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blakes7-d Digest Volume 99 : Issue 140
Today's Topics:
[B7L] Flat Robin 42 - Part 2 of 4
RE: [B7L] Bullies, was PiC Rant
RE: [B7L] Telemovie
Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila
Re: [B7L] Dayna( was scripts)
Re: [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish
Time (was Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron))
Re: [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish
Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila
Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Re: [B7L] Re: How big are the Liberator and Scorpio?
Re: [B7L] tests and "suckerdom"
Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Re: [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish
Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 14:25:18 -0600
From: Arkaroo <woollard@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin 42 - Part 2 of 4
Message-ID: <371CE2AE.78C5@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
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***
Meanwhile, deep in the bowels of the largest hardware store in the whole
of the Disc, Rincewind was lost -- lost both physically and mentally.
"Why couldn't they have used a more coherent system of organization?" he
asked himself, looking despondently along a shelf filled with 'Dentures,
Avian and Gastropod'. So far in his search for a funnel, he had managed
to become covered by the contents of a bag of Plaster-of-Maul in the
'Cement, Precariously Placed Bags Of' aisle, the hem of his robe had
been badly charred by the 'Wyverns, Decorative' display, and a momentary
lapse in attention while crossing the 'Crossbows, Testing Ranges For'
section had resulted in yet another hole in his hat and an interesting
new part in his hair.
He scratched his plaster-coated beard and looked off into the middle
distance. Would funnels be filed under the far-too-obvious heading of
'Funnels', he thought to himself, or would they be classified as
'Conical Items For Filling Things'? Or could they instead be found in
the terrifyingly huge pit he'd seen marked 'Household Utensils,
Assorted'? Rincewind shook his head, and clutched the dripping wax paper
satchel that contained the fried pig-like creature tightly to his body.
"Me and you, fried alien swine," said Rincewind. "Against the world. Or
at least the part of the world in this hardware store."
Gathering together the fearful and wan remnants of his courage and
motivation, Rincewind stepped quickly around the large 'Trap, Wizard'
that had fallen onto the floor, and began walking towards the distance
flicker of light that he hoped was from the 'Flicker, Torches That'
shelf. Above him the shelves stretched out of sight, disappearing into
the stygian and guano-scented heights of the ceiling. For a brief moment
he thought he saw a vast and cyclopean bulk heave itself through the
darkness on nasty little bug legs, but he decided that it was best to
ignore these sorts of things after recollecting, with a tremulous
shudder, the 'Gods, Elder' aisle.
THWIK-THWAK went his shoddy sandals, as they flapped against the
polished stone tiles that lined the silent avenues of consumer goods
that comprised the 'Home Despot'. His lips moved silently as he studied
the tiny informative signs that lined the shelving units. 'Elbows,
Joints of', he read. Well, getting closer in the alphabet, anyways,
Rincewind thought to himself. Hmmm, 'Ebony, Lovely Sounds Produced With
Combination of Ivory and' was the next one -- guess that means I'm
heading in the wrong direction, he thought, and he turned around.
"Eff," said Rincewind, shattering the thick silence. "Eff eff eff eff.
Which way is Eff?"
As he craned his head around to look for a map, an incoveniently placed
carpet-tack lodged between the tiles of the floor poked through the thin
sole of his sandal and into the tender meat of his sole. "Eff!" he
howled, hopping up and down in agony.
***
"This is boring," said Merisu, jiggling in its seat anxiously. "When are
they gonna bring on the dames?"
"Patience, my little libido on limbs" said Solipsos. He chuckled
heartily as the character onscreen writhed in pain.
"I'm hungry," whined Merisu, gnawing on a knuckle. Behind him, Syggar
tittered as he leafed through a soiled copy of 'Gods Over 5,000,000'.
"You should have bought something before the show started," said
Solipsos.
"I bought a box of 'Milk-Dudes', but they've disappeared," muttered
Merisu.
"How tragic," said Solipsos, looking away shiftily.
Merisu peered at the taller god's face carefully. "Hold on a moment --
you've got chocolate on your face!" cried Merisu, leaping to his feet.
