHAN: Let me out, let me out, let me out!

(STRATTON becomes aggravated and pulls GHAN up to his face by his shirt-front.)

STRATTON: You want out then, Ghan? EH?!

(GHAN sobs pathetically in response. STRATTON furiously punches a button in the roof - one of the walls folds out upwards making a door.)


(He throws GHAN out the door, onto the grey, rocky desert outside. GHAN, sobbing uncontrollably, runs off hysterically. BATES and PROSER angrily confront STRATTON)

PROSER: What do you think you're doing?

BATES: He needs help!

STRATTON: He needs to calm down first. Fresh air will probably do him a world of good.

(On that note, there is a loud ZAP noise. All three look out the door in shock...)


(GHAN is gripping a smoking hole in his chest, still trying to cry but not finding the breath to do so - he slowly falls down onto the ground. PROSER and BATES are looking out in horror from the cabinet door, and run over to help him)

BATES: Ghan!

(STRATTON tries to grab BATES but the latter gets out of his grip. STRATTON runs after him.)

STRATTON: No, you morons! It's not safe!

(There is an ominous click, and we see several laser guns being levelled at the trio from different vantage points on hills surrounding the time cabinet from the POV of their attackers.)

CYBERLEADER: (V.O) Resistance is useless.





The Attack of the Cybermen

by Jared Hansen*

(*with some stuff courtesy of Eric Saward/Paula Woolesly/Ian Levine/whoever actually wrote the damn thing)



(Before the camera establishes the entire room it drifts across a notice-board in the corner of the room.. various newspaper articles have been cut-out and stuck up. Among the headlines that stick out are: "MYSTERY" ROBBERIES CONTINUE, 6 BANKS HIT IN ONE MONTH - POLICE CLUELESS, LONDON - GANG CITY? As we see the rest of the room, it becomes evident that it is dominated by a silver sports car in the centre. It is an untidy room with clutter on the floor and on various shelves - mundane objects such as empty bottles and car parts for the most part. There is the incongruous presence of incredibly detailed scientific diagrams, architectural plans and city maps on the walls, but the general feel of the room is sustained by a large Arsenal FC flag which dominates the rear wall. Present in the room are JOE PAYNE, who is wearing blue overalls and working on the underside of his car, and CHARLIE GRIFFITHS, who is staring at the frontpage of a newspaper and looking distinctly worried. There is a ghetto blaster on the floor playing rock music right near Payne's ear.)

GRIFFITHS: I don't like it, Joe.

PAYNE: What?


PAYNE: Yeah, well, it's like I said. Means that much to you, you can put a United flag on your own damned wall but the Gunners are here to stay!

GRIFFITHS (exasperated) Not that!

PAYNE: What?

(Irritated, Griffiths switches the stereo off. Payne emerges from underneath the car, grimy and smoking, looking annoyed.)

PAYNE: `Ey! I was listening to that, Charlie!

GRIFFITHS: You seen today's paper?

PAYNE: Can't say that I have, no. Another one for the notice-board, is it?

GRIFFITHS (grimly) You could say that.

(He turns the paper around to show Payne - "SUSPECT SIGHTED: FIRST BREAK IN ROBBERY CASE, CLAIM POLICE". There is a sketch of Payne occupying most of the front page.)

PAYNE: Oh, bo-

GRIFFITHS: Yeah, that's right! I haven't been liking none of this publicity – I been tryin’ to keep my nose clean, keep my head on my bleedin’ shoulders and now this!

PAYNE: You think I wanted this? Cos I didn’t Charlie, thought you’d have gotten that through your thick skull.
GRIFFITHS: Don’t you dare call me thick – you insisted on bringing the Jag.

PAYNE: We had to get out fast the Boss said. Nothin’s faster than this.

GRIFFITHS: So I keep hearing, but it ain’t exactly inconspicuous in the middle of Brixton. You’d best enjoy it while you still can, reckon we’ll all be rumbled soon.

PAYNE: Oh, really?

(Payne goes back under the car)

PAYNE: Are you pullin’ out then, Charlie?


GRIFFITHS: No. Not today.

PAYNE: ‘Not today’?... so you reckon you’re leaving?

GRIFFITHS: I don’t reckon I’m leaving, Joe. I AM.

(Payne nods in a somewhat cynical manner.)

PAYNE: Right. Don’t get your knickers in a twist ‘bout that paper, mate. Terrible drawing – don’t even look like me. All I gotta do is start growin’ a beard, wearing hats… Bob’s your uncle.

(Griffiths shakes his head in exasperation, and tosses the paper onto one of the workbenches. After a short pause, Payne sticks his head out from under the car again.)

PAYNE: Has the Boss seen it?

GRIFFITHS: Nope. Been in the office since this morning.

PAYNE: You ever wonder just what it is he does in there?


(A dank, brick corridor, that is notable for a large, steel door that has a sign on it saying “DO NOT DISTURB”)


(A dim, poorly-lit room. All we are shown is a tight shot of Lytton’s black-gloved hands handling some controls in front of some sort of screen, which is showing extremely hazy images. As Lytton slowly adjusts the controls we hear different voices being broadcast.)

CYBERMAN #1 (VO) Eastern Sector Six Work Party rotation commencing.

CYBERMAN #2 (VO) Shuttle 755Alpha docking – station B.

CYBERMAN #3 (VO) Coolant increase of 4% requested in Technical Zone 23. Transferring full report.

CYBERMAN #2 (VO): Newly interred units – 250 standard units. 70 scout units-

(The dial is re-adjusted slightly)

CYBER CONTROLLER (VO): Report status.

PROSER (VO): It looks about right.

CYBERLEADER (VO): Prisoner will specify in exact terms!

PROSER (VO) Well… it should work. Sir.

CYBERLEADER (VO): Specify probability.

(Lytton talks over the audio)

LYTTON: Request visual.

(The sound is interrupted by a negative tone. The computer responds)

COMPUTER: Request cannot be completed. Target zone is beyond maximum range.

CYBER CONTROLLER (VO) Alpha Test shall commence… 5, 4, 3,…

LYTTON: I want a lock-on this target.

COMPUTER: Confirmed.

(There is a thundering bass electronic noise, and we hear a sound that seems to be a Cyberman screaming. However, the sound comes into contact with extreme interference, and when it clears we hear the sound of classical music.)

LYTTON: (Confused) What is this?

COMPUTER: Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 in B Minor. An inferior piece.


(Peri walks in through the door, wearing a pink leotard and denim shorts, to see the Doctor giving a spirited mock-conduction to the tune of the music which is playing on a clapped out old gramophone on a coffee table.)

PERI: You're feeling good, then?

THE DOCTOR: Good? Good? I am ALIVE, Peri!

(Peri gives an awkward smile)

PERI: That's nice?

THE DOCTOR: Very. You don't know how good until you've died as many times as I have.

(PERI slumps on a chair, looking tired.)

PERI: Please, Doctor, it's hard to take this stuff in...

THE DOCTOR: I do have to say, though, that being poisoned beats falling off a radio-telescope hands down!

PERI (half listening) Really?

THE DOCTOR: Oh, yes. All those bones to knit. Awful. Don't think I really recovered, either... I could swear I hadn't got the backbone right.

PERI: Doctor, do you have any coffee?

THE DOCTOR: Coffee? What would I do with coffee?

PERI: Drink it?

THE DOCTOR: What a strange idea...

(The Doctor trails off as he notices Peri's clothes for the first time.)

THE DOCTOR: You went to sleep in that?

PERI: (shrugs) That's what was in the cupboard.

THE DOCTOR: (looking back at the controls) How odd.

PERI: You changed your face and then went on to defeat an evil slug, Doctor... I think that trumps everything when it comes to weirdness.

THE DOCTOR: That's not what I meant!

PERI: (feigning interest) Then what did you mean?

THE DOCTOR: These! (gesturing at controls)They're odd!

PERI: (glancing at controls) They're odd?

THE DOCTOR: Yes! I've never seen such oddity! Well, obviously I have - there's barely anything in the universe I haven't seen... the siege of Troy, the collapse of Star One, C-Beams glittering in the darkness of Tennhauser Gate-

PERI: Doctor, you're babbling.

THE DOCTOR: What?!...oh, sorry... (goes back to controls) There's something out there... something big.

PERI: Well, open the scanner.

THE DOCTOR: No, no, no!... not 'there' there... it's-

(There is a major jolt – Peri sits bolt upright. Suddenly the central column of the TARDIS starts shifting rhythmically, moving faster and faster...)

PERI: What was that?

THE DOCTOR: We hit it!

