Nothing, nothing, tra la la.

Hello.

I don't know what to write about. I've barely had anything vaguely interesting happening lately, at least not since I buried my head in the sand when Puffy Man became big cheese.

I was going to write a blog about how great Ashes to Ashes became in the end after suffering from Difficult Second Album syndrome, following the sublime Life on Mars. I've been disappointed by series endings in the past, expecting (but never tolerating) shoddy, hastily strung together epilogues where loose ends have become entangled and forgotten, or the production team decides on one last almighty bound over the carnivorous fish. The finale of 5 years of Life on Mars/Ashes to Ashes was, however, beautifully realised, the mystery finally solved over whether Sam Tyler, and then Alex Drake, had time travelled, were in a coma or had gone mad. A very nice premise in the end, Gene Hunt emerging as a bizarre mix of Michael Landon and Gary Cooper. With swears. The coppers' purgatory was a great, if not entirely unexpected, solution to the story, and nice to see how Ray, Chris and Shaz fit into Gene's world. But I'm not writing about Ashes to Ashes today. Maybe another time.

I was thinking about writing about EastEnders. I wrote in a previous blog how much I admire the programme (click here for the Walford Police Archie Mitchell Murder Investigation and click here for my thoughts on EastEnders circa its 25th Anniversary show), but it's depressing me with how much it's turned into fucking Hollyoaks lately that I just don't want to even mention it. The way they've shoehorned Fat Cunt, Jar Jar and Rapey in, whilst simultaneously making every Walford resident under the age of 18 suddenly become a jive-talking gangsta rapper is laughable, ignorant and hardly cross sectional. Oh, and Ben Mitchell. Chickening out of the once-inevitable gay storyline and instead going for the lazy son-of-Phil-Mitchell-is-a-psycho motif is reprehensibly shoddy writing. When Lucas starts killing again, I'll be cheering him on. I hope he loses it just enough to bump off Chelsea, just so we can witness the masterclass of her death throes acting. But because EastEnders has troughed so badly lately, I don't want to talk about it.

Then I was thinking about talking about my job. But I don't want to. It's depressing enough facing off General Public with Major Apathy, and I don't want to bore you with the details, but it's reinforced in my mind how stupid, offensive and nasty people can be, especially when they can't see the person they're grunting at. The amount of fraud cases I've had to process in the past week is a distressing snapshot of Broken Fucking Britain. It's much the same as any customer services job, in that it's YOUR PERSONAL FAULT THAT PROBLEM X EXISTS. It also highlights the fact that people are money-grubbing scumbags when they want to be. I gave somebody £5 credit on their account as goodwill earlier, not that he deserved it due to ridiculously high usage. He said, "can you make it £30?". Needless to say, the answer was no. And it is due to this tiresome rigmarole that I won't be talking about my job. Probably never again.

In the meantime, I'm trying to write topical comedy sketches for a show. I've never written sketches before. It doesn't help when you've got writer's block and you're trying to not repeat anything that's already been said elsewhere, and you're unknown as I am, and if they're accepted they'll be performed on the other side of the country where you'll never see them. I might devote the day to it tomorrow, as every attempt I've made at it in the past week I've scrapped. I kind of fell into this by accident, after I was informed that a professional comedian was taking my Facebook status updates, word for word, and emailing them for inclusion as gags on panel shows and such. I won't go into any more detail at the moment about it, but suffice to say it's opened up other possibilities for me. Whether they work out for me or not, I don't know. But as much as I want to talk about it, I can't. Not yet.

Finally, there's Pearl Jam. I'm going to see Pearl Jam in Hyde Park on June 25th. Huzzah. I was a teenager in the grunge era, so have waited to see them for 18 or so years. There's the added bonus of Gomez being on the same bill, which is great, just because I've always wanted to recreate the Daphne and Celeste at the Reading Festival experience. I'd better drink lots of pop before I go. But I can't talk about Pearl Jam until after I've seen them.

There's nothing to talk about. Hopefully the next blog will be a bit more informative.

Bananaman

"I want the old Doctor back!" they all screamed. "I'll never accept Matt Smith as the Doctor." Twitter was full of comments like this on New Year's Day from non-Doctor Who fans (ie casual viewers), demanding the immediate return of their Scottish hero. Yes, Sylvester McCoy has his fans.