To Solipsos' dismay, the diminutive deity darted forwards and licked off
the chocolate in question.
"It's from a bloody 'Milk-Dude'!", yelped Merisu. "You gallumphing great
bugger!"
"I'm sure I *don't* know what you mean," said Solipsos nervously. As he
edged away from the tiny god, he accidently lost his grip on the coat
he'd been clutching. A large cardboard box fell out and rattled loudly
on the floor of the theatre. Several small chocolate balls rolled out of
the box and bumped gently into Merisu's spats. The amorous little god
turned white with fury.
***
Blake emerged from the alleyway behind Nanny Ogg's hotel, adjusting the
fit of his monk's robe. "They'll never suspect what I did back *there*,"
he sniggered. He stopped to admire his reflection in a shop window, then
began walking with a jaunty swagger along verdant Wood-Louse Avenue,
pausing only to trip the occasional nun.
He had just turned the corner and was strutting past the Alchemist's
Guild on Incendiary Street, thinking filthy and physically unfeasible
thoughts, when an oleagenous voice cut through his reverie.
"Hello! Excuse me! Mister Monk! Have I got a deal for you!" cried the
voice in a loud, grating imitation of camaraderie. Blake stopped dead in
his tracks, then turned slowly towards the voice, fiery rage emanating
from every pore. In the open square at the intersection of Nibble Street
and Eel-Vine Lane stood a large, decorative fountain. Beside the
fountain was stationed a decrepit wooden cart, on which coffins of
various shapes and styles had been piled three deep. A hand-lettered
sign tacked to the side of the cart read 'Honest Elai's Surplus Casket
Emporium'. A man clad in a garish orange-plaid suit, presumably Honest
Elai himself, stood beside the cart, beckoning towards Blake.
"You appear to be a deeply spiritual man," said the salesman heartily.
"A Luskentyrian, judging by the size of the dagger in your pocket and
the number of nuns I saw you kicking earlier. No doubt you believe that,
after death, your body will be plucked from the grave and taken away
to... hmm, Luskentyrians, let's see... taken away to the 'land of gin,
tarts, and G.B.H.', right? But what if such a glorious reawakening
doesn't occur, perhaps due to spiritual technical difficulties, and your
corporeal form simply... rots. Well, in that case, you wouldn't want to
spend your prime centuries of moldering in just *any* inhumation
receptacle, would you?" He gestured towards the coffins behind him.
"Would you be interested in hearing about our new sales incentive?" he
asked, his eyes focusing on the blood-flecked decadence of the
platinum-studded rosary that dangled around Blake's neck. "Buy any
deluxe ebony coffin on our new two-year installment plan and we'll throw
in the handles for free."
Blake remained silent. The salesman changed his approach. "Um. On the
other hand, we have some reasonably priced previously-owned sarcophagi
as well -- this lovely cardboard casket was only used briefly, by a
little old liche who only used it on solstices. It's still got that 'new
coffin' smell."
"Get out of my face, chummy," said Blake, bouncing on the balls of his
feet. "When I'm buried, it'll be beneath the heaped bodies of my
enemies."
The salesman eyed Blake, from bare feet to sardine-scented pompadour.
"I'd say you were an Extra-Large. There's a lot of good merchandise in
your size." He walked towards the cart and flung open a particularly
gaudy walnut-finished coffin. "Note the clean lines and elegant fitting
of our 'Delerious Tyrant' model," said the salesman. "This baby's got an
all-velvet interior, deluxe pillowing on the sides, a little tray for
religious icons, and special worm-proof undercoating guaranteed to
ensure your body's preservation well into the Century of the Credulous
Civet."
"The only coffins I can see a need for are those in which you and your
compatriots will be buried if you don't bugger off," spat Blake.
"Well, that sounds like a 'yes' for a mass purchase," said the salesman
cheerfully. He pulled out a small pad of paper. "And whom may I say is
purchasing these coffins?"
"My name is Blake," said Blake. "And while my Lazeron Destructor may be
malfunctioning, I still have my pockets of pain!" From the depths of his
borrowed robe he removed a long, curvy dagger, encrusted with a dried
reddish substance[3]. Clutching it tightly, he advanced on the oblivious
salesman.
