Don’t show me no more
Last year I went to Frankfurt. First time I’d been abroad - my parents always had an excuse for not going (can’t fly, can’t go by boat, can’t afford it) and insisted that YOU WILL GET A DISEASE/MUGGED/DIE if you even thought about going outside Yorkshire. (They aren’t even that keen on West Yorkshire.) So I took a ton of pictures that no one wanted to see.
But here, this is my domain so…
I find this intensely funny. I know it means jewellery but even so...
The city from the south side of the Main, pretty cool, huh?
There are many more, including a few of the city from above, and a few taken in the big cemetry.
The residential areas of Frankfurt reminded me of Sesame Street. There was a fantastic little comic shop (and the day I visited THE Howard Chaykin was there, signing issues of American Flagg and the like - Chaykin is one of my art heroes, even if the material he produces is usually a bit… salty for me) and a bookshop with English imports. I went around a large range of the museums and the market where I ate fleischwurst and to an apfelwein inn, but there were a lot of nice restaurants I would have gone to if I hadn’t been alone. Instead I pressed my nose against the glass of the window like Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters just before the demon dog gets him and watched all the happy people eating. And then I went and bought German cakes.
It was good fun.
I’ve been listening again to the Dandy Warhols. Thirteen tales from Urban Bohemia and Welcome to the Monkey House. The latter album I am enjoying immensely, particularly We used to be friends and I am a scientist (co-written by King David Bowie). Mike Allred and Richard Morgan are fans too. Oh, and They Might Be Giants, particularly Mink Car.
And just to round things out…
Oh yes, they call her the Streak...
Guest blogger: No. 6
Who are you?
I am Number Stu, No. 6.
I am not a number, I am a free man! Where am I?
Stu’s blog.
I don’t like it. It’s too small and cramped. And as far as I can tell, most of his writing is gobbledygook or foofarah.
You’re a very disagreeable man.
Give me something worth agreeing with and I will. Or more likely I won’t. What do you want?
Stu wants you to write something to entertain his loyal audience. Both of them.
He won’t get it!
(No. 6 runs off, around the blog in a strange manner as if his thighs have been tied together. Stock footage of old dears in colourful costumes marching in a parade is shown. No. 6 gets to the beach - inevitably - when a giant balloon appears and growls at him. The balloon seems flimsy and unthreatening but No. 6 eyes it beadily. Nonchalantly, he walks back to the blog.)
I don’t know what you think you’re going to achieve. I’m not going to tell you anything. You can badger me, harass me, dog me, hound me, pin me down, tie me up and slap me silly, but it won’t get you anywhere.
Fair enough.
Oh. You’re trying that old trick. Well it won’t work.
(No. 6 walks over to a table sits down and starts whittling. At least, it looks like he’s whittling. I hope he’s whittling. If he’s not whittling then I’m a little disturbed.)
I’ll find something better to occupy my time! I suggest you do too.
(No. 6 continues his whittling, only stopping every now and again to glance furtively over his shoulder.)
Well, this isn’t really what we were hoping for.
Good!
I mean, you always seemed much more entertaining on television. I thought you’d be a shoo-in for the blog.
You were wrong! You might as well pack up and let me go home!
Oh alright then.
(No. 6 smiles triumphantly, gets up and walks off.)
Jerk.
Guest blogger: Professor Charles Xavier
Hello!
Stuart, or as I refer to him on my drunken days, Mr S. is away today. He’s battling the super villain Hamish McNortie, so he has asked me, Professor Charles Xavier, renowned geneticist, connosieur of fine wines, trainer of racehorses - and secretly Professor X of the pro-mutant cell known as the X-men - to take over his blog for today. Of course, I knew he was going to ask me before he asked me as I had placed a subliminal suggestion into his brain using my mutant gift of telepathy. Ha ha ha! Oh how I walk that fine line between good and evil! Never do I have to pay for train tickets, as I can convince the ticket inspector he has already stamped my ticket with my unnatural abilities of pulling a face that looks like I’m trying to peer at something through a roller blind. For this struggle for acceptance in a world that fears and hates mutantkind is a battle for survival and in the battle for survival, there are no rules. I have also placed a subliminal suggestion in young Stuart’s mind that means that he will dance the Gay Gordons everytime he hears the word “aubergine”. Do not ask what he will do when he hears the word “persiflage” but be sure to wear a so’wester.