Some weeks ago, The Eleventh Hour kicked off the Matt Smith/Steven Moffat era of Doctor Who, and it became clear straight away that the new leading man owns the role. He is brilliant, and everything that the Grand Moff claimed since his announcement, equal parts action man and eccentric professor, old man in a young man's body, a breath of fresh air.

His bizarre banana-shaped head does not distract at all from how quickly and easily he has slipped into the role, only the occasional script editing lapse allowing Tennantisms into his dialogue. But, he is so utterly different from his predecessor in his mannerisms, style and substance, all is forgiven. Well, nearly.

So eight episodes in, and how is the 31st series shaping up? Pretty damned well, as it happens. The first thing to be thankful for is that the threatened catchphrase, "geronimo!", has so far only appeared twice. Episode by episode, we've had a good run so far; The Eleventh Hour was a great segue between the Tennant/RTD and the Smith/Moffat eras, kicking off with a bombastic Murray Gold score that wouldn't have been out of place in any of Davies's plot-holed tales, all pomp, no matter the circumstance, as the TARDIS flew out of control over London (so far, the city's only modern-day appearance), leading him to 7-year-old Amelia Pond, a crack in the wall (this season's Bad Wolf), fish fingers and custard. The Doctor's post-regeneration trauma was brilliantly handled, right up until the fan-pleasing Doctors montage (and, very tellingly, the Eleventh Doctor walking through and overshadowing the image of Tennant), and a brand new TARDIS. A great start, although the new theme and opening titles have yet to grow on me.

In a similar pattern to Christopher Eccleston's series, the Doctor heads to the far future for the second episode, The Beast Below, in a well-worn but well-handled theme, reminiscent of Discworld and many other things, but the main thing of note is the new Doctor's eccentricity coming to the fore. The Smilers were a good new villain, looking like something directly out of 70s Who. Liz 10's cringeworthy accent grated, but otherwise a good episode.

Victory of the Daleks saw a return to World War II in a script from Mark Gatiss, with a well-portrayed (though slightly mumpy) Winston Churchill, and the controversial Power Rangers-esque new Daleks. A nice innovative use of a Jammie Dodger, and the very unsubtle retconning of the RTD era, combine to make a reasonable but scientifically fucked episode. Spitfires made spaceworthy in five minutes? Ahem.

The two-part The Time of Angels/Flesh and Stone saw the return of two Moffat creations, River Song and the Weeping Angels. Tying in directly with Song's own 'spoilers' dialogue from Silence in the Library, two very nice episodes, old-Who in feel, but then, Moffat drops the ball. Moon-faced companion Amy suddenly kisses the Doctor. Oh, bugger, the old companion-fancying-the-Time-Lord motif which I hated so much with RTD's first two co-stars. 

Which leads us to Vampires of Venice, in which the Doctor starts off by showing his alien side after leaping out of a giant cake, taking Rory off in the TARDIS (very Rose and Mickey, sigh) so he and Amy can have a date. Nice looking episode, the giant fish were a bit of a CGI failure, the resolution was a bit RTD, but overall quite enjoyable.

Amy's Choice is an oddity. A good oddity, but an oddity nonetheless. I did cringe somewhat at the treated voices of the very Shaun of the Dead old people, but I'd say this is the first episode in some time that wasn't as predictable as it can sometimes be, involving the mysterious Dream Lord, dual realities and a satisfying conclusion. I thought it was to do with the Celestial Toymaker during most of the episode, but if that wasn't a Valeyard set-up, I'll be very surprised.

Finally, so far, we've had The Hungry Earth, the first of a two-parter from Chris Chibnall of all people. However, it's shaping up to be far superior to 42, his other episode from midway through the Tennant era, one of my least favourites since the show came back. The returning Silurians are fine, not perfect, a little generic I'd say. The original Silurians weren't evil as such, and opened a moral dilemma in that they were the dominant species before Man, so did they have the right to claim it back? It's been touched upon in the first part of the new story, but perhaps not enough, settling into Villain Of The Week. Perhaps part two, Cold Blood, will rectify this somewhat.

