The Liquorice Guillemot's Perch

I recently came across a character calling him/herself the Liquorice Guillemot, a blatant rip-off of your own correspondent. Rather than getting mad, I engaged this evidently bitter, angry little person in conversation and eventually drew them out on a matter close to their mean, flinty heart. To wit, their opinions on the correct use of social media, which I have reproduced below, unedited.

The Liquorice Guillemot's Promise:

I will not post up scornful broadside attacks on films, TV or other productions which other people clearly take delight in, in great numbers. If they enjoy it, fine, even if I find their facile lowest-common denominator celebrity dancing contest / Irish drag act / reheated old sci-fi franchise to be mere opium for the grunting masses. After all, it's just pretend.

Conversely, I will not post up preemptive 'Well I liked it, so there all you haters' posts, as they are also disproportionately aggressive for something that is just pretend.

I will not post up passionate commentary on sports games, either minute by minute as they occur, nor after the fact. There are plenty of professional sports journalists already doing that for us. I will especially not do this for American Football as I am tragically and irrevocably British, and there is something faintly desperate about a pasty Brit from the Home Counties waxing dramatically about the Steelers' or the Browns' performance.

I will not vaguepost. It is both needy and maddeningly uninformative.

I will not virtue signal. One's good deeds should be reward unto themselves.

I will not propagate memes which invite codependents to post up shared memories of good times, even if we only speak once every 6 months. Especially if they relate to live roleplaying games. My ego is not that fragile that it requires other people to say 'hey you did that cool thing once when you were pretending to be the archduke of Elbonia' to shore it up.

I will not address a diverse group of real human beings as either hivemind or intarwebz. You are all individuals.

I will not not post up my every inner bloody thought on subjects which are of no consequence to anyone else, nor will I exceed 3 posts per day, no matter how thrilling a picture of my newly painted spare room may seem to me.

I will not overstate any minor claims to fame that I may have by tagging in my more famous friends, or by accidentally-on-purpose mentioning a fabulous media event or celebrity that I have a moderate connection to.

I will not swear on posts, save for the odd feck, which is curiously acceptable thanks to Father Ted.

I will not post up photos of beheaded elephants.

I will not rush to be the first to announce the death of someone famous. They won't get any more alive or dead just because I blurted out 'RIP William Shatner' before anyone else and then changed my online avatar to TJ Hooker. I am not one of those people who wishes Bowie could die all over again just so I could use the Ziggy Stardust overlay.

I will not share any personal mental health issues online. The charity Mind suggests that approximately 1 in 4 people in the UK will experience a mental health problem each year. I do not need to know about the battles with depression of every fourth person I know online. By all means seek help and discuss it with close friends and family, but do so in person rather than the equivalent of shouting it across a crowded room of your entire social circle.

I will not talk politics, nor assume that everyone in my online circle is of the same mind. This merely reinforces echo chambers and forces meeker acquaintances of legitimate differing opinions to keep their heads down. This is also something to discuss in person.

Before clicking on Post, I will always ask 'Will I sound like a dick?'

I will occasionally post up funny material of my own invention which mocks only myself or made-up people. 

I may also cravenly adopt a new online persona purely to vent my frustration on the state of social media usage.

Zenith: the TV series

(Originally posted on Saturday, April 1st, 2017)

Cautiously optimistic about Amazon's Zenith cast. Laurie Kynaston from Cradle to the Grave is a good choice for the lead and old reliables Walker, Nighy and Teale are spot-on for the retired superhumans of Cloud Nine.

Putting the H in sitcom

There's been a lot of British sitcom remakes broadcast in the past couple of weeks. Are You Being Served, Porridge, Goodnight Sweetheart and so on. Probably at least one with Pauline Quirke in it, just so we can remark that she looked much better when she was fat.

Anyway, these largely humourless and uninspired sequels, homages and reimaginings have left me despairing for the state of British situation comedy, although as I have yet to ever watch an episode of Mrs Brown's Boys my mood may still have much further to plummet.

While I felt at first that these crappy remakes were beyond satire, I discovered that my black humour has been slightly elevated by doing just that. I thoroughly expect the last of my tedious offerings below to be genuinely in development by the BBC by the end of this year.



Buttock
Ade Edmondson reprises his role as Eddie Hitler, standing alone in a decrepit Hammersmith flat, smashing himself in the face with a frying pan for half an hour.

Rising Dead
In this remake with a twist, an insecure landlord and his tenants clash over class, race and sex against a backdrop of the zombie apocalypse. With Paul Kaye as Rigsby, Olivia bloody Colman as Miss Jones, Paterson Joseph as Philip and someone off of BBC 3 as Alan.

The Prosauders
Starring Roger Moore and Robert Vaughn. Two octogenarian crimefighters in the latter stages of dementia hurtle around Hove in mobility scooters sexually harassing women and punching foreigners.

Prime Minister Smith
This sequel to Citizen Smith finds leftwing revolutionary Wolfie Smith unexpectedly propelled into 10 Downing Street following the mass shaming of the Tory government in the notorious Goatgate scandal. With Josh Widdicombe as Boris Johnson and Jeremy Hardy as Jeremy Corbyn.

The Vicar of Dubai
Obviously starring Dawn French. It writes itself.

Duty Free
In which the hapless package holidaymakers find themselves trapped on a Greek island surrounded by thousands of starving Syrian refugees.

On The Buses
A darker remake of the original, in which conductorless double deckers prowl the congested streets of the metropolis, occasionally mowing down a line of pedestrians as the driver flicks through images of cracking birds on his smartphone. In episode one, a racially aggravated stabbing on the top deck has unexpected consequences.

It Ain't Half Hot, Mum
This spin-off series of a popular 70s series portrays the everyday struggles of a British army concert party in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. With a cameo by Melvyn Hayes as the Angel of Despair. It's called Didn't Mean To Make You Kwai.

Coupling
Much in the style of the recent Cold Feet revival, this successor sees the original six friends older - but no wiser! - and facing the challenges of parenthood in the modern age. It's simply called Suckling.

Dad's Secret Army
This alt-history version of the classic show is set in a Britain that fell to a successful Nazi invasion in 1940, in which Mainwaring's ageing Home Guard survive as grimfaced resistance fighters waging a guerrilla war around Walmington on Sea. In episode one, Mrs Fox has her head shaved for sleeping with the enemy and ARP warden Hodges has his throat slit for collaboration.

Brexit Means Brexit
The inevitable political satire from the people who brought you 2012 and that other one about the BBC. Stars Olivia bloody Colman, Hugh Bonneville and probably Toby Jones.

