"Mmmm... Gimme them Milk Tray! Mmmm... Me LURVE a Caramel Swirl. And a little bit of Devonshire Fudge for myself. Naughty Rita... Nom Nom Nom..."
-
-
Monday, 13 December 2010
I Was Wrong... Rita SURVIVED!
"Mmmm... Gimme them Milk Tray! Mmmm... Me LURVE a Caramel Swirl. And a little bit of Devonshire Fudge for myself. Naughty Rita... Nom Nom Nom..."
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Delays On The Weatherfield Line...
So... Coronation Street is 50 WHOLE ACTUAL YEARS OLD! Congratulations, Old Girl! To celebrate, Massive Doctor Who Homo Exec Phil Collinson (his actual full name) has decided to throw a tram at several of the residents. Plots are a closely guarded secret, as are the names of those set to perish. But I'll have a stab, anyway.
(Because the 'Who Killed Archie?' blog was so successful)
Wet-blanket cabbage-patch freckle-factory, Miss Molly Dobbs. She wot slept with Kevin Webster - a man who hasn't been sexy since he shaved off his 'tache in the 80'.
Helium-voiced chop-chopping baby-faced eunich, Mr Ashley Peacock. I know, I know... I thought he'd left YEARS ago too!
Leathery stalker-bint and offspring of 'er off Last Of The Summer Wine, Dame Charlotte Hoyle. Anyone who finds John Stape remotely attractive has clearly had a knock on the head. (But not as big a knock on the head as she's about to get, courtesy of Sir Stape's hammer... You heard it here first! Or in Inside Soap, possibly)
Bouffant-laden Rita Sullivan - Keeper of many a-pontefract cake and owner of a delightfully red bush. It's the 50th Anniversary. Surely they've got to kill off someone we actually CARE for? The other three, no-one gives a flying flange about, surely? But Miss Sullivan has been a major part of the community for almost ALL of Corrie's lifespan, and her sexual chemistry with Norris (and Mavis before him) is award-winning.
It would certainly provide the shock of the week. No-one expects such a major character to die. The other three, I'm guessing, are pretty much a foregone conclusion. There needs to be a surprise. And Rita's death would provide said surprise...
...And the tram does actually plough into The Kabin, with her inside it. Surely it's not bloody realistic for her to survive?! A tram. Driven at her head?!
(Because the 'Who Killed Archie?' blog was so successful)
Wet-blanket cabbage-patch freckle-factory, Miss Molly Dobbs. She wot slept with Kevin Webster - a man who hasn't been sexy since he shaved off his 'tache in the 80'.
Helium-voiced chop-chopping baby-faced eunich, Mr Ashley Peacock. I know, I know... I thought he'd left YEARS ago too!
Leathery stalker-bint and offspring of 'er off Last Of The Summer Wine, Dame Charlotte Hoyle. Anyone who finds John Stape remotely attractive has clearly had a knock on the head. (But not as big a knock on the head as she's about to get, courtesy of Sir Stape's hammer... You heard it here first! Or in Inside Soap, possibly)
Bouffant-laden Rita Sullivan - Keeper of many a-pontefract cake and owner of a delightfully red bush. It's the 50th Anniversary. Surely they've got to kill off someone we actually CARE for? The other three, no-one gives a flying flange about, surely? But Miss Sullivan has been a major part of the community for almost ALL of Corrie's lifespan, and her sexual chemistry with Norris (and Mavis before him) is award-winning.
It would certainly provide the shock of the week. No-one expects such a major character to die. The other three, I'm guessing, are pretty much a foregone conclusion. There needs to be a surprise. And Rita's death would provide said surprise...
...And the tram does actually plough into The Kabin, with her inside it. Surely it's not bloody realistic for her to survive?! A tram. Driven at her head?!
-
Friday, 3 December 2010
Runny Yellow News #3
Bex came meandering along to join me on my Brum-based soujourn for a couple of days. We spent silly amounts in Selfridges Champagne Bar, silly amounts in the German Christmas Market (Mmmm... Deep-fried Camembert) and spent silly amounts on cocktails (AND THE BEST PUDDING EVER) in cow-tongued mockney cheese-twonk Jamie Oliver's Italian restaurant. It made a complete farce of the diet (NOT) Derrick Evans has got me "following".
Nowhere on the sheet of paper that he thrust into my weary, chest-press-knackered hands did it say I could eat 'Pistacho Souffle With White Chocolate Ice-Cream and Shortbread'. More's the pity.
But I can start that diet next week. Brum is about treating myself. I can start on the Yams and the Flax Oil On Rye With Whey Powder & MORE FUCKING YAMS next week. Yes. I will. But for now, while I'm in Birmingham, I indulge.
(And what in the name of Rula Lenska is a YAM anyway?!)
Although I've been naughty on the foodage front, I DID actually manage to spend an hour in the hotel gym with Bex. Our first joint exercise session, which is ridiculous, given that we're running the marathon TOGETHER and probably need to know what the other is capable of. But for the first time under one roof, we did some proper, sweat-inducing exercise. LOOK:
Nowhere on the sheet of paper that he thrust into my weary, chest-press-knackered hands did it say I could eat 'Pistacho Souffle With White Chocolate Ice-Cream and Shortbread'. More's the pity.
But I can start that diet next week. Brum is about treating myself. I can start on the Yams and the Flax Oil On Rye With Whey Powder & MORE FUCKING YAMS next week. Yes. I will. But for now, while I'm in Birmingham, I indulge.
(And what in the name of Rula Lenska is a YAM anyway?!)
Although I've been naughty on the foodage front, I DID actually manage to spend an hour in the hotel gym with Bex. Our first joint exercise session, which is ridiculous, given that we're running the marathon TOGETHER and probably need to know what the other is capable of. But for the first time under one roof, we did some proper, sweat-inducing exercise. LOOK:
Proof.
Proof, as if my word wasn't enough.
So don't moan at me for not eating my YAMS, (NOT) Derrick Evans. At least I did SOMETHING good on my week off.
I'm worried, though. Bex and I don't have much will-power, and get very bored VERY easily - I'm worried that we won't be able to keep up the good stuff in the face of further temptation. I'm worried that we just won't have the enthusiasm to keep up with the training. So (NOT) Derrick Evans has been given another cheque, in the hope that he'll continue to push me and force me into training. While Bex and I have also decided to do a 12-mile runny thing in JANUARY to test the water.
So. Let's see how that goes.
I'm genuinely curious as to which one of us will be the first to say: "THIS MARATHON WAS A STUPID IDEA. LET'S JUST GO TO BRIGHTON AND GET DRUNK, INSTEAD."
I hope neither of us will. Think of the damage to my pride. Think of how disappointed (NOT) Derrick Evans would be with my cowardice. Think of the sponsorship money. Think of THE CHILDREN!
-
Proof, as if my word wasn't enough.
So don't moan at me for not eating my YAMS, (NOT) Derrick Evans. At least I did SOMETHING good on my week off.
I'm worried, though. Bex and I don't have much will-power, and get very bored VERY easily - I'm worried that we won't be able to keep up the good stuff in the face of further temptation. I'm worried that we just won't have the enthusiasm to keep up with the training. So (NOT) Derrick Evans has been given another cheque, in the hope that he'll continue to push me and force me into training. While Bex and I have also decided to do a 12-mile runny thing in JANUARY to test the water.
So. Let's see how that goes.
I'm genuinely curious as to which one of us will be the first to say: "THIS MARATHON WAS A STUPID IDEA. LET'S JUST GO TO BRIGHTON AND GET DRUNK, INSTEAD."
I hope neither of us will. Think of the damage to my pride. Think of how disappointed (NOT) Derrick Evans would be with my cowardice. Think of the sponsorship money. Think of THE CHILDREN!
-
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Runny Yellow News #2
So... Here's another thing I've learnt as part of the marathon training:
IT'S ACTUALLY A LITTLE BIT TOO MUCH LIKE HARD WORK
April is fast approaching - April, it's in pissing April! - and I have realised I'm as ill-prepared as a really shit salad. Some of the problem is that my running buddy (which all sounds a bit Brokeback) lives twelvety-hundred miles away, so we can't train together; we can't spur each other on; we can't compete; we have no reason to push ourselves just that little bit harder.
When I train, if I start to break a sweat or find myself even slightly out of breath, I stop running and piss off to the Steam Room to relax. FOR HOURS. If only I could put as much effort into exercising as I do being a lazy fuck in a towel with beads of sweat dripping down his body. I'm GOOD at being a lazy fuck in a towel with beads of sweat dripping down his body!
Backing out is not an option - I've told too many people I'm doing it. I'll look foolish. And besides... I've already planned what I'm going to spend the "sponsorship money" on. Sod the kiddies, I need a holiday!
So without Mr Lady Bex to gee me along, and unable to chicken out, I have gone for the only other option available to me: Get a personal trainer.
His name is (NOT) Derrick Evans.
Possibly.
Well... It is for the purposes of this blog.
He knows his stuff, and I feel a lot more confident about my chances of not doing a MASSIVE DIE when April comes around. He also works me like an absolute bitch.
"Here's 160kg - push it with just your feet - FOR AN HOUR!"
Why, thank you, kind Sir.
*WEEPS*
Since my latest session, I've been waddling around like an elderly, hunchbacked DUCK who's shat himself and then stubbed his toe getting out of the pond. I'm walking like Assumpta Fitzgerald after a night with her delicious husband. I can't sit down. I just sort of... plonk. It's all terribly ungraceful, but I keep being told it'll be worth it. All this pain is worth it if I do, in fact, want to complete the 26 mile runny thing with my life intact.
(NOT) Derrick Evans insists he's just trying to build up my endurance, which sounds reasonable. And with him pushing me to my limit, telling me not to wimp out and spitting "8 MORE REPS" in my lugholes, I'm sure I stand a better chance of finishing the pissing marathon than were I to be doing it under my own steam. Which is just as well, because I'm not paying him all this money just to die three seconds after leaving Preston Park.
Personal Trainers are expensive. Would it be wrong of me to subtract the cost from the Sponsorship Money I collect?!
-
IT'S ACTUALLY A LITTLE BIT TOO MUCH LIKE HARD WORK
April is fast approaching - April, it's in pissing April! - and I have realised I'm as ill-prepared as a really shit salad. Some of the problem is that my running buddy (which all sounds a bit Brokeback) lives twelvety-hundred miles away, so we can't train together; we can't spur each other on; we can't compete; we have no reason to push ourselves just that little bit harder.
When I train, if I start to break a sweat or find myself even slightly out of breath, I stop running and piss off to the Steam Room to relax. FOR HOURS. If only I could put as much effort into exercising as I do being a lazy fuck in a towel with beads of sweat dripping down his body. I'm GOOD at being a lazy fuck in a towel with beads of sweat dripping down his body!
Backing out is not an option - I've told too many people I'm doing it. I'll look foolish. And besides... I've already planned what I'm going to spend the "sponsorship money" on. Sod the kiddies, I need a holiday!
So without Mr Lady Bex to gee me along, and unable to chicken out, I have gone for the only other option available to me: Get a personal trainer.
His name is (NOT) Derrick Evans.
Possibly.
Well... It is for the purposes of this blog.
He knows his stuff, and I feel a lot more confident about my chances of not doing a MASSIVE DIE when April comes around. He also works me like an absolute bitch.
"Here's 160kg - push it with just your feet - FOR AN HOUR!"
Why, thank you, kind Sir.
*WEEPS*
Since my latest session, I've been waddling around like an elderly, hunchbacked DUCK who's shat himself and then stubbed his toe getting out of the pond. I'm walking like Assumpta Fitzgerald after a night with her delicious husband. I can't sit down. I just sort of... plonk. It's all terribly ungraceful, but I keep being told it'll be worth it. All this pain is worth it if I do, in fact, want to complete the 26 mile runny thing with my life intact.
(NOT) Derrick Evans insists he's just trying to build up my endurance, which sounds reasonable. And with him pushing me to my limit, telling me not to wimp out and spitting "8 MORE REPS" in my lugholes, I'm sure I stand a better chance of finishing the pissing marathon than were I to be doing it under my own steam. Which is just as well, because I'm not paying him all this money just to die three seconds after leaving Preston Park.
Personal Trainers are expensive. Would it be wrong of me to subtract the cost from the Sponsorship Money I collect?!
-
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Fings Wot My Glorious Job Has Teached Me #908
It has a name! It actually has a name! I thought it was just the Wanking Room. But no... It has a name!
"The Hewitt has dedicated facilities for everything, including two purpose-built "masturbatoria" - rooms where male patients produce sperm samples assisted by cable TV pornography."
So there we go.
Word of the day: MATURBATORIA
-
"The Hewitt has dedicated facilities for everything, including two purpose-built "masturbatoria" - rooms where male patients produce sperm samples assisted by cable TV pornography."
So there we go.
Word of the day: MATURBATORIA
-
Saturday, 14 August 2010
Runny Yellow News #1
I do believe in a previous entry, I referred to running the Brighton Marathon in April 2011 as an "achievable goal"
There is more chance of Cliff Richard losing his virginity to a woman before his 'tragic' and untimely demise at the age of 107 than there is of me completing this DAMN SILLY RUN in one piece.
I did a delightful run in our fair capital - a route that I shall call Bridges Of London - that took me from Tower Bridge to Westminster, across each and every bridge. According to my Pedometer, the route was six miles.
Six miles for a first run, with no training beforehand? I thought that was pretty okay. Until I got home and realised the Pedometer was set to kilometres, not miles. Piss and shit and bugger.
I'll need to knuckle down and do some proper training if I'm to survive this ordeal. And there's still so much I don't know; still so much to learn.
For example, I only recently discovered that a Pedometer was a little device that tracks the distance you run and the time in which it takes. Previously, I thought I Pedometer looked a little bit like this...
-
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Doing A RUN
The first word spoken by Lord Christopher Eccleston to Dame Billie of Piper. The song that broke my heart into a thousand different pieces - and helped to put it back together again. The best thing to do if Michael Barrymore invites you to his place for a quick paddle and a rim-job.