PERI: ... hit what?

THE DOCTOR: Something!

PERI: Open the scanner!

(The Doctor looks ready to burst, but restrains himself)

THE DOCTOR: It's not in space, it's in the Vortex! Like... a tear in the space-time continuum!

PERI: A-and that's bad isn't it?

THE DOCTOR: Bad? BAD?! It'd destroy the universe!

PERI: What?!

THE DOCTOR: You heard what I said.

PERI: W-we'd all die?

THE DOCTOR: No doubt about it.

PERI: Oh... oh my god...

THE DOCTOR: So it's a good thing that hasn't happened!

PERI: (Confused) What?

THE DOCTOR: I said LIKE a tear in the space time continuum. This is something completely different. But similar.

(PERI rubs her face)

PERI: Doctor, please don't do that to me so early in the morning...

THE DOCTOR: (Ignoring her) We're being carried along, through time... BACKWARDS through time... this isn't Time Lord technology! Towards... Earth!

PERI: We're going to Earth?

THE DOCTOR: At the moment... and we're not the only ones.

PERI: (struggling to concentrate) So... someone else is coming to Earth, through the beam?

THE DOCTOR: Yes. From the future. Interfering in history...

PERI: Well, what could they want?

THE DOCTOR: It could be anything... anything at all.

PERI: That doesn't help!

THE DOCTOR : No, no it doesn't... but maybe you can! Did anything important happen in 1985?

PERI : I'm from 1984!

THE DOCTOR: Well was anything important STARTING to happen?


(As before.)

PERI: Are you serious? (V.O)

THE DOCTOR: Yes, this could be VITAL! (V.O)

LYTTON: ...who are these people?

COMPUTER: Insufficient data.

LYTTON: Insufficient data? They're travelling on the time stream, that should narrow the field.

COMPUTER: Affirmative.

LYTTON: Then give me candidates.

COMPUTER: Races with limited time travel capabilities listed on database include: The Argolins, The Sontarans, The Cetenes, The Daleks...

LYTTON: Computer – never mention the Daleks again.

COMPUTER: Confirmed. Continue specified actions?

(Lytton nods)


PERI: It feels like a lifetime - I think Harrison Ford was doing another movie.

THE DOCTOR: Is that ALL?... who's Harrison Ford?

PERI: (shaking her head) It doesn't matter. So, are we in any danger?

THE DOCTOR: Danger? Danger! The fabric of the space-time continuum-

PERI: Yeah, yeah, I get the stuff about space-time... but I'm talking about US. Personally.

THE DOCTOR: Well, if you want to be *selfish* then NO. We're not in danger.

PERI: So... we're just going where the currents taking us? Back to Earth.


PERI: (shrugs) So we just go there, right?

THE DOCTOR (sternly) No.


THE DOCTOR: Nay, I'll conjure too!

(The Doctor starts wildly fumbling with the controls and yelling increasingly violently)

THE DOCTOR: Romeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!

(The console starts sparking, and the room shaking. Peri yelps, frightened)

PERI: What the hell are you doing?

THE DOCTOR: Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, with Ate by his side come hot from hell, shall in these confines with a monarch's voice, cry HAVOC... AND LET SLIP THE DOGS OF WAR!!


THE DOCTOR: I'm fighting back! Suffering slings and arrows!

PERI: Well, stop!!

THE DOCTOR: NO! I'm going to find out just where they're coming from-

(he ducks just as there is a large explosion from the console, before straightening up and carrying on as if nothing happened. The gramophone is struck by the blast and topples over)

THE DOCTOR: -by going against the currents. We should be there - wherever it is - in no time!

PERI: Yeah, if we HAVE any time!

THE DOCTOR: What ARE you talking about?

(There is another shower of sparks. Smoke starts to leak out of the console, but the Doctor starts waving it away with a handkerchief, almost idly)

PERI: (pointing at the console) This!

THE DOCTOR: Teething troubles, that's all. Ever tried to teach an old dog new tricks?

(The room shakes violently. The smoke starts to come out thicker)

PERI: You know why I like dogs, Doctor? THEY DON'T CATCH ON FIRE!

THE DOCTOR: Now THERE'S a generalisation if ever I heard one! Canine is quite a common species galactically speaking, I'll have you know, and the dogs on-

(There is a very large explosion right from the Central Column, which knocks both Peri and the Doctor off their feet)


COMPUTER: ...The Third Zoners, Cryptovene, Khaskarg…

LYTTON: (VO) I've lost the trace. What's happened?

COMPUTER: ..Hatre Sedtrines, the Vordjan and, according to unverified sources, the Gam.

LYTTON: Repeat: I have lost the trace. I require more information on target.

COMPUTER: (oblivious) Races possessing Unlimited Time Travel capabilities contains only one entry: The Time Lords, native to the planet Gallifrey in Universal Sector T-delta17, aka Kasterborous.

(For the first time the camera shows Lytton's face. He has a look of realisation.)

LYTTON: The Time Lords?... (He smiles thinly) Precisely what I need.

COMPUTER: Confirmed.


(A haze of smoke)

PERI: Doctor, what are we doing?!

THE DOCTOR: What am I doing?! Trans-vector re-alignment parabolaic-reversal, that's what I'm doing!

PERI: (Crossly) You're just making these words up!

THE DOCTOR: Fine, if you must have everything SPOON FED to you, then I'm trying to dam the time-stream, halt the flow, and bring us to a nice, safe, landing! Isn't that what you want?

PERI: Yes, but I'd also not to choke to death!

THE DOCTOR: Then hold your breath in!

PERI: Don't you DARE talk to me like that, Doctor! Who do-

(PERI leans in over the console to berate the Doctor, and doing so accidentally slams her hand onto a button. The TARDIS goes completely out of control)

THE DOCTOR: You know what I just said about a safe landing?

PERI: Yes?

THE DOCTOR: Forget it!

More next week. And the week after that and the one after that. HOPEFULLY also for the next one, but by that stage it'll be more complicated than pressing CTRL+V...

PARIS HILTON: My Heart Bleeds for Her

This is pathetic.

Hilton's suit alleged that the website — — which displays photos, home videos, diary entries and audiotapes of her conversations, as well as images of her passport, is "one of the most reprehensible invasions of privacy of a celebrity."

"Privacy of a celebrity"? Isn't that a bit of a catch-22, Pari?

Hilton claimed the removal company was supposed to pay the storage fees and that she was "shocked and surprised" to learn that the amount had not been paid and that her belongings had been sold at a public auction.

Ha! Even disgustingly rich oxygen-wasters hire shonky storage companies. Except, you know, they can sue when stuff goes wrong.

"I was appalled to learn that people are exploiting my and my sisters' private personal belongings for commercial gain," she said in her court statement.

Really? I don't know if you've noticed but it's been going on for years. And is it any worse than exposing your private, personal, genitals for commercial gain? You've shown numerous times you have no problem with that.

The simple fact of the matter is that Paris Hilton, for whatever reason, is one of the largest industries in America at the moment. Why should it only be the Hiltons themselves who profit? If you believe in Free Enterprise, every man, woman and child has the right to make money from a dumb whore if that's where the cash is.

Hilton is seeking closure of the site on the grounds that the information shown could be used by people "to steal my identity, or even worse, to harass or stalk me."

This is pretty pathetic grounds. Identity theft? Right. That makes sense. Who knows what Paris Hilton looks like? They'll only recognise you when you're in low-resolution video taking it up the arse. But honestly, the idea that any half-good-looking blond could flash a Hilton ID and get passed off at her is ludicrous. The average blond I've seen is far too good-looking.

And harass/stalk? HOW WOULD YOU EVEN KNOW? You're surrounded by PR/Security entourages constantly! When do you talk to plebs? And I have news for you - if you're stalker-bait (and, frankly, there's no doubt about it seeing as every grass-munching fool is obsessed with your skankitude) the stalkers are already there. See, notice is given in advance where you're going to show up, because the organisers have to pay a million dollars to have you show up. And if someone tries to figure out your routine away from paid visits to charity events it'll be easy. Seeing as everytime you get out of a fucking car door there's someone to take a photo, your underwear-less freak!

The lawsuit claims the possessions were bought by defendants Nabil and Nabila Haniss for 2,775 dollars and sold to a third person Bardia Persa, for 10 million. Visitors to the site pay around 40 dollars to view the items.

What can I say? Fair exchange is no robbery. It may be completely idiotic and unfair, but there's nothing illegal about that.

In addition to claiming invasion of privacy, Hilton says she filed copyright registrations last week for three writings that were contained in the belongings. She claims the site is engaging in copyright infringement.

