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Mar. 4th, 2009 01:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
avevale_intelligencerThis month's DWM contains what is probably the best piece of writing I have seen from Steven Moffat. It's a less-than-half-page sidebar in the article on Logopolis, and it made me laugh.
In other news, Matt Smith continues to have no eyebrows. And with all due respect to the commenter who suggested that he could use his hands instead when trying to communicate on the planet Delphon, I can't help feeling that this would be viewed somewhat in the light of Spike Milligan's celebrated "Throat" voice, as coming from quite the wrong part of the body.
Hmm. I feel an attack of WSE coming on...
"I don't like it," Soren said.
Zander opened a brass flap on the control panel, extracted a string of flags of all nations, glanced at the seventh, fifteenth and twenty-ninth flags, and pressed a sequence of three buttons in a row which formed the bottom teeth of a snarling wooden totem head. The smallship responded, flattening out its line of descent. "Your opinion is noted," he said. "Never let it be said that I am not open to the constructive criticism of my brother Nyrond."
"Thank you."
"What exactly is it about it that you don't like?" Zander went on, winding a handle rapidly anticlockwise and whistling "Cam ye O'er Frae Grocklewheeze's Planet" into a speaking tube. The braking thrusters fired. "Specifically?"
Soren hesitated.
Zander raised his eyebrows. This had no discernible effect on the smallship's trajectory. "Please, Soren, don't be shy."
"Well..."
"Yes?"
Soren gave up. "No, it's no good," he said, "you're going to have to tell me what it is."
"And then you'll tell me why you decided, before you'd heard it, that you didn't like it."
"Yes," Soren said.
"Just for that I might well send you back to the homeship."
"Oh, come on, Zan," Soren protested. "You have to admit it's a reasonable assumption to make. Every scheme you've come up with in the past three decades has tended to go elaborately meeble-nut-shaped somewhere around halfway through and involved excessive amounts of running and jumping and that German fellow."
"?"
"Herr Sbreadthescapes. This is not good for a little fluffy Soren. Little fluffy Sorens need lots of care and attention, preferably accompanied by food and drink and soothing back massages."
"Well," Zander said, opening a volume of Keats at random, stabbing his finger on to the page and typing the resultant line into a keyboard reminiscent of an early model of the spinning Jenny, "I'm sure if you asked around on the homeship someone would--"
"It's not the same and you know it." The smallship was now flying over a barren, sandy landscape, with occasional outcrops of barren, sandy rock. "Charming," Soren commented, glowering at the view. "You know all the really unspoiled vacation spots. What's here?"
"Space."
"No no. You're obviously confused, old son. Space is that big black place up there. This is what we call a pla-net. Or in technical terms, an arm-pit."
"Yes, but it's an empty armp-- an empty planet, which would be habitable if it was worth the cost of secondary terraforming. The atmosphere's reasonable, the gravity's okay and the sunlight isn't too bright. I should be able to sustain a population of about, oh, a couple of thousand, for some considerable time."
"As long as they don't make any strenuous moves."
"That," Zander said, with a broad grin, "will do nicely."
The smallship settled on to the dusty plateau.
In other news, Matt Smith continues to have no eyebrows. And with all due respect to the commenter who suggested that he could use his hands instead when trying to communicate on the planet Delphon, I can't help feeling that this would be viewed somewhat in the light of Spike Milligan's celebrated "Throat" voice, as coming from quite the wrong part of the body.
Hmm. I feel an attack of WSE coming on...
"I don't like it," Soren said.
Zander opened a brass flap on the control panel, extracted a string of flags of all nations, glanced at the seventh, fifteenth and twenty-ninth flags, and pressed a sequence of three buttons in a row which formed the bottom teeth of a snarling wooden totem head. The smallship responded, flattening out its line of descent. "Your opinion is noted," he said. "Never let it be said that I am not open to the constructive criticism of my brother Nyrond."
"Thank you."
"What exactly is it about it that you don't like?" Zander went on, winding a handle rapidly anticlockwise and whistling "Cam ye O'er Frae Grocklewheeze's Planet" into a speaking tube. The braking thrusters fired. "Specifically?"
Soren hesitated.
Zander raised his eyebrows. This had no discernible effect on the smallship's trajectory. "Please, Soren, don't be shy."
"Well..."
"Yes?"
Soren gave up. "No, it's no good," he said, "you're going to have to tell me what it is."
"And then you'll tell me why you decided, before you'd heard it, that you didn't like it."
"Yes," Soren said.
"Just for that I might well send you back to the homeship."
"Oh, come on, Zan," Soren protested. "You have to admit it's a reasonable assumption to make. Every scheme you've come up with in the past three decades has tended to go elaborately meeble-nut-shaped somewhere around halfway through and involved excessive amounts of running and jumping and that German fellow."
"?"
"Herr Sbreadthescapes. This is not good for a little fluffy Soren. Little fluffy Sorens need lots of care and attention, preferably accompanied by food and drink and soothing back massages."
"Well," Zander said, opening a volume of Keats at random, stabbing his finger on to the page and typing the resultant line into a keyboard reminiscent of an early model of the spinning Jenny, "I'm sure if you asked around on the homeship someone would--"
"It's not the same and you know it." The smallship was now flying over a barren, sandy landscape, with occasional outcrops of barren, sandy rock. "Charming," Soren commented, glowering at the view. "You know all the really unspoiled vacation spots. What's here?"
"Space."
"No no. You're obviously confused, old son. Space is that big black place up there. This is what we call a pla-net. Or in technical terms, an arm-pit."
"Yes, but it's an empty armp-- an empty planet, which would be habitable if it was worth the cost of secondary terraforming. The atmosphere's reasonable, the gravity's okay and the sunlight isn't too bright. I should be able to sustain a population of about, oh, a couple of thousand, for some considerable time."
"As long as they don't make any strenuous moves."
"That," Zander said, with a broad grin, "will do nicely."
The smallship settled on to the dusty plateau.