Opinions so far? We have a great Doctor on our hands, quirky and eccentric, with shades of Troughton, McCoy and Davison in his make-up, the first truly alien Doctor we've had in some time, certainly the first since 2005. The tone overall has shifted, muted colours replacing the primary coloured explosion of the RTD era, the incidental music no longer drowning out the dialogue. Tennant is now a distant memory, gone but not forgotten. As I said, the theme tune is a grower, but it's still not grown on me enough. It's currently down there with the Trial of a Time Lord era theme tune. The new TARDIS has brought back that feeling of depth and infinite space that was lost in the previous incarnation, though it looks a little too similar. Plus, I'm not a fan of the household items all over the console. Given that the TARDIS itself regenerated, they make absolutely no sense whatsoever. It is nice to see the McGann-era viewscreen making a comeback, though.

The companions... hmm. Amy, despite showing promise, has devolved into the generic, needy hanger-on, and the kissing was unforgivable. Rory is proof if proof be needed that comic relief companions never, ever work. Bad choice, bad decision. Moffat is not infallible, let's not be under any delusions. He is exactly what Doctor Who needed after RTD, but even the great make mistakes. Something is lacking, I can't quite put my finger on what it is... but whatever it is, it's not enough to detract from the show that got its groove back. With a bow tie.

Five episodes left, not including the Christmas special. Between now and then, we've got River Song returning again, along with the Sontarans, the Sycorax and (sigh) the Cybus Cybermen. Hopefully they'll get retconned out of existence and we'll get updated versions of the Mondasian Cybermen back in place. This is still a great show, but with a completely different feel to even a year ago. It will run and run, keel over, and regenerate again. Mistakes will be made, amidst utter genius. But that's why fans love it so much. The right man is in charge.

One thing that did come to its natural conclusion last week was Ashes to Ashes, but that's another story for another blog entry. Soon-ish.

Tories and Lib Dems and Fear, Oh My

Well, it's happened now, hasn't it? The blowfish Blofeld is now PM (which doesn't stand for Posh Moron, apparently), and Nick Clegg is Official Milk Monitor. The Tories last week entered into a coalition with the Liberal Democrats (though the Tories agreeing to anything with 'coal' in its name must have gone against the grain), ensuring that we very much have that Broken Britain that Cameron has been bleating on about since I first heard his stupid whining mantra. A week of waiting for anything to happen, with "Breaking News" being burned onto my screen (which does detract from "TVX" in the corner), the inevitable happened. And I don't mean Lembit Opik having the time to star as Screech again in the Saved By The Bell reunion, and Charles Clarke going back to being a full-time Toby jug.

Yes, we're now under a (sort of) Conservative (with a large C) government, with a Cabinet comprising entirely of cunts (small c). Theresa May, who has voted against every single piece of legislation relating to freedom and civil liberty ever has been appointed Home Secretary and Minister For Women and Equality. George Osborne is the new Chancellor, looking like some pudgy Edwardian imbecile, and Lib Dem Vince Cable, not to be confused with Cyclops's son in X-Men, is in some honorary shut-the-Lib-Dems-up-with-token-powerless-government-positions position. Essentially, it's all a big mess, and normal, average, low-to-middle-income families are going to get royally fucked. The Cabinet, mainly comprised of self-interest-motivated public school toffs, is awash with cries of "rah!", so much so that they might as well be worshipping a fucking sun god.

A fixed term of five years. Let's see how long it lasts.

There is an uncanny resemblance between PM Blofeld and Odo from Deep Space 9. It might just be me.

Anyway, watching Clegg on his way to Number 10 last week in a horribly orchestrated piece of media-friendly devastation, he had that new-job-honeymoon-period strut. As soon as he shook Cameron's hand as he emerged like pus from the door of Number 10, you just knew that he would later be leaving with a John Wayne swagger.