***
"Those are *my* bloody 'Milk-Dudes'!" screeched Merisu, flailing away at
the vastly taller figure of Solipsos. Solipsos dangled the box of
chocolates tauntingly, just out of Merisu's reach.
"Nuts to you, you sawn-off little degenerate," said Solipsos nastily.
"You want these? Catch!" He threw the candy over Merisu's head to
Syggar, who was, unfortunately, otherwise engaged in watching two
cockroaches consummate their love. The container sailed past the
preoccupied god's head, far above the grasping digits of Merisu, and
hurtled over the rim of the balcony. The thirty-five pound 'Jumbo
Economy' size wad of chocolate-like treats flew out of the confines of
Cori Celeste and down towards the Disc, rapidly picking up speed as
lumps of gravity began adhering to it in the upper gravisphere of the
atmosphere.
Howling with fury, Merisu bit Solipsos on the kneecap.
***
Blake waved his dagger through the air hypnotically. "Oh mister gaudily
clad salesperson," he chanted sing-songedly. "I've got something
*pointy* for you."
From the sky streaked a flaming brown wad of melted chocolate moving
just below the speed of sound. With a sound like a watermelon entering a
vacuum-chamber the rapidly-moving projectile glanced off the top of
Blake's skull and flew off into the fountain, sending up a plume of
brown steam. Slowly and silently, Blake tipped forwards into the
plush-lined coffin opened before him, pivoting head-first on the plush
satin pillow and landing face-upwards within the casket. Melted
chocolate oozed down from his hair in sticky rivulets as his eyes rolled
upwards into their sockets. He became as limp and motionless as a
balloon-animal at a darts tournament. The curved dagger that had been
clutched in his homicidal paws clattered loudly on the cobbled streets.
The salesman smiled broadly and beckoned towards the spade-wielding,
mud-encrusted figure holding the reins of the cart. "There we go,
perfect fit," said the salesman, eyeing the alignment of Blake in coffin
with professional pride.
"Let's take him to the cemetary, Jimmy, and we'll stick him in the
demonstration tomb." He plucked the rosary from Blake's neck and began
to pick the larger bits of effluvium from its weighty length. The
gravedigger slammed the coffin lid shut, then pounded a few nails around
the edges of the lid to seal it tightly[4]. Satisified, he went back to
the front of the carriage and climbed back on.
***
"I think Johnstone will be fine once the swelling goes down," said
Cally, walking towards Avon. Avon patted the stool next to him
enticingly, then reached behind the bar and poured himself a pint of
stout.
"Quite a spectacle, wasn't it?" said Avon as he fished a small
salamander out of his mug.
"Indeed," said Cally. "The last time I saw something shoved that far
into an orifice..."
"Yes, yes, no need to bring up the Liberator's Christmas party," Avon
said tetchily. "It's not as if Vila didn't show his recording of it
every bloody weekend." He quaffed his pint noisily and began to stare
moodily at the patterns in the molasses-like sediment. Just then, the
door of the bar opened, and a short, mud-encrusted man wielding a spade
walked over to the bar.
"Gimme a pint of 'Old Ineffable'", said the man, slamming a platinum
rosary bead down onto the bar. The bartender looked at the blood-soaked
bead suspiciously, then shrugged and gave the gravedigger a large
tankard of foaming brew.
"We really should start looking for Blake," said Cally. "If Travis is
nearby, then Blake could be in serious trouble. He's not as well
equipped to handle the vagaries of reality as the rest of us are, you
know."
"Of that I am well aware," sniffed Avon. "He's the perfect leader --
always willing to let let someone else do the banana removal. Where do
you propose we start looking? The last time I looked there were no sheep
in the immediate vicinity."
"Wot? Sheep?" asked the bartender. "You should inquire at the 'Pullet
and Whippet'. That sounds like the sort of thing that's right up their
alley."
"When I say 'sheep'," replied Avon. "I mean, of course, metaphorical
sheep -- those people who need to be led."