RUN
RUN
In April 2011, I will be doing a RUN in Brighton. A massive, 26-mile RUN commonly known as a Marathon. Or even more commonly known as a FUCKING RIDICULOUS IDEA!
I haven't achieved much in life. The big, fancy BBC job has yet to materialise. Although if Septic Peg's right about Paradise, then maybe it won't be too long? I live alone, rather than with my husband of five years and our two kids. My life savings stand at a magnificent £5.67. I haven't seduced any members of McFly. I haven't been to New Jersey, or Australia, or Iceland. I'm still too chicken-shit to sky-dive...
I haven't achieved much in life. The big, fancy BBC job has yet to materialise. Although if Septic Peg's right about Paradise, then maybe it won't be too long? I live alone, rather than with my husband of five years and our two kids. My life savings stand at a magnificent £5.67. I haven't seduced any members of McFly. I haven't been to New Jersey, or Australia, or Iceland. I'm still too chicken-shit to sky-dive...
All the things I've wanted since, like, FOREVER... And I can't tick any of them off my Important List Of Fings Wot I Want To Achieve.
And quite frankly, none of them seem in the slightest bit realistic from where I'm standing. Especially the husband thing.
In a desperate attempt to have SOMETHING to show for my life, I will be doing a RUN; an actual real-life marathon. It's something I've always wanted to do, and it seems the most achievable goal that I could set myself at this moment in time; the one thing I'm most likely to succeed in. Which will make me feel a tiny, little bit less like a pathetic failure. So that'll be nice.
In a desperate attempt to have SOMETHING to show for my life, I will be doing a RUN; an actual real-life marathon. It's something I've always wanted to do, and it seems the most achievable goal that I could set myself at this moment in time; the one thing I'm most likely to succeed in. Which will make me feel a tiny, little bit less like a pathetic failure. So that'll be nice.
And who knows... If I manage the full 26-miles without dying, maybe I'll realise that not all of my goals are impossible, and crack on with the husband-luring. Imagine how much Rohypnol I could buy with marathon sponsorship money.
-
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Doctor Who Watch #Erm...
It has been kindly pointed out to me that I have yet to write a review of the Doctor Who finale. Not a shocking oversight - merely a pressing need to re-watch the episodes in question a couple more times before I can even hope to attempt a critique. General thoughts being:
WTF?!
But WTF in a good way, I hasten to add. In fact, I'm almost 100% certain they were the greatest episodes ever written. Still, though... WTF?!
-
Saturday, 31 July 2010
Septic Peg
Well... Good news for Paradise, then?
The evenings of gorging myself on pizza and enjoying/enduring five-knuckle-shuffles with Mister Palm & His Five Slutty Stepsons cast doubt on the rest of this 'prediction' but we'll gloss over that. "Jupiter suggests you test a talent for writing TV scripts"
Excellent.
SUE: Hello? Yes. This is Mummy
All the kids in the playground will be saying it soon. Trust the Septic Peg. She knows.
-
-
Saturday, 3 July 2010
Doctor Who Watch #20
Vincent & The Doctor by ACTUAL Richard Curtis
"Our kids would have had very, very red hair"
Times columnist and my ideal woman - the lovely Caitlin Moran - warned everyone via the medium of Twitter that this episode would get people a-blubbering. As I sat down to watch with Mr Bex and Mr Glag (weren't they the homo villains in Bond?!) I steeled myself. "Don't embarrass yourself by crying in front of these two straight-acting lads, Jay! You'll never hear the end of it..."
And as the giant, blind, invisible cock lay dying on the ground, having been stabbed by... erm... an easel, I thought: "Yeah, that's a bit sad, but not sure why the piss it made The Moran cry"
Seeing the fatal slaying of a blind and frightened creature is upsetting - even if it does look like the bastard offspring of King Kong and Chicken Licken - but enough to make someone cry? It was no Parting Of The Ways, was it?
I should have known better.
This script was by Richard Curtis. The man wrote the single-most upsetting moment in sit-com history, when Blackadder went over the top. The man whose Love, Actually makes me bawl every time I see Andrew Lincoln reaching for giant bits of paper or Emma Thomson reaching for a Joni Mitchell CD wot her cheating bastard husband bought her for Christmas.
Of COURSE it was going to make me cry. That's what Curtis does best. Pull on the heartstrings. It turns out that getting him to write an episode of Doctor Who was yet another Moffat masterstroke.
That said, and if I'm being completely honest, the episode as a whole was a bit hit-and-miss.
You start with a great opening scene in the Gallery; the Doctor treating Amy to all these wondrous trips, presumably feeling a little bit guilty that her fella bit the dust and got swallowed up by a massive CRACK last week. Not that she can remember, mind you, because of said CRACK.
Then, as with all great Richard Curtis scripts, up pops Sexy Bill Nighy. Stealing the show, as always, in a cameo that was a hundred-times too small for a man of such brilliance. Genuinely chuckleworthy bow-tie related banter between his Gallery Expert Man Character and the Doctor. I would have been happy with a whole 45-minutes of this!
However... A mysterious face in one of Vincent Van Gogh's paintings seems to spell danger. And before you know it, POND and the Doctor are off to meet the ginger painty man himself.
Turns out, though, that the danger wasn't that great, or impressive. And that's where the episode fell down. It just seemed like anything sci-fi or monster-related was getting in the way of the story Curtis wanted to tell; almost added in as an afterthought to string the beginning and end scenes in the gallery together.
The giant killer turkey (?!) was shit, and it didn't feel like there was any peril at all. There were some great jokes, and a couple of nice references to Rory (Amy crying, without actually realising, being one of them - something I'm sure we'll revisit in later eps) but the whole thing did seem to drag on a little bit.
But it was never about the monster. It was never about the sci-fi. It was about feelings and emotion and heart. It was about using time-travel to make someone feel loved; wanted; special. The Doctor showed Vincent his legacy. What greater gift for someone so depressed and so tortured; someone possessed by such crippling self-doubt? It was like Chris Eccleston telling Charles Dickens that people love his books - but on a much bigger scale.
The Doctor can't save everyone - Vincent still ended up taking his own life - but he CAN make things better. The "pile of good things, pile of bad things" speech he gives may be corny, but as a way of viewing life in general, it really struck a chord with me.
That final sequence - where Sexy Bill Nighy tells the Doctor what an inspiration Van Gogh is, while Van Gogh himself listens in - is one of the most beautiful, touching, life-affirming, tear-jerking things I've ever seen.
Caitlin Moran was right.
I felt myself welling up while watching with Mr Bex and Mr Glag, but when viewing the episode a second time on my own - without fear of being judged to be somewhat 'Nancy-ish' - I cried and I cried and I cried.
Don't we all want to leave behind a legacy like that of Van Gogh? Wouldn't we all like to be spoken of in the same passionate and adoring way as Sexy Bill Nighy talks about Van Gogh? And wouldn't we all just love to know in advance? The confirmation that, despite evidence to the contrary, we're not just wasting our time on this earth? That SOMETHING good will come? One day?
As an episode of Doctor Who, it's an average tale with a brilliant ending. As a message; as a statement... Compelling and completely uplifting.
Total Score: EIGHT out of TEN
"Our kids would have had very, very red hair"
Times columnist and my ideal woman - the lovely Caitlin Moran - warned everyone via the medium of Twitter that this episode would get people a-blubbering. As I sat down to watch with Mr Bex and Mr Glag (weren't they the homo villains in Bond?!) I steeled myself. "Don't embarrass yourself by crying in front of these two straight-acting lads, Jay! You'll never hear the end of it..."
And as the giant, blind, invisible cock lay dying on the ground, having been stabbed by... erm... an easel, I thought: "Yeah, that's a bit sad, but not sure why the piss it made The Moran cry"
Seeing the fatal slaying of a blind and frightened creature is upsetting - even if it does look like the bastard offspring of King Kong and Chicken Licken - but enough to make someone cry? It was no Parting Of The Ways, was it?
I should have known better.
This script was by Richard Curtis. The man wrote the single-most upsetting moment in sit-com history, when Blackadder went over the top. The man whose Love, Actually makes me bawl every time I see Andrew Lincoln reaching for giant bits of paper or Emma Thomson reaching for a Joni Mitchell CD wot her cheating bastard husband bought her for Christmas.
Of COURSE it was going to make me cry. That's what Curtis does best. Pull on the heartstrings. It turns out that getting him to write an episode of Doctor Who was yet another Moffat masterstroke.
That said, and if I'm being completely honest, the episode as a whole was a bit hit-and-miss.
You start with a great opening scene in the Gallery; the Doctor treating Amy to all these wondrous trips, presumably feeling a little bit guilty that her fella bit the dust and got swallowed up by a massive CRACK last week. Not that she can remember, mind you, because of said CRACK.
Then, as with all great Richard Curtis scripts, up pops Sexy Bill Nighy. Stealing the show, as always, in a cameo that was a hundred-times too small for a man of such brilliance. Genuinely chuckleworthy bow-tie related banter between his Gallery Expert Man Character and the Doctor. I would have been happy with a whole 45-minutes of this!
However... A mysterious face in one of Vincent Van Gogh's paintings seems to spell danger. And before you know it, POND and the Doctor are off to meet the ginger painty man himself.
Turns out, though, that the danger wasn't that great, or impressive. And that's where the episode fell down. It just seemed like anything sci-fi or monster-related was getting in the way of the story Curtis wanted to tell; almost added in as an afterthought to string the beginning and end scenes in the gallery together.
The giant killer turkey (?!) was shit, and it didn't feel like there was any peril at all. There were some great jokes, and a couple of nice references to Rory (Amy crying, without actually realising, being one of them - something I'm sure we'll revisit in later eps) but the whole thing did seem to drag on a little bit.
But it was never about the monster. It was never about the sci-fi. It was about feelings and emotion and heart. It was about using time-travel to make someone feel loved; wanted; special. The Doctor showed Vincent his legacy. What greater gift for someone so depressed and so tortured; someone possessed by such crippling self-doubt? It was like Chris Eccleston telling Charles Dickens that people love his books - but on a much bigger scale.
The Doctor can't save everyone - Vincent still ended up taking his own life - but he CAN make things better. The "pile of good things, pile of bad things" speech he gives may be corny, but as a way of viewing life in general, it really struck a chord with me.
That final sequence - where Sexy Bill Nighy tells the Doctor what an inspiration Van Gogh is, while Van Gogh himself listens in - is one of the most beautiful, touching, life-affirming, tear-jerking things I've ever seen.
Caitlin Moran was right.
I felt myself welling up while watching with Mr Bex and Mr Glag, but when viewing the episode a second time on my own - without fear of being judged to be somewhat 'Nancy-ish' - I cried and I cried and I cried.
Don't we all want to leave behind a legacy like that of Van Gogh? Wouldn't we all like to be spoken of in the same passionate and adoring way as Sexy Bill Nighy talks about Van Gogh? And wouldn't we all just love to know in advance? The confirmation that, despite evidence to the contrary, we're not just wasting our time on this earth? That SOMETHING good will come? One day?
As an episode of Doctor Who, it's an average tale with a brilliant ending. As a message; as a statement... Compelling and completely uplifting.
Total Score: EIGHT out of TEN
-
The Lodger by Gareth Roberts
"I love you... I love you... I love you..."
"That's good, because I'm your new flatmate"
Probably somewhere in my Top Three Doctor Who Writey People Of All Time would be Gareth Roberts. Granted, I wasn't that keen on the one with everyone's favourite equine-based Slater Sister. But The Shakespeare Code was one of the few episodes that made Martha likeable, and Unicorn And The Wasp - as I think I said at the time - was "one of the finest episodes ever committed to screen. The most enjoyable 45 minutes I've had in recent memory. (With my penis still in my pants, anyway)"
And the baldy, beardy genius came up trumps again with this little number. A cheap-looking episode set in a 'normal' house in a 'normal' street that does nothing to further on the plot ready for the forthcoming season finale... It could have been another Fear Her.
But for three things.
1 - No Chloe Webber. I find anything, anywhere in the world is instantly improved by the lack of a Chloe Webber.
2 - It made me laugh out loud. Lots.
3 - It had a hint of romance and a little play with the ol' heartstrings.
As Episode Eleven's go, it was no Utopia, but it certainly wasn't Fear Her. Matt Smith was truly amazing, and this performance cemented him up there with Lord Eccleston as probably joint-favourite Doctor Of All Time. This story simply wouldn't have worked with David Tennant's Doctor - he was too human. The Tenth Doctor would have had no trouble fitting in, rendering the story un-tellable.
But Matt Smith's Doctor is SO alien - from the Bow-Tie, to his professor-esque speech patterns, down to the massive bag of cash he handed Smithy - THIS Doctor is simply rubbish at acting human. Which made for a brilliant 45-minutes. I particularly enjoyed the air-kissing. When he lunged at the footballing mate of Smithy's, I thought I was going to laugh my tit off.
As for Smithy himself... He was surprisingly non-cunt-like, which was a revelation. I was expecting him to ruin every second of screen-time afforded to him like Peter Kay (another over-exposed "comedian") in the abysmal Love & Monsters. But NO! Unlike Kay, Mr Smithy actually toned down his wide-boy, Essex-twonk schtick and gave a really heartfelt performance. Who knew he was capable of conveying perfectly the agony and frustration of being unable to tell someone you love them more than anything in the world?!
And, of course, this is the episode where Matt Smith took his clothes off. So for the great story idea, the jokes, the brilliant Matt Smith, the "KISS THE GIRL" bit and for the flash of lovely nipplette that iPlayer's PAUSE function was designed for, I give this episode...
Total Score: NINE out of TEN
-
"I love you... I love you... I love you..."
