The Ribble

Leap

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2012-03-04T16:02:48+00:00

Hi there! You look great. I have almost too much to spill – there may be dribbling.

February started with bronchitis and ended in a new job; like Dickens, but with Netflix and Kleenex Balsam.

Not only were the lovely team at Papercraft just heartwarmingly nice about me leaving, but mega editor Jenny created two gorgeous fabric birds, inspired by (and frankly much better than) the tinfoil birds I made ages ago. So cute!

Even better, Jenny’s taken time out from her rigorous schedule of being fabulous and interfering with moose to post a free template for those birdykins, so you can make ‘em yourself. I know, right? Thank you Jenny! Now it’s time to take a long, hard look at your own boss and shout ‘Hey boss! Where my birds at?’

So now I’m working on the fantabulous The Making Spot, Future’s all-newish craft website. Whee! Quick, click over there and wonder at the amazing jumpers. Do it!

In other news, the boy turns 32 tomorrow, and will celebrate by working late, late, late. C’est la vie des Phins. I have no idea if that French is correct.

Goodnight, lovely peeps x

Theories! Get yer Sherlock theories!

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2012-01-22T13:27:13+00:00

Contains spoilers for series 2 of Sherlock.

Everyone loves Sherlock, right? Of course they do. Let’s relieve our shaky Sherlock withdrawal symptoms with some idle speculation about those thrilling final scenes in The Reichenbach Fall. It’ll be fun!*

*Disclaimer: Fun not guaranteed.

Shoddy synopsis
Sherlock’s shiny-haired nemesis, Jim Moriarty, carries out a series of bonkers crimes (Lovely box of Mercury Street? Pass me a purple one!) designed for Sherlock to solve quickly, prompting the police to suspect Sherlock himself of being a master criminal. Meanwhile, Jim’s been undercover as an undercover actor (stay with me), selling his ‘story’ to a tabloid reporter who can’t wait to out Sherlock as a massive fraud. Crikey! Sherlock gets arrested on suspicion of, um, everything, then poor Watson gets arrested for assaulting an officer, then they both run away and it’s terribly exciting.

Anyway, stuff happens and Sherlock and Moriarty end up on the roof of St Bart’s hospital. Moriarty says that he wants Sherlock to be seen throwing himself off the building. And if he doesn’t, Watson (no!), Mrs Hudson (eep!), and Lestrade (…whatever) will be killed by masked gunmen. Sherlock foolishly points out that he could force Moriarty to call off the gunmen, at which point Moriarty takes the surprising step of shooting himself in the head. Fair play.

The only way out is down! Watson arrives at the scene just in time to receive a phoned-in suicide note from Sherlock then watch him throw himself off the roof. Woe and suffering abounds.

Later, Mrs Hudson and Watson visit Sherlock’s grave and relate their deep sorrow/thoughts on fridge hygiene. But wait, who’s that watching them? It is Sherlock! Who is totally alive!

What an awesomepants episode. Do watch it now if you haven’t already. Done? Good.

Cake or death? Or bin lorry?
Did Sherlock really fake his own death? If so, how? Let’s look at the evidence:

Exhibit A: Molly fakes
This one seems straightforward; prior to his rooftop deathfest showdown, Sherlock asked lovely morgue technician Molly to help him out. So it seems likely that either she provided a Sherlookalike corpse for identification and burial purposes, or she faked a death certificate for him. Nice work, Molly.

A stunning breakout performance from Molly’s cherry-motif cardigan. Bravo!

Exhibit B: The doppelgänger effect
Or was there a living Sherlock double in play? The kidnapped girl recognised his ~~hunky~~ ~~chiselled~~ face immediately. Hmm.

OMG cheekbones squee!!!1!!

Exhibit C: Mind over (brain) matter
Sherlock insisted that Watson stand in a particular spot to witness his suicide. A spot where, usefully, he couldn’t actually see Sherlock hit the ground.

Stand where I tell you, Watson! Now dance. Dance, I say!

Also, when Watson ran towards the scene of the brainsplatter, a bike ran him over, rendering him woozy and confused. Dude can’t catch a break.

Think once, think twice, think possible concussion.

Exhibit D: Bin lorry of doom
If you’re going to jump off a roof, survive and flee the scene quickly, then leaping into an open-topped bin lorry is surely the way to do it. This little lorry was parked right next to the body, pulling away seconds later.

A bin lorry that’s just visited a hospital: only marginally more welcoming than solid pavement.

Exhibit E: Helping hands
Wow, those paramedics certainly got there quickly! And look at all those people ‘helpfully’ keeping Dr Watson away. Perhaps the body is an alive-Sherlock, splattered with gore by his faithful homeless pals. They don’t seem keen on Watson taking Sherlock’s pulse.

What’s so funny, Smiley McSmilersons?!

Rock, paper, scissors, lizard, Spock. Smooshed detective.

Exhibit F: What the papers say
My initial feeling was that Sherlock had chucked Moriarty over the edge, dressed in his clothes. We clearly saw Sherlock’s face on the ground, though, so it doesn’t feel plausible. But! You’d think the papers would splash with Sherlock AND Moriarty dead? Old Jim doesn’t get a look in.

I shall not…clown.

That’s all I’ve got. What do you think? Feel free to share your theories in the comments below! Sherlock-related theories, I mean. I’m not really interested in crop circles or Paul McCartney.

Welcome to the world of tomorrow!

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2012-01-02T15:06:15+00:00

Hello, happy new year! I'm writing this in TextEdit because I have a new computer that doesn't have my bloggy-bloggy software on it. And if there's one thing I've learned from associating with techno-boffins it's that you must always write in TextEdit if you're planning to paste something into a website. ALWAYS! If you use Word, then you'll break the Internet and society will collapse and you'll inadvertently publish some code that triggers a nuclear attack on Rockall. Use TextEdit to write your blog posts. Just use it! Or Notepad. That works too.

Anyway, things went downhill like a lardy bobsled after we last spoke. The boy and I caught a horrible virus that made us wheeze and simmer for weeks on end, operating a tag-team coughing rota that meant no one could sleep and everyone hated each other a bit. While this was happening, we each had to meet our mag deadlines and deal with some tedious passport-related drama and a flat inspection, so once again it hasn't been the jolliest of Decembers.

In happier news, I had a birthday. Thank you everyone who sent lovely cards and gifts, you are clearly awesomepants. Chris gave me some stylin' half-height Hunter wellies and fancy BeneFit make-up that smells like watermelon. Nice. I will make him take a photo of me modelling these items. This is my sixth birthday noted here at the Ribble. See? 26, 27, 28, 29, 30. I get older, my hair gets bigger, and I keep going back to Pizza Express.

In Christmas food news, the chilli jam seemed to go down quite well with the Tap! gang, and we made two batches of mince pies so delicious that they make me want to cry. The mincemeat tastes nothing like shop-bought stuff. You can taste all the individual fruits and spices, and it's much less sweet. Check out the recipe in Delia's Happy Christmas for next year.

Here's our iced cake. The stars look a bit like starfish.

And I made two half-cakes to give to our parents. To make up for the missing halves, I created 'magical' woodland scenes.

Cheers to you! x

Jarring up for dark days

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-11-07T19:18:59+00:00

Since August, life in the Poringe has fallen apart in a painful but dignified kind of way. Holidays have been abandoned, weekends lost, episodes of Doctor Who missed. Tragic.

I’ve done what every good Scotswoman does when faced with adversity: I’ve made a massive amount of food.

Look! Here are lots of jars of mincemeat:

They don’t look very appetising, but each jar is filled with fruit, zest, spices, sugar, treacle and brandy. Mmm! I made this back in September, because it needs to mature for a good while before it’s used.

Next up, Christmas cake! I was feeling cocky and decided to use a much more complicated recipe than last year; there was a lot of whisking and soaking and warming and blending. Also, it took four and a half hours to bake. Crazy. I made the cake in early October, and now it lives in the cake stand and sucks up a few spoons of brandy once a week. It’s like a quiet but needy pet.

This weekend, I made sweet chilli jam. It’s good with cheese toasties, sausage rolls and other cosy lazy lunchfood. These will be Christmas presents for the lovely Tap ! team, who’ve worked like demons all year long.

That’s it! When I’m stressed, I find an afternoon in the kitchen is pretty relaxing. I also like the ancient tradition of boiling, baking and jarring in the autumn. In centuries gone by, mincemeat, chutneys and dense fruitcakes were a way to preserve harvest fruits through long winters, providing much of the calories and good cheer required for dark days in the Northern hemisphere. I especially love that my modern mincemeat recipe held on to a medieval memory; the fruit sealed in beef suet to stop fermentation.

Next up is my birthday, then Christmas. Cake for everyone!

x

Whocap 23: More useful charts

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-09-13T19:28:05+01:00

Previously on Doctor Who:
Rory, Amy and the Doctor got trapped in a scary doll’s house, then they escaped. Get some hot TARDIS action now, or click to read Whocaps for episodes 8 and 9.

My Verdict:
★★★
I loved how quickly the gang’s fun trip turned nasty, and it was good to see that deliciously dark side of the Doctor again. Fantastically acted too, but I just don’t especially enjoy the deeply emotional episodes. I know I’m in the minority, though, so feel free to leap in and tell me I’m nuts. Also: poor, forgotten baby Melody!

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★
Fun, but I miss the cleverness, wit and wackiness of earlier episodes.

Did you enjoy the episode? Do you secretly wish they’d chosen kick-ass Old Amy instead of boring Young Amy? Leave a comment below! If you like stupid charts and Who-related things, you can follow me on Twitter.

Whocap 23: Let me in-a your window

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-09-04T17:51:28+01:00

Contains spoilers for the current series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Amy’s baby turned out to be big-haired space vixen River Song and everyone was like 0_o. But you don’t have to worry about that right now. Read last week’s half-assed Whocap Lite, or watch the episode now. Go on; it’s called ‘Let’s Kill Hitler’!

Abnormally well-lit tower block, exterior

Hoodies! Oh, they’re just playing football. As you were.

OLD LADY: I’m old you know. And belligerent.

Cosy flat, George’s room

George is just the cutest little moppet ever. I want to put him in a shoebox and feed him milk-soaked bread. That’s normal, right?

GEORGE’S MUM: Night George! BTW, I’ve put all the deformed manifestations of your darkest fears in this flimsy-looking cupboard, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.

GEORGE: ...

TARDIS interior

Amy and Rory are ~~really missing their child~~ standing around drinking tea.

DOCTOR: Incoming! Apparently children everywhere were bored senseless by last week’s episode. It is now our solemn duty to scare the wee-wee right out of ‘em.

AMY and RORY: *yawn*

CREDITS

Abnormally well-lit tower block, exterior

AMY: *is world’s most jaded time traveller*

RORY: What happened to my Action Man hairdo? Continuity fail.

DOCTOR: Come on team, the under-tens won’t psychologically damage themselves, you know.

AMY: Excellent. You go on ahead, we’ll get the lift. DOWN ONE FLOOR.

VIEWERS: Idiots.

Transdimensional lift of doom

LIFT: *falls*

AMY and RORY: *panic*

Cosy flat, hallway

The Doctor knocks at the door, which is opened by George’s slack-jawed but kindly father Alex.

DOCTOR: Hello, may I come in?

ALEX: You from Sowcial Services?

DOCTOR: Er, okay.

ALEX: Roight this way, our moppet’s on the blink.

Abnormally well-lit tower block, exterior

OLD LADY: Pfft, look at this massive pile of binbags. There’s no such place as ‘away’, you know! #recycleMOAR

PILE OF BINBAGS: *ladychomp*

OLD LADY: *slipperflail*

Cosy flat, living room

ALEX: E’s scared of everyfink! We’re finkin’ of sendin’ ‘im away.

DOCTOR: Pants! By which I mean ‘What a very real and serious problem’.

A creepy old house

Amy and Rory awake in the dark.

RORY: OMG, are we at Dyrham Park?

ME: I THINK YOU MIGHT BE! Remains of the Day was filmed there, you know.

A GIANT EYE: Hello!

EVERYONE: Argh!

A GIANT EYE: Bye then.

SCARY SHADOW: *lurks*

Cosy flat, George’s room

DOCTOR: Now then, George, let’s have a look at your Cupboard of Doom.

ALEX: We put everyfink that scares ‘im in there. Scary pictures, glass eyes, peg dolls; just yer usual, everyday stuff.

DOCTOR: Yeah, what you’ve created here is a massive shuddering box of evil that’s going to kill us all.

GEORGE: *gibbers*

LANDLORD GUY: *enters* Also, where’s my bloody rent?

BERNARD DOG: *is amazing*

A creepy old house

AMY: I’m going to save us all a lot of time by concluding that we’re either really small in a normal doll’s house, or normal-sized in a massive doll’s house. Either way, we’re screwed.

RORY: I shall accept this information with nary a flicker of surprise.

WORLD’S MOST FRIGHTENING DOLL: Surprise!

URINE: *flows freely*

Landlord guy’s flat

CARPET: *slorp*

LANDLORD GUY: *sinks*

BERNARD DOG: *is ZOMG adorabubble snorglebuns!!1!eleventy!*

Cosy flat, George’s room

DOCTOR: Upon further inspection, this cupboard looks pretty normal. Ah well, panic over.

ALEX: ‘Ang on. Now I fink about it, George might be an alien interloper with the ability to make our worst nightmares flesh.

GEORGE: But to be fair, I’m still a total moppet.

CUPBOARD OF DOOM: Roaaaaar! *swallows the Doctor and Alex*

A creepy old house

Rory and Amy are creeping around with a wooden saucepan. Landlord guy runs up, scared out of his wits.

LANDLORD GUY: Help me!

HORRIBLE DOLLS: *pounce*

LANDLORD GUY: *morphs into a Horrible Doll*

RORY: Aaaaargh!

AMY: I guess we’d better run away or whatever.

A creepy old house, drawing room

The Doctor and Alex awake.

DOCTOR: So yeah, we’re totally in the doll’s house in George’s cupboard. Try not to panic.

ALEX: *panics*

A creepy old house, some other room

Amy and Rory are trapped in a room with Horrible Dolls hammering at the door and singing in eerie toddler voices.

RORY: Escape plan?

AMY: I propose violence.

RORY: Or we could mop them to death.

HORRIBLE DOLLS: Ooh it gets daaaaark, it gets lonelyyy! On the other siiiide from you!

GLOCKENSPIEL: *jaunty solo*

AMY: Let’s just run for it!

AMY and RORY: *run*

HORRIBLE DOLLS: *catch Amy and turn her into a Horrible Doll*

RORY: That could’ve gone better.

A creepy old house, drawing room

Loads of Horrible Dolls descend on the Doctor and Alex. They try to fend the Dolls off with a massive pair of zig-zag scissors; shout out to the craft mag massive!

DOCTOR: This seems like a great time to confirm that your son is definitely an alien.

ALEX: No way!

HORRIBLE DOLLS: Bad dreams in the niiiiiight!

DOCTOR: Also, this entire scenario is your fault, in some weird way that might be a metaphor for stress-induced mental illness.

ALEX: :( *snippety snip*

CRAFT MAG MASSIVE: Reckon those are Fiskars?

Cosy flat, George’s room

George is just sitting there, listening to the drama playing out in the cupboard. Get with it, George!

A creepy old house, grand staircase

Oh look, Rory’s here.

RORY: *moppy-mop-mop*

ALEX: *snip*

DOCTOR: George, this is all in your head, sort it out immediately. Look at the state of Amy!

AMY DOLL: *looks marginally more cheerful than normal Amy*

GEORGE: *turns up*

EVERYONE: Yay!

But wait, the Horrible Dolls start coming after George. He’s being consumed by his own neuroses; how very 2011.

ALEX: George, stop this and we can all go back to normal. Don’t worry about bein’ a freakish, shape-shiftin’, alien cuckoo-child. I still love you in the most Cockney way possible!

EVERYTHING: *goes flashy*

Tower block, daylight edition, exterior

PILE OF BINBAGS: *ladybarf*

OLD LADY: How undignified.

Lift of normality

AMY: Hey, remember when we had a baby that time I was a doll?

RORY: Yeah.

Landlord guy’s flat

LANDLORD GUY: I love you, Bernard Dog.

BERNARD DOG: *doggykiss*

Cosy flat, kitchen

GEORGE’S MUM: My role in this episode was disappointingly small.

DOCTOR: Oh hi. I totally fixed your kid.

GEORGE: Whee! Yippee! Etc!

GEORGE’S MUM: Seriously. I’ve had like, three lines.

ALEX: Doctor, should we be worried about George being from another galaxy?

DOCTOR: Nah. Just enjoy your breakfast.

KIPPERS: :(

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: Well, that was quite an adventure. Let’s just fly around and try not to get into any trouble for a while.

AMY and RORY: Aces.

COMPUTER: You are still totally going to die ~~soon~~ ~~then~~ ~~now~~ sometime.

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★
Loved it! Properly creepy monsters, plenty of running around and lots of funny lines from the Doctor. Hooray! I read that these episodes are being aired in a weird order, which I guess accounts for the total lack of concern for poor old Baby Melody.

Did you enjoy the episode? Would you pay good money for a whiff of Rory’s old gilet? Leave a comment below! For a Whocap heads-up, you can also follow me on Twitter.

Whocap 22: Lazy on the inside

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-08-31T21:46:11+01:00
Oh god, you’re supposed to find a lovely shiny new website along with a full Whocap. Instead you’ve got a few bewildered notes and some crappy finger drawings I did on an iPad. Let this be a lesson to you; the internet will always disappoint.

Contains spoilers for the current series of Doctor Who

The Doctor’s got a new coat. It’s very smart.

Amy and Rory don’t seem nearly worried enough about their missing newborn.

Baby!Rory looks like an adorable little Fraggle.

‘Mels’ is really annoying, although she does make you wonder why none of the other recent companions have proposed going back in time and shooting Hitler in the face.

Hitler! Has only got! One! Scene! And crikey, Rory punched him. Rory’s gone all action-hunky!

The antibodies are proper old-school Doctor Who. You could probably make one yourself now with a few bits ‘n’ bobs from your shed.

Oh look, Mels has turned into River Song, and she’s a bit EVIL. Whee, this is kind of fun! Surprise bananagun is surprising!

How come River never gets poisoned by her own lipstick? There must be an antidote brow highlighter you put on first or something.

The little people inside the big robot person are cute. They should have their own series. Remember the Numskulls in the Beano? I LOVED them.

I’m not sure how I feel about the new hunky Rory. I liked you in the gilet days, Rory!

The Doctor is angry with the tiny time travellers. I like the Doctor when he’s morally outraged.

Plot point! Silence will fall when the question is asked. Remember that, kids.

Amy saves River from being tortured. Nice work Amy! It must be hard to bond when your baby is an older-than-you, psychopathic, part-Time Lord killing machine.

Aaaaand now it’s time for your weekly death scene. No one dies permanently in Doctor Who. Even Rory, The Most Killed Man on Television.

It’s okay, River saves the Doctor, using up all her special Time Lordly powers. Hooray! Much as I don’t really approve of the Doctor having a love interest, I do think that he and River have loads more chemistry than boring old Rory and Amy.

I so want one of those TARDIS diaries.

My Verdict:
★★★
Every other review I’ve read has raved about this episode, so I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t enjoy it much. I’ve never been especially into River Song, which doesn’t help. What happened to Hitler? I guess we were never going to see the Doctor patting him on the head and sending him off to commit genocide, but it would’ve been good to glimpse him in his cupboard again at the end of the episode. I loved all the costumes and sets, though. Check out those 1940s knickers!

The Boy’s Verdict
★
Booo! Messy, rushed, immature; not even Matt Smith’s rather lovely gangly body flailing around in evening dress could save this one.

It's the (updated) Whocap master list!

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-06-11T15:52:25+01:00
Confused? Forgetful? Enjoy exclamation marks? Here’s an updated list of Whocaps:

2011 episodes
1 The Impossible Astronaut
2 Day of the Moon
3 The Curse of the Black Spot
4 The Doctor’s Wife
5 The Rebel Flesh
6 The Almost People*
7 A Good Man Goes to War

*Whocap replaced with some lazy-ass charts

2010 episodes
1 The Eleventh Hour
2 The Beast Below
3 Victory of the Daleks*
4 The Time of Angels
5 Flesh and Stone
6 The Vampires of Venice
7 Amy’s Choice**
8 The Hungry Earth
9 Cold Blood
10 Vincent and the Doctor
11 The Lodger***
12 The Pandorica Opens
13 The Big Bang
Christmas 2010: A Christmas Carol

*Most popular Whocap, with bonus hilarious comments thread
**No Whocap for this episode
***Guest verdict from my dad

For hardcore Whocap geeks
Here’s where the madness started.

Whocap 21: Baby, it's goo

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-06-04T22:35:25+01:00

Contains spoilers for the current series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
The Doctor revealed that the Amy in the TARDIS was made of gooey Flesh, while the real Amy was pregnant and captive aboard a big white spaceship. This came as a surprise to everyone, especially Amy. Catch up with episodes 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5, or watch the last episode here. Do it!

Crazypants shipsteroid, maternity wing

Amy cradles her supercute baby under the monocular gaze of Frances Barber.

AMY: I have named you Melody Pond, with blatant disregard for my beleaguered husband and your presumed father. I’m sure he’ll understand. Also, it’s a massive plot point, so I made them put it on your crib too. Check it out!

BABY MELODY: *is cute*

FRANCES BARBER: Kids, we’ll be dealing with some pretty fundamental reproductive concepts today. I suggest you make notes.

Cyberman central, 20000 light years away

CYBERMAN 1: WE ARE DOING CYBERMAN SURVEILLANCE.

CYBERMAN 2: ISN’T THIS WHERE DUMBLEDORE KEEPS HIS DREAMS AND CRAP?

CYBERMAN 3: INTRUDER ALERT

RORY: *strides in* There’s always time for cosplay! Also, tell us where Amy is or we’ll blow up all your ships.

CYBERMEN: WTF?

CYBERFLEET: *explodes*

RORY: Take that! Although I guess we’ve lost our bargaining chip now. Way to jump the gun, Doctor.

CREDITS

Crazypants shipsteroid, hall of military meanderings

Two guys in military uniform are walking around, gossiping about the Doctor’s rumoured exploits. Are they clerical squaddies? I don’t know. Let’s say yes.

TALL GUY: I look positively Tennant-esque in this light.

LITTLE GUY: I guess. Check out Lorna Bucket; she’s sewing.

LORNA BUCKET: It’s embroidery, actually. As a woman, I’m going to be the only member of this army to sew, cry, and find kidnapping morally dubious.

TALL GUY: Fair enough. Hey, let’s play the psychic paper game.

LITTLE GUY: No way dude, I have to go for my ~~ritual beheading~~ conversion tutorial with the Headless Monks. Smell you later.

London, 1888

A Silurian in full Victorian dress arrives home to her chipper human maid/girlfriend. I love this show.

MADAME VASTRA: FYI, I have killed and eaten Jack the Ripper.

JENNY: I’m a Jenny who’s not insane or a bitch! Oh, and there’s a TARDIS in the living room.

Battle of inexplicably Napoleonic uniform, 4037

MR DARCY: My dear, we must leave. Forget the boy, he’ll only slow us down with his twiggy urchin legs.

HELENA BONHAM CARTER: You brute! He needs a comically homicidal Sontaran nurse immediately.

COMMANDER STRAX: Hi there!

URCHIN: Arse.

MR DARCY: Hang on, is that your TARDIS?

Futuristic prison of they-don’t-bother-with-guards-now

ALARMS: *go crazy*

RIVER SONG: (into phone) Chillax guys, it’s only me. Look at my snazzy hatlette! Also, my name is River Song. Yep, that’s my name all right. I’m just saying.

RORY: Dr Song! The Doctor wants you to join his motley interspecies army and cabaret act right now.

RIVER SONG: Tell him I’ll be there in about 30 minutes, once everyone’s been horribly slaughtered and I’m of no practical use whatsoever.

RORY: Aces.

Some weird bar

BLUE-FACED ALIEN: Hey, remember when I sold River that time machine thing? Good times. Good, sassy times. Wow, I sure hope the Doctor doesn’t call in that favour I owe him.

TARDIS: *lands*

Crazypants shipsteroid, maternity wing

LORNA BUCKET: Hello. I spent my free time and limited resources making you this traditional keepsake embroidered with your child’s name in my native language.

AMY: Sod off.

Crazypants shipsteroid, neckstump horrorfest

COLONEL MANTON: Okay lads, I know the Headless Monks have been a bit of a buzzkill lately, so I’ve persuaded them to lower their hoods and show you there’s nothing to be afraid of.

TWO HEADLESS MONKS: *reveal neckstumps*

THIRD MONK: *is actually the Doctor*

LIGHTS: *go out*

DOCTOR: *disappears*

SQUADDIES: *fire guns*

HEADLESS MONKS: *fire back*

COLONEL MANTON: This pep talk hasn’t gone entirely to plan.

Crazypants shipsteroid, CCTV room

MADAME VASTRA: Hey, remember my mad tongue skillz?

JENNY: *blushes*

VIEWERS: !!!

Montage of helpful but boring characters from other episodes

SPITFIRE PILOTS: What ho! Let’s show these blighters what’s what, what?

HUGHBON: Avast ye! Etc!

RORY: Whatever. I’ve got the iCrib; let’s roll.

Crazypants shipsteroid, CCTV room

DOCTOR: Colonel, I really am furious about this whole situation. Withdraw your troops immediately.

FRANCES BARBER: *shrugs* Yeah, I guess you should.

COLONEL MANTON: Right then. *slopes off*

Crazypants shipsteroid, maternity wing

RORY: Amy!

AMY: Rory!

RORY: Baby!

AMY: Centurion!

DOCTOR: I’m here too!

MADAME VASTRA: The soldiers are leaving!

EVERYONE: Hooray!

Crazypants shipsteroid, TARDIS exterior

DOCTOR: I don’t want to derail the drama, but I happen to have this totally splendid steampunky crib. See?

CRIB: *is OMG awesome*

ETSY SELLERS: *cry tears of joy*

COMMANDER STRAX: You might think this scene can’t get any better, but I’ve got two words for you: Lactic. Fluid.

Crazypants shipsteroid, control room

BLUE-FACED ALIEN: I’m surprisingly handy with both computers and DNA analysis. Apparently that baby is a little bit Time Lord.

MADAME VASTRA: Yeah. So either the Doctor’s been, you know, getting jiggy with Amy.

EVERYONE: Ew.

MADAME VASTRA: Or prolonged exposure to the Time Vortex created some kind of super-fast evolutionary change before she was born. Aaaand Frances Eyepatch wants to steal her away and raise her as a magnificent Time Lord weapon?

EVERYONE: Let’s go with that.

Crazypants shipsteroid, TARDIS exterior

LORNA BUCKET: I know we’re all enjoying the crib, but this is a massive trap.

RORY: You may be right, but that won’t stop us being total asshats at you.

HEADLESS MONKS: *appear*

MADAME VASTRA: Quick, hide Amy and the ~~marrow~~ baby.

Crazypants shipsteroid, control room

The Doctor is alone, doing FaceTime with Frances Barber.

FRANCES BARBER: Sorry about stealing your friends’ baby earlier, it’s just that we really want to put her in a massive spacesuit and brainwash her to kill you in some kind of special Time Lordly fashion. There may or may not be paltry picnics involved.

DOCTOR: Well, that’s understandable. And by ‘understandable’, I mean ‘completely fucking insane’. Anyway, it doesn’t matter – we’ve got the baby now and you’re a one-eyed loser.

FRANCES BARBER: O RLY?

DOCTOR: Um, what?

VIEWERS: THE BABY IS A GANGER! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!

Crazypants shipsteroid, sequence of great woe

FAKE BABY MELODY: *turns to goop*

COMMANDER STRAX: *dies*

LORNA BUCKET: *dies*

AMY: *cries*

RORY: *broods*

RIVER SONG: *appears* Hey guys!

DOCTOR: River, where were you and your amazing Matrix-style shooting skills when we needed them?

RIVER: I guess I could’ve been here five minutes ago, but I thought it best to wait until now then get all up in your grill about being a warrior or something.

DOCTOR: That is patently ridiculous. Why don’t you just tell us who you are already?

AMY: Tell us, or I’ll shoot your head off, sassypants.

RIVER. Fine. I am a grown-up Melody Pond. DO YOU SEE? I’m Rory and Amy’s motherflipping daughter.

EVERYONE: Oooooo!

STEVEN MOFFAT: *bows*

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★★
Weird and funny and thrilling; what more can you ask from Doctor Who? Sure there were some crazy plot holes, and the River/Pond connection was a long time coming, but it was still fantastic. Hooray!

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★★
Yeah, OK, Moffat. It was a bit laboured (LABOURED!!!) in places, and the whole episode felt a bit stop-ey, start-ey, twiddle-thumb-ey, but damn you, you bitch, you done good.

Did you enjoy the episode? Do you want to be Alex Kingston when you grow up? Leave a comment below! You can also follow me on Twitter for a Whocap heads-up when the series returns in the autumn. Lucky you.

Whocap 20: Useful charts

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-05-30T21:21:20+01:00
Contains spoilers for the current series of Doctor Who

I’m on holiday this week, which means that I’ve been too lazy to Whocap The Almost People. Instead, here are a few charts to summarise the episode. Feel free to use them in your own PowerPoint presentations and strategy meetings.

Come back next week for a (proper) Whocap of the thrilling mid-series finale! You can also follow me on Twitter for Whocap updates and lots of annoying exclamation marks.

Whocap 19: Island Strife

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-05-22T10:00:07+01:00

Contains spoilers for the current series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
The Doctor snogged the TARDIS, Rory was unfortunate and Amy complained all the time. Catch up with episodes 1, 2, 3 and 4, or watch them now on iPlayer. Oh, the fun you’ll have!

TARDIS interior

The Doctor is mucking about with his pregno-scanner while Amy and Rory play darts and listen to angsty pop.

RORY: Woo, yeah, I’m the king of darts!

AMY: I can’t believe this is the best Saturday night we can have on a centuries-old, dimensionally transcendental spacecraft that can travel through all of space and time. We must at least have Hungry Hippos.

DOCTOR: Let’s get chips.

AMY: Now you’re talking.

ABANDONED POT NOODLE: *cries*

TARDIS: *goes crazy*

DOCTOR: A solar tsunami! Activate CGI! Duck and cover!

Island of doom

The TARDIS lands and the gang tumble out. The Doctor and Rory observe the huge gouges left in the ground by the solar tsunami while Amy undermines Rory’s self-esteem with snarky comments. Poor Rory.

DOCTOR: Behold! A creepy-ass monastery that’s also some kind of acid refinery.

AMY: Let’s explore.

RORY: But... chips?

Chamber of exposition

The Doctor, Amy and Rory enter to discover five people strapped into metal harnesses, unconscious. Seconds later, their exact doubles run into the room wielding, um, really long axes or something.

SCOTTISH GUY: I am stereotypically aggressive.

CHRIS OUT OF LIFE ON MARS: And I’m Chris out of Life on Mars.

FOREMAN CLEAVES: Shut it. Who are you people and how did you get into our creepy-ass monastery?

DOCTOR: I’m a meteorological expert, here to save you from the solar activity that’s gonna pound this island like rump steak. Quick, I need to view a massive vat of writhing flesh then flip out and stick my hand in it.

FOREMAN CLEAVES: I can’t see why that would be a problem.

Vestry of existential nightmares

CLEAVES: Roll up! Fleshly grown meat suits! All your thoughts, features and memories, but none of the pesky nerve endings. Perfect for acid mining, erotic experimentation and exploring Pandora. Take one home for the kids!

DOCTOR: So you use the flesh vat to make meat suits of yourselves and control them from the harnesses. Then if your meat suit gets injured or dies, you just make a new one?

CLEAVES: Yeah. Except we call them Gangers.

DOCTOR: Fair enough. *shoves hand in flesh vat*

ALARMS: *ring*

DOCTOR: The solar storm, it’s getting worse. We’re all going to die in a shower of acid and radiation!

EVERYONE ELSE: *shrugs*

Mary Shelley memorial montage

SOLAR STORM: *crackles*

DOCTOR: *climbs solar pylon*

GANGERS: *look scary*

TARDIS: *sinks*

PEOPLE IN HARNESSES: *twitch*

LIGHTNING: *strikes*

EVERYONE: *screams and passes out*

Chamber of exposition

The real mining team stagger around, having been mildly frazzled by their Ganger-operating harnesses.

SCOTTISH GUY: Ack.

CHRIS OUT OF LIFE ON MARS: Wargh.

JENNIFER: Hold me, Rory!

RORY: *manly hug*

AMY: Bitch, imma cut you.

DOCTOR: I can’t help but notice that all of your Gangers are now wandering around unaided. I guess we should investigate that, instead of just piling into the TARDIS and getting the hell out of Dodge.

Washroom of neckbending wonder

Jennifer’s having a freakout in a toilet cubicle. Why are all fictional Jennifers either emotional wrecks or manipulative bitches? Give Jennifers a chance, writers! Anyway, Rory is standing outside being all friendly and caring.

RORY: Don’t worry, I’m sure all this will be over soon and we can all have some lovely chips.

JENNIFER: *longarm facepunch*

RORY: Ow! That’s cool; this violence actually makes a refreshing change to my wife’s frosty indifference.

JENNIFER: *scary snakeface*

Kitchen of discontent

The Doctor is microwaving up a tub of god-knows-what while everyone frets about the Gangers on the loose. When the Doctor hands the hot plate to Cleaves, she doesn’t react to its scalding temperature.

EVERYONE: OMG, you’re a damned dirty Ganger!

GANGER CLEAVES: No I’m not!

DOCTOR: Now now, everyone, Gangers are only attracted to clean hair.

GANGER CLEAVES: Shut up! *scaryface*

CHRIS OUT OF LIFE ON MARS: You filthy mudblood! Where’s the real Cleaves?

GANGER CLEAVES: *runs away screaming*

AMY: Come on, it’s about time for Rory’s weekly snatching from the jaws of death.

Acidbath corridor

DOCTOR: Right Amy, you stick with Scottish Guy while I go and fetch the TARDIS. *leaves*

AMY: Whatever. Bye then.

SCOTTISH GUY: I’m feeling much less aggressive now. Let’s play with explosives!

DOCTOR: Surprise! I am actually still here. *leaves again*

VIEWERS: Hmm.

Kierkegaard’s keep-fit korner

GANGER JENNIFER: I have the same body, memories, feelings and mental processes as the real Jennifer, so as far as I understand, I am the real Jennifer. Also, I’m wrestling with our slightly intense mutual attraction, possibly kick-started by the fact that you too have eerie memories of being a plastic facsimile of yourself for 2000 years.

RORY: Right. Do you like darts, at all?

Locker room of dismay

CHRIS OUT OF LIFE ON MARS: Our Gangers have stolen the acid suits.

NONDESCRIPT GUY: And there’s acid leaking everywhere.

CHRIS OUT OF LIFE ON MARS: In retrospect, this was a really poor choice of career.

Gangers’ hideout

GANGER CLEAVES: We have the acid suits now.

NONDESCRIPT GANGER: Dude, we know. We totally established that in the last scene.

GANGER CLEAVES: Bite me.

Eerie corridor

AMY: I’m so lost. It would almost be easier not to wander off every frickin’ episode.

FRANCES BARBER: Y halo thar.

AMY: What? Oh, hey Rory.

RORY: Hey. BTW, I’m weirdly protective of this Ganger now.

GANGER JENNIFER: Hooray!

AMY: :(

Kitchen of discontent

The real people are ‘ganging’ up on the fake Jennifer – oh ho, I made a funny! Ahem. Then the Doctor strides in with all the other Gangers.

DOCTOR: Right, I think it’s for the best that we all try to get along with our scary, bendy clones. Also, my shoes melted, but I don’t think that’s integral to the plot.

NONDESCRIPT GUY: Is my cold integral to the plot? Let’s hope not.

DOCTOR: So let’s get the TARDIS out of that big acid puddle and we’ll be eating chips ‘n’ scraps before sundown, yeah?

SCOTTISH GUY: I want to get home for my son’s birthday.

SCOTTISH GANGER: I want to get home for your son’s birthday too.

SCOTTISH GUY: This is a psychological NIGHTMARE.

LOOSE-MORALED VIEWERS: Make a Ganger of your son; problem solved.

RORY: Does anyone give a rat’s ass that I am now HOLDING HANDS with a Ganger?

EVERYONE: Curiously, no.

CLEAVES: Enough! *zaps Ganger Chris Out Of Life On Mars*

GANGER CHRIS OUT OF LIFE ON MARS: *dies*

OTHER GANGERS: *run away*

DOCTOR: :(

Gangers’ hideout

GANGER JENNIFER: War! We shall fight them on the beaches, we shall fight them near the TARDIS, we shall fight them in all of those corridors we saw earlier. We shall probably, at some point, surrender.

OTHER GANGERS: Gangers FTMFW!

Kitchen of discontent

DOCTOR: Right, let’s hide in the chapel before the Gangers kill us all dead.

AMY: I am enthused by this idea.

RORY: Er, no. I’m going to run around with my new not-sure-if-she’s-a-Ganger-or-not girlfriend.

AMY: ...

RORY: Laters!

Chapel of revelation

DOCTOR: Great, we should be safe in here for all of three seconds.

SHADOWY FIGURE: Mmph. Wmph.

DOCTOR: Who’s there?

GANGER DOCTOR: Exactly!

EVERYONE: *is horrified*

GANGER DOCTOR: Okay, my surname isn’t actually Who, but that’s still a cute joke, right? RIGHT?

Credits

My Verdict:
★★★★
All the best Who cliffhanger episodes start with an unnerving monster and finish with lots of running around and screaming. Check and check. I especially enjoyed the morally ambiguous ‘good guys’ and the sympathetic Gangers. Roll on next week!

The boy’s (hungover) verdict:
★★★★
“Four stars. It was good.”

Did you enjoy the episode? Do you have a Big Fancy Theory? Leave a comment below! For a weekly Whocap heads-up, you can also follow me on Twitter.

Whocap 18: Ood omens

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-05-15T12:49:09+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Death, swashbuckling, clumsy Rory and an impossibaby. Catch up on episodes 1, 2 and 3, or click here to watch ’em now. You can also get the skinny on the last series here, if you have a few days to spare and no meaningful social life. What fun!

Planet of Squee

IDRIS: Is it time, Uncle?

UNCLE: Yeah, it’s time. This is the motherhumping Neil Gaiman episode.

AUNTIE: I think I’m going to wet my pants.

VIEWERS: I think we all are.

UNCLE: Hold still, Idris, the Ood’s just going to remove your mind and soul, leaving you an empty, busty husk.

IDRIS: :(

TARDIS interior

Amy, Rory and the Doctor are hanging out in deep space. There is a knock at the TARDIS door.

RORY: This seems unusual.

DOCTOR: *opens door*

LITTLE GLOWING BOX: Hi there! You have 1 new messages.

DOCTOR: So basically this is like an interdimensional SMS from another Time Lord. Which is exciting and also worrying given that I’m a massive Time Lord murderer. Look, this one’s got the mark of the Corsair, which some of you more web-savvy kids may have stumbled across in, um, a rather different context. Let’s hop over the edge of the universe and find out where this came from!

EVERYONE: Whee!

The TARDIS lands on the Planet of Squee and immediately starts losing power. The gang are plunged into darkness as the Doctor freaks out.

DOCTOR: But this is impossible; it’s like the soul of the TARDIS has vanished!

Planet of Squee

IDRIS: *makes TARDIS noises*

CREDITS

Planet of Squee

Idris runs in and launches herself at the Doctor. Auntie and Uncle follow close behind, prising her away.

IDRIS: My thief! I love you! Kissy kissu!

UNCLE: Lawks, sorry about that Doctor. She does get a bit neckbitey.

IDRIS: *neckbite*

UNCLE: See? Ood, take Her Kookiness away immediately.

DOCTOR: Oh, you’ve got an Ood, how lovely. Mind if I fix his talky-ball?

TALKY-BALL: *panicky Time Lord voices*

DOCTOR: WTF? Who else is here?

AUNTIE: It’s just us. Oh, and the House; the malevolent sentient planet we’re all standing on.

House’s special brain drain

HOUSE: Welcome, Doctor. You are one of many lost Time Lords I have ~~killed and dismembered~~ befriended and sheltered.

DOCTOR: Yeah, well I’m the last Time Lord, so make the most of it.

RORY: Hey guys, I know my opinions rarely matter, but on this occasion I think we should run like the clappers.

DOCTOR: Nonsense! Why don’t you and Amy pop back to the TARDIS on a made-up mission while I stumble around in the dark? Because that always ends well.

Planet of Squee

The Doctor has used his sonic screwdriver to lock Amy and Rory safely in the TARDIS. Cheeky. He creeps around the acres of junk on the planet’s surface, listening for the Time Lord voices heard earlier.

CUPBOARD: *mumbles*

DOCTOR: That cupboard looks a bit small for dozens of Time Lords, but – *opens cupboard*

LITTLE GLOWING BOXES: Help! Achtung! Rhubarb!

AUNTIE and UNCLE: Well, this is embarrassing.

DOCTOR: You utter bastards! House has been repairing you with bits of Time Lord.

AUNTIE: I know; I’ve got the Corsair’s tattooed arm.

UNCLE: And I have a blue ear. We’re going to die in our next scene, so have a good gawp now.

Loony lair of massive hair

Idris is locked in a cage. The Doctor is cross.

DOCTOR: What’s going on here? Who are you, anyway?

IDRIS: I can dress this up all kooky-like, but essentially I am the human embodiment of your TARDIS. Cool right? Also, I’m a bit psychic, for whatever reason.

DOCTOR: Why has House put the TARDIS’ soul in a person?

IDRIS: I’m vague on that too. I think it’s that House eats TARDISes because they’re bursting with energy, but he has to remove the soul first or it would explode his mighty brainflesh.

DOCTOR: This is alarming on many levels.

TARDIS exterior

DOCTOR: Amy! Rory! Get out of the TARDIS before you’re swallowed like Tic Tacs!

TARDIS: *disappears*

TARDIS interior

RORY: Hey, it’s nice being in the TARDIS, isn’t it?

AMY: Yep.

HOUSE: Agreed. So anyway, I’m going to screw with you for a while then kill you dead.

AMY and RORY: *run away*

Planet of Squee

DOCTOR: So the good news is that the TARDIS has been hijacked rather than swallowed. The bad news is that I’m stranded on a junkyard planet with the untethered brain of a TARDIS, the manly jaw of a Neanderthal and the still-warm corpses of two crazy monster-people.

IDRIS: Would it be ridiculous to suggest that we build a new TARDIS console from all the TARDIS bits ’n’ bobs lying around?

DOCTOR: Yes. Let’s do it!

TARDIS corridor of horror

It’s a corridor! In the TARDIS! How exciting. Rory and Amy run along it, taunted by House as they go. Amy runs through a sliding door which slams shut, separating her from Rory. Amy turns and scrabbles at the door for a moment, then realises that Rory’s voice is now coming from behind her, further down the corridor. She follows Rory’s voice and finds him sitting outside a locked door, calling her name.

RORY: Where have you been, you mad cow? And when is it that you have time to paint your fingernails every week?

AMY: What? I just walked in a circle.

RORY: You’ve been gone for hours.

They start running again, but – d’oh! – they get separated by another slidey door. Amy tentatively walks around the next corner to find a much older, bedraggled Rory.

AMY: Holy smokes, what happened to you?

ANCIENT RORY: Amy, I’ve been waiting for you for years! I hate you with a beardy, ranty passion. RAAAARGH!

AMY: *runs away*

Amy reaches a corridor daubed with ‘HATE’, ‘KILL’, ‘DIE’ and ‘AMY’ in scary spiky letters. Nice short words for the kids there, Neil. This time, Rory’s a wasted corpse. Poor Rory.

AMY: *screams*

NOT-DEAD RORY: *appears* Hey Amy, what’s up?

AMY: One day you really will be dead, and no one will believe you.

NOT-DEAD RORY: House is just messing with our heads. Let’s run!

Makeshift TARDIS

DOCTOR: Whee, yahoo, etc!

IDRIS: We’ve locked on to Amy and Rory. I’ll telepathically tell them to lower the shields and let us in. I’m helpful like that.

TARDIS lo-fi ladder

RORY: I’m receiving some kind of psychic message.

IDRIS: (in Rory’s brain) Go to Tennant’s old control room, lower the shields, try on his shirts and dance around like a princess.

RORY: Wilco.

TARDIS corridor, redux

AMY: I have been rendered temporarily blind.

RORY: And I’ve been knocked unconscious by the evil Ood from earlier.

OOD: Oh yes, I’m evil. Sorry about that.

TARDIS of old

RORY: Quick, lower the shields.

SHIELDS: *lower*

HOUSE: Nice work on finding Tennant’s tower of tears. I am going to set the Ood on you, now, though.

OOD: *advances menacingly*

MAKESHIFT TARDIS: *flattens ood*

EVERYONE: Hooray!

HOUSE: Hang on, I’m still here.

IDRIS: And I’m totally dying in this flimsy human body. This flimsy, busty human body.

HOUSE: I’m going to delete this stupid control room and all of you in order to thrust us back into your universe. Prepare to die!

EVERYONE: *prepares*

TARDIS main control room

The Doctor, Amy, Rory and Idris appear back in the main control room.

DOCTOR: Aha, sucks to be you! I have wisely installed a fail-safe whereby TARDIS passengers can’t just be deleted from existence whenever the whim strikes.

HOUSE: Curses!

RORY: Guys, I know this isn’t the best time, but Idris has stopped breathing. And I don’t think any of us should attempt CPR this week.

The TARDIS soul escapes Idris’ body and swirls around the control room, kicking House’s ass.

HOUSE: Oof! Ouch! Stop! Nooooo!

When House is gone, there stands a ghostly version of Idris, all sparkly with TARDIS light.

GHOSTLY IDRIS: This episode has been awesome.

DOCTOR: I think I’m going to cry.

VIEWERS: I think we all are.

GHOSTLY IDRIS: *disappears*

TARDIS interior of comic relief

DOCTOR: Sadly the TARDIS won’t be talking again. Because that would be too much like Knight Rider.

RORY: By the way, Idris kept saying ‘The only water in the forest is the river’. But I’m sure that’s not important.

AMY: Also, we sleep in bunk beds.

TARDIS: *twiddles its own knobs*

NEIL GAIMAN: *bows*

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★★
Like all good geeks, I love Neil Gaiman, and this episode really lived up to my expectations. Is anyone else getting suspicious about Rory’s mortality? He recovered from that encounter with the Ood very quickly…

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★
If you’re going to trust anyone to fuck with the canon, it’s Gaiman. Still, hmmm. Come on, Moffat-baby.

Did you enjoy the episode? Do you secretly wish you and your spouse had bunk beds? Leave a comment below! For a weekly Whocap heads-up, you can also follow me on Twitter.

Whocap 17: Pirates and a Gallifreyan

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-05-07T21:16:34+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
The Doctor got dead, but it wasn’t our Doctor. Amy possibly got knocked up, but no one’s really sure. A mysterious girl regenerated, but hardly anyone noticed. It was complicated; get the lowdown here and then here, or just watch it yourself. Good luck with that.

Ship of Beards, below decks

Hoist the mainsail! Ladder the fishnets! Scrub the t-zone! It’s a bloody pirate ship. And look, the captain is Dashing Hugh Bonneville, how exciting. HughBon is surrounded by assorted anxious pirates.

HUGHBON: Begone, can’t you see I’m brooding? Brooding, damn you!

STUBBLY PIRATE: But sir, I’ve been hurt or injured in an accident that wasn’t my fault.

HUGHBON: You fool. Prepare to die a tuneful, supermodelly death. And I’m locking you out while it happens.

Ship of Beards, on deck

Stubbly Pirate staggers around like a loon. The BBC National Orchestra of Wales puts the Pirates of the Caribbean theme in a Magimix and hopes for the best. There is ethereal singing and a manly scream. Calm descends and HughBon leads his men out to survey the damage.

HUGHBON: Stubbly pirate’s completely disappeared.

PARANOID PIRATE: We’re doomed.

IKEA LAUNDRY HAMPER: *knocks loudly*

HUGHBON: *cocks pistol* Open that laundry hamper immediately.

IKEA LAUNDRY HAMPER: *swings open to reveal the Doctor, Amy and Rory*

DOCTOR: I am excitable!

RORY: And I am wearing two kinds of check.

CREDITS

Ship of Beards, below decks

HUGHBON: Your angular ship seems less than hydrodynamic. How in the name of Gillette did you get here?

DOCTOR: Ah, well, the TARDIS picked up on you as a ship in distress, you see.

PARANOID PIRATE: They’re evil spirits, Captain.

HUGHBON: They’re stowaways. Plank ‘em.

Ship of Beards, plank corner

The Doctor is walking the plank as Amy and Rory look on, dismayed.

DOCTOR: Tweed sinks like a stone, you know. On the upside, it is sharkproof.

HUGHBON: Throw the girl below decks, we can set her to work later.

AMY: *fusses ineffectually*

Ship of Beards, below decks

Amy is imprisoned with a chest of swords and knives.

AMY: And pirate costumes!

Ship of Beards, plank corner

AMY: Knife skills and cross dressing; I may be a better wife than my pouty whinging would suggest.

HUGHBON: Put down that sword or you’ll kill us all!

ACTION PIRATE: Grrrrr! *broomsmash*

AMY: *swordflail*

DREADLOCKS PIRATE: Argh, my hand! With this tiny cut, you have killed me. Look, the black spot!

BLACK SPOT: Yeah, sorry about that.

AMY: *ropeswing*

RORY: Ow. Now I’m all black spotted. Brilliant.

There is more ethereal singing. Tiny-mouthed fashionista Lily Cole flies from the ocean and lands on the ship. She is a Siren. Let’s just get through this.

SIREN: *sings*

RORY: Siren want.

DREADLOCKS PIRATE: Me too.

Dreadlocks Pirate touches the Siren and, er, evaporates. Rory tries to follow but is restrained by Amy.

HUGHBON: You know, given that a spindly girl is holding Rory, you’d think the rest of us could’ve saved Dreadlocks. Ah well.

Ship of Beards, kinky wet room

DOCTOR: What is that thing?

HUGHBON: She’s been stalking us since the ship was becalmed. A single drop of blood brings her. We’re cursed!

RORY: But she’s so beautiful. Please, I must see her. I need the London look.

DOCTOR: We must leave before anyone else gets hurt.

HAIRY PIRATE: Argh, a leech bite!

SIREN: *explodes pirate*

EVERYONE: *runs away*

Ship of Beards, armoury of repressed emotion

BARREL: *coughs*

HUGHBON: *throws open barrel* Curses! It’s the son whose mother I callously abandoned for a life of beardy crime. What are you doing here, boy?

EMO KID: Mother is dead from fever. I’ve come to join your brave crew on this virtuous naval ship, sir.

HUGHBON: You can’t stay here, there’s a monster aboard. A sexy, sexy monster. She leaves a black mark on the palms of her victims.

EMO KID: *is blackspotty*

HUGHBON: Oh. Bottoms.

DOCTOR: HughBon, to the TARDIS! Everyone else, stay here and bicker.

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: Welcome aboard, HughBon! We would have so much fun if we just ran away together and let those other losers get Rimmeled.

HUGHBON: I am both impressed and unsurprised by this physics-defying technology.

