Friday, October 24, 2014

The Three Doctors - part 3


(A tale of F_______, P_____, and C______).

Dr. Crippen killed Belle Elmore
Ran away with Miss le Neve
Right across the ocean blue
Followed by Inspector Dew
Ship's ahoy, naughty boy!

                                          Popular Song

At the rail of the Montrose, Hawley Harvey Crippen – homeopathic MD, and fugitive for the murder of his wife Cora Elmore, a murder he did not commit – stared disconsolately into the grey-blue swell of the Atlantic.  The irony was that although innocent of that crime, he had killed someone.  He deserved to hang.
He still did not know the name of the strange man who had confronted him with demands for money, supposedly to support the wayward Cora, for though the police would probably find the corpse under brick floor, he had left no identifying items with the man’s body for the best of reasons – there had never been any to leave.  No wallet, no papers, nothing.  It had all happened as if in a dream.
The threats had been not only to himself but to Ethel, the girl who loved and trusted him – who even now for his sake, was disguised as a man, and accompanying him into a life of fleeing from the police.  Disgusted by the violence held barely in check in the man’s piggish features, Crippen had found himself, offering him a drink while he looked for money – and adding to the glass of whisky five drops of pure hyocine. Down the man had swilled it, glug glug glug.   In a dream Crippen had watched him topple from the chair. 
                “They’ll be waiting for you when you dock,”  a voice said.  It came from a tall man with piercing green eyes, and a neat Mephistophelian beard, who had come up along side Crippen unobserved, and leaned next to him on the rail.  “You should have travelled 3rd class and avoided the Captain’s observation.  He cabled London, and Inspector Dew’s crossing the ocean on the SS Laurentic.  It’s faster than this mechanical contrievance, and he’ll beat you there.”
“My God,” Crippen said, half to himself,  “they’ll hang her.”  He grapped at the tall man’s lapels, and found himself clutching only a handful of air as the figure moved effortlessly away from him.  “For myself, I don’t care. But she’s is guilty only of trusting me.”
            “Trust has always been a capital offense.  I trusted a mighty captain once to lead a revolution and we failed, but there may be things yet that can be done.  My present.. employer has a number of tasks he has bound me to fulfil.  If you assist, there will be – adjustments – perhaps Miss Neve’s innocence could be guaranteed in the courts.”
“What should I call you?”  Crippen asked.
“Oh, I think ‘M’ will suffice,” said the stranger. 

Friday, October 10, 2014

Doctor Who Discovers Metaphysics: - "Evil"


'Evil' is generated by the neurology of a particular set of observations involved in the breaking of quantum entanglements. It was identified as a specific frequency of alpha-waves(1) by the late Professor Keller in 19__(1)

When an observer predominantly 'chooses' a specifically narrow range of events based on perceived immediate self-gratification, without empathy or socialisation - the 'breaking bad'  pattern as it is sometimes called, the field strength of Evil around the cortex increases. [The unit of Evil is disputed with the Imperial measurement of Hitlers(2), being somewhat overweighted, resulting in most acts of evil being specified in femto-Hitlers, while the metric measurement (dating from the French Revolution) of Monarchs requires a conversion rate of  17 Monarchs to the nano-Hitler.]  The Monarch as a unit of Evil does not relate to the supervillian of the same name(3), this is a common misunderstanding which has been debunked by Mythbusters.

'Evil' energies  within such fields have been shown to feed a number of parasitic and quasi-parasitic species from the Redjac(4), to the Kelloroid(1).

Oddly there seems to be no similar field associated with 'Good' - where choices are open-ended, non-self-motivated, or atruistic, the alpha-waves involved may have a variety of non-evil energies.

(1) The Mind of Evil
(2) Professor Godwin comments 'Anyone measuring something in Hitlers has lost the right to measure it'.
(3) Professor Venture, comments that Monarch is at best 0.2 Monarchs, in a Mythbusters interview.
(4) Star Trek.

Thursday, October 09, 2014

Doctor Who Discovers Giant Space Life - "Williamson's Roc"

Williamson's Roc

Mass (variable see below) up to at least 3.7 x 10 exp 23 grams (sufficient to boost Lunar gravity to Earth normal)*  figure revised to allow for smaller Lunar radius, so that gravity at surface = earths (ie an accelleration of 9.8 m/s/s).  [Mass of un-infested Moon, 7.22 x 10 exp 22 grams, mass of Earth 5.98 x 10 exp 23 grams].

Wingspan 10,000 km  (roughly equivalent to Lunar circumference, assumes wings 'wrap' while in egg. May expand further post-birth). It is uncertain if wings function as solar sails, or exert 'pressure' on space-time manifolds.

Reproduction - stages 'seed', 'egg', 'bird'.

First identified in 1935 by the writer-prophet Jack Williamson(1) (exo-biologists will also remember his successful 'dream' identification of the flora and fauna of Barnard's Star, but it is most fitting that this bird envisaged in his writings be named after him.)  A later biologist-writer P.Harness attempted to repopularise the species in 2014, in a TV special(2).

The exact mechanics of the creature's life-cycle remain unclear for some time despite the destruction of Earth's Moon in 2049(2), and the planet Thallon in 2373(3). Much of what follows is speculation. (We are grateful to P.David's monograph on the latter event.) A three-eyed four-winged species has also been noted in respect of the destruction of Stars(4) but it is likely that the latter creature belongs to the genus Photino.Baxteri(5) and is unrelated. The aliens associated with the Beltempest system, may be of this class of entity(6) [cf living stars and living planets].

Williamson's Roc begins as a tiny dense mass, perhaps physically a quantum black-hole, a strangelet array, or a looped quantum string. This 'seed' stage can easily be captured by a small planetoid, at which point it will begin to orbit its centre of mass. Over time the interior of the planetoid will be carved out by the seed, forming a hollow shell. At this point the light shell ought to move into a different orbit and the heavier seed emerge(7). It is unclear why this does not happen, but the evidence is that the 'seed' exerts its gravity as if it were part of the moon/planetoid mass not as a point source. The 'ability' to do this is the first sign of the species' biological mastery of gravity.  This 'gravity' mimicry - presumnably intended to deter predators - masks the 'ghost mass' of the seed, only permitting the original mass of the planetoid to appear, until the Roc is near to breaking its 'egg-shell'. This suggests that the bulk of the 'build' mass in the seed is stored in disassociated cosmic strings and only manifests itself as the 'seed' weaves the 'bird' into existance shortly before hatching. 

Such birds are not inherently hostile and while if one is seeded into an inhabited planet, its fate is assured (only the long time scales involved prevents the species being weaponised by non-time travellers), their effects on Moon and binary 'twin planet' systems, has been shown to be mitigated by their 'gifting instinct'.

While the outer crust of the planetoid disintegrates completely, the Bird will leave a pseudosphere of compacted material behind in the same orbit. While once seperated from the bird's influence this would begin to follow a different orbital path unless stabilised with a graviton, or other re-massing technology, its presence has been know to save a nearby civilisation and perhaps explains the birds' association with good fortune.

It has been suggested that the birds are unique, but the sighting of at least two birthing incidents within 400 years of each other within the Milky Way galaxy, suggests a substantial breeding population existed as long ago as 100 million years.  It may be that the 'seed' stage have been hunted to extinction by Outsiders, but Outsider biology remains a difficult and expensive area of research.(8)

Other possible sightings/collaboration.