In return for these small jests, I have removed his fear of wind chimes and replaced it with a fear of perfume bottles. Never more shall he walk into Debenhams without breaking into a cold sweat!
(Of course I’m puzzled that no one has realised that bald, wheelchair bound Professor Xavier is bald, wheelchair bound Professor X. Unless I use my incredible and much vaunted mental talents to ensure that all passers by do not remember my face. Yes, that sounds credible. I mean, yes that’s how it works.)
But perhaps you are wondering whether I really have these psychic powers of which I speak. Indeed, that is what you are thinking, for I am even now peering into your mind! You are feeling slightly nauseous and are worrying about money. The colour red and a man in uniform will prove important, too. Do not worry, I shall not probe too deeply for I have not yet had my evening meal and the unfiltered human psyche is a rather hideous place that smells vaguely of aniseed, which is a scent I find distasteful. I see that you are quite taken by aniseed, but let me warn you that it is a diuretic! A diuretic!
Ah yes, the old days, before I became a Professor, when I financed my undergraduate degree by taking on the role of Gypsy Rose Xavier in one of my sainted Mother’s shawls and lipstick borrowed from Moira MacTaggart. I would read people’s fortunes while Erik, whom you may know better as the misunderstood mass murderer Magneto, would bend spoons into hearts for young lovers. Oh Erik, you were so young and vital in those days, with your acting jumper and your small moustache. And I, with my thespian elocution that sounds out and stresses every single phoneme so that even the simplest line can last over five minutes. We were young, we were in love! So many indiscretions! Make it so, my X-men!
Indeed when I was in command of my space ship, many was the time when I would turn to Porky Riker and say, “I played Shylock once. I was in Measure for Measure. Look at me now! It pays well, but it’s a far cry from the stage! Not that I mind of course. No. Because there are rabbits eating my house and the Americans like to throw money at me because I’m the only one on set who can actually act worth a tinker’s damn.” And my old friend Prince Vultan of the Hawk people would arrive with his enormous beard and shout “Raaah! Gordon’s alive!” before climbing the north face of the Eiger in nothing more than a pair of leather pants and a large grin. And Riker would ask, “Who was that masked man?” And I would reply, “that was no lady, that was my wife.” Which would baffle Riker, and nonplus me somewhat as well.
But I grow weary now. I forgot to put sun tan lotion on and my bald head is cooking like a lobster in a pan of boiling water. I had too much Scotch for breakfast. And elevenses. And lunch. And high tea. I have a headache like you wouldn’t believe and an addiction to kiddies’ soluble aspirin. Fie, get thee to a nunnery!
I will take my leave, disappearing into the night like a stealthy weasel…
Charles Xavier is sponsored by Picard’s French Polishing. Wardrobe by Botany 500.
Deepdark (deleted scenes)
Author’s note: Something a bit different for bank holiday weekend. There’s usually a lot more that goes into writing than you actually use. You’ll come up with wonderful scenes and clever little lines but when you look at the story you’ve written you’ll realise that you’ve got to take those clever bits out to make the story work. A good writer has to be a good editor, too.
A good writer has to recognise what you can say without saying it. Does that sound stupid? You can say a lot more by asking a question than by giving an answer, because you trick the reader into answering the question. And the reader will come up with an answer that is satisfying to them. Clever eh?
Anyway, so there was a lot more Ace when I was writing Deepdark. I thought bringing Ace in so late in the game felt like a bit of a cheat. I wanted to show her doing all the heavy lifting while the Doctor swans in to start the dominoes falling. It was also there to set up more of what life was like in Deepdark. In the end though, having Ace show up late in the game had more kick. It showed that the Doctor had been planning a covert operation, but didn’t take away from the mystery of why the Doctor wanted to be in the prison in the first place, which showing that Ace was there earlier on did.
But, as our society allows us to mash up things more and more, I thought I’d show you the missing scenes so that you can fit them in as you wish or so that you can say to yourself, oh, so he had thought that bit through. Also, note that some of the names are different because they are from the earlier version. So Bendigo Starkiss became Bendigo Apollyon because Starkiss was reused for an Agent of DADA. There’s also an alternate version of the scene where the Doctor meets T’K because I like the dialogue in this version. And there’s a Highlander paraphrase for those who can find it.
And just so that no one misunderstands: the BBC owns Doctor Who, not me. This stuff is here for your pleasure and edification, not for profit.