Ship of Beards, armoury of repressed emotion

NAUGHTY PIRATES: HughBon’s gone batshit. Let’s grab as much treasure as we can and GTFO.

EMO KID: What? Father will have you court-martialled for this.

NAUGHTY PIRATES: Kid, your dad’s a bloody pirate.

EMO KID: I am inexplicably disappointed by this news. *cutlass poke*

NAUGHTY PIRATE 1: *bloodtrickle*

NAUGHTY PIRATE 2: *runs away with treasure*

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: The TARDIS is broken. All our little plans and schemes! Gone like some forgotten dream!

HUGHBON: Damn.

TARDIS: *goes crazy*

DOCTOR and HUGHBON: *exit TARDIS*

TARDIS: *disappears*

DOCTOR: :(

Ship of Beards, luggage carousel

HUGHBON: Naughty pirate 2, where are you going?

NAUGHTY PIRATE 2: I’m getting out of here while I’m still spot-free. I’ve got guns too, see? Kablammo!

Ship of Beards, cupboard of death

Naughty pirate 2’s flaming torch burns his hand. He drops the torch and is plunged into darkness. What a nincompoop. The Siren sings. The Doctor and HughBon burst in, but Naughty and the Siren are gone.

HUGHBON: I thought the Siren travelled through water. How did she get in?

DOCTOR: Through reflections, of course! She came in through the shiny treasure.

VIEWERS: Bzuh?

Ship of Beards, reflection city

DOCTOR: *windowsmash*

HUGHBON: Are you sure about this?

DOCTOR: *treasurefling*

HUGHBON: Because it really goes against Pirate Best Practice.

DOCTOR: *mirrorshatter*

HUGHBON: Okay. I’ll just get, er, get rid of this magnificent bejewelled crown.

Ship of Beards by night

Amy and Rory are asleep. I wish I had a big-cuffed coat like Amy. HughBon and Emo Kid are chatting.

HUGHBON: This is all my own beard, by the way. Also, sorry your mother’s dead.

EMO KID: Yeah, it does suck.

Amy awakes to hear a mysterious voice. It’s Frances Barber again! She’s in her bright white room, looking through a hatch in the wall.

FRANCES BARBER: I guess I’m just going to keep popping up like this.

HATCH: *slides shut*

AMY: *freaks out*

Ship of Beards, on deck

A storm! Everyone leaps into action to get the ship moving in the wind.

HUGHBON: To the rigging! Man the sails! Heave ho! Fetch my compass!

EVERYONE ELSE: Our robust physicality is undermined by our limited knowledge of sailing and, more pressingly, 17th century pirate jargon.

BEJEWELLED CROWN: *rolls out of HughBon’s coat*

SIREN: *appears and explodes Emo Kid*

DOCTOR: HughBon, your only son is dead. This seems like an excellent time to call you greedy and culpable.

AMY: Doctor, Rory has somehow fallen into the sea!

VIEWERS: Rory in mortal danger? How unusual.

SIREN: *dives into sea after Rory*

DOCTOR: Right, I think the best plan of action here would be to cut our hands and summon the Siren. Then she’ll explode us and we’ll find out where all the other exploded people went.

AMY: That flies in the face of everything else we’ve done this episode.

DOCTOR: Yes. It does rather. *fingerstab*

Spaceship of minimalist rodents

Amy, the Doctor and HughBon awake on a deserted spaceship. Looking out, they can see the bridge of the Ship of Beards, just as they left it.

DOCTOR: This spaceship occupies the same space as the Ship of Beards, just in a parallel dimension. Both ships have become trapped, so it’s easy to hop from one dimension to the other. That’s how the Siren got through. Let’s explore!

Spaceship of minimalist rodents, bridge

RATSTRONAUT: *is dead*

DOCTOR: All of these crazy aliens sneezed to death. Then their hologram doctor went barking mad and turned into the Siren.

VIEWERS: Oh, she’s like The Doctor in Star Trek Voyager?

DOCTOR: No. Nothing like that.

Tarpaulin-tastic medical bay

HUGHBON: Look, all my men are here. And Emo Kid too!

AMY: And Rory!

DOCTOR: And the TARDIS! O frabjous day, etc.

AMY: Cripes, it’s the Siren. Hide!

Everyone hides behind a pillar while the Siren sings at the unconscious pirates and Rory.

DOCTOR: So when the Siren sings, it anaesthetises the patients. She’s keeping them alive, like the Katherine Jenkins of the non-shark world!

AMY: Hey, let’s just unhook Rory from all this life-saving equipment and make a run for it.

DOCTOR: We can’t! Weirdly, he’ll drown. Also, the Siren won’t let us.

SIREN: *scary face*

AMY: But look! Suddenly I give a crap about my marital status.

SIREN: *vanishes*

RORY: *wakes* Oh, hey guys.

DOCTOR: Howdy. So, basically, you either have to stay here forever or come with us and suffer some of the worst on-screen CPR ever.

RORY: I dunno, man, have you seen New Moon?

DOCTOR: Let’s roll. Coming, HughBon?

HUGHBON: Nope. I’m oddly confident about piloting an alien starship from the future.

TARDIS interior

AMY: *blows into Rory’s mouth*

VIEWERS: Wait, check his airways!

AMY: *presses on Rory’s chest*

VIEWERS: And tilt his head back!

DOCTOR: Don’t we need to move his limbs with a broom handle? Say what you like about Martha, she was much better in a crisis.

RORY: *is dead*

AMY: *cries*

RORY: No, wait, I’m actually fine.

EVERYONE: Hooray!

Spaceship of Beards

PIRATES: Yo ho ho, astronautics is easy!

TARDIS interior

RORY: Apparently we have a bedroom in the TARDIS.

AMY: Yes, let’s go there and enjoy some wholesome costume roleplay within the context of a loving and monogamous relationship.

DOCTOR: Excellent, goodnight all!

GIZMO: Sorry, still no news on the mysterious impossibaby. Chess?

DOCTOR: No thanks.

Credits

My Verdict:
★★★
Swashbuckling fun! I loved all the costumes and excellent acting, but I did find the plot a bit exhausting. Also, poor Rory! I just want him to get through an episode unscathed.

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★
“Well, BBC commissioning editors, here you go: one set of complete scripts for this twelve-episode run of Doctor Who. What’s that you say? This series is thirteen episodes long? As it usually is? Tits. Um, that Depp chap’s thing is bally popular; let’s slip something piratey in for the larks. We’ll do it for episode three and nobody will ever suspect a thing.”

Did you enjoy the episode? Do you have any excellent theories on what the jiggery is going on? Would you like to point out that fishnets can’t really be laddered? Leave a comment below! For a weekly Whocap heads-up, you can also follow me on Twitter.

Whocap 16: Kids in America

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-05-01T22:09:31+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Amy and Rory swerved around the emotional void in their marriage by having a picnic and watching the brutal murder of a Future Doctor. River Song broke out of history’s least secure prison and joined the lacklustre duo and the Contemporary Doctor as they journeyed back to 1969 to find a creepy kid in a spacesuit, a bunch of Moss Bros aliens and the magician out of Jonathan Creek. Oh, and Amy claimed to be pregnant. Watch the episode here, if you don’t believe me. Or don’t. Whatever.

Utah, 1969

A caption tells us that three months have passed since the last episode. Feels like it, certainly. Amy runs through the desert like a wig on stilts. FBI guy Canton chases her to a cliff edge.

AMY: Don’t shoot!

CANTON: *shoots*

Area 51

The Doctor is tied to a chair and has grown an unconvincing beard. He is guarded by some, er, guards.

CANTON: Dude, this episode is dark.

DOCTOR: And this beard is itchy. We all got problems.

New York

RIVER: Being hounded to suicide by rogue FBI agents and horrific aliens is no reason to let personal grooming slide. *jumps out of skyscraper*

Area 51

DOCTOR: I can’t help but notice you’re building some kind of pimped-out prison from dwarf star alloy, the densest material in the universe. Except tweed.

CANTON: *looks smug*

A dam

It’s Rory! Hi Rory. Canton and his agents surround him.

RORY: Just kill me already. I’ve got nine lives, like a cat in cargo pants.

The Doctor’s dwarf star alloy cell

DOCTOR: Is there a reason you’re being such an almighty bastard?

CANTON: Dramatic tension, baby!

AMY and RORY: *unzip* We’re not really dead!

DOCTOR: And the TARDIS was here all along!

EVERYONE: W00t!

TARDIS interior

CANTON: What about Dr Song? She totally jumped off a building.

DOCTOR: It’s cool, I’ll just pop open the doors to the swimming pool and she can land in it.

VIEWERS: But... the TARDIS only has one door.

Apollo 11 launch pad

DOCTOR: BTW, check out my huge throbbing plot point.

RORY: *boggles*

CREDITS: At last!

TARDIS interior

AMY: (to Doctor) I’m feeling better now, if you know what I mean.

WOMEN EVERYWHERE: Wait, are we talking about menstruation?

DOCTOR: You should know that I’m not actually a medical doctor. Now gather round, everyone, I’m going to shove an unsterilised plastic nano-recorder under the skin of your palms. Whenever you see one of those Silents, just leave yourself a message then it’ll flash and you can wet your pants at leisure.

CANTON: So what do the Silence want?

DOCTOR: They basically want to hang around and wear suits and plant thoughts in our brains. We should just get them a Wii or something. Now let’s find out where they got that creepy spacesuit kid from.

St Fruitcake’s Orphanage

DR RENFREW: Hello? You can’t come in, the children are ~~dead~~ ~~missing~~ ~~aliens~~ asleep. Also, I’m insane.

CANTON and AMY: :(

DR RENFREW: Oh alright.

St Fruitcake’s interior

DAUBINGS: Get out! Run away! Repent! The end is nigh! Neuter your pets!

DR RENFREW: My office is? This way?

FLUTES of IMPENDING DOOM: *discordant noodling*

CANTON: Well, this all seems completely normal.

AMY: I think I’ll wander off on my own.

VIEWERS: You are all IDIOTS.

St Fruitcake’s nursery of nightmares

Amy wanders around with her flashlight. All the beds in the nursery are empty. A storm rages outside.

AMY: (on phone) Hey Doctor, everything’s fine and dandy here. And by ‘fine’, I mean ‘sinister’. And by ‘dandy’, I mean ‘almost certain to end in mortal peril’.

DOCTOR: (on phone) Excellent. I’d better go, though, I’ve got a CGI sequence of great wonder to appear in.

Apollo 11

DOCTOR: I’ve done something special to Apollo 11. Let the CGI sequence of great wonder commence!

St Fruitcake’s nursery of nightmares

An ominous clatter sends Amy running for the door, which is locked. Brilliant.

AMY’S PALM: *flashes*

RECORDED AMY: Don’t panic!

AMY: *panics*

THE SILENT: (hanging from ceiling) Zzzzzzzzzzz

VIEWERS: Yes, keep flashing your torch in their faces. That’ll help.

Amy then immediately forgets about alien deathwish sleepytime and carries on with her life. The nursery door swings open.

NASA

PERTURBED GEEK 1: If you’re on a Nixon-approved mission to screw with Apollo 11, why didn’t he just tell us to give you full access and a vac-packed lunch?

DOCTOR: That is an excellent point.

NIXON: Sorry, yes, he does have my permission to do whatever he’s doing.

RORY: AND I’VE GOT A LICENCE TO SMOULDER.

PERTURBED GEEK 2: Well, this all seems to be in order. I’ll let you be on your way.

RORY: LIKE A POP TART, BABY.

St Fruitcake’s admin office

CANTON: You know, with there being no children, it’s almost as if you could leave St Fruitcake’s and go to CenterParcs.

DR RENFREW: No! The child. She must be cared for. In a spacesuit. It’s important. I’m wearing a bow tie, like the Doctor. Is that relevant? I don’t know. Mine is a lonely life. Lonely and crazy.

St Fruitcake’s kooky korner

Amy’s creeping along in the dark when a hatch opens in a door to her left. Behind the hatch, beloved character actress Frances Barber peers out from a bright white room. She is wearing some kind of newfangled eye patch.

AMY: Hello?

FRANCES BARBER: I outweird every other weird thing in this episode.

HATCH: *slides shut*

Amy opens the door to reveal a kid’s bedroom. Oooooo! There’s a bed, a sink, a few toys and a dresser with lots of photographs on. You’ll never guess who’s in one of the photos... yes, that’s right, it’s Amy with a baby!

AMY: *freaks out*

ASTRONAUT KID: *strides in*

AMY: Oh crap, sorry about shooting you last week. I was having a bit of a shocker.

ASTRONAUT KID: Help me!

THE SILENCE: *appear*

AMY: *screams like a banshee*

St Fruitcake’s admin office

A Silent knocks at the door. How polite.

DR RENFREW: Do come in, I’ve got a lovely guest here for you.

SILENT: *walks in* FYI, we don’t tend to carry weapons.

CANTON: *shoots Silent in the belly*

SILENT: You bastard.

St Fruitcake’s kooky korner

Oh no, Amy’s trapped in the kid’s bedroom and is crying for help. Pull on your big-girl pants, Amy, you’ll find them in your Big Companion Kit for Companions, issued to all TARDIS passengers within 24 hours of take-off. Canton’s on the outside trying to break in.

DOCTOR: Chillax, I’m here with my sonic screwdriver! *breaks in easily*

RORY: I CAN’T CONCENTRATE ON ANYTHING EXCEPT BRINGING SEXY BACK.

EVERYONE: *runs into bedroom*

KID: Shh, I have escaped the astronaut suit, but don’t tell anyone, mmmkay?

Bedroom

RORY: BABY I’M YOUR SL- Hang on, Amy’s not even here. My makeover is wasted.

ASTRONAUT SUIT: *is empty*

Amy’s nanorecorder is on the floor, transmitting her voice from wherever she is.

AMY: *on recorder* I’m scared. It’s dark. I miss my boots.

RORY: :(

DR RENFREW: Meanwhile, that Silent seems quite annoyed about being shot.

St Fruitcake’s admin office

SILENT: *writhes around*

DOCTOR: The Silence, eh? I feel a montage coming on.

Area 51

Unseen by the guards, the TARDIS lands in the Doctor’s dwarf star cell. Handy! Canton appears from the cell, followed by Nixon.

GUARDS: OMGWTFBBQ?

NIXON: Oh, hi. We’re going to need a doctor in here.

Deserted office block from last week

RIVER: Blah, blah, spacesuit, exoskellington, little girl, kept inside.

DOCTOR: So the suit helped the kid call the president as he was the highest known authority?

RIVER: Blah, hacked in, incredibly strong, makes no sense, protecting the child, blathery bloo.

Area 51

Aw, Canton’s had a doctor dress the Silent’s wounds over the outside of his suit. That can’t be sanitary.

SILENT: You fools! You shouldn’t be helping us, you should kill us all on sight.

CANTON: Hah, sucks to be you; I’m recording this on Amy’s twee pink phone and then sending it to the Doctor. Which is an admirable leap in technological know-how for 1969.

All aboard the Silence express!

Amy stirs to consciousness and finds herself strapped to a table. The Silence are all around, poking at computers and playing table football and stuff.

SILENT: Amelia Pond. We do you an honour. You will bring the Silence.

AMY: Dude, I’m signed up for the rest of the series; I’m sure I’ll be fine.

X-FILES FANS: This all seems a bit 1994.

TARDIS: *appears*

DOCTOR: Helloo! Amy and Rory, keep watching the Silence so we don’t forget they’re there. I’ll put the telly on so we can all witness the wonder of Neil Armstrong. Also, I feel flirty!

RIVER: Rowr.

DOCTOR: So, essentially what I’ve done is slice a little bit of Canton’s recording of that shot Silent into the feed of the moon landing. Specifically, it’s that bit where he says ‘you should kill us all on sight’. So now everyone who sees a recording of the moon landing at any time for the rest of history will be programmed to slaughter the next Silent they see. Then they’ll forget all about it. It’s the perfect solution! Maybe not ethically, or hygienically, but in all other ways perfect!

NEIL ARMSTRONG: (on telly) That’s one small step for man.

SILENT: (on telly) KILL US ALL ON SIGHT.

REST OF SILENCE: We are really hopping mad now.

Montage of Silence-slaughter

Guns! Fists! Frying pans! Everyone starts attacking the Silence.

Back aboard the Silence express

SILENCE: *go all electric and evil*

RIVER: Everyone into the TARDIS! *spins around and shoots all the Silence dead in a crazy Matrix fashion* Kiss my ass, Francesca Annis.

The White House

NIXON: Doctor! Thanks so much for saving us from those scary aliens and explaining absolutely nothing.

CANTON: I am a homosexual man.

Futuristic prison of frankly useless guards

DOCTOR: River, I can’t help but wonder why you keep coming back here when you obviously don’t have to.

RIVER: Damned if I know. Now let us kiss with tongues!

RIVER and DOCTOR: *snog*

VIEWERS: Wargh!

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: Hey Amy, remember when you said you were pregnant, then said you weren’t? Bit off to tell me instead of your actual husband, no?

RORY: Yes, I am outraged. Although not as outraged as you might expect.

AMY: *shrugs* Whatever.

DOCTOR: Anyway, let’s all go off and have an exciting pirate adventure! *surreptitiously scans Amy with TARDIS gizmo*

GIZMO: Pregnant? Yes. No. Yes. No. Yesnoyesnoyesnoyesno. Sorry, I can’t help you.

DOCTOR: Hm.

New York alley, night, six months later

TRAMP: *rummages through bins*

KID: *coughs*

TRAMP: Blimey, are you okay?

KID: Yeah, I’m just dying a bit. Hang on. *regenerates*

VIEWERS: OMG!

My Verdict:
★★★★
Hell’s bells, that was confusing. I found the sheer number of unanswered questions annoying, but it was properly exciting stuff. Who’s the little girl? What happened with that eye patch woman? Am I the only person who finds Amy kind of irritating? Only time will tell.

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★
Moffat, don’t toy with me. You’d better know what you’re up to, because, brilliant conceit aside, that was a bloody mess of an episode. I suspect you do know what you’re up to, however, so I await the rest of the series with breath so bated you could use it to catch a coelacanth.

Whocap 15: Silent fright

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-04-23T22:19:07+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Gonk-haired everyman Rory got married to perpetually bored sex worker Amy Pond. Sassy criminal Dr River Song kept turning up and being smug about knowing how to drive the TARDIS. The Doctor got really into accessories. There was other stuff; you can relive it in excruciating detail here.

Montage of historical hilarity

The Doctor appears up a skirt, in a shaft and nude, in a painting.

DOCTOR: Tonight, Matthew, I’ll be pushing the limits of what constitutes family viewing. Let’s go!

Amy and Rory’s lovely new house

RORY: Seriously, how did we afford this house?

AMY: Hey, look at this invitation – it’s got coordinates and today’s date and we must leave immediately!

RORY: Because apparently neither of us works for a living any more.

Futuristic prison of frankly useless guards

JITTERY GUARD: (on phone) Yes Guv, River Song is breaking out again. Maybe we should do a training seminar or something?

AMERICA!

Desert! School bus! Highway! Red rocks! Sun! Stetson! This whole bloody bunfight actually went to the actual USA, and don’t you forget it.

DOCTOR: Hi there! Can you believe this hat?

AMY and RORY: ...

RIVER SONG: *hatshoot* Did someone order a steaming plate of SASSY? No?

Retro diner of doom

DOCTOR: Right, you all have to come to 1969, but not before one of us is brutally murdered in the next few scenes. Also, I think this jacket is new.

CREDITS: Barrowman-free since 2010!

Doomed picnic of not-enough-food-for-four-people

DISTANT SCARY SILHOUETTE: *stares*

AMY: Who’s that?

RORY: Who’s what?

AMY: Nothing.

DOCTOR: We so could’ve done this in Cardiff. AND had change for a Nando’s.

OLD GUY: Howdy!

RIVER: I can’t help but notice there’s a full-on astronaut wading out of the lake over there.

LAKE-STRONAUT: *stares*

The Doctor wanders down to the lake’s edge and talks briefly to the lake-stronaut. The lake-stronaut takes out a big lasery gun and shoots him square in the chest. Holy crap!

DOCTOR: *flails*

VIEWERS: Aie!

DOCTOR: *dies*

EVERYONE: :(

OLD GUY: So the Doctor said you should just, like, set him alight and then finish your Brie. Happy Easter, everyone!

Retro diner of doom

DOCTOR: Oh, hey guys. Has this episode actually started, then? I got distracted by that hare thing.

EVERYONE: WTF?!

VIEWERS: To be fair, it would’ve been a fairly radical step to write the Doctor out of Doctor Who.

TARDIS interior

River, Rory and Amy are having a hushed conversation while the Doctor does a bit of flamboyant TARDIS wrangling.

AMY: Even though I’ve known about time travel since I was a tiny ginger orphan, I am unable to grasp the concept of Past and Future Doctors.

RIVER: The Doctor we saw die was the Doctor from 200 years in the future. He invited the three of us to witness it, then his contemporary self to take us to 1969.

AMY: So should we warn him that we just saw him die in an orgy of tweed and screaming?

RIVER: Nah.

The Oval Office, 1969

RICHARD NIXON: I am a marginally less effective Nixon than the one in Frost/Nixon.

CANTON EVERETT DELAWARE III: And I’m the Old Guy when he was young.

RICHARD NIXON: I need you to listen to these disturbing phone calls I’ve been getting.

PHONE KID: (on recording) Help me, Mr President. My accent, it wavers!

DOCTOR: *appears* Weren’t you in Jonathan Creek?

TARDIS: *appears*

SECURITY GUARDS: *run in* Freeze! Don’t move! Etc!

DOCTOR: If you’ll hold off on the hail of bullets, I’ll be happy to help you out with your creepy phone calls. Deal?

RICHARD NIXON: That seems reasonable.

SCARY SILENT ALIEN: *stares*

AMY: Wargh!

RORY: What’s up?

AMY: I literally don’t know. I’m going to find a bathroom. Although really, you’d think it would be more convenient just to pop in to the TARDIS.

The White House lavatories. Fancy!

SCARY SILENT ALIEN: *is flipping terrifying*

AMY: Wargh! Why am I always surprised to see you?

LOVELY LADY: Eek! You look crazy, man. But I like your suit.

AMY: Bitch, are you insane? Get away from that thing!

SCARY SILENT ALIEN: *explodes lady with death-fingers*

KIDS EVERYWHERE: *are traumatised*

SCARY SILENT ALIEN: SO THE THING ABOUT US IS THAT YOU FORGET US AS SOON AS WE’RE OUT OF SIGHT. UNLESS YOU’RE A SMALL CHILD, IN WHICH CASE YOUR PARENTS WILL SHORTLY BE PAYING A PROFESSIONAL TO HELP YOU SLEEP.

AMY: What do you want?

SCARY SILENT ALIEN: YOU WILL TELL THE DOCTOR WHAT HE MUST KNOW AND WHAT HE MUST NEVER KNOW. THAT’S RIGHT; WE’RE ALSO ANNOYINGLY OBLIQUE.

AMY: *runs away*

The Oval Office

PHONE KID: (on phone) Help, the spaceman is here and he’s going to eat me!

DOCTOR: To the TARDIS!

TARDIS interior

CANTON EVERETT DELAWARE III: This is off the freaking hook.

RORY: Word.

Deserted office block, Florida 1969

DOCTOR: Through a series of tedious deductions, we know this is exactly where Phone Kid must be.

RIVER: Let the creeping around in the dark commence.

AMY: (to River) It occurs to me that if the spaceman is the lake-stronaut that totalled the Future Doctor, we could just kill him and stop that from happening.

RIVER: But if the Future Doctor doesn’t get shot, we won’t come back here to stop it from happening. They don’t call it a paradox for nothing, kids.

AMY: What does that even mean?

RIVER: I don’t know. I’m hopped up on guaifenesin and have an earful of olive oil.

DOCTOR: River! Shimmy down that manhole and check it out. And feel free to leer lasciviously whenever there’s a break in the action.

RIVER: Wilco.

Tunnel of dapper terror

SCARY SILENT ALIENS: *are everywhere*

RIVER: *runs away*

Deserted office block

River climbs out of the manhole in a fluster, but relaxes immediately

RIVER: Yep, everything seems fine down there. I’m just going back for no apparent reason.

RORY: Me too.

Tunnel of dapper terror

RIVER: A door! Let’s break it open.

RORY: This is almost certainly a terrible idea.

The door swings open to reveal a spaceship, similar to the one in that episode with James Corden.

Creepy spaceship

RORY: What is this?

RIVER: Check there’s no one behind us.

SCARY SILENT ALIENS: HELLO.

RORY: Seems fine.

VIEWERS: Fly, you fools!

Deserted office block

CANTON EVERETT DELAWARE III: Listen, it’s the echoing voice of Phone Kid! *scampers off*

PHONE KID: (in the distance) Help!

DOCTOR: Let’s go!

AMY: Wait, I have something to tell you.

DOCTOR: Yes, let’s share.

AMY: I’m pregnant. Which I know seems unlikely considering Rory and I have the chemistry of a slug on a bread bin.

The astronaut appears and looks exactly like the lake-stronaut from earlier. It points at the Doctor. Amy grabs Canton’s gun and points it at the astronaut. But wait! The astronaut’s helmet rises to reveal Phone Kid.

PHONE KID: Help!

AMY: *shoots*

DOCTOR: Noooo!

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★
Exciting! Big frights, time travel conundrums and lots of interesting plot points. What’s with all the stomach-clutching? Why’s the Doctor being all flirty? And who really waded out of that lake?

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★
Well, you know, it’s a Moffat Who, so how bad can it be? It was, however, a 45-minute long set-up for the next episode… which bloody well better deliver. It promises to.

Did you enjoy the episode? Are you finding the Doctor’s new jacket a bit distracting? Leave a comment below!

Cake

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-03-21T20:52:43+00:00
This is my eighth of twelve lovely but busy working days, so I only have brainspace to show you a couple of pics. Nice, though, aren’t they?

Dad’s birthday cake, inside the gorgeous stand that the boy gave me:

Me and Lu manning (ladying?) the PaperCraft inspirations Cake & Take stand at the Olympia yesterday.

That’s it! xxx

The new frugal

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2011-01-26T20:25:15+00:00
The boy and I have a strange relationship with money. On the large scale, we’re pretty sensible. We’ve never had an expensive holiday, our wedding cost less than a grand, we’ve both worked hard in grown-up jobs since graduating and so on. Despite (or because of) this, neither of us has ever been good at day-to-day money. Fancy coffees on a Monday. Off to the pictures at the weekend. The BeneFit make-up counter when Maybelline would do. Etc.

Partly it’s a ‘sod it, we’ve earned it’ attitude, which is obviously ridiculous. I’m also slightly aware of the ‘mean Scot’ stereotype, and never want to seem stingy with my cash when among my mostly non-Scot friends.

ANYWAY. This month we’ve slipped into a kind of competitive frugality. It was never agreed, but suddenly we’re both ultra-tight with what we spend. It’s getting ridiculous.

‘It’s raining, shall we get the bus?’
‘NO! Let’s walk!’
‘Let’s have these noodles, they’re only £1!’
‘Let’s have THESE noodles, they’re only 28p!
‘Shall we buy a coffee this morning?’
‘NO, let’s just walk past and smell the shop.’
‘NO! Let’s just say the word ‘coffee’ over and over until we feel like we’ve had one!’
‘Let’s look at a photo of a coffee on the internet!’

Etc. I’ve no idea what’s prompted this; we don’t have any more or less money than usual. But I suppose it can’t be a bad thing. The (imaginary) Milkybars are on me!

Festive feasting

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-12-30T19:40:26+00:00
Why hello, I hope you had a wonderful Christmas!

I’ve got a full two weeks off work, and I’m very much enjoying the peace and quiet. After what’s been a rather stressful and fractious year, I was determined the boy and I would have a lovely Christmas Day, so spent the first week of my holiday cleaning, shopping and cooking so the day itself would be an easy peasy roast-the-turkey-and-heat-stuff-up affair.

These things never photograph well, but I can assure you it was delicious! For the food geeks among you, I did Jamie Oliver’s get-ahead gravy (amazing), Christmas butter (Christmassy), and the chestnut sprouts recipe from the December issue of his mag (sadly foiled by lack of sprouts – I had to use cabbage). I’m not really much of a cook, so I was pretty pleased with my Christmas dinner.

Because we’re big softies, we chose a turkey that’d had some kind of yuppie life, with massages and cooked breakfasts and holidays in the Algarve. That turkey had a better life than most humans. It’d only been roughly plucked, though, which meant I spent Christmas Eve with a pair of eyebrow tweezers and a stoic expression.

We also had gigantic slabs of The Cake. It’s very good, though oddly you can barely taste the half-bottle of brandy I poured in.

One thing I didn’t plan for was the death of our fridge-freezer late on Christmas Eve. Not a disaster, in the grand scheme of things, but I was a little bit heartbroken to see all my painstakingly prepared food starting to spoil and our breakfast prosecco getting warm and our ice cubes melting. We ferried everything out to the car boot and crossed our fingers that it wouldn’t freeze solid in the snowy night.

We’re getting the new fridge-freezer tomorrow, which after a week without one is terribly exciting. Chris has made a pile of ice cube trays and booze he’s planning to put in there as soon as is scientifically sensible. Hooray for cold drinks!

Tomorrow is also Hogmanay, which means I’ll get drunk too early, have a headache by midnight and fall asleep during Jools Holland’s Hootenanny. Tradition!

Whocap: Shark the herald angels sing

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-12-26T19:34:22+00:00

Contains spoilers for the Christmas 2010 episode of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Amy and Rory got married. The Doctor screwed around with time. God, I can’t remember, we’re talking about July. Loads of things have happened since then. You can find the old Whocaps here, or just have another snifter and click here to enjoy a lovely Christmassy romp. With sharks. Flying sharks.

Amy & Rory’s orbiting love boat of doom

CAPTAIN: Aie! The Love Boat is crashing in these turbulent atmospheric conditions.

POLICE! AMY: We have been enjoying some wholesome bedroom roleplay.

CENTURION! RORY: If I survive the next series it’ll be a chuffing miracle.

FIRST MATE: Captain, shall I remove these passengers from the bridge?

CAPTAIN: Nah, just let them fiddle with the controls and phone up their time-travelling Kwik Fit mate. Apparently he does cash-in-hand or something.

Planet of steampunk wonders

JUGGLER: Mary Cropsmos!

STALLHOLDER: Here’s a Babblemas troo!

LAMP POSTS: Fa la la la la!

CHEESEMONGER: Look, we’re bloody aliens, yeah?

Curmudgeon Heights

POOR DAD: Oh Mr Kazran, please let Welsh singing sensation Katherine Jenkins out of her time freeze debt box? Just for Christmas Eve?

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Humbug! I gave you the chance to consolidate all your debts into one easy-to-manage human icepop, and you should be ruddy grateful.

POOR MUM: But she’s my sister.

POOR KID: And you’re Dumbledore!

HENCHMAN: Sir, the president’s on the blower. He’s asking if you’ll turn down the clouds a bit with your magical sky-controlling gizmo. Otherwise there’s a whole crashing Love Boat full of people that’s going to put a serious downer on our Cryssalmops celebrations.

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Ah well.

DOCTOR: *falls down chimney* Hey guys. Santa’s first name is Jeff, by the way. Just thought I’d throw that in. Also, I’m loving this sky-controlling gizmo; let’s fix it so that the Love Boat can land safely, then we can all relax and play Boggle.

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Forget it, tweedy guy that I’m in no way surprised to see. I’m evil, you see. EVIL.

POOR KID: *rock fling*

ROCK: *head smash*

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Ow! Get out before I slap you like a rump steak, you filthy childthing!

DOCTOR: Violence is wrong, kids. But costume roleplay between consenting adults is normal and natural.

KATHERINE JENKINS: *is frozen*

Amy & Rory’s crashing love boat of doom

AMY: Doctor! So are you going to use that special sky machine to fix this mess or what?

DOCTOR (on phone): Probably. But not just yet.

RORY: Brilliant. Also, my armour has nipples.

Planet of steampunk wonders

POOR DAD: You must get inside, sir, the fish are coming.

DOCTOR: Fish. Okay.

LITTLE FISHIES: *swim around in the fog*

DOCTOR: OMG cute!

SHARKY SHADOW: *looms*

LAMP POSTS: *sing*

Curmudgeon Heights

Old Man Kazran snoozes in his chair by the fire. A black and white home movie begins to play, projected on to the wall opposite. Oooh!

OLD MAN KAZRAN: *snores*

YOUNG KAZRAN (in movie): Hey, merry Christmas! Check out my room. I’m totally going to film some super-secret fog fish tonight, it’s going to be epic.

DADDY GAMBON (in movie): *bursts in* Raaarrgh! No fish for you! Feel the back of my evil hand! *storms out*

OLD MAN KAZRAN: *splutters awake*

DOCTOR: *appears* Old man Kazran, this is your life! Keep watching the movie, I’m going to do some time travel that’ll blow your tiny mind. *disappears*

DOCTOR (in movie): *appears* See? Clever, eh?

YOUNG KAZRAN (in movie): Who are you?

DOCTOR (in movie): I’m your new babysitter. Remember kids, if a stranger appears in your room and claims to be your babysitter, that’s totally okay and should never be questioned. Let’s hide in the cupboard.

OLD MAN KAZRAN: I need a drink.

Cupboard of crap babysitting

YOUNG KAZRAN: So we’re hiding in here until we catch a fish with your sonic screwdriver bait?

DOCTOR: That’s the plan, yes. Hopefully that’ll cheer you up enough that you won’t doom several thousand people to death when you’re an old man.

YOUNG KAZRAN: Top plan.

DOCTOR: Crikey, we’ve caught something! Stay here while I investigate.

Curmudgeon Heights

Old man Kazran watches the action in the movie. He’s now wearing a bow tie like the Doctor’s. Cute!

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Doctor, nooo! I now remember that this ends in flailing toothy terror.

Cupboard of crap babysitting

FLYING SHARK: Raaaaargh, snap snap, etc.

YOUNG KAZRAN: Wah!

DOCTOR: Don’t worry, I’ll just reach in to his cavernous mouth, fetch out my sonic screwdriver and we’ll be on our way.

SHARK: Gnash!

Curmudgeon Heights of Old, rooftop

DOCTOR: I can’t believe I only retrieved half of the sonic screwdriver.

VIEWERS: And escaped a crazy flying shark without injury.

YOUNG KAZRAN: Doctor, I think the shark’s done for. Can’t we help it get back into the clouds where, apparently, it lives?

SHARK: Gasp. Wheeze.

DOCTOR: Well yes, but we’re going to need some kind of icy, life-preserving transportation.

YOUNG KAZRAN: To the basement!

Basement of frosty love

DOCTOR: God almighty, look at all these people in time freeze debt boxes. Isn’t that Welsh singing sensation Katherine Jenkins?

YOUNG KAZRAN: Yep. Her family offered her up in exchange for a bit of hard cash and a stunning gold-effect carriage clock. Now let’s bust her out of there for ten minutes and use her time freeze debt box to pop the shark back up into the atmosphere.

DOCTOR: Excellent idea. Say, is it getting a bit... sharky around here?

SHARK: Snarl! Snap snap!

DOCTOR and YOUNG KAZRAN: *run like billy-o*

K.JENKS (singing): Oh, when Santa got stuck up the chimney he began to shout, you girls and boys won’t get any toys if you don’t let me out!

SHARK: Zzzzzzzzzzz

YOUNG KAZRAN: WTF? Her singing calms the shark!

K.JENKS (singing): My beard is black, there’s soot in my sack, my nose is tickly too – EVERYBODY!

DOCTOR: Wow, what a talent. Quick, get the shark into the box and pile into the TARDIS. You too, Katherine Jenkins!

K.JENKS: Achoo achoo achoo!

Curmudgeon Heights

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Hey, I now have a portrait of Katherine Jenkins. And a box of amazin’ old photos. Time travel is magic!

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: Here we are in the cloudy, fishy skies of this madcap planet. Let’s set that adorable man-eater free! Insert misogynist joke here.

SHARK: *flies away*

Basement of frosty love

DOCTOR: Right, Katherine Jenkins, get back in your box. Which I can’t help but notice has an ominous descending counter on the front.

K.JENKS: No problem. Will I ever see you again?

DOCTOR: Well, yeah, maybe. I’m not sure. I’m getting my hair cut next week, so I’ll have to –

YOUNG KAZRAN: Yes! We will definitely visit you every Christmas Eve from now until I’m a grown man.

DOCTOR: Arse.

Basement of frosty love, one year later

DOCTOR and YOUNG KAZRAN: Merry Christmas!

K.JENKS: Hooray!

DOCTOR: Let us ride through the sky in a traditional shark-drawn carriage!

YOUNG KAZRAN: W00t!

BRASS SECTION: *joyous oompah*

Curmudgeon Heights

OLD MAN KAZRAN: All these new memories. All these photos. I wonder how much I’d get for them on eBay.

Montage: Basement of frosty love through the ages

The Doctor and Young Kazran return to K.Jenks’ time box every Christmas Eve and have wondrous adventures with fezzes and stuff. Katherine Jenkins is surprisingly calm about the fact that years are flying by in seconds from her perspective. The ominous descending counter counts down, ominously.

Basement of frosty love, some years later

FOXY ADULT KAZRAN: Merry Christmas!

K.JENKS: Rowr!

DOCTOR: Where shall we go this year?

K.JENKS: Let’s go and visit my poor family, who I’ve inexplicably never thought of visiting before now.

DOCTOR: Huh. Buzzkill.

Dickensian hovel

POOR DAD: Come in, come in! Sprouts?

POOR MUM: Screw you, Katherine Jenkins, why have you waited this long to come and visit us?

K.JENKS: To be fair, you sold me to an evil megalomaniac for a few quid. I’m slightly bitter. Or I would be if I had emotions other than ‘mournful’ and ‘singing’.

DOCTOR: I shall steal this scene with card trick hilarity!

CARD TRICK: *is hilarious*

Basement of frosty love

K.JENKS: Best Christmas Eve ever.

DOCTOR: I’ve totally forgotten about Amy and Rory.

VIEWERS: So have we. Do card tricks again!

K.JENKS and FOXY ADULT KAZRAN: *snog*

CHOIR: OooOOOOoooooOOOH etc.

Curmudgeon Heights

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Wow, looking at all these photos of memories is almost as good as actually having been there. Except I was there. Another version of me is there now. Oh god, I don’t know anymore. Being Dumbledore was never this complicated.

1950s Hollywood

DOCTOR: I have to marry Marilyn Monroe despite my ambiguous sexuality.

K.JENKS: And I’m totally dying, by the way.

FOXY ADULT KAZRAN: :(

Basement of frosty love

FOXY ADULT KAZRAN: Get back in the box, Katherine Jenkins. We’ll figure something out. Probably. *cries*

K.JENKS: *cries*

DOCTOR: Chin up!

FOXY ADULT KAZRAN: Sod off, Doctor. Your tie is stupid.

DOCTOR: This doesn’t bode well for the Love Boat.

Curmudgeon Heights

OLD MAN KAZRAN (into phone): Look, I don’t care about the Love Boat. If I can’t have a Welsh singing sensation, then everyone else can be smushed into stroganoff for all I care. *hangs up*

HOLOGRAM! AMY: *appears* Howdy! Check out my stems.

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Hell’s teeth, who are you?

HOLOGRAM! AMY: Listen, it’s the sound of the dying Love Boat passengers.

LOVE BOAT PASSENGERS (singing): Well I wish it could be Christmas every daaaaay! When the sharks start swimmin’ and the squid begin to plaaay...

OLD MAN KAZRAN: It’s... haunting. But if you think I’m going to save that spaceship, you’re out of your tree, lady. I was perfectly happy being a curmudgeon until the Doctor made me love poor, frosty Katherine Jenkins. And now I can’t let her out of her time freeze debt box or she’ll die within hours.

HOLOGRAM! AMY: Oh. Bummer. Rory, widen the holobeam! Show Old Man Kazran what it’s like on the Love Boat.

Amy & Rory’s crashing love boat of doom, hologram edition

LOVE BOAT: *wobbles and explodes a bit*

CREW: *run around*

CENTURION! RORY: I’m allowed to press buttons on this spaceship despite having no aeronautical qualifications.

CAPTAIN: Fix this, quick, or we’re going to die a horrible, unChristmassy death.

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Is that a word?

Basement of frosty love

DOCTOR: Old Man Kazran, I’m so sorry about K.Jenks, but there are plenty of other Welsh singing sensations in the sea. What about Charlotte Church, for example. Or Duffy?

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Forget it! I’m a broken man. Broken!

DOCTOR: But look, here’s Young Kazran. Remember him? What’s he going to think of you?

YOUNG KAZRAN: *emerges from TARDIS* Um... dad?

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Why you little – *raises fist*

YOUNG KAZRAN: *winces*

OLD MAN KAZRAN: *cries* What have I become?

Curmudgeon Heights

DOCTOR: Quick, fix the magical sky-controlling gizmo!

OLD MAN KAZRAN: I can’t get it to work, for plot reasons I can’t be bothered to go into at this time.

DOCTOR: Oh dear. Right, we need to transmit Katherine Jenkins’ voice into the cloud layer via the half of my sonic screwdriver that’s still inside that flying shark. Who I’m sure is still swimming after all these decades.

YOUNG KAZRAN: But she’s dying! Why can’t we just sing ourselves?

DOCTOR: No, that is for some reason impossible. K.Jenks must die!

Basement of frosty love

OLD MAN KAZRAN: Oh, hey Katherine Jenkins.

K.JENKS: Wow. You’re much less foxy now.

OLD MAN KAZRAN: On the upside, I am Dumbledore.

Amy & Rory’s crashing love boat of doom

CAPTAIN: We’re doomed!

POLICE! AMY: But wait, what’s that sound?

Planet of steampunk wonders

K.JENKS (singing): Step into Christmas! Let’s join together!

DOCTOR: It’s working. The ice crystals in the sky are settling in response to K.Jenks’ angelic tones.

VIEWERS: Okay.

YOUNG KAZRAN: And it’s totally snowing!

EVERYONE: Hooray!

Amy & Rory’s no longer crashing love boat of, er, love

POLICE! AMY and CENTURION! RORY: *hair kiss*

Planet of steampunk wonders

Young Kazran has been returned to his own time in the TARDIS. The Doctor appears to be making out with a snowman.

POLICE! AMY: We’re back! Look, Rory is going to give you a cute man-punch.

CENTURION! RORY: *cute man-punch*

DOCTOR: Right, everyone back in the TARDIS.

POLICE! AMY: But what about Kazran and Katherine Jenkins?

DOCTOR: Yeah, she’s pretty much going to die now, but don’t worry about that; our next series looks bloody brilliant.

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★
Ah, lovely festive fun! I always enjoy stories where the Doctor breezes through a lifetime in minutes, and this was a perfect example. Not as silly as some of the other Christmas specials, and lots of funny dialogue to enjoy. Bravo!

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★
The specials always necessarily exist a little bit outside the canon, both in flavour and story arc, yet while the thing I found most exciting about this episode was the taster trailer for next season – “…twelve Jammie Dodgers and fez!” – it was nevertheless a lorra lorra laffs. And Gambon’s give-it-all-you-got, Carrie-Fisher-smacked-off-her-tits-believing-it-all-to-be-real performance was aces.

All-new decade

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-12-10T19:52:47+00:00
I was born in 1980, which I’ve always liked – I reckon when I’m ancient, it’ll be easy to work out how old I am.

Anyway, the point is that I recently turned 30, huzzah!

All year there have been vague plans for a fabulous party to mark the occasion, but due to mine and Chris’ crazy deadlines of late, it just wasn’t going to happen. Happily, though, I work with a bunch of lovely people who go out of their way to make a massive fuss over birthdays. Check it out:

Cakemaster and all-round domestic goddess Angela made this amazing three-tier tower of monster cupcakes. Each one is different, with features made of Smarties, marshmallows, chocolate buttons and other deliciousness. Raaarrr!

Mega editor Jenny crafted a flock of tinfoil birds, while Lu made tiny bunting for their beaks. Hello!

There were also the pinkest flowers in town! Then we went out to lunch where there were fab presents and handmade cards and just a massive, head-swelling fuss.

Thank you to everyone who sent lovely presents and cards, you are obviously GREAT.

Next, Christmas! Have a very merry one, you gorgeous peeps. See you on the other side. x

Snow & cakes

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-11-28T16:54:27+00:00
Winter wonderland
I say a lot of horrid things about our flat, but I really can’t fault the views from the living room windows. Today the garden and the trees are all covered in snow and it’s just lovely. I haven’t taken a photo, though; you’ll just have to imagine it.

In honour of the snow, I was allowed to open my birthday present a few days early. It’s a king-sized, dual-control electric blanket and it’s one of my favourite presents ever. Yesterday I cranked it up to its maximum heat setting and let myself cook like a cinema hotdog. Delicious.

Cake care & feeding
I can’t believe I haven’t told you about The Cake. Back in October, my colleague Angela told me that she was preparing to make her Christmas cake, explaining that was important to let it mature and to feed it brandy for a while before before Christmas. I didn’t know anything about cake-making, but I was very interested in Angela’s words of cakey wisdom.

The next day, because Angela is awesome, she brought me a large tupperware container filled with her leftover ingredients, a small cake tin and a printed recipe. A cake kit! So I whipped up my first ever Christmas cake, filled with brandy-soaked fruit, brown sugar, treacle and spices. Mmm!

When it was done, I wrapped it up and hid it under the table. Every couple of weeks, the boy and I open it up, spoon over some brandy, then pack it away again. It smells incredible! I suspect one slice will put us over the drink-drive limit, and two in quick succession will possibly render us unconscious, but – hey! – it’s for Christmas! I’ll post a pic when it’s finally decorated.

Everyone bake a cake! You won’t regret it.

Quiet weekend

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-11-14T15:48:18+00:00
Hooray, the boy’s magazine has gone to press and we’ve managed to have a relaxing weekend for the first time in three months. It’s currently 3.42pm and I’m still sitting in pyjamas.

Last Tuesday my dad came to Bristol for a flying visit and said he enjoyed my last twenties tale, so here’s another one for your entertainment. It’s less amusing than the previous one, but what do you want from me, hm? Vultures.

Tales from my Twenties: The Government Reception

Now, some of you may find this hard to believe, but in my teaching days I was considered something of a tip-top, on-the-ball, educatin’ whizkid. Being both freakishly young and reasonably versed in current pedagogical thinking, it was decided that I would represent our school at a government reception during which a white paper would be released into the wild.

So my name was passed on to whoever-the-hell organises government receptions, presumably my entire backstory was crosschecked until they located my tonsils in an Aberdeen childrens’ ward, and eventually I received the fanciest invitation I’ve ever seen. At the very bottom of the invitation, there was some information about the dress code; I only remember that the men’s dress code was of the straightforward ‘wear a suit’ variety, and the women’s was very confusing, to the point that I bought and returned about five outfits before finally begging an Oasis shop assistant to pick something out and sell it to me.

Anyway, the day came. I stood on Piccadilly in the drizzle and wolfed down a Costa sandwich, then checked my teeth in a shop window and clippy-clopped towards Lancaster House.

Lancaster House is a house in the same way Ben Nevis is a hill. It’s a gigantic, ornate mansion that has stood in for Buckingham Palace in various flouncy costume dramas. Apparently it’s got rather a grand facade, but I never saw it; I had been instructed to approach it from the back, on foot, and report to the police checkpoint for my invitation and passport to be checked. The police were rather twinkly and friendly, quickly waving me toward the glossy black door. There was no one else around, but I am freakishly punctual and quite used to being the first person at parties.

The door opened as I walked towards it, revealing a smartly-dressed doorman and a magnificent hallway. There aren’t many pictures of the interior of Lancaster House, but this painting is a pretty accurate representation.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Good evening,’ said the doorman, ‘The cloakrooms are on the right.’

‘Excellent, thank you.’ As far as I was concerned, a cloakroom was a place to leave your coat. Or cloak, if you prefer. I hadn’t brought a coat, but figured if a trip to the cloakroom was the done thing, then I’d better go there. Maybe I could drop off my handbag.

Dear readers I’m sure you already know this, but if you find yourself in a schmancy, non-school context, ‘cloakrooms’ means ‘toilets’. Rather than make the doorman think I was a total oddball, I had to stand in the ladies’ lavatories for five minutes, staring at the mirror until an appropriate amount of time had passed to go back into the hallway.

Anyway, I was soon surrounded by very excitable middle-aged ladies and a few grumpy, politically-charged men. We were seated in a room with TV cameras before the Education Secretary hustled in, made a bafflingly opaque speech, fielded a few questions and hustled out again. It was over in minutes.

Afterwards, there was a champagne reception with finger food where the MPs and teachers could mingle and discuss education policy. Now, I like a glass of champagne as much as the next person, but when I’m in work-mode, talking to government officials and surrounded by cameras, I’d rather just have a glass of water, thanks. Not so for many of the other guests. They threw back glasses of wine, ate scallop after scallop, dropped pancetta down their blouses and generally had a grand old time.

I was cornered by an MP I’d never heard of, but he was content to talk at length about his various media projects while I nodded and fended off the scallops. After a while, when the champagne drinkers started to get giggly and the politically-charged guys started to get argumentative, I slipped out of a side door, past the police checkpoint and on to a night bus back to New Cross.

No moral, but possibly a few etiquette lessons in that one. Cloakrooms are sometimes toilets. MPs provide their own small talk. Scallops are not finger food.

Namedropper

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-11-07T19:59:28+00:00
Tap!
At long flipping last, I’m allowed to talk about the boy’s new job. He’s launching a new magazine for iOS devices, and it’s going to be rockingly awesome. I’m very proud of him. Look out for the first issue of Tap! Then insist that all of your iPod/iPhone/iPad-owning friends buy it by the armful. They’ll thank you for it.

Friday night Fry
We both had fun saying hello to Stephen Fry at his book event here in Bath. We asked him to sign our book to ‘The Phins’ and he said, in a delightfully Fryesque way, ‘Well, I hope the Phins enjoy it, every one of them.’

The book is excellent, by the way, but do make sure you read this one first. I think it’s even better.

Divine
As far as I’m concerned, Saturday nights are for staying in, wearing pyjamas and drinking sparkling alcoholic drinks. Now and then, however, I can be lured out by something exciting like the Neil Hannon gig in Bristol yesterday.

As a rule, I hate gigs. Especially standing ones. They’re hot and you get jostled and, when you’re 5’3, you can see almost nothing. But this was fantastic; witty and indulgent and up-close. Go and see The Divine Comedy if you get the chance, you won’t regret it.

This is the only photo the boy took; the empty stage from the back of the room. Atmospheric!

Tales from my Twenties
My lack of interesting things to talk about recently has been a bit depressing, so in the run up to my birthday I’ve decided to fill the rest of November with some Tales from my Twenties. I can’t promise they’ll be interesting, but at least they’ll be here for posterity when I’m old and forgetful.

Let’s go! This one’s a bit namedrop-tastic, but we’ve already had a Stephen Fry encounter, so let’s just make that the theme of this post:

Tales from my Twenties: HMV
When I first moved to London, I applied for a postgraduate teaching course that started in September, but needed a job to pay the rent in the meantime. Despite my wobbly grasp of classical music, I secured a full-time job in the classics department of HMV Oxford Circus, which turned out to be one of the best and maddest jobs I have ever held.

The classics staff were mostly graduates from elite music schools who could play entire Bach sonatas from memory and formed string quartets in their spare time. One of the till girls used to double her weekly salary by busking with her cello on Bankside each Sunday.