Five Batshit Things You Never Knew About Sherlock Holmes

For almost 130 years, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's famous detective has captured the imagination of audiences in print, on the airwaves and on screen. Presented here are - however improbable - some curious footnotes in the history of Mr Sherlock Holmes.

The Kid

The Baker Street Irregulars, a gang of street urchins who made several appearances in Holmes' adventures, were originally inspired by the cheeky hi-jinks of a troupe of child performers in London's music halls. Among them was one Charlie Chaplin, whose costume of rumpled, oversized clothes and clown-like but indefatigable persona were to form the basis of the Irregulars' young leader Wiggins.

It's Good, But It's Not Right

Holmes' catchphrase in response to his associate Dr Watson's exclamations of awe at his deductive prowess went through several versions before settling on 'Elementary, my dear Watson'. Here are a few examples from Conan Doyle's early submissions to The Strand magazine:

• "Yes it is."
• "Let's do a deduction!"
• "I loooves me a mystery."
• "Let's wait until more suspects have died."
• "Durrr Watson, you joey."

Gibt es ein Ostwind

Adolf Hitler was purportedly an incurable Holmes fan, going so far as to view reels of Basil Rathbone movies in the private screening room of his Wolf's Lair. When Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror came out with its strong anti-Nazi message, Hitler was incandescent with rage and immediately ordered propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels to produce his own Aryan version of Holmes on screen, one which would espouse strong National-Socialist values.

The result, Sherlok Holmes und das Geheimnis des bayerischen Forellen, was screened to Panzer crews before the Battle of the Bulge, but was said to be so laughably bad that it was never shown again, with all existing prints subsequently burnt or else impounded by the Soviets after the war.

The Affair of the Pimlico Pigeon Fancier

In his later years, Conan Doyle struggled to capture the magic of those early Holmes stories, and began experimenting with ever more unlikely scenarios, such as the use of monkey glands in The Adventure of the Creeping Man. An even more improbable tale was The Affair of the Pimlico Pigeon Fancier, where the culprit in a series of seemingly impossible rooftop robberies is found to be a not-so extinct pterodactyl, in an unofficial crossover with the author's own The Lost World.

A staunch believer in metaphysical phenomena such as the Cottingley Fairies, the writer was said to be working an even more fantastical adventure for his most famous character at the time of his death, His Master Stroke, in which the now-retired detective uncovers the incredible truth behind the strange disturbances around his precious beehives.

Adopt, Adapt and Improve

Like any popular work of fiction, Sherlock Holmes has been endlessly revisited, reimagined and spoofed, from early Ellie Norwood to classic Rathbone and Cushing, from the teenaged Rowe to the sepulchral Brett, from two-fisted Downey to the ethereal Cumberbatch. Here are three less well-known adaptations of the consulting detective mythos:

• Carry On Sleuthing - one of the lesser entries in the Carry On... series, this TV special featured Sid James as a leering 'Sidlock Holmes', Peter Butterworth as his bumbling assistant Doc Whatsup, and Kenneth Williams as a braying Professor Moribundy.

• Sherlock, Homes - 90s US comedy adventure series transplanting a Latino Sherlock and his posse from Baker Street to Bakersfield, CA. As the script for the pilot puts it:

SHERLOCK: (inhaling deeply) "It's a three pipe problem, ese."

• Elem-Entry, My Queer Watson - the most notorious example of the burgeoning Holmo-erotica sub-genre that has blossomed in recent years.

Five Batshit Things You Never Knew About Doctor Who

Consider yourself an expert on all matters Gallifreyan? Take a look at these barely credible 'facts of Who-bris'.

Prime-8

When plans were afoot to bring back the malevolent Master during Tom Baker's run, the popularity of the Doctor's robotic companion K-9 prompted the BBC to draw up designs for the villain's own metallic 'pet'! Prime-8 was intended to be 'a sinister robot gorilla, capable of menacing the Doctor and his companions or guarding the Master while he carries out his evil plans'.

A prototype radio-controlled Prime-8 was built but proved too bulky and 'bloody silly-looking' according to one insider, so the idea was shelved. Prime-8 was later sold off to ITV, where he finally made it on to our television screens as Metal Mickey.

Raston McCoy

Like many Who regulars, Sylvester McCoy actually had a small cameo part in an earlier story before securing the role of the Seventh Doctor. In his case, it was the dialogueless but crucial role of the deadly Raston Warrior Robot in The Five Doctors, where McCoy's slender, athletic frame was put to good use, jumping around a quarry and shooting spikes into Cybermen.

The former O-Man Big off of Jigsaw is said to have clinched the part of the Raston, ahead of Wayne Sleep and the man who played Mr Claypole in Rentaghost, by turning up to the audition already clad in his own silver leotard.

Van Der Who?

The Doctor Who team had to act quickly when Jon Pertwee fell victim to a nasty skin rash during the filming of The Curse of Peladon; the infection subsequently attributed to the 'manky old fur coats' that had been used to create the beast Aggedor. With a tight shooting schedule but no Doctor, they scrambled to work around his absence, ultimately resorting to recasting him with lookalike actor Barry 'Van Der Valk' Foster.

Despite Foster's physical resemblance to Pertwee and eagerness to embrace the physical requirements of the role, BBC executives were uneasy with the hastily rewritten script of The Sea Devils, in which the Doctor declares to Jo Grant that a chance neutron discharge from the TARDIS console has caused his facial molecules to 'temporarily freak out', and instead chose to wait until Pertwee was well enough to continue in the role. Unaired footage of the infamous Foster episode of The Sea Devils has never been seen by the public.

The Bill Makers

Staying true to Doctor Who's original historical/educational remit, this First Doctor story was to have landed William Hartnell's timelord and companions Ben and Polly at the court of William III and Mary II of England in the last years of the 17th century.

The main plotline would involve the Doctor being mistaken for a leading Whig pushing to ratify the Bill of Rights, while Ben and Polly would become bound up in the drafting of the Stamp Duty laws and founding of the Bank of England respectively. Produce Verity Lambert took one look at the script, declared it to be 'even duller than Marco Polo', and ordered that it be replaced by 'something with space people'.

Nativity of the Daleks

Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy writer Douglas Adams famously contributed three stories to Doctor Who: The Pirate Planet, City of Death and Shada, the final remaining incomplete due to industrial action. But rumours persist of a secret cache of unseen scripts from the great man, hidden somewhere in Britain but locatable by studying certain hidden clues in his published Who works.