"That's good, because I'm your new flatmate"
Probably somewhere in my Top Three Doctor Who Writey People Of All Time would be Gareth Roberts. Granted, I wasn't that keen on the one with everyone's favourite equine-based Slater Sister. But The Shakespeare Code was one of the few episodes that made Martha likeable, and Unicorn And The Wasp - as I think I said at the time - was "one of the finest episodes ever committed to screen. The most enjoyable 45 minutes I've had in recent memory. (With my penis still in my pants, anyway)"
And the baldy, beardy genius came up trumps again with this little number. A cheap-looking episode set in a 'normal' house in a 'normal' street that does nothing to further on the plot ready for the forthcoming season finale... It could have been another Fear Her.
But for three things.
1 - No Chloe Webber. I find anything, anywhere in the world is instantly improved by the lack of a Chloe Webber.
2 - It made me laugh out loud. Lots.
3 - It had a hint of romance and a little play with the ol' heartstrings.
As Episode Eleven's go, it was no Utopia, but it certainly wasn't Fear Her. Matt Smith was truly amazing, and this performance cemented him up there with Lord Eccleston as probably joint-favourite Doctor Of All Time. This story simply wouldn't have worked with David Tennant's Doctor - he was too human. The Tenth Doctor would have had no trouble fitting in, rendering the story un-tellable.
But Matt Smith's Doctor is SO alien - from the Bow-Tie, to his professor-esque speech patterns, down to the massive bag of cash he handed Smithy - THIS Doctor is simply rubbish at acting human. Which made for a brilliant 45-minutes. I particularly enjoyed the air-kissing. When he lunged at the footballing mate of Smithy's, I thought I was going to laugh my tit off.
As for Smithy himself... He was surprisingly non-cunt-like, which was a revelation. I was expecting him to ruin every second of screen-time afforded to him like Peter Kay (another over-exposed "comedian") in the abysmal Love & Monsters. But NO! Unlike Kay, Mr Smithy actually toned down his wide-boy, Essex-twonk schtick and gave a really heartfelt performance. Who knew he was capable of conveying perfectly the agony and frustration of being unable to tell someone you love them more than anything in the world?!
And, of course, this is the episode where Matt Smith took his clothes off. So for the great story idea, the jokes, the brilliant Matt Smith, the "KISS THE GIRL" bit and for the flash of lovely nipplette that iPlayer's PAUSE function was designed for, I give this episode...
Total Score: NINE out of TEN
-
Friday, 2 July 2010
Soap Revamp #2
Yes. Further to my previous entry, here is more clarification that the Hollyoaks New Boss Man CLEARLY knows what he's doing.
Another new signing, another new gent set to make the white pee-pee spurt forth from my winkie-hole:
Another new signing, another new gent set to make the white pee-pee spurt forth from my winkie-hole:
-
Monday, 28 June 2010
Doctor Who Watch #19
The Hungry Earth/Cold Blood by Chris Chibnall
"I gotta be honest with you, Son. We're in the centre of the Earth and there are Lizard Men"
I'm a big fan of Mr Chibnall's work on Torchwood - especially the brutal finale of Season Two - so my hopes were high for this two-parter. Although the hiring of Meera Syal counter-balanced this enthusiasm quite swiftly.
For me, her best performance was as the PE Teacher in the opening minute of Gay Flick (and Jay Bollock's teenage comfort blanket) Beautiful Thing. Best performance... Because it was the shortest. A two-parter of Mr Syal was more than I could handle. And the open ending that means she could be back for more?!
*SHUDDER*
Her Gentleman Caller, the beautifully named Robert Pugh, was marginally better. But I didn't for one second believe that this couple loved each other, which made every attempt to squeeze some emotion out of proceedings seem a bit pointless.
But that's enough about Little Miss Bhaji On The Beach... On with the positives:
It was an engaging story that, for a change, showed that not all aliens are monsters; there are good and bad, just as there are with humans. The Silurian's were much more interesting for that, and the chief mischief maker Lady Silurian was particularly wondrous. I was on the edge of my seat wondering what she would do next, especially after her sister died at the hands of Little Bobby Pugh's on-screen daughter.
(I enjoyed the mini-orgasm noise she made when cradling her lifeless body. I make that noise whenever someone tickles my balls)
She seemed completely unstable, and gagging for a bit of a fight... Which didn't end too well for poor Rory.
Now, I like Rory. This is almost certainly because he reminds me a bit (Okay, a LOT) of myself. So had I been watching this at home, on my own, I probably would have cried a little bit at the tragedy of it all. But I was watching this with a Non-Rory-Enthusiast, which meant a joyful scream of "YES!!!" echoed round the room as Rory got gunned down, and completely ruined the moment for me.
But poor Rory... Poor, poor dead Rory. What is it with this Chibnall bloke? Does he have to kill EVERYONE he writes for?!
Another reason why I didn't cry could be because I am almost certain we'll see him again. But what a shocking end. And the episode wasn't done yet - another CRACK, and a shard of TARDIS... WTF?! Oooh... It's all building to an epic finale, isn't it?
Matt Smith, The POND, Rory, Lady Silurian, the horrible moment where POND got swallowed by the ground (that truly freaked me out!) and the final five minutes of Cold Blood all get top marks from me... But there's still something about the episodes in this series; something almost lacking.
All the individual elements are perfect, Syal excluded - especially the new Doctor, who is just AMAZING - but somehow, when put together, there's something missing. I'm still waiting for an episode to blow me away in the same way something like Turn Left or Doomsday or Parting Of The Ways did.
While this was a good episode, with a couple of excellent moments and some true shocks that will no doubt continue to reverberate throughout the rest of the series - Rory's doing a die and the TARDIS remains being pulled out of the CRACK - it wasn't AMAZING. It wasn't particularly special. Shame.
Total Score: SIX out of TEN
-
Saturday, 26 June 2010
Friday, 25 June 2010
Soap Revamp
All the major soaps are undergoing somewhat of a revamp at the moment. New producers coming in, trying to make their mark; battling desperately for viewers. New 'Enders blokie is bringing back Kat and Alfie, replacing Ben Mitchell and setting fire to The Vic.
New Corrie blokie - Phil Collinson, of Doctor Who fame - is getting rid of Claire and Ashley. About seven years too late.
Emmerdale's Head Honcho is greenlighting scripts where Aaron and the strangely-beautiful Jackson do naughties together.
But the dude in charge of the current Hollyoaks rejig seems to be putting in the most effort in the quest to attract new viewers. I, for one, am going to start watching again:
New Corrie blokie - Phil Collinson, of Doctor Who fame - is getting rid of Claire and Ashley. About seven years too late.
Emmerdale's Head Honcho is greenlighting scripts where Aaron and the strangely-beautiful Jackson do naughties together.
But the dude in charge of the current Hollyoaks rejig seems to be putting in the most effort in the quest to attract new viewers. I, for one, am going to start watching again:
That's Bart McQueen. He needs to be naked a lot in the show. A LOT. Isn't he lovely? I think I want to marry him. Or, at the very least, stroke his inner-thigh.
-
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Doctor Who Watch #18
Vampires Of Venice by Toby Whitehouse
"Did you just say something about Mummy?"
I have a lot to be thankful to Toby Whitehouse for. His episode in Series Two - School Reunion - still ranks as one of my favourites EVER. Mainly because it made me do a massive cry:
"Goodbye, MY Sarah Jane."
And as creator of Being Human, he introduced Mitchell's gorgeous body into my life, for which I shall be forever grateful, and forever damp-of-crotch.
Learning his lesson from the Rose-Mickey-Himself love triangle plot thing of the RTD OBE era, the Doctor whisks Amy and Rory off to Venice for a romantic date. The TARDIS causes people to forget those they leave behind. The Doctor is determined that this won't happen with Amy. He won't come between another couple like he did Mickey and Rose...
...Although mentioning Amy's pneumatic tonguing of last week to the man she's going to marry - while he's on his STAG DO - probably isn't the best way to ensure their relationship goes the distance. But it does lead to a genius opening scene where the Doctor pops out of the cake instead of the expected stripper:
"There's a girl standing outside in just her bikini. Someone let her in and give her a jumper? Lovely girl. Diabetic."
I laughed a lot during this episode. "Oh nice. See what you bring me? The plague!"
Rory being noted on the psychic paper as a eunuch probably went over the target audience's head, but I dun a guffaw.
POND's "I'm from Ofsted" was inspired. And the scene where Rory rails against the Doctor for kissing POND...
"And you kissed her back?!"
"No, I kissed her mouth!"
...Blissful dialogue. And the scene where the Doctor and Rory get them out. (Torches, sadly, not their magnificent cock-shafts)
"Yours is bigger than mine"
"Let's not go there"
PLUS... I would have wet myself at the "Tell me the whole plan" scene had I not seen it on a hundred-and-ninety-seventy trailers beforehand. This episode was just full of brilliant gags and genius scripting-ness.
So why didn't I enjoy it?
Matt Smith was on top form. POND and Rory rediscovering the 'fun' side of their relationship, and POND ramming her tongue down the RIGHT person (this time!) was quite heartwarming to see. Rory pulling up the Doctor on making people a danger to themselves because they want to impress him was a point well made. Loads of elements here should have made it an award-winning episode.
But instead it just dragged.
The Shit Father of the executed Nearly-Vampire-Fish-Thing-Girl was a knob. You could tell Helen McCrory and her Fish Son were bad 'uns from the moment she declared: "We will take your world" - And still, he left her there at the School Of Naughty Doings And Misdeeds.
What kind of blind fool couldn't see he was abandoning her to evilness? And, as expected, moments later, Fish Son was rubbing his helmet up the executed Nearly-Vampire-Fish-Thing-Girl's pelvic floor and you just knew things were going to end badly. Already there's ZERO sympathy for Shit Father's plight because it's all down to Shit Father's own stupidity.
The fact they weren't vampires - but poorly-realised Fish People - was a disappointment. Luckily they weren't as offensive as the Hath or those wanky Fly Creatures from the Zoe 'Horsey' Slater episode, but they're still pretty low down on the list of Doctor Who Aliens Wot Jay Bollock Would Like To See Again.
The devious McCrory plot - turning girls into compatible girlfriends for fish creatures living in the canals - was ludicrous. The pace of the episode was slower than Joey Deacon in an egg-and-spoon race. And the finale of the episode - the simple flicking of a switch - was the biggest let down this side of my bedroom door.
I should have liked this episode, as there was lots to enjoy, but somehow it just didn't work. An episode less than the sum of its parts.
Total Score: SIX out of TEN
"Did you just say something about Mummy?"
I have a lot to be thankful to Toby Whitehouse for. His episode in Series Two - School Reunion - still ranks as one of my favourites EVER. Mainly because it made me do a massive cry:
"Goodbye, MY Sarah Jane."
And as creator of Being Human, he introduced Mitchell's gorgeous body into my life, for which I shall be forever grateful, and forever damp-of-crotch.
Learning his lesson from the Rose-Mickey-Himself love triangle plot thing of the RTD OBE era, the Doctor whisks Amy and Rory off to Venice for a romantic date. The TARDIS causes people to forget those they leave behind. The Doctor is determined that this won't happen with Amy. He won't come between another couple like he did Mickey and Rose...
...Although mentioning Amy's pneumatic tonguing of last week to the man she's going to marry - while he's on his STAG DO - probably isn't the best way to ensure their relationship goes the distance. But it does lead to a genius opening scene where the Doctor pops out of the cake instead of the expected stripper:
"There's a girl standing outside in just her bikini. Someone let her in and give her a jumper? Lovely girl. Diabetic."
I laughed a lot during this episode. "Oh nice. See what you bring me? The plague!"
Rory being noted on the psychic paper as a eunuch probably went over the target audience's head, but I dun a guffaw.
POND's "I'm from Ofsted" was inspired. And the scene where Rory rails against the Doctor for kissing POND...
"And you kissed her back?!"
"No, I kissed her mouth!"
...Blissful dialogue. And the scene where the Doctor and Rory get them out. (Torches, sadly, not their magnificent cock-shafts)
"Yours is bigger than mine"
"Let's not go there"
PLUS... I would have wet myself at the "Tell me the whole plan" scene had I not seen it on a hundred-and-ninety-seventy trailers beforehand. This episode was just full of brilliant gags and genius scripting-ness.
So why didn't I enjoy it?
Matt Smith was on top form. POND and Rory rediscovering the 'fun' side of their relationship, and POND ramming her tongue down the RIGHT person (this time!) was quite heartwarming to see. Rory pulling up the Doctor on making people a danger to themselves because they want to impress him was a point well made. Loads of elements here should have made it an award-winning episode.
But instead it just dragged.
The Shit Father of the executed Nearly-Vampire-Fish-Thing-Girl was a knob. You could tell Helen McCrory and her Fish Son were bad 'uns from the moment she declared: "We will take your world" - And still, he left her there at the School Of Naughty Doings And Misdeeds.
What kind of blind fool couldn't see he was abandoning her to evilness? And, as expected, moments later, Fish Son was rubbing his helmet up the executed Nearly-Vampire-Fish-Thing-Girl's pelvic floor and you just knew things were going to end badly. Already there's ZERO sympathy for Shit Father's plight because it's all down to Shit Father's own stupidity.
The fact they weren't vampires - but poorly-realised Fish People - was a disappointment. Luckily they weren't as offensive as the Hath or those wanky Fly Creatures from the Zoe 'Horsey' Slater episode, but they're still pretty low down on the list of Doctor Who Aliens Wot Jay Bollock Would Like To See Again.
The devious McCrory plot - turning girls into compatible girlfriends for fish creatures living in the canals - was ludicrous. The pace of the episode was slower than Joey Deacon in an egg-and-spoon race. And the finale of the episode - the simple flicking of a switch - was the biggest let down this side of my bedroom door.
I should have liked this episode, as there was lots to enjoy, but somehow it just didn't work. An episode less than the sum of its parts.
Total Score: SIX out of TEN
Amy's Choice by Simon Nye
"Ask me what happens if you die in reality"
"What happens?"