The 'bacterial' life, infesting the egg-shell (the salmonelle of space and time!) where first detected by the ill-fated Apollo 18 mission(9). 

An alternative universe earth, in which the Moon was blown out of orbit in 1999 appears to have killed the embryonic seed before gestation(10), but to have later encountered a variation of it(11). Oddly no bacterial were detected, perhaps they were killed by radiation leakage from  Area 1.

(1) Jack Williamson 'Born of the Sun' 1935.  The dream predicted biology of Barnard's Star life appears in the Legion of Space series, as does the artificial life of the Cometeers.
(2) Peter Harness 'Kill the Moon' 2014
(3) Peter David 'Star Trek New Frontier Endgame' - the Thallon bird emits unexplained energy, instead of unexplained gravity. This may be a subspecies, or a simple variation within a species. Alternatively the Thallon bird may be feverish.
(4) Star Trek comic
(5) The xeelee sequence novels S. Baxter.
(6) Beltempest, by J. Mortimore
(7) Colin Kapp, The Black Hole of Negrav.
(8) Starseeds and Outsiders. L. Niven
(9) Apollo 18
(9) Space 1999: Breakaway (TV).
(10) Space 1999: Alien Seed (Novel).

See also Giant Amoeba space-going, Giant Amoeba sessile.
Black Cloud, entity, Anti-matter Cloud entity, Crystalline entity.
Giant Mutant Star-Goat. Galacti, Celestials, Great Old Ones.
Living Planets, Living Stars.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

The Return of The Creepy Dolls

The one that has a missing eye,
Now sports a piratical patch
The one whose face is cracked across,
With glue, is mended, to a scratch.
The one whose hands are raised on high,
That used to snatch and claw and fight
And make a shadow albatross,
Now moves with strings a glorious kite.
The ones in national dress, so still,
Are resting only, and are not
Frozen as in some sacred stance,
Their cardboard ball-room is a spot
Caught by the dawn upon a hill,
And focused in a mirror-ball.
The ballerina whose long dance,
Won her the cups, that line the hall,
Grinds like the slow stones of god's mill,
Practice makes perfect after all.
They can not help how they are seen,
But see now, how mere love can mend,
They do not mean to chill the blood,
They only meant to be a friend.
But they bear scars of what has been,
So does their mistress, even now
The memories of clay and wood,
Of flesh and bone and even snow.
The echoes of the ancient clock,
Striking the hour of come to play,
That stands behind them on the shelf,
To measure out the passing day.
They are the key that fits the lock,
To open up the door of joy,
That opens up the hidden self, The otherland of girl or boy.  

Wednesday, September 24, 2014


Series 10, Episode 2

working title : "GAMES OF MIME AND MINOTAUR"


DURATION: 47’10”
10:00:00 EXT. SKY – NIGHT

A star flares up in a dark patch of sky – turning the night into a bowl of white light. The sound of footsteps running on sand in the whiteness. We can’t see who, or where.  (Same effect as start of episode 1). Then we pull back - the man running is ESDRAS (from episode 1) he is running around the inside of a massive curved glass surface, along which sand pours past his feet.


He is inside an hour glass on the surface of an ornate desk.  Behind the desk, the CELESTIAL TOYMAKER regards the Doctor, sardonically.  He gestures to CLARA, now dressed as a clown who stands at the side of the desk.  She reaches out and with both hands, up ends the hourglass.


- The history of your little earth is becoming my plaything Doctor.  I will remake its beliefs into the worship of Chance, and play here until every soul on Earth from the first grunting cave man to the last preening post-human has become my servant.


- Unless?


How very perceptive, yes there's alway an unless, isn't there.  If you don't want the sands of time to choke your pets, then you will need to play with me - for higher stakes than this poor world alone.


But what do you bet Toymaker? Hmm.  If a games worth playing shouldn't there be the chance of loss on either side. (He pauses) Incidently, I was too polite to say this the last time we met, but you do know that that outfit makes you look like a massive racist?  I mean why are you dressed up like an early 20th century pulp writers idea of a Chinese Manderin played by a white person. I tell you what, it gives me no confidence that you aren't a bit shifty. How can I play against a racist, what do you think that'll look like in my cv?

TOYMAKER  (Quick cuts as his body changes - always maintaining his Manderin's outfit - through as many actors of as many races and genders as we can find, can we get Warwick Davies here as well, ending on Peter C 'as Toymaker.  He glares at himself across the desk.).

Am I what, Racist?  No it's just not going in Doctor.  You're saying I kidnap species from space time and torment them, and your main concern is what I look like? 


No skin off my nose, just thought someone ought to tell you. 


You are an amusing insect.  Do you think I prefer the red ants to the black?


[Grabs hour glass and turns it on its side, so that ESDRAS ceases to drown in sand]  SNAP CUTto ESDRAS's perspective, we see the two distorted faces of THE DOCTOR and the TOYMAKER,

CSi5m - Lemon Cohen - The Water Bearers

They suffer much to end the thirst
Of any who must labour.

They bring the wetness of the feast
That gives to life it's savour.

They walk with jars upon their heads
To where the draft is needed.

They risk the hands of men with guns
Their progress is impeded.

And the water, washes sins away, for they themselves are virtue.
And the water, washes time away, what you don't recall won't hurt you.

The path is long and full of stones,
The skin of feet is worn.

But it grows again much harder,
For the sake of being torn.

They suffer much for men and boys,
And for those of their own gender.

And the water washes pains away,
So long as love is tender.

Be like the ones who bear the weight, reject the ones who trip them,
Some people are a source of light, the others you can skip them.

And the light that's born, is scattered, through the water as it pours.
And the right that's done, it matters, for the thirsty and the whores.

And the water, washes sins away, for they themselves are virtue.
And the water, washes time away, what you don't recall won't hurt you.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

CSi5M : Lemon Cohen - Rumpelstiltskin

Spinning out the flaxen hair, within the empty stable.
I wonder where Rasputin went before the Czar was able,
To steal back all his wife's affection from her fabled tutor,
He wouldn't leave her to him, 'lest the revolution shoot her.

Weaving my alchemy, in the dusty waft of horseshit,
I wonder where the cost will fall, what treasury resource it?
When straw to gold is turning, will the economy recover?
Or will I bring the kingdom down, around my royal lover?

For straw is warm, and food as well, but gold is hard and heavy,
And horses can not eat up gold, and gallop through the levee,
The ruling class is foolish, but the underclass must fool them,
And if gold will buy my safety, then it's gold thread I will spool them!

And the midget in the shadows, with his eyes made out of mica,
Who's name ain't quite Rasputin, though it might be pretty like-a,
Will take payment in the blood and bone that is not yet a-borning,
But the spindle still is spinning and that fate will wait for morning.

Oh rich demand not from the poor, impossible conditions,
We can not even walk without your cossetting physicians,
For we've ricketts from vitamin loss, and scurvey, and pelagra,
And we're impotent without your glossy blue police viagra.

So we lie and spin, our golden webs, to bring rich flies to dinner,
And we spread our legs for half the price you'd lavish on a sinner,
If we could spin a golden sword, we'd hold it at your breast-bones,
And the rich would feel the point of all our inconvenient questions.