Among them is said to be Nativity of the Daleks, a Christmas-themed story in which the Doctor discovers his perennial nemeses using Skaro's Book of Exterminus to meddle with Earth history in first century Galilee. Having engineered the creation of Dalek Jesus, His Holiness Pope Davros revels in triumph but his plan is ultimately undone when the Doctor travels back in time and bombards the Three Wise Daleks with the reverse-polarity chords he has inserted into Slade's Merry Xmas Everybody.

Five Batshit Things You Never Knew About Marvel Comics

Thought you knew everything there is to know about Marvel comics? Think again, true believer.

Sgt Fury's treacherous French commando

Marvel's wartime adventure comic Sgt Fury and his Howling Commandos featured a cast of stereotypical Allied soldiers, from southerner 'Rebel' Ralston to bugle-playing jazzman Gabe Jones, and even a plummy Englishman called Percival 'Pinky' Pinkerton.

Later plans were to include charming Free French commando 'Toutou' Lefevre, but when the editor read the script for the next issue, called 'Something Smells Vichy', in which Toutou was revealed to be a ratfink Nazi collaborator, the character was quietly dropped for fear of upsetting French readers.

Of course, they need not have bothered as no self-respecting French person has ever read a Marvel comic, preferring to read crap about freakishly strong Gauls and Scrooge McFuckingDuck.

The Fantastic Four Christmas album

Many people remember the Spider-Man album Rock Reflections of a Superhero from the 70s, but few know that it was actually Marvel's second foray into the world of music. Back in 1965, as Marvel mania was on the rise, they brought out The Fantastic Four's Christmas Singalong, an album of original festive songs supposedly recorded by the cast of the Worlds Greatest Comic Magazine themselves.

Tracks included the crooning Ever-Loving Blue-Eyed Christmas, the romantic Reed, My Lips and the oddball Mole Man's Holiday. The true identities of the singers and musicians involved remain unknown, though popular belief has it that they were written by a young Neil Diamond, who rather than accepting payment, asked that Marvel use his likeness when they finally unmasked the Green Goblin in Amazing Spider-Man #39.

Ant-Man vs Clammm

Just as many early Fantastic Four issues pitted the fabulous quartet against the sort of giant monsters that were Marvel's standard antagonists prior to the superhero boom, so too did their costumed stablemates face a bizarre gallery of titanic foes, and none came stranger than Clammm the Man-Mollusc who was pitted against the heroic Ant-Man in an early issue of Tales To Astonish.

Hailing from 'Dimension B', the gigantic ambulatory clam was intent on devouring all of Earth's cereal crops, thus clearing the way for his people to 'conquer Earth with our fast-growing space algae!'. Fortunately the quick-witted Ant-Man spotted a pattern in the malevolent mollusc's attacks and defeated him in a bit of trademark trickery. Noticing that Clammm always avoided eating wheat crops, he commanded his loyal ant swarms to 'disguise these wheat fields as corn!' using tiny ant-sized paintbrushes, thus giving the belligerent bivalve a terrible case of acid reflux which literally cooked the gluten-intolerant Clammm from the inside.

Trucks, Robots and coloured lights

Whilst readers may remember the comic versions of popular toys like Micronauts and the Shogun Warriors, they may not be aware that these were far from the only children's games to be given the mighty Marvel treatment. Tonka! featured a gang of orphans who discover a crashed spaceship full of intelligent - and highly durable - trucks who had rebelled against their masters, aliens intent on making Earth part of 'Space Highway 919'.

Then there was Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots, in which two mismatched Earthmen find their minds beamed across the galaxy into the bodies of gladiator robots. Streetwise Benjamin Franklin Jones and bookworm Harold van Hague must work together if they are to break free and fight their way home.

A proposed comic based around the game Simon, in which a succession of ordinary people gain different powers according to the sequence of coloured lights they press on the electronic toy, never got further than the planning stage.

The Rampant Hulk

A notorious image of an apparently naked incredible Hulk in the full throes of arousal very nearly made it to the newsstands, when idiosyncratic bullpen finisher Wink 'The Ink' Benderberg, at the time going through an acrimonious divorce, suffered a complete mental breakdown whilst inking an issue of 1970s team book The Defenders.

The original splash page, as drawn by the penciller, was to have shown the Hulk being swarmed by the Nebulon the space guru's Bozo minions, with the accompanying dialogue, 'PUNY CLOWN-FACES! HULK WILL SMASH YOU ALL! AND SPARKLY YELLOW SILVER HAIR MAN TOO!', with the jade giant wearing his trademark torn purple pants. But by the time a wild-eyed Benderberg had finished with it, the trousers had been removed to reveal a fully rampant Hulk batting the oncoming Bozos away with a sweep of his foot-long gamma-engorged manhood.

Fortunately the offending artwork was spotted during printing and every single copy of The Defenders issue was pulped. Benderberg was immediately fired and never worked in comics again, though he can sometimes be glimpsed at comic cons, offering to recreate his infamous 'Erectable Hulk' for $5 a sketch.

Sons of Pitches: Secret Wars

Warning: contains satire.

If you’re a bit of a comic fan like me, you’ll be aware that Marvel are currently running a massive months-long publishing event called Secret Wars, in which characters and settings from the company’s enormous back-history have been resurrected, remixed and repackaged to appeal to the incurably geeky such as myself. Much of these titles feel a little like fan-ficky to me, so if Marvel’s creators can get away with it, so can I.

Below are a few of my own suggestions for Secret Wars titles, many of which dredge up characters and storylines from the very dustiest corners of the Marvel Universe(s). A few of these would, I think, genuinely make for decent short-lived series, whilst others are simply ham-fisted attempts to chase various demographics. As I say, contains satire.

Unnamed Warriors of Lapsed Intellectual Property

Starring the Shiny Spaceknight! The Little Guys from the Microverse! And the Three Giant Robots! Together they must face the Nasty Oriental Doctor, the Giant Radioactive Lizard and the evil Space Dude In The Black Armour!

Killraven Loves Patsy

A romantic romp starring the grim future freedom fighter and the fun-loving Hellcat herself, Patsy Walker. In issue #1, the pair must escape a terrifying Martian arena in time to meet Patsy’s parents for dinner.

Suckertown

Suckertown, where mother-lovin’ vampires stalk the streets of the endless Harlem night. A handful of righteous brothers and sisters take a stand against a snow-white sucker by the name of Baron Frost. Starring Luke Cage and Blade; they can’t be bit and they won’t be bought.