"You die, Stupid, that's why it's called reality"
After penning the Reg Holdsworth vehicle Hardware for ITV, it was only right and proper that someone of such a high calibre as Simon Nye would get to write for Doctor Who. [/sarcasm]
To be fair, this is probably one of my favourite episodes to date.
So well done, Lord Nye - all is forgiven.
Well - not all.
You're responsible for single-handedly ruining ITV's drama output, by writing Men Behaving Badly and unleashing Martin Clunes upon an unsuspecting nation and a handful of lazy ITV casting directors who think he's the fucking answer to everything. But for Amy's Choice, you have partly redeemed yourself.
With the campest - and, therefore, best - "baddie" since Bilis Manger, Toby Jones as the Dream Lord MADE this episode. And the revelation that he was the negativity of The Doctor personified gave the character a wonderful depth, and warranted a second-viewing to look for the hints and clues and whatnot.
"There's only one person in the universe who hates me as much as you do" is an extremely powerful quote once you know the truth.
The killer OAPs provided an unusual, but extremely effective, alien race for The Doctor to fight. And I laughed out loud when one of them - don't know her name, we'll call her Mrs Rod Hull - fell off the roof.
The episode also fell down, however, because it was completely obvious that the Pregnant POND was not real. The fact that neither version truly existed is irrelevant - at no point did anyone watching think: "Oh, maybe THAT is the real one"
It would have been an AMAZING shock if it HAD turned out to be real, and if Amy HAD turned out to be pregnant - I would have stood and applauded such a massive twist. But it wasn't to be. And once you lose that vital ingredient of suspense - that feel of Russian Roulette - you lose a massive part of what should have made this episode truly great.
But to The POND, her pregnancy FELT real, even if it wasn't. So when Rory died in that version of their existence, it WAS real. And she cried. And I cried. The fact she couldn't go on living without him? SO sad. And poignant. Finally, after sliding her tongue up the Doctor in Episode Five, she realises - too late - that she should be with Rory. There it was, under her nose the whole time. And she only sees it once he's gone.
Too late. Little bit dead.
A terribly sad idea, which really broke my heart. You don't know what you've got until it's gone. Remember that.
Total Score: NINE out of TEN
"Ask me what happens if you die in reality"
"What happens?"
"You die, Stupid, that's why it's called reality"
After penning the Reg Holdsworth vehicle Hardware for ITV, it was only right and proper that someone of such a high calibre as Simon Nye would get to write for Doctor Who. [/sarcasm]
To be fair, this is probably one of my favourite episodes to date.
So well done, Lord Nye - all is forgiven.
Well - not all.
You're responsible for single-handedly ruining ITV's drama output, by writing Men Behaving Badly and unleashing Martin Clunes upon an unsuspecting nation and a handful of lazy ITV casting directors who think he's the fucking answer to everything. But for Amy's Choice, you have partly redeemed yourself.
With the campest - and, therefore, best - "baddie" since Bilis Manger, Toby Jones as the Dream Lord MADE this episode. And the revelation that he was the negativity of The Doctor personified gave the character a wonderful depth, and warranted a second-viewing to look for the hints and clues and whatnot.
"There's only one person in the universe who hates me as much as you do" is an extremely powerful quote once you know the truth.
The killer OAPs provided an unusual, but extremely effective, alien race for The Doctor to fight. And I laughed out loud when one of them - don't know her name, we'll call her Mrs Rod Hull - fell off the roof.
The episode also fell down, however, because it was completely obvious that the Pregnant POND was not real. The fact that neither version truly existed is irrelevant - at no point did anyone watching think: "Oh, maybe THAT is the real one"
It would have been an AMAZING shock if it HAD turned out to be real, and if Amy HAD turned out to be pregnant - I would have stood and applauded such a massive twist. But it wasn't to be. And once you lose that vital ingredient of suspense - that feel of Russian Roulette - you lose a massive part of what should have made this episode truly great.
But to The POND, her pregnancy FELT real, even if it wasn't. So when Rory died in that version of their existence, it WAS real. And she cried. And I cried. The fact she couldn't go on living without him? SO sad. And poignant. Finally, after sliding her tongue up the Doctor in Episode Five, she realises - too late - that she should be with Rory. There it was, under her nose the whole time. And she only sees it once he's gone.
Too late. Little bit dead.
A terribly sad idea, which really broke my heart. You don't know what you've got until it's gone. Remember that.
Total Score: NINE out of TEN
-
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Doctor Who Watch #17
The Time Of Angels/Flesh And Stone by Steven Moffat
"She's Mrs Doctor from the future, isn't she?"
The return of two of my favourite Doctor Who things - The Weeping Angels and Moll Flanders' unfeasibly big hair - together in one magnificent story? Oh, Mr Moffat how your wonderfulness makes me erect.
From the Female-James-Bond-In-Space-style opening sequence, to Matt Smith's genius impression of the TARDIS landing (avec brakes!) I was hooked. The Moff's scripts are plotted so tightly, sprinkling clues around like fairy dust. It's like a sci-fi Jonathan Creek - all the hints are there, our hero just has to piece them together. Preferably in enough time to save the day. The throwaway mention of artificial gravity becomes their escape route in the cliffhanger ending - nicely ruined by Graham Norton.
(What IS that man's problem with Doctor Who? He's obsessed with ruining it! First he natters all the way through Chris Eccleston's first episode, now he dances across Matt Smith's fairly substantial chin in cartoon form during the season's first cliffhanger. The man should be banned!)
The throwaway, glib story about the Aplans having two heads becomes vital to the plot, and offers a wonderful "penny-dropping" moment when the team realise the statues surrounding them are NOT statues - but Angels. The hairs on my neck - and scrotal sack - stood on end. A masterful bit of storytelling; drip-feeding us enough information so that we understand what the piss is going on, but not so that we can guess it before our hero does. Very Jonathan Creek.
The book with no pictures, for "the image of an Angel itself becomes an Angel" was inspired. And now with an Angel having penetrated her retina, POND rubbing her eye and dust liberally pouring out of it was probably the most effective visual... erm... well... effect that I've ever seen on the programme. Just horrible to watch. So a quick round of applause must go to that Danny Hargreaves bloke who is always popping up on Doctor Who Confidential explaining how he dun it.
Well done.
Great job.
Now get naked for me. I want to touch you.
It was a genuinely creepy two-parter. The picking off of the Soldiers/Christian Dudes one-by-one in the first part, and the soothing tones of Angel Bob, were distinctly unnerving. Although the latter was a device stolen from Miss Evangelista in The Moff's Library-based masterpiece. But when he explains that the Angels are making POND count to scare her - "just for fun" - it is quite chilling, and something that causes the Doctor to go a bit angry/mental. Matt Smith is brilliant at angry/mental.
He also does a stellar impression of Guardian TV Goddess, Miss Charlie Brooker. Listen to him saying "If we lie to her, she'll get all better" as Amy seems to be dying of Angel Eye. It is the SPIT of Charlie Brooker! Go watch it again on iPlayer. You won't be able to tell the two apart.
Amy's encounter with the VHS-based Angel wot becomes real achieved something that I didn't think was possible: Breathing new life into a Who Foe in a way that puts Dalek and Cybermen stories to shame. Fantastic that bringing the Weeping Angels back hasn't diminished their ability to seriously freak me out! And when they all turn their heads as Amy struggles around on the floor... Jesus wept, that was seriously eerie.
Also, the subtle counting down of The POND - "I'm five... five... fine" - was brilliantly realised. I didn't get what was happening until she got to SEVEN.
"SEVEN!" - She should have shouted that like Len Goodman. That would have been so friggin' sexy.
OH GOD... And POND with her eyes closed, having to walk through a forest of Fake Plastic Trees and killer statues... It was heartbreaking to see her so vulnerable.
Atmospheric and quite terrifying at times, the episode was also peppered with The Moff's usual flashes of incomparable humour:
"I made him say 'comfy chairs'..."
Amy's CRACK also makes another appearance - this time playing a major role in proceedings; swallowing people and erasing their very existences. And in a scene a little bit stolen from Doomsday, the Angels fall into it - the Doctor saving the day once more.
The only let-down was the scene where Iain (Monarch Of The) Glen was deaded by a statue, which should have been moving but instead was a relief, on account of him being a first-class dullard. But that's the ONLY complaint I have. It was a Doctor Who story that gripped from start to finish; telling a genius story, while also raising a helluva lot of other questions:
Who did Moll Flanders kill? Was it the Doctor? Was her unfeasibly massive hair the weapon of choice?
What is the explosion that causes the CRACK? The CRACK has gone "for now" - so how long do we have to wait? And will it tie in with the 26th June? A date that seems massively important to the overall plot, and also happens to be the date on which the final episode will air. See how genius The Moff is?! It's all plotted SO cleverly.
And as one young gentleman pointed out to me... In the scene where the Doctor is telling Amy to "remember what I told you when you were seven" he has his jacket on. But the Angels took his jacket moments before. Major continuity error? Or a future version of the Doctor? Given how intricate the storylining seems to be so far, I'm inclined to go with the latter.
So what did he tell Amy when she was seven?! Is it something we've seen already, or will we be seeing little Amelia again?
Fast-forward to the present day, and she's no longer seven; she's no longer little Amelia. She's Amy POND, and she's horny. After she's tongued the Doctor and tried to rub her Scottish Twunt up against his thigh, the Doctor realises something:
"I don't know why, I have no idea why, but quite possibly the most important thing in the whole universe is that I get you sorted out right now!"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you!" she replies
Amy POND you filthy sluttish minx-whore! Bit risque, isn't it, for a kids show?! LOVED IT, though. Literally roared with laughter.
But why's it so important that she get married? On the 26th June? Just where is this all leading? I cannot WAIT to find out!
Total Score: TEN out of TEN
"She's Mrs Doctor from the future, isn't she?"
The return of two of my favourite Doctor Who things - The Weeping Angels and Moll Flanders' unfeasibly big hair - together in one magnificent story? Oh, Mr Moffat how your wonderfulness makes me erect.
From the Female-James-Bond-In-Space-style opening sequence, to Matt Smith's genius impression of the TARDIS landing (avec brakes!) I was hooked. The Moff's scripts are plotted so tightly, sprinkling clues around like fairy dust. It's like a sci-fi Jonathan Creek - all the hints are there, our hero just has to piece them together. Preferably in enough time to save the day. The throwaway mention of artificial gravity becomes their escape route in the cliffhanger ending - nicely ruined by Graham Norton.
(What IS that man's problem with Doctor Who? He's obsessed with ruining it! First he natters all the way through Chris Eccleston's first episode, now he dances across Matt Smith's fairly substantial chin in cartoon form during the season's first cliffhanger. The man should be banned!)
The throwaway, glib story about the Aplans having two heads becomes vital to the plot, and offers a wonderful "penny-dropping" moment when the team realise the statues surrounding them are NOT statues - but Angels. The hairs on my neck - and scrotal sack - stood on end. A masterful bit of storytelling; drip-feeding us enough information so that we understand what the piss is going on, but not so that we can guess it before our hero does. Very Jonathan Creek.
The book with no pictures, for "the image of an Angel itself becomes an Angel" was inspired. And now with an Angel having penetrated her retina, POND rubbing her eye and dust liberally pouring out of it was probably the most effective visual... erm... well... effect that I've ever seen on the programme. Just horrible to watch. So a quick round of applause must go to that Danny Hargreaves bloke who is always popping up on Doctor Who Confidential explaining how he dun it.
Well done.
Great job.
Now get naked for me. I want to touch you.
It was a genuinely creepy two-parter. The picking off of the Soldiers/Christian Dudes one-by-one in the first part, and the soothing tones of Angel Bob, were distinctly unnerving. Although the latter was a device stolen from Miss Evangelista in The Moff's Library-based masterpiece. But when he explains that the Angels are making POND count to scare her - "just for fun" - it is quite chilling, and something that causes the Doctor to go a bit angry/mental. Matt Smith is brilliant at angry/mental.
He also does a stellar impression of Guardian TV Goddess, Miss Charlie Brooker. Listen to him saying "If we lie to her, she'll get all better" as Amy seems to be dying of Angel Eye. It is the SPIT of Charlie Brooker! Go watch it again on iPlayer. You won't be able to tell the two apart.
Amy's encounter with the VHS-based Angel wot becomes real achieved something that I didn't think was possible: Breathing new life into a Who Foe in a way that puts Dalek and Cybermen stories to shame. Fantastic that bringing the Weeping Angels back hasn't diminished their ability to seriously freak me out! And when they all turn their heads as Amy struggles around on the floor... Jesus wept, that was seriously eerie.
Also, the subtle counting down of The POND - "I'm five... five... fine" - was brilliantly realised. I didn't get what was happening until she got to SEVEN.
"SEVEN!" - She should have shouted that like Len Goodman. That would have been so friggin' sexy.
OH GOD... And POND with her eyes closed, having to walk through a forest of Fake Plastic Trees and killer statues... It was heartbreaking to see her so vulnerable.
Atmospheric and quite terrifying at times, the episode was also peppered with The Moff's usual flashes of incomparable humour:
"I made him say 'comfy chairs'..."
Amy's CRACK also makes another appearance - this time playing a major role in proceedings; swallowing people and erasing their very existences. And in a scene a little bit stolen from Doomsday, the Angels fall into it - the Doctor saving the day once more.
The only let-down was the scene where Iain (Monarch Of The) Glen was deaded by a statue, which should have been moving but instead was a relief, on account of him being a first-class dullard. But that's the ONLY complaint I have. It was a Doctor Who story that gripped from start to finish; telling a genius story, while also raising a helluva lot of other questions:
Who did Moll Flanders kill? Was it the Doctor? Was her unfeasibly massive hair the weapon of choice?
What is the explosion that causes the CRACK? The CRACK has gone "for now" - so how long do we have to wait? And will it tie in with the 26th June? A date that seems massively important to the overall plot, and also happens to be the date on which the final episode will air. See how genius The Moff is?! It's all plotted SO cleverly.