I find the idea of her 'writings' amusing. Personally I like to believe it's some sort of Bratz fanfic.

In case you haven't worked it out I really hate her. Seacrest out.

Monday, January 29, 2007

The Monstrous Mister Moran

The Australian Broadcasting Commission has never been about entertainment. Or, if it has, it is a shadowy secret of its past that has lain dormant since the dawn of time. It is an organization that will tell Tony Martin and Shaun Michallef to piss off when they propose a sketch show, that will decide The Office isn't funny, and will run endless Agatha Christie telemovies.

The exception seems to be on Wednesday nights. I have no idea why. Maybe the Australian Liberal Party (NB: the 'Liberals' do not believe in the freedom of the individual at all and never have. They are called this because at the time of their genesis the name of "The Australian Conservative Party" was already taken. Just one of the many crazy things we have to confuse pesky foreigners in this country) turn to stone on Wednesday nights and thus are unable to pick up their telephones to complain. At any rate, Wednesday night is a place where funny things can happen on the AB friggin' C.

Last week (I think it was last week, I lose track) an extreme example came out of nowhere. Dylan Moran, acclaimed star of everyone who's anyone's favourite sitcom Black Books, was going to be shown for 80 minutes in his stand-up show Monster. Squee? I nearly w00ted myself.

I have a keen interest in stand-up comedians and their techniques. I love watching comedy festivals, as you see crap acts as well as the good, and it's interesting to study why some performers bring the house down, why some make the house get up and leave, and why one made the huse jump up on stage and punch him out.

Billy Connolly - he's driven by a rush of adrenaline to begin with (the jokes always fly fast at the start of the act) and then fills out the show with his natural charisma and entertaining stories. Ben Elton and Greg Fleet are combined actors/writers - they write clever diatribes and stories to seem natural, and have the skill to make them appear ad-libbed on stage. Wil Anderson tries the same trick but lacks discipline - he gets away with it because he's likeable, though, and treats the world with far more irreverance. Stephen K. Amos uses few funny jokes, but alternates between his real self and adopted personas to keep the audience on the back foot, keeping them constantly entertained. Dave Hughes magnificiently camoflauges his quick comic mind and knack for timing under a bumbling, slow-witted demeanour that means the gags come out of nowhere. Rove McManus shoves jokes in your face and hopes you will laugh. Jason Byrne has a complete lack of any storytelling skills and poor judgement for delivery but attains laughs through his ridiculously aggressive demeanour. Jerry Seinfeld plays safe comedy but has cornered the market for observational minutae thanks to his self-conscious and neurotic nature. And so on.

So what about Dylan? I hadn't seen him before, so I was very interested to watch his technique.

Well, looking back I immediately mentally compared him to Billy Connolly, who is mentioned above but you all know anyway. In case there's any uncertainty, in brief he's the mad Scotsman with the long hair and purple beard who makes his living yelling "FUCK YOU!" in the funniest way imaginable. Yeah, you know who I'm talking about.

But, really, Dylan and Billy are very different - maybe even opposites. Their rambling acts and accents made me link them in mind, but the differences are many. For a start, Dylan Moran starts slow. As a performer he needs to warm up. I say this because, for the first five minutes or so he didn't really make me laugh. Maybe a smile and a chuckle, but he comes in barely able to walk straight and grabbing his bearings. Also, Connolly has always enjoyed a peacock image, swanning around in fancy, impractical, and stupidly expensive clothes in many of his acts, and constantly referring to himself as "The windswept and interesting comedian". Whereas Moran stumbles on stage with a glass of white wine, and whinges about it being "Too fucking hot" before dumping his jacket on the microphone stand.

Throughout his entire act Moran never stops smoking or drinking. Nor, before the act has he brushed his hair, or possibly even showered. The line between Dylan Moran and the angry, insane character Bernard Black that has made him famous won't be defined by watching his show. It will be blurred. You can be forgiven for thinking that they are one and the same.

The verdict? He is hilariously funny. Brilliant. He plays his act like standard observational comedy, telling jokes in a long, rambling manner, only just keeping himself audible through his muddled accent. As he slowly starts you can be forgiven for dismissing it as a basic act - indeed, as he opens his style is reminiscent of another Irish comic, Jimeoin, who I consider to be one of the worst stand-ups I've ever seen. The difference between them, though, is Moran's incisive intelligence. Jimeoin will supposedly show the stupidity of humans through our foibles, but reveals how stupid he himself is not too understand them. Moran does this and, partially, succeeds. But this isn't his goal.

What Moran tries to do is take a seed of absurdity from real life and force it to grow. He points out the ludicrousness of anything, and demonstrates it through more ludicrousness. But, brilliantly, he delivers it so deadpan you'd think he was reading out of the phonebook. His critcque of Fat Boy Slim's Rockafeller Skank was definitely a highlight.

"The lyrics of this song, which was played at such a volume the seat next to me started to bleed, went like this: The funk soul brother. So check it out now. It's the funk soul brother. You know. Right about now. As far as I could see, the message of the song seemed to be that there's this man. Who calls himself the funk soul brother. And he's coming here. We're expecting him any moment. But he's not here yet. But, you know, he should be here right now. And he doesn't actually turn up at any point during the six minute song."

Of course, written down that's so unfunny I feel like I should whip myself with the handy telephone flex for even putting it down on the screen, but his delivery is second-to-none.

Exactly where he gets his ideas from, I don't know. His brief, improvised rap stanza and a yelled-out argument between two imaginary French artists are some of the best highlights and come out of nowhere. Nowhere except Moran's chaotic yet brilliant mind. The way the show ends is the biggest clue of this. Moran simply rattles of a quick punchline and says 'goodnight', before walking off stage. No protracted farewell, no winding down of the act, and no pithy ending. It seems almost cruel to throw the brakes on the show so suddenly as he does, but it reveals his cleverness in that it shows, like Billy Connolly, he ad-libs his whole show and simply ends it when the time's up.

Dylan Moran, we salute you!


Yes. I said this would be a weekly fixture and I was not lying. You see, unlike some other bloggers I DOOOON'T GET CAWGHT NNNNAPPING!!!!

(Squints madly, clenches fist.)

What's that? No updates for.... a year? Yeah, well, you know that last post about how I bitched about having to mind my grandma? I had to do it again the very next night, after a full day of lying in the backseat of a car while she was driven all over the coast and walking around holding my pants up like an idiot because (due to quite bizarre circumstances) I had shorts two sizes too large and no belt. Plus today I had to re-enroll in TAFE. My will to live might just return sometime soon.

So, yes, more of the highly-acclaimed and -run-away-from Doktor Cube!

(Not written by me. I'm just the messenger.)