Take my golden thread and tie me to the bed-post for your supper,
Our relationship, the gap between mortage and fixer-upper,
I'll try to forget the promises you made to other ghosts,
In the mist of the lost moorland, 'neath the shadow of the hosts.

And the midget in the shadows, with his eyes made out of mica,
Who's name ain't quite Rasputin, though it might be pretty like-a,
Will take payment in the blood and bone that is not yet a-borning,
But the spindle still is spinning and that fate will wait for morning.

Monday, September 15, 2014


Checking my stats I see that my most popular post by a factor of 10 is in fact by Paul Bellora.

I'd just like to thank him again for bringing people to this blog, and I can only hope that they stop to read a few things by me in passing!

Cheers Paul!

Simon BJ

Notes on Probability 4.

To Grandmother Agonisties.
A is not-A. Oh, yes it is!

The work proceeds.  The complexity of the event target is pushed towards a theoretical maxima, with its own history dependant upon the effect it has had on others.  While not as clean a paradox as we would wish - to be lifted by your friend lifting your bootstraps while you lift their bookstraps remains a delicious impossibility.

Without the iron defraction gratings of the Time Lords, overlying space-time with their furious web, collapsing all to linear displays within a causal nexus of constraint, we can turn any adversory into ourselves with time, merely by giving them the rope with which they will entangle themselves.

As predicted the greater the twining of the complexity the more it draws orthogonal interest from Great Powers - perhaps even the Loa themselves!

They're under the Blanket, they're not under the Blanket, get used to it.

Yours Uncle Azurian.
A is not Not-A.  Says Who.

Under the Blanket

Watching his creation, through the red blanket,
God cringes, at the fearfulness of His made things,
Which can never choose, to believe they are loved,

He can not even watch, without giving -
Unintentionally, that creepy feeling on the back of the neck,
That comes from being watched,

At the end of Time, He steels himself enough to knock,
Feeling after all, He's left it late,
The off-licenses are closed, and He's no gift
(Not God's gift certainly, to human kind.)

Their human-made quasi-afterlives,
Their netherspheres, and Cities of The Saved,
Their worlds of rivers and of Tiplerian maths,
Afford no entry to His tentative quest.

Where is the Doctor who can, cure this case,
Of self-despite, divinity depressed,
Self judged inadequate, unworth of praise,
Have faith Oh God, for still he may suspect,
The still small voice that asks he listen is....

Tuesday, September 09, 2014

On the role of the Doctor in the Hood Mythos

        Thus endys the talkyng of the Docteur
        And Robyn Hode i-wysse doth stande;
        God, that is euer a crowned kyng,
        Bryng vs blisse ywthin hs promisse lande
        Old Ballard circa 1300.

Like the Monk, the Doctor is a problematic figure in the Robin Hood myth:  as the monk represents the spiritual hierarchy (the second estate) as opposed to secular figures of the Shire-Reeve, and the Prince (forming a triumvirate with the Abbot and the Abbess), the former wheeled on later when a Monk has become via repetition less impressive, and the latter forming Robin's eventual nemesis, so the Doctor represents the third estate, and more precisely the immergent middle class between the downtrodden, and the downtreading.

By virtue of secular knowledge a Doctor (not yet a doctor of medicine) but literate - perhaps a scribe or an ammenuensis, was a peripetetic or transgressive figure, moving between court and country, town and forest, he was rich enough to provoke robbery, yet poor enough to be able to supplicate Robin's restraint.  He could both be an ally, yet also pose a critique of the role of outlaw - for the Doctor was the counterpart of Robin within the law (of which indeed he might well be a doctor).

In the ballard called "Robin and the Doctor's travail" (circa 1411) the latter is described thus:

        In langshanks sore, y-clept what nae man saith,
        Swift he to cleave to good, frae de'il scape.

The language is slightly more modern, but the Northern intonation of nae and frae, perhaps suggests an origin in the Barnsdale rather than the Nottingham corpus.

Leigh Hunt in his modernisation has it (italics mine):

Lord! that in this life's dream
Men should abandon one true thing,
That would abide with them.
We cannot bid our strength remain,
But like the Doctor we should stand,
Long legged, and nameless, but unbowed,
We cannot say to an aged back,
Stoop not towards the ground:
But though now dim, his once bright eyes
See still the good, discern the ill,
Things as bright as ever,
Still are found,
Our childhood's friends are with us still.
False world, be false for thee;
And, oh Sound Truth and Old Regard
Nothing shall part us three.

The point being made is that legendry 'old regard' is one of the two legs, the other being historical 'sound truth' and that where the world disagrees, so much the worst for the world.

Tennyson before setting down to the main work of the Idylls of the King produced a small number of poems with a Hood theme, including:  If Robin Hood Must Die later reworked as All Things Must Die.

Clearly the blue groans in its going(1)
Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Yet if Robin Hood must die.(2)
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call’d–we must go.
For the promise tells us so(3)
Though we go not hand in hand,
Alone to the Promised Land,
We must go, lame or spry,
If good Robin Hood must die!

(1) This line is unclear in manuscript, in the revised poem 'the blue' is a river,
(2) In the revised poem, no longer about Robin, this line is recast as 'All Must Die'
(3) Lines onward do not appear in the published poem.

Sunday, September 07, 2014

Note on Script II

In the next week, I'll be writing the thrilling conclusion to my season 10 two parter, so if anyone has any notes or requests now the time to make them known to me.

Simon BJ

After the Hood

When he had taken his companion somewhere safe (or at least somewhere he hoped was safe) the Doctor reflected on what he had learned.  He had been thinking too small with his thoughts of clones, future theme parks, miniscopes, and robot political manipulation, but he had not been wholly wrong.

Something had over-written a portion of earth's history to make it glossy, exciting, impossible, and entertaining, and while it hadn't directly hurt anyone (for he couldn't in all honesty say that a Robin with a feather in his hat and laughter on his lips was suffering, whereas a more - free range - Robin, with snaggle-teeth and a dirty beard and maybe a year to live would have been happier) it was disturbing that he hadn't noticed it before.

He'd made sure things had been as un-disruptive as he could.  His replacement golden arrow with its nuclear battery had done its work. He'd refrained from offering Alan A'Dale antibiotics - he'd never been that kind of Doctor.

As to the wider problem he had his suspicions, and more so than before he felt, he was ready to see through the veils of illusion. He would have to look and listen hard, find the cracks in the scenario.

He had already seen a man have his head cut off, and not have his head cut off.  Was it too much to suspect the work of Faction Paradox?

Tuesday, September 02, 2014

Notes on the Sibling Assault

To Grandmother Agonisties.
A is not-A. Oh, yes it is!

Two siblings Subject A and Subject B, hereafter code name UNIFORM NAVY, and CIVILIAN FLESHTONE have been seperated in time and space and each allowed to believe they have survived the other, after improbable timely intervention. This will, I remain assured, enabled penetration of the target subject's defences.

While UNIFORM NAVY has already failed to penetrate, into the target's time ship, this was to be expected (though the attempt was a useful one in itself, enabling doubt to be cast in the mind of the present weak point.)  Our projections indicate that CIVILIAN FLESHTONES air of "contrition" will make him a better penetration engine - if I may use the phrase without being accused of gender stereotyping.