"Oh, metaphorical sheep," said the bartender knowingly. "One of *those*,
is he?"
"Excuse me, did you say 'Blake'?" inquired the filthy little gravedigger
sitting beside them. "Large man, curly hair, monk's robe, monomaniacal
sense of righteousness to the point of endangering all who surround him,
smells faintly of sardines?"
"Except for the monk's robe, yes, that's him," said Avon, leaning
forward.
"Yeah. We buried him half-an-hour ago, in one of 'Ghoulish Gordon's'
crypts, down at the 'Slumbering Arms Eternal Rest Center', on the corner
of Abattoire Street and Corpse-Grinder Avenue. It's a lovely place to
spend one's afterlife, mind you. Deluxe fittings, polished urns,
air-tight seals on the doors, all overlooking the scenic wonder of the
river-valley. One could even say," said the filthy little man, his eyes
closing slightly in anticipation."One could even say that your friend
has got a regular 'Tomb with a V...'" His sentence was cut off abruptly
as Avon's sidearm appeared, as if by magic, up his left nostril.
"You say it and I'll smash your teeth in," grated Avon, his eyes bulging
from their sockets. His finger quivered above the recessed trigger. "I
don't *want* to, but I will."
"How did he die?" asked Cally, grief writ across her features like rude
words scratched into sea-side sand.
"Um. Not really my field of expertise," said the gravedigger, looking
down nervously at the firearm in his nose. "The process of dying occurs
long before I get to them."
"Well, was he shot, stabbed, or was he bled? Did he still possess his
head?" asked Avon, removing the weapon from the gravedigger.
"Mm. When I say he was *dead*, what I really mean is *mostly* dead,"
replied the little man.
"And what, pray tell, qualifies one to be mostly dead?" asked Avon,
returning his sidearm to its holster.
"Well, he fulfilled all our requirements for pronouncement of death,
that is."
"And what, pray tell, are these requirements?" asked Avon lugubriously,
grinning with more teeth than was generally expected. The gravedigger
blanched.
"Actually, being in a coffin is, really, our only requirement," said the
gravedigger nervously. "I mean, I can't think of any other reason for
someone being in a coffin other than their being dead, can you?"
"We've got to dig him up, then," said Cally. "He might still be alive."
"It's a temptation to leave him there," said Avon. "He certainly won't
be happy until he's left all of *us* in coffins, after all. You,
undertaker, take us to his grave so we can dig him up."
"Nonono," said the gravedigger quickly, backing away from Avon. "We
can't touch them once they've been interred. You want him *out* of the
grave, you'll have to talk to the Graverobber's Guild. We inter; they
exter. It's the division of labour." With that, the little man shuffled
quickly to the door, ducking under the perpetual ribbons of police-tape
strung across the doorway. Neither Cally or Avon moved to stop him.
"How much air do you suppose is in a tomb, Avon?" asked Cally, standing
up. "If it runs out, he might sustain brain damage."
"Yes. I suppose we'd better hurry, then," said Avon, scratching his nose
thoughtfully.
Cally peered at him curiously. "I said, he might sustain *brain damage*,
Avon. Don't you have anything clever to say? No pithy aphorisms?"
Avon looked embarassed. "Um, " he said as he pulled a small black book
from his front pocket and leafed through it quickly. "What I meant to
say was 'I yearn for her tremendously large...' no, that's 'Lobes,
Various Frontal'." He flipped through to the middle of the tiny tome.
"Let's see. 'Blake, Derision of'. Ahem. 'How could we tell if he was
brain-damaged / possessed by aliens / a clone? He's always been twisted
/ almost as stupid as Vila / a big bed-wetting nancy-boy."
"I think you should work on those, Avon," said Cally.
Avon pushed open the door of the 'Mended Drum' and looked out at the
quickly setting sun. "We'll need shovels, in case there's any digging
involved. And some poles, for opening the tomb's lid. We'll need a
fulcrum as well. Yes, a nice fulcrum. With a spoiler."
"Where are we going to find a store that sells grave-robbing tools, let
alone one that's still open at this hour?" Cally asked, looking at her
chronometer. "It's getting late."
