Dreadful Nonsense

I've been composing the same entry in my head over and over since I saw the last three episodes of Angel last Sunday at a geek convention I am only now prepared to admit that I attended, sister in tow. Unfortunately, my final summation of all things Whedon has to wait for another day or so, because work needs to be completed on the Boosh site before tonight's broadcast of Bollo. So. This is what's happened.

Mack Daddy JC has been annoying me in his own special way so much that I suggested he just bloody go ahead and blog for me. This he did, and the below is the result of his fevered imaginations. I'm both delighted and disgusted.

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JC was here. She couldn’t believe it. He was ACTUALLY here. How often had she imagined this moment over the last month. How many times had she replayed it in her head. About twenty-six was her guess. Twenty-six times a day that is. Which is loads. She watched him walk in the door of the pub. All battered looking like a favourite old suitcase. There wasn’t a hair in place, he looked like he had just woken up from a really long sleep in a bin and she could tell that he had just thrown a cigarette away with a sigh of “for fucks sake” because of the smoking laws. Her heart leapt as high as it would go, which in her case wasn’t really that high. “How’s it going?” he smiled and gave her a big hug. She felt a stirring down below. Shit. She’d farted. It was the curse of the vegetarian. “Pint?” he asked, his voice coming from his mouth, just as it always did. Same old JC.

A while later, JC had gone without smoking for nearly seventy-five or eighty seconds and was ready to go for another one. Mrs D had just come back from having one and was ALREADY starting to go on about the plot flaws of “Kramer Vs. Kramer” again and how NO lawyer would behave like that and how in real life being a solicitor was much more like Ally McBeal or Judging Amy. She then went to the bar and ordered a round, “I put it to YOU that I will have three pints of Heineken”. “OK”, the barman replied looking confused. “AH-HAH!”, Mrs D yelled in his face, “No further questions, You may sit down” “But, me break isn’t till…” “YOU MAY SIT DOWN!”. She decided that this might take a while and so went outside to breathe in some of JC's second hand smoke. Mrs D was already in the middle of summing up to the other people in the pub.

There he was standing on the corner, smoke billowing from his head like a lovely big scruffy chimney. She was drinking in his majesty with her eyes when she became aware of a strange noise. “Is that me again?” she thought but no, she had been to the toilet. There was a strange wheezing-groaning sound that was getting louder and louder. She stared in amazement as across the road a tall blue object began to appear from thin air. It grew solid and with a final “Thunk” it was there. An old battered London Police Box. The light on its roof carried on flashing for a couple of seconds and then stopped. JC looked at it for a second then walked across the road. He peered at it closely and then knocked on the door. For a second nothing happened. Then the door opened. A man stepped out. He was dressed in the garb of an Edwardian cricketer. He had a pleasant open face and a bright, if a little shy, smile. He looked at JC, then across the road to where she stood. “Hello. I’m Peter Davison”. Her heart stopped. “Oh. My. God.” She… words could not describe what she was feeling.

Peter Davison was still smiling. “Would you like to come with me in my TARDIS and spend weeks making love, laughing and exploring strange places and meeting new people?” “Sure” said JC. JC and Peter Davison shook on it and before she could say anything they had gone inside. The strange sound bellowed around the streets and gradually became quieter as the TARDIS faded from sight. She listened carefully but the last echoes of the beautiful noise were snatched by the wind. Had she lost them both? JC and Peter Davison? She choked back tears.

The door to the pub suddenly flew open and she turned to see Mrs D being carried by four bouncers, each had an arm or a leg “OBJECTION!” bellowed Mrs D. The bouncers swung her back and forth, “One… Two… Three!” They let go of her and she sailed through the air “OBJECTIOOOOONNNNN!” Mrs D landed on her backside in the middle of the pavement. There was a loud cheer from inside the pub.

Mrs D looked up at her with tearful eyes; “I’ve been disbarred”. “No. You’ve been BARRED. Again” replied Sharon. Mrs D's eyes filled with steely determination “I. PUT. IT. TO. YOU. THAT. I…” Sharon sighed to herself and walked away.

This entry was posted on 25 May 2004 at 5:20 pm. 0 comments

Dreadful Nonsense

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