If we are correct, as to the forces presently focusing upon (one might almost say around) the target, our placement of either or both of our agents, after the excision of subject C, has become vital to the cause of Paradox.

Yours Uncle Azurian.
A is not Not-A.  Says Who.

On the Goodness of Daleks

Any sufficiently complex organism, has the simulacrum of free will - that is, it feels, its action originate within a gestalt formed by its memories, its present desires, and its culture: so long as its actions are not impelled except at these levels, it will model itself as a free agent.  When Daleks are stripped of the biomechanical imposition of their culture of obedience, when they can ask why, or marvel at the birth of a star: they are not necessarily becoming good. However what they are doing, which is a precursure to such change, is to widen exponentially the circle of their possible actions. Even in a universe in which free will may be an illusion, some wills can be more constrained than others, and to step out of the constraints of imposed cultural (machine re-inforced) obedience is to be freer. Free Daleks would have been a terrifying adversary.

The Book Of The Peace.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014


For a long time the Order of the Silence scavenged and hunted among the debris and detritus of alien activity on Earth: in so doing they made a lot of things impossible to remember. The next time someone claims to have found a text that proves that Victorian London was attacked by Giant Dinosaurs far larger than the species is known to grow in the fossil record, expect them to suddenly forget the matter shortly thereafter.

From The Book of The Peace.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

The Door To Null.

The Door To Null.
Roderick, found the leaflet pushed through the wooden gap between his front door and the step, one day – although he had a perfectly usable letter box (of the European sort, in the door itself), as if the fly-poster had been unable to reach up to it, weighed down by some infinite and impossible gravity, or had slivered it in from flat-land or another two dimensional world. 
The leaflet resembled the ads for pizza which were the most common of the things, other than bills, to come through the letter box rather that the gap, more than it resembled the things that most commonly came through the gap, which were dead leaves and pill bugs. But it had a certain resemblance to dead leaves, which was that its colours were autumnal and muted as if it had been lying somewhere slightly damp and dusty for a long time before being dragged around in a pile and pushed through the gap.
The leaflet showed a man – probably a man, for though his head was stylised and he was looking away from the viewer he seemed to be wearing a brownish business suit – gazing at something, and then a second picture in which the back of the man’s head (if it was a man’s head) became even more a smudged fingerprint blur of a thing, as if it was smeared out into the picture so that the man – if it was a man – wasn’t a man any longer with a head that was distinct from his suit or the air, or the thing whatever it was that he was so diligently looking at, but a suit that ended in a kind of fungal bloom of spreading until it was part this, whatever this was, and part that, whatever that was.
Roderick read, the title of the leaflet, as he turned on his coffee maker.  It’s title was The Door To Null.  It began:-
Anyone can construct this mechanism, in the privacy of their own home, or their own brain, if they have a home of their own or a brain of their own. It is a sequence of thoughts or a collection of wood and iron that forms a pattern which is like a sequence of thoughts insofar as such a pattern can be. It is the pattern which destroys patterns, so to look at it is to, cease.  You may say - Well I have a television already. Thank you very much! - but even the most bland and asinine television schedule is tainted with the spore of life, with the lie of action, with the unceasing illusion of movement as accomplishment, whereas to cease is to know true nirvana, and to step for a moment off the great circle of the wheel, whose motion is the endless nausea and vertigo of life and its tawdry whirligig of illusionary progress.  Or you may say – Well I can have a sleep, Mr Leafletter – and this is so, but even the best sleep is troubled by the simulacrum, of a simulacrum, which is the swirl of dreams which are fragments of fragments and make only the sense which might be expected of things which are, not and never can be real, and are only copies of things which are not and never can be real also. Sleep therefore does not heal – so far as anything can be healed – rather it strains the subject in a different way, but that strain is not in itself good even though it can sometimes act against the strains that the false motion of the wheel imparts in the daylight hours, assuming the subject is sleeping at night and moving and being moved by the wheel by day.  Further you may say – Well I’m quite happy as I am – but this is a thing you can say, only as you might say – Well I’m a grey elephant – if you believe you are a grey elephant. For without the chance to cease for a time from the wheel, you can not know what it is to be happy nor unhappy, nor what it is to be a person and not a grey elephant, nor a grey elephant and not a person. You should ask yourself instead, what do I have to do that is better than taking the opportunity to cease?  You deserve the chance to gaze upon the nothingness that is the unpattern and to see that everything only matters to other clumps of matter to whom it matters only while they are in the false orbit of the motion of the wheel.  To cease is to cease to fear. To cease is to cease to decay. To cease is to be, that which is  not being.
Roderick, rested his coffee cup on the leaflet while he watched the news on the television.  The news was about some people somewhere else firing rockets at some other people, and the other people shelling the first people.  The coffee cup made a halo of damp coffee around the head of the second man – the one whose head was part of everything else and like everything else, while also being quite unlike itself.
After he’d watched some more of the news, which was now about a famous comedian having committed suicide, and a famous singer being suspected of child abuse, and a famous duck that could roller-skate being given a chance to immortalise its webbed footprints outside a theatre: Roderick decided to build the Door to Null.  He decided to build it in his garage.  He opted to build the physical shape, rather than to think the thoughts that would make the shape in his mind, although the right inner fold of the leaflet set out the thoughts he would need to think, because although he wasn’t a very good builder, the physical shape seemed simple, and the thoughts seemed complicated – being almost a set of equations and almost a poem - so far as he could tell, having just glanced at them long enough to decide that the carpentry on the left inner fold of the leaflet looked less complicated.
His neighbours told the police they had heard hammering.  But neither they nor the police ever discovered where Roderick’s head had gone. And since it is not possible to hammer off one’s own head, even if you have a hammer and a leaflet, and since the leaflet seemed to have disappeared when the police found the body, after the neighbours had called the police after the smell had got so strong from the garage, no one ever knew exactly what had occurred. 
But those of us who push the leaflet under your doors, want to make it clear, that the two methods are of equal difficulty and effectiveness and if you are not certain you can master the right inner fold of the leaflet, it does not suffice to run at the left inner fold for there is no difference.  As it happens Roderick was successful in ceasing, and to be applauded, but he might not have been, and that would have been dreadful.   

Wednesday, July 09, 2014

Note on SCRIPT.

In exciting news, this 2 parter, MAYBE bumped up into series 9, you heard it here first.  [For a certain value of MAYBE.]

OKAY, It's become a two parter, it was the blessed Giant Carnivorous Space Elephants that did it.

BACK FROM HOLS...Script will be finished this week.....before DW returns....

In the post below, watch as I write a Doctor Who script between 8th July and the Programme going back on air for Series Real Time.  Why not contribute in the comments: all ideas helpfully ignored or pirated.  In the impossible event of this "LOST SCRIPT(tm)" from Series 10 ever being made: contributors will receive credit and/or money.

Following "James G's" suggestion the SCRIPT is now being amended, DURING writing to include [SPOILER] and his [SPOILERS] engaged in [SPOILERING] (It's in the comments if you can't wait to read the actual script in the post immediately below.