Both better and more frightening than the staff were the customers, who divided into Celebrity and Quite Mad (never both, surprisingly). Due to the store’s proximity to Broadcasting House, I had to learn to act casual when faced with BBC legends and other niche telly people, and I was TERRIBLE at it. I just stared blushingly at the till as I served John Peel, Paul Merton, John Suchet, Ben Miller and lots of other people I’d grown up watching and listening to. If I had to interact with them I went to pieces – my brain’s survival mechanism has now blocked out the most humiliating episodes, but I still have flashbacks of having to perform a random credit card check on Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio. At one point, Madonna came in to do an in-store gig. I stood within spitting distance of her, she a millionaire rapping badly about lattes, me a minimum wage earner wearing a polyester polo shirt, and pondered idly the events that had brought us to the same place.

The Quite Mad customers were (and possibly still are) famous in their own right within the store. There was a lady who came in almost daily with a cat perched on her shoulders. A well-spoken gent who always wanted the earliest music he could find; having exhausted our range of medieval music groups, he asked if we had any prehistoric recordings – not contemporary imaginings of prehistoric music, you understand, but recordings of music made in prehistoric times. Quite mad.

My favourite customer was a very elderly gentleman who dearly wanted to buy a very specific 1940s recording of a particular classical piece. A few of us turned the store upside down looking for it, grumbling all the while about all the work the fussy old duffer was causing us. Of course, when the CD turned up, the cover showed a black and white still from the recording showing the man himself conducting the orchestra. He was the JR Hartley of the classical world! I wish I could remember his name.

Here ends my tale of working in HMV. There is no moral other than this: if you want to work in a shop, work in HMV. Everyone is clever, crazy or famed, and you get a good staff discount too.

I'll get my coat

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-09-11T08:07:54+01:00
It is September! Perhaps one day I’ll stop starting all my posts by announcing the month, but let’s not hold our collective breath. Here are just a few of my frankly dazzling thoughts:

Old
I know intellectually that I’m in no way old. But that doesn’t stop me from dyeing my grey hair, wearing glasses so strong they’d give a normal person x-ray vision, and confusing younger people in pubs by referencing Gordon the Gopher and Bertha*.

Lentils
I don’t usually cook lentils, but I made this for the boy last weekend and it was delicious. The salsa’s a bit of a faff, but if you make loads, you can freeze a bit to heat up next time. Old-person tip!

Time off
I’m hotly anticipating my week-off later this month. Chris is too busy to join me, sadly, but I plan to decorate the spare room, sew shoddy dresses and visit Bristol. We moved to Bath in 2007 and so far have had zero desire to visit Bristol, despite being only 15 minutes away by train. We tend to go to London for shopping expeditions and stay in Bath for culinary adventures, but I feel we’ve neglected poor Bristol. If anyone has any top recommendations for what a skint lone woman can do in Bristol, let me know.

That’s it! Have a cosy, crispy September weekend, you lovely people.

*Peroni-fuelled synopsis: ‘Bertha was a big factory machine. She could make anything, and it came out of her mouth.’ That was a weird show, am I right?

The long and winding post

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-08-15T12:02:51+01:00
Lots of things! You don’t have to read them, though. Why not take this opportunity to catch up on your knitting, or take the rubbish out? I won’t hold it against you.

Tedious weekend rundown

Last weekend was a little bit bonkers, in that I was shocked at how much you can cram into two days if you really try.

On Saturday we went with aunties Sheila and Isla to celebrate my cousin Alis’ 14th birthday. We all went to Crockadoodledo and painted bowls and mugs and teapots and a dish for Alis’ new puppy. The gentle people of Crockadoodledo were very friendly when faced with a party of whooping Scottish ladies (and Chris) and had no problem with us eating cakes, blowing out candles and stealing paint pots from other tables.

That evening, we went to The Coachmakers in London, where Jamie had turned 30, put on a waistcoat and ordered a number of beverages. We gave him a large model of a Rancor fighting Luke Skywalker, which seemed insane when we were on the Tube but made perfect sense when every bloke in the pub went ‘OOOH’.

As we hadn’t eaten since breakfast, we left Jim’s party at a scandalously-early 10pm and went in search of food. WITH EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WHOLE OF LONDON. Ed’s Diner was jumpin’ but we managed to get a seat and ordered burgers and fries and onion rings and massive Cokes. This is the manic face of a woman who’s been up for 16 hours and just walked several miles in heels.

I really wanted one of those boozy milkshakes, but feared it would tip me over the edge.

Thanks to the Last Minute Secret Hotels thingy, we ended up staying at the Park Lane Hotel for cheap. The room was teensy and quite basic, but the hotel itself is in an ace location on Piccadilly, and has the lovely Palm Court, a proper 1920s Art Deco bar. Sunday was our 5th wedding anniversary, so we went down early-afternoon and ordered cocktails; the shakey-shakey and buzzy-blending of which may have destroyed the tranquil afternoon teas of many American tourists. SORRY TOURISTS. Here’s the boy, looking like a man who’s just spent ten years living with a woman who can’t operate her own television. Happy anniversary!

After that we walked for miles and went to see the BP Portrait Award exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, which is excellent. And free! Go and see it, I promise you’ll come away inspired.

Accepting being the crazy lady

Cope’s recent post is a good illustration of my current renown among friends and colleagues for being something of a feminist killjoy. Poor Cope has been accused several times of sexism-by-blogpost and Chris’ editor Graham delights in goading me from time to time with talk of pink iPods and the like.

It’s difficult; I was raised to be polite and try my best to be respectful of different views, even if I don’t agree with them. When I was a teacher, though, my headmaster knocked an interesting message into my skull: ‘By ignoring it, you’re condoning it.’ He was actually talking about violations of the uniform rules at the time, but it really stuck with me.

Until about a year ago, the only thing I’d stick my neck out for, conversationally, was racism. On any other disagreeable matter I’d sit tight-lipped and seething until the moment passed.

Then I met a guy who was casually homophobic in everyday conversation. The first few times, I just coughed and turned away when he made outrageously sweeping generalisations or jokes about our gay acquaintances, but then my old headmaster’s words started to haunt me. By ignoring it, I was condoning it. This guy thought that I agreed with him. He thought his point of view was acceptable. The next time it happened, I told him to shut the fuck up. I may even have mused aloud on why exactly he was so obsessed with gay men. It’s possible that my voice was slightly raised to embarrass him in public. Either way, he never raised the issue of sexual preference with me again and it felt pretty good.

After that, I decided to speak up every time I heard a friend say anything socially antiquated and unacceptable. Thankfully, in my tiny Bath world, racism and homophobia only very rarely rear their heads, but frustratingly, sexism and misogyny are absolutely rife. And I just can’t let it pass.

I don’t hate men. I just want some men to stop talking about women as something other. I don’t hate women either. I just want some women to stop claiming pole dancing is empowering. Look here’s David Mitchell to lighten the tone!

Male or female, if you know you’re about to say something sexist, just don’t say it. You’re a relic.

More Holmes!

Okay, since Sherlock ended I’ve had to read a bunch of my old Conan Doyle books, and I’ve decided I want two things for the next series: more disguises and Irene Adler. Let’s make it happen, internet.

That’s it. Next weekend we are headed to beautiful Dorset for the Wedding of the Year! Expect photos. And cake.

Unfunny August things

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-08-04T21:16:47+01:00
Things here on the Ribble have been very quiet of late, mainly because I’ve been ploughing all my blogging energies into the PaperCraft inspirations blog. Look, you can watch our little iPhone video and everything! Here’s the rest of my August news:

Birthdays
It’s been a bonkers summer of birthdays; my grandma was 80, Linda turned 60, Jim’s about to be 30 and Alis is a shocking 14. Consequently I’ve spent a spectacular number of weekends catching flights and eating cake, like lottery winner gone rogue.

Sherlock
A few people have emailed and Tweeted to ask what I think of the latest Sherlock series and if there will be a Sherlock-cap (or a Caps-lock, as Brennan suggested in a moment of genius).

I must confess that as a big fan of the Conan Doyle stories, I was a bit concerned about the idea of a modern day adaptation; you know, in case they had Holmes ride a scooter or dance at a nightclub or something else insanely out of character. But OF COURSE I needn’t have worried!

There have been two episodes so far and they’ve been ace. I love the Baker Street flat and Holmes’ droll voice and the deep-into-London locations. Modern stuff that could’ve been cheesy, like the texting and emails, seem quite alright for a character that craves speedy logic.

Weirdly, the only bits that make me wince are the things that veer too knowingly to the source – the ‘three-patch problem’ was a clanger, for example.

So yeah, I’m a bit too late for Sherlock-caps, but maybe that would be fun if there’s a Christmas special or something.

Anniversary
It’s our anniversary this weekend, can you believe it’s a whopping five years since my ‘holy shit, we got married’ blog post? I might dig it out of the archives, just for fun.

Awe bleteþ after lomb

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-07-13T20:38:16+01:00
Oh look, it’s July! My month has mainly been consumed by childhood flashbacks:

My friend John
One of those lovely Facebook things happened; I suddenly made contact with my friend John from school. How delightful! John remembers how my mum used to insist on offering him loads of food when he came to the house, and that one of our teachers used to pay us a fiver to hoover his car on Friday afternoons. We both remember that the car stank of tobacco, and once we found a bunch of flowers in the boot. I don’t know if John remembers that it was a red Henry hoover*, or that we had to plug it in through the nursery window and loads of cranky post-nap toddlers would watch our car-hoovering antics.

*Bloody hell, I’ve discovered there’s a whole family of Henry hoovers! Truly there was never a happier ending to a Facebook reunion story.

Upping and Downing
As of next weekend, I’ll have seen my parents a record three times in two months. I don’t think I saw them this much when I was actually living with them.

Sing cuccu!
My brain has selected Sumer Is Icumen In as a kind of aural screensaver. We had to learn this in primary school, which in retrospect was a conspicuously English song for a Gaelic-teaching Highland classroom, but whatever. I worry about the people on the bus who find themselves sitting too close to a woman humming the song from The Wicker Man under her breath. Sorry, bus peeps!

Rejoice! It's the Whocap master list

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-07-10T14:46:41+01:00
By popular request, here’s the final Whocap master list for super-quick searching:

1 The Eleventh Hour
2 The Beast Below
3 Victory of the Daleks*
4 The Time of Angels
5 Flesh and Stone
6 The Vampires of Venice
7 Amy’s Choice**
8 The Hungry Earth
9 Cold Blood
10 Vincent and the Doctor
11 The Lodger***
12 The Pandorica Opens
13 The Big Bang
Christmas 2010: A Christmas Carol

*Most popular Whocap, with bonus hilarious comments thread
**No Whocap for this episode
***Least popular Whocap, but cool guest verdict from my dad

Whocap 13: Caught by the fez

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-06-26T20:20:06+01:00

Contains spoilers for the current series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Rory got shot by a lizard lady, Amy got shot by a robot Rory, the Doctor was locked in the Pandorica prison cube and River Song was locked in the exploding TARDIS. It was all terribly exciting. Catch up now with episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 11 and 12. Episode 7 is sadly The Lost Whocap, but you can still watch it online if you like. Do it!

Young Amy’s house, night

Hey, it’s young Amelia again, hooray! She’s praying by her bed – hang on, we’ve seen this bit.

AMELIA: Dear Santa, please make scary bedroom whispers go away, kthxbai.

TARDIS: *doesn’t crash outside*

AMELIA: *runs to window with the same 1980s torch that my family had when I was growing up*

TARDIS: *isn’t there*

AMELIA: Screw you, Santa. And those pencils were rubbish.

Young Amy’s living room

PSYCHIATRIST: This painting is lovely and everything, but I’m concerned about these mad pointy things in the sky.

AMELIA’S AUNT: Hi, I really do exist! But Amelia, there are no such things as stars. And this psychiatrist is making a special after-hours house call, so it’d be great if you could stop acting all crazy and start wearing shoes instead of wellingtons.

AMELIA: You are both idiots.

Young Amy’s hallway

AMELIA: Aunt? Can we go and visit The National Museum tomorrow? A shadowy figure has just dropped a leaflet through the door with ‘come on Pond’ written on it.

AUNT: What? With your recent mental turmoil? Sure thing!

The National Museum, day

Amelia and her aunt rock up to the museum, Amelia running past an exhibit of – wah! – stone-like Daleks to the Pandorica.

AMELIA: Well this is something of an anticlimax. I guess I’ll just slurp this sugary drink near these priceless exhibits until something happens.

Amelia’s drink is snatched from her hands, and suddenly there’s a Post-It note on the Pandorica. It says ‘stick around, Pond’. Yes, just hang around without your legal guardian for a few hours, possibly while spilling a Slush Puppie on a sarcophagus. What sort of a museum is this?

AMELIA’S AUNT: Amelia, where are you? Oh god, I’ve lost her. *shrugs* Ah well.

The National Museum, night

STUFFED POLAR BEAR: *looms*

STONE-LIKE DALEK: *stares*

AMELIA: *touches the pandorica*

PANDORICA: *opens*

ADULT AMY: Hello! No one really understands anything that happens in this episode, so just relax and enjoy the fez.

CREDITS – STILL GROOVY, BY THE WAY

Stonehenge, 2 AD

RORY: We really must catch up, it’s been literally ages.

AMY’S CORPSE: ...

RORY: I suppose that now the universe is ending, neither of us will ever have been born and thus I won’t have brutally murdered you with my surprise fingergun.

FUTURE DOCTOR: *appears* Rory! I am wearing a fez and carrying a mop. It’s all going to be okay, she’s not dead! *disappears*

RORY: Okay.

FUTURE DOCTOR: *reappears* Take my sonic screwdriver and get the present-Doctor out of the Pandorica. *disappears*

RORY: Right.

FUTURE DOCTOR: *reappears* Oh, and when you’re done, leave my screwdriver in her top pocket otherwise I’ll be stuck without it in the future.

RORY: I need a drink.

The Underhenge

PANDORICA: *opens surprisingly easily*

DOCTOR: Well done Rory! Not so well done on the whole almost-slaughtering-your-girlfriend thing, but well done on everything else.

RORY: So is Amy dead or what?

DOCTOR: No, she’s only a bit dead. Handily, the Pandorica keeps its prisoners in perpetual limbo by never allowing them to die, thus we can put Amy in the Pandorica, wait 2000 years until she’s actually born, then somehow get the young Amy to leave her DNA on the Pandorica and it will restore the grown-up Amy to full health. Meanwhile, we’ll zip forward in time using River’s time vortex and meet both Amys at the other end, mmmkay?

RORY: Riiight. I’m having some concerns about the timescale of this plan. 2000 years seems like something of a long time to leave my half-dead girlfriend unattended in a box. I think I’ll stay here and guard her, being as I am an everlasting robot centurion now.

VIEWERS: Seriously?

RORY: Yup.

The National Museum, night

AMY: Phew! Thanks for rescuing me, um, small girl I’ve never seen before in my life. I’m just going to chillax here on the floor until the Doctor turns up.

AMELIA: Why don’t we admire this educational wall display about the history of the Pandorica?

AMY: Wow. Apparently I’ve been ‘raided by the Franks’.

AUDIOGUIDE: Of course, the Pandorica was guarded throughout history by a lone centurion with a really cool trigger finger. No one’s seen him since the Second World War, though, which seems like a cruelly recent time for Rory to cop it.

AMY: *eyeroll*

STONE-LIKE DALEK: EXTERMINATE! I AM A PROPER DALEK NOW!

AMELIA and AMY: Eep.

DOCTOR: *appears* Hey guys, what’s up? I’ll just take a moment to express surprise that young Amelia is here, despite saying just moments ago that she would be. Oh look, a fez. *puts on fez* I suppose we’d better all run away.

MUSEUM GUARD: *is rory!* What’s all this ruckus?

DALEK: STAND ASIDE PUNY HUMAN.

RORY: *shoots dalek with fingergun*

AMY: Rory! Let us kiss with tongues!

DALEK: *prepares to fire*

EVERYONE: *runs away*

Museum corridor of confusing plot points

Amy, Amelia, Rory and the Doctor run into the corridor, Rory closing the doors on the pursuing Dalek, the Doctor grabbing a mop to shove through the handles.

RORY: Doctor! You were wearing a fez and carrying a mop when you appeared to me at the start of the episode.

DOCTOR: Excellent, I’d better use River’s time vortex to hop back in time now so that the you-of-the-past can rescue the me-of-the-past and we can all end up here. *disappears*

AMELIA: Ironically, I really will need to see a psychiatrist after this.

AMY: *pulls sonic screwdriver from her top pocket*

DOCTOR: *reappears and takes screwdriver* Thanks! I kind of wish I’d had one of these vortexes before, they’re ever so useful.

INJURED FUTURE DOCTOR: *appears and collapses*

DOCTOR: Well this puts something of a damper on things.

INJURED FUTURE DOCTOR: *dies*

VIEWERS: He’ll regenerate, though, right?

DOCTOR: No, he’s pretty much dead. Also, you may notice that Amelia has blinked out of existence.

AMY: So why am I still here?

ME: I’ve watched this twice and I still have no idea.

Museum roof

Rory, Amy and the Doctor are on their own in a weird half-light. Where the sun should be, there’s a massive explosion in the sky.

DOCTOR: Okay, so if you listen to the audio I’m picking up on this satellite dish, you’ll hear the looping voice of Dr River Song, sassy adventurer, poisoner of innocent guards, troubled surgeon and my possible future-wife.

AMY: What, she’s been stuck in the exploding TARDIS for 2000 years?

DOCTOR: Yeah, I know. I’ll just get her. *disappears*

AMY: I’ve just noticed I’ve got my fantastic boots on again. Wow, if I were a husband with a wife approaching a big-ticket birthday, I’d totally investigate buying a pair of these. Cough.

DOCTOR: *reappears with river*

RIVER: That fez will not stand. *kills fez*

DOCTOR: :(

DALEK: SURPRISE!

EVERYONE: *runs away*

Museum corridor of doom

DOCTOR: Alright everyone, basically I’m due to be killed by a Dalek in a few minutes, so let’s just run around frantically until then.

RORY: Okay. I was wondering, though, how that stone-like Dalek came back to life?

DOCTOR: So when the universe collapsed, the only thing not affected was the Pandorica, in which were trapped atoms from the universe as it was before. And those can somehow bring things back to life. So the light that came out of the Pandorica touched the Dalek and it started zipping around and trying to kill everyone. Which means that if you could shine light from the Pandorica right across the universe, you could restore it to how it was before all this happened.

RORY: Is anyone understanding this?

VIEWERS: No.

RIVER: Let’s just refer to it as ‘Big Bang 2’ which is kind of cringe-making but only has three syllables.

DALEK: *shoots doctor* EXTERMINATE!

DOCTOR: *collapses*

RORY: *shoots dalek with fingergun*

DOCTOR: *presses time vortex button and disappears*

AMY: It’s okay, he’s just downstairs. We saw him die there, like, three scenes ago.

RIVER: Oh. In that case, you two go down there, I’ll stay here and make this Dalek beg for mercy like a big plungery bitch.

Museum corridor of confusing plot points

AMY: River! We’re having some problems locating the Doctor’s body.

RIVER: Ah. He’s probably not dead, then. To the Pandorica!

The Pandorica

The Doctor is slumped in the Pandorica’s chair. He’s wired the vortex manipulator to the Pandorica’s innards before passing out. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll regenerate in a minute. (Note: he won’t)

RIVER: As the Doctor is unconscious, it falls to me to explain bafflingly that the universe is still collapsing. See? The stuffed polar bear is gone! But if the Doctor flies the Pandorica into the exploding TARDIS, its light could reach everywhere in the universe and somehow put everything back how it’s supposed to be.

AMY: Sigh. I remember when all we had to worry about was giant eyeballs.

RIVER: Oh yes, I should add that everyone will be fine except the Doctor, who will blink out of existence. Pip pip.

DOCTOR: Amy, might I have a private word?

EVERYONE ELSE: *shuffles off awkwardly*

DOCTOR: Didn’t you ever wonder why you were living in that massive house all on your own with no parents?

VIEWERS: Yes.

AMY: *shrugs*

DOCTOR: I think it’s entirely possible your whole family were swallowed some years ago by the time crack in your bedroom wall. When this whole TARDIS/Pandorica explosion happens, you’ll probably wake up to find two adorable Scottish buffoons in your house; try not to be alarmed.

AMY: Are you new? Nothing alarms me.

PANDORICA DOORS: *close*

PANDORICA: *takes off*

DOCTOR: I might as well take this opportunity to send a jovial text message. Geronimo!

CGI sequence of great wonder

The Doctor flies the Pandorica up into the planet-sized explosion that surrounds the TARDIS. This causes, as predicted, an even more gigantic explosion. Ka-blammo! Whee, and then everything goes backwards for a bit. Bzzzrp. Vzzzrp. Etc.

TARDIS interior

The Doctor awakes to find himself on the floor of the TARDIS. Huzzah!

DOCTOR: Well this is a turn up for the books. I can’t help but notice, though, that I am actually back in time a bit. Look, there’s me-of-the-past and Amy-of-the-past preparing for our trip to space-Florida.

VIEWERS: Space-Florida?! Why did we never see this episode?

DOCTOR: This can only mean that the time cracks are closing, my timeline is rewinding and my history is erasing itself. Past-Amy, can you hear me?

PAST-AMY: *looks nonplussed*

Suburban street from a few episodes ago

DOCTOR: Oh look, this is when she put that note in the newsagent’s window for me. She’s helpful like that. Amy! Can you hear me yet?

PAST-AMY: *reacts vaguely*

Narnia

DOCTOR: Hooray, it’s the blinded Amy, I’ll be able to talk to her up close and she won’t suspect that I am an interloper from my own doomed future.

PAST-AMY: Doctor?

DOCTOR: Amy? Have a good think and see if you can remember the thing I’m about to tell you back when you were seven.

PAST-AMY: Fish custard?

Young Amy’s house, night

Amelia is in bed, asleep. Her deadbeat aunt is presumably down the arcade, swigging cider from the bottle.

DOCTOR: Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once. When you wake up, you’ll have no memory of me, but I’ll leave a clever trail of clues in order than I come screaming back into your head on your future wedding day, thus popping back into existence.

AMELIA: Zzzzz.

DOCTOR: Once upon a time an old man with crazy hair borrowed a blue box that was new and ancient at the same time. And then they all lived happily ever after. Night then! *disappears*

AMELIA: Zzzzz.

CRACK IN AMY’S WALL: *closes*

Grown-up Amy’s bedroom, morning

DOCTOR DOLLS: Morning everyone!

AMY’S MUM: Morning dear!

AMY: Mum? Hello! This is in no way weird.

AMY’S WEDDING DRESS: My day is finally here! *weeps*

Living room

AMY’S DAD: Morning Amelia. I am adorable!

AMY: This is great!

RORY: (on phone) And I’m not a robot anymore. Or dead!

Amy and Rory’s wedding reception

AMY’S DAD: Ladies and gentlemen, can I just say how lovely it is to see you all here today. And can I also add that I can’t believe we got through Amy and Rory’s wedding without the Doctor bursting into the room and shouting ‘I object!’ or the vicar turning into a Cyberman or anything like that. This must be the most drama-free social event in the history of Doctor Who. Additionally, my name is apparently Augustus Pond.

GUESTS: Cheers!

RIVER: *sashays past window*

AMY: Hang on.

RORY: Ah, here we go. My new wife is crying. Fantastic. Here Amy, take a gander at that mysterious woman’s old TARDIS-like diary, it’s sure to cheer you up.

AMY: I feel weird. That kid’s wearing a bow tie. And that guy’s wearing braces. I’m going to stand up and make a scene.

RORY: :(

AMY: Shut up everyone! Old, new, borrowed, blue? There’s someone missing. My imaginary friend!

AMY’S MUM: Oh god, I’m really sorry everyone. We hired the best psychiatrists money could buy but she’s still a mardy, gangly attention-seeker.

AMY: The Raggedy Doctor, I remember you! Come back this instant, and remember to wear a scandalously dashing outfit to make Rory look like a Moss Bros chump.

TARDIS: *appears*

RORY: Oh yeah! I’d forgotten about him, sorry.

DOCTOR: Hello everyone, I am not actually imaginary. Also, congratulations on your wedding. Lovely spread.

GUESTS: ...

Amy and Rory’s camp wedding disco

DOCTOR: *dances like a loon*

VIEWERS: Best scene ever?

AMY and RORY: *smooch*

TARDIS, exterior

DOCTOR: Damn, I can never find my keys.

RIVER: *appears* You look natty.

DOCTOR: River! Thanks. Oh, here’s your diary back. And your time vortex.

RIVER: Thanks.

DOCTOR: Incidentally, River, are we married in the future?

RIVER: Possibly. I’m not saying we’re not married. I’m also not saying that it’s improbable that I’ll turn out to be some kind of murderous villain later on. Toodles. *disappears*

DOCTOR: Well that clears things up.

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: I guess I’ll be off.

AMY: Hey, we’re coming with you!

RORY: I have no say in this matter.

DOCTOR: Sure. This will in no way be an awkward gooseberry-style situation.

PHONE: *rings*

DOCTOR: What? Orient Express? Egyptian goddess? Let’s go – the Christmas special’s going to be a blinder.

AMY: Bye everyone!

STEVEN MOFFAT: *bows*

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★
Okay, it was a bit silly in places and the plot was bewildering for much of the time, but this was a great ending to a great series. Can anyone else not quite believe they married off a companion, though?

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★
Doctor Who is always at its best when situations are solved without a deus ex machina, and this series has been particularly good at twisting the plot using only stuff that we know about already, such as switching the gravity back on in the angels episode, or even just realising that the Pandorica was built as a prison for the Dcotor. But while this episode’s plot wasn’t dependent on a deus ex machina, it didn’t have the elegance and grace of the first half. Ah, screw it; if only for “It’s a fez. I wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool.” and “I can buy a fez,” this was still a good episode. End of series episodes are usually silly or foolishly, strainingly perilous, and this was neither. And besides, though I’m still forlornly waving my Team Wilf flag, it looks like at least next series we may have a male companion as well as a female.

Did you enjoy this episode? What did you think of the series? Are you sold on the eleventh Doctor? Will bow ties ever be cool? Let me know in the comments!

And that’s the last Whocap of the series, folks. Join me next Saturday for a fun final fling!

Whocap 12: Big trouble in little Wiltshire

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-06-20T21:52:32+01:00

Contains spoilers for the current series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
The Doctor met orphan Amy as a child and helped her fix a time-sucking interdimensional crack in her bedroom wall. Twelve years later, Amy ran off with the Doctor on the eve of her wedding to gilet-wearing nurse Rory. It was all TARDIS-based fun and games until Rory got killed by a lizard-lady and erased from history by another scary time crack; the nation wept. Get clickety-clicking now to catch up with episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10 and 11.

France, 1890

Oh look, it’s Vincent van Gogh again! And is that the famed Dr Gachet? I’m going to say it is. Poor Vincent is screaming and writhing in bed while Gachet tries to calm him, the uptight Madame Vernet tutting over the noise.

VINCENT: Arrrrghh! I am tortured with visions! Tortured I say!

DR GACHET: Vincent, try to relax. Go to your happy place. Imagine you’re a leaf on the wind. Would you like some peppermint tea?

MADAME VERNET: Hmph. Look at this horrible painting he’s done, it’s giving me a migraine.

DR GACHET: *looks at painting in bewilderment*

VINCENT: *screams*

VIEWERS: Can we see the painting?

DR GACHET: Nope.

Cabinet War Rooms, 1941

BILL PATERSON: Yes, sir, it’s a genuine van Gogh. Our boys found it in France between being shot at and getting the crap bombed out of them.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: Well it doesn’t fit my War Rooms’ decor at all; I’m going for more of a map theme. What should we do with it?

BILL PATERSON: I reckon we’re supposed to deliver it.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: Good idea! Also, nice glove; you really seem to be rocking the whole half-dalek look.

Futuristic prison that I’m sure was also the giant under-Thames spider lair a few years back, 5145

PHONE: *rings*

JITTERY GUARD: *answers* Hello, you have reached a nightmarish vision of the future, how may I help you? What? Doctor what? We’ve got River Song here, she was a doctor in ER. Or was she a surgeon? Either way, we’ve had to lock her up for first degree SASSY.

RIVER: (behind bars) Give me that phone. And check out my bangin’ bod this instant! I’m pushing fifty, you know.

JITTERY GUARD: Er, okay. *hands phone to river*

RIVER: (on phone) Winnie!

WINSTON CHURCHILL: (on phone) I’m trying to call the TARDIS, what’s going on?

RIVER: (on phone) The TARDIS has re-routed your call for reasons that are fuzzy. Explain in a nanosecond what’s up.

JITTERY GUARD: Give me my phone back already.

RIVER: *hands over phone and kisses guard through bars*

Futuristic prison, minutes later

Alarms are ringing; a troop of guards burst into the room and join the Jittery Guard, pointing their weapons at River’s cell.

JITTERY GUARD: Don’t worry lads, she tried the hallucinogenic lipstick on me, but I told her ‘Hey, I’m no Mike Skinner, baby. I can snog you all day and still solve a sudoku in under fifty seconds.

OTHER GUARDS: *exchange disturbed looks*

JITTERY GUARD: Don’t move! I’ve got you covered!

OTHER GUARDS: Dude... that’s just a drawing.

DOODLE ON WALL: *is cute*

The Royal Art Collection, 5145

River runs through the destroyed gallery, where paintings are ripped from their frames, some in tatters. She finds the painting she’s looking for – we see only a glimpse of starry sky – and rips it from its frame.

LIZ 10: Hold it! What are you doing here? I am a Cockney!

RIVER: I’m stealing this painting to show the Doctor.

LIZ 10: I see. Carry on.

Laborious scene we can just skip over

RIVER: May I buy a time machine of some kind?

BLUE-FACED ALIEN: Sure thing!

TARDIS, interior

Amy is staring at the engagement ring she has just found in the Doctor’s pocket. It is, of course, the engagement ring given to her by Rory, but she has no memory of him or it.

DOCTOR: Hey Amy! I’ve got a great idea. Let’s, on a whim, visit a planet with a diamond cliff upon which is carved a gigantic message which no one has ever been able to translate. The TARDIS will translate it for us!

AMY: Whatever. There’s nothing on telly anyway.

Planet of diamond cliffs

DOCTOR: *throws open TARDIS door* Ta-daa!

AMY: Oh-ho!

The cliff message reads ‘hello sweetie’ in enormous letters, followed by a string of coordinates. Oh River, you are both sassy and ecologically damaging.

Roman Britain, 2 AD

The Doctor and Amy exit the TARDIS and take in the scene in the valley below: a busy Roman camp.

DOCTOR: Romans! I love these guys, with their feathery hats and orgies.

AMY: Romans were my favourite topic at school. REMEMBER THAT, KIDS.

SOLDIER: *appears* Hail Caesar!

DOCTOR: Um...

SOLDIER: Welcome to Britain, please report to the Cleopatra tent for a full de-panting.

The soldier rises and we can see his face is smeared with River’s hallucinogenic lipstick. Where can I get that stuff? They are marched to the tent where River waits.

RIVER: Hi, look at this wig! Wine?

DOCTOR: Let’s just cut to the chase, this is the longest opening sequence ever.

RIVER: Fine. Check out this painting I’ve just travelled through time and space to bring you.

DOCTOR: *unrolls painting*

AMY: Arse.

The painting shows the TARDIS exploding in space. Yikes!

CREDITS

Roman camp, 2 AD

So the painting is called ‘The Pandorica Opens’, and Vincent has added the date and map reference to it. Thanks, Vincent!

AMY: Great, so is the TARDIS going to explode? I’ve left all my most awesome boots in there.

RIVER: But the Pandorica is a fairy tale, supposedly built to contain the most feared thing in the universe.

DOCTOR: Let us ride in a comically stunt-doubly fashion... to the Henge!

Stonehenge

DOCTOR: Right, if the Pandorica is around here, it contains the most awesome warrior in all of history. And if it’s opening, you can bet your granny there’ll be some classic Who baddies looking for a piece of the action.

VIEWERS: Yay!

DOCTOR: It must be underground! Because frankly that’ll be much easier to film.

RIVER: Let’s wait til it gets dark, then I’ll use my excellent gravity-defying technology to lift one of the rocks!

AMY: Why not use it now?

RIVER: Shut up.

The Underhenge

There is a network of passages under Stonehenge. Of course there is. The trio creep along like a bunch of weedy Indiana Joneses, with flaming torches and everything. They find a huge chamber containing a large metal cube with mysterious hieroglyphs all over it. Ooh!

DOCTOR: Behold, the Pandorica! Also, a Cyberman arm! But let’s not worry about that for now. Basically, this thing is supposed to hold the most destructive and dangerous being the universe has ever known, tricked by a good wizard and held locked underground forever.

AMY: Blimey. Although, isn’t that just a bit like Pandora’s Box? That was my favourite story growing up.

DOCTOR: Remember that, kids. Anyway, the Pandorica is opening, just like Vincent said it would, and frankly I’m concerned. Look, here’s my concerned face. Also, Stonehenge is a giant transmitter, warning everyone about this whole business.

RIVER: Warning who?

DOCTOR: Oh, you know. Everyone. We’re basically surrounded by starships; it’s gonna be like Top of the Pops for Who villains, but when Top of the Pops was good and had the Rolling Stones on. The Daleks can be the Rolling Stones, the Cybermen can be The Beatles, the Adipose can be Pan’s People and the Face of Boe can be Jimmy Savile. He isn’t really a villain, but he’d look good with a cigar. I’m drifting. What the hell is in this box?

Stonehenge, night

The gang run back to the surface to find they are surrounded by thousands and thousands of spaceships.

RIVER: Doctor, without wishing to emasculate you in any way, I suggest you run away as fast as your gangly legs can carry you.

DOCTOR: Nonsense! We’ll gather up a Roman legion and be home in time for poached pigeon and kinky whipping games.

RIVER: Good plan. I’ll go back to camp and have an encounter with a shadowy centurion while you dodge Amy’s awkward questions for a while.

The Underhenge

DOCTOR: Amy, wander around aimlessly while I listen to the Pandorica with my stethoscope.

AMY: Okay. Incidentally, who are you proposing to? I found this flashy engagement ring in your pocket and, er, stole it.

ENGAGEMENT RING: Hey guys!

DOCTOR: What? Oh, that’s nothing. I got it in my Cinnamon Grahams.

CYBERMAN ARM: *shoots*

DOCTOR and AMY: *dive for cover*

DOCTOR and CYBERARM: *wrestle*

CYBERHEAD: *grabs amy with neck tentacles*

AMY: *falls over*

DOCTOR: *is electrocuted by cyberarm*

CYBERHEAD: *tries to eat amy’s face*

YOUNG VIEWERS: *have nightmares*

CYBERHEAD: *hits amy with dart*

CYBERBODY: *clanks into room*

AMY: *staggers about uselessly*

SHADOWY CENTURION: *stabs cyberbody with sword*

AMY: *gawps*

SHADOWY CENTURION: *omg is rory!*

VIEWERS: Yay!

AMY: *collapses*

DOCTOR: I’m back! Well done, Romans, Amy’s fine. Also, I can’t help but notice that one of you is Rory. Which is odd, mainly because a few episodes ago he was not only killed but deleted from existence.

RORY: I know! One minute I was dead, the next I was a Roman. What are the chances? This armour is a little bit like a gilet, at least. A big metal gilet. Did Amy miss me at all?

DOCTOR: ...

Pandorica chamber

The Pandorica is lit up and clanking loudly. The Doctor, Rory and assorted Romans gather around.

DOCTOR: The final phase. It’s opening!

ROMANS: Let us rhubarb in wonder!

DOCTOR: (on phone) River, get the TARDIS here immediately, I need my stuff and Amy’s boots are ruined.

RIVER: (on phone) Wilco. Did you know that it’s really easy to mistype my name as ‘Rover’? How undignified.

Stonehenge, night

DOCTOR: (on loudspeaker) Now hear this, alien ships! I know the Pandorica is mighty exciting and all, but if you want to get at it you’ll have to face my tweedy fury first.

ALIEN SHIPS: *fly away for a while*

The Underhenge

AMY: My head hurts.

RORY: Amy, it’s me!

AMY: Oh, the shadowy guy? Thanks dude, I owe you a snifter. *wanders off*

RORY: :(

TARDIS interior

TARDIS: *goes crazy*

RIVER: What’s wrong with you? Fly straight!

The Underhenge

RORY: Doctor, what the hell is going on?

DOCTOR: Frankly Rory, I have no idea, but I’m going to talk fast to compensate. There are cracks and a pending explosion, or possibly an exploding crack, I dunno. Or a pendulum. Anyway, brace yourself for something dreadful to happen in the next fourteen minutes, because this is almost certainly leading to a massive cliffhanger. Here, take your engagement ring back, I can’t imagine how that could make things any worse.

RORY: Thanks!

Amy’s house, night, 2010

RIVER: This isn’t where I’m meant to be. But I shall investigate anyway; that’s the sassy way!

RIVER’S SCANNER: Bleepety-bleep!

RIVER: Aha, so something’s been here already?

RIVER’S SCANNER: Bloop!

Amy’s house has been ransacked; the door’s kicked in and everything. Oh dear. River finds Amy’s room. Hey, remember the adorable Doctor dolls? They’re still adorable! But what’s this? On Amy’s bedside table there’s a book about the Romans and one about Pandora’s Box. Tut tut, Amy, that homework is long overdue.

RIVER: I have come to a startling realisation! But I can’t share it just yet.

VIEWERS: Come ON!

Stonehenge, night, 2 AD

RORY: How’s it going, stranger?

AMY: Oh, fine thanks.

DISCORDANT SYNTHESIZER OF DOOM: *plinky-plonks*

RORY: Why are you crying?

AMY: I don’t know. You’re weirding me out.

Pandorica chamber

RIVER: (on phone) Quick update, Doctor: The TARDIS isn’t working, and everyone surrounding you is a fictional character from a children’s book I found in Amy’s house.

DOCTOR: Someone’s stolen Amy’s memories and made them flesh?

RIVER: That’s the size of it. Also, my hair looks fantastic and this is so much more fun than ER.

DOCTOR: Noted. Why is this happening? If the Romans are an elaborate ruse, why are they helping us? What’s in the box? Why do birds suddenly appear? I’m so confused.

RIVER: It’s a trap, you fool! Someone’s used Amy to create a scenario that would entice you in. But why? Also, what’s up the the TARDIS?

Stonehenge, night

AMY: I kind of like your face.

RORY: It’s me! Remember the falling-over times? And the stag night t-shirts? And when I was a gondola driver?

The Underhenge

A high-pitched noise fills the chamber. Ouch.

ROMANS: *do the robot*

PANDORICA: *begins to open*

DOCTOR: I’ll be honest, this doesn’t look great.

ROMAN HANDS: *click open to reveal guns*

DOCTOR: That is clever, though.

Stonehenge

RORY: Wait, I don’t want to do the robot. I’m a human man!

AMY: I remember you! Sorry I was a total bitch earlier.

RORY: It’s too late, run away! *struggles against robot programming*

AMY: This is awful!

The Underhenge

The Doctor is restrained by the robot Romans.

DOCTOR: What’s this all about?

ROBOT ROMAN: The Pandorica is ready.

DALEKS: WE ARE HERE. BEGIN SMACKTALK.

CYBERMEN: We are here too. We have been doing calculations. Or something.

RHINO GUYS: We can’t remember what we are called.

SONTARANS: We shout a lot! And we’re ready!

DOCTOR: Ready for what? The first Doctor Who dinner/cabaret club?

DALEK: READY FOR YOU, DOCTOR.

The Pandorica opens to reveal a high-tech chair with heavy restraints and buttons and stuff around it.

DOCTOR: F&$*(@£*&!

VIEWERS: !!!!

Stonehenge

AMY: Rory, you are definitely my boyfriend and not a robotic killing machine implanted with the memories of a dead man. Let’s make out and I’ll prove it!

RORY: *shoots amy in the stomach*

DADS EVERYWHERE: Nooo!

Slo-mo sequence of great sadness

Daleks twinkle in the torchlight. Amy collapses in Rory-bot’s arms. The Doctor is locked into the Pandorica chair of doom, struggling like a madman. Sontarans nod. The rhino guys remember they’re called the Judoon. Rory-bot cries. This is bleak stuff!

DOCTOR: The universe is collapsing, I can help!

SONTARAN: You idiot! We have come together to save the universe from you and your crack-making TARDIS!

DOCTOR: What? This episode is complicated.

VIEWERS: Word.

CYBERMAN: Seal the Pandorica.

DOCTOR: No!

PANDORICA: *is sealed*

TARDIS interior

River wrenches the doors open with much effort to find a stone wall blocking her in. The TARDIS consoles begin to crackle and spark.

The Earth, from space

All around the planet, galaxies collapse and explode. Lawks.

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★★
Loved it! What a scrumptiously exciting cliffhanger.

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★★
It takes skill to write an obvious outcome but hide it from the audience in the build-up. This, despite a little perhaps unavoidable humbug of the Doctor’s speech, was yer actual awesome, backed up with some genuinely talented acting from Smith, Gillan and Darvill. Five stars of anyone’s money. Bravo.

Did you enjoy the episode? Let me know in the comments. Join me and the boy next week for the last Whocap of the series!

Whocap 11: Eggs over easy, over

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-06-15T21:16:22+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Amy’s fiancé Rory was shot by a Silurian and erased from history by a big crack. The TARDIS acted up a bit. Amy wore a lot of red. Click to catch up on Whocaps of old: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10 Oh, the fun you’ll have! Remember the ominous parp? Good times.

Earth, present day

The TARDIS lands in a park. The Doctor appears at the door.

DOCTOR: Ah, it’s just Cardiff again. Crank up the wacky prop closest to hand, Amy, and we’ll be on our way.

The TARDIS judders, throwing the Doctor out on to the grass, then disappears. Inside, Amy flails helplessly at the controls.

DOCTOR: Well, this is something of a pickle.

Suburban street, one day later

A young studenty-looking guy walks by a semi-detached house which has been split into flats. As he passes the front door, an anxious male voice calls out from the intercom.

INTERCOM VOICE: Hello? Can you help me please? There’s been a terrible accident. But nothing frightening or untoward, you understand.

STUDENT: *approaches door*

DOOR: *buzzes open*

STUDENT: *enters*

VIEWERS: Fly, you fool!

House interior

The hallway is dark. At the top of the stairs, a man is silhouetted against a brightly lit door with a catflap.

STUDENT: Hello?

MAN: Please, will you help?

Downstairs flat

Craig is hanging out in his flat with secret crush Sophie. Craig is played by James Corden, which might make this scene easier to picture in your mind’s eye. I’m not familiar with the actress who plays Sophie; just imagine her as a kitten in a wig.

CRAIG: As an overweight actor, I am contractually obliged to begin every scene by discussing food.

SOPHIE: I can’t help but notice that horrendous damp patch on your wall. Yuck.

CRAIG: Never mind that, I’ve just advertised for a lodger, it’s gonna be ace!

SOPHIE: Nasdavin acairn crisis antappata clure crisis cubbya llnighter.

VIEWERS: What?!

CRAIG: Okay. See you later. Also, I love you.

SOPHIE: Bye then! *leaves*

DOCTOR: (at door) Knock knock!

CRAIG: Who’s there?

DOCTOR: Doctor!

CRAIG: Doctor – oh, never mind.

CREDITS

Hallway

CRAIG: This whole scenario is mildly odd but, as you’re proffering a large bag of money, I guess you can stay.

DOCTOR: Excellent. My name is the Doctor, I kiss you! Let us proceed to your kitchen parlour, where I will make the craziest omelette ever witnessed.

Kitchen, downstairs flat

DOCTOR: Nice kitchen, shame about the deadly alien damp patch.

CRAIG: Yeah, it sucks. Also, sorry I don’t have much food in.

DOCTOR: Not to worry. With these eggs, pepper, cheese, ham and salad cream, I shall make us a feast fit for a lunatic.

CRAIG: Great. Where’s all your stuff, incidentally?

DOCTOR: It’s in a rapidly materialising and dematerialising time machine with a mardy, sort-of-widowed ginger girl.

CRAIG: Fair enough.

TARDIS interior

AMY: Wargh!

TARDIS: *goes nuts*

Living room, downstairs flat

CRAIG: Omelette love!

DOCTOR: I know.

CRAIG: You’re an oddball.

DOCTOR: I know. So, what’s the deal with your ladyfriend? I’ve no idea why I’m suddenly interested in relationships, but let’s roll with it.

CRAIG: Oh, she’s not my girlfriend, she’s just the woman for whom I hold a passionate secret love in the fiery pit of my soul. I shall never leave this flat until she is mine, all mine.

DOCTOR: How romantic! Right, I’m off to bed. Whatever you do, don’t touch that damp patch.

CRAIG: Sure thing!

The Doctor’s room, downstairs flat

The Doctor is wearing an earpiece that keeps him in contact with the TARDIS. Clever!

DOCTOR: Amy! How’s it going?

AMY: This is my week off, let’s just rattle through this scene so I can get back to CenterParcs.

DOCTOR: Excellent. So, basically, whatever alien being is hiding in the upstairs flat is playing merry havoc with the TARDIS, trapping you in an unending landing cycle that I can’t break without sending you careering into the eternal vortex of time and space.

AMY: Okay. So is there a reason you don’t just go up there and sort him out?

DOCTOR: The main reason is that we’re saving up our effects budget for next week. The other reason is that we’re only fifteen minutes into the episode and there’s still lots of comedy mileage in my pretending to be human for a while.

AMY: Great.

Street, night

A sobbing clubber is wandering home after a presumably crap night out. Or maybe a really good night out; I don’t really know what constitutes good clubbing. Oh no, here’s the intercom voice again, this time it sounds like a slightly younger man.

INTERCOM VOICE: Hello? Can you help me?

CLUBBER: *wanders towards house*

The Doctor’s room, downstairs flat

DOCTOR: So I’ve got to stay here and figure out what the hell is living in that flat before I can deal with it properly. To complicate matters, I can’t use any technology lest the ~~CGI costs too much~~ creature picks up on it and realises who I am. Thankfully I’ve switched this earpiece to scramble setting; to anyone that hears us, this will sound like gibberish.

Hall, downstairs flat

Craig is eavesdropping at the Doctor’s door.

DOCTOR’S VOICE: Badger giblet moomin, coaster!

CRAIG: ...

Doctor’s room

DOCTOR: Any tips on how I can pass as an ordinary human for the rest of the week?

AMY: Dunno. Play football? Certainly don’t go turning your laptop upside down to see if the text on that tube of styling gel is in any way a clue to what happens in this episode. Only crazy people would do that.

DOCTOR: It isn’t, by the way.

BEDSIDE CLOCK: *goes all whizzy*

DOCTOR: Interesting. A localised time loop. Whatever that alien’s up to, it’s screwing up time and the TARDIS simultaneously.

Upstairs flat

We see an extreme close up of the clubber’s face in a dark room. She is screaming.

Hall, downstairs flat, morning

Craig is waiting in the hallway while the Doctor hogs the shower. He is humming La Donna è Mobile, which to me seems quite amusing in the context, but it’s possible I’ve now spent three months of my life writing in detail about everything that happens on Doctor Who and have gone completely round the bend as a result. Anyway:

CRAIG: Hurry up!

DOCTOR: (through door) Sorry, won’t be a mo!

ALIEN UPSTAIRS: *crashes around*

CRAIG: What was that? I’m just going up to see if he’s alright.

DOCTOR: (through door) What?

Bathroom

DOCTOR: What was that? You’re going where? *staggers from shower and slips over*

Communal hallway

Craig climbs the stairs and knocks on the door of the upstairs flat. Oh no! The door opens on the chain, and we see the side of a man’s face and his white hair.

CRAIG: Is everything alright?

CREEPY GUY: Fine thank you. I don’t need your help. *slams door*

The Doctor comes racing out into the hall, dressed only in a towel, wielding an electric toothbrush instead of his sonic screwdriver. You never saw Sylvester McCoy do that.

DOCTOR: What’s going on?

VIEWERS: Nipples!

CRAIG: You total weirdo.

SOPHIE: *enters* Oh. Hello. By which I mean nipples.

DOCTOR: Hello. You must be Sophie. Let us kiss like sophisticated Europeans!

SOPHIE: ...

Park, later that morning

The Doctor has been roped into playing football with Craig’s mates. As they walk towards the pitch, Craig begs the Doctor to tell him his real name, claiming that referring to him as ‘The Doctor’ is too weird. Ladies and gentlemen of the Ribble, here’s a great fact: in HMV Oxford Circus works a man they genuinely call The Doctor. He has an encyclopaedic knowledge of almost every classical recording ever made and is brilliant in every way. Wow, digress much?

CRAIG: Alright guys, this is my new flatmate.

DOCTOR: Hello, I’m the Doctor, how nice to meet you. *air-kisses team captain*

TEAM CAPTAIN: Great, where are you strongest?

DOCTOR: Arms.

TEAM CAPTAIN: ...

So the Doctor turns out to be ace at football, which I can only imagine is a great disappointment to a generation of weedy boys who love Doctor Who and hated sports at school. Never mind. The Doctor ends the match a hero, Craig a bit put out by his incessant scene-stealing. Chatting after the match, the same few seconds of time start looping over and over, everyone but the Doctor trapped in the loop.

DOCTOR: Damn. I suppose it’s time to sort this all out.

Living room, downstairs flat

The Doctor has been invited to have an awkward drink with Craig and Sophie. As they chat, he works with a screwdriver, various plugs and a whole bunch of cables and wires.

DOCTOR: Sophie, tell me about yourself. Travel much?

SOPHIE: Nah. I’d like to move abroad and work with orangutans, but in a way it’s easier just to stay here with Craig who I love like cake.

DOCTOR: Fair enough. I suppose, like many people, BLARGHWINEISBAD working in a call centre is realistically all you can aspire to.

SOPHIE: Bitch.

Communal hallway

Craig and Sophie have an awkward goodnight in the hallway. On the wall behind them hangs a really weird and hypnotic portrait; it’s like the balding bastard child of Nick Cave and Stan Laurel. Bewilderingly, it has nothing further to do with the episode.

CRAIG: So, I suppose you probably should go off and work with orangutans, if that’s what you want to do.

PORTRAIT: *stares*

SOPHIE: Yeah, I suppose I should. See you later, then.

CRAIG: Okay, bye.

PORTRAIT: *stares more*

Doctor’s room, night

The Doctor has rigged up some kind of giant spinning gadget on his bed. It’s made out of a spinning clothes line, a zimmer frame, a rake and various other random junk. The gadget apparently helps him keep tabs on upstairs, and he relays his findings to Amy. Has Amy even slept in the several days that this episode spans?

DOCTOR: I can’t detect any alien technology, it’s all just too normal. I need to have a peek inside.

AMY: Just go upstairs, you loon!

DOCTOR: No way, he could blow the bow tie right off my skinny neck. Amy, have a look on the TARDIS interwebs and get me the plans for this building! Meanwhile, I shall recruit a cat as a spy.

Craig’s room, morning

The Doctor has cooked Craig breakfast in bed! How considerate. Craig’s looking terrible, though; all sweaty and pale.

DOCTOR: Craig! You touched the damp patch, didn’t you?

CRAIG: I didn’t not touch it.