And as one young gentleman pointed out to me... In the scene where the Doctor is telling Amy to "remember what I told you when you were seven" he has his jacket on. But the Angels took his jacket moments before. Major continuity error? Or a future version of the Doctor? Given how intricate the storylining seems to be so far, I'm inclined to go with the latter.
So what did he tell Amy when she was seven?! Is it something we've seen already, or will we be seeing little Amelia again?
Fast-forward to the present day, and she's no longer seven; she's no longer little Amelia. She's Amy POND, and she's horny. After she's tongued the Doctor and tried to rub her Scottish Twunt up against his thigh, the Doctor realises something:
"I don't know why, I have no idea why, but quite possibly the most important thing in the whole universe is that I get you sorted out right now!"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you!" she replies
Amy POND you filthy sluttish minx-whore! Bit risque, isn't it, for a kids show?! LOVED IT, though. Literally roared with laughter.
But why's it so important that she get married? On the 26th June? Just where is this all leading? I cannot WAIT to find out!
Total Score: TEN out of TEN
-
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Doctor Who Watch #16
The Beast Below by Steven Moffat
"I'm the bloody queen, mate"
Another work of genius from The Moff. To be honest, it's probably a bit too busy for a second episode; bit too much going on. A lot to take in, on top of trying to get used to the new Doctor, new TARDIS, new sonic, new POND... Bit early in the run to start bombarding me with musings on Democracy and Cruelty and Queen-related Timey-wimey stuff.
But that's a minor quibble.
Actually, here's another: Sophie Okinikinoinoikioiokio's comedy Dick Van Dyke impression as Liz Ten. What the frig was that all about?!
And what in the name of all that is holy are you doing employing the Demon Headmaster - the man responsible for 99% of all children's nightmares and bed-wettings in the early 90's - and then NOT using him as a baddie?! Worse than that, barely having him on screen in the first place! Shame on you, The Moff. Mr Demon Headmaster is a leg-end, and should be treated as such.
All that aside, I really enjoyed this episode. The Starwhale - surely the only name WORSE than that for a Doctor Who alien would be Clive?! - saving the UK because it couldn't bear to hear the children cry was a nice touch, and weaved in beautifully with the whole point of the Doctor. As Amy POND cleverly deduces.
The Smilers were a creepy and effective foe. But with so much else going on, they took a bit of a backseat. If only there had just been less ideas fighting for screen time. I hope (somehow) we get to see them again, because the revived Doctor Who has been lacking in truly memorable ORIGINAL baddies - save for the Ood - and these just look SO horrible that it would be a shame not to see them a bit more. Such a startling creation.
Matt Smith still continues to impress. And the scene where he and POND are in Clive's mouth. Sorry, the Starwhale's mouth, is probably one of my favourite sequences of all time. "On the plus side: Roomy!" Complete and utter genius.
A lot of things happened - including another appearance from Amy's CRACK - and there was much to praise about this episode. But because it was such a busy one, and because I'm due Covent Garden in a minute, I can't talk about all of it. Plus, the episode speaks for itself, really. And once I've mocked Liz Ten's ridiculous dialect, what else is there for me to say?! Another thumbs up for The Moff.
Total Score: EIGHT out of TEN
(Would have got a TEN if Sir Terrance of Hardiman had featured a bit more!)
"I'm the bloody queen, mate"
Another work of genius from The Moff. To be honest, it's probably a bit too busy for a second episode; bit too much going on. A lot to take in, on top of trying to get used to the new Doctor, new TARDIS, new sonic, new POND... Bit early in the run to start bombarding me with musings on Democracy and Cruelty and Queen-related Timey-wimey stuff.
But that's a minor quibble.
Actually, here's another: Sophie Okinikinoinoikioiokio's comedy Dick Van Dyke impression as Liz Ten. What the frig was that all about?!
And what in the name of all that is holy are you doing employing the Demon Headmaster - the man responsible for 99% of all children's nightmares and bed-wettings in the early 90's - and then NOT using him as a baddie?! Worse than that, barely having him on screen in the first place! Shame on you, The Moff. Mr Demon Headmaster is a leg-end, and should be treated as such.
All that aside, I really enjoyed this episode. The Starwhale - surely the only name WORSE than that for a Doctor Who alien would be Clive?! - saving the UK because it couldn't bear to hear the children cry was a nice touch, and weaved in beautifully with the whole point of the Doctor. As Amy POND cleverly deduces.
The Smilers were a creepy and effective foe. But with so much else going on, they took a bit of a backseat. If only there had just been less ideas fighting for screen time. I hope (somehow) we get to see them again, because the revived Doctor Who has been lacking in truly memorable ORIGINAL baddies - save for the Ood - and these just look SO horrible that it would be a shame not to see them a bit more. Such a startling creation.
Matt Smith still continues to impress. And the scene where he and POND are in Clive's mouth. Sorry, the Starwhale's mouth, is probably one of my favourite sequences of all time. "On the plus side: Roomy!" Complete and utter genius.
A lot of things happened - including another appearance from Amy's CRACK - and there was much to praise about this episode. But because it was such a busy one, and because I'm due Covent Garden in a minute, I can't talk about all of it. Plus, the episode speaks for itself, really. And once I've mocked Liz Ten's ridiculous dialect, what else is there for me to say?! Another thumbs up for The Moff.
Total Score: EIGHT out of TEN
(Would have got a TEN if Sir Terrance of Hardiman had featured a bit more!)
Victory Of The Daleks by Mark Gatiss
"Keep buggering on!"
The problem with Dalek episodes is that they never seem as scary or potent as they did in their first 2005 appearance, in the appropriately named Dalek. The law of diminishing returns. And they're back again to prove that point rather successfully.
You can imagine the story meeting:
"What's new that can be done with the Daleks?"
"Erm... Well... Erm... We could stick 'em in World War Two, with Winston Churchill, fighting the Nazis?"
It was an inspired idea, and the World War Two elements were great. Apart from a dull subplot about some bint losing her man in battle, it was all brilliant. Bracewell turning out to be a creation of the 'Ironsides' rather than the other way round was a neat twist. Matt Smith going proper mental in a way that only Chris Eccleston has really done when faced with a Dalek was gripping. And this version of the Doctor had a SPANNER!
Sadly not dribbling as much as he did in the Doctor Who Confidential interview shown afterwards, Ian McNice-Nice-Bum-Bum (That's his ACTUAL name) put in a great performance as Winnie.
Churchill, not Mandela.
Although I'd pay good money to see that!
And for the first time since 2005, I actually found the Daleks frightening. Their toadying manner; their tea-making and folder-carrying... It was completely unnerving. The calm before the storm. You were just waiting for them to snap and revert to type. It really built up the tension in a way that no other Dalek tale had done since the Utah-based epic featuring sexy Bruno Langely and sexy Bruno Langley's bot-bot.
Shame, then, that once the Dalek's DO realise that they are mad-alien-killer-types, the episode loses its fear factor and turns into yet another farcical attempt to prolong their existence. Now in technicolour.
(Yes... The multi-coloured Daleks. Did someone say "blatent merchandising opportunity" at the back there?! No? Just me hearing things again then!)
Bracewell turning out to be a walking, talking bomb, gave the episode a nice bit of danger towards the end. It was nice to see The Doctor unable to convince Bracewell that he's human. Let's not forget, the Doctor himself isn't particularly au fait with the human emotions, what with being a Time Lord an' all.
It's left to the POND to swoop in and save the day by talking about love. Love. What could be more human than that?
It had a few good jokes - I particularly loved the Dorabella gag - and it was very atmospheric to start with, but the moment we found ourselves in the Dalek Spaceship opposite the new Duplo Daleks, I just lost all interest. A great disappointment, really.
Although I did chuckle when I misheard what the White Dalek was saying, mistaking it for: "We will shat on the planet below"
Now THAT's something new that can be done with the Daleks!
Total Score: FIVE out of TEN
-
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Doctor Who Watch #15
Best laid plans, and all that jazz...
I've been so busy working, sleeping, eating, working, sleeping, eating, spending money on Peppa Pig and her various chums, watching sexiful people with secrets in Desperate Housewives, writing up scripts, going on holidays to Germany, losing at Monopoly Deal, calling people Shirley as they bring me over my next curry, poncing around in Swanley and touching my cock and balls that I completely forgot I was supposed to be reviewing the new series of Doctor Who.
I can't imagine I'll get told off. Does anyone care enough to chastise? I highly doubt it. But I'm metaphorically self-flagellating at my inexcusable lack of episode evaluation. How could I forget something that brings me such joy and pleasure and a bit of a semi?
Although truth be told, I'm only writing this now because I've been stood up. By a non-entity with a surprisingly unflattering winkle and a bizarre eyelid twitch. And he smells of Scotch Eggs.
Bitter, moi? No. See if I care. I've got a picture of Luke Pasqualino naked saved to my 'Folder Of Much Naughty Prettiness' so I'm sorted for tonight. Didn't like him anyway. Cunt...
But stood up I have indeed been (Can't think why - I'm a lovely) so with no back-up plans, I'm resorting to this... Writing shit about Doctor Who.
The Eleventh Hour by Steven Moffat
"You're Scottish - Fry something!"
I was nervous. I admit to feeling nervous. Which is stupid, given that this is just a TV show. But it's a TV show that has meant a lot to me since it returned in 2005 - the year of which we shall not speak - and, as a result, it will always have a special place in my heart.
I was nervous that I wouldn't like the 'NEW WHO'. A new Doctor I could cope with - I'd already fallen in love with Matt Smith after seeing Party Animals - but EVERYTHING seemed to be new. From the Head Honcho - now Mr Moffat Esq - to the choice of directors (Where be Euros Lyn? Come back, Euros Lyn. How I loved your name!)
There was even a bizarre new sticker on the door of the TARDIS and the pointlessly new sonic. EVERYTHING was changing.
I'm scared of change. And there were A LOT of changes to take on board. I was worried that it would feel like a completely different show; no longer the show I've loved since 2005. Hence the nerves.
I've been so busy working, sleeping, eating, working, sleeping, eating, spending money on Peppa Pig and her various chums, watching sexiful people with secrets in Desperate Housewives, writing up scripts, going on holidays to Germany, losing at Monopoly Deal, calling people Shirley as they bring me over my next curry, poncing around in Swanley and touching my cock and balls that I completely forgot I was supposed to be reviewing the new series of Doctor Who.
I can't imagine I'll get told off. Does anyone care enough to chastise? I highly doubt it. But I'm metaphorically self-flagellating at my inexcusable lack of episode evaluation. How could I forget something that brings me such joy and pleasure and a bit of a semi?
Although truth be told, I'm only writing this now because I've been stood up. By a non-entity with a surprisingly unflattering winkle and a bizarre eyelid twitch. And he smells of Scotch Eggs.
Bitter, moi? No. See if I care. I've got a picture of Luke Pasqualino naked saved to my 'Folder Of Much Naughty Prettiness' so I'm sorted for tonight. Didn't like him anyway. Cunt...
But stood up I have indeed been (Can't think why - I'm a lovely) so with no back-up plans, I'm resorting to this... Writing shit about Doctor Who.
The Eleventh Hour by Steven Moffat
"You're Scottish - Fry something!"
I was nervous. I admit to feeling nervous. Which is stupid, given that this is just a TV show. But it's a TV show that has meant a lot to me since it returned in 2005 - the year of which we shall not speak - and, as a result, it will always have a special place in my heart.
I was nervous that I wouldn't like the 'NEW WHO'. A new Doctor I could cope with - I'd already fallen in love with Matt Smith after seeing Party Animals - but EVERYTHING seemed to be new. From the Head Honcho - now Mr Moffat Esq - to the choice of directors (Where be Euros Lyn? Come back, Euros Lyn. How I loved your name!)
There was even a bizarre new sticker on the door of the TARDIS and the pointlessly new sonic. EVERYTHING was changing.
I'm scared of change. And there were A LOT of changes to take on board. I was worried that it would feel like a completely different show; no longer the show I've loved since 2005. Hence the nerves.
Luckily, these nerves went away the moment the first episode began; the moment the Eleventh Doctor found himself facing circumcision by Big Ben, in a great visual gag that made me do a laugh. And then came the excellently creepy, gothic, Addams-Family-Styleeee titles, and a newly-tweaked theme tune that gave the familiar little ditty a somewhat ethereal quality. Little bit mysterious.
Already the show was beginning to feel different. The tone was different; the look; the feel. But it was still, somehow, reassuringly the same.
The same. But better.
I loved the RTD OBE era, and was hooked from the very first episode. But as an opener; a series 'reboot'... A point for new viewers to join and not feel like they've missed 40-odd years of 'Other Stuff'... It was a million times better than Rose.
It was funnier, it was more confident and it had a proper villain instead of a non-English speaking orange blob. It didn't have Graham Norton talking over the first five minutes. It didn't have Mark Benton. It was a brilliant 'stepping-on' point for newbies, and a pitch-perfect way of introducing the multitude of changes to stubborn David Tennant fans. It's a cliche, but by the end of the episode, it really was a case of "David who?!"
Matt Smith was fantastic. Even in the first ten or so minutes, where he spits out various foodstuffs as if he were a Chuckle Brother dicking around on CBeebies. Immature and clearly aimed at kids... I pissed myself!
"Beans are evil. Bad, bad beans"
The introduction of Amy POND as the companion - Doctor meets her as a kiddie, says he'll be back in five minutes, returns in twelve YEARS to find she's all tits-and-legs-and-kiss-o-gram - is nothing short of genius.
And quite poignant. Imagine what that would do to YOU? Waiting all that time; wondering if you'd imagined it? Wondering why even your imaginary friend has let you down?! No wonder she sunk her teeth into four different psychologists!
The sight of little Amelia POND sitting on her suitcase, while Evil-Genius-Composer-Man Murray Gold assaults your ears with music of hope, only for that hope to fade when morning comes... It kills me every time, that scene. Genius.