Remember this is your chance to impact *actual*(tm) Doctor Who TV history, by getting your suggestions in this *genuine*(tm) Leaked Season 10 Script.  YOU ARE STEPHEN MOFFAT and if you say jump *I* say how high!

Remember, read THIS SCRIPT:  don't spoil yourselves by reading any others that MIGHT be floating around. 

No misuse of trademarked material intended Voord, Doctor Who, Clara, and Dan, and [SPOILER] are probably trademarked BBC and/or original creators. This SCRIPT is not for profit.  Giant Carniverous Space Elephants are copyright James G, used here by explicit permission.

Simon BJ

Tuesday, July 08, 2014


Series 10, Episode 1

working title : "THE GOSPEL OF THE VOORD"


DURATION: 47’10”

10:00:00 EXT. SKY – NIGHT

A star flares up in a dark patch of sky – turning the night into a bowl of white light. The sound of footsteps running on sand in the whiteness. We can’t see who, or where.



A terrified young hebrew is shaking awake a dark bearded man, who is lying on pile of rugs.


Saraias, Father, wake up for the sky is burning.

SARAIAS (Waking, his voice is slurred and he might be drunk.)

(Waking) I gave you a light in a pillar of Fire, and great wonders have I done among you; yet you have forgotten me, saith the Lord.


Father, there’s no time for prophesy, things are happening NOW!


No time for prophesy, he says, too proud to learn a trade, say I.
Oh my head.



A bulky black shape looms suddenly against the white flaring radiance of the tent's entrance.

EDRAS screams.

ENTER - a figure in a close-fitting futuristic wet-suit,  its head is a narrow wedge.  From it's forehead a blunt antenna rises.  It has no eyes.


Give Me The Keys To Your Conscience.  You Need Sin No More....




It's no use I just can't think of a present for Dad.  What do you think? He likes historical fiction?


What sort of period?  Victorian?  Tudor?  Country-house Austen?


He's gone a bit biblical.  I blame Dan Brown, and all that Holy Grail stuff.  Give him a book with a lost prophecy and a big stone on the front and he'll be happy.

DOCTOR  (from armchair where he is reading)

What about a Dead Sea Scroll?   An original gospel?


How long have you been there?  Is that your armchair?

DOCTOR gives arm-chair a proper look. Camera pull back, we see it is TARDIS blue. 


Their's weren't very comfortable. 

(He jumps up).  Camera pull back further, we see TARDIS is parked at back of book-shop among crime books section.


Help me get this back inside and we'll go see what we can pick up.

DAN (Voice off)

Er, Clara.  Maybe you should have a look at this. 

Clara and Doctor come around shelves, to bookshop's religious section. A life sized card-board display cut-out of a Voord (only partly seen) stands before a pile of books.  Dan is looking at the back of one of the books, he holds it so the photograph is visible to Clara and the Doctor.


Isn't this your dad?

The Doctor takes the book, and looks at the picture..


I've met him haven't I.  Once, at a meal.  I don't remember him having the cold dead eyes of a psychopath.  Still it probably runs in the family.


I don't suppose he remembers you being an elderly scot's git, either. Give me that. It can't be Dad. 

(She reads from the blurb / biog on the back of the book). Held towards the camera we can see it's called.  YOU ARE READY TO EXPERIENCE KNOWLEDGE: The Hidden Gospel by DAVE OSWALD)

"Learn the recently discovered facts behind secrets hidden in the Apocrypha: You too can be without sin, You too can be without Guilt. Learn to lock and unlock your Conscience with the Sacred Keys."

I don't understand: when did he find the time to do any of this. He barely manages his job, and reading the paper.


It is him though.


Unless he's got an evil twin. Is he important?

CLARA (Annoyed)

He's my father of course he's important.


Nuclear codes important.  Could he fry anything?  No, not a fish supper. Is he in charge of the Boris Bikes or where they're going to put the hover-airport?  We're missing something.  Each of you, take a book at random.  Sorites.




Pick three random sentences and read them out.  It's an old form of biblical prophetic exigesis. Quite mad, but, sometimes...well go on.

CLARA (From her father's book)

"Like a machine the conscience can be programmed: once programmed it becomes unquestioned."

DAN (From a religious book taken at random)

"Then the strangers said, behold we have come among you, to bring the new wine."


"Once unquestioned the conscience becomes, innate and undefeated."


"And they took the son of the old prophet who was called Sairas, and they said unto him:  Hail Esdras for you will become even as we are."


"Once initiated and undefeated: there will be only goodness - and that goodness will have no end."


"Then Esdras cried out saying, 'be gone strangers for you are not angels of the lord but creatures no man has seen upon the earth, and your ways are not our ways."


Voord, holding Esdras by the hair. He is on his knees before it.



TARDIS materialisation sound effect.

The Doctor runs into shot. 


Put that man down now.  This is not your place.


Our place is where there is evil.  For we are Good.
Our place is where there is doubt. For we are Certainty.


Your place is another world and another time.  I can smell the acid of its seas on your rubberised skin. What are you doing here?  What on earth do you think you're doing?

VOORD  (lifts its hands to its headgear, and removes it with a sweeping gesture. It splits around the antenna which remains wired into the Voord's skull like a unicorn's horn.) 

I am the Prophet of the Repentance.  I am the Voord.
I bring the good news that says: evil is ending.
Who are you to resist the Voord?

The Voord is a beautiful young woman, aside from the aeriel protruding from her skull.


Never mind all that.  What the fuck have you done to my dad?



Now I know you're all here for the ALPHA course, but I hope you'll bear with me if I introduce a guess speaker.  The man whose research into the Apocrypha has caused so much controversy in the religious world- who lives in our very own parish.  DAVE OSWALD.


Hello everyone.  I've made a discovery.  A discovery you can share. When my wife Ellie died, I left the church - I walked in the darkness for so long.  I was angry.  With God with the Church even with the Government. Only the love of my daughter, and my family kept me sane....but I doubted God.  In my doubt I looked in strange places.  The Occult.  Oh yes, I confess it freely.  The Scientologists.  Yes, I know - one step down fom the Occult right?  The books of the Bible the Church has long since rejected.  And in the latter I found a set of keys, a hidden methodology, a way to make my doubts vanish. A way to make my temptations vanish.  A way to make us all the good men and women God wants us to be.  And I can show you now.  (He Smiles)  The Key is in us all.  You Are Ready To Experience Knowledge.


DAN,  (tied with ropes back to back with DOCTOR and CLARA)

Well that was telling her.  Very effective.


Her?  What do you mean her?


Ms Honey-Blonde Fetishist From Space, who else.


From Space yes, blonde maybe. Ms - arguable.  When I last met these creatures, they never ever took their masks off, and yet this one just happens to want to shake her locks at us. What did it look like before we saw under the mask eh?  DAN, I need you to do something for me.





DAN (Starts snoring).


How did you do that?  Why did you do that?


Experience...and, experience.  I want to tell you about our hosts - but I want DAN to keep an open mind.  If I tell you both, you'll both be biased.  I'd have told him to stick his fingers in his ears and hum, if we weren't tied up.  As it is baby go bye-bye.


You're talking as if you''re angry that you aren't sure.


I'm not.  I think I met them once - oh so long ago - on a world that was as complex as your own.  A world I only saw a few parts of, and whose history I never quite understood, and yet the Voord impressed me as dangerous.