A day before this, we had Gordon Brown's admittedly moving resignation speech, just after I'd finished making him a "well done on still being Prime Minister" card out of glitter, glue and macaroni, the selfish cunt. Unfortunately, the dignity is removed somewhat when you realise that he's left Harriet Harman (anagram: Man Hair? Rather!) in charge. You could barely keep the smugness out of the now Shadow Cabinet as they left their final meeting, sure as each and every one of them were that they were destined for the top job. Ed Balls, neither a smug boast or a nickname but an anagram of Sad Bell (it's only a shame his middle name isn't Den), who looks like he's going to explode after suffering a whiteout, David Miliband (anagram: Bad, Dim Invalid), who looks like a toy monkey called Gus, and the oozing venom of The Lord Mandelson (anagram: The Mean Old Serpent), whose behind-the-scenes shenanigans must be so shockingly eerie that CCTV lenses shatter at his very mention. At least he'll have more time to spend trying to outwill the fucking Ant Hill Mob now. The look of relief on Brown's face as he resigned said it all; here was a competent politician, with atrocious people skills, who got the shitty end of the Blair stick. Whereas his post-election speeches were honest, frank and dignified, Cameron's were full of anti-Labour rhetoric. What he was trying to cover up is that no party won an overall majority, so he can stick that up his talcumned arse. Either way, we're stuck with him, until it all falls apart. In the meantime, we've got the Labour leadership election to deal with, which will come across as a cross between It's A Knockout and Stars In Their Eyes, loads of disproportioned cartoon characters scrambling over each other in a farcical attempt to appeal to the imaginary hearts of Labour MPs, whilst doing patchwork impressions of other people in an attempt to pretend they've got a personality. As soon as Brown resigned, I bet the Milibands (even the third, hidden Miliband they don't talk about, Alan) high-fived each other, making a wet, slapping sound, like someone punching a seal. Anyway, that's all to come.

Thanks, voters of Broken Britain.

Nick Clegg. Nicky Nicky Cleggy Clegg. The kingmaker, which is also coincidentally the nickname for Prince Phillip's left testicle. Forget his own "I went from Churchill to Hitler in a week" nonsense. He actually went from kingmaker to surrender monkey in a smaller time frame, dooming most of us in the process. Before I barricade my house for when Herr Cameron decides to fuck my family, let's have a look at what's in store after the biggest sell-out since Peter Kay abandoned writing new material in favour of rehashing stuff about garlic bread once a year.

• One of Cameron's 'moderate' policies is to raise the age of gay consent to 126.
• Foxes are said to be 'gutted'. Or they will be soon.
• Cameron has codenamed his Cabinet: Retained Enemies In Conservative Hierarchy. He's just trying to work out a suitable acronym.
• The morning after he became Fuhrer, Cameron just walked into my kitchen, bold as brass, and took the milk from my fridge. As he swigged greedily, streams of white rolling over his puffy jowls, he said it was "his sacred duty" or some bollocks.
• The goosestep is going to become mandatory.
• If Nick Clegg doesn't keep his new fuck buddy suitably fluffed, he's promised to invade Poland.
• It took a while to sort out the power-sharing deal because Clegg and Cameron were trying to sort out which side of the bed they were going to get. They've only just sorted out the cleaning rota; it's going to be an equal share of responsibility, Clegg doing Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays, and Cameron's butler the rest.

One thing that came out of the election fiasco was that news reporters are cunts. Especially Nick Robinson. And Adam Boulton. And Kay Burley. Robinson clearly had a major stiffy when it looked like Cameron was going to get the job, and couldn't look more self-satisfied if he'd managed to fellate himself. He is so far up David Cameron's arse, he can see Mrs Thatcher's shoes, though he does look like Theo Paphitis having a stroke.

Anyway, this past couple of weeks has been awful, if not for the new Fatherland we find ourselves in, then for my grandmother Joan passing away. She will be sorely missed.

In the meantime, I'm well entrenched in my new job, dealing with every passive-aggressive ne'er-do-wash, whose only worries extend to their phones. Judging by some of them and their inability to speak outside of grunts and whistles, I wonder why they bother owning phones anyway. Most of them are lovely, I must stress, but after a decade of customer service, people never change. Some people just don't know how to conduct themselves. It's these same people who were scaremongered by the tabloid press into getting Cameron into power.

As we find ourselves in a dark new era, which is a lot darker and uncertain than the one we've just left, we can at least be sure of one thing: TV satire is better under a Conservative government. Bring back Spitting Image.

Finally, thanks to Michael Legge for the mention on the latest Precious Little Podcast (around the 1hr mark), which, due to the use of the word "cunt", I can never tell my mum about.

Oh, and thanks to Peter Serafinowicz for answering my question on his latest #PSQA on Twitter. He previously answered my question "Who is the strongest Bee Gee?" (answer: Hercules Gibb), and has just answered "How do you remove stains from duvets?" (answer: Anticlimax). He is a genius.