The story itself? Prisoner Zero has escaped through a crack in Miss POND's room. The big space EYEBALL in a flying snowflake is going to torch the earth unless Prisoner Zero surrenders. Prisoner Zero disguises itself as Sophie from Peep Show and The Shining Twins. The Doctor has the whole world sending the message of 'ZERO' to indicate to MR EYEBALL where the naughty little alien can be found and captured. Doctor saves the Earth. Again.
The solution - the whole 'ZERO' thing - reminded me of The Last Of The Time Lords, where everyone revives the Doctor from his wrinkled-parrot appearance merely by uttering the word 'Doctor'. But while that was shit, and probably the least-convincing resolution to a plot EVER, this actually made sense and worked really well. As did so much else about this episode...
Frosty Bitch-Faced Greyhound Enthusiast, Annette Crosbie, turned in a distinctly underwhelming cameo, but Lord Nina Wadia was brilliant, as always. And Rory, the nurse we first see her ticking off, looks set to play a bigger part in proceedings. The Mickey Smith of 2010. And while I don't want to lick every inch of his hot, naked body in the same way that I may, possibly, perhaps have wanted to do with Mickey Smith, I can't help but admire his genius sense of comic timing.
The comedy in this episode as a whole, actually, was BRILLIANT. I don't think I've laughed this much since Unicorn And The Wasp. I loved the internet porn jokes - "Get a girlfriend, Jeff" - and the way "WHO DA MAN?!" fell flat on its face a little bit.
And: "Did he just save the world from aliens and then call the aliens back?!"
BRILLIANT! And once he HAD called the aliens back, there was the confrontation on the roof that confirmed what we'd all been thinking for the 45-minute previous to this: Matt Smith IS now the Doctor. It may be too early to tell, but based on this performance, Lord Smith has certainly earned his place alongside those other ten faces that flashed up courtesy of the EYEBALL's databank.
PLUS he got his nipples out, which automatically makes him my favourite Doctor!
The twist at the end... Turning up late again, taking Amy with him, but in the time he's been away, she's gone and got engaged and her wedding is TOMORROW...Talk about cliffhangers! Is there any way this episode could possibly have been any better?!
Other than Matt Smith showing more than just his nipplettes? Probably not.
Total Score: TEN out of TEN
-
Already the show was beginning to feel different. The tone was different; the look; the feel. But it was still, somehow, reassuringly the same.
The same. But better.
I loved the RTD OBE era, and was hooked from the very first episode. But as an opener; a series 'reboot'... A point for new viewers to join and not feel like they've missed 40-odd years of 'Other Stuff'... It was a million times better than Rose.
It was funnier, it was more confident and it had a proper villain instead of a non-English speaking orange blob. It didn't have Graham Norton talking over the first five minutes. It didn't have Mark Benton. It was a brilliant 'stepping-on' point for newbies, and a pitch-perfect way of introducing the multitude of changes to stubborn David Tennant fans. It's a cliche, but by the end of the episode, it really was a case of "David who?!"
Matt Smith was fantastic. Even in the first ten or so minutes, where he spits out various foodstuffs as if he were a Chuckle Brother dicking around on CBeebies. Immature and clearly aimed at kids... I pissed myself!
"Beans are evil. Bad, bad beans"
The introduction of Amy POND as the companion - Doctor meets her as a kiddie, says he'll be back in five minutes, returns in twelve YEARS to find she's all tits-and-legs-and-kiss-o-gram - is nothing short of genius.
And quite poignant. Imagine what that would do to YOU? Waiting all that time; wondering if you'd imagined it? Wondering why even your imaginary friend has let you down?! No wonder she sunk her teeth into four different psychologists!
The sight of little Amelia POND sitting on her suitcase, while Evil-Genius-Composer-Man Murray Gold assaults your ears with music of hope, only for that hope to fade when morning comes... It kills me every time, that scene. Genius.
The story itself? Prisoner Zero has escaped through a crack in Miss POND's room. The big space EYEBALL in a flying snowflake is going to torch the earth unless Prisoner Zero surrenders. Prisoner Zero disguises itself as Sophie from Peep Show and The Shining Twins. The Doctor has the whole world sending the message of 'ZERO' to indicate to MR EYEBALL where the naughty little alien can be found and captured. Doctor saves the Earth. Again.
The solution - the whole 'ZERO' thing - reminded me of The Last Of The Time Lords, where everyone revives the Doctor from his wrinkled-parrot appearance merely by uttering the word 'Doctor'. But while that was shit, and probably the least-convincing resolution to a plot EVER, this actually made sense and worked really well. As did so much else about this episode...
Frosty Bitch-Faced Greyhound Enthusiast, Annette Crosbie, turned in a distinctly underwhelming cameo, but Lord Nina Wadia was brilliant, as always. And Rory, the nurse we first see her ticking off, looks set to play a bigger part in proceedings. The Mickey Smith of 2010. And while I don't want to lick every inch of his hot, naked body in the same way that I may, possibly, perhaps have wanted to do with Mickey Smith, I can't help but admire his genius sense of comic timing.
The comedy in this episode as a whole, actually, was BRILLIANT. I don't think I've laughed this much since Unicorn And The Wasp. I loved the internet porn jokes - "Get a girlfriend, Jeff" - and the way "WHO DA MAN?!" fell flat on its face a little bit.
And: "Did he just save the world from aliens and then call the aliens back?!"
BRILLIANT! And once he HAD called the aliens back, there was the confrontation on the roof that confirmed what we'd all been thinking for the 45-minute previous to this: Matt Smith IS now the Doctor. It may be too early to tell, but based on this performance, Lord Smith has certainly earned his place alongside those other ten faces that flashed up courtesy of the EYEBALL's databank.
PLUS he got his nipples out, which automatically makes him my favourite Doctor!
The twist at the end... Turning up late again, taking Amy with him, but in the time he's been away, she's gone and got engaged and her wedding is TOMORROW...Talk about cliffhangers! Is there any way this episode could possibly have been any better?!
Other than Matt Smith showing more than just his nipplettes? Probably not.
Total Score: TEN out of TEN
-
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Most Satisfying Article Of The Year
After an amazingly sexy weekend away in Germany, I was trying to decide where it ranked in my 'not-written-down-because-I'm-not-that-sad' list of every holiday I've ever been on. Short answer is: Dunno.
I've been on so many genius holidays - The Honeymoon Suite at Center Parcs, Brighton 2008, Southend, Alcudia, Roquetas De Mar 2008, Halkidiki, Prague, Portugal - that it's really hard to choose where to place it on this list wot only exists in my head, honest.
Ask me to name the WORST holiday, however, and I have no trouble.
Blackpool.
Don't go. Seriously. Avoid like the plague.
Hands-down the most depressing, skanky, wanky coastal town (that they forgot to close down, come Armageddon, come Armageddon, come...) that I have ever had the misfortune to visit.
From the racist undertones of the seaside "cabaret" to the eye-watering smell of actual, proper shit liberally scattered over the beach... Being there was like stepping into a land designed to be the complete OPPOSITE of Brighton. I was SO disappointed.
The Golden Mile sounded nice and inviting.
But then, if you think about it, so does a Golden Shower.
In reality, both are down-right dirty and wrong. And smelly. And seedy. And unhygienic. And - once again, for emphasis - down-right dirty and wrong.
The main reason for venturing to Blackpool was the theme park, which - in all fairness - was amazing.
But the fact our hotel was MILES away meant a half-hour walk through the vileness of the ramshackle seafront to get to the wonderfulness of Valhalla or Wild Mouse. It completely ruined what could have been a great holiday.
(Of course, it doesn't help that I went with a young gentleman caller, who dramatically started a fight on our last day... with the toilet door)
But if I haven't provided you with enough evidence for why you shouldn't go to Blackpool - as if shit on the beach wasn't enough?! - here is another:
Anyone who has been on Brighton Pier with me will know how much I like to win cuddly toys. (Who said "Grow up"...?!)
So I merrily approached the Hoopla, en route to the theme park, and tried to win something. With every throw, it seemed like I was getting better and better; closer and closer to the prize. I was nearly there. Nearly. Nearly. Nearly.
Seventy quid later, I had to walk away...
Seventy pissing quid! Gone.
The smooth-talking dicktard of a CONMAN on the stall kept promising champagne (which I thought would be a nice, romantic thing to win) or a wad of cold, hard cash or a giant Tigger (less romantic). He would move the targets closer to me if I handed over more cash. It seemed like he genuinely wanted me to win. I gave him money, the targets got closer, the chance of winning got easier and easier. A no-brainer, yes?
Except the whole game was designed so that NO-ONE could win. There was more chance of me marrying TV's sexy Susan Hampshire than winning this Hoopla game, no matter how close he moved the targets. Because they were built in a way that made winning impossible.
Regard:
I've been on so many genius holidays - The Honeymoon Suite at Center Parcs, Brighton 2008, Southend, Alcudia, Roquetas De Mar 2008, Halkidiki, Prague, Portugal - that it's really hard to choose where to place it on this list wot only exists in my head, honest.
Ask me to name the WORST holiday, however, and I have no trouble.
Blackpool.
Don't go. Seriously. Avoid like the plague.
Hands-down the most depressing, skanky, wanky coastal town (that they forgot to close down, come Armageddon, come Armageddon, come...) that I have ever had the misfortune to visit.
From the racist undertones of the seaside "cabaret" to the eye-watering smell of actual, proper shit liberally scattered over the beach... Being there was like stepping into a land designed to be the complete OPPOSITE of Brighton. I was SO disappointed.
The Golden Mile sounded nice and inviting.
But then, if you think about it, so does a Golden Shower.
In reality, both are down-right dirty and wrong. And smelly. And seedy. And unhygienic. And - once again, for emphasis - down-right dirty and wrong.
The main reason for venturing to Blackpool was the theme park, which - in all fairness - was amazing.
But the fact our hotel was MILES away meant a half-hour walk through the vileness of the ramshackle seafront to get to the wonderfulness of Valhalla or Wild Mouse. It completely ruined what could have been a great holiday.
(Of course, it doesn't help that I went with a young gentleman caller, who dramatically started a fight on our last day... with the toilet door)
But if I haven't provided you with enough evidence for why you shouldn't go to Blackpool - as if shit on the beach wasn't enough?! - here is another:
Anyone who has been on Brighton Pier with me will know how much I like to win cuddly toys. (Who said "Grow up"...?!)
So I merrily approached the Hoopla, en route to the theme park, and tried to win something. With every throw, it seemed like I was getting better and better; closer and closer to the prize. I was nearly there. Nearly. Nearly. Nearly.
Seventy quid later, I had to walk away...
Seventy pissing quid! Gone.
The smooth-talking dicktard of a CONMAN on the stall kept promising champagne (which I thought would be a nice, romantic thing to win) or a wad of cold, hard cash or a giant Tigger (less romantic). He would move the targets closer to me if I handed over more cash. It seemed like he genuinely wanted me to win. I gave him money, the targets got closer, the chance of winning got easier and easier. A no-brainer, yes?
Except the whole game was designed so that NO-ONE could win. There was more chance of me marrying TV's sexy Susan Hampshire than winning this Hoopla game, no matter how close he moved the targets. Because they were built in a way that made winning impossible.
Regard:
I swore to this day that it was a fix, and that they were a bunch of conmen. I swore I wasn't just being a bad loser, bitter at the fact I was stupid enough to give them SEVENTY FUCKING PISSING QUID. And now, I feel vindicated. And a little bit smug that those Blackpool Bastards have been caught out. In the Daily Telegraph, no less.
-
Friday, 14 May 2010
Tonight
Well, the sky broke in two
I found you dancing alone
In the room filled up with you
And a song we both know.
I found you dancing alone
In the room filled up with you
And a song we both know.
That's when you caught me with your eyes
You're sending shivers down my spine
And then you whispered in my ear
You said, "I can feel it too"
And then you pulled me into you
I am completely obsessed with this song. It makes me happy in all the right places - almost as much as Wherever You Will Go, of The Calling Fame.
This is Tonight by Alex Band (formerly of The Calling)
The video is a bit 'Bastard-Child-Of-Evanescence-Twilight-And-Jon-Bon-Jovi' but the song is amazing.
And it's good to see that the childhood crush I had on him when I was at school and he was a blonde, Aaron Carter-eque surfer dude still remains now he's older, wiser and brunette. He is gorgeous. I'd let him sink his teeth into me any day of the week. Mainly around my penis.
-
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
2010: Three Months On...
"So how have you been?" I can hear almost none of you ask.
"What have you been up to since your last, grippingly-exciting blog-type entry thing?"
I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing, as in just 72 hours, Doctor Who makes a return to the beautiful BBC and I feel it is my duty to continue 'reviewing' each and every episode. With varying success, depending on how bored of my own voice I get. Sometimes there is zero effort there. That's why I need to get back into the habit of writing something - so it flows a bit easier when it comes to assessing The Eleventh Hour. Hence my appearance now.
Not that I have much to say for myself. It's pretty much been life as normal at this end.
"What's new?"
Well... John Terry's been doing my fucking head in.
I refer not to his dirty, sleazy, cheaty antics. He's a footballer - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. Scratch that. He's a MAN - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. No, I refer not to his wandering genitalia, but to the hilarious running over of a Chelsea security guard as JT was driving away from the grounds. He was later breathalysed as a result of this "comedy mishap" - outside his home in Oxshott. As anyone who has been into my bedroom (triple-figures, last count) will know, from glancing at my super-cool map, Oxshott can be found in North Surrey.
Do you know how many separate news stories there were reporting this?! And how many I had to work my way through for a certain Surrey-related client?! Four-thousand, six-hundred. That's how many. My GOD... Work has been hell these last few weeks, with JT, the Budget, those pissing unions, more bank-related greed and a smattering of political stuff. Is there an election coming up or something?!
Which is why 'The Year Of Plenty' has been a welcoming distraction...
St Albans, where I ate lasagne, four-hundred waffles and my hair fell off.