"We passed a hardware store when we were dragging that ugly little
wizard along the waterfront. 'Home Despot', I believe it was called.
Follow me," said Avon in his best leaderly voice, as he marched out the
door of the pub into the murky and sweltering heat of Ankh-Morpork.
Cally shook her head sadly and followed him out into the hot outside
air.
---
[3] Which was actually just tomato-sauce. Even homicidal monks have to
eat sometimes, you know.
[4] Nailing the coffin shut with the customer inside is an accepted
tactic in the high-risk world of coffin sales, as it guaranteed your
customer wouldn't walk out in the middle of the pitch[5].
[5] There was, naturally enough, a tendency for the aforementioned
potential customers to walk away when over-enthusiastic salespersons
began to wax poetic about their coffin's ability to contain the various
fluids and gases characteristic of advanced decay. Most people are, on
some level, aware of the nasty reality of the post-mortem body, but very
few like to hear the technical 'ins and outs' of a coffin's
maggot-containment rating.
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 22:23:53 +0200
From: Jacqueline Thijsen <jacqueline.thijsen@cmg.nl>
To: "Blake's 7 list" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: RE: [B7L] Bullies, was PiC Rant
Message-ID: <39DCDDFD014ED21185C300104BB3F99F10FBA5@NL-ARN-MAIL01>
Content-Type: text/plain
Kathryn wrote:
> Much as I love The Pretender, and much as I love Blake's 7, I'd say
> no. Or maybe it's because I like them both so much. Miss Parker is
> Miss Parker, and Broots is Broots and Avon is Avon and Vila is Vila,
> and they aren't the same at all.
>
Actually, I think the attitudes are very much alike. I even think there's a
bit of Cally in Sidney, whenever he's getting all pensive. Miss parker is
very snarly and good-looking, and I don't think anyone would question her
competence. Just the kind of qualities most of us like in Avon. Broots is
very competent in one field and totally useless otherwise, until he's
pushed. Very much like our Vila, wouldn't you say?
> On the other hand, the *attitude*, "he's my idiot and no one gets to
> threaten him but me" is delightfully common between them.
>
Exactly. Also, Broots trusts Miss Parker and even hugged her once (which
caused her to ask him if he *wanted* her to hurt him <g>).
> However, the ones I sympathize with the most of the four are Avon more
> than Miss Parker, and Broots more than Vila. Hmmm - the computer
> programmers. I wonder what that says about me?
>
Since I'm a programmer, I'd say that means this says that you have extremely
good taste <g>.
Jacqueline
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 15:55:44 -0500
From: Reuben Herfindahl <rherf@tursso.com>
To: "'blakes7@lysator.liu.se'" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: RE: [B7L] Telemovie
Message-ID: <0F144D2FBA41D211A6A000A0C9DD630D090572@STPNT4>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Ellynne G. <rilliara@juno.com>
> To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
> Date: Tuesday, April 20, 1999 3:02 PM
> Subject: Re: [B7L] Telemovie
>
>
> >
> >On Sun, 18 Apr 1999 08:26:33 +1000 Kathryn Andersen
> ><kat@welkin.apana.org.au> writes:
> >
> >>And, no, I'm not saying that it is impossible to do these things
> >>right. I actually *liked* the Doctor Who movie;
> >
> >At last! Someone besides me who liked it!
> >I even liked finding out the Doctor was supposed to be
> half-human. Of
> >course, that may have been because I had this sudden mental
> picture of a
> >British woman, probably from the World War II era, the type who dealt
> >with the city she lived in being bombed with the same kind
> of practical
> >efficiency and general optimism about her ability to cope
> you'd expect in
> >the Doctor. She met up with an observing Time Lord who needed to be
> >knocked out of his "only watching" complacency but, otherwise, wasn't
> >such a bad guy.
> >
> >Then I found out the writers were thinking ancient Egyptian
> Queen with
> >the Doctor's father doing the "Chariots of the Gods" thing
> and building
> >the pyramids, and I wasn't so sure. But since they didn't
> put it in the
> >movie, I ignore it.