Kitty’s Pride-Force

The actually straight Kitty Pryde and her fabulous LGBTQIA friends in one extremely fit rainbow alliance of heroism. Starring Northstar, Lightspeed, Flatman, the original Union Jack and Mighty Destroyer (oh come on - they were totally doing each other), Living Lightning, Hulkling, Wiccan, Rictor, Shatterstar, Karma, Mystique, oh let’s face it half the X-Men, all of the Young Avengers and Hercules who’s actually bisexual.

Probably written by Kieron Gillen.

Wolverama

If it’s good enough for the Thors, it’s good enough for Wolvie. This series feature All The Wolverines doing the dirty jobs that the Thor Corps can’t. Starring grumpy-Jim-Henson-fairytale Wolvie, not-Bogart Patch Wolvie, tragic kimono-wearing Wedding Wolvie, and embarrassing-bone-claw-noseless Wolvie.

Slayers

Devil-Slayer, Skull the Slayer and the awesome Apeslayer - together for the first time! Warning: contains more bare chests and leather pants than a Jim Morrison tribute act.

What If: Altergasm

This depressing series features every What If scenario taking place simultaneously, from Dark Phoenix immolating the X-Men to Wolverine becoming Lord of the Vampires to Korvac turning the Avengers into his personal sock puppets, while the Watcher sits in the middle of it all, rocking back and forth and tearing his fucking eyeballs out.

A typically upbeat What If ending

I have no words.

As Seen On TV

A realm championed by the 1970s television incarnations of the Incredible Hulk, Spider-Man, Dr Strange and Captain America, in which our small-screen heroes battle low-rent hoodlums, martial artists, evil hypnotists and an inexplicably Italian Red Skull in budget-friendly adventures.

Features thugs being thrown in cardboard boxes, lots of silly string and an embarrassing motorcycling outfit. The special edition of issue #1 contains a bonus bootleg cameo of Roger Corman’s Fantastic Four.

Pet Avengers

Lockheed! Zabu! Redwing! Lockjaw! That cat from Speedball! The Frog of Thunder! Even Ms Lion from Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends! Super animals fighting for justice and freedom!

The Pet Avengers protect the United States of Animalica from the villainy of the vampiric Hellcow and the Pet Masters of Evil, led by the nazi clownfish Baron Nemo.

Super Family

Cap, Iron Man and Spidey in the sort of team-up Stan Lee never envisioned. This appeals to a certain section of the internet, which you’re just gonna have to google for yourself. Nuff said.

X-Men: An Age Undreamed Of

Crom! Like the other Secret Wars X-titles, this rehashes a classic storyline (Uncanny X-Men #190-191). But unlike those others, this one actually deserves a second visit and expansion from the original. The revived Hyborian sorcerer Kulan Gath has bewitched Manhattan and its inhabitants, transforming everything and everyone into their swords and sorcery analogue, including the X-Men and Avengers.

It’s superheroes in the age of Conan! What’s not to love?

Power Pack: Funland Run

Uncle Jolly's Funland, a land of toys and rides and never-ending cartoons. Where children play all day long and there are no grown-ups to tell them what to do or bother them. Not unless you count meanies like the alien Snarks or the dumb ol’ Boogeyman, who never last long thanks to Funland's very own kid superheroes: Alex, Julie, Jack and Katie - the unbeatable Power Pack!

But when the perpetually grinning Uncle Jolly selects one of the Powers to become his latest ‘special friend’, something doesn't feel right.  The team defy his will and run away from their Orphanage, pursued by the child-catcher Spiral in a desperate race to escape this land of do as you please and find the mythical beings known as Parents.

The Most 80s Superhero Of All

As some of you may know, the Ocelot and Herself host a regular film club night here at the Pouch, inflicting a varied range of films ancient and modern on our little circle of movie-loving frenz & fam.

Tonight we'll be watching something that passed many of us by when it first came out, 1984's Purple Rain, starring Prince (real name: Mr Prince).

I have no idea what it's about but based on a quick look at the poster, I think it's about a sort of superhero on a motorbike. Like Ghost Rider.

Here's how I think it will go:

Rebellious loner Rick (Mr Prince) works by day at Pinkman's Auto Spares, overseen by the tyrannical Mr Pinkman (James Tolkan), but by night he attends illegal motorbike racing nights at the edge of town, adopting the glamorous identity of the Purple Rain, competing against his overbearing rival Buff (Bill Paxton) and his goons for the affections of good girl Jennifer (Kim Cattrall). Only his flamboyant friend Broadway (Bronson Pinchot) knows who the Purple Rain really is, and together they must steer a path through Pinkman, Buff and the sinister land developer Crisko (John Lithgow) to save the town and win Jennifer's heart.

I'm sure that's it. Gonna be awesome.

Breaking Bede

I've said it before and I'll say it again. And I'm saying it now. Almost now. Just after this bit.



Anyway. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the Internet stole my idea. I came up with a funny pun combining an acclaimed US TV show about a high school teacher cum crystal meth dealer with an innocent, well-loved UK children's show. Worth a three second chuckle when I shared it on Facebook, I thought.

But when I chanced to google 'Breaking Bod' aforehand, I found I wasn't the first person to come up with idea, nor even the second. Tch I say.

Undaunted, I went for 'Breaking Bude', only to find someone else had already done a spoof video of the same.

'Breaking Bard'? Long since been done.

So what am I left with? This:

'Bored middle-aged (25) monk Bede moonlights from his job scraping down vellum parchments to secretly brew up the strongest mead in all of Northumbria. But the jealous, unstable Brother Tostig is intent on taking over the distribution of the highly prized Blue Brew, leading to a tense confrontation with quills in the scriptorium, just after Compline.'


It's like being one down from the infinith monkey.

Doctor Who the morning after: season 8 episode 1

I watched the new Doctor Who episode Deep Breath with the new old Doctor Who last night. This morning I wrote down what I remembered of it:

SCENE: A tyrannosaurus rex is stalking around in Victorian London.

VIEWER A:

Hurrah! A T-Rex! And it looks brilliant, just like in Walking with Dinosaurs!

VIEWER B:

What's it doing?

VIEWER A:

I don't know. Just sort of walking up and down.

VIEWER B:

Dinosaurs are great. I hope they get it right this time, not like in Invasion of the Dinosaurs or Dinosaurs on a Spaceship. They were rubbish.

VIEWER A:

Mm, it's still just walking up and down the Thames. A bit like the Skarasen.

VIEWER B:

Oh. Is it doing anything else?

VIEWER A:

Mainly challenging our preconceptions of gender.

VIEWER B:

It's been thirty seconds since the story started. I need familiar faces!