The Annual Brighton Panto Trip, where Lee Tracey made a triumphant return to the stage but David Raven called in sick. I hope he's not dead. Like his beloved Dong.
La Tasca, where too much Chorizo was consumed and the reading material was heartily uplifting. And the place just reeked of seamen. (Oddly enough, this made us even hungrier)
Soho, where I spent more money on the jukebox than I did on pretty tipples - but still ended up drunk as a skunk and sick as a bastard.
Jewel, where discretion is the better part of valour.
Come Dine With Me, where I cooked stuff, ate stuff, drank stuff... And fell up something. Again. Always falling. If it's not a bush, it's a slightly ajar door.
The Rise & Fall Of Little Voice, where Diana Vickers played a mute and old men wore sexy scarves.
Tom McRae at Heavenly Social, where Gollum and Billy Connolly's love child on the mixing desk seemed to be having a fit. For an hour.
Tom McRae in Kings Cross, where I nearly cried over American Spirit, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Boy With The Bubblegun, nearly cried over My Vampire Heart, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Silent Boulevard... And did a sly masturbate at his sexy cover of human punchbag Rhianna's finest weather-based song Umbrella. Cleverly renamed Tomberella. You probably had to be there. PISSED. MYSELF. LAUGHING.
The Railway Tavern, where the leg-stroking appeared to rile the regulars and ninety-year old men started to play thrash metal. Urgh.
Diana Vickers at The Borderline, where people had lovely laughs, the man next to me smelt of piss, the man just in front of me was pretty hot and I realised that I cannot WAIT for her album, as every song she sang (Count them - Nine. Just nine) was actually completely worthy of purchasing-ment.
The Murder Mystery shindig, where my father died at the hands of the most vicious, manly, strong, threatening, butch boxer I've ever seen.
The most productive Writey Weekend I think we've ever had, where we actually managed to get first drafts of every episode to a stage where I am immensely proud of them. And came up with a line that - every time I think of it - makes me laugh like a camp hyena in the most inappropriate places. Mainly work, shops, public transport and funerals.
It's been a great start to 2010.
And that's without mentioning the fisting.
With all the behind-the-scenes reshuffling and management changes and restructures going on at Eggplant right now, I'm hoping for even more random days, nights and weekends in this 'Year Of Plenty' to distract me from the shitness of work. I'm also hoping John Terry doesn't get questioned by the filth outside his home in Oxshott again.
"What have you been up to since your last, grippingly-exciting blog-type entry thing?"
I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing, as in just 72 hours, Doctor Who makes a return to the beautiful BBC and I feel it is my duty to continue 'reviewing' each and every episode. With varying success, depending on how bored of my own voice I get. Sometimes there is zero effort there. That's why I need to get back into the habit of writing something - so it flows a bit easier when it comes to assessing The Eleventh Hour. Hence my appearance now.
Not that I have much to say for myself. It's pretty much been life as normal at this end.
"What's new?"
Well... John Terry's been doing my fucking head in.
I refer not to his dirty, sleazy, cheaty antics. He's a footballer - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. Scratch that. He's a MAN - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. No, I refer not to his wandering genitalia, but to the hilarious running over of a Chelsea security guard as JT was driving away from the grounds. He was later breathalysed as a result of this "comedy mishap" - outside his home in Oxshott. As anyone who has been into my bedroom (triple-figures, last count) will know, from glancing at my super-cool map, Oxshott can be found in North Surrey.
Do you know how many separate news stories there were reporting this?! And how many I had to work my way through for a certain Surrey-related client?! Four-thousand, six-hundred. That's how many. My GOD... Work has been hell these last few weeks, with JT, the Budget, those pissing unions, more bank-related greed and a smattering of political stuff. Is there an election coming up or something?!
Which is why 'The Year Of Plenty' has been a welcoming distraction...
St Albans, where I ate lasagne, four-hundred waffles and my hair fell off.
The Annual Brighton Panto Trip, where Lee Tracey made a triumphant return to the stage but David Raven called in sick. I hope he's not dead. Like his beloved Dong.
La Tasca, where too much Chorizo was consumed and the reading material was heartily uplifting. And the place just reeked of seamen. (Oddly enough, this made us even hungrier)
Soho, where I spent more money on the jukebox than I did on pretty tipples - but still ended up drunk as a skunk and sick as a bastard.
Jewel, where discretion is the better part of valour.
Come Dine With Me, where I cooked stuff, ate stuff, drank stuff... And fell up something. Again. Always falling. If it's not a bush, it's a slightly ajar door.
The Rise & Fall Of Little Voice, where Diana Vickers played a mute and old men wore sexy scarves.
Tom McRae at Heavenly Social, where Gollum and Billy Connolly's love child on the mixing desk seemed to be having a fit. For an hour.
Tom McRae in Kings Cross, where I nearly cried over American Spirit, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Boy With The Bubblegun, nearly cried over My Vampire Heart, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Silent Boulevard... And did a sly masturbate at his sexy cover of human punchbag Rhianna's finest weather-based song Umbrella. Cleverly renamed Tomberella. You probably had to be there. PISSED. MYSELF. LAUGHING.
The Railway Tavern, where the leg-stroking appeared to rile the regulars and ninety-year old men started to play thrash metal. Urgh.
Diana Vickers at The Borderline, where people had lovely laughs, the man next to me smelt of piss, the man just in front of me was pretty hot and I realised that I cannot WAIT for her album, as every song she sang (Count them - Nine. Just nine) was actually completely worthy of purchasing-ment.
The Murder Mystery shindig, where my father died at the hands of the most vicious, manly, strong, threatening, butch boxer I've ever seen.
The most productive Writey Weekend I think we've ever had, where we actually managed to get first drafts of every episode to a stage where I am immensely proud of them. And came up with a line that - every time I think of it - makes me laugh like a camp hyena in the most inappropriate places. Mainly work, shops, public transport and funerals.
It's been a great start to 2010.
And that's without mentioning the fisting.
With all the behind-the-scenes reshuffling and management changes and restructures going on at Eggplant right now, I'm hoping for even more random days, nights and weekends in this 'Year Of Plenty' to distract me from the shitness of work. I'm also hoping John Terry doesn't get questioned by the filth outside his home in Oxshott again.
-
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Can I Predict Who Killed Archie?
Several years ago - I could Google it to find out the exact date, but I can't be arsed (even though typing that sentence probably took longer than Googling the date, and yet STILL I continue waffling...) - I was "working" in Wapping.
I was sitting with the Editor of The Sun's TV Mag. We were in his office, discussing who should make it onto next week's cover, who would be attending the Crossroads relaunch (yes... It was THAT long ago) and generally talking about the process of putting the magazine together.
I sound like I was practically running the place.
I wasn't.
I was on work experience. And, in truth, he was probably only talking to me because his lovely PA had told him it'd be "nice for the spotty little urchin - look at him, sat there all sad and pathetic, typing up interviews with TV's Sylvia Hollamby and Queen Babs Windsor... Go on, you've not got any meetings for the next hour. Don't lie to me - I keep your diary, remember? I'm your PA. Go on, show willing. Bit of Christian charity?"
To reward the PA's faith in me, I concluded our meeting by managing to lock the Editor out of his own office. With hilarious consequences.
Anyway, he did actually spare me a whole hour of his time, which, for an Editor, is almost unheard of. And I did learn a lot. For example: Mike Baldwin was to be on next week's cover.
But the main topic of conversation was EastEnders, and the 'Who Shot Phil?' story that was due to conclude that very eve. I could have been asking all sorts of probing questions about editorial and journalistic methods; things that could have served me well in a future career. But no... I was more interested in hearing who he thought had pulled the trigger.
He thought it was Steve.
Fool. I told him, there and then, seven hours before broadcast... No - It was Lisa. Bet you it was Lisa.
And bugger me backwards with a spoon... It was! It was Lisa.
Except when I told that story, nobody believed me. Because nobody actually expected it to be her, so they didn't believe I'd guessed in advance. They certainly didn't believe I'd out-guessed the Editor of The Sun's TV Mag. A man whose job it was to know. They thought I was just saying that to try and look big, clever and wonderous.
Untrusting cunts.
So I've learnt my lesson... I'm writing this blog now, on Tuesday 16th February. Three days away from the EastEnders episode where Archie Mitchell's killer is revealed.
And I shall predict the naughty swine wot dun it. Right here.
I'm recording it here, so that there is no doubting my Miss Marple-like deductions. One of my Ex's used to call me Poirot, you know. (We didn't last. Oddly enough)
So, I think the killer will be revealed as...
(This is like a less exciting installment of Derren Brown, isn't it?)
*DRUMROLL*
...Well, now hang on.
It's always the wife. It was Chrissie "Sexy Big Hair" Watts who killed Dirty Den. It was Amanda Donohoe who killed 'im off of Grease 2 in Emmerdale. It's always the wife.
And Babs Windsor is leaving, so it MUST be her. And she's one of the very few who haven't been obvious suspects, so it MUST be her. Everything points to her.
Except I fail to believe for one second that she could lift that fucking great big statue. She's smaller than Wee Jimmie Krankie's dong. How could tiny Peggy Mitchell pick up that great big thing and use it as a weapon?!
So it's not the wife. It can't be. Physically impossible.
It's not Ronnie. She told Dot she didn't do it - and no-one lies to pretty Dot. They tell Dot their deepest, darkest secrets, they don't lie to her. Plus, Ronnie's too obvious. Same as Bradley or Janine - all too obvious. Roxy has never displayed any emotion other than love towards Archie, so if she turns out to be the killer, it will be the massive twist we're looking for... But it will be completely unbelievable.
I'm hoping it's Danny Mitchell. Just because it means I get to see him again. He's gorgeous. I want to lick his hair.
For a long time, I did think it was Jack. They've not made him too obvious a suspect, so it'll still be a bit of a shock. It would lead to a few storylines with Ronnie (who he presumably did it for) and Roxy (who would probably be a bit narked and withhold custody of Amy a little bit). And if Bradley gets the blame - which is where this plot seems to be going - even though Jack is the real murderer, then Max isn't going to be too pleased, kicking off another brotherly feud.
I can't think of any other outcome that could kick off as many repercussions as it being Jack. That was my thought process behind picking Lisa as being the rascal who gunned down Phil, so I'm applying it here as well. It was Jack.
Jack killed Archie.
Maybe?
Oh, but I keep going back to Peggy. It's the show's 25th Anniversary - It's a live episode. It's a big occasion. Peggy IS EastEnders. It HAS to be her.
I was sitting with the Editor of The Sun's TV Mag. We were in his office, discussing who should make it onto next week's cover, who would be attending the Crossroads relaunch (yes... It was THAT long ago) and generally talking about the process of putting the magazine together.
I sound like I was practically running the place.
I wasn't.
I was on work experience. And, in truth, he was probably only talking to me because his lovely PA had told him it'd be "nice for the spotty little urchin - look at him, sat there all sad and pathetic, typing up interviews with TV's Sylvia Hollamby and Queen Babs Windsor... Go on, you've not got any meetings for the next hour. Don't lie to me - I keep your diary, remember? I'm your PA. Go on, show willing. Bit of Christian charity?"
To reward the PA's faith in me, I concluded our meeting by managing to lock the Editor out of his own office. With hilarious consequences.
Anyway, he did actually spare me a whole hour of his time, which, for an Editor, is almost unheard of. And I did learn a lot. For example: Mike Baldwin was to be on next week's cover.
But the main topic of conversation was EastEnders, and the 'Who Shot Phil?' story that was due to conclude that very eve. I could have been asking all sorts of probing questions about editorial and journalistic methods; things that could have served me well in a future career. But no... I was more interested in hearing who he thought had pulled the trigger.
He thought it was Steve.
Fool. I told him, there and then, seven hours before broadcast... No - It was Lisa. Bet you it was Lisa.
And bugger me backwards with a spoon... It was! It was Lisa.
Except when I told that story, nobody believed me. Because nobody actually expected it to be her, so they didn't believe I'd guessed in advance. They certainly didn't believe I'd out-guessed the Editor of The Sun's TV Mag. A man whose job it was to know. They thought I was just saying that to try and look big, clever and wonderous.
Untrusting cunts.
So I've learnt my lesson... I'm writing this blog now, on Tuesday 16th February. Three days away from the EastEnders episode where Archie Mitchell's killer is revealed.
And I shall predict the naughty swine wot dun it. Right here.
I'm recording it here, so that there is no doubting my Miss Marple-like deductions. One of my Ex's used to call me Poirot, you know. (We didn't last. Oddly enough)
So, I think the killer will be revealed as...
(This is like a less exciting installment of Derren Brown, isn't it?)
*DRUMROLL*
...Well, now hang on.
It's always the wife. It was Chrissie "Sexy Big Hair" Watts who killed Dirty Den. It was Amanda Donohoe who killed 'im off of Grease 2 in Emmerdale. It's always the wife.
And Babs Windsor is leaving, so it MUST be her. And she's one of the very few who haven't been obvious suspects, so it MUST be her. Everything points to her.
Except I fail to believe for one second that she could lift that fucking great big statue. She's smaller than Wee Jimmie Krankie's dong. How could tiny Peggy Mitchell pick up that great big thing and use it as a weapon?!
So it's not the wife. It can't be. Physically impossible.
It's not Ronnie. She told Dot she didn't do it - and no-one lies to pretty Dot. They tell Dot their deepest, darkest secrets, they don't lie to her. Plus, Ronnie's too obvious. Same as Bradley or Janine - all too obvious. Roxy has never displayed any emotion other than love towards Archie, so if she turns out to be the killer, it will be the massive twist we're looking for... But it will be completely unbelievable.
I'm hoping it's Danny Mitchell. Just because it means I get to see him again. He's gorgeous. I want to lick his hair.