> >
Well, sorta. I would highly recommend The Nth Doctor. It's kinda a
evolution of Dr. Who as a movie/new series, etc... At one point the Doctor
and Master were brothers, at another they "reboot" the universe via the Key
to Time. Facinating reading.
Reuben
http://www.reuben.net/drwho/
http://www.reuben.net/blake/
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 20:12:37 +0100
From: Julia Jones <julia.lysator@jajones.demon.co.uk>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Cc: Lysator List <Blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Message-ID: <$bgIODAlGNH3EwLa@jajones.demon.co.uk>
In message <Marcel-1.46-0420063547-0b0Rr9i@blakes-7.demon.co.uk>, Judith
Proctor <Judith@blakes-7.demon.co.uk> writes
>Is it any wonder that we'd like to see a movie written by Chris?
<wail>
Wanna movie by Robert Holmes! Edited by Boucher! But we're a decade too
late.
</wail>
--
Julia Jones
"Don't philosophise with me, you electronic moron!"
The Turing test - as interpreted by Kerr Avon.
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 20:21:26 +0100
From: Julia Jones <julia.lysator@jajones.demon.co.uk>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Cc: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Message-ID: <0rUKCOA2ONH3EwI5@jajones.demon.co.uk>
In message <371C924D.D1E1AD35@ptinet.net>, mistral@ptinet.net writes
>Sean Connery is still the sexiest man alive. And from
>what I've been told, PDs not completely unattractive.
<heavy panting>
Ahem.
Yes, you could say he's not completely unattractive. I'd rate him above
Sean Connery, myself.
--
Julia Jones
"Don't philosophise with me, you electronic moron!"
The Turing test - as interpreted by Kerr Avon.
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 22:43:29 +1000
From: Kathryn Andersen <kat@welkin.apana.org.au>
To: "Blake's 7 list" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila
Message-ID: <19990420224329.A1424@welkin.apana.org.au>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
On Mon, Apr 19, 1999 at 08:20:02PM -0700, mistral@ptinet.net wrote:
>
> Joanne MacQueen wrote:
>
> > What else could you make from B7 characters? Travichyssoise?
>
> <howl of laughter from Mistral>
>
> Oooooh, Joanne. Almost as good as the filk (I think it's Judith's):
> Soup of Cally, leg of Tarrant, Avon's little toasties...
Ah yes. (fond memories) We made that one up over dinner. <grin>
"...They may think that they can cook, but you'll get hallitosis..."
Kathryn A.
--
_--_|\ | Kathryn Andersen <kat@welkin.apana.org.au>
/ \ | http://home.connexus.net.au/~kat
\_.--.*/ | #include "standard/disclaimer.h"
v |
------------| Melbourne -> Victoria -> Australia -> Southern Hemisphere
Maranatha! | -> Earth -> Sol -> Milky Way Galaxy -> Universe
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 15:59:19 PDT
From: "Joanne MacQueen" <j_macqueen@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Dayna( was scripts)
Message-ID: <19990420225919.2727.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
>My usual rationale is that it was a teenage crush and not an actual >romance. Either that or hal Mellanby would have shot Justin if he'd >found out what was goin on...
>Judith
<wail of horror> Judith! Oh no. Now I have to stop the Cher song "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" running through my head all day. Although the title may be appropriate to B7, now that I think of it...
Regards
Joanne
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 16:05:48 PDT
From: "Joanne MacQueen" <j_macqueen@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish
Message-ID: <19990420230548.57712.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Sally wrote:
>Avon singing in the bathtub...lovely idea, Sarah, but *what*?
"Rubber Ducky", a la Ernie, perhaps? Or is it too far beneath the man's dignity?
Regards
Joanne
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------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 17:21:43 -0600
From: Penny Dreadful <egomoo@mail.geocities.com>
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Time (was Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron))
Message-Id: <3.0.6.32.19990420172143.0082d880@mail.geocities.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
At 08:01 AM 4/20/99 -0700, mistral@ptinet.net wrote:
>Hmm. Hal Mellanby brought Dayna from Earth to Saren
>about twenty years before Aftermath. Makes it sound like he
>thinks the war was maybe six or eight years long. I don't dispute
>that; but I do wonder where he came up with it from?