Right, they're dangerous - check!


Unless they're not now.  It might have been centuries, these might be different Voord.  That's why I want Dan to act as my control.  I don't want to prejudge the 17th century French from a bad experience with some 12th century Italians. Wearing rubber isn't an absolute guarantee of evil, although it probably helps.


We're tied up.  It was...she was...grabbing someone by the hair.  It...they've...done something to my father. I'm not inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt.


Which is why you're not asleep.  You and me we're biased.  We need Dan to have a fresh mind. He'll need us to have the background.  So - oh centuries ago, probably, on a planet called Marinus, a humanoid species made a machine that re-enforced their morality. Under the influence of the Conscience crime became impossible, war ceased, vulgarity, and spitting disappeared.  Everyone was happy, without the option, until, a random mutation, or an alien spore, or sheer chance, freed a person called Yartek from the machine's influence. Yartek lead an uprising - in the process of which the last Keeper of the Conscience died and the machine was destroyed.  I thought Yartek too had perished.


Ms Fetish seemed to think otherwise.





Your clothes and morals are not those of the culture here.  I am assessing this culture to determine the correct Keys for its Best Outcome.  You will be held until you can be assessed by YARTEK.

(There is a white flash of light, sourceless. Implicity, at this point the Doctor Clara and Dan were captured.)



So Yartek was, what - a terrorist - or a freedom fighter?  You said everyone was controlled by this machine? 


The Keeper of the Machine would have said the former.  He was a kind man, he believed implicitly in the good the machine had done, as did his daughter. But I was never sure. Every regieme believes it acts for the best. However, whatever his initial intent, by the time YARTEK attempted to gain control of the machine he seemed more interested in using it on everyone else than intent on destroying it.

VOORD (entering tent)

That is correct. But since those days, the Yartek has refined his views. He is wise and old and to be obeyed.


Take it from me, you don't want to be listening to old people.  They'll bore you death with what they did in the Time War, and how the cosmos is turning slower, and don't get me started on lumbago.


He said it, and he's ooh over two thousand so he ought to know.


Your age is nothing to the years of wisdom of the YARTEK.  You are not ready to experience knowledge.  You must first be changed.


Right, that's enough. (He stands up, and ropes fall away). Thank you Houdini.  Now listen here Missey, you are in a lot of trouble.  You've interfered with the history of this planet...


And you've turned my dad into a creepy holly-roller.  (CLARA decks the Voord, who falls).

DAN (now awake)

Whoah, Clara - that's not like you.

DOCTOR (kneeling to examine Voord as speaking).

No it isn't is it? Anger, sweary, violent Clara is rather new isn't she.  I wondered about this when she turned all slappy inside that Dalek. Quick Dan - what would you say is Clara's relationship with her father?


Er, good I guess - um - wait - aren't they not speaking now, Clara didn't you say that....(he trails off, confused by Clara's blank expression).


What the Voord are doing, here in the past, it's been reaching its tendrils forward through time already.  I'm immune at least for now, but you and Clara are starting to have different pasts.  They've found a peculiar weak spot - a place where small changes impact out of all proportion. That's probably why they're piddling about the edges of Christianity rather than going straight for St. Paul or Mohammed. That and the fact the BBC would never stand for it: not if it buggered up Songs of Praise. This is very advanced thinking for the Voord I remember.  Glass submarines. Machines to order and control the mind. Yes.  Any grasp of time technology, no.  Ah, ha - beautiful blonde woman, my eye.

(He pulls a flimsy, sheer mask away from the Voord, we do NOT see what is beneath.).

This is a memory-plastic mask, with holographic emitters built in at the nanometre level.  Again, not Voord technology - but I can't help feeling I've....

YARTEK (An ornately robed VOORD entering tent)

Oh my dear Doctor, you have been naive....


Well firstly I thought you were stuck in a time-lock with Rassilon, and secondly - I had hoped that once the drums weren't beating in your head every waking moment, you'd stop with all this nonsense, and if you did escape...

MASTER (for YARTEK is he, removes headgear to reveal [Can we get SIMMS?  Check]...)

...You hoped I'd get a proper job.  Like you.  Well it may surprise you Doctor, but I have.  The Voord have taken me to their collectively disorganised bosoms.  You left them leaderless - a society based solely on its opposition to something left in ruins.  Anarchists with a fixation on a Strong Man figure....with nothing left to hate.  They accepted the return of Yartek, as a divine gift.  I am the Voord's Messiah, and soon I will be Earths.


Bending the population to your will again?  Have you learned NOTHING.  You odious little, little man. We were friends once.


Sometimes I wonder why.  It's lucky I have no self-esteem issues.  No, you misjudge me.  Come follow me, walk in the steps of the Master, and many things will be made clear to you.


DAVE OSWALD  (Laying a hand on the head of a kneeling figure)

Say what you want and turn the key.


Say what you want and turn the key.


I want not to over eat, I want to feel loved, I want to know I have value.


You can.  You can turn the key that locks your free-will to what you freely will now.  You can decide once and for all.  The Lock makes us Free!  Never again do we have to decide. We can be good.  Be good and stay good.


The Lock makes us free!  Be good and stay good.


MASTER  (Moving among the tribesmen easily, nodding to one here, acknowledging another there.  We see a number of rubber suited Vvord among the crowd. In the background not in focus are large grey shapes stretching upwards.)

Imagine Doctor how much good the human race could do, if they only once – for a generation say – lived in accordance with their own best ideals.
No murder, no adultery, no coveting of each other asses.  No bickering, no backbiting.  No envy.  Just unified work to unified goals. The greatest good of the greatest number.


You have a point to make?


The human race needs the science of the Vvord,  it needs to listen to its conscience.  I have.  The Locks have set me free.  Free to serve them.




Look up, Doctor, see their glory and be humbled, as I have been.  Turn the key upon your doubt and fear and live in the glory of the ULLLLLLL.


Oh noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!

(The camera pans up.  We see that the grey shadows in the background are the legs of massive humanoid Space Elephants the size of Galactus, standing over the whole oasis, their bodies wreathed in technology and haloed with crackling lightning bolts of cosmic space power!)


The camera pans up from the congregation to the Altar which is carved into the head of a Massive SPACE ELEPHANT!!

PRIEST:  Praise them, Praise them!  Praise The Pachyderms of Power!!

The roof of the church cracks across and a grey trunk reaches down and pulls the Priest up into nothingness.  There is the sound of crunching.  Human bones and tatters of meat and gore fall down upon the heads of the congregation.

10:37  CUT TO OASIS.

DOCTOR:  Just say no, keep saying no in your heads or out loud, don't let them get into your minds.

DAN:  Why what'll happen, I mean noooooonnnnnoooo nnoooo.

DOCTOR: They'll eat you if you've been naughty.  They're Carnivorous Space Elephants and they're huge, powerful, dangerous, telepathic, self-righteous and hungry.  Before the War they were quarantined by the Time Lords, but now they they're loose.

CLARA:  What do they consider

DOCTOR:  They never forget so they only ever make a mistake once, so they have no compassion for flawed forgetful species: they judge everyone by their standards and they eat the unfit as an act of communion with their even BIGGER SPACE ELEPHANT GOD.  They know when you've been naughty, and they barely give a thought to the possibility that you might have been nice.