CHAPTER III: The Plot Sickens

Still recovering from his adrenaline pumping betrayal, the Doktorstepped through the door with his kalashnikov mk IIIs (AK MOP AND DRE47) and gazed out upon the great seas of empty space separating himfrom the two parts asbestos nineteen parts unprocessed uranium wall.As he entered the room, he could feel the radiation being reflectedoff his enchanted shield of personal self-engineering back towards thesource of its power. Using the Doktor's CUBE vision, the Doktor couldtell by the sub-molecular structure of the compounds forming in frontof him that his own shield would cause the death of him, too muchradiation being reflected and building up, not enough lame assM-T'ness for all. Without further hesitation, the Doktor opened fireupon the rain black clad government agents that leapt down from theceiling letting loose a barrage of M-16 fire. The Doktor focusedhis mind once again, speeding up the world around him and threw theroom around them up towards the descending soldiers. As a result, theyall came off with N-degree concussion wounds, rendering them all in astate of REM unconsciousness... all Xcept for... ONE. "So DoktorCube," pronounced ONE in rough Australasian Italian, "It has been along time... what, ninety, ninety-four years?" The Doktor replied, "Asalways, your timing is impecable, but ultimately flawed. While youhave kept count, I have kept my identity hidden from all but thosetrusted few whom I trust who reside in the trusted inner circle of atrusted trust of trusted trustees. Your plan has failed to bring myface into the light... figuratively and emotionally. You have failed,and I'm going to show you how." "But you forgot ONE thing...LITERALLY! HAHAHAHAHAHA!" "The end has come ONE. The last time we metyou left your book lying open on your ibex bone table. I took theliberty of finishing it for you... now I am going to show you how itends." With that said, the Doktor threw the pull of gravitysurrounding his intellect centre and landed in a crouched positionfiring at ONE on the wall nearest. ONE flew uponto the ceiling andproduced a set of desert eagles equipped with secondary fire grenadelaunchers. "You like that trick?," ONE gloated. "It's something Ipicket up in Baghdad." "They sell that crap at the airport," repliedthe Doktor. Streaks of ammunition were raking the walls with the typeof fury that only comes from solitary confinement with nothing but afour legged chair with three legs missing. The battle seemed evenlymatched. However, as ONE blew a hole through the wall with a grenadereflected by DRE-47, the Doktor used his gravity bubble to throw ONEthrough the hole, into the marble clad foyeur of his marble cladassociate. Stepping through the smoking rubble over to where ONE nowlay, the Doktor reloaded DRE 47 (AK MOP had not yet been fired) andprepared to obtain the information he required. The Doktor then openedfire upon the traditional but not truthfully unexpected hundred andfifty russian mafia body guards that game pouring out the metaphoricalwoodwork. The Doktor blew them away. Another microphone, reminiscentof the earlier model, came out of the ceiling. "Very well," it said."Your 'old aquaintance' will see you now." The camera dissapeared, andthe Doktor pointed both barrels at ONE, still lying on the ground."Why are you and the 'military' after me? TELL ME! NOW!" The Doktorshot ONE in both emotional centres with unparalelled inaccuracy andrage. However, when the bullets hit, it was not blood that errupted,but time bending plasma, allowing the culprit to bend the fabric oftime around himself and marble. ONE dissapeared. The Doktor spat atthe memory of ONE, not knowing if they would ever meet again. He hopedfor his sake, that his medical skills didn't get any better when thetwo came to klash again. Turning and striding towards the nowmaterialised solid granite elevator doors, the Doktor could not helpbut feel that something was missing-- DAMN! As the elevator doorsopened, an all to familiar face came into perspective and focus... aface the CUBE vision despised. The Doktor tensed his war machine asall the images of his past flashed before him, to his most recentrelated memory when all things considered..."DOKTOR CUBE, WELCOME BACK! I'm sorry to say we'll have to make thisencounter... brief."TO BE CONTINUED


Thursday, January 25, 2007

The Wonders of Family

The term 'dysfunctional' family is one that pops up an awful lot these days, generally in reviews of films and TV shows where we are treated to bizarre leaps of logic undertaken by m[u/o]ms, dads, siblings, and Steve Carrell with alarming frequency. But I think the adjective has no right in that particular phrase, and should be shunted off as quickly as possible. That's just how 'family' is.

I am someone who avoids my family. I like to be an atom spinning around in my own safe Nuclear Family. After all, what are they? People who happen to have been born in close proximity to the woman who gave birth to you and nothing more vital. They're essentially 'friends' you have no choice about making. I think this has been quite an achievement on my part, though - I have 19 first cousins, and the various aunts and uncles that go along with them.

But occassionally, one visits and you're left with no choice but to... well, smile and stuff of that nature. Be polite. Or nice. As happened just... today. When my grandma visited. She's staying with my brother (who lives away from me - I don't even see my sibling on a daily basis!) but we all got together for dinner. Casual (read: awkward) conversation takes place for 2 hrs about stuff we already know or stuff we have no interest of, with the occassional amusing anecdote somehow slipping through the net, nearly unwelcome. One of the details revealed: my brother and his girlfriend were going to the Leaguesy (club) and leaving gran home alone.

Is that morally reprehensible? Probably. Even though she lives on her own anyway I think the idea of going out to a party and leaving your granny alone in a strange place should at least raise an eyebrow of the most streadfast social bastard, but it was all discussed there at the table, in an excessively reasonable fashion. The indictment handed down from my parents was thus: That's an arsehole-ish thing to do, and we will make you aware of this. But we can accept it. This time. You arsehole.

Another hour of eating and avoiding talking for the danger of saying something irrevocably retarded followed and we made farewells. They got in my brothers car and disappeared, we mirrored them in the opposite direction. You'd think that would be the end to the evening.

Once we've driven a k or so out of town, into the countryside that we call 'boring' or, quite often, 'home' the conversation shifts from how damned cool Mark Knopfler is to 'what the hell was my brother thinking?' Apparenlty the sheer outrageousness of the situation hadn't been fully realised at the dinner table, and it was only now in a state of sobre reflection that the complete bastardliness nature of their very own Judas had come to light.

He was going to pay.

By having me stay in his house.

These are the irrational acts that family drives us to, for whatever reason. I am, right now, in my brother's computer room, a little bemused at the surreal turn of my evening. I feel like I'm in some sort of Samuel Beckett play, ready to spout endless soliloquies about the godlessness of man until dying a slow death at the end of the third hour much to the relief of the audience...

Something about the Irish, isn't there? They're either unbelievably jolly or unbelievably depressing. Stay tuned for more analysis of the Irish next entry...

Monday, January 22, 2007

James Bond Beats up Cripples

Folks, I have no doubt what the reaction of the sleazy men and women who participate in straight porn would have been after seeing Shortbus. Every time a male-male interaction would come on, they'd go something like "ewww". These straight porn hypocrites think it's only OK for men to hang out with women and for women to hang out with women. Men hanging out with men is a big no-no to them. They are the ultimate hypocrites. - Heterophobic troll on IMDB desperately trying to cause a debate over film "Shortbus"

Ladies and gentlemen, I ask that you ignore the completely unrelated quote immediately above what I'm writing now. I have just felt since my discovery of it that the IMDb messageboards are the ultimate goldmine for retarded quotes when one is in the mood and right now I am certaintly in the mood.

BUT I am here for an altogether different reason: reviewing Casino Royale. I figure that now it has taken 600 million, is no longer showing and people are moving on to watch Denzel Washington in a film that has a plot he was unable to explain in a TV interview, it's the best possible time to complain about Daniel Craig.

CR is, simply a re-launch. RTD style. And it, sadly, gets the most predictable reactions. Really, imagine every piece of sickening fawn that media lapdogs could spout and they have. Daniel craig is THE BEST BOND SINCE CONNERY! Eva Green is THE HOTTEST BOND BABE EVER! And, most ludicrously, CASINO ROYALE IS THE MOST FAITHFUL ADAPTATION TO A JAMES BOND NOVEL EVER!

I disagree. If you will allow me to state my case-

HAY GUYZ look at me! NIRPICKNITPICKNITPICK! In the novel, Bond wears a red tie to the meeting with M! In this one, he's wearing a watch! AND HE'S BLO OOO OOO OOO OOO OOO OOO OOO OOO ND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
standard IMDb debating skills in action

What? No, the meeting with M doesn't appear in the book. And he was wearing a watch AND a tie in the film. Please don't interrupt me like that again, IMDbPerson.

So, where was I? Ah, yes. The film adds fifty minutes of stuff to the front and more (WAY too much) onto the end. As well as a love story. We get to see Bond in his new-age white fashions driving around Venice in a barge with his lovely girl in the most sickeningly senstive way you'll immediately realise the high pressure on your bladder walls after sitting through 2 hours of this crap. And there's still heaps to go.

But going back to the start - a faithful adaptation of a Bond novel isn't possible without making it a period piece. Fleming's Bond novels are gritty, paranoia fuelled thrillers mingled with a touch of boy's own sentimentality - they're so `50s you could mistake them for John Howard's family. But also, CR is a small-scale story as Bond books go anyway - just about entirely st in the titular casino dealing with the interactions of a small, intriguing cast of characters. But unless your French you're not going to make a movie like that. So we need 50 minutes of mindless action to bring us into the casino in the first place. This is where the next ecstatic point comes in:


Some AOL talk used there to insinuate people who say so are complete morons. Because CR is, really, just another Bond film. The only reason people are jumping around crazily saying it's realistic is down to a couple of simple things:

*Bond punches up people
*There's blood splatter
*ZOMG terrorists that's so insightful and shit!
*The last Bond films were shitty Pierce Brosnan ones with CGI effects

And also some of it may be due to the idiocy of others.

At the part where he is poisoned, i wonder if he injects all these things for real or not? - an idiot

LeChiffre's character is a banker for terrorists. I'm not sure how concerned terrorist leaders are about interest rates in real life, but these guys definitely are - they give him a biiiig suitcase of money and are assured that they can access the money from anywhere in the world. Your guess is as good as mine how that works.

Interestingly, LeChiffre is also a high-profile stock magnate, who makes his money by putting terrorist's money into the stock market and making windfalls on corporations that undergo unexpected disasters - caused by different terrorists that he hires. Interestingly his stockbroker doesn't seem to be surprised that LeChiffre just happens to buy-back shares just after freak terrorist bombings... could it be because this guy is his stockbroker?