VIEWER A:

Hurrah! It's Madam Vastra and her wife and Strax.

VIEWER B:

Yay! Victorian Lesbian Samurai Silurian! Hero in a half-veil!

VIEWER A:

What's the wife called?

VIEWER B:

I have no idea. It doesn't matter.

VIEWER A:

Strax makes me laugh.

VIEWER B:

Oh look! It's the TARDIS! Covered in KY!

VIEWER A:

Why does it look so shiny and flimsy?

VIEWER B:

And here's the new Doctor! And whatsherface. The one after Amy. Quirky Smirky Pixie.

(The mandatory post-regeneration comedy schtick ensues. Everyone kind of forgets the dinosaur.)

SCENE: Victorian Lesbian Samurai Silurian HQ. Some rubbish dialogue about bedrooms.

VIEWER B:

Why are Vastra and Quirky Smirky Pixie arguing?

VIEWER A:

I don't know. I think it's called character development.

VIEWER B:

I think they're just trying to tell us that it's OK for the Doctor to be old.

VIEWER A:

Where's the dinosaur?

VIEWER B:

It's over there. Way in the distance, as if they've run out of CG.

VIEWER A:

What's it doing now?

VIEWER B:

Still just walking around in the middle of London. Not being shot by the army's cannons or anything.

VIEWER A:

That's rubbish - they could have had an artillery captain called Lethbridge or something.

VIEWER B:

Oh look! The dinosaur's caught fire! Way over there in the distance. Can't really see what's happening though.

VIEWER A:

Oh.

SCENE: The DOCTOR runs away in a nightshirt. He talks to a horse and gallops off.

VIEWER B:

Why is the Doctor bouncing up and down on the horse in those medium shots, but hardly moving at all when it's a close-up?

VIEWER A:

Probably something Timelordy. Or Horsey-Worsey. Best not to ask.

SCENE: Everyone arrives at the scene of the burning dinosaur. Which we can't see for some reason.

DOCTOR:

Oh you humans. You are rubbish. Splosh.

VIEWER B:

Has he jumped into the river?

VIEWER A:

I think so.

VIEWER B:

Why didn't they show us? Or the burning dinosaur?

VIEWER A:

I have no idea. Anyway - look! There's a sinister Victorian gentleman in a tall hat!

VIEWER B:

Ooo! Richard E Grant! I like him! Oh no, it's just some bloke with half his face missing.

SCENE: The Doctor spends a lot of time in an alleyway with an old man.

VIEWER B:

What's happening?

VIEWER A:

Nothing. The Doctor's talking about his eyebrows a bit.

VIEWER B:

Why is this scene still going on?

SCENE: Back at Victorian Lesbian Samurai Silurian HQ.

Quirky Smirky Pixie has taken time out from her frantic search for the addled Doctor to pour herself into a nice Victorian gown and do her hair up in little curls. Just to remind us that if there's one thing the BBC can still do alright, it's period costume.

Strax says something funny ending in 'Boy'.

Quirky Smirky Pixie and Vastra argue again probably and challenge our preconceptions of gender/race/sexuality/marriage/reptiles.

Vastra is all superior and the Pixie does a quirky smirk. Then they work something out to do with a newspaper.

SCENE: A restaurant. The Doctor is smelly. He and the Pixie argue.

VIEWER B:

What are they arguing about?

VIEWER A:

I think they're trying to give her a character to make her different from Amy and the others. Apparently she's a control freak.

VIEWER A:

She is different. She's brunette. They haven't had one of those for ages.

(It turns out everyone else in the restaurant is sort of clockwork. Some very slow peril ensues.)

VIEWER B:

Could they not just run past them? They seem very slow.

VIEWER A:

Apparently not. The Doctor is quite old looking.

VIEWER B:

He's not old! Well he is, but he's been old for ages, even when he was Matt Smith! Hasn't this story told you anything?

(The Doctor and the Pixie obligingly get caught by an evil restaurant booth from Live and Let Die and end up in a Dark Spaceship set.)

VIEWER B:

Pity. I was hoping for the old Dalek spaceship 'woomp-woomp' sound effects.

VIEWER A:

Nah, they wouldn't shoot their bolt quite so early and do the Daleks straight away. They're probably resting them for this series because they've been so overused.

(The Doctor and the Pixie look at some rubbish automata and fail to work things out, though the Doctor does suggest that this all looks familiar.)

VIEWER A:

Rubbish robots with human faces that come off! It's Four To Doomsday!

VIEWER B:

No, it's a ship from the dawn of time - it's Earthshock!

VIEWER A:

But the rubbish robots are sort of clockwork. Maybe it's - gasp - the Celestial Toymaker! The Who revival we've all been clamouring for!

VIEWER B:

Ah no. Clockwork plus organ theft. It's just the dudes from The Girl In The Fireplace.

VIEWER A:

They were quite scary in that.

VIEWER B:

These aren't.

(More slow peril ensues. The Pixie holds her breath a lot, like in Mr Vampire.)

VIEWER B:

Cowabunga! It's Vastra and the gang, armed with awesome samurai swords and blasters!

VIEWER A:

Why are they getting overwhelmed by the slow rubbish automata?

SCENE: The Doctor and the main rubbish robot are now in a balloon made from human skin. They talk a lot about being human probably.

VIEWER B:

If there's all this mild body-horror plot with skin and T-Rex optic nerves, why am I not freaked out?

VIEWER A:

I think because they keep saying and not showing, even though it's now getting on for 9pm.

(Slow peril continues for Pixie and the Victorian Lesbian Samurai Silurian gang who have failed to chop/blast the rubbish robots into little pieces.)

VIEWER B:

Look! The main rubbish robot has fallen from the skin balloon onto the top of Big Ben! Hurrah!

VIEWER A:

But did he jump or was he pushed by the Doctor? Ah…

VIEWER B:

Oh I see what you're saying - is the Doctor naughty or not? Ah…

SCENE: The Doctor takes off in the TARDIS and leaves the Pixie behind. The Pixie puts on her old clothes. The Doctor comes back. They talk. Matt Smith phones her from the past and tells her it's alright and can he please look after the new old Doctor as that is going to be her character as well as being brunette.

VIEWER A:

What's this? An epilogue?

VIEWER B:

Oh goody! I hope Nick Fury turns up!

VIEWER A:

No, it's the main rubbish robot and an old woman called Missy.

VIEWER B:

She looks like Mother Nature from the Tampax ads.

VIEWER A:

I think she's the arc-plot villain. Maybe she's recruiting a League of Anti Doctor Baddies to gang up on him.