MASTER:  You see now Doctor I have brought Voord technology to earth, only it can make humanity honourably inedible to the Hordes of UUUULLLLLL.  Each person living truely to his or her own best impulses - locked securely into invulnerable rectitude.

DOCTOR:   Yes, good try, but its a bit no NO NO NO no no like cutting your head off to cure the toothache, there must be something else we can do.  It's a good job your heads been so full of Rassilon's drums for so long that they can't see what you're really't have thought NO....NOOOOOO......

A trunk reaches down and snatches the Doctor into the air....


Doctor is tiny figure in trunk, brought gradually up to eye line. 




Well I'm not pretending anything.  I do what I have to, and so does everyone else - good or bad. So why don't you push off back to your SPACE ELEPHANT MOTHER SHIP and leave these good and bad people to make their own decisions. Hm?  What business is it of yours what they do?




Well for a start I've not got an angry man in my trunks,  besides you're not fooling me.




Giant Carnivorous Space Elephants, who are behind the Master, who's behind the Voord?  This is bloody fanfic isn't it.  I suppose the fact that your initials spell G.C.S.E is some sort of in-joke.
It could have been worse. You could have been a mutant ninja turtle.


Or, I could just have been playing with toys.... Oh Doctor how long have you been bounded within my domaine without knowing it.

GSCE (Pulls off elephant mask to reveal sneering face of the Celestial Toymaker played by best actual chinese actor we can get, or failing that Sir Ian McKellen.)

CLARA:   Didn't you know I was a doll Doctor?  Didn't you recognise little Clara the Clown!

DOCTOR:  Nooooooooo!

10:47:  End Credits.

Friday, July 04, 2014

New Brakespeare Voyage review on

5.0 out of 5 stars What is time to a ship made of history?, 4 July 2014
A long time coming, but what is time to a ship made of history?

Big, perspective-warping ideas sit comfortably alongside small, intimate, human moments as the book's two main protagonists head toward an inevitable confrontation.

The pair of opposing, first person narratives guide us through a series of interlocking worlds that make up The Brakespeare. There are as many wonders as there are horrors on this journey.

A detailed understanding of the War in Heaven (the backdrop to the 'Faction Paradox' series) is no more essential to enjoying 'The Brakespeare Voyage' than having to possess a detailed understanding of World War II before reading, say, 'The Book Thief'. Everything you need to appreciate this story is in the book itself.

And when you read it, you will definitely appreciate it.

Tuesday, July 01, 2014

Florence Apocalypse: Chapter One Addenda

Caliban McSlaughter, winced as he lowered himself gingerly into his marble plunge bath.  He did everything gingerly, always had, for he had been covered in reddish hair since he was born.  The midwife had let slip a disparaging remark about Ourangutans, and the Menagerie whose beasts had notoriously run riot on Innocence Island nine months before.
His father had her horsewhipped of course, but everyone 'knew' that his mother had been ravished by a great ape nevertheless - the only point of discussion in the village remained whether the ape in question was a relatively innocent if priapic former inhabitant of Borneo or Laird Bogle McSlaughter, the Warlock o' the Glens.

At seventy though, Caliban had to admit to himself that he was more grey than ginger. And no wonder the worry of bringing up those thrice troublesome children of his would turn a Black Cat grey.

The report from Madame Mab's was on his desk, under the handy paperweight of a dead vicar's skull.  (Not quite so oxymoronic as you might think, he had once pinned a live vicar to his desk by the ears, but had found it hard to slide papers in and out under the squirming prelate's hair, and blood had got on the legal documents in all the wrong places.)

It wasn't that they didn't want to do wrong - there was nothing fundementally good about them, he reassured himself, and it wasn't that Madame Mab's wasn't a highly regarded establishment in Evil Scholastic Circles, but somehow the pitiless regieme of sly cruelty, intense competativeness and backstabbing that had proved to be so powerful a driver of Scottish Witchcraft since the Weird Sister's Memorial Behest of 1057 (5063 in the Witch Calendar), had failed Mary, Anne...and the other one, in ways he could hardly understand.
When he got out of the bath he was going to have to do something about it.

He had an inkling of an idea, but it was a drastic one, and based on little more than a folktale, but Caliban McSlaughter knew well how much truth there could be in gossip and village tattle. He had after all the prehensile feet to prove it. 

If he was going to see his children right, he'd have to bring in the Apocalypse.  Florence Apocalypse: Hell's Bottom Nanny.  (Hell as you may have gathered rates people downwards towards Lucifer, not upwards towards God, hence also the School Lowerarch competition at Madam Mabs).

Monday, June 23, 2014

Florence Apocalypse and the McSlaughter of Innocence: Chapter One


The bats outside the Headmistress’ Office, were rotting pungently against the cork of the notice-board. The hand-forged brass pins fastening their flesh to pliable surface, were greened with verdigris a sure sign that the acids in the drying bodies, were eating into the copper in the zinc-copper alloy.
Also outside the office, perched on a tatty black chair too small for her, in a school uniform that also was also too small for her and bulged over nacent puppy fat, Bloody Mary McSlaughter scowled.  It wasn’t being sent to see the Headmistress she disliked.  A girl with her hue of red hair, and the family pride of the notorious McSlaughter clan, expected it.  It wasn’t the bats. She took pride in her ability
to spot the real chemistry behind the greening of the fastenings, and their smell, if anything, merely reminded her of her mother.  No, it was a more existential crisis than this that was fretting her heart – she almost caught herself saying ‘soul’ but stopped herself in time even internally, that sort of language was at least fifty merits, and at the moment her House (Bathory) was Lowerarch Imprimis.  It had come over her during assembly.  Madam Malthusia was leading, and they had been singing the well known song that begins.

        “God’s will can not hold him, nor Earth restrain,
            Hell shall rise in fury, when he comes to reign,
            Clad in Fire Eternal, Satan will Arise,
            Destroying Peace and Goodness, with His Ebon Eyes”.
“Satanism,” Mary had muttered to herself, “can go swivel on it.”  One of the Lower Prefect’s familiars had caught the words as they flew past, faint as they were and hissed its indignation, in a faint spew of spittle. Being venomous, the Toad had combusted the hair of some nearby new girls, and a fight had broken out, but not even the healthy display of violence and ill-discipline (generally encouraged when not actively getting in the way of ritual) had prevented Madam Malthusia
tracking down the culprit.  Hence, now, the hunched waiting for the lecture.
Ten minutes later, she was in the Headmistress’ Office, staring up at her dark unforgiving eyes, and feeling an unusual craving for edam. 
Madam Mab, looked down from her three foot five height, at the quivering school girl.
The Headmistresses’ long standing habit of forcibly turning anyone sent to her office into a white mouse for the initial part of the 'discussion' - considerably ameliorated the effect of her substantial shortness, which even for a Black Witch of the Old Fae Blood was considerable. 
A white mouse with red hair, does not suit a tiny school girls uniform, whatever a particular group of Japanese perverts may tell you.