At any rate LeChiffre loses his money when Bond has sex with one of the Veronicas who lets slip that her husband is a terrorist and Bond kills him and some anonymous terrorist redshirt in a pyromaniacs wet dream at LAX. (About forty minutes in) So he's forced to go to a Montenagro casino to try and win a heap of money off stupid foreigners. Because his incredibly abilities of mathematics give him the power to guess what cards you'll get at poker. Amazingly, people seem to swallow the idea that knowledge of probability gives you the godlike power to guess what cards people are holding.

Does any of this sound like something that would happen in real life?

And going back further, right back to the start of the film... well, not the real start, which is Bond psychotically beating up a Pakistani bloke in the men's room before shooting one of his superiors to get his cool three-digit codename. No, the bit after that where Bond has the longest chase scene ever - I laughed several times at it and enjoyed it, but the suspension of disbelief was swept away by janitors at the end. Any scene where Bond steals a bulldozer and smashes up a construction site is funny, and it only gets more ludicrous when the poor bloke he's chasing decides the most logical way to run is up a gigantic crane. Eventually they end up in the middle of an embassy, where James starts shooting everyone. Yeah, this would really be an act of war but that's glossed over. Bond gets a slap on the wrist from Judi Dench but because he only killed someone to do with terrorists nobody ... wait, maybe that part's not that unrealistic.

For me, I still have some trouble with Bond. Daniel Craig really doesn't seem quite right to me. Put bluntly, he's not very good-looking. He reminds me of Marv in Sin City. He seems generally too thuggish for the role and I-

Again, all I see is men bitching about Craig's looks, which really supports my theory that a lot of the Craig haters are just closet homos that don't got metrosexual Brosnan around to jerk off too.
"Grantzilla", possibly not their real name

Well, that seems a well-reasoned argument. Of course, plenty of woman can be found who are impressed on the good ol' IMDb. How about some testimonials:

Sexy sexy sexy!!!!!!

I simply must have him. ;)


I must see a picture of him topless and dripping wet! With his trousers just slipping ever so slightly below his waistline...

Oh, wait, sorry. They aren't talking about Daniel Craig! They're talking about this guy.

Anyway, moving on... the thing that got me about this film most, after being reluctantly taken along after a 'hope the coin explodes and kills me' choice between it and Blood Diamond, was just how Bond it all was. It's just the same old stuff with less hovercraft. One of the most obvious recurring features:

People with disfigurements are evil.

Yep, that one's back with a vengeance. Carrying on from the guy with a robot hand (Live and Let Die) the bloke with an eyepatch (Thunderball) scarred-eye man (You Only Live Twice) gigantic bloke with freaky teeth (Spy Who Loved Me/Moonraker) French midget and bloke with three nipples (The Man With the Golden Gun) and many others we have LeChiffre's completely unnecessary bleeding eye. And the African bomb-maker who has a burnt face. And the African embassy bloke with the messed up eye. And the young terrorist with unusually large hands. It just helps re-inforce the grand old Boy's Own feel of it all - well-kempt, well dressed hero is cheered on as he thumps poor cripples. Rule Brittannia!

Is that itself what's wrong with this film? No. It's not a problem. This is Bond not Reality, so I don't expect the sort of credible baddies you get in thought-out films such as The Bourne Identity. No, the big problem is simply the pretension. The problem is that everything the media-whores believe about this film, the people who made it believe as well.

This is why the film is an unbelievable 150 minutes long, when it could have easily been 90. This is why they try to create a Sensative New Age Guy image of Bond whilst still keeping some of his sexism. This is why African terrorists are (kind of) the bad guys. This is why the film ends in a shitty lead in to a sequel.

So, what's my final verdict? How many stars?

I give this film... no stars. Because I'm not that serious a reviewer. Is it worth watching? Ah, what does it matter, you've already gone to see it and are going to buy the DVD you consumer-mad bastards. Where were you when Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy desperately needed box-office figures to make a sequel? Don't answer that, I know where you were. Either watching Revenge of the Sith or masturbating to Paris Hilton. You Lowest Common Denominator pricks can get the hell out of my blog and go listen to the Scissor Sisters...


Yours Truly,
(I can assure you, it's nothing sinister...)

EDIT: Just wanted to say that stuff has gone wrong with font sizes in this post. Sorry, but this site is really starting to shit me off with how it conspires to screw up asbolutely everyone one of my entries. Hoepfully it's readable, though - as it isn't readable for me editing it right now. I had to manually change the font to white because the site thought black-on-black was a good look. So now I'm typing in white-on-white. Hahaha I feel like shooting someone.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Finding the Ropes with My New Pair of Shoes

Okay, truth be told I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do with this blog when I started it. And I still don't know. But my incredible deductive powers are at work:

*Fic will be here, eventually, but not as commonplace as you were lead to believe. The reason for this is that fic takes a long time. Unless you're lucky enough to be Ewen Campion-Clarke who freaks me out with his speed of writing. (And quality - a certain fellow named Sparacus also has an impressive output rate but impresses me a lot less)
*Rambling probably was not listed as as relevently as it should have been in my original spiel
*These are not my boxer shorts.
*Sorry, but if things carry on like last night I'll be forced to bring cricket into this blog. And you WILL HAVE TO READ IT!!!
*I need a haircut.
*Updates will be erratic on weekends. My body seems to have gotten confused at one point and believed that weekends are meant to be a time to initiate complete bodily and mental shut-down.

I have a sense of diligence, however, in my mission to poison the minds of my generation with gibberish as frequently as possible. So allow me to introduce what should be a new weekly feature (along with my music video reviews) that will seriously confuse you - or should at any rate. I'll give my friend the... hindrance of trust? Well, the opposite of the benefit of doubt at any rate, as I assume he won't mind me posting these because he's been asking me to post these stories on random sites for a couple of years. (Including on Outpost Gallifrey's fan-fic section as "my vision of Doctor Who") With a little bit of further ado after the next bit, allow me to introduce

a work of most malevolent insanity courtesy of
Messr. DJ Renegade D

No doubt the first thing you'll notice is the lack of formatting. This is how I received the stories and I'm too faithful to the source material to dare disrupt them by introducing any semblence of readability. My obstinance is entirely responsible for any damage may be undergone with your eyes upon reading these works, but don't tell anyone that if this ends up in court. Please, I have a family. Somewhere.

Anyway, here is Episode 2. Episode one was never written. You will note references to weird stuff.