VIEWER B:

I think she's the Master's wife. Missy, Mistress, gettit?

VIEWER A:

Shut up. Anyway, here's the next episode teaser. Oh, it's the Daleks.

The Rupert Affair

WARNING! CONTAINS SHOCKINGLY FRANK TRUE-LIFE CONFESSION OF FORBIDDEN LOVE

Living in an apartment block can be an oddly isolating business. Despite having neighbours above, below and to either side of us, we rarely see them. It’s odd to think that your bedroom must be within 30 feet of at least 4 other bedrooms full of other people sleeping - and doing other stuff - but you could go days or weeks without seeing those people. And if you live in a modern - by which I mean ‘tissue-thin walled’- apartment, you might hear your neighbours but you won’t often see them. The dull distorted bass of a TV next door, the patter of a toddler’s feet above, the slam of the front door a few floors below, might well be the extent of their impact on your life.

Good, you might say. The last thing you want is to be aware of your neighbours’ comings and goings. Their late-night rows during summer when the windows are open, their horrible boiled cabbage cooking seeping up through the extractor fans, their nasty chain-smoking out on the balcony just below your busy lizzies. This is true; those are all unpleasant aspects of living cheek by jowl, but it can be just as weird when you just don’t see your neighbours at all.

You know they’re there. Cars appear and disappear outside. Apartment doors open and close. Washing machines vibrate and drains gurgle. But you never meet, you rarely even see your fellow rezzies. Oh, maybe a fleeting nod of acknowledged existence as you pass in the car park, but that’s practically it. Without front gardens and drives, there’s no common area; no reason to linger or potter. We all trot smartly from our cars to the front door, up the stairs and into our hermetically-sealed broadbanned habivirons every evening, only to reverse the process in the morning on our way back out into the world.

The only folks with a reason to bump into other people are the dog-walkers. A couple of times I've tried to join in on one of their impromptu gatherings in the car park, idly passing the time as their respective pooches get down to some serious mutual bum-sniffing. But it always feels weird if you haven’t got a dog yourself, like being the only single person at a dinner party or some kind of pervy dog-hag. I have honestly considered walking around the estate with a realistic toy dog on a lead just to give me the excuse to hang out with all the cool dog people.

* * *

But all that changed about a year ago, when this new guy moved in upstairs, and we just started sort of seeing each other.

At first Herself and I didn't know his name. We just called him 24, after the number of his apartment. He moved in with some other folks, but he doesn't seem to be that close to them, spending a fair bit of time out in the hallways and stairwells, just hanging around. But not in a threatening way. He just has that kind of look, you know? Like he just enjoys his own space. After a while we learnt that his name’s Rupert.

He’s often coming in as we’re going out, or vice versa, so it was just natural that we've got to know each other. To start with we wouldn't really talk as such, just say hello as we went about our days. But that was enough, at first. Just that simple contact with someone else.

Of course it didn't stop there. It couldn't. He’s come into our place a couple of times now, curious I guess to see how it compares to his own apartment on the floor above. Would you believe the first thing he did was run into the bedroom for a look round? Amazing. He seems to have no concept of privacy, but for some reason he gets away with it. He has that kind of a face, I suppose.

What’s grown over this last year is an odd, episodic sort of relationship – sometimes just him and me, sometimes him and Herself, sometimes all three of us. Whatever; it all feels fine, comfortable with each other. Just a few minutes of brief contact out in the corridor, rarely speaking. A few minutes of physical contact, perhaps a few nibbles or some simple stroking and nuzzling. That’s enough for all of us, and then we get on with our respective lives. You might say that sounds cold, mechanical, almost business-like, but it’s really not. Just uncomplicated. Wonderfully uncomplicated.

And so this strange affair with Rupert carries on to this day. The only dark shadow in our little world is his family upstairs. They don’t know about us, about what we have together. I don’t think they’d like it if they knew. It’s been close a couple of times, the sound of their apartment door suddenly opening above, giving us just seconds to break off and scamper back inside our own flat before they come down and see us in the hallway with those tasty fish-flavoured Dreamies ™ in our guilty, guilty hands. Rupert probably wouldn't care though. He’d probably just give us all a look and start licking his back leg, like he always does. The little scamp.

Don't judge our love

Dan Brown's The Mysterious Thing

Now, I quite like a Dan Brown book, I do. Oi, come back. I haven't finished yet. Put your snarky snobbery over there on the side for a moment and read on. There will be amusement and mockery, do not fear.

As I was saying, I do quite like a Dan Brown book. I like the mysteries and the riddles and the stuff about the weirder bits of history. I even don't mind the bits about art and architecture, providing they're heavily laced with references to hidden clues and secret passages of course.

And sometimes the books have cool visual puzzles like the ambigrams in Angels & Demons and the map thing in The Lost Symbol. I actually sat down and decoded the map thing before reading any further, yes I did. I am that sort of a person. I also used to translate alien languages in comics, and for those of you who do likewise, what about that issue of Smalsh Yegger, eh?

But I diverse. I do like a Dan Brown book. I will freely admit that the writing, whilst perfectly competent, ain't great literature. But that's fine. I'm not after great literature, just an engaging mystery/adventure. And yes, the characterisation's non-existent, but who cares? I just wanna figure out the puzzles along with (and hopefully ahead of) tweedy protagonist Robert Langdon.

BUT. I am halfway through the audio version of the latest effort Inferno and I've figured out which aspect of Mr Brown's writing bugs me. It's the padding. My god, the padding. The endless pages of nothing much happening and nobody getting anywhere. I swear he uses a template much like the following to bump his page count up every other chapter...

* * *

The Mysterious Thing

Chapter nn

Robert Langdon glanced down at the Mickey Mouse watch that served as his personality. His age-nonspecific brow wrinkled in concern. Too fast.  They were moving through the plot too quickly. He had to slow things down somehow.

But how? Perhaps some internal monologue, debating his choices. Or should he? The threat of the Unusual Killer finding them was ever present. Could he afford to spend time reviewing the story so far and considering all the clues and puzzles for the convenience of the reader? Could he afford not to?

His mind wandered back to a lecture he had given about the Famous Dead Guy some time ago. Rehashing the deceased genius' life and achievements would not only serve to remind everyone that this story Could Actually Be True, but would also pad out a few pages with some judicious keystrokes from the Famous Dead Guy's Wikipedia page. And it would make an ideal flashback scene for the movie adaptation.