For a long time, I did think it was Jack. They've not made him too obvious a suspect, so it'll still be a bit of a shock. It would lead to a few storylines with Ronnie (who he presumably did it for) and Roxy (who would probably be a bit narked and withhold custody of Amy a little bit). And if Bradley gets the blame - which is where this plot seems to be going - even though Jack is the real murderer, then Max isn't going to be too pleased, kicking off another brotherly feud.
I can't think of any other outcome that could kick off as many repercussions as it being Jack. That was my thought process behind picking Lisa as being the rascal who gunned down Phil, so I'm applying it here as well. It was Jack.
Jack killed Archie.
Maybe?
Oh, but I keep going back to Peggy. It's the show's 25th Anniversary - It's a live episode. It's a big occasion. Peggy IS EastEnders. It HAS to be her.
-
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Doctor Who Watch #14
The End Of Time Part One/The End Of Time Part Two by RTD OBE
Ever since David 'Not Quite As Fantastic As Chris Eccleston' Tennant (to give him his full name) announced his decision to depart Doctor Who, the series became purely about this moment. Everything built to his exit scenes - and the bits of the story that didn't play a part in his unfolding fate (The David Morrissey anti-climax, the flying bus...) just became tedious. It was all about the goodbye.
The first part of the story was, admittedly, entertaining. More entertaining than watching Newsround's Lizo Mzimba and Lee 'Sweaty Bollocks' Evans dicking around in a camper van, anyway. And certainly more entertaining than Rupert-Penry Jones Thief - Miss Assumpta Fitzgerald - stomping all over a hand-drawn picture of London. But that's hardly high praise.
It had John Simm in a dress. John Simm in MANY dresses, actually. It had a fantastic "try and make an Ood laugh" scene, with an expression-free and totally non-plussed Ood Sigma stealing that particular show. And it had Wilf and The Doctor, in a cafe, trying their hardest not to cry. It was probably one of the best scenes RTD OBE has ever written. Wilf's distress when he sees The Doctor - this big, brave, bold spaceman - crumbling before him is heartbreaking to watch. Certainly the best moment of the first part.
Well, either that... Or the moment David Tennant gets fingered by naughty slut-bag, Dame June Whitfield. That was quite sexy.
But that was about it. The sub-plot with President Obama was stupid. And the transformation of the Master into some sort of Sylar reject, jumping about like Skippy on acid and firing lightening bolts from his hands as if he were Michael Fish himself... I mean, WTF?!
And Timothy Dalton was SERIOUSLY mis-cast. The amount of dribble that man generated in the closing scene, he was clearly better suited to an appearance in The Waters Of Mars. No special effects required.
Entertaining when judged on its own, but nothing special. Just a build-up to the second part; nothing more than that. But once the groundwork had been done - Christ, did it fly. The End Of Time Part Two had everything. Even green, pointy-faced people. What show isn't instantly improved by that? Admittedly they were completely useless, and if one hadn't been portrayed by the wonderful Nursey Lady (and warewolf sex-toy) from Being Human, I would have hated them. So it's a credit to her I didn't want to attack them with a pair of garden shears.
It had some hilarious moment, especially when John Simm has Bernard Cribbins tied up. Somewhat of a fantasy of mine. And "Worst Rescue EVER!" made me do a chuckle. And The Doctor's reaction when he sees the ever-shrill Mother Noble smiling is brilliant.
But those were only small moments; the stand-out scenes were those of darkness, and despair and sadness. I let out a little cry when Donna collapsed in the alleyway. I really thought that was the end for her. And GOD, didn't she land with a thud?! I love Donna. She will always be my favourite companion... And I'm really disappointed that she wasn't in this a bit more. Instead of swanning off to film Nan's Christmas Special. What a fucking liberty.
But as much as I love Donna, I wouldn't have swapped Wilf for the chance to see her as the companion again. Wilf as The Doctor's travelling buddy was one of RTD OBE's finest ideas since writing the stage direction: "And Charlie Hunnam gets rimmed by Aiden Gillen"
Bernard Cribbins stole the show. He was beautiful in every scene. When he asked The Doctor if The Master had changed "those in their graves", I didn't think I'd ever stop crying. Such a poignant question; such a brilliant RTD OBE line. He does write some amazing dialogue. And David Tennant declaring that he'd be proud if Wilf were his father - Oh, Christ... I know I'm a soppy old bastard, but that opened the floodgates.
The relationship between The Doctor and Wilf was the sweetest thing; the mutual respect and love for each other; the "I don't want you to die" scene; the final sacrifice. That is what sticks out most about this story - Yes, we have the Time-Lords returning and a long-awaited insight into the Time War. And yes, we have The Master saving The Doctor (although I feel it was more about taking revenge on Timothy Dalton - possibly for Licence To Kill? - than playing the 'good guy'). And yes... We have the return of the companions. But this story was always about Wilf and The Doctor.
Which is why those four knocks... I died a little inside when those four knocks came. Nothing could have prepared me for that. Maybe I'm naive, but I genuinely didn't see it coming. After all Wilf had done to try and save The Doctor, and he turns out to be the one responsible for his death. Yet, because it's Wilf and because Bernard Cribbins is a sexy genius, we can't feel anything but sympathy. We can't hate him for being the reason The Doctor dies, because he's BERNARD BLOODY CRIBBINS! He's amazing. God, if it was real life, I would have stepped into that damned-shit greenhouse and saved him myself. That's how wonderful Wilf is.
I cried my little heart out.
A lot of people have complained that the 'Regeneration Scene' was too long-winded and drawn-out. But as one of those people happened to be the cunt-like bile-spewing Garry Bushell, I choose not to listen to this pathetic opinion.
You show me someone - ANYONE - who, when realising they don't have long left to live, WOULDN'T do all they could do see the people they love one last time? Show me ANYONE who would not want to leave their loved ones with one last memory? To say farewell with one last good deed?
It's the perfect goodbye. If we could choose the nature of our own passing, would we not all choose to go like this?
So DT goes back to see Shit Martha to find she's married to another bloke. And even worse, the BITCH has bagged the lovely Noel Clarke. AND made him grow a really wanky, unattractive beard. I'll be glad to see the back of her.
The scene with Thingy from Spaced was very touching, as was Sarah Jane's haunted look - She knew what the goodbye was all about. VERY pleased with the John Barrowman scene. Anyone who has read The Writer's Tale by RTD OBE and Mr Hugely-Sexy Ben Cook will know why. And giving Donna the present of a lottery ticket is just wonderful. I'm only assuming that they are the winning numbers, though. Be shit if she only got a tenner out of it.
And then there was Rose. Billie Piper sans lisp, which was a blessed relief.
But oh... She didn't know who he was. Oh, I think I can feel the tears coming on again...
And then there's the final line. That horrible, brilliant, genius, cruel final line.
"I don't want to go"
I'm looking forward to Matt Smith and Steven Moffat's version of the show. The glimpse of Matt Smith's Doctor at the end of this episode has already got me excited - and to the twats who complained about the Ginger reference:
1 - FUCK OFF
2 - He's disappointed, not relieved. So how is that a negative thing?!
3 - It's a reference to his earlier disappointment in The Christmas Invation
4 - FUCK OFF AGAIN
I'm sure he will be amazingly brilliant. I loved the: "I'm a girl" bit. And, you know, he's quite hot. But as much as I look forward to the future, RTD OBE and everything he has done for the show will be greatly missed. This final episode had everything that was good about RTD OBE's revamp - laughs, tears, gay jokes, Wilf...
It.
Was.
Fantastic.
Total Score: TEN out of TEN
Ever since David 'Not Quite As Fantastic As Chris Eccleston' Tennant (to give him his full name) announced his decision to depart Doctor Who, the series became purely about this moment. Everything built to his exit scenes - and the bits of the story that didn't play a part in his unfolding fate (The David Morrissey anti-climax, the flying bus...) just became tedious. It was all about the goodbye.
The first part of the story was, admittedly, entertaining. More entertaining than watching Newsround's Lizo Mzimba and Lee 'Sweaty Bollocks' Evans dicking around in a camper van, anyway. And certainly more entertaining than Rupert-Penry Jones Thief - Miss Assumpta Fitzgerald - stomping all over a hand-drawn picture of London. But that's hardly high praise.
It had John Simm in a dress. John Simm in MANY dresses, actually. It had a fantastic "try and make an Ood laugh" scene, with an expression-free and totally non-plussed Ood Sigma stealing that particular show. And it had Wilf and The Doctor, in a cafe, trying their hardest not to cry. It was probably one of the best scenes RTD OBE has ever written. Wilf's distress when he sees The Doctor - this big, brave, bold spaceman - crumbling before him is heartbreaking to watch. Certainly the best moment of the first part.
Well, either that... Or the moment David Tennant gets fingered by naughty slut-bag, Dame June Whitfield. That was quite sexy.
But that was about it. The sub-plot with President Obama was stupid. And the transformation of the Master into some sort of Sylar reject, jumping about like Skippy on acid and firing lightening bolts from his hands as if he were Michael Fish himself... I mean, WTF?!
And Timothy Dalton was SERIOUSLY mis-cast. The amount of dribble that man generated in the closing scene, he was clearly better suited to an appearance in The Waters Of Mars. No special effects required.
Entertaining when judged on its own, but nothing special. Just a build-up to the second part; nothing more than that. But once the groundwork had been done - Christ, did it fly. The End Of Time Part Two had everything. Even green, pointy-faced people. What show isn't instantly improved by that? Admittedly they were completely useless, and if one hadn't been portrayed by the wonderful Nursey Lady (and warewolf sex-toy) from Being Human, I would have hated them. So it's a credit to her I didn't want to attack them with a pair of garden shears.
It had some hilarious moment, especially when John Simm has Bernard Cribbins tied up. Somewhat of a fantasy of mine. And "Worst Rescue EVER!" made me do a chuckle. And The Doctor's reaction when he sees the ever-shrill Mother Noble smiling is brilliant.
But those were only small moments; the stand-out scenes were those of darkness, and despair and sadness. I let out a little cry when Donna collapsed in the alleyway. I really thought that was the end for her. And GOD, didn't she land with a thud?! I love Donna. She will always be my favourite companion... And I'm really disappointed that she wasn't in this a bit more. Instead of swanning off to film Nan's Christmas Special. What a fucking liberty.
But as much as I love Donna, I wouldn't have swapped Wilf for the chance to see her as the companion again. Wilf as The Doctor's travelling buddy was one of RTD OBE's finest ideas since writing the stage direction: "And Charlie Hunnam gets rimmed by Aiden Gillen"
Bernard Cribbins stole the show. He was beautiful in every scene. When he asked The Doctor if The Master had changed "those in their graves", I didn't think I'd ever stop crying. Such a poignant question; such a brilliant RTD OBE line. He does write some amazing dialogue. And David Tennant declaring that he'd be proud if Wilf were his father - Oh, Christ... I know I'm a soppy old bastard, but that opened the floodgates.
The relationship between The Doctor and Wilf was the sweetest thing; the mutual respect and love for each other; the "I don't want you to die" scene; the final sacrifice. That is what sticks out most about this story - Yes, we have the Time-Lords returning and a long-awaited insight into the Time War. And yes, we have The Master saving The Doctor (although I feel it was more about taking revenge on Timothy Dalton - possibly for Licence To Kill? - than playing the 'good guy'). And yes... We have the return of the companions. But this story was always about Wilf and The Doctor.
Which is why those four knocks... I died a little inside when those four knocks came. Nothing could have prepared me for that. Maybe I'm naive, but I genuinely didn't see it coming. After all Wilf had done to try and save The Doctor, and he turns out to be the one responsible for his death. Yet, because it's Wilf and because Bernard Cribbins is a sexy genius, we can't feel anything but sympathy. We can't hate him for being the reason The Doctor dies, because he's BERNARD BLOODY CRIBBINS! He's amazing. God, if it was real life, I would have stepped into that damned-shit greenhouse and saved him myself. That's how wonderful Wilf is.
I cried my little heart out.
A lot of people have complained that the 'Regeneration Scene' was too long-winded and drawn-out. But as one of those people happened to be the cunt-like bile-spewing Garry Bushell, I choose not to listen to this pathetic opinion.
You show me someone - ANYONE - who, when realising they don't have long left to live, WOULDN'T do all they could do see the people they love one last time? Show me ANYONE who would not want to leave their loved ones with one last memory? To say farewell with one last good deed?
It's the perfect goodbye. If we could choose the nature of our own passing, would we not all choose to go like this?
So DT goes back to see Shit Martha to find she's married to another bloke. And even worse, the BITCH has bagged the lovely Noel Clarke. AND made him grow a really wanky, unattractive beard. I'll be glad to see the back of her.
The scene with Thingy from Spaced was very touching, as was Sarah Jane's haunted look - She knew what the goodbye was all about. VERY pleased with the John Barrowman scene. Anyone who has read The Writer's Tale by RTD OBE and Mr Hugely-Sexy Ben Cook will know why. And giving Donna the present of a lottery ticket is just wonderful. I'm only assuming that they are the winning numbers, though. Be shit if she only got a tenner out of it.
And then there was Rose. Billie Piper sans lisp, which was a blessed relief.
But oh... She didn't know who he was. Oh, I think I can feel the tears coming on again...
And then there's the final line. That horrible, brilliant, genius, cruel final line.
"I don't want to go"
I'm looking forward to Matt Smith and Steven Moffat's version of the show. The glimpse of Matt Smith's Doctor at the end of this episode has already got me excited - and to the twats who complained about the Ginger reference:
1 - FUCK OFF
2 - He's disappointed, not relieved. So how is that a negative thing?!
3 - It's a reference to his earlier disappointment in The Christmas Invation
4 - FUCK OFF AGAIN
I'm sure he will be amazingly brilliant. I loved the: "I'm a girl" bit. And, you know, he's quite hot. But as much as I look forward to the future, RTD OBE and everything he has done for the show will be greatly missed. This final episode had everything that was good about RTD OBE's revamp - laughs, tears, gay jokes, Wilf...
It.
Was.
Fantastic.
Total Score: TEN out of TEN
-
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)