People have claimed time-dilation effects at superlightspeed, resulting in
less time passing for the crew of the speedy Liberator than for more the
stationary citizens of the galaxy. A la sublightspeed relativistic time
dilation I gather. (But no-one's explained how this is supposed to work,
even in Sci-Fi Physics terms.)
In which case it's possible six years could have passed on Sarran while say
six months elapsed on the Liberator as they flew around really fast zapping
aliens.
(Trying to think logically about FTL gives me a headache, but I can't help
trying to come up with *some* lame rationalization, just so I can pretend
to myself that any story involving FTL isn't Fantasy...no, that's not quite
true, I really have nothing against Fantasy. I'm just obsessive-compulsive.)
>Almost makes you wish they had stardates at the beginning of
>the eps, doesn't it? Nah..........
I never could make head or tail of those Star Trek stardates.
--Penny "Let's Not Do The Time Warp Again" Dreadful
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 17:25:21 -0600
From: Penny Dreadful <egomoo@mail.geocities.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish
Message-Id: <3.0.6.32.19990420172521.007c2540@mail.geocities.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
At 03:40 AM 4/20/99 PDT, Sally Manton wrote:
>Avon singing in the bathtub...lovely idea, Sarah, but *what*?
The same song we *all* sing in the shower, of course. Those of us who sing
in the shower, that is.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 01:02:09 +0100
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila
Message-ID: <013c01be8b94$0a03e280$cd17ac3e@default>
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Joanne wrote:
+AD4-Getting close to lunch in Sydney (yes, I know, a disgusting thought now).
What else could you make from B7 characters? Travichyssoise? No, that's
tempting fate, (isn't it, Penny?), but it happened to be the first thing to
cross my mind. There is a recipe in the archives for a Crispy Avon Sandwich,
but I can't remember the details now.
Subscribers to the now-deceased AltaZine may recall Del Tarrant's Deep Space
Cookbook, 'full of mouth-watering recipes that will really make your mouth
water.' Some samples...
BAYBAN BOUILLABAISE
You need a fresh Bayban for this so get to Keezarn right now before he
starts getting niffy. Peel him, gut him, gouge his eyes out, stick hot pins
under his fingernails, place electrodes on his nipples and turn up the
voltage, all the while telling him that this'll teach the egotistical
bastard to forget meeting a dashing blade of a pilot in the prime of his
youth, and generally show him who's boss. Then turn him into a soup.
AURONSTORTE TELEPATHISCHE
It might seem a bit drastic, turning Cally into a tart, but it's really
quite simple. Take an unsuspecting Cally and decorate with scarlet
lipstick, lots of mascara, a tight leather miniskirt and the highest heels
you can lay your hands on. Apply needle tracks to arms and leave overnight
under a street lamp near Kings Cross. Chances are she won't have much truck
with this, but it leaves one person less to back Avon up when I assert my
rightful authority over the ship.
ZEN TIKKA (WITH SILICON CHIPS)
Take your Zen and grill thoroughly for an hour (with questions like, 'How
can I get sole voice control of all ship systems' and 'Could you pump all
the air out of Avon's cabin while he's asleep'). When that doesn't work,
baste with napalm and jump up and down on the charred remains. Then go and
sulk in a corner.
AVON A L'ORANGE
In theory this is one of the easiest recipes you could hope for, but in
practice it's surprisingly difficult. there are two stages to this one -
1) Tie Avon face down over the back of a chair and pull his trousers down.
2) Hammer a large Shamouti up his catflap.
Make sure you do them in the right order or there'll be hell to pay.
Neil
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 01:11:39 +0100
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Message-ID: <013e01be8b94$0c13d6c0$cd17ac3e@default>
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Stephen, replying to Tor, wrote:
>Well I liked Sarcophagus !
Me too. Definitely in my Top Five.