PART 2: Young Money Mike Conquers Amerika

And so the over-rated Amerikan communism in the world fell to an all
time low with the drive-by soon to be known as
Western Europe. The lavetary however was laser scanned for ass-prints,
with the resulting analysis proving the suspicions of Dr Cube -
brought about by his M-I 17 (thrice removed from position M-I 38)
issued cube vision(TM) glasses - that this shit had to stop. He
decided to pay a visit to the snitch known as YMMCA, to set things
straight. Driving in his NX-421 Plasma Coolant based stealth stretch
limosuine the Dr soon makes it to the establishment in question
without excess resistance on the highways of Afghanistan. However, as
soon as he opens the illegal solid whale-bone door, conflict of
interest ensues. Someone from the other side, knocks down, ducks
behind, and proceds to back against a pool table, the freshly removed
MP5 cooling the sweat in one hand, the already stolen deringer
insinuating sweat in the other. Dr Cube throws aside the folds of his
red dragon skin liquid nitrogren based asbestos resistant trenchcoat
inner gun pockets and produces a M-20 high explosive solid-nitrogen
based smoke grenade and pulls the carbon/marble composed pin from it's
uranium based alloy coating inside the 64 hour old fuse mechanism,
indicating it pays to stay up to date. The seconds pass, and slowly
the pin-stripe honkey behind the table beginds to feel the pressure
and lifts his head up over the top of the table, up to his chin. It
takes him a few precious moments to realise that the reason he
couldn't focus his eyes was because of the elusive bloom of the smoke
grenade blocking his optical centres from performing ruidmentary
processing of random images being taken in through the iris therefore
acheiveing visual acutity. These precious few moments were all that
the Dr needed. From his perch upon the wall high above the diamond
ravished pink saphire floor tiling he hurled the pin with such
strength at one of the pool cues lying around the room it shattered in
to three. Leaping down to the pin-stipe honkey with a drop-kick to the
heart, Dr Cube was far past the realisation that this was no ordinary
opponent. As the honkey began firing into the smoke the Dr focused his
mind, feeling time slowing down around him, under him, above him,
beside him, and in the honkey and his bullets. With relative ease Dr
Cube performed a series of backflips, summersaults and cartwheels
allowing him to not only dodge the bullets but to also grab the three
broken sharp-edged pine pool cue shards lying in relative close
proximity to one another. The Dr drove two into the eyes of his
opponent and finally one into his heart, the one weakness such a
creature of the night or dark damp dusty interior within the daylight
hours of 9 till 5 possesed short of removing it's head or exposure to
direct sunlight. The vampire disintergrated in a cascade of un-natural
dust particles bouncing against off the floor. With that, the Dr cut a
hole in the carpet with a retractable thumb knife composed of unknown
alloy known as Mars 35 coated in another unknown alloy known only to
the Amerikan's as Core Sample 51 from Planet Venus which outlined a
trap door hidden under the gold with a nikel content of 2 parts out of
every 15 weaved indian goddess breeded wooley dog fur. With only sixth
eighteenths of a milisecond to spare, Dr Cube threw open the trap
door, burnt to death the result of Irani turqoise dog happy meal
experiments gone terribly wrong, leapt down into the compartment and
threw the trap door shut behind him. The smoke grenade then exploded
in a shower of a compound known only to germans as "NEIN! NEIN! ACH
eine Probe von ihm ist Haut. Erbarmen Sie alle meine Brüder in Armen
nur schießen sich und Babys des turqoise Hunds in der Kinderstube. Ah
gut, hinter zum genetischen Zeichenbrett." and filled the lungs of all
the surrounding hidden creatures of the night with a liquid known only
to the northern South-African's as "BLOOD MEAL ACATHLA!" killing them
all instantly. When the Doktor emerged from the floor, a security
camera with an inbuilt microphone and stereo surround sound speaker
system emerged from the blindingly obvious hidden compartment in the
ceiling. It spoke; "Yes, you're massacre of the billard room has been
succesful, who the fuck is this and how may we help you?" Dr Cube
replied in cool stereo-tone Norse; "It's called knocking. Also, if you
can understand this, then you are worthy of my aquaintance. I am-" The
machine interrupted. "We know who you are Dr Cube- or rather we would
like to know. YMMCA does not wish to speak with you at this time... or
ever again. Still feel free to stay and be masacred. The press will
pay us millions to reveal your identity, or that you even exist for
that matter. We know you won't do it willfully, so... Good Bye, Doctor
Cube." With that the camera retracted and machine gun turrets errupted
from various floor boards, all pointing towards the physical
manifestation known as the Dr. He looked around and spoke, "My name,
is DOKTOR." Doktor Cube then once again focused on time and forced it
to slow down, but instead of acting in aggression he unclipped the
M-29 flamethrower from the upper small of his back and whirled round
in a great circle with his finger squeezed down upon the trigger, the
only item in his extensive inventory he did not know the composition
of. As soon as 85 of the 92 turrets that had emerged were melted slag
however something happened even the Dr could not expect... he had been
betrayed, and the conspiracy ran deeper than he knew. The trigger
mechanism broke off, showing that the deliverer of his hardware would
have to pay. With turrets still blazing the Doktor had not the heart
to remove any more weapons yet- he would need them for when he reached
the possibly posessed YMMCA. He there fore took one of the many other
options available to him; Dr Cube leapt up into a backflip over the
incoming fire and descended back down in through the open trap door,
which by the innertial ripples being created in the wind around him
was closed in the Doktor's wake. Removing his two AK-47's, the Doktor
released his grip on time, kicked down the only other door in the room
and stepped into the unknown... TO BE CONTINUED

Remember, kids, if you don't like mind-rape, you don't have to read it!

EDIT: Oh my god... I didn't expect the formatting to be that awful... eh, I'll see if I can work out some way to fix it... hang tight. Or loose. Whichever way people roll...

EDITEDITEDIT: I have no idea how to fix it. I just wanted to say... how sorry I am...

Thursday, January 18, 2007

An exploration of my Dark, Shadowy Past

A question I am conspicuously never asked is "Have you always been a Doctor Who fan"

There may be an apparent explanation for this oversight on behalf of the rest of the worlds population: that it is inherently a ridiculous question to ask. If you have always been a Doctor Who fan then logically you would have burst out of your mother's womb handily wrapped in a 12ft scarf and saying something like "Change, my dear, and it seems not a moment to soon!" before whipping out a recorder and doing an infantish jig around the ward. And there have been few reported occurences of this.

BUT I propose another explanation: that this is exactly what people assume - that I have always been a Doctor Who fan. We all like simplicity and the ideas of acquiring tastes and changing over time are really quite complicated to fathom. People assume that DW people are round-pegs in the square hole-filled wooden box of the world - this is shown, as my friend Ewen pointed out, in a tribute music video to DW made by comedian Andrew Hansen. Andrew himself is a DW fan - but to perform the clip he put on the character of the President of the Woollongong DW Fan Club who spoke in a funny nasal voice, had an arse that would take up two disabled spots, and wore a really crap fake beard. This piece of illusion seems a bit odd and excessive when you stop to think about it, as when Andrew shows off (in character) his knowledge of the show's script editors and his signed photograph of John Leeson ('the bloke who played K9') it becomes increasingly obvious that he, the man hiding underneath the piss-poor prosthetics, is exactly the uber-fan he's singing about. And he's a normal guy!

And, living in Australia, it's really surprising how many closet Who fans there are around. Just the other day at the gym I was waiting to be picked up having finished an incredibly manly session of lifting 500kg weights with my lower jaw while whistling in what I feel the need to point out was an excessively manly man way, so I sat down and started reading my copy of Doctor Who and the Menagerie. In a manly way. Shortly afterwards the tall and dark resident gym psiren emerged, having to make a call to one of her clients, and asked me what I was reading. Naturally my response was "Oh, just a Doctor Who book. Nothing intellectual." Surprisingly, her response was "Oh, does it have Nyssa in it?"

That response tells you she's a fan. Anyone cribbing notes off to pretend they're a fan (as I frequently do to irritate Trek fans online - it's all harmless fun) would have asked about "Sarah-Jane" or "Jo Grant" or maybe "Leela". But "Nyssa"? To the casual viewer Nyssa is nearly invisible, most often seen in the background of shots as Adric, The Doctor and Tegan have one hell of a bitch fight by the TARDIS console. I was quite impressed.

Her next response was even more illuminating - after I informed her that it didn't, she said "Nyssa was the princess in Doctor Who." I didn't have the presence of mind at the time to tell her that Nyssa technically wasn't actually a princess, she just dressed like one and thus earn some more pips to my title of Unbelievable Pedant of the Land as I couldn't quite work out why she said it. And then (eventually) it struck me: she thought I was the low-down cribber, picking up some second-hand books to appear part of the in-crowd now DW is back in town. Or something. But for whatever reason she thought I was ignorant of Peter Davison's companions. And what does that mean? She looked at me and didn't think I was a fan either.

Now that I have established that DW fans and homo sapiens are one and the same, allow me to address the aforementioned question that I have never, ever been asked.


My first experience of DW is one I can barely remember - the goddawful 1996 TVM starring PMG. (God, we love acronyms don't we in fandom? Well, most of us...) I say 'goddawful' because apparently it's an irrevocable fact that it was. But for my part - I loved it. And why wouldn't I? I would have been 9 at the time. Really, at that age what's cooler than a guy being mowed down by evil Asian street thugs, dying, coming back to life as a wild haired pom, a snake jumping down another guy's throat and making him evil, and aforementioned wild haired pom stealing a motorcycle and going joy-riding? My interest waned when he decided that he needed to steal a microchip from Young Scientist Dude's Atomic Clock to stop Bad Things Happening, but I remember how it all ended: me grinning like a loon saying "That was great" and the stony-faced reaction of my parents.

"That wasn't Doctor Who." they said. And they were right, really. It was quite fun a piece of sci-fi for young kids but, really, it didn't do much did it? I was always later puzzled at it being referred to as "The movie" when they was barely any plot. I mean, "Bean: The Ultimate Disaster Movie" has far more happening in it, and runs for the same amount of time. And that is, you know, a comedy.

So my first real DW experience was 2003. Only four years ago. When the ABC decided to show the whole bally lot of em. This is a fact I bring up as rarely as possible, though, as it truly strips away your cred in online arguments. The bloke who's been trying to peek up Jo Grant's skirt since he was 5 years old will always have more authority than you in UNIT dating arguments. And downloading episodes over bitTorrent doesn't compete with blokes who own all the VHS AND the DVDs, does it? Bloomin' hopeless.

No doubt you're thinking "But wait, Jared, you're an obsessive geek! How did you survive without DW to bang on about? Did you not speak at all for the first 15 years of your life?"