DOCTOR: You utter moron. Go back to sleep, I’ll sort this out.

The Doctor makes him drink tea directly from the teapot. Pretty cute. Craig passes out and wakes up hours later, late for work and in a panic.

Call centre

Craig bursts into the office and starts to explain his lateness to his boss.

CRAIG: I’m so sorry, I got damp patch poisoning and went all sweaty and then Patrick Stewart hated me –

BOSS: That’s quite alright, the Doctor covered for you, see?

DOCTOR: Hello! I am wearing a headset!

CRAIG: ...

SOPHIE: Here, Doctor, I’ve brought you a biscuit.

DOCTOR: Working in a call centre is ace.

CRAIG: This is actual madness.

SOPHIE: Oh, hi Craig. Listen, I’ve got a job in an orangutan factory, d’you think I should go?

CRAIG: What? Yeah, whatever. Doctor, take off that headset, you’re Single White Female-ing me out of a job!

DOCTOR: Nonsense, go back to bed and I’ll pick us up a nice puppy on the way home.

Downstairs flat

Craig has broken in to the Doctor’s room and seen his crazy spinning gadget. Hearing the Doctor arriving home from the call centre, he peeks into the hallway to see him conversing with the spy-cat.

DOCTOR: (to cat) Have you been upstairs?

CAT: Meow

DOCTOR: (to cat) Excellent. And what are your findings?

CAT: Mrrrp purrrr

DOCTOR: *looks up* Ah, hello Craig!

CRAIG: You are the worst flatmate ever. I want to you leave immediately.

DOCTOR: What? But I’ve been doing my very best human-ing!

Doctor’s room

CRAIG: WTF is this? *gestures at gadget*

DOCTOR: Art?

CRAIG: Get out.

DOCTOR: Okay, I can see this is all going pear-shaped, so allow me to transfer a large montage of images from my life via the medium of headbutt. *headbutts craig*

CRAIG: Input! You’re a Time Lord! And you saw a note that Amy hasn’t yet written in the window of the newsagents!

DOCTOR: Yes, that part is kind of weird. Also, don’t most people sign their own names in a slightly less clinical way?

Communal hallway

Sophie lets herself in. There’s a little girl at the top of the stairs. This can’t end well.

GIRL: Please can you help me?

SOPHIE I don’t see why not.

PORTRAIT: *stares*

Doctor’s room

DOCTOR: Amy, have you got those plans yet? I’ve figured out that the alien upstairs has some kind of TARDIS-like time engine and is trying to launch it using innocent victims somehow. When they explode, they create that unpleasant stain on Craig’s ceiling, you see?

AMY: Good news: I’ve got the plans. Bad news: There is no upstairs to your building.

CRAIG: :(

Communal hallway

Craig and the Doctor race upstairs and throw open the door to the flat. Beyond the door lies a huge room with a control panel in the middle, a little bit like the TARDIS.

DOCTOR: The time engine isn’t in the flat, the time engine is the flat. Craig, you idiot, why didn’t you notice?

Time engine interior

Sophie is screaming; her hand is being involuntarily drawn towards the control panel of the time engine. She briefly makes contact, but the Doctor zaps it with his sonic screwdriver and Craig pulls her away. Exciting!

DOCTOR: What the narwhal is going on here? Is this a crashed ship?

HOLOGRAM: *appears*

DOCTOR: Aha, it is a crashed ship! What is the nature of your emergency?

VOYAGER FANS: LOL!

HOLOGRAM: The crew are dead. We need a pilot.

DOCTOR: So you’ve been bringing people up here and trying to make them telepathically fly a time travelling ship that is sure to melt human brains within seconds?

HOLOGRAM: That’s the size of it, yeah. Good news, though, the correct pilot has now been found!

The Doctor is zapped with a beam that draws his hand irresistibly to the control panel. He struggles against it using the mighty power of mime.

DOCTOR: No, you don’t understand! My brain is so powerful that if I even attempt to fly this ship it’ll destroy the whole solar system!

ME: I love this show.

DOCTOR: Craig, the reason he didn’t want you is that you have no desire to leave. Put your hand on the panel and concentrate on what’s keeping you here!

CRAIG: What? I’m not sure that plan makes any logical sense.

DOCTOR: Do it!

CRAIG: *sticks his hand on the control panel*

DOCTOR: *is released* Craig, concentrate! What’s keeping you here?

CRAIG: ArghSOPHIE!

CRAIG and SOPHIE: *kiss*

TIME ENGINE: *shuts down*

CHOIR: Ooooo-ooooo-ooooooOOOOH!

DOCTOR: That’s enough, let’s everybody run like the clappers.

The gang run from the flat into the street, just in time to see the upper floor of the house resume its true spaceship form and zip out of existence. Phew.

Living room, downstairs flat

Craig and Sophie are snogging noisily on the sofa. Get a room, guys, this is a family show. The Doctor tries to sneak off without them noticing.

CRAIG: Doctor, wait! Please take this set of house keys as a gesture of our appreciation.

DOCTOR: Thanks. I’ll be off, then.

CRAIG: Bye!

DOCTOR: Aren’t you at all interested in seeing my alien time machine?

CRAIG: Apparently not.

DOCTOR: Okay. Bye! *leaves*

The camera pans past Craig and Sophie, over the fridge where there’s a photo of the Doctor playing football and – O HAI – a flyer for a van Gogh exhibition, and look! Behind the fridge, what’s that? You know exactly what it is. A crack in the wall. Oooh! But wait, the episode’s not over yet:

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: Amy, we need to go back in time a bit so you can leave that note telling me to rent the room in Craig’s flat.

AMY: Wilco. It’s great having a real live person to interact with again. D’you have a pen?

DOCTOR: Probably. Rummage about in my blazer while I wander off and do something important. *leaves*

AMY: *rummages*

AMY’S ENGAGEMENT RING: Hi there! Remember me at all?

AMY: *is weirded out*

DISCORDANT SYNTHESIZER OF DOOM: *plinky-plonks*

CRACK IN TARDIS WALL: *is enormous*

Credits

My Verdict:
★★★
Lots of funny lines, and it’s great to see this Doctor trying to fit in. The last couple of Doctors have just seemed like slightly eccentric brainy blokes, but this one is properly alien. Worth watching if only for the spectacle of the Doctor spitting out his wine in disgust. My only issue is that the conclusion to the story was a bit rushed and short on explanation; what was that TARDIS-like ship? Where did it come from? Couldn’t the Doctor have helped? Can’t wait for next week!

My Dad’s Verdict:
★★★
I'm so ancient that I saw the first ever episode of Doctor Who, but I haven't watched it for donkey's years. This episode was quite amusing, largely because of the ever excellent James Corden, who plays ordinary people so easily. Matt Smith is equally convincing as an alien, with that white face of his. Craig fancies Sophie, a nice human subplot to contrast with the supernatural goings on of the main story. The best bit was the football match though, both Smith and Corden having some ability and background in the game, a nice topical touch.

Did you enjoy the episode? Do you have a good egg-related recipe? Let me know in the comments below!

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Whocap 10: Art attack

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-06-06T21:52:39+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Amy’s boyfriend Rory was shot dead by a lizard-woman then wiped from history by a giant crack in the universe. No one remembers him except the Doctor. Harsh! Click to catch up with episodes 9, 8, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1. I’m saving episode 7 for the End Times, when I shall exchange it for fresh water and protection from our cockroach overlords.

Musée d'Orsay, present day

Amy and the Doctor are hanging out at the Vincent van Gogh exhibit. Look, Amy’s standing up straight and showing an active interest in her surroundings! I’ve got a good feeling about this episode. Or perhaps it’s just indigestion.

AMY: This is fun. And look, the gallery guide is Bill Nighy.

BILL NIGHY: I always. Speak. A bit. Oddly.

DOCTOR: Excellent. I can’t help bit notice, though, that if you look carefully at The Church at Auvers, you will see that the artist has painted an evil alien face in the church window.

BBC PROPS DEPT: Thangyew!

AMY: Wow! Has this puzzled art historians for years?

DOCTOR: Nope. Excuse me, Bill, but can you tell us exactly when this was painted?

BILL NIGHY: I can relay this. Information. With alarming accuracy.

DOCTOR: To the TARDIS!

CREDITS

Provence, 1890

The Doctor and Amy wander the dark alleyways of Arles in search of Vincent van Gogh. Good plan.

DOCTOR: Look out for a café terrace, as popularised in the painting Café Terrace at Night.

AMY: There it is.

They are indeed standing outside the café from the painting, where waitresses are clearing glasses and the proprietor is throwing a drunken Vincent van Gogh into the street. This might be my favourite episode ever.

VINCENT: Can I have another drink?

PROPRIETOR: Do you have any money?

VINCENT: If by ‘money’ you mean ‘a genre-defining self-portrait’, then yes!

PROPRIETOR: Get out.

AMY: Hello there, may I buy you some wine?

DADS EVERYWHERE: Yes please.

Café interior

VINCENT: Are you Scottish?

AMY: Yes, but I haven’t mentioned it in at least three episodes.

DOCTOR: So Vincent, got any church paintings on the go? Got any planned?

VINCENT: I did think of painting this one church as a kind of reaction to my failed attempt at becoming a clergyman. But then I didn’t bother.

DOCTOR: Interesting.

A bloodcurdling scream comes from outside. Everyone rushes to see what’s happened, except Vincent, who finishes his drink and then follows behind. What a guy.

Alleyway

A girl lies dead. Alarmed peasant-folk cluster around her body while her mother shrieks in horror.

MOTHER: This is your fault, you insane Dutch genius! Your daring post-impressionist ways have brought death upon us all, death I say!

EVERYONE: *throws stones at Vincent*

Amy, Vincent and the Doctor escape the angry mob. They make their way to Vincent’s house where the Doctor decides they will stay the night. Why don’t they sleep in the TARDIS? It’s like the ultimate motorhome.

Vincent’s house

Vincent’s little house is filled with his paintings and lots of furniture that sad art geeks like me will enjoy.

AMY and DOCTOR: *boggle at masterpieces*

VINCENT: Yeah, sorry about the mess. I’ll have a clear out tomorrow, maybe get some of those IKEA units. *sploshes coffee over paintings* Allow me to hold forth on my artistic views for a while.

DOCTOR: Hang on, where’s Amy got to?

AMY: (offscreen) Aaaaargh!

Courtyard, night

The Doctor and Vincent rush out to find Amy has fallen over. Oh Amy, you’re like Bambi in a scarf.

DOCTOR: What happened to you?

AMY: I was just looking at these paintings when I was mysteriously attacked.

DOCTOR: There’s nothing here now, though.

VINCENT: Wargh! *wields pitchfork*

DOCTOR: Oh dear. Vincent? I can only assume that you’re having one of those psychotic episodes you are renowned for. Why don’t we all just relax and I’ll fix you a Horlicks.

INVISIBLE MONSTER: *tailslaps doctor*

DOCTOR: Ouch.

VINCENT: Can you see him?

DOCTOR: No. But for maximum comic effect, I shall help you fight him anyway. *flails*

VINCENT: *stabs*

INVISI-MONSTER: *roars*

CRAP SCARECROW: *falls over*

VINCENT: Okay, it’s gone.

DOCTOR: *flails*

Vincent’s house

DOCTOR: What was that thing?

VINCENT: I shall draw it for you.

Vincent sketches a hideous bird-like creature in charcoal. As Doctor Who monsters go, it’s pretty cute.

DOCTOR: Right. You two stay here, I am taking this drawing for some expert analysis in the TARDIS. *leaves*

AMY: So, is there just the one bed or what?

TARDIS interior

The Doctor rummages in the TARDIS and unearths a bizarre steampunky gadget with a mirror protruding from it. It’s ages since we had a noteworthy gadget! I liked the one that turned David Tennant into a strict schoolmaster. Cough. Moving on.

DOCTOR: *looks in gadget mirror*

GADGET: WILLIAM HARTNELL

DOCTOR: Correct.

GADGET: PATRICK TROUGHTON

DOCTOR: Good. But who’s this? *holds up monster sketch*

GADGET: PARROT

DOCTOR: Nope.

GADGET: POLAR BEAR

DOCTOR: No. Impressionists are RUBBISH.

ART GEEKS: LOL!

Alley, night

The Doctor ambles back towards Vincent’s place, the gadget strapped to his chest. The invisi-monster appears behind him, reflected in the mirror as the Doctor fiddles with the straps and wires.

GADGET: KRAFAYIS

DOCTOR: Excellent. We’ll get this cleared up in no time.

INVISI-MONSTER: (in mirror) Rrrrraaaaaagh.

DOCTOR: Argh! *runs away*

The Doctor hides behind a pillar and the invisi-monster stumbles past, apparently smashing through a brick archway and crashing off into town. Aaand here’s Amy. She bitches about Vincent van Gogh’s snoring and rolls her eyes. Welcome back, Amy.

Vincent’s house, morning

Vincent’s bedroom is the Bedroom at Arles, complete with wonky forced perspective and everything. This makes me want to weep and pay my licence fee ten times over. Vincent is asleep when the Doctor bursts in.

DOCTOR: Wake up! Amy’s prepared a charming scene in the courtyard.

Courtyard, bright sunlight

Amy has filled the courtyard with sunflowers and served breakfast on a tray. That baguette looks delicious.

AMY: I dunno. Maybe you could paint these or something.

VINCENT: Yeah. Maybe.

RICHARD CURTIS: See what I did there? Huh? Did you? Hm?

DOCTOR: Never mind that. Check out these pics my gadget somehow printed out just now. Is this the monster we fought last night?

VINCENT: That’s him!

DOCTOR: Interesting. These creatures are scavenging aliens; apparently this one’s been left behind by his pack and is pretty pissed off about it. Usually a Krafayis is lethally unbeatable because no one can see it.

VINCENT: But I can?

DOCTOR: Yes. But let’s not worry about the ins-and-outs of that – we’ve got to get to that church! If you turn up to paint it, the monster will be there, we’ll get rid of it, then Amy and I can leave.

VINCENT: Oh. Okay, I’ll just get my stuff.

Vincent’s bedroom

Vincent is sobbing on his bed. Poor Vincent!

DOCTOR: Vincent? Come along, monsters to kill, etc.

VINCENT: Screw you. When all this is over, you’ll get to fly off in the TARDIS and have lots of exciting adventures while I’ll be left here to go mad, shoot myself in the chest and die a slow, agonising death before my self-mutilation becomes a lazy journalistic shorthand for mental illness in the creative professions.

DOCTOR: Still... remember that baguette?

VINCENT: You’re right, I feel better now. Let’s go!

Country road

Is it just me or are Arles and Auvers quite far away from each other? This is going to be a hell of a walk. Anyway, Amy and Vincent chat while the Doctor trails behind.

AMY: Sorry you’re suicidally depressed.

VINCENT: That’s okay. Sorry your boyfriend’s dead.

AMY: What?

DOCTOR: Nothing. Look, there’s the church!

Church at Auvers, day

DOCTOR: Right, Vincent. You paint your picture and tell us if any monsters turn up. In the meantime, I shall regale everyone with hilarious stories of other famous artists I have met.

VINCENT: Right-o.

VIEWERS: But... this isn’t the church from the painting.

Church at Auvers, night

DOCTOR: I am unutterably bored.

AMY: For once, I am not. Revel in it.

VINCENT: There, he’s at the window!

DOCTOR: I’m going in. On no account follow me.

AMY and VINCENT: *follow him*

Church interior

The Doctor creeps around, looking for the invisi-monster in his gadget mirror. The monster comes out of nowhere and smashes the gadget. Oh no! Amy catches up with the Doctor and there’s lots more running and hiding and smashing of things. It’s all terribly exciting. Honest.

DOCTOR: We are almost certainly about to die.

AMY: ...

INVISI-MONSTER: Roooooaaaarrrrrr!

VINCENT: See here, monster, I am going to chair you good and proper! *wields chair like a lion tamer*

INVISI-MONSTER: *attacks*

VINCENT: You two get out of the way, I’ll fend him off!

There follows a crazy amount of running around and fighting an invisible and yet parrot-like monster. I know. Finally, Vincent chucks his chair away in favour of his spike-legged easel.

DOCTOR: What’s it doing now?

VINCENT: He’s feeling his way around the edges of the room. Like he’s trapped.

AMY: That’s not very monsterish.

DOCTOR: Gah, it’s blind! That’s why the rest of the pack abandoned it.

INVISI-MONSTER: *charges*

VINCENT: *easel-stabs monster in chest*

INVISI-MONSTER: *cries*

DOCTOR: Poor monster. He was so misunderstood.

INVISI-MONSTER: *dies*

VINCENT: This is kind of a downer. Let us leave here and lie beneath the stars, where I will bewitch you with my lovely animation.

Olive grove, night

Amy, the Doctor and Vincent lie beneath the stars, holding hands. The night sky slowly dissolves into an animated version of The Starry Night. Sob.

VINCENT: Look at the stars! Aren’t they gorgeous?

EVERYONE: Yep!

VINCENT: I’ll miss you terribly.

VIEWERS: And we’ll miss you!

Vincent’s house, morning

VINCENT: Please take this priceless masterpiece as a token of my gratitude.

DOCTOR: Best not.

AMY: Bye then! Please don’t kill yourself.

VINCENT: Hey, if you ever get tired of the Doctor, come hitch yourself to this crazy wagon!

AMY: Um, thanks!

DOCTOR: Actually... Vincent? Would you like to visit a gallery with us?

Musée d'Orsay, present day

Vincent, the Doctor and Amy step out of the TARDIS. Vincent is pleasantly unruffled by time travel.

DOCTOR: Okay, this is the Musée d'Orsay, home of the world’s greatest artworks.

VINCENT: Excellent. I do like art.

They lead Vincent to the van Gogh exhibit, filled with people admiring his paintings. He stands unnoticed in his shabby suit, clutching his hat, quite overwhelmed. Sorry, I’ve just got something in my eye.

DOCTOR: Bill Nighy, in case anyone has managed not to cry yet, could you please fill us in on Vincent van Gogh’s posthumous glory?

BILL NIGHY: Why yes. To me, van Gogh is. The finest. Painter in the history of art.

VINCENT: *cries*

VIEWERS: *cry*

BILL NIGHY: *is bewildered*

Provence, 1890

The Doctor and Amy drop Vincent off in a field.

VINCENT: I feel great, I’m going to paint my ass off and no mistake! *strides away*

AMY: Hooray, he definitely won’t top himself now!

Musee d’Orsay, present day

BILL NIGHY: Yeah, sorry, he did.

AMY: :(

DOCTOR: Arse. But look, the monster is gone from the church painting.

AMY: And the sunflowers painting is dedicated to me.

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★★
Okay, I’m a little bit biased, but this is one of my favourite episodes ever. Art, aliens, time travel and suicide on a Saturday night family show. I love you, Doctor Who. If you haven’t watched the new series yet, do give this one a go; I’ve even left out the best jokes so you can enjoy them unspoiled!

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★
Having praised this series for departing from the Monster of the Week™ formula that so dogged previous series, it was actually lovely, as a bit of variety, to have a Monster of the Week™ this episode. It got a bit weird and schlocky at the end with Curtis’s Love Actually-style voice-over malarkey, but I didn’t mind even that; it’s possible in any case that the Doctor’s uncharacteristic moving of van Gogh into the future was just him again trying to cheer Amy up, out of guilt. Screw the buggered chronology of van Gogh’s paintings, and the sanitised version of his madness, having another historical figure – after the early appearance by Churchill – was awesome. More, please. (I may also be biased, but for a different reason; the actor who played van Gogh looked like an old colleague of mine, the dapper and wonderfully batty James Ellerbeck, of whom I often think.)

Did you enjoy the episode? Do you want to spend your days going quietly mad in a Provençal cottage? Let me know in the comments below!

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Whocap 9: All the gilets we have loved

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-05-29T22:14:32+01:00

Contains spoilers for the current series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Amy was captured by the Silurians, a subterranean lizard race, along with postie-turned-miner Mo and his son Elliot. Clickety-click to catch up with episodes 8, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1. Episode 7 has gone to the great TARDIS in the sky.

Earth, viewed from space. Pretty!

ELDANE: (voice over) Once we mighty Silurians ruled the Earth, then those damned dirty apes took over and we had to Womble it up underground for a few thousand years. I’ll be honest, we’re not thrilled about it. Anyway, mustn’t grumble. Tea?

Silurian City, deep underground

DOCTOR: This city is both massive and deserted. How odd.

MEERA SYAL: And this narrow, lava-spanning walkway is a health and safety nightmare. Have you done a risk assessment on this adventure?

DOCTOR: C’mon, we’ve got to find Amy! And all those other characters that no one gives a monkey’s about. Hah! Monkeys! Apes! I thank you.

ALARM: INTRUDER! INTRUDER! INTRUDER!

DOCTOR: I didn’t really think this through.

SILURIAN SOLDIERS: *appear*

DOCTOR: Wait! We’re not armed–

SILURIAN SOLDIERS: *release gas from weapons*

DOCTOR and MEERA SYAL: *collapse*

Silurian laboratory

Amy is strapped to an upright table. Mo is strapped to the table next to her. Silurian scientist Malohkeh approaches Amy, wielding a scary medical-looking tool.

AMY: Get away from me, you scaly-faced freak!

MALOHKEH: Commencing dissection. *presses remote control to lock Amy’s hands in place*

AMY: Argh!

INTERCOM: Dr Malohkeh? Please report to Area 17 immediately.

MALOHKEH: *leaves*

AMY: Check it out, I am an l33t pickpocket! *uses remote control to release herself and Mo*

MO: You are feisty! Also, nice boots.

Creepy underground corridor

MO: So d’you think they’re aliens? I guess it could just be a skin condition or something. I use E45 most nights –

AMY: Shut it, Mo, we’ve got to find a way out of here. Hey, what’s through this window?

ELLIOT: *is wired up to alien technology*

MO: My boy! Elliot! He’s a frickin’ vegetable!

AMY: I’m sure he’s fine. Let’s go.

MO: We’ll come back for him, though?

AMY: Whatever.

Village graveyard, day

Ambrose is hanging out by her aunt’s grave, clutching Elliot’s headphones and looking sorry for herself. Buck up, Ambrose. Oh, here’s Rory. Hi Rory!

AMBROSE: So you’re not the police, then?

RORY: No. Sorry about that. Look, we have to take turns guarding Alaya until the Doctor persuades the Silurians to swap her for your family.

AMBROSE: This is my murderous look.

Silurian laboratory

The Doctor is strapped to one of the crazy dissection tables, screaming as beams of light pass over his body. Silurian military commander Restac is chewing out Malohkeh for letting Amy and Mo escape.

DOCTOR: Waaaaarghrghghghgijsf!

RESTAC: How could they escape? How could she even run in those shorts? You should’ve put them under my guard. The prisoners, I mean, not the shorts.

MALOHKEH: Look, I’m in charge of sexy human prisoners, you’re in charge of guns that look a bit like hairdryers with diffuser attachments. That’s just the way it is. Now stand back, I’m about to pull some badass moves on this dude’s physiology. *turns a dial*

DOCTOR: Nooooarghwtf!

Church dungeon
Alaya is still chained to the wall, apparently enjoying the sunlight from the high window. Tony enters, looking a bit pale.

ALAYA: I thought you’d be dead by now. I gave you a damn good licking last episode and now you’re full of my delicious venom.

TONY: Oh bloody hell. You know, if you cured me, I’d help you escape.

VIEWERS: Judas!

ALAYA: You fool. Our deaths will ignite a glorious lizard-ape war!

Silurian laboratory

DOCTOR: Waaaaaaargh!

MALOHKEH: Yes, yes, stop being such a drama queen. I’m only neutralising your ape bacteria.

DOCTOR: Arrrrghhnotanape! Check your scans!

MALOHKEH: *checks scanner display*

DOCTOR’S SKELLINGTON: *is adorable*

MALOHKEH: Oops! *halts decontamination process*

DOCTOR: Phew. Not got any celery, have you?

WHOGEEKS: LOL!

MEERA SYAL: *awakes* Oh. Lizard men.

MALOHKEH: Your drill was attacking our oxygen pockets, you halfwit primates.

DOCTOR: Right, I can see why that would be annoying. Anyway, we’re here to rescue Amy and the others – howsabout swapping them for the lovely Alaya?

RESTAC: Or I could execute you.

DOCTOR: That is certainly another option.

Creepy underground chamber

Amy and Mo are creeping around. They encounter a pair of Silurian solders, frozen in suspended animation.

MO: Run away!

AMY: Wait! Look at these panels they’re standing on. They must be transport platforms; it’s how they get up to the surface!

MO: Wow. Those are some big cognitive leaps.

AMY: Let’s steal their weapons, find the Doctor and liberate Elliot.

Amy and Mo run to the end of the corridor, which turns into a balcony overlooking a huge cavern, filled with ranks of soldiers in suspended animation.

MO: This kind of sucks.

Church kitchen

Tony raids the First Aid box, swigging down pills in the vain hope of clearing up his vein-y problem. Better subs than I would make that sentence funny. Enter Ambrose.

AMBROSE: Hey dad, are you alright?

TONY: Never better! *staggers*

AMBROSE: Let me see.

Ambrose pulls aside his shirt collar and sees a mass of thick green veins growing over his shoulder and chest.

AMBROSE: Christ on a cracker! *gags* I mean, I’m sure it’s going to be fine. I’ll get you a Nurofen.

TONY: ...

Silurian City

The Doctor and Meera Syal are marched along a walkway by Silurian soldiers.

MEERA SYAL: So why are most of the Silurians in hibernation?

DOCTOR: They thought the world was coming to an end, but it was just the moon or an eclipse or something. These ones that are awake are just protecting the city.

WHOCAP READERS: That was lame.

ME: Sorry. I wasn’t really paying attention.

Church dungeon

AMBROSE: I know what you did to my dad. If you don’t fix him, I’m going to Tase you into next week.

ALAYA: I’ll never help you.

AMBROSE: *zaps alaya with taser*

ALAYA: *frazzles*

Church... living room? What sort of a church is this?

Rory is tending to Tony’s neck wound. They hear a piercing scream from the dungeon. Oh dear.

Church dungeon

Alaya is writhing and screaming on the ground, Ambrose is standing over her, still clutching the Taser. Rory and Tony run in.

TONY: You stupeed womahn!

RORY: Alaya, how can we help you?

ALAYA: *dies*

EVERYONE: *is horrified*

Silurian courtroom

The Doctor and Meera Syal are led into the court by Restac, Malohkeh and some Silurian soldiers.

DOCTOR: Well, this is nice.

RESTAC: We’re totally going to execute you.

AMY: *bursts in* Stop right there! Or someone’s going to get magnificently frizz-free curls!

MO: I’m here too!

RESTAC: *shoves amy to the ground and grabs her weapon*

MO: *instantly surrenders*

MEERA SYAL: Brilliant.

MALOHKEH: Why don’t we all calm down?

RESTAC: Shove off, Malohkeh, this is military business.

MALOHKEH: Fine! I’m telling on you.

The soldiers chain everyone to a couple of pillars, then the Doctor fills Amy in on WTF is going on. The soldiers take aim, but hold their fire while Restac contacts the human world above.

Church basement

Rory, Tony and Ambrose are freaking out, staring at Alaya’s body and wondering what to do. Suddenly, a computer monitor in a box flickers to life. Restac’s face magically appears on the screen. How awkward.

RESTAC: Who speaks for the apes?

AMBROSE: *flings blanket over alaya*

RORY: Hi there! How are things?

RESTAC: Show me Alaya.

RORY: Um, she’s... in the bath. Outside. She’s outside in the bath.

RESTAC: Enough! Execute the be-shorted woman!

RORY: No!

COMPUTER SCREEN: *cuts to static*

Silurian courtroom

RESTAC: Fire!

ELDANE: Stop this at once! Haven’t I told you to play nicely or not at all? There’ll be no pudding for you tonight, Restac.

RESTAC: But the apes were attacking us with a big drill!

ELDANE: Indeed! You should know better than the apes, they’re only little. Unchain them now, and say sorry.

RESTAC: You’re so unfair! *storms off*

Church dungeon

Computer fizzes to life once more. Rory, Ambrose and Tony cluster round, relieved to see Amy still alive.

DOCTOR: (on screen) Get down here, it’s ace! Bring Alaya and we’ll have this whole ‘end of the human race’ thing sorted out in no time.

EVERYONE: *looks guilty*

Silurian courtroom

DOCTOR: Right. I suggest Eldane negotiates a peace deal with Amy and Meera Syal.

MO: And me?

DOCTOR: No. And remember, ladies, this is not a fixed point in time. Anything can happen; peace, war, dogs and cats living together, rivers of Ovaltine, whatever. Have fun! Right, I’m off to get Elliot. Come on, Mo.

Silurian courtroom

Eldane, Amy and Meera Syal are around a table, discussing a way that the Silurians and humans could share the Earth’s surface.

ELDANE: (voice over) As I sat there that day with the humans, the future of both species and our beloved planet resting in our hands, I couldn’t help but notice that Amy kept rolling her eyes and banging her head on the table. How rude.

MEERA SYAL: Okay, I’m starting to think this whole planet-sharing thing could work out.

DOCTOR: Bravo! And look, I’ve rescued Elliot.

ELDANE: And what’s that I hear? The surface transporter has returned! Let’s get our various hostages exchanged and we’ll all be home in time for tea and crumpets. Huzzah!

Corridor of sleepy Silurians

Restac is waking up her troops. Malohkeh stumbles across them. Cheese it, Malohkeh!

MALOHKEH: You can’t do this!

RESTAC: I totally can. *shoots malohkeh*

Silurian courtroom

DOCTOR: Ah, here they are!

RORY and AMBROSE: *enter sheepishly*

ELLIOT: Hooray!

TONY: *enters, carrying alaya’s body*

DOCTOR: Arse. Also, couldn’t you’ve found a nicer blanket? This orange crochet can only make matters worse.

Restac enters with loads of soldiers, all packing weapons.

RESTAC: My sister? *throws back blanket*

ALAYA: *is dead*

RESTAC: :(

ELDANE: We are very cross with you, human. No pudding for you either.

AMBROSE: Screw pudding! Tony and I have rigged up the drill to start burrowing again in fifteen minutes! Your precious oxygen pockets will be destoyed forever!

RESTAC: We are so going to KILL YOU DEAD!

DOCTOR: Everyone run back to the lab!

EVERYONE: *runs*

SOLDIERS: *fire*

Silurian lab

Amy, Rory, Tony, Ambrose, Elliot, Meera Syal and Eldane escape into the lab while the Doctor disarms the pursuing guards with his sonic screwdriver. Well, that’s a useful function, Doctor. He follows the gang into the lab and locks the door behind them.

DOCTOR: Right, let’s get us out of here.

TONY: Doctor, I am dying of the licky-vein!

DOCTOR: You’re actually mutating. Have you seen District 9 at all? Anyway, I’ll get Eldane to run the decontamination machine over you, that might help.

ELDANE: Fair enough.

MO: We’re surrounded!

DOCTOR: Okay, I’m going to send an energy pulse up through the earth to blow up the drill. Before that, we have to get past the Restac’s troops and escape in the TARDIS. Ideas?

ELDANE: Um, we do have this emergency fumigation thing. We generally just use it for badgers, but it makes everyone scuttle back to their sleepy cells.

DOCTOR: Do it. Time the suspended animation for one thousand years. By the time the Silurians wake, humankind will be ready to share the planet. Everyone ready to run like the clappers?

ELDANE: But what about Tony? We haven’t decontaminated him yet.

TONY: Ah, just go. I’ll stay here with the Silurians.

AMBROSE: This is all my fault.

EVERYONE: Yep.

ALARM: TOXIC FUMIGATION COMMENCING

SOLDIERS: *run to sleepy cells*

DOCTOR: Let’s roll! You’re looking for a blue box!

MEERA SYAL: I think I’ll stay here with Tony.

EVERYONE: What? Okay. *runs*

ELDANE: Drive safe!

TARDIS exterior

Ambrose, Mo and Elliot run into the TARDIS, with the Doctor, Amy and Rory close behind.

DOCTOR: Right, everybody in!

AMY: Doctor, look! It’s another one of those mad time-sucking cracks.

CRACK: *smokes eerily*

DOCTOR: Right. I’m going to stick my arm in it.

RORY: You can’t!

DOCTOR: *sticks his handkerchief-covered hand in and pulls out an object*

RESTAC: *crawls towards them*

RORY: Doctor, look out!

RESTAC: *shoots*

RORY: *is zapped in chest*

AMY: Rory!

RORY: Argh! But... last episode we saw us both on the hill. I don’t die here?

AMY: You’ll be fine.

RORY: *dies*

AMY: Doctor, help him!

VIEWERS: You’ve picked a fine time to start giving a crap.

DOCTOR: Sorry, but we’ve got to go before the time-suck crack pulls us out of existence.

TARDIS interior

The Doctor pulls a hysterical Amy into the TARDIS and locks the door. Dramatic!

AMY: Doctor stoppit!

DOCTOR: I can’t! The only place that Rory survives now is in your memory. Remember Rory! Remember the glorious gilet!

We see Amy’s memories of Rory, including the excellent time he professed to be a gondola driver. Although frankly if my husband’s life flashed before my eyes, I like to think I’d remember more than him falling over and telling me off. Oh well. The TARDIS lands, knocking Amy and the Doctor to the ground. When they recover, Rory is gone from Amy’s memory, although possibly not the Doctor’s.

AMY: So what were we talking about?

DOCTOR: Hey, let’s go outside and watch the drill explode.

AMY’S ENGAGEMENT RING: Hi guys!

DOCTOR: Shh.

TARDIS exterior

The Doctor, Amy, Mo, Ambrose and Elliot exit the TARDIS to find themselves at the top of a hill overlooking the mine. The drill explodes. Woo! Mo and his family wander off in the direction of home, while Amy spots a future version of herself in the distance.

AMY: Look, there’s me again. Helloo! Nice boots! Right, let’s go.

DOCTOR: Good idea. You go ahead and put the kettle on – apparently we have one of those – I’m just going to do some TARDIS repairs out here for a sec.

Once Amy is gone, the Doctor unwraps his handkerchief to reveal the object he pulled from the time-suck crack earlier. It’s... a broken bit of TARDIS! Crikey.

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★
This episode earns an extra star for the double-whammy of Rory’s unexpected death and the surprise TARDIS fragment at the end. Exciting stuff! While I’m disappointed that poor Rory bought the farm, it’s brought a dangerous edge to proceedings; we can usually rely on all the major players to make through a series intact, but not any more. Van Gogh special next week. Stand by for a tediously educational Whocap!

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★
Felt a bit mid-season-ey, though the whole big crack (tee-hee!)/TARDIS thing bodes well for an epic end of series. The thing that struck me here, though, was that even stone cold sober – and if you’ve been following along, you’ll know that that’s an anomalous state for watching Doctor Who as far as I’m concerned – I find myself genuinely affected by some of lines in Smith-era Who. I know it sounds a bit silly, but like the occasional flash of brilliance and pathos in Star Trek, the prism through which Doctor Who looks at the world can produce some lovely images; the line about sharing the Earth at the end could have felt leaden and laboured, but it was written and delivered with grace.

Did you enjoy the episode? Do you want to join my Bring Back Rory (And Donna) leaflet campaign? Let me know in the comments below!

You can follow me on Twitter for a weekly Whocap heads-up.

Whocap 8: Scaly scares

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-05-23T16:35:18+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Amy invited Rory to join her and the Doctor in the TARDIS in a transparent attempt to postpone their impending marriage. In other news, the TARDIS is still wonky, there are cracks in the universe and the Doctor hates himself a bit. Get clicking to catch up with Whocaps for episodes 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 and 1. Episode 7 is currently The Lost Whocap; my cat ate it.

Some village, Wales, 2020

MINER WHO LOOKS CONFUSINGLY LIKE A POSTMAN: Hey kids, forget about those newfangled XCubes and Eye-Paddes; reading is cool!

AWESOME KID: Whatever. Aren’t you late for work?

MWLCLAP: You’re right. I’ll just hop on my bike to confuse the issue of my employment further.

Futuristic mine of doom

MEERA SYAL: Good news everyone, our amazing robotic drilling equipment has reached hitherto unknown depths!

EVERYONE: Yay!

TONY: Keep drilling. I can imagine no way in which this could all go horribly wrong.

Futuristic mine of doom, later that night

Mwlclap is on duty, eating his packed lunch and reading The Gruffalo. Everything starts to shake. Computer monitors reveal that the drill has stalled, so he goes to investigate.

MWLCLAP: What’s going on here?

HOLE IN GROUND: *smokes creepily*

MWLCAP: That’s weird. *sticks arm in hole*

HOLE IN GROUND: *swallows mwlclap*

GROOVY NEW CREDITS

Church graveyard

The TARDIS lands. The Doctor, Amy and Rory emerge looking confused.

DOCTOR: Welcome to – hang on, this isn’t Rio.

VIEWERS: Rio? Venice? What’s with the sexy destinations, Doctor? You’re like a Gallifreyan Judith Chalmers.

AMY: What? But I’m dressed for Rio!

RORY: And I’m wearing a suspiciously appropriate gilet.

DOCTOR: This graveyard has blue grass. And future-Amy-and-Rory are waving to us from that hill. Rio be damned, we’re staying here! Let’s go and look at that mining equipment.

AMY: *sulks*

RORY: You two go on, I’ve got to be a scene behind for plot reasons.

Futuristic mine of doom

TONY: I don’t understand, Meera Syal. I can’t find Mwlclap anywhere and the drill just won’t start. What d’you think is going on?

MEERA SYAL: *shrugs* Who cares? This is much more fun than Holby City.

Church graveyard

Rory locks the TARDIS and comes face-to-face with the awesome kid, Elliot, and his mother, Ambrose.

AMBROSE: Thank god you’re here! CID, is it?

ELLIOT: Your crime lab is a bit weird, though.

ME: Hooray! Someone mistakes the TARDIS for a police-related thing rather than just calling it a ‘blue box’.

RORY: ...

AMBROSE: So anyway, I was hoping to bury my dead uncle in the same plot as my dead aunt, but when we came to dig up the grave, it was totally empty.

Futuristic mine of doom

DOCTOR: Helloo! I’m a passing boffin and thought I’d break in to see what’s up in the world of mining. So what’s up?

MEERA SYAL: None of your freakin’ business, young man.

DOCTOR: I can’t help but notice that your computer readings are all screwy and that there’s a big hole in the floor.

TONY: Suggestions?

DOCTOR: I suggest we pack up all of this equipment and run like billy-o.

AMY: Doctor, is the hole supposed to smoke like this?

DOCTOR: It’s not ideal.

There’s lots of shaking and more holes open in the ground.

DOCTOR: Run! And stay away from the holes!

AMY: *falls into hole*

DOCTOR: Hold on, Amy!

AMY: *is swallowed*

DOCTOR: :(

VIEWERS: Rory’s going to slap you like a ripe melon.

Church graveyard

Rory is standing in a grave, still pretending to be a detective. What the hell, Rory? Just go back into the TARDIS and hide. Isn’t there a swimming pool in there? And you could try on the Doctor’s old outfits!

ELLIOT: So, what do you reckon to the empty grave?

RORY: Um. Moles?

ELLIOT: I reckon the graves eat people. No one’s coming in from above, so something must be getting in underneath.

RORY: Interesting theory. What are your plans for the next thirty minutes?

Futuristic mine of doom

TONY: So poor old Mwlclap got swallowed by the ground, just like your leggy assistant?

DOCTOR: Yup. It’s bioprogramming. Something underground wants you to stop drilling.

MEERA SYAL: I don’t understand.

DOCTOR: There’s more, but let’s just forget it and enjoy the lizard-monsters.

TONY: Agreed.

DOCTOR: Here’s they come. Cheese it!

Scrubby path of jazzy effects

The Doctor, Tony and Meera Syal run girlishly in the direction of the church. Overhead, bolts of scarlet electricity shoot across the sky. Oooh! The Doctor pulls a catapult from his trousers and shoots a pebble into the air. This is not a euphemism.

DOCTOR: We’re trapped under an energy barricade generated by an unknown underground source.

RORY: *appears* Plus, the graves are eating people.

DOCTOR: Also, Amy got swallowed by the ground and might be dead, but never mind that! We’ve got to get inside the church before the Silurians turn up.

RORY: Sil– what?

Underground

Lizard-O-Vision: Amy is unconscious and covered in earth. She is swaddled in green light. Okay.

Church interior
The Doctor, Rory, Tony, Meera Syal, Ambrose and Elliot are setting up their amazing underground-monitoring equipment. Only Ambrose is freaking out.

AMBROSE: This is nuts!

TONY: Calm down dear, it’s only an ancient race of subterranean beings hell-bent on the total destruction of all human life.

DOCTOR: Okay everyone, we’ve got eight minutes. Let’s do a montage where we gaffer tape a lot of electronic goods around the outside of the church. Elliot, your job is to draw a freakishly accurate map of the village; I’m not sure why yet.

EVERYONE: *swings into action*

AMBROSE: Shall I put some weapons in the Meals on Wheels van?

DOCTOR: No thanks.

Church, eight minutes later

RORY: It’s gone dark!

DOCTOR: They’re here.

TONY and MEERA SYAL: *kiss*

VIEWERS: Was that strictly necessary?

Everything starts shaking, then the power goes out and it’s eerily still.

AMBROSE: Hang on, where’s Elliot?

Church graveyard

Elliot is staggering towards the church in the dark. Shadowy figures dart between the gravestones. Oh dear. He bangs on the jammed church door while the rest of the gang struggle to open it from the inside.

ELLIOT: Open the door! Quick!

Lizard-O-Vision: Elliot looks terrified. Green light.

ELLIOT: Arse.

The door bursts open and the gang pile out, shining torches around.

AMBROSE: Where is he? Elliot?

TONY and AMBROSE: *run off into graveyard*

VIEWERS: Idiots.

A Silurian attacks Ambrose, but Tony fights it off. The Silurian, er, licks Tony with its whippy tongue.

TONY: Yowch.

DOCTOR: Everyone back in the church! Except you, Rory.

The Doctor and Rory manage to freeze one of the Silurians with a fire extinguisher and throw it in the back of Ambrose’s Meals on Wheels van. I know. They’d better be saving up this series’ special effects budget for something ruddy spectacular.

SKY: *lightens*

DOCTOR: They’re leaving.

RORY: Wow. That was easy.

DOCTOR: And now both sides have hostages.

Underground

Amy is trapped in a perspex box.

AMY: Let me out! I am feisty!

Church... dungeon?

The Silurian is chained to a wall.

DOCTOR: You’re beautiful. What’s your name? Do you like Italian food? I know a great little place –

SILURIAN: I am Alaya. The humans attacked us with their mighty drill, and now we shall wipe them from the planet.

DOCTOR: So can I have Amy back?

ALAYA: No.

Church

DOCTOR: Right everyone. Basically I’m going to go down to the Silurians’ underground lair and negotiate Amy’s release. If there’s time, I may also dissuade them from annihilating the human race.

EVERYONE: Excellent.

DOCTOR: In the meantime, please look after Alaya; we have dinner plans.

TARDIS exterior

MEERA SYAL: Doctor, can I come on this madcap adventure?

DOCTOR: No way.

MEERA SYAL: But I’m BBC royalty!

DOCTOR: Fine.

TARDIS interior

MEERA SYAL: Wow. Was that gramophone thing there last week?

DOCTOR: God knows. Hang on – we’re being hijacked! They’re pulling the TARDIS down into the Earth. I can’t stop it!

The Doctor and Meera Syal stagger around the TARDIS. Whee!

Church dungeon

Rory, Ambrose and Tony enter cautiously. Alaya rises to her feet, still chained to the wall.

ALAYA: Gaze upon my reptilian beauty and despair, puny humans!

RORY: Don’t worry, we’re going to look after you until the Doctor gets back. Can we get you something to drink? Or a moist towelette?

ALAYA: I predict that one of you will kill me before the end of the next episode.

ME: Bet it’s Tony.

Church corridor

Tony stumbles into the corridor alone. There’s an old mirror propped up against the wall; he slumps to the ground, facing it. As he pulls aside his shirt collar, we see that his skin is covered in thick green veins around the place where the Silurian licked him earlier. Blargh! I’d keep that to myself if I were you, Tony.

TARDIS interior

The TARDIS comes to a halt. The Doctor and Meera Syal fall to the ground.

MEERA SYAL: Where are we?

DOCTOR: *gets up and flings the TARDIS door open*

Underground

They exit the TARDIS and find themselves in an echoing tunnel.

DOCTOR: Well, this is nice.

Silurian lab

Amy awakes. She is strapped to an upright table. I like her boots. There’s someone next to her. It’s Mwlclap! Oh, he’s strapped to a table too.

MWLCLAP: Don’t struggle. They’re about to dissect you, and it’ll hurt like hell.

AMY: Thanks, you’ve been a great comfort.

SILURIAN SCIENTIST: Behold my giant syringe!

Underground

DOCTOR: Let me know if you spot a Silurian settlement. There’ll probably be a few dwellings, maybe a Nandos, that type of thing.

SILURIAN CITY: *is massive*

MEERA SYAL: Okay.

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★
A fun Doctor Who frolic, but I feel it’s all been a long set-up for what looks to be a fantastic episode next week. I’m a bit worried about Rory; he’s cramping Amy’s style and pulls the Doctor up on his mistakes more often than anyone else. He’s got to go, I just hope it’s not in a tragically terminal fashion. Also, I can only apologise for the Ood at the top. I tried to make him look cute, but he looks like a confused man eating spaghetti.

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★
This is not really a verdict on this particular episode as such, but on this whole series. Forced to pick just one word, I'd go for 'fresh'; it just feels so invigorated – great lead, good (ur-) stories, smart use of budget (I'd always hated the overreaching wobbly sets and make-up, though I know it was part of the charm) and a well-pitched, well-used score throughout. Having been antipathetic towards Who in the past, I do now genuinely look forward to new episodes. What was a chore – watching it with Jenny – is now a joy. Huzzah! (This episode wasn't tremendous, but the wit and freshness made it eminently watchable.)

Did you enjoy the episode? Got any crackpot theories to share? Let me know in the comments!

You can follow me on Twitter for a weekly Whocap heads-up.

Whocap 6: Great Uncle Doctor

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-05-09T10:09:00+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Amy confessed that she was supposed to be marrying Rory instead of slouching around the TARDIS being underwhelmed by everything. The boy drank four glasses of wine and downloaded the Total Wipeout application form. Click to get up to speed with episode 5 or whizz back through episodes 4, 3, 2, 1. Go baby, go baby, go! Don’t upset the rhythm, though.

16th Century Venice, House of ~~Volturi~~ Calvierri

Sinister-yet-foxy lady Rosanna is seated on a throne, her sinister-yet-dashing son Francesco by her side.

FRANCESCO: We could’ve easily got a throne for me too. I’m just saying.

ROSANNA: Why don’t you sit on my lap?

FRANCESCO: Er, we need to get you out a bit more. What about evening classes? Or yoga?

Gondola jockey Guido arrives with his daughter Isabella. I know. At least it wasn’t Renesmee. They are escorted by Rosanna’s hilariously behatted steward.

GUIDO: Please accept my daughter into your school of vampirism. I am but a humble boat builder and Hogwarts fees are a bitch.

ROSANNA: She looks delicious, by which I mean delightful. Done!

GUIDO: Right. Bye then, Isabella. Do your homework! *leaves*

ISABELLA: Wonderful. So who do I talk to about my timetable and –

FRANCESCO: *surprise vamp teeth*

ISABELLA: Argh!

Rory’s stag night, in a pub

Rory and his chums are enjoying the sweetest stag night in history. Rory is making a tipsy phone call to Amy’s answer machine while his mates play a friendly game of pool. No one is throwing up, crying, or groping a barmaid. Everyone is wearing really fantastic t-shirts.

RORY: (on phone) Amy! Ahluvyu! Look, thur’z acake!

A giant cake is indeed wheeled into shot while David Rose’s The Stripper instrumental starts up. See, even the stripper music is sweet! Surely real strippers jump out of cakes to Dirrty or Paranoid Android or something. Why yes, many of my musical references are at least eight years old.

DOCTOR: *bursts out of cake*

STAG PARTY: *look crestfallen*

DOCTOR: Rory, your fiancee is dangerously attracted to my wonky alien face and delightful bow tie. You must join us in the TARDIS immediately so I can subject you to my experimental couples counselling techniques.

RORY: ...

CREDITS

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: I am welding the TARDIS!

AMY: Doctor, what the hell is going on? I thought you were going to tell us why I’m so very SOOPER SPESHOL in this complex story arc.

DOCTOR: What? No, forget about that. Instead, let’s all go on an awkward group date to vampire-infested Venice. There’s nothing like a bit of mortal peril to reinvigorate a relationship!

RORY: I already know things about the TARDIS.

VIEWERS: What, did you Google it?

16th Century Venice

DOCTOR: Here we are! You two go off and have fun while I stare at these creepy schoolgirls.

The creepy schoolgirls cross the square in long frocks and veils. Guido appears, running up and lifting their veils in search of Isabella. Poor Guido.

GUIDO: Isabella? Isabella, it’s me!

ISABELLA: I am confused.

CREEPY GIRLS: *scary teeth*

GUIDO: WTF?

FRACESCO: Mine is an evil cape!

Venetian alley

DOCTOR: Excuse me sir! Why are you trying to get your daughter out of that totally creepy school? I mean, the uniforms and everything seem nice enough.

GUIDO: But the school turns the girls into something evil. And the orthodontistry leaves a lot to be desired.

Courtyard, House of Calvierri

Rosanna is drinking from a large pitcher, attended by her steward.

FRANCESCO: Mother! We were accosted in the street again! Surely we have converted enough creepy girls; it’s time to introduce them to my brothers.

ROSANNA: Not now, darling, I am hydrating. Come and lounge in my lap.

FRANCESCO: But isn’t that a bit ... oh, alright.

Venetian avenue of betrayal

RORY: So, have you missed me?

AMY: No. I do like your gilet, though.

Rory and Amy are horsing around taking digital photos, which is a fantastic idea. Why have none of the other companions taken photos? You’d think Martha’s Facebook page would be all ‘Here’s me on the moon LOL’. Anyway, they hear a bloodcurdling scream and run towards it to find Francesco sucking the blood from a flower seller.

FRANCESCO: Well, this is awkward.

AMY and RORY: ...

FRANCESCO: *walks off and disappears*

Gates, House of Calvierri

GUIDO: Let me in! Isabella!

INCONGRUOUSLY COCKNEY GUARD: Yer not comin’ in mate, get aht of it!

The Doctor slips around to the side entrance and breaks in with his sonic screwdriver. Handy!

Scene we’ve all seen in the unending tide of promotional television appearances by Matt Smith

The Doctor is admiring himself in a small mirror in a stone chamber. A bunch of creepy schoolgirls appear behind him, talking in unison.

CREEPY GIRLS: We are the creepy girls. Ooh, touch our teeth.

DOCTOR: Look, my library card has Hartnell on it!

CREEPY GIRLS: We are so going to kill you.

DOCTOR: *runs away*

Guido’s house

DOCTOR: We need to get back into that school, rescue Isabella and find out what those vamps want from Venice. Ideas?

GUIDO: There is a tunnel that leads into the school, but it ends in a locked trapdoor.

AMY: Why don’t I pretend to be a potential creepy schoolgirl and infiltrate the building? I could let you guys in!

DOCTOR: Other ideas?