"Mary McSlaughter, I don't think you have the least idea of the sacrifices your father has made to get you into this school.  Why the goats for Hecate alone, must run into double figures.  Do you think it helpful to express audible doubt as to the underlying ethos of this Great Establishment. Have we not tried to drum into you hateful brats
that when you're about in the so-called real world, these sort of amusing quips can be the difference between the be-fanged and the be fanged.  Just because you're locked in a looney bin (witches have never had any truck with Politcal Correctness and Mab had only just stopped referring to such places as Mad Carnivals round about 1957) rather than burnt at the stake, won't stop you crying out to the powers below when your loose tongue has flapped your freedom to do ill to the four
cardinal winds.  And if you think a black beast will bound up out of the stone slabs and carry you away on its broad back after you've said, what was it, 'Satan can go swivel on it'  I rather think you'll have another think coming young lady!"

"Sorry, Madam Mab,"  Mary said in a dull, sulky, insolent monotone -  as she'd been taught.  "'Sides,' she added, 'It wasnae Satan - Unhallowed Be His Name - it
was Satanism. All this dressing up (by which she included the undressing) and prancing about, and whathaveyou. If you canae drink it, eat it, smoke it or fuck it, whae good is it?"

Madam Mab beamed.  "Oh you will go far, my dear.  That's quite right.  Naturally you hate all the 'community' aspects of organised..."  Her mouth puckered like a parrot shitting...."religiosity". (She'd skirted the term more successfully than her leather dress sense had her hips). "A proper bred-in-the-bone hatred will warm your icy heart through many a long night of evil doing. When you look back on your days here, I want you to say to yourself.  I suffered. Now they can!  Do you understand me?”.


"Right then, duck off (this reference to ducking stools was considered far ruder among Witchfolk than Mary's commonplace swearing) and get on to your next lesson. I think its BASIC HOODOO with Mistress Hexia, better hurry or she'll have you over her knee.  You'll grow back on the way, but you'll keep the tail for a week to remind you to keep your daft mouth closed when it's not sucking the devil's cock."  This cheerful expression, caused a quirk of happy memory to enter the Headmistresses face before it was hidden by Mary’s slamming of the door.
"Chance," Mary grumbled to herself, as she went towards the HEXING range, "would be a fine thing."  Madam Mab's was an old fashioned single sex witches school, with Black Masses for adult staff only, and about the only thing Bloody Mary (from the hair and her beating the pulp out of one of the more investigatively lesbian-tantricists in the school in week one) had in common with her twin sister Anne was a
conviction that a few boys about the place would brighten this dump up no end.

The HEXING range was a twisted grove of trees at the end of the playing field, stunted and gnarled and torn part from the ground by the whizzing discharge of sheer focused hormonal disgruntlement and boiling-over teenage pashes. Madam Hexia was in mid rant, when Mary walked up hands thrust into her belted skirt, head held high in an effort to look cool and tail-free.
"And that's for the man who dumped me when I was fourteen," Hexia snarled - vapourising a small wax target crucified upside down halfway up a warty oak.  A minature wax penis flew past demonstrating that as usual the targets were anatomically accurate, if not actually – as some girls said they were - modelled on real people who had offended the ancient teacher in her long turbulent love life. It was certainly true that a human pop-singer, in his 70s but still sporting leopard skin tights, had recently mysteriously spontaneously combusted precisely at the moment when the her ADVANCED HOODOO class had been competing for the MADAM MIM MEMORIAL Award for Precision Cursing, but despite everything the mystic and satanic insist on stressing, there is such a thing as co-incidence.
Mary's sister Anne waved from the group of girls queuing up to have a go, the silver axe, from which she got her nickname still clutched in her left hand.  She'd basically vowed not to put it down until the next time Undersecretary Borogrove paid a visit to the school after which it was widely expected he'd be taking it away with him, possibly as a token of their on-off, off-on romance, possibly buried in his hied.  Axe-head Anne, and the Undersecretary had a running disagreement about how friendly teen-witches and demons were going to get, and how, and where, and with what equipment.
“What did the ol’ Besom, want?” Anne asked, as Mary slid into the queue beside her, jostling some shivering first years further back.  Mary shrugged, and tried to put a swagger on it, “told her Satan could go swivel, didn’t I.  All this stuff is soft.”  She managed a relatively precise mimicry of Mab’s tone: “ 'Do you think you’ll be rescued from the stake by a black beast with that attitude'.  Like I’m going to be daft enough to get done for witchcraft.”   One of the junior students, was listening rather too closely to this, and Anne buffeted her round the head with her axe, for earwigging, before she could do much more than open her mouth, but the sentiment she had been about to express – modulated suddenly into pain as it was – still managed to get halfway heard. “So whatcha here for thenaaargh”.
            “I’m glad y's asked me that, Paxo,”  Mary said, standing over the downed first year. “As soon as we’re independent, I’m outa here.  I’ve got enough o’ the theory to set up my own business, and there’s going to be a grand set of opportunities come the New Scotland for our kind.”   “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,” Anne added helpfully. “Our father’s the McSlaughter you know, Laird Chief of the Clan McSlaughter, and Grand Preceptor of the Islands of Innocence, Widdeshins, Morcarty, and Fielf.  He’s going to be right in there, come the day.” 
“Some inheritance”, the first year spat, levering herself upright and tipping Mary over.  “The dregs of the shipping forecast.  I’m surprised you don’t mention Summerisle and Ul.”  This was fighting talk.  The McSlaughter’s didn’t lay claim to Summerisle, which was still a sore-point since her father had lost it in a poker game in 1955, but Ul, which had sunk at the same time Surtesy had risen in the sixties, and concerning which long bat-mail letters were still flying back and forth between her father and the Sorcerors of Iceland, was still technically theirs if rather too underwater for normal residence.  
            “Now girls!”  Madam Hexia, waddled over and interposed her bulk between the combatents.  “Mary, say ‘curse you’ and let it be.  S’mantha, spit on your hand and give Anne a wallop and lets get on.”
There was considerable political feeling loose in the School that term. The vote on whether or not Scotland should or should not revert to an independent country with all the ramifications thereon, including the effect on the Netherworld, and whether or nor witches would still be facing the Church of England as well as the Church of Scotland, and who exactly would be running the Ministry of Damnation, was enough to split families as well as lips.  Mary saw it as a great opportunity, Anne couldn’t care less unless it got Borogove more power (she liked power. She liked to see it grovel).  Others like S’mantha – upandcoming challenger from the newbugs - were pressing to cut out their own niches in the argument, and then there were those who like Mary and Anne’s other sister probably simply hadn’t noticed it was happening at all.
The thirs sister commonly called “AYUG” which stood for ‘As Yet Un-named Girl” was the youngest of the three, and ought technically to have been a first year like S’mantha, four entire forms below Mary and Anne, but she had stowed away on the boat from McSlaughter Hall on Innocence Isle, with her sisters, and no one had managed to dislodge her from any of their classes.  There was considerable doubt as to whether she was actually learning anything, because she never spoke anything except what was either a rare form of gaelic, or a mixture of animal impressions. Even her sisters made no pretence to understand her talk, though they did manage to communicate with her through a series of gestures. Un-named, and never Un-babtised owing to an incident when her Devilmother had almost been throttled after her attempt to immerse AYUB in Unholy Water, she was at this point in her scholastic career halfway between a student and a school mascot.