Down Dino, Down!

And now on BBC One, Pointing at Dinosaurs, with David Attleburb.

“I’ve come to the curious terrain of Westminster in search of dinosaurs today. Look, there’s one. A Conservative Party member, Sir Frothing Homophobe. As well as finding gay people repugnant, he has no interest in social equality or in serving the actual needs of his constituents.”
“A few feet away we can see a lumbering Cabinet Minister, casually grazing on rich foodstuffs. In the mating season he will create an astounding display by fanning out his falsified expense claims. Should this fail, he’ll resort to pinching the backsides of junior civil servants, too frightened about keeping their jobs to report him.”
“Moving out onto the green we discover a herd of UKIP-asaurus Prix. These rabid creatures are so fiercely protective of their territory that they have been known to set fire to their own offspring if they stray too far from home. They can be distinguished from their close cousin, the 1922-us Club-adactyl, by their rubbery faces and lolling tongue, distinguishing features which have become known as The Farage Mouth.”
“Darkness begins to descend on Westminster but there is still a chance to see the great hibernation. If we creep very quietly into the House of Lords we will be treated to the sight of the older and more infirm dinosaurs dozing where they sit. Some emit characteristic nasal sounds in rhythmic patterns from one end. Others break wind loudly and to devastating effect on any of those creatures unfortunate enough to be downwind and still awake.”
“Though the numbers of these dinosaurs have been a little in decline in recent years they continue to stride the land like pompous, idiotic monsters, careering through the lives of Homo sapiens and any other species that happens to be underfoot. Science marvels at the way they manage to perform all manner of physical tasks despite the fact that they possess the smallest brains of any creature on the face of the planet. At the size of a piece of dust, dinosaur brains are smaller even than the neural organs of gnats.”
“Some believe that the days of the dinosaur should be consigned to history. Others that they need to be placed into zoos, or perhaps special camps where work can set them free. I suspect that their clumsy, ill-considered footprints will continue to blight this landscape for generations to come. Unless they begin to grow ivory tusks, in which case we might consider hunting them to extinction.”

Smash It Up

Haaaaaaaallo

Ooh, smash it up, smash it up,  smash it uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup!

Yes, that’s what the chiropractor has been doing to me today. Smashing me up. In a good way. Much progress over the weekend and the pain levels are beginning to drop now so I feel much more like a functioning human creature. Soon I will be a real boy.

I have managed a decent amount of social interaction without needing to feel like I must take painkillers or stop talking because the movement of my diaphragm is causing me agony. Watch out world, gobby Harris is on his way back. Unless I get run over by a passing spaceship, of course. But the chances of anything coming from Mars are…quite good as Mars own an awful lot of snack foods these days.

Flitting about from one shiny thought to another. Now that’s more like it. I know this blogger man. He’s a numpty face. I worked out the other day, whilst writing an email, that English is not my first language. I do extremely well considering it is a second language but my native tongue is actually Nonsense. There are plenty of others who belong to my tribe. My grandfather, on whose knee I learnt nonsensical grammar and rhymes. Spike Milligan, who taught me that being a clown comes with a serious side at times (he didn’t teach me in person. I’m not a famous type or nothing. He done taught me through the television box of marvels). Six other gentlemen furthered my education through televisual and recorded means – the Pythons of Monty. And my brother. One or two school friends. My biggest, bestest mate Scott. And more. I won’t name them all. You can’t make me. So there. The more you force me to divulge information the more I am likely to shout “Bionic Arse!” at you and repeat the words ‘milk’ and ‘tray’ on heavy rotation until you feel really peckish.

Ping! That’s the noise my inside head bit makes when I realise I am in danger of frothing at the brain. Pull back from the waves of looney tunes and feel the shingle of some sanity beneath your feet, Harris, if only for an instant. Slippery stuff, this shingle. I could go arse over tit. I don’t want people mistaking me for Labour Party leaders of the 1980s. Or for a piece of flotsam. Or is it jetsam?

What? Was? I? On? About?

No idea. So here we are. Me, with my clacking typey fingers. And you, with your swivelly across the screen, reading eyes. And you. And also you. Thanks for being here while I have whined and moaned. Can’t promise you tomorrow’s post won’t be a moan-arse one. But it might contain a reference to spacehoppers. Or bottoms.

You can keep your Krishna burgers.

The Name of the Doctor

Beware, Gallifreyan spoilers…

Well who saw that one coming? The Doctor’s name is Ethelred Gertrude Bumcrack Pig von Bismarck. Of course it’s not. Moffat was never going to reveal his name. He was always going to use the last show of Season 7 to springboard into the 50th anniversary special coming in November, though. And, shit the bed, did he leave us with a teaser and a whole bunch of new questions.

First things first. Sorry, all you Moffat haters, but this has not been a shit series. Sorry again but there were no terrible episodes, although I’ll grant that one or two were merely good as opposed to great. It’s time for a reality check. Doctor Who continues to be a showpiece for everything that is great about the BBC. It still attracts the best writers – Neil Gaiman, Mark Gatiss, that Moffat bloke – and fantastic directors. Most of all, it has kudos enough that Hollywood stars such as Dougray Scott, John Hurt, Diana Rigg and others want to appear in it. Imagine if Hollywood stars had appeared in Tom Baker stories: we’d have had the likes of Richard Burton, Peter O’Toole and Glenda Jackson sharing screen time with the 4th Doctor.