GUIDO: What about my gunpowder stash? I keep it right here, directly opposite my roaring fire.

RORY: This whole scenario is MENTAL.

VIEWERS: Rory, you’re twice the viewer proxy Amy will ever be. Go Team Rory!

House of Calvierri

Rosanna is back on her throne with Francesco at her side. Amy and Rory are in period clothing, pretending to be brother and sister.

RORY: I’m a gondola... driver. Please can Amy join your special vamp school? Look, we’ve got references on psychic stationery!

ROSANNA: Interesting. We’ll take her, by which I mean we’ll slowly drain her blood in a weird green room in a few scenes’ time.

RORY: Excellent. Bye then!

A gondola, night

Guido is wearing Rory’s fantastic stag t-shirt and, er, driving the gondola. That shirt looks good on everyone! I’ve got serious shirt envy.

DOCTOR: I’m sure she’ll be fine.

RORY: Don’t talk to me, tweedypits. This is the worst stag night ever.

GUIDO: Here’s the start of the tunnel. Be sure to take this flaming torch for maximum drama.

Courtyard, House of Calvierri

Amy creeps into the courtyard and unlocks the trapdoor. Good work, Amy!

STEWARD: Stop right there, missy.

AMY: Damn!

Weird green room

Amy is hustled into the room by the steward. She is surrounded by Rosanna and all of the creepy schoolgirls.

ROSANNA: Psychic paper? I can spot it a mile away, you fool.

Courtyard, House of Calvierri

The Doctor and Rory climb out of the trapdoor and look for Amy as arranged.

RORY: Amy? Where is she? I can’t see a thing. Is that an ultraviolet lamp in your pocket, Doctor, or –

DOCTOR: Yes it is. Portable sunlight! Remember that, kids.

RORY: Christ, look at these desiccated human remains. What happened?

DOCTOR: The vamps have removed all the fluids from these bodies. So they’re not really vamps, they’re something else.

Weird green room

ROSANNA: Where are you from? Where did you get that psychic paper? Ryman?

FRANCESCO: Mother, let’s just start the vamping process!

Amy is strapped into a chair and hooked up to a drip. Rosanna gets her teeth out and bites her neck. Oh no!

ROSANNA: Ahh, refreshing. Don’t worry Amy, all we’re going to do is slowly drain your blood, replace it with ours, turn you into a hideous creature and throw you to our thrashing army of sex-starved canal beasts.

AMY: *kicks Rosanna in the hip*

Rosanna screams and her image flickers to reveal her true form beneath; a hideous fish-lizard monster. Eurgh! She fiddles with a little perception filter strapped to her dress and looks humanish again. She is mortified and runs off with Francesco.

ISABELLA: Hi there! Let me unstrap you and we can run like the wind in our lovely nighties.

AMY: Hurry up!

Courtyard, House of Calvierri

The creepy girls have caught up with Rory and the Doctor. Exciting!

CREEPY GIRLS: Who are you?

DOCTOR: Stay back, or I’ll swipe at you with my ultraviolet light.

DOCTOR and RORY: *run away*

Corridor, House of Calvierri

DOCTOR: Amy!

AMY: Doctor, they’re aliens!

RORY: We’re trapped!

ISABELLA: This way!

CREEPY GIRLS: Hiss! Growl! Etc!

The gang run back into the tunnel, pursued by Francesco and the creepy girls. The Doctor waves his ultraviolet light at them every so often to keep them at bay.

Secret door, House of Calvierri

Isabella leads everyone to safety as Guido ushers them into his gondola.

DOCTOR: Hurry up, Isabella.

ISABELLA: The sun! It burns! *cowers*

The creepy girls grab her and pull her back inside the building. The Doctor tries to break back in but is electrocuted by their security system.

AMY: Doctor, are you alright?

DOCTOR: Apparently.

Jacuzzi of doom

ROSANNA: Guards, throw her into the jacuzzi and let my fish-lizard kin drown her in lacklustre bubbles.

ISABELLA: *drowns*

VIEWERS: Harsh.

House of Calvierri

ROSANNA: Who are you? Get out of my throne. We’ve only got one.

DOCTOR: You’re a long way from home, fish-lizard. Why’s that?

ROSANNA: We are refugees fleeing the silence. Our planet was swallowed whole by one of those scary cracks, so we came to earth to sink Venice, make a home and preserve our fishy gene pool in an underwater city using converted humans.

DOCTOR: Right. So where’s Isabella?

ROSANNA: We killed her by jacuzzi.

DOCTOR: What? I’m leaving. *leaves*

Courtyard, House of Calvierri

ROSANNA: Action stations, creepy girls! Run after and slaughter the Doctor and his little friends while I activate my amazing Venice-flooding rain device!

CREEPY GIRLS: Let’s roll.

Guido’s house

DOCTOR: Let’s all sit down while I explain the events of the last 30 minutes.

CREEPY GIRLS: *burst in through windows*

RORY: Vampire space fish-lizards incoming!

EVERYONE: *runs away*

GUIDO: Wait, I’m going back!

EVERYONE: Are you insane?

As the gang escape the house, Guido runs back. Luring the creepy girls back to the kitchen, he ignites his stockpile of gunpowder with a candle. Wow, Guido is hardcore.

GUIDO’S HOUSE: *explodes*

House of Calvierri

Rosanna has activated some alien technology in the building’s bell tower that pours clouds and lightning into the atmosphere over Venice, creating a huge electrical storm complete with mini earthquakes. Let’s just go with it.

DOCTOR: Amy and Rory, your job is to destroy the circuit boards of this crazy weather machine while I scale the bell tower in a slightly 1960s Batman fashion.

RORY: Wilco.

Bell tower crazy weather machine
The Doctor switches off the machine with a handy little switch.

SUN: *shines*

AMY and RORY: *cheer and hug*

DOCTOR: Thanks! We certainly got over the deaths of Isabella and Guido quickly.

Jacuzzi of doom
ROSANNA: (to water) The creepy girls I created are dead. Our vampire fish-lizard race is doomed.

DOCTOR: Don’t do it! This episode already has an unusually high death count!

ROSANNA: *jumps into water in her human guise and is attacked by her fishy sons*

DOCTOR: :(

TARDIS exterior

DOCTOR: Right, now that you two are rock-solid, let’s get you back to your wedding.

AMY: *looks dubious* Why doesn’t Rory just accompany us on some more exciting adventures.

VIEWERS: Yes, why not? That worked so well with Rose and Mickey. /sarcasm

DOCTOR: Fair enough.

AMY: Hooray! *disappears into TARDIS*

VENICE: *falls completely silent*

DOCTOR: Rory. Have you noticed how silent it’s just gone?

RORY: And your point is?

DOCTOR: Oh, nothing. Let’s get going; next week looks brilliant.

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★
It’s hard to make fun of these episodes; they’re just too good! The special effects were a bit ropey in places, but – hey! – that just follows in the grand old tradition of ropey Doctor Who effects. Rory’s great fun, and there was lots of properly funny dialogue too. Am I the only person that would quite like to see the Doctor with a permanent male companion for a while?

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★
No you’re not; I’m still on Team Wilf. Rollickin’ ep, though. Genuinely witty script, terrifically delivered by Smith.

What did you think of the episode? Let me know in the comments!

Whocap 5 (Abridged): Comfy chairs

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-05-03T18:58:35+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
River Song was sassy, the Doctor did a TARDIS impression, Amy was unimpressed and those poor soldier clerics were doomed. Clicky-clicky to catch up with episode 4, or go back and relive episode 1, episode 2 and episode 3. Go on, there are pictures and everything!

Cavern of imminent death

The flash from the exploding gravity globe fades and everyone staggers around after their cute hokey-cokey jump.

AMY: Where are we?

DOCTOR: We are standing upside down on the crashed spaceship using the still-functioning gravity field, much like that Eddie Izzard sketch about Mars that doesn’t seem to be on YouTube. Now, keep looking up while I open this hatch; there are a bunch of scary stone angels climbing after us.

AMY: So they can’t fly?

DOCTOR: No. Yes. I don’t think so. Now let’s all climb into the ship and run like the bejesus.

ANGELS: *look menacing*

Byzantium corridor of cheap-but-great effects

DOCTOR: In order to get us through this locked door, I must switch off all the lights.

AMY: But that’s madness! If we can’t see the angels, they can catch us and snap us all like Twiglets!

FATHER OCTAVIAN: Doctor, my clerics and I will provide flashes of machine gun fire in order that the viewers get terrifying glimpses of the angels approaching us in the darkness.

DOCTOR: *switches off lights*

FATHER OCTAVIAN: Fire! Fire! Fire!

ANGELS: *scary! scary! scary!*

VIEWERS: This is just awesome.

Narnia

DOCTOR: Amy, I’m afraid there’s an angel living inside your brain and you must close your eyes this instant or die a horrible death.

AMY: Awkward.

DOCTOR: Don’t worry, I’m going to run off with the only other recurring character in this series and leave you in the care of these anonymous clerics. In the dark, angel-infested forest. With your eyes closed.

AMY: :(

DOCTOR: You need to start trusting me, even though I abandoned you without explanation as a child, rendering you permanently psychologically damaged and unable to commit to your boyfriend.

AMY: :(

Byzantium flight deck

RIVER: Doctor, I’m sure if I get these transporters working I can save everyone from the angels!

DOCTOR: Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll use my radio to offer uselessly disheartening guidance to my blind-or-dead companion and her fearless protector clerics.

Narnia

AMY: What’s up in the forest, guys?

CLERIC: The angels, they’re getting closer!

OTHER CLERIC: They’re turning out the lights!

AMY: Um, you could’ve lied.

A bright light shines through the trees; it’s a crack that matches the one in Amy’s wall! The angels flee.

JITTERY CLERIC: Philip, Crispin, go and have a closer look at that dazzling light.

PHILIP and CRISPIN: *run off and lose radio contact*

CLERIC PEDRO: Sir, I’m just going to have a look at that light too. *runs off*

AMY: Why don’t you wait til Philip and Crispin come back?

JITTERY CLERIC: Who are Philip and Crispin? Keep your eyes shut, missy, this is man talk. Right, hang on to this communicator, I’ve got to get a look at that light.

AMY: What are you, moths?

Byzantium flight deck

DOCTOR: Octavian’s dead.

RIVER: Ah well.

DOCTOR: Amy? What’s happening in Narnia?

AMY: (on radio) Swings and roundabouts, Doctor. I can’t see, an existence-cancelling crack has swallowed my bodyguards, and there’s a swarm of murderous statues roaming about. But my nail varnish is nice this week.

DOCTOR: Right. Well, just pretend you can see and the angels will almost certainly be fooled.

Narnia

AMY: *falls down*

ANGELS: *actually move!*

CHILDREN EVERYWHERE: *are scarred*

Byzantium flight deck

RIVER: What’s that big time crack going to do?

DOCTOR: It’s basically going to swallow time whole, it’ll be like the universe never existed.

RIVER: ...

DOCTOR: But forget about that, I’ve got to get back to Amy with some more useless directions.

ME: Doctor Who sat-nav voice? You know it makes sense.

River mends the transporter in the nick of time and zaps Amy out of harm’s way.

DOCTOR: River Song, I could bloody kiss you!

VIEWERS: ‘Bloody’?!

DOCTOR: The angels have drained the last of the power, which means the shield is going to open dramatically to reveal a host of deadly angels!

SHIELD: *opens*

ANGELS: *look dramatic*

DOCTOR: What do you want, angels?

ANGEL BOB: Doctor, if a masterful lord of time such as your good self would throw himself into the big time crack, the universe would be saved for a while. Thoughts?

RIVER: Never! Throw me in!

DOCTOR: No, you have to come back in a future episode to help us meet our agreed BBC sassy targets for 2010. Why don’t we chuck all the angels in instead? Hold on, everyone!

The angels drain the last of the power from the Byzantium, and the gravity fails. The Doctor, Amy and River hang on to useful console handles while the angels tumble into the big time crack below.

EVERYONE: Yay!

CRACK: *seals up*

Suspiciously quarry-like planet

AMY: So I can open my eyes now?

DOCTOR: Yes, as the angels fell into the big time crack, the one in your head never existed.

AMY: But how can I still remember it?

DOCTOR: Let’s not worry about that. Oh look, there’s River.

RIVER: Bye everyone. I’m going back to the prison I apparently came from. *beams up*

DOCTOR: Bye then.

AMY: Hey Doctor, let’s go back to mine. WINK WINK.

Amy’s bedroom, the night before her wedding

AMY’S DRESS: You’re back! I’ve been so lonely! The cute Doctor dolls are no company at all.

DOCTOR: What is happening?

AMY: Get out of those braces, you delicious, slightly foetal-looking hunk of Gallifreyan deliciousness!

DOCTOR: But I have at least one granddaughter! And she’s older than you!

AMY: Physics, schmysics, what does it matter so long as you love your companion-who-has-slightly-weird-daddy-issues?

VIEWERS: Make it stop!

DOCTOR: Wait!

ME: Thank Christ.

DOCTOR: Duck ponds, time cracks, space whales, base codes; it’s all about you, Amy, and I must hustle you into the TARDIS before the clock hits midnight and this outrageous seduction scene goes any further.

VIEWERS: Hooray!

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★★
That was fantastic! Even the snogging, which I hated, was preferable to all the soppy longing that Rose and Martha got up to. I like your style, Amy! And your nail varnish.

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★★
I have observed before that the correct blood-alcohol level for watching Doctor Who can be accurately judged when, during the preceding Total Wipeout programme, you think that you could bloody well do that assault course yourself. It’s possible that I nailed it even more precisely this week, as I apparently got round to downloading the application form, but still, that shouldn’t take away from the fact that this was a hella good episode. The kissy-kissy actually made sense – I’m glad they finally confronted it head-on instead of having Billie Piper making lisping moon-eyes at the gurning Eccleston – and the simple wonder of the gravity trick was pitch-perfect. And I say it again: Smith rulez teh Who.

What did you think? Let me know in the comments!

Whocap 4: Angel delight

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-04-25T17:26:50+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
Loads happened! Clickety-click to get up to speed with episode 1, episode 2 and episode 3. Or, you know, don’t.

Garden of wondrous illusion

Fleetingly popular hip-hop vocalist Mike Skinner spins on the spot, dazzled by his surroundings. He has a lipstick smear on the corner of his mouth. A man in a tuxedo approaches, followed by two military blokes.

MIKE SKINNER: Tangerine trees! Marmalade skies!

TUXEDO MAN: (Examining lipstick smear) Hallucinogenic lipstick. You are a crap guard, Mike Skinner.

Spaceship corridor of crushing reality

MIKE SKINNER: Kaleidoscope eyes!

TUXEDO MAN: She’s here. And I’ll wager she’s wearing magnificent shoes.

Auxiliary spaceship corridor

A sexy lady in a pair of truly magnificent shoes struts toward a locked door. She shoots the lock with a tiny gun and the door swings open to reveal a weird black box. At the flick of the switch, the tiny gun turns into a gas torch. Exciting!

12,000 years later (seriously)

Amy and the Doctor are exploring the biggest museum ever. Amy is bored. Get a grip, Amy!

AMY: Can we go now? I want to see a planet.

DOCTOR: We can’t afford planets, Amy, just quarries and old factories. Blimey, look at this exhibit! It’s a Home Box!

AMY: Which is? Please explain quickly before I roll my eyes right out of my skull.

DOCTOR: It’s like the black box on an aeroplane, except it’s for spaceships. When the ship crashes, it finds its way home. This one is intriguing as someone has burnt a message on to it in Gallifreyan, the language of the mighty, mighty Time Lords.

AMY: What does it say?

DOCTOR: It says ‘Hello sweetie’. We must steal this priceless exhibit immediately!

AMY: Cheese it!

The Doctor and Amy run to the TARDIS, escaping the bumbling museum guards.

Spaceship corridor

It’s Dr ~~Corday~~ River Song! She’s cornered by Tuxedo Guy and his military blokes.

RIVER: *winks* I am sassy, guys. SASSY.

TUXEDO GUY: Stop right there, Dr Song. My jittery military blokes are going to shoot you right out of those amazing shoes. And then I’m going to wear them and dance around like a princess.

RIVER: Have you any idea what’s down in the vaults of this ship? Why don’t you ponder it while I recite a list of coordinates to the Home Box?

TARDIS interior

The Doctor and Amy watch the security footage of River and Tuxedo Guy on the Home Box.

AMY: Well, she seems... sassy.

DOCTOR: I’ve got to enter those coordinates! Apparently a Fawlty Towers-style bell will help.

Spaceship corridor

RIVER: Well, it’s been fab, but now I have to open this airlock, fly through the vacuum of space in a tunnel of air and land in the magically-appearing TARDIS.

TUXEDO GUY: Good luck with that.

River flies from the airlock and lands in the TARDIS.

TARDIS interior

RIVER: Follow that ship!

GROOVY NEW CREDITS

TARDIS interior

River Song pilots the TARDIS like a pro, which makes the Doctor sulk.

AMY: How come she can fly the TARDIS better than you?

DOCTOR: Shut up.

RIVER: My sassiness cannot be contained. Let’s go outside.

Suspiciously quarry-like planet

The Doctor, Amy and River look upon the flaming wreckage of the Byzantium – the spaceship River escaped from. The ship was sabotaged and has crashed into an abandoned temple, with no survivors EXCEPT ONE!

RIVER: There’s a thing in that ship that can’t ever die.

BRASS SECTION: *ominous parp*

RIVER: Allow me to summon my crack squad of apparating clerical squaddies.

CLERICAL SQUADDIES: Good evening!

FATHER OCTAVIAN: Doctor! Sir, I’m so glad you’re here. River Song has been helping us track this Weeping Angel thing. Do you know anything about them?

DOCTOR: WTF, didn’t you watch Blink? We’re all going to die!

AMY: I am curiously unperturbed by this information.

Temple interior

FATHER OCTAVIAN: *points to map* So we’re going to work our way up through the catacombs of doom towards the crashed ship then blast our way through and neutralise the angel. I’ve got a bottle of Febreze that’ll do the job nicely. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll go and help the clerics with their game of Mouse Trap. *salutes and leaves*

AMY: Doctor, you let him call you ‘sir’. You never do that.

VIEWERS: How would you know?!

AMY: Is River Song your wife in the future?

DOCTOR: Probably. I was gutted when she died last series, but now I seem to hate her a bit.

AMY: Interesting.

The littlest spaceship, interior

Everyone gathers around a screen showing footage of the angel with its back to the camera. The footage is a four second loop that flutters at the end before starting again.

RIVER: Try to follow my exposition while being distracted by my foundation tide-mark. Basically, the angel is a stone statue when you look at it, but when you turn your back it attacks, sending you back in time and living on your potential energy.

DOCTOR: And the angel’s getting terrifyingly strong as it feeds off radiation leaking from the crashed Byzantium.

AMY: *yawns* I think I’ll just hang out in here while you discuss your plan further.

Temple interior

DOCTOR: River, who built these catacombs?

RIVER: The long-extinct indigenous people of this planet, whose name I shall now mumble.

DOCTOR: Will I need to remember this?

RIVER: Frustratingly, yes.

The littlest spaceship, interior

Amy looks at the screen to see that the angel footage looks different. The angel’s face has turned slightly.

AMY: Okay, that’s weird.

Amy glances away. When she looks back the angel has turned completely and moved closer to the camera.

AMY: But it’s just a recording... *clicks remote control ineffectually*

ANGEL: *looks scary*

AMY: *looks down at power cable*

VIEWERS: OMG stop looking away, you fool!

ANGEL: *is very close to screen*

AMY: ARGH!

Drama! The image of the angel escapes the TV, locks Amy inside the ship and enters a tense stare-off.

DOCTOR: (shouting through door) Don’t look it in the eye!

AMY: *looks at angel’s eyes*

Waiting for the flicker in the looped recording, Amy manages to switch off the screen and thus the angel. Crikey.

RIVER and THE DOCTOR: *burst in* Are you alright?

AMY: Yep, I’ve just got something in my eye.

STRING SECTION: *eerie pizzicato*

Catacombs of doom

The Doctor, River, Amy, Father Octavian and his band of soldier clerics stand in the darkness wondering which way to go. The Doctor kicks a gravity globe high into the cavernous space to reveal OMG STATUES EVERYWHERE! But it’s okay, they’re just normal statues, sculpted by the temple-builders ages ago.

FATHER OCTAVIAN: Inspect every one of these statues until we find the weeping angel!

CLERIC CHRISTIAN: Sir, can Angelo and I investigate this creepy chamber?

FATHER OCTAVIAN: I can see no reason that would be hazardous. Amy, should we be concerned that a pile of gravel fell out of your eye when you rubbed it just then?

AMY: It’s probably nothing.

STATUES: *loom*

Creepy chamber

Clerics Christian and Angelo are stalking about in the dark with guns and torches. They split up and Christian’s torch begins to flicker. Oh no!

CLERIC CHRISTIAN: Dude, hunting statues is lame. Angelo?

ANGEL: *surprise scaryface*

CLERIC CHRISTIAN: Wah!

Creepy chamber anteroom

Cleric Angelo is looking a bit bewildered by the whole business. His radio crackles.

CLERIC ANGELO: Christian, where are you?

CLERIC CHRISTIAN: (on radio) Come and see this, you totally won’t regret it.

CLERIC ANGELO: *regrets it*

Maze of the dead

The maze is lined with statues, the gang shine their torches at them, checking as they walk.

DOCTOR: You know, I met the people who built this maze. They were great! They had two heads, which is handy because – hang on, these statues are one-headed.

AMY: So?

DOCTOR: Don’t panic, but all of the hundreds of statues we’ve walked past this episode are actually really old and weak weeping angels. They will almost certainly kill us dead.

AMY: I shall try and muster up some alarm.

Corridor of loneliness
Cleric Bob stands alone, guarding the entrance to the maze.

CLERIC ANGELO: (on radio) Bob, come and see this.

VIEWERS: Noooo!

Maze of the dead

DOCTOR: I have deduced that the Byzantium crash was a rescue mission for all these angels. The leaking radiation is reviving them. We’re doomed!

CLERIC BOB: (on radio) Doctor? I’ve been killed by the angel from the wreckage. It snapped my neck, which seems a bit unfair, and now it’s using my voice to talk to you. About me. Weird, huh? Also, I AM COMING FOR YOU. Sorry about that.

DOCTOR: Everyone run like the wind!

EVERYONE EXCEPT AMY: *runs*

AMY: Doctor, sorry to be a bore, but my hand has turned to stone. It’s stuck to the wall.

DOCTOR: What? No it hasn’t. That angel you looked at earlier has messed with your mindcogs.

AMY: I can’t move it. Run! Save yourself. I’ll stay here and be tearily stoic rather than hysterically out of my mind, which is how any normal person would react.

DOCTOR: *bites Amy’s hand*

AMY: *jerks her hand away*

DOCTOR: Ta-daa!

AMY: You utter oddball.

ANGELS: *are scarily close*

TORCHES: *flicker*

DOCTOR: Run!

Cavern beneath crashed Byzantium

FATHER OCTAVIAN: Our only way out now is to go through the wreckage.

RIVER: But that’s thirty feet up! What are we going to do?

CLERIC EXPOSITION: Sir, the torches are flickering! We need to be able to see the angels to stop them! They’re approaching from all sides!

RIVER: Ideas, Doctor?

FATHER BOB: (on radio) You’re trapped and about to die. Apologies again for the inconvenience.

DOCTOR: Call this a trap? I’ll tell you this, Bob, this is a rubbish trap. Do you know why? Because there’s one thing you don’t put in a trap. One thing you never put in a trap, if you have any sense. If you want to live to see tomorrow, there’s one thing you never put in a trap and do you know what that thing is?

ANIMATED GRAHAM NORTON: Helloo! Watch my thinly veiled advertisement for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s latest stage show, in which we cast grown women dressed like tarts in the role of Kansas girlchild Dorothy Gale! Toodles! *dances off*

ENGLISH VIEWERS: *complain to BBC en masse*

DOCTOR: Right, when I shoot this gravity globe, jump.

EVERYONE: In the absence of a sensible plan, we will comply.

DOCTOR: *shoots globe*

GLOBE: *explodes*

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★★
Yay, cliffhanger! Scary monsters, timebending action sequences and properly funny dialogue; what more could you want from Doctor Who? I can’t shake the impression that Amy’s just not shocked enough by the things that happen to her, but I’m hoping that maybe she’s got a secret up her sleeve that would explain it.

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★
I’m with El Cobbett on this one. The great beauty of the angels was their simplicity – it’s a brilliant brainworm of an idea, the kind of really special little idea that feels like a kind of ur-story – and by mucking about with them with the whole “anything that takes the image of an angel becomes itself an angel” schtick robs them of some of their power. Regardless, a top episode, and I’m rapidly coming to the (worthless, given my traditional antipathy to all things Who) conclusion that Matt Smith is the best Doctor in the history of ever.

EDIT: I forgot to say ‘What did you think? Let me know below!’ Also, if you missed last week’s comments section, it was hilarious. Check it out!

Cat in lieu

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-04-24T22:04:06+01:00

Hi there! I’ve got some Actual Work to do this weekend, so the most-exciting-yet Whocap will be live on Tuesday. Ooh, come back then and we can discuss Weeping Angels, sexy shoes and that Graham Norton graphic.

Whocap 3: The biscuit strategy

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-04-17T20:20:28+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
The new-faced Doctor met Amy Pond as a child, then twice more as an adult. They had an adventure with a giant eyeball and then one with a Star Whale. Amy wore provocative outfits and the remodelled TARDIS was a bit glitchy.

Map Room, Cabinet War Rooms

Air raid sirens! Stiff upper lips! Dapper uniforms! It’s Blitzkrieg, baby, and I’m geeking out on the settee.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: Damn those Nazis! London’s getting flattened and no one’s seen a banana since 1939.

STOIC COMMS GIRL: I represent the humanitarian horror of war. Just forget about me and enjoy the Daleks.

MILITARY STRATEGISTS: Let’s all play Dalek Risk to take our minds off things.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: No! It’s time to use our new secret weapon!

CREDITS

Soldier-packed corridor, Cabinet War Rooms

The TARDIS lands. The Doctor and Amy emerge to find themselves surrounded by rifle-wielding soldiers and Winston Churchill.

DOCTOR: Amy, permit me to introduce you to Winston Churchill, the noted historical figure who’s been dead for decades, brought to you by the magic of time travel!

AMY: Whatever.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: Hello Doctor! Why did it take you a month to return my timebending phone call?

DOCTOR: Apparently I’m having TARDIS trouble; it took me twelve years to stage an intervention on poor Amy’s neglectful childhood. Let’s hope this minor glitch causes no problems in a future climactic series finale.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: Let’s go up on the roof to see my new secret weapon.

ME: They should go to the cafe; you can get Dig for Victory soup and the menu’s like a ration book.

Bombwatch rooftop

BILL PATERSON: War! What is it good for? Manufacturing ~~Daleks~~ Bracewell Ironsides!

DALEK: HOW DO YOU DO?

DOCTOR: You idiots, that’s a Dalek!

DALEK: I AM A HELPFUL WAR ROBOT. CHECK OUT MY UTILITY KNAPSACK.

DOCTOR: Lies! He’ll fry us all like a side of bacon!

BILL PATERSON: Nonsense. Now let’s get back inside for your scheduled manic episode, Doctor, I’m sure no one will want to miss it.

Dalek teashop, Cabinet War Rooms

DOCTOR: Amy, tell Winston Churchill that Daleks are an insanely dangerous race of alien beings.

AMY: What’s a Dalek?

DOCTOR: Remember! I saved the Earth from them last series? John Barrowman was there?

AMY: I’m drawing a blank. Please don’t let Barrowman be in this series.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: Dude, chillax. Bill Paterson designed these to help us fight Hitler and be helpful around the house.

DALEK: TEA?

DOCTOR: Argh! *dalekspannersmash*

DALEK: £I*&(@*£($*)&@!

EVERYONE: Stoppit!

DOCTOR: *dalekboot*

DALEK: SO YOU DON’T WANT TEA?

DOCTOR: You are a Dalek!

DALEKS: /helpfulrobots LOL, FOOLED YOU. WE ARE DALEKS, DALEKS RULE SUPREME, STAND ASIDE PUNY HUMANS. PREPARE TO BE EXTERMINATED.

SOLDIERS: Stop right there!

DALEKS: *zap soldiers dead*

BILL PATERSON: ...

DALEK: VICTORY! VICTORY! VICTORY! AND BILL PATERSON IS A DALEK ANDROID. SEE?

A Dalek shoots Bill Paterson’s hand off to reveal a tangle of crackling wires and stuff. Everyone exchanges boggled looks and the Daleks beam up to their flying saucer. Hidden behind the MOON! If you’re not enjoying this episode, you need another glass of wine.

DOCTOR: Awkward.

TARDIS exterior, Cabinet War Rooms

AMY: Crikey. So shall we follow the Daleks to their spaceship and fight them with biscuits?

DOCTOR: No. I’ll do the biscuit-fighting on my own. You stay in this enclosed space with Winston Churchill.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: Win!

Dalek spaceship

DOCTOR: Hi there!

DALEKS: IT IS THE DOCTOR. EXTERMINATE! EXTERMIN–

DOCTOR: Wait! One false move and I shall press my TARDIS self-destruct button and blow us all to smithereens. Anyway, I thought I killed you all?

DALEK: A FEW OF US SURVIVED SOMEHOW. ALL WE NEED NOW IS AN EXTERNAL MODERATOR TO CONFIRM THAT WE ARE PROPER DALEKS TO OUR SPECIAL DALEK-MAKING MACHINE AND WE’RE BACK IN BUSINESS.

DOCTOR: Well I already did that back in the War Rooms.

DALEK-MAKING MACHINE: *looks threatening*

DOCTOR: Arse.

DALEK: WITHDRAW, DOCTOR, OR WE DESTROY LONDON.

DOCTOR: With what, plunger-features?

DALEK: DALEKS WILL CLEVERLY SWITCH ON ALL STREETLIGHTS, LEAVING LONDON VULNERABLE TO ATTACK BY GERMAN WARPLANES.

DOCTOR: :(

Bombwatch rooftop

London lights up.

WARDEN: Don’t panic!

EVERYONE: *panics*

Cabinet War Rooms

WINSTON CHURCHILL: We’ve got to switch those lights off.

AMY: What about a missile?

WINSTON CHURCHILL: Into space? Are you mad? Actually, that could work. Let’s ask Bill Paterson to help us.

BILL PATERSON: Sod off, I’m an android and my life is meaningless.

AMY: But we could use your amazing Dalek-style knowledge to tactical advantage!

BILL PATERSON: Okay then. I suppose I could spend ten minutes hacking our Spitfires until they can fly in outer space.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: That is patently ridiculous.

AMY: Do it!

Dalek spaceship

DOCTOR: Turn those lights out, Daleks, or I’m pressing my detonator!

DALEK: LEAVE US ALONE WITH OUR DALEK-MAKING MACHINE AND WE’LL THINK ABOUT IT.

DOCTOR: I won’t let you get away this time!

UK VIEWERS: You so will.

DALEK-MAKING MACHINE: *spits out new colourful Daleks*

iPOD FANS: This seems familiar.

STAR WARS FANS: Are you new?

NEW DALEK: WE HAVE SCANNED YOUR BUTTON; IT IS ACTUALLY A JAMMIE DODGER.

DOCTOR: You make a valid point. *runs to TARDIS*

OTHER NEW DALEK: INCOMING!

Outer space
The Dalek spaceship is suddenly surrounded by Spitfires. It is equal parts brilliant and ridiculous.

THE BOY: They wouldn’t work in a vacuum.

ME: Have some more wine.

SPITFIRE PILOTS: Tally ho! We’ll shoot the pants off these blighters and be home in time for supper! Last one back’s a hairy kipper! Etc!

DALEK SPACESHIP: *shoots all but one of the Spitfires down*

REMAINING PILOT: It’s all down to me. Hold tight, Doctor!

Cabinet War Rooms

MILITARY GUY: Direct hit, sir!

EVERYONE: Yay!

Bombwatch rooftop

London plunged back into darkness.

WARDEN: Phew! *shakes fist at German planes in hilariously 1940s way*

Outer space

REMAINING PILOT: Heads up Doctor, I’m coming back for another attack.

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: Set your machine guns to Jammie and blow these Daleks away!

TARDIS VIEWSCREEN: *crackles to life*

DALEK: (on viewscreen) CALL OFF THAT PILOT, DOCTOR, OR WE’LL EXPLODE BILL PATERSON.

DOCTOR: But he’s one of Scotland’s most beloved character actors!

DALEK: DALEKS CARE NOT FOR SUCCESSFUL ADAPTATIONS OF THE CROW ROAD.

DOCTOR: (on radio) Remaining Spitfire pilot? Go back to Earth immediately.

Cabinet War Rooms

The Doctor returns, runs to the Map Room and punches Bill Paterson in the face. He falls to the ground.

UK VIEWERS: Tennant was never this violent.

DOCTOR: Keep still, Bill Paterson, I need to examine your amazing steampunk chest.

BILL PATERSON’S CHEST: *is steampunky*

AMY: Those chest-lights surely indicate our imminent demise!

DOCTOR: Bill Paterson, tell us of your stolen human memories! This will somehow stop you from exploding like the big android bomb you actually are.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: I don’t understand.

DOCTOR: No one does, let’s just do it and hope for the best.

BILL PATERSON: When I was a kid I lived in a postbox, then my parents died of gout, then I fancied a girl with a crazy name. It was terrible.

AMY: *makes moony eyes*

CHEST BOMB: *deactivates*

Dalek spaceship

DALEK: WTF? BOMB DEACTIVATED! RUN FOR IT!

OTHER DALEKS: YOU WILL NEVER DEFEAT US DOCTOR! WE WILL RETURN! VICTORY! /daleksmacktalk

DALEK SPACESHIP: *flies away*

Cabinet War Rooms

DOCTOR: Nooooo! I can’t believe they’ve got away again.

UK VIEWERS: We totally can.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: Nice work on saving the Earth, though. Cigar?

DOCTOR: I’d love to, but smoking is very wrong, kids.

Bombwatch rooftop

Some military guys and the Warden raise the union flag. Okay.

Cabinet War Rooms

STOIC COMMS GIRL: War is hell.

DOCTOR: Right, I’ve taken out all of the amazing alien technology that made the Spitfires ace and now I’ll be off.

WINSTON CHURCHILL: But why not stay and help? You could save millions of lives and the war would be over in hours!

DOCTOR: There are complex reasons as to why I can’t do that.

Bill Paterson’s android moperoom

BILL PATERSON: I guess you’ll have to switch me off now. After all, I am a piece of mortally dangerous Dalek weaponry.

DOCTOR: Nah, you seem harmless enough. Off you pop!

AMY: I’m sure that decision won’t come back to haunt us. He is Scottish, after all. Like me! Have I mentioned that already?

TARDIS exterior

The Doctor and Amy are ready to leave, but have a quick chinwag outside the TARDIS first.

AMY: Wow, travelling in the TARDIS is kind of dangerous. You’d almost think I’d have asked more questions before hopping aboard.

DOCTOR: Yeah. Weird how you didn’t remember about the Daleks though, wasn’t it?

AMY: Let’s roll.

The TARDIS disappears, revealing a crack in the wall behind it.

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★
Yep, this episode lost it a bit in the second half, but there were some really fun scenes. The WWII-style Daleks were brilliant, and I liked it when Churchill tried to convince the Doctor to help them win the war instead of gap year-ing around time and space seemingly at random. I can’t bring myself to dislike the much-maligned new Daleks, mainly because they look much more spacious for the operator guys inside.

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★
If nothing else, hearing Daleks offer to make A CUP OF TEA means this can never be called a bad episode. Still, a bit messy again, with odd plot decisions; disarming a bomb with Happy Thoughts™ and letting Bill Paterson (sidenote: yay, Bill Paterson!) go is one thing (well, are two things), but choosing to risk the rest of the chuffing universe in order to save the Earth, while consistent with the Doctor's Earth-lovin’ flaw, feels, objectively, daft. And then to allow himself to be convinced that he made the right decision? For shame, Gatiss!

Plus, y'know, iDaleks; felt like it was a huge opportunity – reinventing the Doctor's baddies, FFS – lost. Not cool, not threatening, not especially well done. Pretty rocking score, mind you.

What did you think? Let me know below!

Whocap 2: The hair of an idiot

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-04-09T20:23:32+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
The Doctor regenerated, met ~~stripper~~ kissogram Amy Pond, saved the Earth from death-by-eyeball and got his TARDIS fixed.

Starship UK

Loads of towerblocks trundle through space together, lit with neon lights to tell you they’re KENT or SURREY. The lights flicker. It’s a dystopia, I tell you, a dystopia!

Starship UK classroom of doom

ROBOT TEACHER: WELL DONE, HUMAN CHILDREN.

KIDS: Thanks!

TEST-FAILING BOY: Thanks!

ROBOT TEACHER: NOT YOU, TEST-FAILING BOY! /happyrobot

Starship UK corridor of doom

TEST-FAILING BOY: Wait up, test-passing girl, I’ll catch the FutureTube with you!

TEST-PASSING GIRL: Forget it, loser, you have to catch the next lift to Below for reasons none of us fully understand.

TEST-FAILING BOY: :(

GROOVY NEW CREDITS

TARDIS

Amy hangs out of the TARDIS to experience the joy of weightlessness. The Doctor hangs on to her foot so stop her tumbling into the infinite majesty of creation. Thoughtful.

AMY: This is literally the best thing ever! Also, I hope I’m wearing underpants beneath this flimsy nightgown.

DOCTOR: Is it my turn yet?

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: So it turns out that in the 29th Century, humans have to leave the Earth ~~to giant cockroaches~~ and set sail for distant planets. Let’s check out the Good Ship Home Counties!

AMY: Okay!

DOCTOR: But please remember that as time travellers we must never meddle in the affairs of others.

UK VIEWERS: Since when, Doctor Meddlestein McMeddler?

AMY: Right then, I’ll just go and change into something more suitable –

DOCTOR: NO! There is apparently no time for that.

Starship UK Londonsville

TEST-PASSING GIRL: *cries*

DOCTOR: Amy, follow that girl and find out why she’s crying.

AMY: Okay. What will you be doing?

DOCTOR: Dunno. Looking lanky and noticing that this spaceship has no engine, mostly.

DEMON HEADMASTER: Don’t worry, kids, I’ll explain it all at the end.

Starship UK aristoroom

Fancy bedroom has loads of glasses and a chandelier on the floor. There sits a woman in full 1988 Phantom of the Opera costume, complete with porcelain mask and velour cape.

LIZ 10: Masquerade! Put your faces on parade!

HENCHGUY: Ma’am, the Doctor is in.

LIZ 10: Let’s roll.

Starship UK Soho zone

Test-passing girl notices that Amy’s following her. There follows a brief exchange in which T-PG tells Amy not to break the rules in front of the weird ‘Smiler’ robot henchmen and we are all reminded again that Amy is Scottish.

TEST-PASSING GIRL: Why are you following me?

AMY: What’s behind that roadblock?

TEST-PASSING GIRL: It’s a forbidden tentacle hole and you mustn’t look at it.

AMY: *looks at it*

GIANT TENTACLE: Hi there!

SMILERS: GRR!

The Smilers drug Amy; she passes out.

Starship UK voting chamber of brainfunk

Amy awakes in a chair. In front of her there is a screen and three buttons; PROTEST, RECORD and FORGET.

AMY: WTF?

MAN ON SCREEN: Hey guys. Look, the Starship UK holds a terrible truth that will almost certainly screw you up big time. As a fair and just dystopian government, we’ll show you a short explanatory film and you can decide whether to have your memory wiped or protest and possibly annihilate the human race, mmmkay?

SCREEN: *shows film*

AMY: *is horrified and presses FORGET button*

AMY ON SCREEN: Amy, whatever you do, don’t let the Doctor investigate this ship!

DOCTOR: This ship is odd, isn’t it? Let’s investigate.

AMY: Okay!

AMY ON SCREEN: ...

The Doctor presses the PROTEST button and the floor opens up, tipping the Doctor and Amy into the Below of legend.

Squelchy cavern of Below

AMY: Urgh, what a horrid squelchy cavern.

DOCTOR: Yeah, it’s actually a huge mouth with a tongue and teeth and everything.

STAR WARS FANS: This seems... familiar.

HUGE MOUTH: *vomits*

Corridor of vomit drainage

AMY: Look, there’s another FORGET button here. Let’s just press it and go back to the TARDIS.

DOCTOR: Listen missy, you’re not going to last 13 episodes with that attitude.

SMILERS: *approach menacingly*

LIZ 10: *shoots Smilers deadish*

DOCTOR: Hey, thanks. Are you the Queen?

LIZ 10: Why yes I am! Witness my regal dress and wavering Mockerney accent. Now let’s get back to my aristoroom and get you out of that vomit-soaked blazer, young man.

Starship UK aristoroom

AMY: Those were some of the most absorbent bath towels I have ever encountered! M&S?

LIZ 10: Never mind that. What do you think the deal is with this spaceship? It doesn’t have an engine and the streets are springing tentacle leaks every five minutes.

DOCTOR: I am preoccupied with your mask.

HENCHMEN: Your majesty, you have ordered us to arrest you.

EVERYONE: *is arrested*

Starship UK braintorture HQ

DEMON HEADMASTER: Allow me to explain! When Earth was finished, we managed to capture a Star Whale, build our ship around it and drive it forward by delivering continuous electric shocks to its brain. We keep telling people, but they keep pressing the FORGET button so they don’t feel like total asshats for the rest of their lives.

DOCTOR: You are all idiots! Also, how dare you withhold this vital information, Amy?

AMY: But –

DOCTOR: Shut it. You’re going home after this, you naughty and skimpily-dressed companion.

DADS EVERYWHERE: Never!

DOCTOR: Right, after reviewing my options, I have decided to zap the whalebrain to free it from pain. It will also be a half-dead vegetable, but them’s the breaks.

GIANT TENTACLE: *pats nearby children in a friendly manner*

AMY: Doctor, stop! *forces Liz 10 to press handy ABDICATE button*

EVERYONE: Are you mad?

AMY: I have deduced that the Star Whale actually loves human children and in fact volunteered to give them all a lift to distant planets.

DOCTOR: You fools! You have been pointlessly torturing this creature for centuries!

LIZ 10: And it turns out I’ve known about the brain torture for centuries, but I kept pressing the stupid FORGET button every time I found out the truth. Our dystopian civilisation was even more flawed than it first appeared!

DEMON HEADMASTER: Great. So everything’s fine, then.

Starship UK windscreen

STAR WARS FANS: This seems familiar.

DOCTOR: You could’ve killed a bunch of people today.

AMY: I didn’t though.

DOCTOR: Lucky you. I once killed a load of Daleks and it was a total bummer. I turned into Christopher Eccleston and moped around for a whole series.

TARDIS interior

DOCTOR: Amy, answer the phone.

AMY and UK VIEWERS: The TARDIS has a landline?

DOCTOR: Apparently.

WINSTON CHURCHILL (on phone): Dude, we’re at war!

DALEK SHADOW: *is ace*

DOCTOR: Let’s go. There’s nothing more entertaining than a horrific war that’s still within living memory!

AMY: Right, I’ll just get changed into something more –

DOCTOR: No time!

Starship UK exterior

We see the towerblocks on the back of the Star Whale, swimming through space.

DISCWORLD FANS: This seems – oh, never mind.

But look! There’s a huge crack in the side of the ship! And I’ll be jiggered if it doesn’t match the one in Amy’s bedroom wall last episode. Ominous.

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★
Not magical, but a fun off-planet adventure for the all-new Doc and a good glimpse of his grumpy Time Lord side.

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★
Yer actual acting from Smith, which was ace, but the episode didn’t feel as neat as last week’s. Regardless, I’m genuinely enjoying this series, where before I’ve had to be three sheets to the wind before enjoyment of any kind set in. Plus next week, those irrepressible Daleks are sure to be restored this time. For sure.

What did you think? Let me know below!

Whocap 1: New faces & comedy braces

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-04-03T20:38:37+01:00

Contains spoilers for the new series of Doctor Who

Previously on Doctor Who:
The Doctor’s old adversary The Master is magically resurrected-by-lipgloss and turns everyone into a clone of himself. Then some Time Lords come back. Then they go away again. Then the whole cloning business is somehow reversed. Look, it aired over the Christmas break, what do you want from me? It’s a wonder I could even focus on the screen through the fog of Baileys and Deflatine. PLOT POINT! The Doctor saves Wilf from a techno-chamber which then zaps him with enough radiation to turn his innards into delicious Gallifreyan strudel. Regeneration begins.

OLD DOCTOR: Curses, I’m dying! My face, it changes!

NEW DOCTOR: Hi there! I’ll be your disconcertingly-young Doctor for the next thirteen weeks. Can I get you any sauces; ketchup, mayonnaise? Oh hang on, my TARDIS appears to be exploding. Let me just attend to that.

Skies above London

The TARDIS tumbles through the air with the Doctor hanging out of it in an alarming manner.

DOCTOR: Whee! Argh! Etc!

He narrowly misses castration-by-Big Ben; that would’ve had to go out much later than 6.20.

GROOVY NEW CREDITS

Scottish kid’s bedroom

KID: Dear Santa, please make scary bedroom whispers go away, kthxbai.

TARDIS: *crashes outside*

KID: *runs outside with the same 1980s torch that my family had when I was growing up*

ME: We had that torch.

Kid’s garden, night

Kid is staring slack-jawed at the TARDIS. A grappling-hook (!) appears from within, shortly followed by crazy-haired Doctor

DOCTOR: Hi there! Any starters?

Scottish kid’s house, confusingly not in Scotland

The kid, Amelia, has been left at home alone by her aunt. I know! Worse, she invites the Doctor into her house to investigate the scary bedroom whispers and to partake in some excellent cuisine. Cue a food-tasting scene that veers dangerously close to Wacky Canyon before parking neatly in Genuinely Amusing. Thank god.

DOCTOR: So, this crack in your bedroom wall is, in fact, a rip in space and time.

AMELIA: Wow, that ... sucks.

DOCTOR: If I just crank open the space/time crack a bit further, it will almost certainly reveal a gigantic talking eyeball. *opens space/time crack*

GIANT EYEBALL: Good evening. Have you seen Prisoner Zero?

SPACE/TIME CRACK: *slams shut*

DOCTOR: There’s an inter-dimensional criminal loose aboot this hoose!

UK VIEWERS: Where the hell is this kid’s legal guardian?

AMELIA: Word.

Kid’s garden

DOCTOR: I’m just going to fix my TARDIS, then I’ll take you away from this tragic home-alone childhood. Back in five!

TARDIS: *disappears*

AMELIA: *packs suitcase and waits for the Doctor to return*

DOCTOR: *doesn’t return*

AMELIA: :-(

Amelia’s garden, 12 years later

The TARDIS lands and the Doctor runs out and heads for the house.

DOCTOR: Amelia, don’t panic! I know where the alien criminal is! *breaks into house with sonic screwdriver*

ADULT AMELIA, NOW INEXPLICABLY CALLED AMY: *hits doctor with cricket bat*

Hospital ward

DR EXPOSITION: There’s no way these coma patients were wandering the streets and talking out loud, Nurse Rory, they’re out cold and have been for yonks.

RORY: But I filmed ‘em on my generic in-no-way-a-BlackBerry phone!

DR EXPOSITION: Lies!

COMA PATIENTS: Doctor... doctor...

DR EXPOSITION: That’s weird.

MAN IN COMA: Why not take some time to admire this photo of me with my beloved rottweiler?

Amy’s house

The Doctor awakes to find himself handcuffed to a radiator.

DOCTOR: I can’t help but notice that you are a policewoman.

UK AUDIENCE: A foxy policewoman!

AMY: I am actually a kissogram, which explains these non-regulation tights.

DOCTOR: Right. Also, where is the child Amelia?

AMY: She is me, you fool! It’s been 12 freaking years!

DOCTOR: Blimey. Have you read The Time Traveler’s Wife?

DOOR TO CREEPY ROOM: *creaks*

AMY: OMG!

DOCTOR: Don’t go in there, the scary alien criminal has almost certainly been hiding there these last 12 years.

Creepy room

Amy enters and comes face-to-face with a toothy alien eel; the fabled Prisoner Zero.

PRISONER ZERO: Blargh! *magically turns into man-in-coma-with-his-dog from hospital* Grr, woof!

DOCTOR and AMY: *run away*

Old lady’s house

Giant Eyeball is on TV. Old lady is Mrs Meldrew! Is she also Amy’s aunt? I... don’t know! Let’s say no.

MRS MELDREW: Don’t I know you?

DOCTOR: We’re British character actors; we’ve probably all been on Casualty together at some point.

JEFF: Hey, you’re the Doctor! Young Amy used to make models of you out of kitchen roll tubes, it was super-cute until we had to call a psychiatrist.

Village green

Citizens are wandering around, calmly filming the Atraxi eyeball-ship mucking about with the sun

RORY: I’m totally putting this on YouTube.

PRISONER ZERO: Growl, woof woof.

RORY: Hold still, my not-a-BlackBerry can’t focus on your scary eel-teeth.

DOCTOR: Nurse! Give me your phone and return to your place of work immediately!

RORY: Holy crap, you’re my girlfriend’s imaginary childhood friend! I shall instantly do as you say. *runs off*

AMY: Why should I trust you, Doctor?

DOCTOR: Give me 20 minutes and I’ll get you on the cover of Radio Times, baby.

PRISONER ZERO: *melts down drain*

AMY: Fair enough.

Old lady’s house

DOCTOR: Jeff, I must use your laptop to summon my Boffin Squad. Dude, you should at least switch to Private Browsing.

JEFF: *is ashamed*

PATRICK MOORE: I speak for the Boffin Squad! Doctor, we shall get all of our mates to text 0000 to the eyeball-ship.

DOCTOR: Rock on.

Hospital

Amy and Rory run straight into Prisoner Zero, this time disguised as a different coma patient. It’s Sophie out of Peep Show! She’s with two small children. Prisoner Zero takes his form from the patients’ memories, y’see?

PRISONER ZERO: Fear me puny humans!

AMY and RORY: *run away*

Amy’s phone rings. It’s the Doctor!

AMY: Help us!

DOCTOR (on phone): I have stolen a fire engine!

UK AUDIENCE: Mobile phone whilst driving? Tennant would never have flouted road safety laws in this way.

Coma patient ward

PRISONER ZERO: I’m gonna kill you for no obvious reason!

AMY and RORY: Damn!

FIRE ENGINE LADDER: *smashes through window*

DOCTOR: Hi there!

PRISONER ZERO: Arse. Also, the Universe is cracked and silence will fall. Whatever that means.

Much body-switching occurs until the Doctor tricks Prisoner Zero into taking its own form from the now-unconscious Amy’s memory. The Atraxi eyeball-ship instantly recognises its escaped prisoner and recaptures him.

EVERYONE: Hooray!

Hospital locker room

DOCTOR: Guys, I totally need some new duds before I discuss intergalactic politics with the Giant Eyeball.

RORY: ...

AMY: Rowr!

Hospital roof

GIANT EYEBALL: So, thanks for all the help with recapturing Prisoner Zero. Um, I don’t want to be rude, but is there any good reason not to blow this crappy planet to smithereens?

DOCTOR: Try it, Eyeball, and I’ll kill you dead.

GIANT EYEBALL: Ooo-kay. Bye then! *flies off*

Amy’s garden

The Doctor runs back into the awesome new TARDIS and disappears.