That's a rather rash conclusion to jump to and I think you really ought to be more sensible.

Well, I find it hard to remember now. I was fairly obsessed with LucasArts adventure games in my formative years - which is a far lonelier obsession to have than Doctor Who, I can tell you that right now. But the big one was... and there's really no nice way to say this... Lord of the Rings.

Please, put away the pitchfork. I know Lord of the Rings fans have become the bane of the internet. I know Kevin Smith smacked us down in his latest film whilst making Star Wars fans look [marginally] cooler. I know the success of the films have, irritatingly, pigeon-holed a brilliant piece of wartime literature with Pirates of the Caribbean. I feel the need to justify myself by saying that I respected the books as pieces of great writing and the [first two] films as serious, engaging pieces of drama that may have been poorly written in places but were always brilliantly acted.

So, was I reverent of the book and films? Was I deathly serious in approach to them, rather than my flippant attitude towards my current nerdish obsessions?

Of course I bloody well wasn't! Whenever I see something I like, I feel the need to roughly take the piss. For an example, here is something I found lurking on my hardrive, a piece of a round-robin parody that I never posted for some reason - that won't make too much sense unless you've seen the Extended Edition of Two Towers. And now, thanks to being taken out of context, has a punch line that makes absolutely no sense. Make of it what you will.

(Gimli sits on a dead Uruk, smoking. Legolas strides up, polishing his bow.)

Legolas - The final count….is 342.

Gimli - 342? Well, that’s not bad for a pointy-eared, prissy, glam girly, media-whore elf princeling.

Legolas - So what was your score?

Gimli - Hey, I haven’t finished yet. Lessee, where was I? Oh yes, an elf princeling so anal-retentive that he was over-qualified for Queer Eye, who is so wooden -

(Legolas nocks an arrow into his bow and aims at Gimli’s head)

Gimli - Whoah, calm down! Geeze, ya canna’ even take a wee bit o’ constructive criticism!

Legolas - I’ll ask again, what was your score?

Gimli - Wellll, I am sitting pretty on three-hundred-and-forty-three.

(Legolas narrows his eyes and looses the arrow. It hits the dead Uruk after going right between Gimli’s legs)

Gimli - Are you just a sore loser or is there a more complex reasoning for your trying to shoot me balls off?

Legolas - Yes. See, I shot at that Uruk’Hai you’re sitting on. That makes us even.

Gimli - Hmmmm, good idea. BUT, newsflash, this orc’s dead.

Legolas - No. He was twitching.

Gimli - If he’s twitching it’s because there’s a suss-looking elf standing nearby his corpse with a certain glint in his eye…

(Legolas draws his knives.)

Legolas - Right, that’s it! Back in the box!

Gimli - You’ll have to catch me first, nancy boy!

(Gimli runs off. Legolas chases after him)

Personally I think my writing has come a long way...

TORCHWOOD: I can't predict shit

I'll assume anyone who reads this will know what Torchwood is. If not, it's apparently a second-rate Buffy rip-off by the people who make Doctor Who. I don't know anything about Buffy (except that I don't like it) so that's not my opinion - just one I nicked off of 95% of Doctor Who fans.

But, anyway, there's a big controversy over the quality of the writing in Torchwood. It seems half of the people out there say that its immature, senseless, crap-storytelling that cares nothing for continuity, character development or empathy with an emphasis on action that is shoddily directed. The other half of people say it's not entirely awful. The remaining 3% margin of error like the show.

So... to test the quality of the writing, I set out to make "Half-time predictions" for a couple of Torchwood episodes I have not yet seen, because I am well behind the times.

1.10 Out of Time

Plane comes down through the time rift filled with three people from the 50s. Torchwood try to re-integrate them into society. Results are mixed. What did I predict?

*Old guy's son turns out to be either gay or dead, or both

The guy wouldn't stop talking about finding his son so obviously something really, really, really tragic was going to happen. I was way off the ball here - dying heriless wouldn't have been too bad, because there wouldn't have been any way for the script to rub salt in the wound. The gay thing? I was thinking RTD again, but of course he doesn't really do too much for this show - because otherwise there'd have been some homophobia references in this ep for sure.

What did happen? Heirless son who has fucking Alzheimers. Argh! How could I not see that coming? Highly embarassed because the scene was so damned sad I cried. Afterwards I had to shove a soldering iron into my testicles to re-assure myself of my manliness.

*Housewife girl dies

Firstly, I want to re-iterate that I thought she was a housewife. I didn't realise she was 18 at the time of writing. That would have changed my opinion.

Nevertheless, I made this prediction on one simple fact: at least one of them was going to have to die - my main bet was by suicide. I figured for a housewife character (as I thought she was, confused as hell looking back now) would not be able to cpe with the freedoms of the modern world. Of course, she was actually young and single, so of course she makes a fresh start to illustrate the adaptive nature of youth.

And the old bloke topped himself, obviously.

*Pilot girl lives, possibly making it back to the 50s in zillion-to-one chance

Here I was thinking this was the most unlikely prediction of all - but it worked! Hey!

Well... kinda. She flies off in the plane and we see a bit of a flash and it seems to disappear... but, unlike I was hoping, Owen didn't rush back and look through archives and find that somehow newspaper articles about her surprise re-appearance had suddenly appeared. That without a doubt would have proved that my idea about making her back was accurate, but as it is it's open to interpretation.

And pretty much everyone on the message boards has interpreted it as another suicide. Because we're a cheery lot.

*Gwen's boyfriend conspicuously does not appear

Really pissed off about this one. He hadn't appeared since episode 6, and his was in that for like, one shot. I assumed that they'd broken up, in fact.

I was asking a lot, though, because I figured this was the most logical episode for her boyfriend to show up in, what with her obsessing over the care of 50s girl and Owen (unbearably) having it off with that cutie pilot. And the woman who wrote this (forgot the name and my net's slow, not sexist, honest, take away the portable gallows) clearly was smart enough to realise that.

*Sato doesn't get to do anything of interest

w00t! After the time of writing Toshiko Sato did not appear at all. She's shaping up to have a shittier role in this series than Ianto. And he's the bloke who orders the pizzas.

To be fair, though, this was a real safe bet.

*Plot twist involving something evil

Eh, what can I say? Didn't see them sustaining a plot without poorly-though-out technobabble and evil aliens. Was proven wrong, to my delight.

*Blatant foreshadowing for season final

Not in this episode, as such, but the trailer had a really crap bit of foreshadowing visible. Which brings me to...

1.11 Combat

Yeah, I watched two episodes in the space of two days. I got em all sitting there on my harddrive, why string it out?

Had a lot of trouble with this one as it was a twisty story... results speak for themselves.

*Owen gets fucked up bad or [preferrably] killed

I admit this was purely optimism speaking. Because Owen Harper really, really, really pisses me off. He's like the guy you know who makes all the wisecracks but with all the wit and charisma sucked out of his soul, along with any sense of moral fibre and good looks. He's essentially the most unlikeable and ugliest 'good guy' on TV. And every week he's fucking another hot chick! Argh!

(Of course, they're probably taking their lead from the big screen - Bruce Willis and Mickey Rourke both got their girls [briefly] in that macho filth Sin City and we've finally got a James Bond to appeal to the ugly demographics in Casino Royale.)

So, anyway, imagine my delight when it turns out that Owen gets mauled by an alien. w00t indeed, my friends. Thing is, we're meant to feel sympathy for him. Nah. He's a prick. In fact, Owen poutingly complains to Jack about saving his life. Yeah, we feel the same way.

I think it's down to Noel Clarke (understandably) assuming the show was meant to star likeable characters. Blissfully unaware that Owen's character was modelled after an amalgamation of every unsavoury crim to have ever appeared in The Sweeney over the course of the previous episodes...

*Gwen and Rhys finally break up.

No, not quite... but SO CLOSE! Ah, if only I'd written "Gwen goes completely psycho" instead! It's a really good piece of character development, something I'd just assumed didn't happen in this show...

*Jack shoots lots of people

Seemed a safe bet, it really did. I knew there were a lot of bad dudes in this one, and Jack's solution in previous episodes has been shown to be "instead lead transfusion"... but not this time around. He shoots one alien. In the arm. Damn.

*Stuff about 'thing in the darkness', maybe some lost style glimpse

Kinda cheating, because it was actually in the trailer. But still, it gets points for being really shonky foreshadowing. It makes a fair bit of sense for someone who's died and gone to the afterlife to have seen "something coming in the darkness". In a sci-fi kind of way, anyway. But some real-estate baron who's decided the peak of human achievement is beating the shit out of guys for fun? Much less sense. Especially when he's just having a casual convo over a beer with a mate when he just happens to mention something coming in the darkness.