Right, I'm off. I've rambled on a bit. I promise a non-political blog next time. I'm sick of it as much as you are, but I needed to get it off my chest. Now if only I can remove this knife from my back, monogrammed "NC".

A few more posters....

Use your vote sensibly, but definitely use it. See you in the morning of potential regret.

Pre-Election Fun Day

There's a general erection tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it, but I could do without the empty feeling of regret afterwards.

Here's some posters I made.

Oh, and Philippa Stroud is an anagram of Popular Dipshit, Davie Cameron is an anagram of Avarice Demon (slight creative licence there), and Peter Mandelson is an anagram of Mean Old Serpent. Blimey.

I am looking forward to Brown's resignation speech on May 7th, where he blames everyone else, including Jimmy McRee, who gave him a Chinese burn in school. Then, we'll probably have David Milliband as Labour leader. You just cannae win.

Anyway, have a fun election. Don't forget the mistakes of the past century. That should narrow your voting range right down.

Brown Trousers Time For Bumbling Twat

It makes me proud to be British that our Prime Minister is capable of fucking up so royally right in the midst of a General Election campaign. Yesterday, he left his microphone on as he got into his car, after speaking to Rochdale pensioner Gillian Duffy. She gave Brown her views on immigration. Brown, fixed smile dropping quicker than a broken Mr Potato Head, got into the car, unaware that the attached microphone was still broadcasting. Quite how he failed to notice it was there is beyond me (see image below).

It turns out that the microphone is still there. Here we can provide you with some of the snippets that Brown may not be that comfortable with sharing publicly.

• Apparently, Sarah had a headache last night, and this morning his Coco Pops were a "sensible choice".
• Brown was watching David Cameron on TV last night. There's a strange fapping noise on the audio, don't know what it is...
• ... but you can just make out Brown muttering "oh, David" in his macho Scots brogue.
• Brown watched In The Night Garden this morning during breakfast. Iggle Piggle's "very cheeky".
• Before getting to work, Gordon sacrificed a goat, as is tradition.
• Gordon, feeling a little blue, said to Sarah: "I wish I was handsome like David. He's dreamy." She assured him that he's handsome to her, although he's "no Tony".
• Gordon downed a bottle of Panda pop and 2 Wham bars for a bet.
• Apparently, Ed Balls is just a nickname.
• There's a third, secret Milliband, which they're keeping in reserve in case one breaks.
• Lord Mandelson thinks that evil is "moreish".
• Gordon has just given a pep talk to his cabinet. The microphone is really good at picking up rolling tumbleweeds.
• There's a chilling sawing noise. I think Alistair Darling is trimming his eyebrows.
• Gordon's just put his face in the fridge to set it again. It's melting like on Darkman.
• Now he's singing. Good acoustics in the fridge, and he has the voice of an angel.
• Oh, my mistake. The radio's on in the background. It was actually Bonnie Tyler.
• Gordon's just told Mandelson that his third nipple is chaffing. Mandelson's offered to rub special ointment into it.
• Gordon needs a wee. He's just said it's probably because he was picking dandelions on the way to work.
• Gordon's lining up a speech. It mentions The Scunner Campbell, Jossy's Giants and Rentaghost.
• Mandelson's told Gordon that he has one wish remaining, and he'd better make it a good one.
• Gordon has just walked into a wall, and muttered something about "fucking depth perception".
• Mandelson just said, "Fly, fly my pretties." I'm not sure what he's just unleashed, but watch the skies.
• He's making the Millibands fight each other in a cage now.
• Gordon's just read the front pages, realised the microphone is still on, and is gently sobbing. Mandelson has tenderly kissed him on the forehead.

Incidentally, mid-Atlantic moral disappointment Tony Blair, since stepping down, set up the "Tony Blair Faith Foundation", which is an anagram of "Out-Of-Hand Fart On Inability". Maybe he had Gordon in mind when he named it. "Gordon Brown Faith Foundation", if ever established, is an anagram of "Tart Now Boo-Hooing In Dandruff".

As you can see, Gordon is taking his blunder in good humour.