AMY: Whatever.

Amy’s bedroom, night, two years later

Amy awakes and looks out of her window to see that the TARDIS is back.

AMY: It’s been two years, WTF?

DOCTOR: Yikes, sorry. Again. So do you want to be my new companion or what?

AMY: Hell yes! Only, can we be back for tomorrow morning?

DOCTOR: It’s a time machine, moron, we can be back before last Thursday if you want.

AMY: Ace.

The TARDIS takes off.

AMY and DOCTOR: Whee!

Amy’s bedroom

CRAFTED TOY DOCTORS: *are cute*

WEDDING DRESS: *is forlorn*

CREDITS

My Verdict:
★★★★★
Okay, that was pant-wettingly ace. I can’t wait for next week!

The Boy’s Verdict:
★★★★
Who‽ More like ‘What‽’, as in ‘What a surprisingly good show’, amirite? Smith, however, has found a rich seam of gurning, untapped even by Eccleston.

What did you think? Splurge your geekily-detailed analysis in the comments below. I won’t tell anyone!

Sparklechucks

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-04-03T14:16:05+01:00
April is the cruellest month, although this April does seem to be a particularly dastardly one. The only way to feel more cheerful about tramping about in the rain is to do so in a pair of top-notch groovy shoes. The boy surprised me last week with this totally hoopy pair of silver glitter Converse lace-ups, and now the pavement is my discotheque.

In other news, I am wildly excited about the new series of Doctor Who starting. Chris has challenged me to ‘Whocap’ the entire series, which, given my poor short-term memory and expositionary skills, ought to be of use to no one but entertaining to all. Join me tomorrow and help fill in the gaps!

Happy Birthday!

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-03-07T19:19:51+00:00
May your next 30 years be full of:

Friendly dogs

Sophisticated dinner conversation

Dazzling technological experiments

Windy beachy fun

And really cool shoes.

Hip hip hooray!

xxx

After I've poringe gardens seen

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-03-03T21:06:27+00:00
Shockingly, it’s the boy’s 30th birthday this weekend. We are heading to London to celebrate. Brace yourselves, Londoners; we’ve been going slowly, properly, real ale, full moon, West Country bonkers over the last few months. I’m not sure we can integrate back into civilian life at this point.

In other news, here is a picture of a breakfast Chris made for me in recent weeks. I believe my instructions were ‘don’t put too much cereal in the bowl’.

Distinguished

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-02-19T20:59:28+00:00
My lovely colleagues treated me to a set of pink moustaches to cheer me up this week. Angela took a picture. Nice, huh?

Have a groovy weekend! x

February made me shiver

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-02-14T20:39:55+00:00
Oh hello, how’s things? Here’s what I’ve been up to:

Not wearing black. Or brown.
The long dark winter has inspired me to wear more funky colour, and it’s kind of fun. I’ve now got a purple coat and a lime-green sweater and a stripey knitted hat. And golden shoes. I heartily recommend wearing colourful clothes if you’re in a winter funk.

Grappling with feminism
I thought adolescent-style world-grumps would disappear as I got older, but instead I’m getting more grumpy. I don’t like hearing my lovely and beautiful female friends talking about their bodies with disgust. I don’t like that even the most successful female pop stars on MTV are still half-naked in their videos. I don’t like the word ‘hot’. I don’t like that the Guardian website’s ‘Women’ tab is located in the ‘Life & Style’ pages. Oh dear. I’ve become a ranty blogger. Let’s move on.

Visiting a con
I went to the SFX Weekender to assist the boy, who was handling the awards presentation. It was cool.

All these people really like Ianto off Torchwood:

And here’s me next to the Tardis of Love, in which two attendees were discovered, ahem, in flagrante delicto.

As you can see, I am regenerating.

Mouse

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2010-01-03T20:53:58+00:00
Hey, have you read The Mousehunter books by top author and illustrator Alex Milway? If not, go and read them right now. I can wait.

Finished? Good, let’s move on.

So a few months ago I said I’d help Alex make a few mice for his Extraordinary Mouse Roadshow. Predictably, I only managed to make one mouse, but I’m pretty pleased with it.

He is a Methuselah Mouse, the oldest mouse known to mouse collectors, and this is the (slightly tedious) story of his making. You can click each picture for a bigger version on Flickr. If you literally have nothing better to do, or are unhealthily interested in papier mâché.

I didn’t want to buy new materials to make Methuselah Mouse; I wanted everything about him to be a bit old and musty. Also, I am cheap. So I dug some old bits of wire out of my craft stash and built a mouse skeleton using some x-ray images I found online as reference. Yes, I am now a person who has Googled ‘mouse x-ray skeleton bones’, and that’s something I’ll have to learn to live with.

Alex’s mice have longish claws and snouts, so I exaggerated these bits in my model. Once I was happy with the wire skeleton, I wrapped his limbs and ribs with layers of newsprint and masking tape to flesh him out a bit.

Poor mousey was wobbly as hell during this stage, and I kept returning from work to find him faceplanted on the carpet. I had to get a layer of papier mâché on him quick-smart! The best thing to use for papier mâché is wallpaper paste, but I was too lazy to go to Homebase, so I used a 50/50 mix of water and PVA glue. Little squares of newsprint were soaked in the glue and slowly built up over the hips, legs and ribs.

Ears! The only way to describe this stage is ‘form paper into ears’, which isn’t terribly useful.

Er, then I forgot to take any pictures of him for a while. In order, I found some beady eyes and pressed them on to the paper face, then he got a coating of PVA mixed with plaster, which looked all lumpy and mad. I could’ve sanded him, but I quite liked the rough-and-ready look.

Then he got a covering of wispy wool tops. Cute, right? Around this time, Chris and I developed a kind of obsession with the mouse and kept narrating the action using a high-pitched mouse voice eg. “Eek eek! I am all fluffy now! Look at my ears! I like cheese!” etc. We are easily entertained.

Lastly, I painted his paws and nose with acrylic paint. I left the ends of his wire ribs sticking out, for an extra-ancient effect, so they got a coating of white paint for good measure.

And he made his perilous journey to Penge through the mail. What a hero!

Look out for this Methuselah Mouse in a bookstore near you!

All's well that ends well

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-12-31T17:58:07+00:00
Wow, loads of things have happened in December. To start with, I turned 29 years old and the boy took me to London for an exciting weekend of eating ribs at Bodean’s and spotting Mika and Huw Edwards (not at the same time).

Despite such adventures, I’ve been in a dreadful funk all month and shall now gloss over this fact with a gallery of Scottish pictures. Huzzah!

Here is me with one of Chris’ new kitten brothers.

If you’re suffering a winter funk, kittens are a surefire cheer-up! This fella and his partner-in-chaos spent our entire visit chasing our shadows, curling up on our knees, sticking their faces in our cereal bowls and disrupting perfectly good games of Trivial Pursuit:

I also spent much time admiring the Palnackie chickens, whose main interests are hot water and brussels sprouts. The cold doesn’t really seem to bother them; they just hustle up into their coop and sleep through whatever the thermometer throws at them.

Then we went to my ma and pa’s and there was just arseloads of snow. Apparently it’d been snowing every day for a week, and everyone was understandably sick of digging out their cars. Having been away from this hardcore climate for most of our adult lives, and forgetting just how difficult knee-deep snow is to walk in, Chris and I went straight out for a mini hike.

Also, Gra and I made a MAGNIFICENT SNOW QUEEN:

Look upon the snow queen’s beauty and despair! Unfortunately, we built her looking into our parents’ bedroom, so now they have to suffer her piercing stare in the darkness every time they go to close the curtains.

Not to be outdone, my dad disappeared into the front garden to make a ... well, it started off as a Sphinx, but quickly morphed into a Wallace and Gromit-style giant were-rabbit. Arrrrgh!

Chris doesn’t look particularly impressed.

On the drive home, high in the hills outside Glasgow, temperatures dropped to -11°C and poor Carlos suffered terribly. His (anti-freeze!) screen wash froze solid, icicles formed on his roof and the condensation on the inside of his windows froze in little starbursts all around us. It was very beautiful, and only slightly hairy. The saddest part was the lonely sheep standing about by the motorway, scraping with their hooves to find grass.

Tonight is Hogmanay, and the boy and I will say a thankful ‘piss off’ to 2009. Have a lovely evening, everyone – see you on the other side! x

La Nicolas Cage aux Folles

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-11-26T21:25:14+00:00
Today the centre of Historic Bath ground to a halt for possibly the most exciting event in recent history; Nicolas Cage turned on our Christmas lights. Exciting, right? I tried to summon up a bit of Cage-fever in the office by writing ‘OMG’ on this picture of him and then sticking it to the noticeboard, but it didn’t really fly. Frankly we’re not going to be impressed until the reanimated corpse of Elvis Presley turns on our Christmas lights.

In other news, our kitchen flooded and a plumber had to come. Oh the glamour.

Kissu!

Get on with it

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-11-16T22:07:51+00:00
How did it get to be November? I suppose mainly our linear concept of time is responsible. It’s been a traumatic few weeks here in the Poringe. First, Carlos’ nose got smashed to smithereens and he had to go away for cars-metic surgery* and then we all got manky colds and had to hang around leaking facial fluids all over the place. Sorry, that was an unnecessarily gross description of a cold.

Still, things are looking up in a Christmassy kind of way. I am excited! Is it time to put our tree up yet? What about now? Now? Now? In a minute or two, yeah? Great.

Obviously I have no news to share, so in the manner of a crap clip-style episode of a long-running sitcom, why not hark back to the glory days of the Ribble by reliving my favourite ever post? The comments still make me laugh out loud, although perhaps you had to be there, in a New Cross flat, eating rice and Googling ‘Crupdum2’.

Nighty x

*HA! I am hilarious.

Deer are the new birds

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-10-12T20:51:22+01:00
One of my favourite things to see in the West Country is the fallow deer herd at Dyrham Park. I love how they are almost the same colour as the scrubby grass:

And I love that they’re not-at-all afraid of humans. This buck wandered out in front of us as we climbed the hill back to the car park. He looks like he stepped out of a storybook!

Night in Wales turns hair white shocker

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-08-02T19:02:44+01:00
We had a lovely Saturday night/Sunday morning with Cope in Cardiff, where we made some experimental bread and made a holy pilgrimage to Cardiff Bay, Home of Barrowman. Eating lunch in Cafe Rouge, the boy suddenly noticed a long white hair floating in the wind. Cope quickly spotted another one and I was utterly perturbed.

When we got home, I made the boy take a picture. Once I stood in the light, he said ‘God, you’ve got loads!’ and, sure enough, there were several strands of white spread all the way along my parting.

Of course, living with a man who started balding in his late teens, it’s difficult to get any sympathy for sudden hair-whitening. The only consolation is that, while it makes me feel old, I bet it makes my parents feel ruddy ancient. SORRY!

Brighton & back again

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-07-26T15:47:48+01:00

Here are some grainy cameraphone shots from our trip to Brighton yesterday, where the boy was covering the opening of the new Apple store. While he went off to the press preview I toddled off for a walk on the seafront.

There’s a special corner of my heart reserved for Brighton; we used to come here on daytrips when London got hot and insane. It seemed very quaint then, although compared to Bath it feels like a bustling metropolis. I was on the pier at 8.30am, and it was delightfully empty, with lots of places to sit on the sunny side and watch happy dogs jumping around in the waves. Dogs love beaches!

The beach is very pebbly and I don’t usually bother going into the water, but when I arrived it was low tide, so took my sandals off and had a paddle along the sand. Lovely!

July

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-07-05T22:26:29+01:00
Oh Christ, I’ve been away for ages. What the hell have I been doing? I mean, just what exactly has been SO IMPORTANT that I haven’t been able to update this site for such a ludicrously long time? WHAT?

Mostly, I’ve been letting my hair grow very large and cumbersome, scaring children with my upper arms and leaning on gates like this:

Crazy, I know. And it’s not only pointless personal websites that have been allowed to fester during this protracted bout of gate-leaning, no! I have also failed to do any drawing or crafting or French-refreshering or writing or reading. I don’t know why. I have a creeping suspicion that my bountiful creativity in the past may have been inextricably linked to being permanently stressed out of my mind. But, I suppose if I have to choose between sanity and anatomical embroideries, sanity wins by a nose.

It’s barely worth telling you about everything that’s happened in the last month or so, partly because it’s old news and partly because it’s fairly boring. In brief: We snapped and booked a holiday, Historic Bath got hot as a bastard, Carlos developed a terrible smell and the boy got special sunglasses that give him the power of x-ray vision.

Anyway, I won’t get all panicky about when I’ll be back, like this is the internet equivalent of Awakenings or something. I’ll come back later and tell you the tale of Carlos’ smell and the Curious Incident of the Doors in the Night Time. Or maybe I won’t. Argh, you can’t trust anyone, least of all easily-distracted Scottish women with gate-leaning to get on with.

Kissu!

Hiatus

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-05-09T17:29:31+01:00
I’d been holding off on posting until our amazing bathroom renovations were finished, but frankly we may all grow old and wither before they’re finished, so I shall just get on with it.

The Mother Country
I went to the Mother Country, where we went on the Royal Yacht Britannia and marvelled at the royal luxury livin’. Fact: there was no double bed on the yacht until Prince Charles had one put in for his honeymoon. The best part of the yacht is below decks, in the crew quarters, where they slept crammed in like sardines and drank in a fantastic mess room where Di allegedly joined them for a snifter one evening.

Care and Feeding of Builders
We’ve had to buy in lots of hilariously stereotypical builder food. They like white bread, Hob Nobs and sugary tea. Chris says he has also witnessed them whistling in that warbly builder way. Can we keep one, mummy?

Wolverine
Went to see Wolverine, became obsessed with his manly ways and haircut. I want a wolfy hairdo!

Er, the boy’s just given me a stiff drink and a bowl of plantain crisps, so I shall bid you adieu and return with tales of bathroom genius.

Adieu!

The Easter bunny has been

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-04-12T21:28:13+01:00
What ho! I’m surprised that Wodehouse: A Life has such mediocre reviews on Amazon, as I’ve been reading it this week and finding it pretty interesting stuff.

We’ve had a fun Easter, watching Doctor Who and riding in a hot air balloon. What more can you ask for of a weekend, really? We’ve also been watching far too much Jonathan Creek, to the point that the boy managed to predict whodunnit-and-how within the first five minutes of the last episode. Nice work! Perhaps he is amateur sleuthing in his spare time.

Easing into Spring

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-04-07T20:56:12+01:00
Bath is covered in blossom, all white and pink and lovely. When we were in London we saw a stunning display of cherry blossom-themed sweets in the Minamoto Kitchoan on Piccadilly, which is totally worth checking out, you Londonites.

Those little jellies in the top right corner had real and amazingly red cherries trapped inside, while the rice cakes on the bottom were wrapped with a blossom inside a leaf. Magical! We didn’t buy any, mainly because they were too beautiful to eat.

My bloggy absence of late is mainly because I’ve been spending all available internet time on OTAT10 planning. I’m gunning hard for the Maldives, a location so wildly out of our league that it’s almost certain to end in tears. Hey ho!

Creative atrophy

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-03-24T20:40:01+00:00
Haven’t been drawing or sewing at all lately, although I’m not sure why as I have bags of time now, more than I did when I was cranking out enormous embroideries and slippers and puppets. Decided to make an effort by keeping a nice sketchbook and some super-fancy pencils next to my bed, and have drawn some vaguely pleasing if wildly out-of-character things just before sleeping – robots, monsters, houses on stilts and a person with a balloon, so far.

It’s interesting to draw out of my head though, something that at art school is only slightly less frowned upon than weeing on the studio floor. Actually, someone at my art school did wee on the studio floor, only much worse, and submitted it for marking. Good times.

No news is good news

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-03-19T20:53:55+00:00
The boy sent me a link to the ol’ homestead on all-new Google London street view, which made me feel all odd. Someone has put very ugly curtains up in our living room, and you can still see the slightly bare bit of wall where the New Cross Road sign fell off.

In other news, the boy and I are currently involved in a healthy livin’, money saving pact in which we walk home from work in the evening instead of getting the bus. It’s only about 2 miles, but up a ridiculous incline that gets gradually steeper and steeper until we’re almost crawling. If my trousers don’t fit better by Saturday I’m going on a pie-bender at The Raven.

Stop doing it!

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-03-14T18:44:24+00:00
The boy gave me a new camera gizmo to try out, and I inadvertently captured a perfect 40 second snapshot of our married life. I make pointless requests, the boy follows them without question, we talk to the car and I piss myself laughing for no good reason.

Happy ribby birthday fun

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-03-08T20:40:28+00:00
Lots of things have happened, and yet I have not told you lovely people about any of them. Unless you are on Twitter, in which case I’ve told you about all of them, in real time, in excruciating detail. Anyway. In order:

Everyone’s favourite Welsh-speaking American came to Bath and we played mini-golf. It was pretty great. Cope won, mainly due to his hardcore mini-golfing technique. There is a picture of me too, but it is not nearly as inspiring.

The boy turned 29 and bankrolled a madcap London visit to celebrate. We stayed at the beautiful Athenaeum hotel and were treated to the sight of our dinky Carlos being valet-parked by a doorman in a bowler hat. Hilarious. Adorably, all the boy wanted for his birthday was a rack of ribs at the Texas Embassy and an ice cream for afters. Done.

Happy birthday, you lovely man!

Happy Pappy Birthday

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-02-23T20:25:14+00:00
Today is my dad’s birthday. Happy birthday Dad! I hope you have an excellent day. Buying cards for my dad highlights a severe gap in the manly card market; you can buy loads of cards with golf, beer and football on them, but hardly any featuring, say, codebreaking, rocket science and mole-killing. Get with it, Hallmark!

In other news, the melting of the snow has left me too bereft to blog for most of February. Notable events include the boy buying a Wii, the sky being lighter at night and all of my internal organs combusting due to the cuteness of bebeh Brennan.

Work is sweet, to the point that I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it out loud. I heart you, Future!

What you need is more snow pictures

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-02-08T22:27:25+00:00
Sometimes I miss New Cross very badly. I miss it when I hear the Eastenders theme tune, or a siren, or when I play Monopoly or see a red bus. But sometimes I wake up and our street looks so very beautiful that my eyes almost combust.
That’s our drive from the living room window. It always looks lovely, but in the snow it is especially Narnia-esque. See that driveway across the road? A man comes out of there three times a day to walk a massive racing greyhound. All winter, the dog has been wearing a red coat with a white fur trim, like it’s a canine Father Christmas or something. Weird.

This is our other living room window, which looks into the communal garden. It’s testament to how elderly our neighbours are that the snow in the garden has remained totally smooth and untouched for an entire week. Everyone’s too feeble to tramp around in it. Including me.

Er, this isn’t our flat. It’s one of the crazy mansions that line the rest of the street. This is the best mansion, as it has a tower and you can have a good gawp at it from the road (the others are disappointingly hidden from view by trees and walls. Bah.) I have no idea how the builders of our shoddy sixties block got planning permission. Fact: when I walked down the road to take these pictures, some unseen oddball was playing a haunting melody on a penny whistle.

Here’s The Poringe in all its moonlit glory. The boy took this, in his slippers. He is insane. That’s me on the ground floor, looking out of the window and shouting, ‘Put your wellies on, you loon.’ Goodnight!

Nothing much to report

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-02-01T20:36:35+00:00
My tax bill was somewhat larger than I anticipated, setting OTAT10 back considerably. Arsecakes. Still, it’s only money, I shall just have to earn more. Such is the wonder of modern living.

In happier news, I have learned to make risotto and have spent the last week perfecting the skill, mostly standing in the kitchen and shouting in a mock cockney-Italian accent until the boy agrees to eat some risotto and declare it delicious. It really is delicious, though.

Tonight I am sitting watching the temperature drop on my weather widget and hoping for the pretty, pretty snow. Come on, snow.

Mony a cantie day

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-01-25T16:35:42+00:00
The boy has gone to Scotland, which was the perfect opportunity to complete my tax return, only I can’t due to a ridiculous administrative cock-up which leaves me waiting for the postman to bring me some tax stuff for days and days, bringing me uncomfortably close to the deadline on Saturday. Oh well.

Instead of doing my taxes I am hanging out in the Poringe, cooking risottos, playing my guitar and reading everything on the internet. Ukulele is on the naughty step in the hall until he can learn to stay in tune for more than five seconds at a time – bad uke!

Tonight is Burns Night. It has a special place in my heart because the only thing I have ever won, ever, is a Burns Competition when I was at school, when I sang John Anderson, My Jo. The prize was a certificate; how lame.

Here’s the fabulous Eddi Reader, in an irritatingly oversized YouTube box, singing it much better than I ever did:

New Year news in brief

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-01-07T21:33:21+00:00
Heart in San Francisco Shocker
The boy has gone away to San Francisco and left me to fend for myself. How very inconsiderate. So far I’ve eaten my weight in Cadbury’s Fingers and one slightly suspect bag of frozen meatballs left over from the great Christmas Eve frenzy. Hm.

Breaking News: It is Winter
I saw snow for the first time here in Historic Bath, which turned our street into a Dickensian wonderland of postcard quaintness for about an hour. Magical. Interestingly, snow is not allowed to lie in Historic Bath for more than one hour BY LAW, as the sheer beauty could render vital public service workers blind with tears of joy. The good news, ladies, is that you can now buy foxy silky thermal vests from Marks & Spencer. Do it, I promise you won’t regret it.

Heartwarming Final Story
Crafty people and the just-plain-nosy can check out my profile on the PaperCraft blog! This is also quite a useful reference tool when my mum asks me what I actually do for a living these days. Thanks, PaperCraft peeps, you rock!

My commitment to Sparkle Motion

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-01-03T22:18:45+00:00
Oh hello, I’m on my lonesome this weekend and growing as mad as a box of frogs. Not mad in a bad way, just mad in terms of watching junk and cooking elaborate lunches and reading Twilight books until my brain dissolves and dribbles from my ears like rice pudding. I know. No, I KNOW. Look, if reading sparkly vampire fluff is wrong, I don’t want to be right. It’s a sickness. A sparkly emo sickness. Perhaps someone should set up a rehab centre.

In other news, the Poringe is so cold that I had to get into bed to get warm. Even under the duvet my legs are all icy. The boy emailed to say the weather in California is ‘glorious’. He’ll feel like a proper charlie if I freeze to death while he’s sunning it up with the sealions. Yeah, that’ll show him.

We're going to need a bigger tinfoil bird

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2009-01-01T19:38:04+00:00
Happy New Year! 2009 has thrust The Poringe into a frenzy of uncharacteristic optimism, with the boy spending the morning throwing out dozens of pairs of ancient socks and t-shirts and me lying on our bed drawing the routes of interesting trips we could take in 2010 on a hugely flimsy National Geographic fold-out map.

Operation Take A Trip in 2010, or OTAT10, as it shall henceforth awkwardly be abbreviated, is my new all-consuming project. The boy and I have never been on a proper holiday together – one with planes and passports and that doesn’t involve either of us going to a conference – mainly because we never have any actual money. The OTAT10 scheme is an 18 month regimen of saving/nagging/obsessive mapping that ensures we gather the sufficient funds to go on a kick-arse holiday in our 30th year. It’ll be like the Buon Natale on a massive and international scale. Hooray! I tell you all of this, dear Internet, because once I have saved up all of my money to go on holiday, I will feel the sudden urge not to blow it all on something as transient and short-lived as a trip and instead attempt to buy some furniture or a kitchen appliance or dentures. DO NOT LET ME DO THIS. It’s in writing now. Friends don’t let friends buy mattresses with their cash stash.

I go back to work tomorrow, and the boy is off to Macworld Conference & Expo in San Francisco for a week. BOO.

I’ve asked the boy for a piece of good news to finish off this post, and he says ‘Tell them I’ve just ordered labels for the label-making machine. Soon the flat will be all covered in labels.’ That really IS good news!

Festive Update

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-12-31T18:56:16+00:00
Oh look, it’s the last day of December and I’ve done nothing but eat fabulous food, watch fabulous films and walk over fabulously frosty West Country landscapes. Fabulous. Here is a picture of me on Christmas day, apparently over-excited about our ice bucket, or the fact that the waitress found a cracker hat to fit my humungous head. Miracle.

The boy and I are staying in tonight, drinking Prosecco and obsessing over Juliette Binoche. I hope you all have a truly happy Hogmanay and a restful New Year. Cheers!

Buon Natale

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-12-08T21:46:40+00:00
Last Monday I turned 28 years old, which was lovely. Thank you everyone for the wonderful cards and gifts, which were very thoughtful and beautiful and generous. I had a teensy dinner with the Copes and Alexes on Saturday to celebrate both my birthday and owning a table for the first time in years. It was lovely, here is a short picture story:

How to Have a Birthday Dinner

1. Hoover the Poringe to show off its poringey vibrance.

2. Put the boy in charge of cooking and allow him to buy all of the vegetables in Sainsburys.

3. Make everyone a tin foil bird wearing a party hat, because frankly it's not a party without a hat-wearing bird. Fact: I was going to do a tutorial about making these birds until I realised that Step 1 would be 'Form tin foil into a bird', which really isn't the most helpful advice.

4. Set table. This ginormous paper tablecloth is from Ikea, and I highly recommend it. The next morning I just scrumpled the whole thing up along with the crumbs and candlewax and spills and chucked it in the bin. Eco fail! You can see the birds on the plates.

5. Boot up the Conversation Generator 8000 (patent pending). As you can see, the digital readout signals when the generator is ready to operate at peak efficiency.

6.Put prosecco in an ice bucket and force everyone who enters to have a glass, even people who don't really like prosecco. Now that's good hostessin'! Note: The boy bought this retro ice bucket on eBay, it has a huge dent in it. What happened?!

7. Marvel at the boy's peperonata. There was chicken too, but he didn't take a photo of that.

8. Be charmed by your lovely guests! I wish I had turned my hallway into a police line-up style mugshot booth because they were all so dapper and and attractive. And they brought excellent gifts too, thank you! Here I have just served hot chocolate as a pudding, with serve-yourself squirty cream and Flakes, because who doesn't like squirty cream? Also, I don't know how to make any actual puddings. Even this was a bit beyond me. That's Hannah in the corner, who is lots of fun and made me a card with amazing buttons on it and told us some ooky nursing stories. Alex was good enough to turn up even though he spends every day sitting next to the boy at work. Also, he could talk about the twin topics of rugby and ukuleles, bridging the conversational creek between the Copes and Phins. Well done! The Copes came all the way from Wales, Rachel driving back the same night through dark and icy lanes at two in the morning. Not only this, but they brought me cheese in the shape of a heart, proving that Cope friendship is for life, not just the internet.

The End

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-11-28T21:41:24+00:00
Winter babies rejoice, our season is here! Bath is really outdoing itself in the winter wonderland stakes this year, with a carousel added to the market fun. Hooray!

Here is my friend Emerald, who also loves the festive season:

Emerald is my birthday-twin. As she is far too cool to enjoy my boring adult birthday dinner, she graciously invited me to her party this Sunday instead, to paint faces. How could I resist?

Newvember

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-11-20T21:06:53+00:00
Hello! I am once more full-time and fabulous, as long as for 'fabulous' you read 'dishevelled'. New Job is much fun and everyone at Future Towers is ludicrously friendly. I've learned more in four days than I've learned in ages and all is new and interesting. I shall be back soon with more tales of cunning and adventure. Or possibly just more shopping moans.

Pining for the Fjords

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-11-14T20:56:43+00:00
Today I left teaching, which is a difficult thing to talk about in a concise and sensible way. I've spent the last week dodging the question 'Are you sad to be leaving?' and wobbling over 'Will you miss the kids?' There's not really a yes or no answer.

It's a career that required six years of training and a level of professional dedication that excluded late nights, hangovers, spontaneity and the lightheartedness that generally accompanies one's twenties. It took most of my free time and, in South London, a good chunk of my sanity.

But at the same time, I loved my work. It was creative, interesting, stimulating and taught me more about art than art school ever did. And working with kids of any age is so brilliant and fascinating and hilarious that there's no way to not miss it. I'm proud of my students, and everything that they've achieved, and the things they might achieve in the future.

So that's my ridiculously long and earnest answer to the flippant question I've been fielding all day. Maybe I'll go back to teaching one day, or maybe I won't. I can say for certain, at least, that it was never time wasted.

Onward!

Raspberry for uptight fashionmongers

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-11-05T21:07:07+00:00
I was looking at frocks on ye olde internets today when I became intensely irate at the fashion 'advice' spewed all over the place by well-meaning bloggers and should-know-better, right-on women's sites. Because almost everywhere I look, ladies are being advised to hide or cover or disguise or generally be ashamed of themselves.

Arms both skinny and chunky should be sleeved, twiggy legs need boots, long necks need necklaces or scarves, pale triceps must be fake-tanned, thick waists need flowy optical illusion, flat chests need bolstering, COVER YOUR SHAME, for chrissakes, won't you think of the children?

Apparently my only hope, as a stumpy sturdy girl, is to wear a plunging v-neck and swaddle the rest of my being in burlap sacking, and then to limp around ringing a bell, shouting 'PUNISH ME, FOR I ENJOY CAKES ON A BI-MONTHLY BASIS AND AM UNDESERVING OF LOVE OR NICE TIGHTS.'

Well screw you, internet. I shall wear sleeveless tops with abandon! And kitten heels! And calf-length boots! And horizontal stripes! Actually, no, that would be awful. But I'll do those other things, and I'll look bloody fabulous while I'm at it.

ppppppttttthhbbbbpppp

Hello Linda!

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-11-03T21:57:53+00:00
Recently my mum told family friend Linda that she would give her the address for this website as it is 'sometimes entertaining'. This damningly faint praise reminds me that things around here have been fairly dull of late, mainly because my life has become a tedious administrative procedure interspersed with sporadic Kir drinking and increasingly bizarre hairstyles.

To break the monotony, I was going to post an outlandish anecdote, full of interesting things like 'Got chased by an enraged milliner' and 'Invented new primary colour' or possibly 'Thought could hear angels in the cupboard, turned out to be family of nesting crickets' but frankly I'm tired and I don't want to string a ridiculous, open-ended fable together lest I regret it in the morning.

Goodnight!

Snap

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-10-29T20:09:52+00:00
My iBook needs a bit of TLC, so the boy has lent me a Macbook Air to browse with. I'd swear it weighs less than my wallet. It certainly weighs less than my handbag. Apple, with these gravity-defying laptops, you are really spoiling us.

In other news, Scotland was ridiculously cold, the sort of cold where you keep your coat and hat on even inside the car, with the heating on full blast. The swarthy people of Edinburgh coped with it slightly better than I did, although I was vindicated by my mum's cat, who refused to go outside for more than a nanosecond before clawing at the door like a bad feline zombie movie. The good news is that it's time to put on my parka again, which is the closest I can get to going to work in a duvet.

This is my last school holiday ever. I can't help but feel I never really took advantage of them anyway, spending most of my time off either working or thinking about work. I am celebrating this milestone by doing work, hooray! Later next month I'm starting work at the mighty Future Publishing, in the same building as the boy. How very exciting and terrifying.

Half term

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-10-24T16:35:40+01:00
Today was a low-key end of term, and now I am in my flat with a six-pack of Coke Zero and a carrier bag full of lever arch files. My lovely headteacher has given me something of a reprieve, taking me semi-off-timetable for my remaining two weeks in order to finish some mad-urgent paperwork before I leave. Thanks!

On Sunday I am off to the Mother Country, leaving the boy at home to have a 36 hour Time Team marathon. When he's not eating or sleeping, you can be damned sure he'll be watching Tony Robinson standing in a muddy hole, holding a skull fragment.

In other news, my dad is now using his website to educate, postulate and develop bizarre strands of genetic research. Now that's good blogging!

Have a groovy weekend. x

End of term

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-10-21T16:04:04+01:00
Much excitement over New Job; even small things like being able to sit down for minutes on end, and allowed to wear trainers and denim, and the blissful knowledge that I'm unlikely to pick up headlice at work. I'm sad, of course, that I won't be singing at 1030 every morning at New Job, although perhaps no one will mind if I stand up once a day and belt out Shine Jesus Shine with full clapping actions in the office.

In other news, we are experiencing the most beautiful autumnal weather here in Historic Bath. Hooray sunshine! Big up leaves! Etc.

That is all.

Events of a fairly eventful Friday

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-10-18T11:43:11+01:00
Most days are kind of similar, then every so often there's an eventful one that leaves you all bewildered and nauseous on the sofa in your bra.

Yesterday I went into work early in order to break it to my headteacher that I had been offered another job and was leaving. She was utterly lovely about it, which somehow made it more traumatic. Then I went about my every day business without telling anyone else because, well, there never seemed to be a good time.

As the day wore on, I began to feel distinctly dreadful. I felt suddenly hot and tired and not-with-it. I recalled that feeling of being suddenly unwell from the time I had The Actual Flu, where I was standing in Trafalgar Square, waiting to meet the boy and my visiting parents, and suddenly I felt so overwhelmingly awful and exhausted that I literally couldn't stand up anymore. I had to sit down, on the ground, next to the supposedly-banished pigeons. I didn't feel as bad as that, at least, and soldiered through the rest of the day like a proper playground martyr.

Having arranged to go out at 8pm, the boy drove me to a friend's house, and we went on to another house, a beautiful one on the other side of the valley, where there was a friendly dog and pyjama'd children and tasteful decor - the exact opposite of The Poringe. I drank two glasses of sparkling wine and outed myself as a soon-to-be school-abandoner. The boy came to pick me up at midnight and was heckled mercilessly by drunk women. He took me home and let me eat his dinner leftovers.

This morning I awoke feeling awful, so awful that even the crystallised ginger didn't help, and I can't think of a synonym for 'awful'. Apparently two glasses of sparkling wine, a resignation and some cold chips are just too much for my constitution.

Still, an eventful Friday, at least. Pip pip!

Hold on to your lunch

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-10-15T14:36:10+01:00
Today a little boy asked if he could 'keep' a large knee-scab that had been brutally ripped off in a playground fall. Er, okay. I guess it's one for the album.

In other news, I bought a gigantic bag of crystallised ginger the other day and am secretly hoarding it around the flat. Open a cupboard: GINGER? Or a drawer: DELICIOUS GINGER? The boy has not noticed yet, which is odd as I smell distinctly gingery all the time.

Here's a sneaky peek at my linocut.

Linolicious!

It's night time in the big city ...

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-10-11T10:00:14+01:00
The boy and I are huge fans of Theme Time Radio Hour with Bob Dylan, and have taken to repeating Bob's words of wisdom* in lilting nasal tones at appropriate moments in life. To amuse each other, we've extended our Bob-repetoire to include dramatic readings of recipes, celebrity gossip and gas bills; if you have to read something depressing, you may as well read it out-loud in the style of a legendary electro-folk singer/songwriter. Imagine my delight, then, upon reading this article. A rich new seam of talking like Bob! How exciting.

In other news, the boy has gone to Cornwall for an overnight sojourn. He has kindly packed the fridge with sensible Marks and Spencer delicacies so that I don't spend 24 hours eating toast and Craisins. Thanks!

*Recent favourite 'Go to the dawg park. Everyone's happier in the presence of a dawg.'

Notes from the front of the week

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-10-07T16:48:28+01:00
Oh hullo, it's October. Work remains crazy to the point where the boy was packed off to do the weekly shop on his own on Sunday. He delightedly returned having spent half of what we normally do; clearly it's just my lo-carb beer and whimsical fruit-buying habits that blow the budget.

I made an policy decision early on in my blogging career not to get into politics because, er, it invites twatty comments, but I'll break with tradition this once just to ask: Is anyone else heartily sick of hearing about the US elections? The only three pieces of information us cheese-lovin' Europeans really need are 1) who the candidates are, 2) what they stand for and 3) who wins. Enough with the excruciatingly detailed stream of information, mainstream domestic news broadcasters!

In other news, I am making a linocut for the first time since I was at school. The boy is being very helpful, occasionally grabbing the lino out from under me, doodling instructions for cut/don't cut all over it, then thrusting it back. Sometimes he'll even take it off me and cut the fiddly bits. Thanks!

Busy busy bumblebees

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-09-29T20:39:58+01:00
Things here in Historic Bath have been a little on the stressful and grumpy side this weekend, mainly due to the boy having a massive work project on and me still grappling with a confusing timetable and some tediously complex admin. We spent the weekend alternately working and feeling guilty for not working, with the boy in the office all day Saturday and, he predicts, until midnight tonight. It was a timely reminder of why we left London; because every weekend was like this but worse and with added sirens.

In happier news, lots of the designers I interviewed for the Holland Herald over the summer have been in contact to say that they've heard raves about their pieces and requesting issues of the magazine. This is, of course, wonderful to hear, but it's getting increasingly embarrassing having to explain that I am not, in fact, a go-getting, Lois Lane-style media type, but rather a pyjama-wearing, Ikea-kitchen-table-sitting layabout with no access to the actual magazine whatsoever. The peeps at Hetty Rose have put a scan of their snippet up here, which I mention merely to highlight that I love Hetty Rose shoes and fully expect the first one of you to earn a million to buy me a pair of silky, fancy loveliness without delay.

That's it. Apologies for the poorly structured rambling but ... I don't even have an excuse. Bye, loveoo!

Old people

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-09-24T15:51:43+01:00
A big HAPPY BIRTHDAY is winging through the ether, splitting into two smaller HAPPY BIRTHDAYs which in turn are fluttering their way to two of Europe's grandest capital cities to tickle scalps containing two of the finest minds the Mother Country has ever produced.

So, in alphabetical order, happy birthday to Emma, notorious Malteser fetishist and biscuit-recipe-holder of Berlin. Have a lovely day! Make the work experience kids cater to your every whim! Buy a big pile of Soft Cakes and eat them on my behalf! While I abuse innocent punctuation!

And happy birthday to Graham, computer scientist, speaker of Japanese and fearsome critic of Edinburgh pizza joints. May your birthday be filled with savoury treats and only the finest brand-name beer. Cheers!

Hope all gifts have arrived safely and that neither of you required an ear trumpet to hear the doorbell.

Being good

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-09-16T20:21:21+01:00
My life has taken a turn for the intolerably sensible recently, with me undertaking such daily tasks as saving money, eating vegetables, washing the dishes and climbing the lateral stepper through entire episodes of Gilmore Girls. All of these things are even more tedious than they sound.

Anyway, the only frivolity on the horizon is my birthday dinner which - Hello, I am insane - is almost three months away. So I am planning my birthday dinner as if it's my last night on Earth, continually bombarding the boy with questions such as 'Do you think I should have ice cream for my birthday dinner?' and 'How do you feel about prosciutto?' and 'Can I put the Christmas tree up for my birthday dinner even though it will technically still be November?' Somehow he has managed so far to nod along and even make helpful suggestions instead of shouting 'SCREW YOUR BIRTHDAY DINNER, WENCH, I'M BUSY,' which, to be honest, he'd be totally justified in doing. I give it another fortnight before he hits me in the face with a Victoria sponge and goes to live with his Other Wife in Abergavenny.

The boy has just told me he will 'give me a review' if I am blogging about my helping him with his work this week. I'm not, but let's pretend in order to get the scoop:

“Wife 2.0 comes with a slew – nay, a veritable raft – of beefed-up features, and offers the perfect balance of support and encouragement to any time-poor hackhusband. It gets out of your way when you just need to get on with the task in hand, but it’s there with hints, tips and nose-wrinkles when the work starts to get you down. It’s the perfect solution for any hackhusband with a to-do list down to his ankles, and I can’t recommend it enough. ★★★★★”
Christopher Phin, September 2008

Hey, five stars! Thanks! I'm not sure which of my features are 'beefed-up', but if he's referring to my arse then the Gilmores can bite me.

Season of mists and night storage kerfluffle

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-09-13T14:36:26+01:00
September is proving a very slow blog-month, with nothing much to report on either the home or work front. Still, that's never stopped me from clogging up ye olde internets with a few hundred words, eh?

At work I discovered that what was considered a walk-in art cupboard was in actuality a fully functional and totally bitchin' ceramics studio, and thus have spent the week clearing out bags and bags of spider-covered debris. Hey, are those new earrings? No, they are spiders. You should really have that mole looked at! It is a spider. Etc.

In home news, I have decided to channel the bird madness into an amazing Christmas Gift Interactive Art Happening. I am painting a flock of birds and then sending each bird to a new home in the form of a Christmas present. Migrating birds through the postal system! This means that I spend a lot of time like this at the dining table, which looks romantic but is actually very bad for the posture.

Mr L. Top to Exam Room 3.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-09-06T21:35:20+01:00
My iBook has been all broken and wrong, meaning that we had to take him with us to London last weekend to be dropped off at Laptop Hospital. This was the only low point in an otherwise fabulosa trip, in which the boy wore a wig, I booked us into a South Bank hotel and we attended Lise 'n' Darien's super-fun 70s spectacular. I thought I might be gutted to come back to Historic Bath again, but fortunately the weather was humid and the Tube crammed enough* that I was more than ready for the West Country come Sunday afternoon.

Other news in brief: iBook still wonky, internet access limited, school back in session, tin-foil flock of birds taking over flat.

That is all. If you wish to be entertained further, why not check out my dad's all-new and brilliant blog? Specialist topics include Cycling, Astronomy, Maths, and Why Children Shouldn't Go In Puddles With Their Wellies On.

*Dear All Men,
Please to be looking where you are stepping when standing up on crowded public transport, especially on a Saturday when the vast majority of young women are likely to be wearing flimsy and/or strappy shoes.
Love, My Tragically Bruised Feet. xxx

I drew a bird. Film at 11.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-08-28T20:57:22+01:00

Jeff's Little Helper

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-08-26T19:34:10+01:00
This summer has turned me into a real No-Fun Phyllis. I've become obsessed with keeping the flat clean, which is so unlike me that I'm amazed the boy hasn't checked to see if there's a man in the walls with a pistol trained on my face or something. Also, I've been doing responsible things such as learning how to reverse park and completing my school work a whole week before I have to. AND I put our ~~ten thousand~~ regular number of empty wine bottles in a plastic crate to put out to the recycling van tomorrow. The worst part about all this is that being organised and tidy has in no way made me more relaxed or good-housewifey. Now I just spend all my time worrying about dropping Bombay Mix on the carpet. BAH.

Here is how to make Kir Royale (Not sure if it should have that last 'e' or not - French speakers plz comment).

Kir Royale
You will need:
1 bottle champagne - Yes, I know. A good cava will suffice.
1 bottle creme de cassis - It's an INVESTMENT okay?
A pretty glass
Chopstick, knitting needle or other implement

Chill champagne until ice cold.
Pour a decent measure of creme de cassis into glass.
Top up with champagne.
Stir with pointy implement.
Enjoy sense of Bombay Mix-worry slipping away in a haze of blackcurranty deliciousness.

Cardiff

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-08-22T13:30:00+01:00
What ho! On Wednesday I went to Cardiff and it was great. Cardiff has lots of things that Bath lacks, such as more than ten metres of level pedestrianism, a sea view, transport links and Welsh people. Despite the incessant drizzle and his poor health, Mr Cope was a paragon of hostly virtue, buying me a train ticket, providing umbrella coverage and, most importantly pointing out key Torchwood locations. Thank you! I feel I must pay more attention to Torchwood now, having obviously been utterly remiss in the past. It's worth noting that Cope knows more about John Barrowman than anyone else in the universe, possibly even John Barrowman. Sadly I forgot to take my camera to Cardiff, so instead of posting a photograph of a Welsh landmark, I shall allow you to pause and think of your favourite BBC science fiction drama.

That's enough.

In other news, to make up for the dreadful 'summer' 'holiday' the boy endured a few weeks ago, I am endeavouring to make his Bank Holiday as lovely as possible. I have bought picnic supplies and wine and am cleaning the flat to a sparkly state. I was even thinking of shaving my legs but LET'S NOT GO CRAZY.

Born to be mild

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-08-19T12:52:16+01:00
Today, in the grand tradition of all school holidays, I am enjoying the tense company of a repair man. This time it's the washing machine that's thrown a hissy fit and gone on strike, three months out of warranty. O electrical appliances, why do you hate me so?

The world of washing machine repair is much more technically advanced that I'd expected; the man arrived with a black box containing a massive laptop and diagnosed the problem by looking at the screen. Weird. Although now he's bailing water using one of my John Lewis hand painted rice bowls, so I guess some aspects of the job will never truly evolve.

In other news, I had a driving lesson with a man named Richard yesterday, it was great. The good thing about having a driving lesson when you've already passed your test is that you're allowed to do things like mount the kerb when parking and drive at 34mph* and no one tells you off. You must have to have nerves of steel to be a driving instructor; Richard barely blinked at my stream of expletives or poor clutch control. What a guy.

*Two examples of why I need driving lessons.

And finally, the triad of exciting events is completed by me going to visit chez Cope in glorious Cardiff tomorrow. It will be the first time I have been to Wales in daylight and without sixty children in tow. Hooray!

Fine and flimsy fabric

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-08-14T21:09:29+01:00
Hi! Here is a picture of Phil completing his task with a work of videographic genius that, as an added bonus, features my brother doing unspeakable things to a chicken.

The boy is very cross with me for posting such tiny pictures that you can't read all the words, so I hereby promise I shall reactivate my Flickr account in order that big pictures can be viewed and 'enjoyed' by all.

In other news, I have started adding some stuff to the Tutorials section of this very website. Why not go there now and laugh at my oddly twisted vowels?

Happy Badgerversary

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-08-08T09:14:45+01:00
This time three years ago, the boy and were hanging out in a hotel in Scotland waiting to get married by the world's most nervous registrar. I was wearing a hundred-quid frock that had been picked by the shop assistant at Jigsaw. Chris was wearing a shirt apparently designed for an adult elk. We had spent the morning watching telly and eating a large cooked breakfast.

We had been living together for five years, through degrees and graduations, unemployment, failed interviews, successful interviews, my PGCE and a move to London that aged us both by decades. When people asked why we were so calm on our wedding day it was simply because it was the easiest thing we'd done together in ages.

I had a lovely romantic photograph of our wedding to post at this juncture, but when I showed it to the boy he mimed retching and suggested this one instead:

It is our most viewed photograph on Flickr. I don't know what that means, but I do know that I'm infinitely glad we became family.

Cheers!

When yuppies go camping

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-07-26T19:17:42+01:00
I'm not the camping type, really, but we are financially compromised this summer and, frankly, it's camping or nothing. My camping stipulations include a tent that a) one can stand up in, b) has windows and c) accommodates a couple of folding chairs. Behold, the Orchy 400!

While the boy may mock my insistence on excessive tentiness, you can be damned sure he won't be complaining when it pisses down and we're trapped in that thing for days on end. There are skylights! And lantern-hanging hooks! And separate bedroom and living areas! The Orchy is essentially a super-light replica of our first London flat.

Our kit-list so far comprises red wine (don't need to refrigerate), an in-car laptop charger, bug repellant and sunscreen. We looked at stoves and mess-tins for about five seconds before realising we could never be arsed to use them.

So we're off to Cornwall for a week, hopefully for sea and sand and fish 'n' chips, probably for rain and endless wine-drinking. Cheerio!

Tuesday

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-07-22T17:24:16+01:00
Hi! Here is a picture of Alex recommending some films to watch.

Excellent task-completing, young man! I should probably make clear that the depicted DVD collection is merely an artist's impression of Alex's actual film library. I have no idea if he really owns 'Dune' or 'Alf'.

In other news, the last three weeks have been good in an I'm-glad-they're-over kind of way. So many things have happened that I can't remember lots of them. Er ... we went to see piano-driven '90s rocker Ben Folds! We bought a stupid tent that we can't construct! I assumed control of the entire school for a week! And Lise saved my Arts Week by being a dancing genius! Thanks!

Friday sees both the last day of term and the anniversary of my move to Bath. See you then. Bring cake.

Humble

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-06-29T14:58:37+01:00

Here are the boy's new wellies and Robbie, the dog we walked this morning. I say 'walked', I mean 'trailed behind as he dragged us over several miles of uneven Somerset farmland'. Staffies really seem to like the boy; I wonder if his bald head makes him look like one of the pack?

My mum was down for a few days this week. She had a dreadful cold but, as she is a Scottish mother and unable to relax for more than 2.5 seconds at a time, still managed to scrub our kitchen from top to bottom and get the bus to BHS to buy us a bin. THANKS MUM! Now we own Brillo pads. In other mum news, my mum saw celebrity birdspotter Kate Humble when she was in town.

Meanwhile, I have been utterly swamped at work, but able to keep up by working crazy hours at home and worrying continually. Sadly, I have neither worried nor worked this weekend and achieved precisely nothing. Oh well.

Everywhere you go

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-06-22T14:09:56+01:00
Last night we had a thoroughly brilliant evening at Westonbirt Arboretum watching New Zealand's finest pop/rock beat combo. The gig was squarely aimed at Crowded House's core demographic of Berghaus wearing, toddler wrangling professionals in their mid-forties, with gourmet catering facilities, plentiful portaloos and military-style parking drills. Hoorah! The band themselves were fantastic, too; tight as a drum and indulgent with the ol' timey hits. We love you Crowded House! Here is a photograph I took before we got into trouble for taking photographs:

ETA: PHOTO DISAPPEARED!

Yeah, this is what the world looks like when you're 5' 3.

In other news, the boy and I wore matching kag-in-a-bags and green wellingtons last night. A year in the West Country and any sense of style has gone completely out of the window.

Coming soon: My Life in PowerPoint

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-06-16T17:52:33+01:00
I don't have much to say at the moment. The ~~unfortunate~~ good news is that I have lots more photographs for you:

That's Troy, the Steve McQueen of dogs, moments after his second escape attempt. See how nicely he sits whilst getting his harness reattached, silently plotting his next move. Gabriella is the elderly myopic of the operation, forging tags and immunisation certificates in the dark, taken along for the ride even though she's a bumbling liability.

Next up, check out just how well the infant-me scrubbed up when I wasn't clutching a turnip:

My first day at school. I look pretty perky for someone who is about to spend two decades in education. How cute is my brother, incidentally? He looks like a cartoon character. How come his hair is so stylish while mine looks like it was hacked at by a madman with a bread knife? The smell of that leather satchel really haunts me.

And lastly, this is a photograph taken on Skye and titled JULY '88 KILMUIR:

Wellingtons, anoraks, grimacing, a big wheel. The Highlands may be less of a good holiday destination than you'd imagine.

Trouper parents come up with the goods

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-06-13T21:32:04+01:00

Please note the following:

Self-made cat mask. Punk rock!
Turnip lantern. We didn't get pumpkins in Scotland until 1995.
Filthy urchin knees.
Out of shot: Orville slippers. That's right, ORVILLE SLIPPERS.

In other news, I totally wish I had this pinafore now. Très chic, non?

Undignified plea for good cheer

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-06-12T19:26:32+01:00
I have singularly failed to get even an interview for any of the art teaching jobs I have applied for this term, despite being abundantly qualified and enthusiastically referenced. Dunno why; today I phoned up one of the schools in search of rejection feedback and was not allowed to speak to anyone other than the receptionist. Thanks!

To cheer myself up, I am trying to think of funny things, such as when Chris had a shirt that was white with white stripes, or when I smoked a cigar, or when Cope found his ancestral haemorrhoid shop. Even just typing 'haemorrhoid' made me laugh, so I suppose there's hope. I also laughed thinking about when Darien's cheese was officially a liquid and couldn't go on a plane, but I don't think that story exists on the internet.