He paused in his reverie, suddenly aware once more of his surroundings. They were in the Fascinating Real Place, with its unusual architecture and collection of weird stuff. Tourists will come to visit this place after they've read this; I should get a royalty, Langdon mused. Though he did not muse wryly, as that would have suggested some sort of personality.  And in any case, he did not need the money, as his flashback lectures on Art History For Dummies seemed to provide him with a healthy income. Enough to keep him in tweed jackets and comfortable loafers, at any rate.

Running a hand through his brown hair, his only notable feature apart from the watch, he glanced over at his companion on this strange journey. The Helpful Young Woman was looking at the Intriguing Object she held in fascination.

'Robert', she began 'You were telling me a little about the Helpful Thing before we had to run away again. While we're hiding here from the Unusual Killer, could you continue for the benefit of myself and the reader?'

Langdon smiled. But not patronisingly, as that would have shown some sort of personality.

'More than a simple MacGuffin, the Intriguing Object is a device to guide the protagonist on his journey, revealing clues one by one. And by extension, the reader too is fed background on the Famous Dead Guy and the Mysterious Thing which we seek in maddening, bite-sized morsels. Just enough to keep them interested through the padded bits.'

'Like this one?' the helpful Young Woman said, peering out from their hiding place, bravely.

'Precisely.' Langdon was pleased. Under his paternal tutorship, she had rapidly adapted from the role of wrong person in the wrong place into a useful expository foil and capable companion, much like a Bond Girl or Dr Who assistant, though with neither the sex appeal of the first or the personality of the second. No matter, he reassured himself, she would disappear in between books anyway.

They went over the next clue again. Discussing it over and over, to give the readers a chance to work it out themselves and feel clever. Was it an anagram? Or an acronym? Perhaps a homophone or a translation? Fortunately, as the world's premier symbologist and explainer of things, Langdon was well qualified to unravel the secrets of the Mysterious Object, one tedious layer at a time.

He repeated the next part of the puzzle. If they could stretch this out for another paragraph, he would be able to use his jammy eidetic memory to solve the riddle. Perhaps if he went over the story so far just one more time, with the Helpful Young Woman asking lots of simple questions. But already he could feel the onset of another narrative shift, and with it another frustratingly oblique chapter from the perspective of the Unusual Killer and the Friend Who Is Actually The Main Baddie. Langdon checked his watch again and ran his fingers through his brown hair. But not nervously, because, well, you know.

* * *

  

Module G4 - Mock-Tudor Coaching Inn of the Stone Giant Voivode

Many years ago, my cynical roleplaying friends and I came up with Roleplayer!, a character-generation system for people who wanted to roleplay roleplayers. If that makes sense. These days you would say we were being very 'meta'. Back then we were just snarky wise-asses who sneered at everyone who played games but us. I think the system may have made it onto the boards of Something Awful, but other, memorier people would have to confirm that. If it turns up, I'll repost it here.

Anyway, whilst digging around the deep and dusty recesses of the Pouch this morning (failing to find a long-lost John Buscema sketch of Mephisto, since you're asking), I came across the following, which is an outgrowth of our earlier efforts to lampoon our fellow gamers.

This then is the Younger Ocelot's sarky snapshot of tabletop roleplaying archetypes, circa 2003. Apologies for any offence caused, though my younger, snidier self would counter that offence was actually very much the intent. The scamp.

Ref Archetypes

I'm a Storyteller - I facilitate a shared storytelling experience that I like to call Consensual Fictioneering. I don't like dice or systems. My stories involve death, unrequited love and childhood trauma. Characters in my games are likely to be pale and wear a lot of black leather. Total immersion role-playing is encouraged, with a full-fledged screaming argument in-character representing the summit of my storytelling aspirations. I run these games at conventions to meet girls.

I'm an Old Time Dungeon Master - I only run classic D&D type games. Squared paper and multi-faceted polyhedra are my tools. On the wrong side of 30, I often casually namedrop playing Gary Gygax's original Chainmail game in 1974 at the age of 6. There are mouldering piles of ancient TSR, Avalon Hill and Flying Buffalo products lurking in the corners of my forbidding flat. Peckforton Castle, Bedbug Island and Ballastor's Barracks are Names of Great Power for me. I can remember Dave Langford's first book review column. Games run by me revolve around underground complexes randomly populated by 2d6 Orcs playing dice in sealed rooms with no food or water. My greatest thrill is rolling "20 - DM's choice" on the Wandering Monster table.

I’m a Keeper - I run games that no-one else plays anymore. I insist that they're really good, but have to admit that the others only play them because they can't be bothered to run anything themselves.

I'm the NPC King. I have an enormous repertoire of richly developed supporting characters for my players to encounter. Each has their very own voice and probably facial tics too. I enjoy showing off my favourites to the players, and making sure they realise how great I think my creations are. Plot and player actions are secondary to me exercising my vast array of cameo appearances. I like to base my characters on obscure walk-on parts from movies and TV shows that nobody likes or remembers.

I'm the Background King. Similar to the NPC King, I have developed a fully fleshed out campaign setting. Every house and shop in town is mapped and described in painstaking details, from the number of sacks of grain in the feed store to the inscriptions on each cemetery headstone. I like the players to wander around the setting I have created, hoping they will stumble across a thinly thought-out adventure hook, or more likely, get bored and make one up themselves (this often involves a bar-room brawl and a fascinating tour of the local incarceration facilities).

I'm the Plot King. I've designed a fantastically convoluted storyline for the players to utterly ruin when they kill the vital contact or call in the police instead of investigating it themselves. I will break down mid-session and sulkily declare that it's all ruined. One of the players will attempt to mollify me by pointing out it's a great story, just not a great game.

I'm a Railroader. Related to the Plot King, I too have a great story to tell, but unlike my weaker cousin, I have the strength to bend the players to my will. Through a series of scene shifts, deadly curses, in-game coercions and other deus ex machinae, I will subtly and not-so subtly ensure that the pitiful pawns who play my game end up exactly where I want them. Too late, they will realise they have boarded the Plot Express, bound for a pre-determined outcome, with no stops en route.

Player Archetypes

I'm a Pet-Lover. I insisted during character creation that I would be accompanied by a faithful wardog, talking parrot or smartest-horse-in-the-movies. Whilst this will initially work within the first adventure, both the ref and the other players will eventually become annoyed by my abuse of this animal sidekick as a telepathic human-smart extra pair of hands to gain unfair advantages. The pet will be unceremoniously eaten by a troll soon after, leaving my character strangely ineffectual.