The other party leaders have responded in different ways. Thinking that any publicity is good publicity, David Cameron has called an unemployed single mother a "cunt". Nick Clegg has declined to comment, but is said to be waiting to see where public opinion falls on whether Mrs Duffy is indeed a crusty old anachronistic bigot. Nick Griffin, meanwhile, accidentally left his mic on, and was heard moaning about some tolerant woman. He has also gone so far as to adopt Mrs Duffy as an unofficial BNP mascot. Jim Davidson is "gutted".

Gordon Brown has declined to comment further, but we're just waiting for the dictaphone he sat on the other day to re-emerge.

... then Bobby stepped out of the shower. He wasn't dead after all. "Shit," thought Pamela, "it's just like that time Dystopian Fuchsia came back."

Not a hoax! Not a dream! I'm writing a blog!

I've not wanted to leave poor old Dystopian Fuchsia so long unattended, but I did warn you... several times... remember? No? Good.

There's a couple of reasons why it's been nearly a month since the last post. Firstly, I'm (at last) no longer dole scum. That belittling description is now only fulfilled by one of its component words, as it should be. However, in a bizarre twist of probability, I am not a Murdoch henchperson, as previously reported. No, I'm now in Account Management for a mobile phone network. More on that soon.

The other, more fun outside factor is Destinauts. I promised it for ages, and the first issue is now online. When you're scripting, storyboarding, pencilling, inking, colouring, lettering and editing everything yourself, for free no less, it can take some time, but at last, the 16-page début tale is available to read now, and literally some of you have taken the opportunity to catch their origin. As I said, it is entirely free; I'm not a published artist in the real world, so I wouldn't feel comfortable charging anyone for my work. It's a labour of love, and it has now been messily birthed.

Go to www.Destinauts.co.uk to read the start of the adventure for Cynicus, Dr Fubar and the Human Wall, three supervillains blundering their way through history quicker than you can say "butterfly effect". At time of writing, there are 16 followers; please take the time to scroll down when you go there to add your name, and spread the word. Ta.

So, what other fun shenanigans has been happening, then? There's the General Election coming up, a chance to remove an unpopular, unelected anachronism from power... no, not the Queen. There's not much in the way of choice, though; you have David "Broken, Broken Record" Cameron, a man so far up his own arse he can see Mrs Thatcher's shoes, and there's Clegg, who's only in the running following the death of Compo (or De-Compo, as he's now known). If Labour stay in power, we're fucked. If anyone else gets in, we're fucked. Stalemate.

Oh, there was the volcano. Apparently, there was a cloud of ash floating over the UK following the eruption. Now, I wasn't 100% sure it was there, but either there was a cloud of volcanic ash overshadowing Cardiff, or half the population were barbecuing with sulphur brickettes. It was like Port Talbot had decided to move next door. This, of course, means nothing to you if you've never been there. To help you along, it smells like an Icelandic volcano spewing a sulphuric ash cloud.

So, my new job. Well, it's a wonderful feeling earning money again. I've learned many things during my training. Write these down, it could save you a fortune.

• If there's a fault with the reception on your mobile phone, work out precisely where the transmitter is. If you then stand in your garden directly between your phone and where the transmitter is and wave your arms, you should clear any blockages to the signal.
• If the above step fails, there could be crows nesting on the signal. If you text DEATH to your provider, this should clear the signal.
• A specialist team of cleaners will remove any guano left by the birds once cleared from the signal path. Any guano left floating there is a hazard to low-flying aircraft; this has been falsely identified as UFO sightings in the past.
• No matter where you turn, no matter where you go, you can always rely on The General Public to be Exactly The Fucking Same As You Remember Them.

Some of the above may not be 100% true.

Just so you know, I haven't forgotten this place. You don't fork out on dot commage to leave something you've worked hard on to rot away. I still have to write about the new Doctor Who (including the unfortunate incident at the weekend when Graham Norton came onto Matt Smith's gurning face), more Children's TV Re-Imaginings to add, a sidebar to add here with all previous postings since November 2009 in a convenient place that isn't a blog archive list that means absolutely fucking nothing, and many more things that you may or may not or shouldn't care about.

Oh, thanks to former Marvel/Doctor Who Magazine editor John Freeman for the Destinauts (and Dystopian Fuchsia) plug on downthetubes.net...

Back soon with more crap... I promise. No, really.

Hope you're well. You're looking well.