Now please join in with the despairing hilarity in the comments - tell us a joke or a story or link to a funny post in your own blog. Or send me an email! I like those too. I'd also like to extend a special Ribbledoot invite to my mother - an avid reader but neglectful commenter - to leave us a good anecdote from me and Gra's childhood too. If you can remember any, that is. I remember mainly vomiting in cars and playing around building sites. Ah, the '80s!

Come on, everyone, if we don't laugh we'll cry.

How best to enjoy The Doctor

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-06-07T22:04:35+01:00
I don't really talk about The Doctor very much, but essentially my week revolves around that point on a Saturday night when I hang my disbelief up in the cupboard with the ironing board and watch some massively good time-travel. The boy is not such a big Doctor Who fan, but watches it with me anyway. I always get the impression he watches as part of an elaborate social study, as he often comments on the action and how much it may or may not frighten the average impressionable child. He also picks holes in the plot, but nods sagely when a genuine piece of historical fact comes up.

Anyway, a few weeks ago we were watching Doctor Who after the boy had consumed a couple of glasses of red wine. He said nothing for the entire episode, but at the end announced, 'Normally, this is just a high-camp kid's show, but after a glass of wine it becomes ... the full panoply of human emotion played out against the backdrop of all space and time.' Amen, brother.

And now here are some pictures of Nelly, the laziest greyhound in Bath.

Further notes from the front

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-06-04T21:53:17+01:00
I've ended up with rather too many things on the boil this week, from columns to portfolio rejigging to teaching to form filling, and frankly I've become a little frazzled. Although I suppose I should really try to finish that culinary metaphor properly, hang on ... I've got too many things on the boil, and now I've ... what? Bubbled over? Left to steam? Bruised the rosemary and put it in a pop-sock? I don't know.

Still, today at work we made dragons out of clay. That's a pretty fun thing to do for money, right?

Jade

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-05-31T21:59:55+01:00

This week's dog quickly identified Chris as our pack leader and obediently followed his every move. When I held her lead she just looked at him in a long-suffering way and huffingly agreed to follow as long as he was happy with the arrangement. The love-in was continued as the boy let her undertake some of her favourite activities such as leaning against his legs, bounding through long grass and standing in puddles, looking pathetic.

Alors, another day with no towel pics.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-05-30T21:47:27+01:00
The boy got my dreadful wheezy illness approximately seventeen minutes after I posted the other night. His was worse, though, because his eyes swelled up like a coupla pink grapefruit. The horror! Although I guess it was more his eyelids than his actual eyeballs, it was pretty gadzooks all the same.

In other news, when I felt better and had started working again, my iBook started kernel panicking every five seconds. Turns out there is some kind of problem with the AirPort module, meaning I can't be online without sitting on the floor and jacking in with an Ethernet cable. WHAT IS THIS, 1998? I'm tethered to the wall like an animal! O woe, alas and alack, etc.

Suckiest 'holiday' ever Y/Y?

Minor health complaints and towel cliffhanger

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-05-26T21:36:23+01:00
Ever since I had The Actual Flu a few years ago, I seem to take colds in a much more wheezy and pathetic way. I don't really know if The Actual Flu and the since-then wheezy colds are related, but I highly recommend that anyone who finds themselves with The Actual Flu seeks medical advice instead of, say, listening to Radio 4 and weeping until their husband comes home and notes that their lips have turned lilac.

Anyway, I am currently suffering from a wheezy, snotty cold and generally feeling sorry for myself. The only upside to this is that the boy has devoted himself to making amazing cold-fighting food, such as yesterday's excellent Chicken Soup Surprise, the surprise being a cup of whisky stirred into the pan. Thanks!

On the phone to my brother earlier, he casually asked if we had discovered the magical properties of the Japanese towel yet. We had not. He suggested we expose it to hot water. We did. Then we found out just how much better Japanese towels are than our boring European ones. The boy has promised to take photographs to post tomorrow ... steel yourselves.

Notes from an uneventful week

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-05-22T15:07:11+01:00
When I took my job it was part-time, but now it's kind-of-full-time-and-actually-a-teensy-bit-more. It's not bad at all, really, but I am heartily looking forward to half term next week*, in which I plan to read a book for more than three minutes without falling asleep. Rock 'n' roll.

*Yes, another one! Ruddy teachers! Etc!

In other news, we have decided for financial reasons only to eat things from our freezer for the rest of the month. Oddly, while I haven't yet reached lasagne saturation point (LSP), I feel like I might throw the next plate of spaghetti I see directly out of the window and into the shrubbery. Pasta hooliganism!

And finally, an all-caps THANK YOU to my brother Gra, who sent us some excellent gifts from his recent Japanese jaunt. We have not yet discovered the magical properties of the towel, but I will report back in due course. Never fear, I shall send your PS3 back post haste!

That's all.

ETA: Another list that made me laugh.

The old eggs and b.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-05-18T18:53:04+01:00
On Friday the boy came to pick me up from work and we sped off to the glorious Bibury Court Hotel, an epic country pile full of eccentric toffs, oddball furniture and whispering Americans. Here is a moose that I became obsessed with:

The boy and I are, as regular readers will know, in our very element in the schmancy hotel environment. A switch flicks, synapses buzz, and our collective unconscious decides that all of those Wodehouse novels that we read in college were merely research and preparation for our inevitable arrival among the shooting classes of the early 1920s. This weekend was no exception. Cocktails were ordered, baths were drawn, rouge was applied and tea was strained by the gallon.

We had a fab time; thank you to the lovely sponsor of our trip. And now I shall watch Doctor Who and pretend I don't have to go to work tomorrow.

Panic

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-05-12T21:48:16+01:00
One of the good things about shacking up with a life-partner at a relatively young age is that before you grow old together, you grow up together.

I think we smashed that middle barrier sometime this evening, when the boy turned to me clutching a sheet of brown paper with tiny black text all over it. 'THIS IS UNREADABLE!' he exclaimed, all but shoving the offending article up my nostril in disbelief. Nope, you're just gettin' blinder.

Camp

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-05-10T16:52:00+01:00
Fifty one kids. Six adults. Four days and three long, sleepless nights. I quickly lost all respect for the couples I saw struggling with one or two kids on our day trips. What's the problem? There's only two of them! Look at me, I've got eight in tow!

The kids were actually very well behaved, with the three default moods being a) excited b) tearful c) carsick. I tapped into new reserves of patience and travel-game-inventing.

When the boy came to pick me up last night I could barely keep my eyes open to walk to the car. And now I am about to have a beer and watch Doctor Who and savour the sweet, sweet silence.

Buster

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-05-04T18:04:25+01:00
At Bath Cats and Dogs Home, you can turn up and volunteer as a dog walker, which is how we ended up walking Buster, the cutest and saddest dog in the world:

Buster had to wear a muzzle in case he tried to bite another dog. Being a dog himself, Buster was singularly unable to understand the concept of a muzzle, and spent many tragic minutes trying and failing to pick up enticing-looking sticks all the way along our walk. He also had to wear a little coat to keep him warm and dry, although we did enjoy his hilarious head-and-tail shake, a kind of crazy bodypopping ending in a 'tthhhhrrrp!' as his hindquarters shivered to a stop.

Buster seemed pretty unfazed by his return to the kennel, although I would happily have smuggled him home under my coat. Bye, Buster, we love you!

Bat country

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-05-01T15:26:32+01:00
I've been operating on crazy-time this week, which means getting up crazy-early then running around and multitasking in a crazy manner until I collapse on the sofa mid-evening and have to be hefted to bed like a big sack of crazy. Next week I'm off on school camp, which fills me with a terrible foreboding. Hilariously, I have been put in charge of bringing sports equipment.

In other news, let's all send some good exam revision vibes to Cope, noted Welsh speaker and tall American. Good luck!

Recruitment and retention

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-04-24T17:41:03+01:00
Big shout out to those of you on strike today. I have very much enjoyed the media brouhaha that has ensued. Especially the bits where voxpop morons claim that teachers get three months 'off' every year. Yeah, those longs summers are all about the fun, fun, fun. No tedious weeks of planning or resourcing whatsoever.

In climate news, this morning it rained so much that it soaked through my parka and my shoes, but now it's all sunny and delightful. West country weather, you are crazy.

The third day

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-04-17T12:02:51+01:00
I have returned from the Mother Country and am back at the Ikea dining table, pretending to write articles. Not much has happened in the last fortnight, except this:

Which is a lot more terrifying than it looks. The deer kept sticking their heads right into the car and snuffling at the gearstick. Longleat Safari Park is pretty great, but I imagine if you're claustrophobic at all it might be a living hell. You're in a car ... but if you get out, a lion will eat you! Monkeys will climb on your face! A deer will lick your hand! Also, at the rhinoceros paddock there's a young man in a tractor, ready to head the rhinos off if they start to charge. What a job! Hours and weeks of tedium with the glimmering potential for an exciting rhino clash.

As you were.

ETA: A Roman centurion just clanked past my window. In full military uniform, including helmet. Ah, Historic Bath.

When papier mache is a career breaker

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-04-08T13:28:21+01:00
I'm off work for two weeks, which obviously means I must get up early and spend every hour of the day fretting about work. The good news is that the fretting can be alleviated by a) doing work and b) watching Rustie Lee's Hotsauce on TMF. I missed the beginning of Rustie Lee's Hotsauce, but it seems to involve the terminally cheerful 1980s chefwoman choosing music videos based on her disturbing attraction to men thirty years her junior. It's unaccountably great.

Olympiad

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-04-01T16:27:14+01:00
I've been on a teaching course at the University of Bath all day. Oddly, it was hosted by a well-known British sprinter who let me hold his Olympic gold medal. It was amazing, even for me as The Least Sporty Person Who Ever Lived. The PE teacher next to me almost had a coronary episode when I passed it to her.

In other news, HOORAY BST. Yes, we've lost an hour of our lives, but we'll get to live it in Autumn and the nights are all lovely and light again. Maybe the boy will cheer up and stop winding up other sufferers of Obsessive Punctuation Disorder.

Three days left of term, baby.

Writing, wiping and cocktails

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-03-25T15:34:28+00:00
Freelancing has taken off to a point that I feel like I'm leading a slightly exciting double life. Wiping tables by day, interviewing across time-zones by night! Dawn-til-dusk dogsbody, moonlit word-count wonder! It's been pretty great to stretch my conversational legs in a grown-up capacity, although it's more difficult to discipline myself to do a day's work after I get home from my actual day's work than I anticipated. The lure of Sammy Sung is strong.

The boy and I had a mediocre Easter weekend and spent most of it feeling sorry for the sad loss of our London yuppie lives. The boy, rather brilliantly, decided that the only cure for yuppie-life-withdrawal is just to go out and be a goddamn yuppie again for an evening. The full shebang, suited and booted, frocked and heeled, just the two of us. If you've never been on a night out with the boy, I can thoroughly recommend it. A man eternally out of time, he turns into a bizarre roaring '20s-style swell when faced with white-aproned waiters and a cocktail menu. After a few, if you really encourage him, he might teach you an Edith Piaf song, or make a dreadful pun with the bartender, or tell you what some really dirty words mean.Try it yourself!

Look at all my trials and tribulations

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-03-23T11:00:06+00:00
Hey, it's Easter! Why not celebrate the Resurrection of Our Lord by watching the excellent 1973 adaptation of Jesus Christ Superstar? It has some really swingin' tunes that the boy and I became obsessed with back in college. There's nothing like lying in bed shouting 'One of my twelve chosen/will leave to betray me!' at each other in the early morning hours to really kick-start a relationship.

In other news, I am thoroughly enjoying the long weekend and think we should have one every month. Monday holidays are particularly sweet as you bypass the Sunday Afternoon Funk and experience, in effect, another Saturday night. And any Funk deferred to Monday night will be offset by the knowledge that the following 'week' has only four days in it. Oh yes.

Cheers!

Curiously strong

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-03-17T14:33:33+00:00
There are two cathedrals in Liverpool, and each of them are frickin' spectacular. The boy took a few good photos on his iPhone, if you want to have a gawp.

In other news, HELLO LOVELY PEOPLE who have begun writing me to say they find this website browsable and time-sucky in the nicest possible way. Especially Amanda, who I'm betting wishes she hadn't bothered since she received my beer-enhanced reply. You guys rock.

Today I am writing various things and making some more wire birds. I'd really rather make a wire stag, but given space constraints, I guess I'll stick to the birds. Here, for the curious, is an inexplicably tiny photo of my embroidered heart for the Art of the Stitch competition last summer. Didn't get a place, but at least received a box of amazing threads from the sponsor people at Anchor. Cheers!

I will try to fix you

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-03-14T21:06:14+00:00
Yesterday was dressing-up day at work. I dressed up as Professor Trelawney, but no one knew who I was supposed to be. In fact, I have the sneaking suspicion that most of the staff just thought it was another one of my wacky hair days. Oh well.

Tomorrow the boy and I are driving to Liverpool to see a concert in the cathedral. Exciting! I wonder if my in-laws will notice that I have put on weight and not plucked my eyebrows in three months? Blargh! Witness the full genetic horror I bring to the family line!

In other news, I am simultaneously obsessed with and rubbish at SingStar.

What I done at the weekend by Jenny

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-03-09T20:29:11+00:00
It is cold, wet and windy here in Historic Bath™, which means I have spent the weekend doing only three things in fairly constant rotation.

Rawking
The boy bought me SingStar to play on the PS3 and we have both become obsessed with becoming the Ultimate Uptown Girl Champions. SingStar would be so much better if we lived in an isolated farmhouse miles from civilisation. It's difficult to throw your best shapes when you live in a ground floor flat. Also, Scottish rapping = funny.

Reading American Gods
If, like me, you tried to read the free version of American Gods a week ago and got face-smackingly frustrated at the torturously slow loading speeds, try again! It's much faster now and you won't be sorry. It's the only book I've read in ages where I feel genuinely surprised at everything that happens. On page 30 I had to shut my laptop, think for a moment and announce 'Well I didn't see that coming,' to the room at large. Which was empty, and didn't reply. Exciting.

Developing Lost Theories
The poor boy hasn't been able to enjoy a second of our downloaded Lost series 3 episodes due to my constant prattling about What Might Be Going On. I also have theories on when best to enjoy the principle Lost characters: Sawyer (wet), Desmond (blowy), Jack (drunk), Kate (silent), Hurley (driving), French Chick (punchy), Jacob (from behind the sofa).

Fnappy birthday

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-03-07T21:20:17+00:00
HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Christopher David, noted techno-journalist, husband extraordinaire, speaker of sexy schoolboy French and red wine drinker. The boy turns a surprisingly-young 28 years old today, and has celebrated so far by buying a new book and eating Tic Tacs noisily. Rock on.

Everyone send him some birthday love and advice on What To Do When You're 28 Other Than Wait To Be 30. Because frankly I couldn't find that one in Waterstones.

Love from HaHa

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-03-04T19:33:40+00:00
Everyone send some love to the boy's Nana, who turns 80 tomorrow. Happy birthday Nana! I know that all of you who have been lucky enough to sample Kiddie Crack Tablet™ will want to mark this occasion.

The boy has gone to Scotland for Nana's birthday party tomorrow, so I am all alone making crazy-but-delicious dinner concoctions. Today's theme was 'Freezer Delights', which constituted a bowl of roasted parsnips and a margarita pizza. Why not try it yourself?

Now I am watching The Hits' Top 50 Massive Million Sellers, featuring Dexy's Midnight Runners. Why was it a surprise to anyone that Kevin Rowland went a bit odd?

And now it's Celine Dion, in the days before she had her face botoxed into a rictus of feigned empathy.

Next someone called Anton du Beke is talking. I wish we had proper MTV.

Flowers just aren't going to cut it anymore

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-02-22T17:48:08+00:00
Oh look, it's Friday. As weeks-off go, this one has been something of a stressy non-event. To make up for the endless parade of workmen and tedious chores that have hampered my holiday so far, the boy bought me a mountain of delicious M&S snacks and left them in the fridge for me to enjoy today. Then he set the telly to record lots of my favourite trashy television overnight. Then he got up early and tidied the flat so that I had literally nothing to do other than slob around in my pyjamas. Then he went uncomplainingly off to work. THANKS! Attention all other husbands: The new standards for husbandiness have been set! Get with the program!

In other news, I have just bought a EuroMillions lottery ticket. Come on lucky seven!

Confused people watching the Brits

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-02-21T13:06:33+00:00
Me: He is singing with a woman out of the Gossip.
The Boy: What is 'the Gossip'?

Stalking me, stalking you, ah ha.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-02-18T16:45:36+00:00
Much geek excitement today as we shared pub-space with Kryten. The boy knew far more about Kryten than I did, mainly due to his worrying enthusiasm for Scrapheap Challenge, and momentarily entertained the notion of strutting up to Kryten and talking to him about Macs. Thankfully we both managed to stay at our table and kept our spying fairly discreet. Discreet except for the bathroom-stall periscope I installed. ONLY JOKING.

In other news, I am off work for half-term this week. Huzzah! Sadly our fridge-freezer is on the blink, putting paid to my excellent soup-making plans. I'll just have to think of something else to make. (Top hats!)

Top Hats

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-02-11T18:26:49+00:00

Much fun was had by all at this month's Philm Club. You can recreate the experience by making your very own Top Hat snacks!

Ingredients:
1 bag marshmallows
1 tube Smarties (why are they hexagonal now?!)
1 large bar Green & Black's 72% dark cooking chocolate
1 large bar cheapo supermarket chocolate
Roll baking parchment

Method:
Roll baking parchment onto worktop to make a non-stick surface. Rip open bag of marshmallows and tip Smarties into a cup, this will make it easier later on when you're spazzing around with a pan of piping hot chocolate, see?

Break chocolate into little bits and put in a pan over a low heat. NEWSFLASH: you don't have to melt the chocolate over hot water! I had no idea! The boy has blasted away all my chocolate-melting preconceptions! Crazy. Anyway, do that, then stir the chocolate until it becomes all silky and delicious-looking. Mmm.

Use a spoon to blob large dollops of chocolate onto the baking parchment. Put a marshmallow on each of the blobs. Put another dollop of chocolate on each of the marshmallows and add a Smartie. Obviously if you are of a creative bent you can make double or even triple-decker Top Hats. Leave to harden for a couple of hours. Peel off baking parchment, put on plate.

Amaze your friends and family with the delicious taste sensation of your Top Hat platter!

One day you're renting a flat, the next you have chronic respiratory damage

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-02-03T21:58:46+00:00
In the continuing drama of Our Minky Flat, a horrible damp patch has appeared on the hall floor and is soaking slowly toward our bedroom door. While this supports my assertion that the previous tenant was an actual corpse, I feel none of my usual smug satisfaction.

The good news? It's our landlord's problem. HOORAY!

In other news, I need to think of some classic '80s snackfood to serve at our Ghostbusters Philm Club. So far I've thought of 'top hats' and cheese-on-cocktail-sticks hedgehog (which the boy says is more '70s). What did you eat in the '80s? Other than phenylalanine and BSE?

The price of gaiety

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-02-01T14:30:59+00:00
Christmas+San Francisco+Tax Bill = Financial Ruin. I am poorer than a church mouse and narrowly avoiding bank charges. Stupid Bath and its stupid tiny employment pool.
Here is a list of things you can do when you have no money and there's another month til payday:

Invent new kinds of sandwiches.
Recount your past yuppie glory days to old women at bus stops.
Howl at a photo of the moon.
Learn Bob Dylan songs on the guitar.
Eat a lot of staffroom biscuits.

Hey ho, it passes the time. Bye then!

Every other day of the week is fine, yeah

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-01-28T16:17:48+00:00
Five hundred squids! Note to self: make more use of binmen and the NHS.

In other news, those of you who are either ex-art schoolers or in the midst of various degrees might enjoy this poster project in which graphic design students in their final year designed advice posters for new first years. Nice.

Okay, something mad has happened to my fonts. I'll take that as a sign to stop typing and do the dishes.

Overtime and taxes, rock on.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-01-26T11:05:04+00:00
Oh, look! This is the first day in 20 days that I haven't had to wake up, get up and go somewhere at an ungodly hour. I feel giddy.

No real news other than a crazed working week making up all the hours I missed while I was away, and the higher-than-usual consumption of Innocent banana and coconut smoothies. Waking at 6am when your brain thinks it's 10pm apparently leads to the complete inability to face solid food.

Today I have to fill in my tax return - boo. The good news is that the tax return people (and their benevolent overlord, Adam Hart-Davis) must be used to dealing with utter cretins like me, because the steps are laid out and explained the simplest possible language, with the most important words in bold so you can't possibly miss them. Also, if you do it online, you don't even have to find the right page in the form; it just springs up magically on your screen. Such convenience!

As I have nothing further to tell you, here's a clip of Bernard Black doing his tax return. Ma!

Outlook: Greyish for a while. Then wet.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-01-19T16:14:26+00:00
It's just after 4pm as I write this, but thanks to the wonder of international time zones I have been awake for 25 hours and counting. Unfortunately, this face-melting jetlag is only compounding the crushing despair I feel at being back in Blighty. We left palm trees and cloudless blue skies in California and flew for hours over snow-capped mountain ranges and twinkling towns and the mighty Atlantic only to land in drizzly Heathrow, greeted by surly baggage handlers and facing a three-mile stagger to the car park. It was all I could do not to turn around and get on the first available flight out again.

Anyway, I'm sure the post-trip malaise will wear off soon and we'll be back to crochet and Carlos before you know it. Here are some photographs (and an inexplicable gap) in the meantime:

Excitable Scotswoman makes spectacle of self in tram-riding palm-tree photograph shocker.

Chris made us walk up that hill. It was steep.

Lunch at the In-N-Out. Those are good burgers, dude.

Quick note before I run out of internet:

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-01-16T04:43:59+00:00
San Francisco is sunny and lovely.
Everyone is friendly to me even when I am clearly a media event n00b.
I am learning how to overtip and eat meat. Haven't seen a vegetable in three days.
Telly is bonkers and unfathomable in a good way.
California much better than Bath. Would stay here forever if scary immigration men hadn't scanned my fingerprints and eyeballs. Oh well.

Disproportionately delicious

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-01-11T22:00:28+00:00
I glimpsed over the boy's shoulder just now as he was submitting a product review by email and caught this gem:

Alex, I nominate you as the cake buyer for the week I'm away. Remember that everyone goes nuts for those soft buns – 99p for 5!

Obviously I laughed so hard that my lungs almost fell out, and the boy felt compelled to elaborate on the cakes in question. 'They're just those Marks and Spencer iced bun things,' he explained, a look of rapture in his eyes. 'Only a pound, but they're ... disproportionately delicious. Maybe that should be their new slogan.'

Ah, simple pleasures.

I like my toast done on one side

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-01-06T14:20:37+00:00
The boy and I have never translated particularly well to American soil. With the vocabulary of PG Wodehouse as enacted by The Broons, the fashion sense of retired geography teachers, and a list of interests that includes 'tweed' and 'data storage', we have never blended well in transatlantic situations. On our last trip to New York, we bumbled through Manhattan like Denholm Elliot in The Last Crusade, demanding civilised sit-down cafés and pleasant smoking areas and waiters with manners. Hopeless.

But! Despite our ludicrous past attempts at transcontinental travel, next weekend we are headed for San Francisco to report on the celebrated Macworld Conference and Expo. We will be there for a week and I am excited beyond measure. Much Californian wardrobe confusion abounds, so I reach out to all of you American blog-lurkers to ask some important questions such as:

Should I bring my parka?
Will I be cold?
Where can I find a brilliant yarn store?
Can you recommend any genius telly for me to watch at night?

Answers by comment or contact form, prize of a postcard featuring my brilliant 'drawings' for anyone foolish enough to send me their address.

In other news, back to work tomorrow. Ho hum.

Fangirling Dermot Murnaghan

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2008-01-02T13:35:30+00:00
When I complained to my brother about having to complete a tax return he mused "The man on the advert says that 'tax doesn't have to be taxing'. Except that it does ... tax, by its very nature, is taxing." Which frankly I think should be the new motto of HM Revenue and Customs. Hi! Happy New Year! Let's begin a new paragraph!

This morning the boy went back to work, but not before waking me to recount today's most ludicrous story on BBC Breakfast, in which a roving reporter had been dispatched to examine a woman's pants*. We both find ourselves increasingly incensed at the 'news' items on BBC Breakfast, particularly when they are relayed by bumbling Bill Turnbull, a man who behaves as if he's been carjacked, bundled into a van, attacked with panstick and forced to present breakfast television at gunpoint. I think the problem is that we didn't have a telly at the moment the show changed from a cornflakes-and-atrocities serious news program to a scarlet sofa-based grinfest, so we can't really assimilate properly. Our mutual loathing of 'Strictly' stems from BBC Breakfast, which follows the winners and losers with ludicrously detailed updates occurring throughout the morning. It's utterly infuriating.

All of which explains why we don't really watch much television. Too much emotional investment.

*Incidentally, I find it vaguely offensive that they keep being referred to as 'giant'. Large, maybe, or ample, but surely they can't be classified as giant until a family of three have camped under them, or they've been hoisted up the rigging of a stricken tea clipper to save the lives of a hundred beleaguered sailors.

In soup news, I am making some broth-type chickeny soup. I put in two mugs of lentils, but now when I stir it I can't find the lentils anywhere. Where have they gone?

Christmas Eve

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-12-24T16:14:44+00:00
Today we went for a walk on the cold and drizzly Solway Coast and saw this festive robin chap:

Dapper! We also saw some holly:

And so to dinner and ale and general Christmassy excitement. Cheers!

The driver next to me. He's just the same.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-12-23T22:47:12+00:00
Yesterday we drove to the Mother Country, which meant six hours of eating Liquorice Allsorts, inventing new swearwords and singing Les Champs-Élysées over and over again until I wanted to throw myself under a juggernaut.

We arrived in one piece, however, and are enjoying delicious food, roaring fires and picturesque winter scenery. This morning I went out to take a photograph of the sheep camouflaged in the frost-encrusted field next door and there was much muttering about 'city folk' from the kitchen.

Photographs tomorrow.

Creative genius: inherited

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-12-18T15:20:12+00:00
Big shout-out to my dad, who outed himself as a reader of this website on the phone yesterday. Hi dad! Everyone go and look at his excellent Flickr photo of Edinburgh! Also, you can see a bonus picture of our old dog in his icon. And a mathematically accurate drawing of his back garden, if you're interested. Nice.

In further sartorial news, I am now the proud owner of these Dr Marten biker boots. Now I shall amass an army of parka'd, booted Mods and we will roam the streets of Bath looking for other similarly outmoded nouveau-Rockers to start a fight with.

When not stomping around town, I have been papier mache-ing and sanding my wire birds. They're much sturdier now, and I've been using claycrete instead of the normal paste-and-newspaper malarkey, so the whole business is much quicker. I'm intending to collage and gold leaf them before painting with a high-gloss varnish, but I'm worried that they'll look crap so I'm holding off for a while.

Last day of school tomorrow, and in an employment first, I'm not a burned-out, braindead, end of term basketcase. Hooray!

I've dreamed of omelettes

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-12-12T17:12:25+00:00
Understanding of the Bath Look is dripping slowly into my consciousness. After a decade of kitschy, woollen granny coats, I've now gone out and bought a parka of modern space age fibres. The Bath Look has no truck with whimsical coats. The parka features a sensible hood and multiple zips and is ludicrously warm. The only downside to it is that I've spent most of the afternoon stomping around the flat shouting 'look deep into the parka!' at no one in particular.

In other news, I bought the boy a vintage fedora similar to the one featured in the corner of his website header. Unfortunately, it's far too small, but this has done nothing to dissuade him from wearing it. The tiny fedora has been perched on his head, wobbling and ridiculous, for all household chores, meals and administrative tasks since yesterday. I'll try to take a photograph so you can share in the hilarity.

Unflashy braindead ramblings from the end of the week

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-12-07T17:11:26+00:00
I've emerged from my three-month creative funk and begun doing some artwork again. I've been making paper and wire birds that I thought were lifesized until the boy informed me that they were laughably huge. Every time they are moved around the flat, from table to airing cupboard and back, I say 'cheep cheep cheep' in the manner of an excitable starling. Curiously, the boy has not yet bludgeoned me to death with a pan.

I've also begun experimental embroidered illustrations for a mini-story that I browbeat Cope into writing for this specific purpose. I have only spent two nights on this so far and already I can feel the telltale spasms of crippling RSI and am squinting like a mole in the moonlight. Hooray stereotypical artistic suffering!

I suppose I should really add some photographs of these thrilling masterpieces-in-progress, but frankly my real reason for posting was simply to plug this hilarious website that the boy and I have been laughing ourselves sick over all week. Warning: the more you scroll, the more ludicrous it gets.

In other news: Le weekend!

Rock 'n' roll age of doom

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-12-03T15:09:08+00:00
Hello. Thanks to everyone who sent lovely cards and gifts last week – you guys rock!

Having a Saturday birthday was pretty sweet. The boy and I went to see The Darjeeling Limited and had lunch in a ludicrously packed pub in town.

The only downside to Saturday was that Bath Christmas Market opened and as, insanely, it has decided to close on the 9th, everyone in the South-Western quadrant of the United Kingdom decided to come along. Anyone planning on a visit this week be sure to come armed with an electric baton and no sense of personal space.

On Sunday the boy valiantly accompanied me to a 5-year-old's party to do face painting. If there's anything funnier than a room full of snotty, tear-streaked tigers eating jam sandwiches, I've yet to see it. The boy painted a blonde moptop toddler who, after half an hour of running around, looked uncannily like Elaine Paige at the end of Cats.

In other news, our house is an utter shambles.

Fanks

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-11-25T20:46:21+00:00
Last night we went to the Copes' for a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner. Americans know how to eat! Thank you Copes, we had a great time! Many and varied Welshfolk were pleasant enough to put up with our combined social ineptitude, in particular our ignorance of organised sports and Strictly Come Dancing. Mercifully, the boy was driving and I remained sober in solidarity with him, avoiding total idiocy by a narrow squeak.

Today, perhaps as punishment for offending strangers with my art 'skills', I woke up with horrific sinus-and-throat pain and really hot eyes. The boy originally mocked my hot eyes* but soon rallied round when it became clear I wouldn't get up without lashings of sympathy and hair-patting. Thanks.

*Me: '...and my feet are cold.'
Boy: 'Oh dear. If only you could put your feet on your eyes.'

In other news, this is my last week of being 26. I can't really rate or slate 26 as an age. It was completely adequate.

Fingernails are good

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-11-21T14:42:45+00:00
The boy and I did some RAWKING on Sunday* when we went to see the Foo Fighters courtesy of the crazy cats at NEC. I outed myself as a media event n00b by being utterly enthralled by the whole thing, especially the Tuscan Style sandwiches and special lip-reading barman.

The O2 is an amazing venue, I hadn't the faintest concept of how big it'd be. The boy accurately described the sound of the vast crowd as like waves breaking on a shore, and the Foos managed to fill what is essentially a gigantic tent in an alternately huge and intimate way. Dave Grohl mocked us 'posh motherfuckers in the boxes' which was funny, although I'm sure Mr Dave has partaken of his own share of corporate hospitality.

*In as much as a bald man and a supply teacher can ever truly rawk.

Mostly links

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-11-15T16:25:30+00:00
However is the boy going to visit his Other Wife when I can watch him all day long? Didn't think it through, you fool! As I watch now, the good folks at Future towers are eating gigantic roundy things that look a bit like doughnuts. And laughing. Making a magazine sure is 'taxing'.

In other news, I am getting these guys to make me a pair of jeans and am very excited. Imagine! Jeans that don't trail along the ground/gape at the waist/flatten the arse/pinch the hips! Sure, they may have a hinky website, but who cares when you're wearing the pants of your dreams? Yowza.

And finally, is it wrong to find passive aggressive notes quite so funny?

Stronger than a moose

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-11-07T15:08:54+00:00
Hi! I have lots of pictures to show you, only I can't show you them because I upgraded to Leopard ~~because the boy made me~~ and now I am too idiotic to operate my own laptop. Leopard is pretty fun though; don't let my stupidity put you off.

In other news, hooray November! Bath is shaping up to be a fairytale winter town, with all the little alleyways strung with tasteful lights and the Christmas market starting on the 29th. There'd better be augmented hot chocolate or all my girlish dreams will be shattered. Also, I have discovered that my birthday falls on a Saturday this year. It's been sixteen years since I last had a non-school birthday, I'm not sure I can handle the excitement. Start embroidering your celebratory pantaloons now!

And finally, news that could bring our marriage to its very knees. New Boosh. November 15th. BBC Three. Oh yes.

ETA: OMG you can watch the first episode online! And I have to go to work in ... 90 seconds.

Crazy in love

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-10-30T20:31:44+00:00
Living in London, as the boy often observes, was a bit like having a stunning but impossibly high-maintenance mistress. We loved her with the burning fire of a thousand suns, but she kept us locked in a dingy little room and never let us sleep. She offered opportunities and excitement beyond our wildest dreams, then took all our money and mocked our lack of stamina. And, of course, she was very beautiful indeed, making every other town look dowdy and frumpy in comparison.

There is a part of me, and I'm sure a part of the boy, that just can't quite let go. If London really was our recently-dumped mistress, then our jaunt through last week was the equivalent of a drunken midnight phone call. I'd like to use the end of this metaphor to create an uncomfortable photographic juxtaposition:

Thanks. That's the carousel in Covent Garden, a place we never went before we moved. Proof that we really are just tourists in our former hometown. Sob.

To dampen our collective grief, the boy took a few days off so we could do the things we never did when we lived in the city. Namely, drive to Dorset and look at geological marvels. Here is the boy hiking the coastal path from Lulworth Cove to Durdle Door, which is a pretty spectacular thing to do on a beautiful autumn morning.

The boy and I aren't really from hiking stock, as evidenced by our hilarious hiking 'gear'. Note the boy looks vaguely at home, if a bit Oxbridge-ish, with his duffel coat and chucks, but somehow I managed even to make my walking stick look vaguely out of place. Hellew! I say, it's a bit blowy up here for a pashmina! Do you know if there's a cafe?

On the way to the coast, we went to see Stonehenge, which is a lot taller than I thought it would be. I imagine that Stonehenge is very beautiful and peaceful on the summer solstice, but I can recommend a dark October afternoon. Just before closing time, with howling wind and whippy rain, it really felt like the edge of the universe.

Stardust

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-10-21T17:16:34+01:00
Yesterday we went to see Stardust (noisy link), which is brilliant although quite different from the book. There's a lot more sex and violence in the book, and a lot less cross-dressing.

In addition to feeding my current Gaiman-mania, Stardust also afforded me the bizarre experience of witnessing my childhood stomping ground on the big screen. At ten I believed myself to live in the most boring, isolated corner of the universe. The idea of Michelle Pfeiffer striding around our dog-walking spots would have been utterly ludicrous.

In other news, I am off work for a week and a half. Here is my to-do list:

Clean house
Plan meals around T4
Eat weight in Crunchy Nut Cornflakes
Make pumpkin pie
Feel wistful
Complain bitterly

Suggestions/alterations to the usual address.

Literate

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-10-17T15:55:58+01:00
Today I have been on a course! It was a very good course with biscuits and everything. We learned how to write. Not how to write in a creative sense, with similes and metaphors and such like, but how to physically write. It was pretty amazing.

We learned how to sit at a desk and hold a pencil and form the letters in the air. We had to copy from the board in Welsh. We had to take Greek dictation. We had to write with our feet on the floor, then with our feet wrapped around the chair legs, then left-handed with our eyes closed. We wrote while chewing and while listening to music. Then we watched DVDs of other people writing and analysed them.

Then we got more biscuits. All in all, a good day.

Ghosts, stairs, pictures and vum-pires

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-10-09T15:03:28+01:00

No news today, but I'm feeling a certain pressure to post since the boy's paean, so here is a photo of a drawing of a lady. Please note that I was too lazy to scan in my sketchbook properly even though I am actually SITTING NEXT TO a scanner. My sloth knows no bounds.

Room temperature update: hot enough to roast a suckling pig.

She suffers with her nerves

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-10-03T21:03:21+01:00
The boy has gone to Germany for Oktoberfest. Or possibly he's taken a few days out to watch the leaves turn with his Other Family. Either way, I am alone again and grumpy as all hell. Here are some of my current grumps:

Night storage radiators
I have spent the last four days alternately shivering cold and AS HOT AS THE SUN ITSELF. This is because night storage radiators require the householder to psychically predict the next day's temperature, wind chill and cloud cover in order to set the overnight 'store'. While admittedly it is possible to check the weather in the general area using that 'television' device that you young people are so fond of, our flat happens to be perched on top of a precipice high above Historic Bath and thus has its own unique microclimate which is utterly impossible to predict by any modern method. Of course, if you asked one of our neighbours they'd say things like 'Ar, hang a skinned cat by the ear on yonder lintle; if his eyes glow copper, the morrow will be fair indeed.' But, honestly, our neighbours are crazy.

Now I've spent so long grumbling about storage radiators that I've forgotten what the rest of my issues were. Apart from the obvious. Issues, I mean.

In other news: do you like my new website layout? The boy made it by scanning in lots of things from my sewing box. Clever! I guess he felt guilty about the whole bigamy thing. I am hoping to add some textiles tutorials and embroidery patterns soon but, you know, I'm hoping to do a lot of things soon. Like clean my bathroom and learn to drive without screaming.

Because I'm Neil Gaiman, that's why. Next!

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-09-29T21:25:36+01:00

Tonight we went to gawp at Neil Gaiman and listen to him say interesting and witty things. It was pretty great. He read bits of his works in progress and then spoke in a thoughtful manner about how the plots might unfold, as if he wasn't entirely sure himself. He was disarmingly open and somehow managed to answer the audience questions in a refreshing way even though I'm sure he'd been asked them a zillion times before.

The boy and I didn't manage to get our questions answered, even though I waved my shiny cracker ring around to attract attention*. Shame, because the boy had an excellent and insightful question that would have changed the course of literary history. My question, however, would have been along the lines of 'When are you going to kiss my face?', so all's well that ends well, I suppose. Or all's well that doesn't end with a restraining order, anyway.

Other facts about our Neil Gaiman encounter:
Neil Gaiman has very shiny boots. The boy said it was so people could look up his trousers.
We counted three children at this Children's Literary Festival event ...
... but loads of goths.
We didn't get anything signed, because we were too dim to realise this was a possibility. Survival of the signing-queue fittest!

Check out this cameraphone snap that the boy has generously donated. Neil Gaiman's aura of lovely genius can clearly be seen floating to the left of shot. Or possibly it's dry ice. We'll never know.

*Apparently Neil Gaiman is not a magpie.

Children can be so cruel

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-09-27T17:39:30+01:00
I think I'm so badass with my kitschy fashion 'sense', but it only takes a small child to blast through the bohemian veneer:

Small child: Where did you get your ring?
Me: (Proudly) In London, at a market.
Small child: It looks like it's from a cracker!
Me: ...

In other news, I am somewhat poorly, the boy is back from Paris, and the flat is very cold indeed.

ETA: The boy has just demonstrated his usefulness by solving two of the problems mentioned above by making me a hot toddy. I am now warm and toasty and feel like my sinuses have been cleared by a snowplough. THANKS!

The boy's hot toddy recipe:
1 measure of single malt whisky
2 slices of lemon
Good squeeze of Marks and Spencer honey
Hot water
Put whisky and honey in fancy tumbler of some kind. Top up with hot water from kettle. Squeeze in 1 slice lemon. Perch other slice of lemon on side of glass for added comedy value. Stir. Give to wife. Feel virtuous. Make lewd jokes about 'giving it to wife' when you read this.

Odd things that the boy and I discuss on a regular basis

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-09-25T16:26:20+01:00
#473: Ten Bird Roast
The subject of a turkey stuffed with a goose and eight other birds comes up frequently in our flat. I often propose it as main course when people come for dinner. The boy insists that if we do serve it, we must put a chicken's egg in the very middle, so that when it is carved "a bird flies out". I say the bird would die in the oven, but the boy insists that the bird would be comfortably incubated throughout.

The concept is extrapolated to other foodstuffs when the need arises; if I require a packed lunch for work, I may request a ham sandwich inside a ciabatta inside a pitta bread inside a baguette, for example. And for my birthday in December, I fully expect a cupcake inside a muffin inside a battenburg inside a victoria sponge.

I don't know who taught us about Ten Bird Roasts, but I'd like to find that person and PUT THEM INSIDE A GOOSE for a while.

I bet they have a dog, too.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-09-24T20:19:22+01:00
This week the boy is in gay Paris for Apple Expo. By 'Apple' we can assume he meant 'taking'. And for 'Expo' you can read 'my Other Family to Disneyland'. Damn them. Once again I am at home with an amazing array of mad-assed things to eat in his absence. I have already decided to take all my meals in Lazy Susan format - if it can't be eaten from a revolving tray, I'm not interested.

Let's all give a big birthday shout-out to my brother Gra and my loveliest friend Emma:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRA AND EMMA! \\0\0/0//

I have sent you both birthday things, but they might not have reached you yet. This is because I am lame in every way. Here are some Gra-n-Emma birthday facts:

Graham is 24! I can't even think about how old this makes me. Fact: Gra has magic, Dr Doolittle-esque bird-taming powers. If you ever have a panicky sparrow in your kitchen, Gra will simply stride over, pick it up and release it into the garden. Amazing! Also, he can get cats out of old women's houses.

Emma is 27! Holy crapola! Fact: Emma knows all the words to Tainted Love. She might think she doesn't at first, but then she actually does. '80s genius.

The 'a' word

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-09-20T17:53:27+01:00
Historic Bath has got somewhat cold and autumnal of late, and neither the boy nor I really understand the mysterious ways of the night storage radiator. On Tuesday I sat and wrote my 'User column at the dining table, wearing the boy's kilt socks over my jeans and wrapped up to my ears in a huge scarf. After a fashion I began to feel rather vintage and Dickensian in my chill, and when the boy came into the room I began to bang at the keyboard with much vigour, booming 'It was the BEST of times, it was the WORST of times ...' in a pompous way, prompting him to ask if I required a pair of fingerless gloves. Which I TOTALLY DO, by the way.

Today I am knackered and my feet are frigging killing me. This is pretty shameful as my new job is only part-time, although in my defence it is also somewhat more physical than my last job. There is much in the way of running around and carrying tables and crouching down to talk to very tiny people. Being part-time has inevitably caused people to ask what I do with my afternoons. Oddly, I become very cagey and embarrassed when asked this and mutter into my cleavage until my interrogator gets confused and changes the subject. Unlike Cope, who sensibly wears his writer badge with pride, I'm just too embarrassed to tell people that I sew things and type words for money. The boy would probably tell you this is my Calvinist childhood talking - 'ARTIST, is it? Aye, ye'll be needin' a propur job afore ye have bai-rins, though. Ah'll jist pit the mince on!' Etc.

The boy is going out for a work thing tonight. I say he's going out for a work thing, but frankly I have no evidence of this. He could be going to visit his other wife and family in Aberystwyth for all I know. I bet she makes him brilliant packed lunches. Bitch.

Night fever

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-09-16T19:58:49+01:00
The boy is off to Germany on the first of many business trips tomorrow. Pantwettingly, this will be my first night alone in the new flat. We all know how much I enjoy the culinary opportunities that his absences afford, but the new flat is mighty creepy.

It's big, for a start, and much more rambling than either of the London flats, with a long narrow hallway and jump-y out corners. And there are lots of cupboards for murderers to hide in once they've negotiated the easy 4ft hop into any one of our man-sized, ground floor windows. And the noises! In London there was the reassuring cacophony of sirens, buses and Peckham gang wars 24 hours a day. A night in our genteel Bath neighbourhood involves four hours of total silence broken in the dead of night by a fox being buggered by Satan himself, a sound so otherworldly that I fully expect the faerie folk to come and carry me off as a kind of lunar sacrifice to the god of squinty-toothed swearing.

Ah well. I'm sure I'll soon get used to it, and at least we now have a freezer and a plentiful supply of frozen delicacies for me to investigate. Tomorrow I plan to have a meal composed entirely of onion rings and houmous.

Back to work tomorrow. Hey-ho.

It must be love, love, love.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-09-13T14:47:31+01:00
Sometimes my copy of Empire magazine has very frightening or gory film stills in it, the sort of images that cause me to switch on all the lights at 3am and demand water and Radio 4. Imagine my relief then, when I opened this month's issue to find that the boy had gone through with a black marker and blocked out all the zombies, corpses and severed limbs he could find. He also put a heart around anything he thought I might especially like; Harrison Ford, Daniel Craig and a dog, mainly. Thanks! You are hilarious.

In other news, New Job is not bad, flat is crawling with wiggins and my hair is gigantic.

I've got a walking stick, now what?

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-08-28T12:16:35+01:00

At the weekend we went to the national arboretum, which is like a really civilised forest. Totally level, neat grassy paths and an excellent café - everything the boy and I look for in our 'outdoor' pursuits. Thankfully the arboretum is pretty massive, so it's easy to get away from the hoards of dawdling morons and find lovely peaceful places to walk. You can also see lovely exotic trees like this Japanese maple that I snapped with my cameraphone.

In other news, I am anxiously trying to adopt the Bath Look before I start work next week. I can't quite get a handle on what the Bath Look is; it seems to involve floaty layers and a lot of tanned ankle. And there's something about the hair as well. I feel a bit formal and conspicuous in my London clothes, they're too severe. Anyone who can reduce the Bath Look to a formula wins a chewy cookie.

And finally: I made felt in our sink this morning and now the whole house smells like wet dog.

Mares

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-08-24T15:07:34+01:00
All summer I've been grappling with terrible and ridiculous nightmares. Limbs and bodies and snakes and beasties, scary noises and sweaty awakenings. I can only assume that this is a response to moving house, these being my first utterly dark and completely silent nights in many years. The boy doesn't seem to have been affected, though, so that theory could be mince. Whatever the reason, I am too sleepy to do anything worth reporting.

The only interesting thing that I'm trying to get ~~finished~~ started is my entry for the Art of the Stitch competition. First prize four grand! I swing between thinking my entry idea is either crap or brilliant, but - hey! - you've gotta be in it to win it, as they say.

Bank holiday weekend, hooray! I start my new job in ten days, but I'm not worried. Naive? Probably.

Mountains Leave

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-08-17T14:24:42+01:00
The other night I laughed so much at this List of Unlikely Disasters that I cried a bit and the boy took my laptop away.

In driving news, I am supposed to take Carlos to Sainsbury's on my own today. Place your bets now on whether I will:
a) Make it there in one piece but suffer a panic attack in the car park.
b) Crash or damage Carlos to such an extent that the boy will divorce me.
c) Get arrested
d) Die.

In dinner news, we are having steak. Yeehar.

Baby you can drive my car. But not park it accurately.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-08-14T21:10:12+01:00
Have you seen Carlos, our lovely car? Ooh, but he is a beauty. The boy and I are so in love with him that we open the curtains at night and shout goodnight before we go to sleep. I think the boy would actually go out in his slippers and kiss his shiny bonnet if I weren't around.

If you have been 'lucky' enough to witness my directorial debut, you may have caught an excerpt of one of my driving lessons. It's the bit where Chris gives me gentle encouragement and I shout 'shut up' in an angry way. I have actually held a driving license for almost ten years, it's just that I haven't, you know, driven for at least six of those. The good news is that my driving lessons now involve less foul-mouthed marital discord and more white knuckle rides through Historic Bath.

In other news, I have developed a bizarre Internet Crush on fantasy author Neil Gaiman despite never having read any of his books except Coraline* which scared the bejezus out of me when I was poor and living in an attic. Has this happened to anyone else? The Internet Crush part, I mean, not the living in an attic part. Perhaps there is some sort of hypnotic undercurrent to Harper Collins' website user interface.

That is all.

*Jim gave me this book because he said Coraline reminded him of me. I thought this was sweet until much later when he told me that it was because Coraline gets a pizza for her dinner when she gets hungry. What?!

Hap hap hap hap etc

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-08-09T11:13:17+01:00
How are you? Here is another unordered, unedited list of braindribble:

Non-mental holiday shocker
This is the first summer holiday I have ever properly switched off. No anxious pacing. No panicky midnight lesson planning. No physical nausea at those Woolworths 'back to school' ads. I've downgraded my herbal remedies from brandy-laced Rescue Remedy to harmless Badger Balm*, which smells much nicer than the title suggests. I always thought it was the epic 'alone-time' of August that brought the crazy to the yard, but apparently not.

*Notice the inaccurate packaging on the front of Badger Balm. Aren't badgers nocturnal? How is this badger going to forage undetected during daylight hours? Or cross busy daytime roads? What if he becomes a social outcast? Get it together, Badger Balm.

Rockumentary
The boy has given me a dinky DV camera to try out. I now have many hours of shaky, Mike Leigh style docu-footage of life in our flat. I can't BELIEVE how often and how elaborately I swear. Sorry guys. I will get the boy to edit down some of my searing social commentary so you can share the ~~love~~ ~~tedium~~ orange carpet.

Two years and sixty seven months
Yesterday marked two years since the boy and I stopped being groovy bohemian sinners and became family. I can't honestly claim to have had many good ideas, but I reckon that one was a humdinger. Here is my annual puke-making anniversary photograph:

What do you mean, 'blow chunks'? Yes, okay, you can go now.

Welcome to the 'Hood

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-08-03T17:51:58+01:00

Bath is to New Cross what Veuve Clicquot is to Kia-Ora. The boy and I have gone from being the neighbourhood dandies to the local foul-mouthed tramps. Everything is beautiful; buildings, views, beer, people. I feel quite shocked that we've landed here after five years of rough and tumble in South London.

Moving was a living hell, and I'm having a hard time shifting down a gear. The art of relaxation is much underrated.

Back soon!

Gone

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-07-20T20:06:56+01:00
Teaching is a particularly difficult job to leave because, while the adults can handle it, a few of the kids can't. Today most of my students were pretty cheerful about the situation, but a few were withdrawn and one (6th former!) even cried.

Still there have been beautiful gifts and cards and far too much wine for one person to drink. My classroom has been gutted, my desk cleared for the first time in three years and my whiteboard washed shiny-clean. Chairs on desks, folders shredded, thank you and goodnight. This afternoon lots of people asked if I was excited about moving, happy to be leaving, sad to be leaving, looking forward to some time off or whatever. To be honest, I feel nothing at all other than utterly knackered.

All I want to do tomorrow is lie in bed with my new book (squee!) and wait until I feel like myself again. But! It's time to pack and scrub and label and lift and carry and assemble. Jesus. The only thing that's currently keeping me going is a permanent loop of Jenny Don't Be Hasty which I view as a kind of oddly specific message from the universe rather than a jaunty music track that I got for free with a Coca-Cola/iTunes promotion. Hooray grandiose delusions!

Film better than book shocker: Order of the Phoenix

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-07-14T19:35:38+01:00
The boy is here! To celebrate, we went to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix which was so brilliant that it was all I could do not to stand up in the middle of the packed cinema and shout 'THIS IS GREAT.' The best part was the return of Gary 'Kiss My Face' Oldman, who was all done up in a natty pinstriped suit ensemble. Why doesn't he just kiss my face and get it over with?

London has got all humid and uncomfortable, and there's only a week left of work. I've packed literally nothing but I've drunk two beers. Ah well.