Poor script-editing at work?

*Weevil genocide

No. There was none of that.

*More vomitising "Jack and Ianto" innuendo

And again. Thank Christ.

You can probably expect some more this crap when I get the next two episodes. Feel free to mock my lack of foresight in the meantime.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

UNUNINAUGURAL POST: I am as confused as Billy Bowder

Apologies, it seems that this blog is indeed in Arial font. I apologise entirely for my comments about the Jewish people in my previous post. I do not object to their world wide conspiracy and acknowledge the fact that the wars they cause bolster universal economy and are a great service to our national pride.

Furthermore, it has come to my attention that the ending I suggested for the denouement of NAS's film clip has been used. It was, of course, used in the final episode of classic British sit-com Steptoe & Son "Steptoes in Spain", when Alfred and Harold found themselves captured in a Spanish fort while it was over-run by a flesh-eating virus that also bred super zombies. I recall it vividly, as it was very funny and guest-starred Penelope Keith who finally did a nude scene.

In addition to these additional details, I have been informed that, in spite of the promises-cum-warnings of my earlier post, Doctor Who has barely been mentioned in 50% of my entire post-quota for the month. So, here's some interesting DW trivia that I'm sure will surprise people:

  • There was a bloke called Tom Baker who played the Doctor. He had a scarf and, in certain stories, additonal items of clothing.
  • There are nine other blokes who played the Doctor. They don't actually have names, like Tom Baker does, but they are referred to as "The Cricket bloke", "The Shouty One", "The Velvet One", "The Leather One", "The Short Funny One", "The Short Unfunny One", "The New One Who I Don't Like", "That Old One", and "Paul who?"

And, to make sure I'm not leaving anyone out of the loop, some little-known trivia about Blakes 7

  • There was a TV show on the BBC called Blakes 7 which ran for 4 years from 1979 and was watched by 12 million viewers on its final episode.

Wow. Who would have thunk it? Good luck with doing what you never do.

UNINAUGURAL POST: Music Videos are Terrible

Before I say anything of relevance, I would just like to announce that this blog will hereby be 100% in Times New Roman. Why? Because this blog does not seem to give me the power to change the font. Damn those Zionists and their pro-Serif font conspiracy which has caused all the wars in the world! You think I'm making this up? The leading Sans-Serif font is Arial. Arial. Sounds a lot like Aryan, doesn't it messugah bahmitzvah oy-vay kosher good deals at the corner shop, eh?

Anyway, moving on

I realised that I had been misleading in my initial post. I stated roughly what you could expect. But I made on very large omission. Expect a lot of bitching about the staggering awfulness of every music video out there on TV.

But Jared, say people who have the impudence to address me by my Christian name, surely if you don't like music videos you don't have to watch them. Unless you're like the Ron Mallett of the music video world, or like those sad forty year old bloggers who go to see all of the Star Wars prequels just so they can post endless theories and essays for why the Originals were awe-inspiring classics of cinema yet the prequels are commercialistic, gimmicky crap?

Sorry, I reply, I kind of lost the gist of your argument when you went on a complete tangent.

Jesus Christ just don't watch music videos!

Oh, right. Point taken.

But the problem with that ideal solution is that I am an insecure person wanting to get into acting. So I go to a gym regularly, and, of course, gyms need repetitive soulless slush in the background with vocals provided by an African-American eunuch with the vocabulary of a martian visitor. Channel V is the only reliable source for this 24 hrs a day... except when they start playing shows about pissheads filming themselves with digicams late at night. But even then I'm sure there's some Akon in the background.

So while the gym is a great experience for building myself up and getting fit, I am subjected to music that I can't stand and videos that... well, you'll see. Not only that... I have the nerdish gift of instant recall for pointless facts. The name of Gandalf's ring is Narya, the dude Vader strangled in Ep 4 is Admiral Motti, the gun that Jack handles in ep 1.09 of Torchwood is from ep 28.09 of Doctor Who and so on. This means that slowly I am gaining an irritatingly comprehensive knowledge about music I hate. I want to do something with this vapid intellectual baggage so, sorry, it's going up here.

Excuse the mess.

Jared reviews Music Videos Episode One

NAS - Hip Hop is Dead

The title of this track should be enough to get you scratching your head. Whu? Hip-hop is dead? It's even stranger seeing it in context, after straight doses of Snoop Dogg's "Vato", Eminem's "Forgettable new track", Kanye West's entire output for this year, and, if you're really unlucky, the work of Mr Bubba Sparxxx. (You'll be hearing about him later)

But rest assured, Hip Hop is NOT dead. In spite of the sombre opening frames, in which a text crawl informs us that the US Government has abolished Hip Hop to vindicate the idea for the sheep out there that what they're listening to is somewhat 'edgy', NAS's opening words of "Man, if hip hop dies..." tells us what the deal is. It's a hypothetical. Educating us in the ways of what life would be like without the inspiring magic of simplistic spoken verse dubbed onto 5th rate techno.

Actually, not really. It's... well, the clip is probably best described as one big masturbation trip for NAS - we're in some sort of a parallel universe where Hip-Hop actually is the mind-meltingly progressive underground movement they like to pretend it is. It's in some sort of Orwellian police-state dystopic future, where the only way you can ensure freedom from the overlords is to migrate in your tracksuit regalia to deserted basements and warehouses and buy lots of NAS's T-shirts and CDs. You may scoff at the idea of a rebel cynically cashing in on his acolytes by charging them top dollar for T-shirts in his honour, but it worked for Che Guevara. And he's pretty much the biggest rebel out there!

Looking back, maybe I've picked a bad clip to start with as, unlike many out there it isn't actively ball-rippingly atrocious. It's just based on a stupid idea. What can hip-hop rebels do? Listen to hip-hop. See, the reason most rap clips are terrible is because they desperately try to use gimmicks to distract people from the music. Actual bands have the ability to look cool by playing instruments. So if they're like Wolfmother and too fucking stoned to put together a real clip they can just drive into the middle of the desert and start playing - bang! Got a clip. But with rap? All you can get is a guy singing into a mic. And Hip Hop is Dead can't hide this. NAS sings. The rebels just listen, after they're done crawling around stupidly under a blue-lens which kinda makes it look like it's shot at night. (But not really)

They couldn't even think of an ending. The cops show up and everyone runs off. Blah. I have to say, that if I made this clip, it wouldn't have been quite the same. The head cop dude would be wearing a massive suit of leather and have a big metal eyepatch covering half his face. The other cops would be pale bloodsucking female creatures wearing black lycra. They'd have lots of guns. Once they crash through the doors, NAS would turn in shock to a Notorious BIG look-a-like, with a scar running through one of his eyes.

"Did you betray ME, dawg?"

"Yo, NAS-"

BANG! NAS blows out the Biggy guy's stomach with his Nine, the bloodsucking cops start firing. Everyone there gets blown away in slow-mo, until NAS himself is the only one left standing, and the screen fades into black as he gives a defiant smile in the face of the troops cornering him from all sides...

It's a great way to end anything. Someone should use it before it ends up in some TV show...

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

SEEKING: Chasing Amy DVD, Dignity


This is the first post of a blog that I trust will become as famous and respected as the blogs that Napoleon Bonaparte kept during his internment in a block of public toilets in Redfern. That I pray will be as funny as the blog that fellow created and maintained entirely with his genitals. That it will be as insightful as the blog kept by that guy who wrote that book that everyone loved.

But it is not to be. I'm a 19 year old Doctor Who fan, living in Australia - aka, the place where culture comes to die. I have a simple sense of humour and simple wants in life.

Mostly right now I want my DVD of Chasing Amy. It's been missing for a year-and-a-half. Well, I know the man who has it. And he knows where it is. But he refuses to give it back to me. Whenever I so much as broach the subject he claims the Terror Alert has just reached Tangerine and leaps into his homemade bomb shelter. And I walk the long walk home, empty-handed.

So, what can you expect from this blog? Hmm, I can't pretend to know. Whatever I feel like writing. Mostly though, you may expect:

  • Highly cynical 'rants' disguised as 'reviews'
  • Highly cynical rants not disguised at all
  • Doctor Who and Blakes 7 fanfic, often of the one-handed variety
  • 'Satirical' scripts
  • Vulgar humour
  • Somewhat post-modern middling musings on anything that strikes
So... come here to read some of that stuff. Hopefully I have not lost any credibility through my inability to keep this sodding post in one font.