I'm a Driver. Like the Pet-Lover, I insisted on a sleek and unique vehicle during character creation, such as Nightboat the crime-solving boat or KIMM the sexy superbike. This soon proves to be a mistake as the campaign moves the players away from the original coastal/riverside/fjord environment to a desert. The hapless wonder-machine is either mothballed indefinitely or suffers a modern fate not unlike the troll/pet incident.

I'm an Adult Newbie. A frustrated real-life hooligan, I have accidentally fallen in with a crowd of role players who are subtly attempting to reform me. Their efforts fall at the first hurdle when I inevitably create a warrior character with a Really Big Gun/Sword. I further exhibit my caveman roots by instantly falling upon the first female NPC we encounter and engaging in graphic grown-up naughtiness quite at odds with the game atmosphere. The other roleplayers laugh nervously at this but do nothing to curb my manly ways, as they are a bit scared of me.

I'm a Rules-Boy. I know the system forwards and backwards. I've read all the supplements and expansions available and pride myself on calculating other players' To Hit numbers without leaning over to look at the sheets. My crowning achievement is pointing out a loop or logic flaw in one of the Ref's own house-rules and hoisting them on their own petard (which hits for 4d10 explosive damage, no armour save). I will eventually be brought low by over-reaching myself during an extended bout of rule-lawyering and find myself roundly humiliated by a ref who has actually read the rules.

I'm a Distraction. My task is to ensure that no period of pure role-playing lasts longer than 5 minutes before I drag it off course with an off-topic remark. Last night's TV, reality shows in general and past games are popular subjects of mine. My weapons are double-entendres, catchphrases from Vic and Bob and Blackadder quotations*. The ref will good-naturedly endure my constant interruptions as the price they pay for having me on board. Besides, it is likely that I will have mesmerised the ref along with everyone else at this point, with my banal flow of Fast Show** impressions, mid-dungeon. The only cure for me is an enforced sentence as a ref myself, wherein I will be faced with an entire group of distractions of my own to deal with.

* I am obviously fairly old.
** See above.

I'm a Symbiote. I lack the self-confidence to roleplay independently, so I habitually attach my character to someone else's. I regularly play partners, brothers, deputies or co-pilots of existing, stronger personalities. I am characterised by a lack of originality, often pinching character names from comics, TV or movies.  At some point, my roleplaying 'host' will fail to turn up for a gaming session and I will be left stranded without a guiding intellect. I will eventually bond to a new host in the party, regardless of any in-game incompatibilities (such as a vampire/paladin partnership), and will continue to ride them like the bone-idle wretch I am.

I'm a Swashbuckler. Like many other players, I live for the combat. But where many of them are interested in Causing Massive Damage with Really Big Guns, I enjoy the cut-and thrust of the fight itself. A simple To Hit roll will not satisfy me until I have graphically explained my complex series of actions - each round of my character's combat will be described in fine detail; whirling, leaping, parrying and slashing. I am a fan of Errol Flynn, Oliver Reed as D'Artagnan and Jackie Chan. I'm probably a member of the Sealed Knot, and may well harp on about my 10-week fencing course back at sixth-form college.

I'm a Girl. I've been roped into playing tabletop games by my boyfriend, in the hope of seeing him more often. I was hoping to play Storyteller games that didn't involve vast amounts of number-crunching and critical hit tables, but so far this has proven fruitless. I tend to get shouted down by the boys, who at least have the good grace to get embarrassed by their interactions with female NPCs, now that I'm around. I don't play superhero games.

I'm a Closet Gamer. My artfully compartmentalised life has been arranged so that my beer and footie mates never meet my games and comics mates. The potential shame and social stigma of being outed is not quite great enough to force me to kick my dirty little habit. I am however sufficiently self-conscious during games sessions to never actually roleplay, contenting myself to describe my character's actions perpetually in the third person, and never engaging in in-character dialogue. I never play verbally oriented characters and would probably spontaneously combust if forced to roleplay some form of social interaction with an NPC.

I'm a Glove Puppet. I kid myself that I'm something of a problem solver or detective, suiting me amply to investigative games. In the past I have stumbled onto the ref's plot quite by accident and amazed my fellow role-players. By now I am hopelessly convinced on the rightness of my instincts, and regularly claim to have 'got it sussed' at some point during a game's first session. The ref has by now figured out my pet 'theories', often based on my favourite X-Files episodes (regardless of game genre), and is now cunningly working me like a sock toy. Blithely unaware of this sly manipulation, I am leading the rest of the group down a plot route of the ref's choosing. I am the secret weapon of the Railroading Ref.

I'm a MinMaxer. I studied the character generation rules at length, in order to squeeze the maximum benefit and minimum penalty from the system. I have located one or two rule loops that give me a game-destroyingly massive advantage in a crucial element, like combat or spell-casting, making me the Best Sniper/Ninja/Hacker In The World. The ref will gnash and grind his teeth at my impudence, but will be held at bay by my mantra of "It's all in the rules". Attempts to impose house-rules to curb my excesses will result in high-pitched whines and angry glares across the gaming table. My character will almost certainly be killed in a specially designed scenario to rid the gaming world of my disruptive presence.

I'm a Jack-Of-All-Trades. I managed to spread my starting character skills thinner than butter on hot toast, resulting in more skills than there are slots on the character sheet. I have the bare minimum rank in each, but this is still enough to make me the busiest character in the game. My character is thus defined not by what they can do (as they can do everything), but how they do it. The other players secretly hate and resent me, spending most of the level advances in getting skills better than mine. They have foolishly failed to realise that the game system makes in-game skills purchased much more expensive than starting skills, and thus they will never match me. They will eventually bludgeon me to death with mini-doughnuts and other role-playing comestibles.

I'm a Frustrated Actor. Handicapped by a grotesque physical appearance or dubious personal habits, my thespian leanings have been instead channelled into tabletop gaming. I insist on role-playing every encounter in-character, replete with appropriate accents, speech patterns and oaths. Less-confident refs can be intimidated by my Lee Strasberg approach to roleplaying, and start to stumble over their own NPC dialogue. I will often win tournament games at conventions, if an attractive female gamer is not around to win.

I'm a Collector. I have countless sets of out-of-date games systems displayed proudly on shelves in my bedroom. I have ferreted around the wild and lawless fringes of eBay, seeking to complete my Dragon Warriors book set. I have the rare AD&D module G4 - Mock-Tudor Coaching Inn of the Stone Giant Voivode, and several leather bound volumes of White Dwarf - the Glory Years. The rest of my time is spent purchasing collectable card game booster packs, in my quest to Own Every Card Ever. I am quite poor.