Good Art Alert: Blind Light

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-07-13T18:47:56+01:00
Took some students to see the Antony Gormley exhibition at the Hayward Gallery today. I wasn't expecting much, to be honest, but it was genuinely spectacular. Our kids spent much of their time groping around in the Blind Light installation, staggering out from time to time, looking like they'd been in a tropical rainforest. The installation itself comprises a large glass room filled with thick white fog. From the outside, you can see creepy silhouettes appearing and disappearing, moving in slow motion as if they're underwater. Of course I went in! I'd have been a muppet not to.

Inside was literally thrilling. Once the door closes there is total whiteout, so you can barely see your own outstretched hand. Not wanting to look a ninny, I began to creep forward, quickly becoming utterly disorientated. Some people were in pairs, holding hands, but I think it's better to go in alone. The sensation of being in an infinite white void, surrounded by garbled conversations, starting to soak through with condensation and vague panic was frickin' amazing. I heard one of the kids call out '...is this what heaven is like?' I replied that I thought it was more like a coma.

After that, there were amazing wire sculptures and more interactive installations and finally we ran out onto the viewing platforms to see all 31 of the Event Horizon blokes, staring us down from all over the place.

Sadly we weren't allowed to take pictures in the exhibition, so here is a crappy cameraphone snap of my souvenir Blind Light Cloud Dome:

Antony, I salute you. You crazy rich sculptor man.

In and out the dusty bluebells

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-07-07T18:33:17+01:00
Things are trundling along here, in the way that steam rollers trundle over hot tar. It's painful. Still two weeks until the end of term and my life is one giant Crunchy Nut Cluster.

The flat is still sitting unpacked, we are being screwed over by our removal firm and the landlord keeps trailing prospective tenants into the place to look at my stuff scornfully. Every weekend sees some relative or friend or other person who wants to stay in London for free crashing on my sofa and using my towels and demanding tea and cereal and other things that I don't eat. I have to get a special permit for the removal van to park on the Red Route, and even then I'm not sure how I'm supposed to stop people parking in the bay before the removal blokes get here. Maybe lie down in it? Stand in it naked, screaming obscenities?

In other, equally-stressful-but-slightly-good news, I got offered a job in a Bath school yesterday and I have taken it. It's a massive step down financially, but frankly I'm delighted. The hours are 9am-1pm which means only TEN MORE 5.45am get-ups left! The prospect of a normal adult bedtime is so very exciting. Perhaps I can start watching ER again. I hope Corday's gone, the irritating moo.

Being without the boy is dreadful. I saw him last night after my job interview and it was great. He cooked me brilliant food and said weird things like 'Hey, you're in a bath, in Bath ... YOU'RE IN A PARADOX!' which made me laugh. I can't wait to live with the boy again, things are just so much fun.

Keep moving

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-06-17T19:11:59+01:00
My mother calls most nights to check that I haven't been mugged, kidnapped or blown up on my way home from work. This is much less comforting than she might think.

Life without the boy goes on in a continual see-saw of tedium and anxious palpitation. We finally have a removal company who have agreed to take on our ludicrous little stairway and Red Route parking so thank Crunchie for that.

Five weeks left of work and the pace is hectic. Marking, moderating, teaching, packing up my classroom. Three years of accumulated stuff to come home on the train, save me jebus. The GCSE girls don't know I'm going. Not sure I'll get a chance to tell them now, ah well.

All you far-flung folks will know it's at times like these you miss your family and friends. Oh for a dad to come round in his car and help me load up my books and sewing machine. My kingdom for an aunt to have me over for Sunday lunch. My back teeth for a lovely girl friend to whisk off for Saturday cinema and cocktails.

But there is television! And bathing! And sweet, sweet internets! And our lovely new flat, devoid of sirens and gun crime, large enough to fit this place twice over. Fucking brilliant.

Crupdum

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-06-08T21:49:15+01:00
Gra and I have both gone slightly stir crazy. We've eaten loads and loads of rice; perhaps carbs have something to do with the madness. Or perhaps it's the constant worry and anxiety of employment / money / exams / moving / the futility of life.

Today while watching the film Big Fish, we decided to Google the actor Billy Crudup to find out what else he'd been in. Sadly I made a typo and ended up searching for 'Billy Crupdum' and we fell about laughing for at least two minutes. Which is a really long time to laugh about something that's not really funny. At all.

Then Chris phoned and described a shirt he owns as 'white with white stripes' and I laughed so much I almost puked. SORRY.

A litany of complaints

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-05-28T13:23:28+01:00
Come to the Cabaret
On Saturday night we went to see Cabaret starring Pussy Galore and Constable Goody. The show was brilliant and poignant and as funny as anyone can realistically make the fall of Berlin to Nazism, and I heartily recommend it. The only bad thing was the stupid audience who found the sight of BOTTOMS thigh-slappingly hilarious, even in the context of a gas chamber. Fuckwits.

Crap Trains
Gra and I are currently trapped on a shamefully oversold GNER train to Edinburgh to visit the parental units. Our crappy seats are thrown into perspective when I consider that there are actual mothers with children sitting on the floor in the corridor. Even the first class toilets are swimming in piss and Gra has to eat a cheese toastie with spinach and tomato because they've run out of normal ones. We were delayed by an hour because of overrunning engineering works. I can't believe I paid actual money for this.

Half Term
Half term is once again upon us, meaning that there are only seven school weeks until unemployment. Whee!

Tell us, how is your unearthly wailing?

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-05-20T20:21:28+01:00
The last week has been fairly horrendous, at least one of the most horrendous weeks since The Great Influenza Outbreak or perhaps even The PGCE Debacle of 2003. Holding it together without the boy has been much more difficult than I anticipated, partly because I just miss him a lot, partly because he is such an excellent cook and I think I'm getting scurvy. Moving was physically exhausting and mentally strenuous, and to go from a lost weekend into another week of exams has brought me to my knees.

The good news is that Gra is back in the country. Hi Gra! Today I felt very proud because not only did I roast a chicken, but Gra claimed it to be the best chicken he'd ever eaten. Woo! Gra and I have been hanging out on his sofa bed, eating Chinese food and watching a lot of television, kind of like living in a terrible bedsit. It's been great.

One more week until half term. Tomorrow I will be meeting the candidates who want to fill my position when I'm gone. IS THAT THE FOETAL POSITION? CRYING?

The boy done gone away

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-05-13T18:53:18+01:00
Lifting, carrying, driving, walking, signing, walking, lifting, carrying, driving. What a weekend. We finally closed the deal on our new Bath flat, just in the nick of time for the boy starting his new job tomorrow. The new flat is very different from our current one, the main difference being the lack of screaming traffic and frightening criminals outside. This is our new living room view:

Pretty nice. Apparently there is a gardener, how civilised.

I'm hoping that West Country folk will start endearing themselves to me a bit more once I actually move there. So far everyone we've met is either a) crazy, b) humourless or c) very angry at us outsiders lurking around. The poor boy got a particularly harsh lecture from a taxi driver today. Come on, West Countrymen, I know some of you must be lovely. Let's hug!

I'm back in Londres now, where I'll be until the end of July. We're in the middle of exams and my contract is watertight, baby. It's pretty sad to think of the boy rattling around in that big empty flat on his own, though. Here he is at his desk, connecting to the hive mind:

Everyone send him lots of emails!

Night then x

What a kerfuffle

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-04-30T17:51:01+01:00
There has been much tentative excitement brewing in the flat of late. Excitement, possibly laced with doom at the clusterfuck we have brought down upon us. But! It's all in a good cause and features a number of dramatic storylines:

Excitement!
I am leaving my job! Leaving! My! Job! Can you imagine? Because I certainly can't. The oddest part is that I have to finish out the academic year, so it won't really be happening until the end of July. Leaving! Etc.

Adventure!
We are leaving London. O London, city of sweet depravity. How I will miss you and your excellent and unfairly maligned public transport system. We are moving to historic Bath, cultured home of studenty types and organic cafes. What this means for our already mangled accents I can only imagine.

Sorrow
And all this because the boy has got a new job at Future publishing. Nice! Sadly the job starts in two weeks, meaning I will be living it up, New Cross stylee, on my own for two months. Poo. Imagine how lonely I'll get. Imagine how many packets of Capri Sun I'll consume.

So that's what's going down. This move will be my fifth in five years, baby! Rock on.

Here again in tidy attire

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-04-22T16:51:47+01:00
I've been offline for a while, mainly because Mr I. Book is in laptop hospital having his Airport card fixed. I miss him very much, especially when I wake up of a morning and want to catch up with all the world's atrocities without leaving my snuggly duvet. Le sigh. Hunky man at the Apple Store assures me that he will be all patched up soon. Meanwhile, I am using the boy's highly complex multimedia workstation, which features an array of hubs and mice and KVM switchers that buzz disconcertingly. The Dell keyboard requires very HARD TYPING from all fingers, which makes me feel like I am writing an angry letter to Points of View.

Nothing new to report, which frankly makes me wonder why I carry on with this charade. Never mind, here are some thought-nuggets:

Sell everything you own for amazing skin
Tired of permanently looking like the mangy lovechild of Bryan Adams and Dirty Den, I finally caved in to Bliss's extravagant claims and ordered some of their overpriced skincare products. Merciful heavens, but they're amazing! I have the skin of a normal adult human! It's possible that Bliss cosmetics will become my own personal crack hell.

Survivor of Japan fish/rice regime to recover in South London
My brother Graham is coming to stay in a few weeks following his nine month internship in rural Japan. Graham's dormitory serves fish and rice for every meal, including breakfast, and I think it's starting to get to him. Apparently M&Ms have become like currency amongst the intern population and he cycles about 6 miles to buy Special K, the only available breakfast cereal. What are the odds of him going completely doolally in New Cross Sainsburys the minute he touches down? I'm thinking of preparing sushi for his welcome home dinner, just for a laugh. (Not really, Gra.)

Crispy strips

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-04-13T13:22:10+01:00

Here is a cameraphone photo of a drawing of a Barnacle Goose. This goose has been through four levels of interpretation, if you include my eyeball. Imagine the Xerox-like levels of degradation! The boy would be able to make this look all amazing and get rid of the golden glare from the lamp using his amazing Photoshop skillz, but frankly I can't be bothered monkeying around with the 'Adjust Levels' buttons. I'm a busy woman.

In other interfering-with-fowl news, check out this chicken I roasted:

There's a lemon up its arse and everything! And thyme! I am disproportionately pleased with my ability to put a raw chicken in an oven for 90 minutes. I'm not sure this bodes well for the rest of my adult life.

Holiday waffle. With syrup.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-04-08T16:27:40+01:00
We have been on holiday! Here is me with my holiday squint on:

Sadly this picture was not actually taken on holiday but in a beer garden in South London. Our proper holiday photographs are all of ducks. Witness:

Both the boy and I developed a bizarre obsession with the quacky feckers and now boast the world's largest private collection of duck images. I'll post some of my drawings later unless you send me cash. Lots of cash.

Butterfly: a too-literal description of my week

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-03-31T22:18:47+01:00
O the gilded glamour! The buzzy exhaustion of the socially successful! Three nights out in a row; more than doubling my night-out quota for the rest of the year. On Wednesday we went to the Royal Albert Hall to see Russell Brand and Noel Fielding, which was simultaneously brilliant and surreal. To my art-schoolish delight, '90s student icon Stewart Lee made a surprise appearance in the second half. No one at my work knows who Stewart Lee is, though, which kind of took the edge off my anecdote the next day. The show was opened by faux folk star Merriman Weir singing this song, which is really worth listening to all the way through if you can be arsed or if you are my brother:

On Thursday the boy and I then went ahp Lahndan to Helen's bookclub which has the most complex rules of any bookclub ever. We don't all read the same book, oh no! We all read different books then talk about them then swap them then vote on what other books we want to buy then buy them. It's very exciting! Sadly all of Helen's friend's are boarding school and Cambridge educated, and I don't really feel much able to step up to the literary plate. Fuck it, though, we all get to drink big mochas.

On Friday, after a day of edgy teaching, I went out again but I couldn't really tell you much about it. There was a glass of wine and a very good piece of rare tuna involved, though, so it must've been good.

And now I'm off for two weeks. YIPPEE!

Day trip to France, only a pound

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-03-24T14:16:28+00:00
You don't know stress until you've escorted 60 children around the British Museum. Don't touch that! You can't eat in here! Shh! No laughing at the bottoms! The good news is that this was my last school visit of the year. No one died, no one got lost, no one got injured, no one got abducted and no priceless cultural gems got tagged. Thank Crunchie.

Next week, the boy and I are attending a number of glittering events which are sure to get me all overexcited. On Wednesday we are going to see The Goth Detectives at the Royal Albert Hall, on Thursday I shall embarrass myself in the company of Cambridge graduates at Helen's book club, and on Friday I am attending a seafood restaurant with some work people. This sort of hardcore socialising turns me into a gibbering lunatic at the best of times. How will I fare going out on consecutive school nights?

Finally, I did this quiz that Brad recommended* and was dismayed to find out that NO ONE in America has my name. How can this be? I know I should feel sort of special and unique, but in reality it's rather lonely. Sob. Perhaps some of you will have more luck:

HowManyOfMe.com
There are:
0
people with my name
in the U.S.A.
How many have your name?

*Not only do I still read Brad, but I also take his life advice on board.

Ooh la la

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-03-13T18:21:38+00:00
Hey I haven't seen you in ages! Here are some things that I am too lazy to link together in prose format:

Happy Birthday!
The boy turned 27 last week, happy birthday to him! I gave him a boxed set of Pocket Penguins. These are books, sadly, not small flightless birds, but I think he still likes them. No one at my work can believe the boy is only 27, although everyone is too embarrassed to tell me their guesstimated age. 35? 47? 82? We'll never know.

Sicky sickness
I've been ill twice this month. This MONTH! Perhaps it is one long illness with a few days of rude health as one of its symptoms. Stoically, I've continued to work through this lurgy because of exam prep. Here's to spreading germs around!

Art
I have started a new painting, the first proper, on-canvas painting I've done in years. It's hilarious.

Friday Things

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-03-02T18:55:36+00:00
Thing 1: Beauty
Today I got ludicrously choked up whilst talking about a photograph I had taken of a sarcophagus. Because it was so very, very beautiful. And literally ancient. Thankfully my students are used to this sort of thing and continue to take notes as I dissolve into artistic raptures over painted stone.

Thing 2: Sibling Rivalry
South London shout-out to my brother who is now officially a boffin. He also now rivals me in terms of letters-after-name, although I will have to do a character-count to determine the winner of the Best Offspring Award for certain. I think this should be awarded by my mother in the form of a giant cauldron of tomatoey mince with 'put the heating on' iced on top in Smash.

Thing 3: Women who Love Smocks Too Much
I want to hand wash my smock, right? But I also want to have a long, relaxing bath. Oh, what to do? Yes, I am going to share a bath with my smock. Shut up, I'm not all that dirty.

Boys don't make passes

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-02-25T20:16:21+00:00
Finally got new glasses at Vision Express today. My old glasses literally fell to pieces last summer and I've been wearing contact lenses ever since. If there's one thing worse than getting up at five thirty, it's getting up at five thirty and poking yourself in the eyeballs. Hooray spectacles! The boy took this picture of my new glasses - he thinks they make me look more intelligent. This supports my assertion that my face, while technically proportionate, has a kind of bovine stupidity about it.

The other day, the boy and I were making stupid faces at each other when the boy proposed we begin an online 'funny face competition' which would involve voting and photographs. Something about this being the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard combined with the boy repeating the words 'funny face competition' over and over just made me utterly hysterical. Every time I think he's forgotten about it, he tells me about some widget or other that will allow a poll on this site 'for the funny face competition'. The boy seems to have mistaken my website for The Beano. What is wrong with him?

In other news, Helen was telling me she went to see Hot Fuzz at the cinema and she somehow ended up sitting next to Simon Pegg. How strange. How very strange.

Don't knock my smock, or I'll clean your clock

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-02-18T10:03:42+00:00
Flares are back, yeah baby. Not that I ever stopped wearing flares, but it means that the end is in sight for skinny jeans, thank Christ. No one looks good in skinny jeans, except the tapeworm-skinny. Everyone else just looks like they've been piped into a sausage casing. In other fashion news: smocks! I bought my first smock on Thursday and have been wearing it ever since. It's amazing. It's quite difficult to choose the correct smock; length, fabric and pleatiness must be carefully assessed in order to avoid looking pregnant, but once the perfect smock has been located there's no going back. Hobbes was right!

In movie news, I went to see Hot Fuzz on Friday, which was a lot of fun although surprisingly violent. Yesterday we went to see Music and Lyrics, which was enjoyable in a Saturday afternoon kind of way. While we were waiting for the film to start, an advert came on for some kind of shampoo, it might have been Sunsilk. It was the sort of ad that featured strong, confident women bonding at a pyjama party and singing into their hairbrushes; you know the type of thing. Anyway, the boy was so offended by the ad that he began to energetically parody it right there in the cinema, dancing with jazz-hands, throwing his non-existent hair around and finally enacting the complex mime of removing his bra and setting fire to it. I've never seen this sort of low-level anarchism in him before but it was bloody funny.

Welcome to London: it's fucking crazy

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-02-13T09:40:03+00:00
One of my favourite things in the world is when people come to stay and then blog about it. Seriously! There is something satisfying about having someone confirm the lunacy of our existence. Susan's recent chronicle of her New Cross stay is an excellent guide for any future flat-dwellers. Here is a summary:

Bring earplugs
Unless you enjoy the sound of sirens, Cockney streetfighting and eyebleeding drum 'n' bass. We keepin' it real!

I am like a ghost
You genuinely may not see me for your entire visit. But you might hear me creeping around in the dead of night getting ready for work. Or you might hear me lurking in the shadows of your room, watching you sleep. Watching ... and taking Polaroids.

We have no mirrors
The #1 complaint of all guests. What can I say? Between us, the boy and I are balding, myopic, pale, overweight Scots with the fashion sense of elderly astronomy professors. We hate mirrors. Susan should count herself lucky that she got a mirror at all – Cope had to check his hair in the back of a CD. Now that's initiative!

London will make you cry
No matter what happens, you will end your trip feeling as if you have been stretched on a rack, had the skin flayed from your feet and been beaten about the neck and torso with a large Christmas ham. There is no way of preventing this feeling - just be glad that you have a home to return to. Because we fecking live here.

Salvation

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-02-10T15:47:44+00:00
Somehow I've managed to limp to the half-term finish line. Although I guess as it's only half-term it's not really a finish line as such, more just a pit stop. Or perhaps I'm mixing sporting metaphors in a confused manner. Anyway, what's important is that the last fortnight has been utterly horrific, workwise, and now it is over. Huzzah!

Lots of things have happened, no doubt I might tell you about some of them when my mental faculties have returned. Susan came to visit! Even though I barely saw her thanks to my ludicrous sleep schedule! The boy went to Barcelona! Which really sucked ass! Etc! But the most exciting Ribbledoot headline is that this morning we took delivery of this:

Dr D. Washer! Never again do I have to refuse to scrub the boy's beloved griddle pan. We can use the KitchenAid blender with impunity. We have become part of Western Society. O happy day!

Rock on.

Aspects of mushroom

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-01-22T18:43:04+00:00
The other day, I drew a few pictures of the mushrooms I had saved from the mushroom soup. I was inanely proud of these retarded etchings and presented them to the boy with great ceremony. The boy, because he knows I am 'special', heaped praise on the mushroom drawings, dubbing the page 'Aspects of Mushroom'. Approximately 5 seconds later, I had composed a short song entitled 'Aspects of Mushroom' which ended with the inspired lines 'aspects of mushroom, aspects of mushroom/if you like mushrooms, this is for you.'

Such ludicrous domestic scenes are happening with increasing frequency in our relationship. I used to think that it took decades of co-habitation to become so complicit in eccentricity that the outside world stopped having any real meaning, but now I know the bitter truth.

Two days ago, as we made our way back from Sainsbury's laden with groceries, the boy stopped and pointed at the ground. 'Look,' he said, pointing at a small rock on the pavement, 'some flint.' We both looked at the flint for a moment, chewing the buttermilk pancakes that the boy had liberated from his carrier bag moments earlier. I'm afraid that I rather lost my head, making a right-turn down the alleyway of squaredom, man. 'I am twenty six years old! And I am eating buttermilk pancakes in the street! While my husband points out interesting rocks! THIS IS NOT HOW MY LIFE WAS SUPPOSED TO PAN OUT,' I shrieked, somewhat hysterically. The boy was nonplussed. He thinks buttermilk pancakes are a snack for any time, any place.

Pardon me ...

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-01-15T17:32:07+00:00
We have a lovely new student teacher who is very hard working and earnest and makes me feel ASHAMED of myself. Sorry, student teacher, do not judge me too harshly until you have walked a mile in my teacher-slacks. Which are from The Gap, if you're wondering, and are the best forty quid I ever spent.

The boy made it back from the New World in one piece, bearing Fritos and Hershey and a Californian head cold. It's pretty great to have him back, not least because I can stop worrying about falling asleep in the bath. He also brought me a small jar of Grey Poupon room service mustard, which we both find inexplicably hilarious.

In mushroom news, I have a yellow oyster mushroom in the fridge which I might do a drawing of later. Or I might not.

A ship called Dignity

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-01-08T16:49:27+00:00
All Americans take the piss! Ah, you guys.

The boy is, as we speak, flying over the Atlantic. Or possibly bobbing in it, given the horrific weather we are currently enduring. As a 'hilarious' joke, my boss hid my keys and made me think that I would be locked out of my flat for a week. Thanks! Your tax dollars at work!

No other news other than my tempting the fates by leaving our Christmas tree up past Saturday. Doom! Also, is it wrong to find crying while eating quite as funny as I do?

Non à 2007: Signez la pétition

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2007-01-02T10:52:04+00:00
Hello everyone, happy new year! How are you? You look great! Check out my new upbeat demeanour, do you think it will last to the end of the post? Who knows and, more importantly, who cares? This first paragraph is really turning into a punctuation frenzy.

The boy went back to work today, which to me seems horrific and uncivilised. Everyone knows that 2nd January is a public holiday for Scots due to our genetic predisposition for hard liquor and general all-night revelry on the 31st. Ah well. As it turns out, we weren't invited to any parties and couldn't be arsed to have one of our own anyway. We ended up watching War of the Worlds on the projector until midnight, which lent a disturbingly apocalyptic edge to the evening. Or it would've done if the boy hadn't kept singing themes from Jeff Wayne's musical version over the top of the action.

I go back to work tomorrow. So far I have spent my day self-medicating with herbal remedies and Innocent smoothies. Here, for those of you who missed it first time round, is a recipe for use with Innocent smoothies.

Jeff Colada
Ingredients:
1 large bottle Innocent pineapple, coconut and banana smoothie
1 smallish bottle Bacardi rum

Pour measure of rum into some kind of fancy glass. Fill rest of glass with Innocent drink. Stir with spoon or chopstick or cotton bud. Drink. Sing Pina Colada song until spouse threatens divorce. Repeat ad nauseam.

Don't say I never give you anything.

2007 pretty much sucks so far, although perhaps I haven't given it a chance. This is traditionally the time of year that I pick up an enormous pile of holiday brochures and spend a week gradually downgrading from three weeks in Madagascar to four days at Center Parcs. I used to get depressed about this when everyone I knew seemed to be on an exotic Gap Year, but now that I am older and more mature I realise that it doesn't matter because Center Parcs fucking rocks.

That is all.

Festive Photos: only slightly better than a poke in the eye

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-12-26T17:01:22+00:00
Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas etc! I hope you have all had suitably decadent and calorie-laden celebrations so far. I can now confirm that spending Christmas in a hotel is the greatest gift that money can buy. Instead of waking up on some rickety put-you-up to familial chaos and sprout-peeling duties, you get to wake up here:

Pretty sweet, no? Please note how this bed is wide enough for three pillows in a row and sports a jaunty festive comforter. At the end of the amazing bed is a large television and a phone which connects you to the magic food man who brings you food on a tray. Genius.

Edinburgh is very beautiful at Christmas. The boy took this photograph of the skating rink and funfair in Princes Street Gardens, also home of the excellent German Market where you can buy hot chocolate with rum in it. I'm just sayin'. You can see the castle lit up in the background of this photo, which I only really mention for Cope, who likes castles.

The boy and I are now in Palnackie, of Coast fame. Palnackie is the loveliest and most picturesque place in the universe. My father-in-law smoked a trout in honour of our visit and I was handed a sloe gin on arrival. What more can I say? The drive South was drizzly and quiet, although the boy kept us entertained by suggesting alternate messages for the LED police messageboards we kept passing:

Merry Christmas
Don't Drink and Drive
Drug Driving: it's not worth it
Love your wife and family
Thou shalt not kill
Masturbating makes you blind

You get the idea. Back home to London on Thursday and, inexplicably, we can't wait. Hope everyone is warm and well and getting their groove on as applicable.

Cheers!

Awa' hame

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-12-23T08:28:44+00:00
The boy and I are decamping to Scotland for the festive season. In possibly the best two hundred quid I've ever spent, we have booked into a luxury hotel in Edinburgh instead of staying at my folks house. I feel that any guilt I have over such a decadent and Londonite move will be immediately salved by Christmas Eve room service and those teeny tiny Molton Brown shampoos. Rock on.

On Boxing Day we are taking my dad's car (because Dads don't really need cars) to the beautiful Solway Coast in order to visit the boy's relatives and stare at the ocean, smoking pipes.

We are packing a freakish amount of technology and spent last night syncing iPods and burning DVDs onto hard drives and backing-up laptops and winding up cables. We are kind of like the Borg, in a way.

To the Motherland, and don't spare the horses!

London Loves

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-12-19T19:55:42+00:00
Holy mother, our flat has suddenly got very cold indeed. The flat is at least a hundred years old and has those kind of single-glazed, wooden-framed windows that allow the polar maritime air to whistle freely through the building, creating atmospheric draughts and miniature eddies that dance around our sleeping forms. I am currently wearing all of my normal clothes, a large fluffy robe and a blanket in order to prevent hypothermia from setting in. I really hope I don't have to wee at any time in the near future, I really can't be bothered.

Here is an actual conversation the boy and I had about one of our Christmas cards which I think illustrates why neither of us ever had much success with flatmates:

Look, the cat says 'meow', the dog says 'woof', but the mouse ... IS MUTE!
He says nothing! He should say 'meep meep'.
And look, the artist can only draw cats, look at the dog -
He has a cat's face! And weird, stick-like legs.
Anyway, mice say 'squeak', not 'meep'.
So who's it from?

What is wrong with us? We appear to be collectively straddling the fine line between 'quirky' and 'special'. Why did either of us see fit to angst over the mute cartoon mouse? And why bother critiquing the artist's rendering of a dog wearing a Santa hat? What is the point? What is the bloody point?

In other news, I have missed the last posting date for all of my Christmas presents. This means I am going to bad sister/cousin/niece/friend hell. All of those hells. At once. SORRY EVERYONE.

And that's why I don't like cricket.

More product placement for multinational corporations

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-12-18T17:26:24+00:00
Off work and like a new woman. It always takes me a few days to stop waking up pre-dawn and prowling the flat like a caged beast, but I'm adjusting quite well so far. Predicting my post-term psychosis, the boy bought me some very exciting trainers to roam around South London in. Thanks! I don't so much 'run' as 'ramble erratically', but the exciting trainers are so bouncy and sporty-looking that I feel like some kind of Olympian. Rock on.

We spent the weekend on Oxford Street and Covent Garden which is a ROOKIE MISTAKE. What were we thinking? At least we bought loads of Christmas presents, although most of them are glass and/or very heavy and thus completely inappropriate for transportation to Scotland next weekend. Ah well.

Expect lots more posting this week due to lack of friends and life outside of work. Hooray!

Words and sentences put together badly

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-12-13T18:00:30+00:00
Today at work I got some board cleaner on my contact lens and spent the whole day all blurry. I had to refer to students as 'Blonde hair ... curly blond hair! Next to boy! Yes, you!' I'm such a pro.

In other news, this is my last ever 'User column. Please note that I got the word 'fucking' published in a magazine. My mother will be so proud. Now I can retire from the heady world of publishing with all of my ambitions fulfilled.

Two days left before we finish for Christmas. Thank Christ. Literally.

Make a cup of tea, put a record on

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-12-07T21:21:42+00:00
Quick, identify the early-90s indie lyric; if you Google it you're a loser.

OH DEAR. I have lost my door keys, so the boy lent me his and now I have to stay awake until he comes home so that I can buzz him in. I know it's only 9.20pm, but remember that I operate on Bucharest time and can barely make it through dinner without nodding off.

Here's a bit of braindribble:

Northern Lights
As discussed by lovely Susan, it is indeed possible to see the Northern Lights in Scotland at particular times of the year. Lots of people spend lots of money roaming around trying to see the Northern Lights, but I was lucky enough to see them as a kid before I knew that they were quite rare. I can report that the Northern Lights are both weird and spooky and make you think aliens are about to land if you're 8 and have no understanding of basic physics.

Beads and Ribbons
Are pretty much all I want for Christmas. I'm like the simple peasant folk of yore in that way. Props to Emma for sending me some lovely German birthday beads. THANKS!

Advent
Yesterday I bought the boy a Cadbury's advent calendar AND a giant chewy cookie from Sainsbury's and he has opened neither. What gives? Is he secretly in fitness training for an Olympic Event? 100m Palm piloting? Freestyle biro modem-restarting? Is he just trying to make me look like a greedy trougher?

Friday
Never in the history of mankind has a Friday been quite so hotly anticipated. BRING IT.

ETA For Susan:

Rollers!

The big two-six

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-12-02T17:00:09+00:00

Yesterday I turned 26 years old, which was fun.

The good thing about working with kids is that they enjoy making a big deal over birthdays, so with careful planning you can spend the entire day eating cakes made or bought by harassed parents with better things to do. Thanks, harassed parents!

The bad thing about working with kids is that they are very bad judges of age. My Year 10s guessed that I was 31, and a Year 11 said 'just think, Miss, only another ten years until you're Nifty Fifty'. Whatever.

Thank you to everyone who sent cards and presents and emails; you are most kind.

Field Notes

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-11-27T18:51:02+00:00
Three weeks left of term and all sorts of crazy hi-skool shit is going down. Today was apparently Bring Your Addled Hormones to Work day, and we spent much of the morning breaking up fights and ushering crying people into the office. We were sufficiently rattled that we entered departmental lockdown at lunchtime and shut ourselves in an empty room for a bit of peace.

In other news, I have been a terrible wife this week. The boy and I take it in turns to cook, you see. While the boy has been producing culinary masterpieces such as seared tuna and tomato pasta and medallion steak and green vegetables, my last offering was a packet of Walkers Sensations chicken and thyme crisps and a bar of chocolate. Bon appetit! SORRY. You married it.

Vintage Cute Kid Art presents:

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-11-24T17:15:19+00:00

The Polar Bear.

He's a freakin' tiny genius.

Keep looking up

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-11-19T18:59:49+00:00

Autumn in London is lovely. Tourists go home, everything cools down and life is slightly slower. The boy and I took an amble to Surrey Quays, home of crap shopping and our closest Burger King. I am strangely comforted by crap shopping centres, possibly from growing up in a series of small working class towns where the biggest Saturday thrill you can expect is 2 tops for £8 in Dorothy Perkins. Here is an annotated picture of the crap shopping centre. Tweenies!

We also went to see The Prestige, which is pretty good in a violent and downbeat way. Hugh Jackman is not nearly as hunky without his adamantine skeleton.

Wow, these recent posts have been appalling. Sorry about that.

Going out like normal people

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-11-18T11:18:24+00:00
Teacher/journo interface last night as a gang of us went to see Casino Royale at the Odeon Leicester Square. Generally I can take or leave James Bond, and I wasn't really that bothered about going to see it, but it was pretty freaking excellent. Daniel Craig can really take a punch.

I utterly destroyed any kudos that I had built up in the Dennis camp by claiming that there was an epilator among the gadgets in Bond's car. OF COURSE I MEANT A DEFIBRILLATOR. Although he was very smooth-chested, so you never know. Perhaps you are supposed to use the epilator before the defibrillator to help conductivity.

Ain't nothin' goin' on but the GCSE percentiles.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-11-15T17:24:59+00:00
Tired, tired, tired. I'm now leaving the house in the dark and coming home in the dark, which makes me feel like some sort of hero even though my hours haven't changed at all.

On Monday I took 25 students into London to see a day of lectures by amazing artists including Eileen Cooper and my beloved Grayson. The artists were fantastic, talking about their experiences and answering some very odd questions. Textiles genius Rosalind Wyatt did a live calligraphy demonstration and then spent ages signing students' names onto their sketchbooks using her special Indian ink. Grayson Perry deftly tackled teenage heckles about his transvestism with humour and good grace. The man is a potting god.

I have now officially retired from the blessed 'User, which is pretty sad. Please ensure that you write to the magazine saying that I was the finest writer ever committed to print, and that you have now gouged your own eyes out as there is nothing left worth reading anymore.

The other bad news is that it's only WEDNESDAY.

New Cross Gate, so good they named it once

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-11-07T20:26:09+00:00
Hey, why not make these very easy pocketbook slippers? I did this one on Saturday. I will get the boy to take a proper photo when I''ve done the pair, as it is surprisingly hard to photograph your own feet.

In other news: work, cold, London, the boy, blah blah etc.

Oriental Prince in the Land of Soup

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-10-31T21:40:04+00:00
Take my job, no take it
Work is like rubbing my brain all over with a cheese grater for ten hours a day, then patting it with a washcloth soaked in white spirit for the other fourteen. Tomorrow I have to take a PSD session on mental health. Irony abounds.

Stats
Apparently the vast majority of Ribble readers are American. Hello Americans! Join in the commenting fun! Also, October stats show I've lost 20 of my regular visitors. I've driven them away with my grumbling and crochet-talk. COME BACK, I CAN CHANGE!

Friendship = Gifts
Why not be my friend? I will make you things like this and this. Special consideration given to applicants from the London area who can quote extensively from The Big Lebowski and/or cult BBC3 sitcoms.

Socially retarded woman crashes media shindig

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-10-27T13:30:20+01:00
A big smackity kiss to all the lovely people at the MacUser awards last night, particularly those that were 'lucky' enough to be seated next to me. Special props to the second nicest man in the world, who managed to smooth over some horrendous conversational glitches and pretended not to notice my appauling table manners. I've sent Tim some of my skilfully executed artwork to say thanks for being such a great table buddy. Because that's not weird. Here are some photos of the awards; also one of us looking odd.

Today I am roasting a chicken and doing some embroidery. The boy has banned me from watching The Mighty Boosh on the grounds that it was making me crazy. Fair enough.

It's only a month 'til my birthday! Perhaps 26 will be the age when people finally stop saying 'bloody hell' when they find out how old I am, then calculating exactly what they were doing (graduating, having children, smoking crack) when I was still staggering around playgroup, gumming Rusks.

Calm a llama down

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-10-24T19:42:47+01:00
The Boosh
The boy made the terrible mistake of buying me The Mighty Boosh on DVD after I raved about the radio version. Now he too has been sucked in and we can spend hours at a time trapped in a loop of odd phrases like 'my navigational skills are second to none' and 'fish finger the size of a garage'. Sounds harmless, but two grown adults lying in the dark shouting 'I'm Old Gregg' at each other is a recipe for couples counselling down the line, mark my words.

Stupid Girls' Clothes
Yesterday I walked into Hobbs and spent an obscene amount of money on a fancy rig for the 'User awards on Thursday. The kind of money that makes you feel dizzy as you hand over your plastic. I felt violated. I also bought high heeled shoes that will probably slowly crush my feet to a bloody pulp but that make my legs look about four inches longer. Ah well.

Half Term
Yes, a mere month-and-a-half after my epic six week summer break, I have this week off for half term. Bloody teachers, don't know they're born, etc. I plan to spend the next five days lying down quietly.

Weekend Gothism

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-10-22T17:12:04+01:00
We were invited to a party entitled 'Back to the '90s' this weekend. The idea was that everyone should dress as they actually dressed in the '90s, meaning that most guests turned up in flannel shirts and ripped jeans and started pogoing around to The Pixies.

Predictably, such faithful devotion to fact was ridiculous to the boy and I, who quickly decided that our personal theme was 'how we wish we looked in the '90s'. The boy used Friends circa 1997 as his style reference and donned a rather fetching sweater vest and preppy rolled-sleeved shirt ('Could I be any more '90s?') I decided that I missed my calling as a Goth, dyed my hair red and applied copious quantities of black make up.

I enjoyed being a Goth so much that I applied my black eyeshadow again today and pushed a trolley around Waitrose looking like the undead. Check out this amazing Dragon Fruit that I got in the fresh produce area. It has a sticker on it which says 'cut open to reveal a sweet, tender pulp'. Why bother when it looks so frickin' amazing as it is?

Props to the boy for taking this genius photo of me and the dragon fruit. Photoshop may or may not have been employed on my monobrow.

Crochet: the new knitting

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-10-17T18:03:10+01:00

I have been crocheting with this coloured scientific wire. Groovy, huh? I bought loads of scientific wire at The Bead Store in Soho. It comes in lots of funky colours including, improbably, fuchsia. I wonder if scientists ever actually use scientific wire these days?

The boy has been very patient in his admiration of my crocheted wire, even when I shove the spiky little bundles in front of his computer screen and exclaim 'LOOK WHAT I MADE' every 23 minutes. He takes each one in his fingers and proclaims its wonderment to all of South London. Perhaps he is on Lithium or something.

These green beaded rounds remind me of anemones. I think I'll make loads of them and turn them into a crazy anemone necklace. Hey, there's that woman! With the necklace! Do you think she's in some way 'special'?

That is all.

Art links. Like cufflinks, in a way.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-10-13T17:04:44+01:00
Whee! Slides at Tate Modern
Londoners! Why not check out this stunning interactive artwork by Carsten Holler this weekend? Not sure I'll work up the nerve to go on these as they are very five floors high and ruddy fast. Tempting, though ... maybe a stiff drink at the bar will steady my nerve.

Artworld's Most Influential Not Actually Artists
Disappointing and yet comfortingly predictable.

Turner Prize-Winning Transvestite Potter Unprepared for Fangirling
Oh yes. I am taking some 6th Formers to a lecture by Grayson Perry, The Sexiest Ceramicist Ever. Sadly (for Grayson), there is an opportunity to 'meet the artist' afterwards. Embarrassingly (for my students), I'm not sure I will be able to stop myself from screaming and clutching at his lovely leather jacket. Oh Grayson. You and your angsty pots.

Have a lovely weekend, everyone. Please think of me ~~naked~~ tomorrow morning when you are snuggled up in bed. x

School ties

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-10-04T17:27:57+01:00
I've said to Nik that I will stop writing my columns at the end of the year. This is pretty sad; not only did I get paid for sitting on my couch typing nonsense into a Word document, but it was good to do something that wasn't school related on a regular basis.

But! I shall find solace in the tiny miracles:
Amazing sunrises from the station platform.
Cold weather.
Wearing a winter coat.
Ocado, The Finest Online Delivery Service On Earth™.
Hot baths.
Chocolate Digestives.
The boy's fuzzy scalp.

9435 days in: new extremes in self-absorption

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-10-01T13:08:29+01:00
Today I calculated how many days old I am and was surprised to find I'm only in the nine-thousands. Knowing that I've managed to achieve bipedal locomotion, passable English and rudimentary driving skills in under ten thousand days makes me feel oddly elated. If I manage to live to the increasingly-attainable age of 80, I've still got another 19,724 days left to master avant garde tailoring and holding my liquor.

It is stormy today in London. Thunder and lightning, hail and whippy rain. My Sunday funks are alleviated by bad weather and am celebrating my staying in and watching lots of Doctor Who. Oh Doctor. I'm adding the Doctor to my List of Fictional Characters I Have Bizarre Crushes On But Whose Corresponding Actors I Am Ambivalent About. Other list members include Wolverine, Han Solo and Bertie Wooster. Now that's a dinner party!

The boy has just gone to the launderette despite the pissing rain and scary lightning. His quest for clean pants is thwarted not by inclement weather nor by big puddles. Legend.

Tomorrow is Monday again. Bring it.

Saturday

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-09-23T18:01:02+01:00

Here is a photograph of my still-half-finished watercolour. I can't quite be bothered to do any more, though, so it may just stay half-finished. The painting is about life-size, giving you an idea of how dinky my new sketchbook is. Cute, no?

The boy and I have decided to use our technological power for good rather than evil and have set up a kitschy film club. The sad thing about our film club is that we will only be able to have a few people round due to our tiny spare room and lack of chairs/places to put chairs. The other sad thing about our film club is that perhaps no one will come, and the boy and I will be left sitting on our own watching DVDs on a massive scale surrounded by Doritos and beers. So ... normal state of affairs, then.

Read about our film club here. Also read my film reviews which took freaking AGES, by the way.

Intervention: combating workaholism

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-09-19T17:48:39+01:00
The boy and I are making an effort to combat the freakish working hours we seem to have developed. On Sunday (Sunday! I went out on a Sunday night! When I had to get up at 5.45 on Monday! Am I not your new heroine?) we went to the Sunday Night Film Club at the fancy Charlotte Street Hotel. It was brilliant and plushy and leathery.

This weekend we are hoping to go to legendary jazz venue Ronnie Scott's in Soho, which looks very exciting. They don't do tickets, you know, they put your name on the freakin' guest list, baby. Van-fucking-Morrison is playing on Sunday.

Anyway, due to this galavanting about on top of general crapness, I'd like to apologise in advance to both Gra and Ms S. M. Cow, as I am making you both presents which currently look extremely unlikely to arrive in either Japan or Berlin by Sunday. SORRY I AM A LAME SISTER/FRIEND I promise to get these off to you as soon as poss. xxx

Boring adult concerns: Surprisingly stimulating

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-09-16T21:37:33+01:00
Pensions
I have a pension! I thought having a pension would be depressing, but it seems to have awoken the frugal Scotswoman in me. Every time I get a payslip I check the pension contribs box and cackle madly at the money amassing for my decadent retirement of cruises and calorific cocktails.

Spawning
Someone else at work has announced upcoming babyness. Maybe there really is something in the water. Conspiracy! Knitting is no longer a hobby but a frantic production line.

Dental Health
The boy bought expensive RetarDex dental rinse. Having used it this evening, I would like to out RetarDex as the Emperor's New Mouthwash. If it looks, smells and tastes like water, maybe it is. Water with fertility drugs in it ... conspiracy!

That is all.

Unique Selling Points

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-09-06T18:07:21+01:00
The boy is obsessed with Unique Selling Points (USPs). I'm not sure if this is because he worked for a time as a graphic designer or because he is some sort of as-yet undiagnosed autistic savant.

He bought me some 'Soft Cakes' in Germany, which are like Jaffa Cakes but more orangey, and wouldn't let me have any until I could quote their oddly-translated USPs from memory. In the end I quite enjoyed shouting 'TASTE! PRICE! VERY NICE!' every time I fancied a biscuit, but still, quite dysfunctional. I'm so glad we don't have children, although possibly if we trained dogs we could be millionaires.

Sometimes he assigns USPs to mad, non-purchasable things like people and cities and ways of falling asleep. A few days ago I was struggling with a subject for my 'User column when the boy tried to help:
'Just remember your USP: you're young and optimistic! Write young.'
'What's Tony's USP?'
'He's old and curmudgeonly.'
'What about Banks?'
[pause]
'He's funky and tech-savvy.'*
'Oh.'

In the boy's world, everything is just one spray-mount away from a global media campaign and promotional giveaway.

In related news, I'd like to take this opportunity to pimp my brother's new blog. Gra's unique selling point is that he is the only member of our family to live in Japan and be a computer scientist, yo.

*Telephone conversation while writing this post
'What's Banksy's USP again?
'He's savvy and he looks like Iain Banks'
'That's not a very catchy USP!'
'It's a good USP for everyone except Iain Banks.'
' ... '
'Iain Banks's USP is just 'IS IAIN BANKS''
'You are insane.'

Cheesecake Catastrophe

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-09-04T18:10:30+01:00
Woe is me! Alas and alack! When the boy went to Germany he bought me a Marks and Spencer Scrummy Lemon Cheesecake to eat in his absence. What's that you say? Confusing food with love? Cheesecake acting as bizarre husband substitute? Yes, yes, but listen, I haven't got to the most shocking part yet:

I FORGOT TO EAT IT.

Oh how I used to long for the day when I would be willowy and beautiful and people would say to me 'oh, how do you manage it?' and I would chuckle merrily and exclaim 'why I simply forget to eat, darling!' and I would be interesting and bohemian, but now I know the sordid truth. The only thing worse than eating Scrummy Lemon Cheesecake for four days in a row with no other discernible source of vitamins or minerals is FORGETTING to eat Scrummy Lemon Cheesecake for four days in a row then finding it all mouldy-but-still delicious-looking at the back of the fridge and thinking of all the wasted, wasted Scrumminess.

Lots of long sentences, badly placed commas.

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-08-31T18:28:11+01:00
Tomorrow is an INSET day, which means we have to go to work but there will be no students there. This is a pretty decent way to ease back into Work Mode; come in for a day, find your bearings, wear jeans, then have two days off to recover from the shock. I don't feel too bad about things at the moment and am even cautiously optimistic about it all.

My current major concern about is going back to the 5.30 get-ups. Six short weeks ago I thought nothing of staggering out of bed at sunrise, washing, dressing (badly, it has to be said), eating, commuting for an hour, setting up a classroom, attending a staff meeting and sitting down to teach all before 8.30. These days I'm lucky if I get my contact lenses in before lunchtime.

Can't we come in to some money? If only this was 1956. I could spend my days sewing and wearing headscarves and causing lesbian scandals and attempting suicide in hotel rooms on John C Reilly's birthday*. Stupid emancipation.

The boy is off to Berlin tomorrow 'on business'. Pah! He must think I'm some kind of moron! We all know that by 'on' he means 'writhing on' and by 'business' he means 'a raised platform as amazing German ladyboys in gimp masks throw jelly at me'. Bastard.**

No pictures today, I just can't be arsed.

*It's possible have confused the year 1956 with the movie 'The Hours'.
**This paragraph has been wholly invented for comic effect and in no way reflects the professional conduct of my husband.

New Cross is the new rock

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-08-23T13:51:10+01:00
The boy and I have had lots of flat-sleepers of late. My mum, Gra, the boy's parents, uncle Stan - folks just can't get enough of swingin' New Cross.

And now the Copes are coming (probably)! This is very exciting in lots of ways. So many opportunities to make unfunny jokes and swear too much! So many boring teaching stories to tell! A whole new audience to marvel at my poorly finished crochet! Huzzah and hurrah indeed. I am busy tidying up in honour of their arrival. And by 'busy' I mean 'not doing any'. Copes: hope your tetanus shots are up to date.

In other news, check out these groovy vintage buttons I bought on eBay. I got a 500g bag of 'em! There's some massive Bakelite buttons, little glass buttons and buttons with weird shapes carved out, like the one with a heron standing on a riverbank. If you need a button, I'm your lady!

I am now the sort of person who buys buttons in bulk off eBay. There is no going back; save yourselves.

Aggressively Marketed Beer Review

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-08-22T12:00:02+01:00

Aggressively marketed beer:
Kronenbourg Blanc
Aggressive marketing:
Bus stops and double-decker buses. Aimed squarely at bus-going demographic.
Unique selling points:
'Refreshing', 'fruity', 'from France'. Has sexy white bottle. Pretends is not really beer.
Tastes like:
Fruit. Cider. The French. Hazy Mediterranean nights with a man named Benoît, eating lobster with your hands. Espadrilles. Euphoria.
Does it take the edge off?
Oh yes.

Hacked!

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-08-21T12:25:28+01:00

Did you see? I got 'hacked' by some kind of crazy fundamentalist with terrible spelling! It was fun for all the family.

So yeah, also I've been mucking about with the template and haven't really found a good way of archiving posts yet. I guess the moral of today's post is that my site sux0rs LOL.

Ah well. I have choc ices!

Paper

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-08-19T13:01:11+01:00
Because I am rude and absent minded, I have not yet said thank you to everyone who has wished us a happy anniversary. Thank you! I was very surprised by the number of cards we got from people who were nice enough to travel to the arse-end of nowhere for our wedding in the first place, and then lots of other people left lovely comments on the boy's Flickr photos and on this very site. Touched! The only thing that weirded me out slightly was that we got cards from relatives saying things like 'congratulations on your first year together' as if the five years before that were just a crazy medical experiment or something. But! Lovely cards and comments, thank you thank you everyone, you rock!

As we were in Devon on our anniversary itself, we spent a breezy evening at the beach eating spectacular fish 'n' chips with an expensive bottle of wine. I wore my wedding dress and a denim jacket, the boy wore a cufflinked shirt with Birkenstocks, it was all class, baby.

Result

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-08-17T22:04:23+01:00

You may be aware that today is results day. Oh I could tell you all about exam results and how they work and what happens if mine aren't good enough but what good would come of it? No good at all I say!

Instead, here is a picture of Pointy Kitty. As you can see, he is pimpin' it big style in his marabou and satin crib, yo. If you want to make your own pointy kitty, you can get the pattern here. It is very easy even if you have not used a sewing pattern before. Think of the pussy army you could amass!

ETA: The boy says Pointy Kitty is 'sinister'.

Baffing about

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-08-16T17:11:57+01:00
Today I am having a quiet rebellion. I have done no dishes or tidying or picking up. In fact, I have actively made a mess, strewing needles and threads and bits of fabric all over the floor with scant regard for the next person to walk through the living room barefoot. I went to a nearby coffee shop and bought a coffee, sipped it for five minutes then threw it away because LAWKS I'LL GIVE YOU THE £1.20 and I didn't much fancy it anymore. I haven't got anything for our dinner. I wanted to make something on the sewing machine just for the hell of it; not for school or an interview or a portfolio, just for a laugh. I made a cat and stuffed it with yellow wool which looks weirdly and yet appropriately like stuffed-cat-intestines.

I shan't post a picture of the cat yet as it doesn't have any eyes. Instead, here are my new shoes. The boy saw them in the window of the Birkenstock shop in Covent Garden and dove in to buy them for me. Or maybe he just walked in, I'm not sure. What a guy! Also, they are made of felt.

Back, from outer space

mail@ribbledoot.com — 2006-08-13T21:02:33+01:00
Rumours of my complete mental collapse have been greatly exaggerated. Sure, maybe I started plucking feathers from my pillow, swearing at innocent pedestrians and worshipping the desk fan as a kind of crude false idol, but who's the real lunatic? Who are we to say what's 'normal'? Look, if I want to use iWeb I will, okay? Why don't you just marry Rapidweaver if you love it so much? Jesus.

It's good to be back, right?

How do you like my bitchin' new website? I actually lost the iWeb/Rapidweaver battle, but this template seems to rock the homespun vibe while maintaining my techno credentials, so all's well that ends well. Sorry about the whole password thing, but it seems rather necessary to keep my freakishly blog-savvy students out of my braindribble. Ah well.

How've you been? I am three weeks into my six week break, meaning this is the calmest I ever get. I'm still slightly crazy-eyed on public transport, but I'm relaxed enough to sleep for TEN HOURS at a time! Decadence on a par with the last days of Rome, I know. The boy and I have just been to Devon, a place of sand and sea and crispy batter. It did wonders for both of us and I am now fully able to time-manage my days without a bell ringing every hour. Sweet mercy.