All those clamouring for a return to older values in this anniversary year, such as less focus on relationships and more on zizzing about and foiling alien plots misunderstand the nature of television in this second decade of the 21st century. Doctor Who always did move with the times. Well until John Nathan-Turner decided time should obey him and stood like a complete Cnut facing down the waves as audiences moved on but he did not make changes enough to draw them back in. The reason the show came back with such a big bang and continues to pull in millions of viewers is not because it caters for the fanboys and fangirls but because it is about making modern drama. The backdrop is an impossibly amazing man and his capacity to travel in space and time but would we give a damn about him if he was socially inept and unmoved by his interactions with those he brings along for the ride? No, we would applaud his early Hartnell impressions for about three weeks and then start checking the calendar for the return of Merlin, or something.

Rant over. Possibly. The Clara thing annoyed some people, apparently, because they wanted a more obvious story-arc. Yet the arc was always there only this time it wasn’t allowed to get too clunky or obtrusive in individual episodes. Rather like the Key to Time stuff being a binding factor for an entire 4th Doctor series yet the storylines themselves remaining mostly independent aside for the search for said key. The resolution of the Clara mystery was excellent, too. Obvious as soon as they enter the tomb but still excellent and the aftermath of her leap into a billion fragments allowed her to show an even greater depth of acting ability than she has already displayed throughout the run.

Strax, Jenny and Madame Vastra were superb. It is very popular to call for a spin-off series for them. Not sure personally, but they all excelled themselves in The Name of the Doctor. As did Richard E. Grant (another Hollywood actor, by the way), who brought just the right degrees of malice and cheese to his portrayal of The Great Intelligence. I had worked out that the Whispermen were connected to him in more than just a henchman role from the likeness between him and Moffat’s latest child-frightening monster in various promo pics. Much as I love River Song I do hope this was the character’s swan song. For me the story has run its course and their parting was touching. Her eyes were so full of love and acceptance, his so full of love and remorse. End it there, please.

And so to the twist and the preparation for the 50th special. Say what? John Hurt is the Doctor? Past? Future? Alternate universe? Portrait in the Tardis attic? I look forward to finding out in November, and to reading wild and insane theories on the internet in the meantime. Moffat saved the very best to last, then but, as I said, the entire season for me was a success. I have not missed Amy (another story that had run its course) and I think Clara brings out more sides to the Doctor, who has been played with such diversity, passion, power, delicacy and pure control by Matt Smith throughout. I do hope the upcoming special is not his last ride in the Tardis. He’s right up there with Baker, Tom, in my book. Oh excuse me, better finish there while I go and argue about that for months with my inner ten year old.

Spring Surprise

Sunshine. Blowy wind stuff. The smell of garden flowers on the air. Buskers smiling and playing their least depressing songs. Children laughing as they run in and out of passers by in town. By Jove, I do believe its a Spring day!
I know we’re in a period of austerity and the government can’t afford much sun but they must have found a few sheckels down the back of George Osborne and decided that parts of the UK are allowed to experience a nice day today. Thank you, oh benevolent masters, we, the plebeian hordes touch forelocks and doff caps at you instead of wanting to shoot your faces off with guns made of vinegar and dogshit.
My back is moving a lot more freely today. Hooray. And other things that rhyme with ‘ay’. Hey! There is still some pain which is not hooray but it is less than its been for a while which is yay, yay, yay! Milk Tray.
The cafe is as noisy as it was a week or so so when I was super insensitive to sound. On that day I wanted to fire my dogshit and vinegar gun at people and demand they shut the bloody fuck up. Ooh grumpy. Today I relish their chatty, yelly, shaky-belly jollity and barely want to kill anyone. (And those I do want to kill are like serial killers and people who love Eurovision so it’s allowed).
I think I’ve just seen an albino. If I also see a mulatto, a mosquito and a jalapeño today then I shall know that it is the Second Coming of Cobain and the curse of shit music will have been lifted after a decade or two of Cowell-flavour faeces disguised as songs. Oh frabjous day. Calloo, callay. Milk Tray. Bionic arse.

Artificial Intelligence?

I did not sleep much last night. Once upon a time that would have been the opening line to a new song; nowadays it’s just a sad fact of having a bad back. I think the chiro has freed up some of the areas but there continues to be a central point of ouch: Ouch Zero, as it were.
I have managed to get some washing on the line, defying pain and defying the forecaster who said scattered showers on the radio this morning. It’s only wetness. It eventually becomes dryness again.
I have also come into town, wanting to test whether there has been any improvement from yesterday. The answer to which is ‘possibly’. Early days, steering’s a bit off. Or something. I won’t be hanging about in town today. Just grabbed a coffee and need to pick up a couple of things on the way home. After that it is back to the sofa with an ice pack. I might watch a Dr Who, with a view to reviewing – I still have the debuts of Tennant and Smith to cover. Or I might read and pick my nose.
It’s all go, eh? In thousands of years, aliens with bionic arses may stumble across these words and learn next to nothing about the early 21st century beyond the words ‘ouch’ and ‘fuck’. Will they ponder the deeper meaning of everyday existence? Will they place the words into magical quantum-sphincters and create wondrous voodoo-flavoured 3D sculpture from them? Or will they yawn and feel an urge to do a massive alien plop all over the words? Fucking aliens; they just ain’t got no culture.