< I think Power would have been a good story
>if it had been about a conflict between the local Barbarians and the
>local high-technological faction, with our heroes caught in the
>middle instead of the usual Ben Steed "Women, know your limits"
>wittering.
Which makes me wonder - suppose the women were the primitive society, and
the male society was all high tech ... Whose side would Steed have been on
then?
>When ever there's a film on and someone throws herself at the
>middle aged hero I often wonder "How does he do it ?" The answer is
>usually found in the words Written/ Directed/ Produced by.....the
>middle aged actor playing the hero. Am I being excessively cynical
>here ?
You can never be too cynical.
Neil
http://homepages.tesco.net/~N.Faulkner
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 02:11:28 +0100
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Re: How big are the Liberator and Scorpio?
Message-ID: <014001be8b94$0d745120$cd17ac3e@default>
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Joanne wrote:
+AD4-Out of curiosity, where would Dinsdale have fitted into it?
Could this be a promising direction for the projected telemovie? 'Blake's
7 - The Quest for Dinsdale'.
I can just envisage the opening credits - swirling starscape, epic
Horneresque rendition of the series theme tune, then suddenly cut to wafty
tinkle-bell music and cute little Eric Idle song, viz -
So you wonder what the future might be holding
For that form of life they call the human race,
And what kind of epic tales might be unfolding
When we fin'lly make the jump to outer space.
Will we see a Golden Age of mighty empires?
Will our true apotheosis start to dawn?
Or will those countless worlds be filled with billions upon billions
Feeling glum and wishing that they'd not been born?
Cut to drifting starfield, deep throbbing subliminal music intended to evoke
awe and wonder. Subtitle ripples in to fill the screen:
STAR SECTOR 4
Fade out, equally large subtitle fades in:
STANDARD GALACTIC TIME-POINT 77/3z-beta 1090
and then:
JUST BEFORE BEDTIME
Subliminal throbbing grows to mighty rumble as enormous starship trundles
overhead, lots of shots of huge thrusters and bristling guns. Then cut to
flight deck - very dark and squalid. Two hunchbacked aliens looking not
unlike Klingons are licking their styrofoam foodtrays clean. Despite the
multiple layers of latex they are still recognisable as Michael Palin and
Eric Idle. A deafening ripping sound echoes around the control chamber.
1ST ALIEN (Palin) - Have you gone and farted again?
2ND ALIEN (Idle, naturally) - I never.
1ST ALIEN - You did.
2ND ALIEN - Didn't.
1ST ALIEN - Don't try and deny it, humanbreath.
2ND ALIEN - I never did.
Another loud ripping sound.
1ST ALIEN - Hah - see? You did.
2ND ALIEN - Oh, I did that time, yeah. But not the time before that. That
was the deep space alarm.
1ST ALIEN - The deep space alarm?
2ND ALIEN - The deep space alarm. We must be coming up on another ship.
1ST ALIEN - What, out here? +AFs-Checking detector readouts+AF0- Oh. You're
right. +AFs-Pause+AF0- So what do we do, then?
2ND ALIEN - I don't know, do I?
1ST ALIEN (counting on his fingers before happily reaching conclusion) - We
could sort of ... blow it up.
2ND ALIEN (by now distinctly camp) - I really think we ought to see who it
is first.
1ST ALIEN - Aw, come on. We haven't blown anything up for .... ooooh...
2ND ALIEN (growing camper by the second as he settles in his chair, clears
away debris on console, etc) - Unidentified spacecraft, unidentified
spacecraft, this is the Varzon battle cruiser 'Pegasus Angel', please ident-
1ST ALIEN - Oi, no. None of that.
2ND ALIEN - None of what?
1ST ALIEN - I thought we'd agreed - we are NOT calling this ship the
'Pegasus Angel'.
1ST ALIEN - I happen to like it.
2ND ALIEN - I don't care if you bleedin' like it. We're a bleedin' battle
cruiser. We ought to be called the VSS Cometblaster or something, not the
Pegasus bleedin' Angel.
Comm screen suddenly flickers into life. It is filled with the face of
someone who is clearly meant to be Servalan, but is equally clearly John
Cleese wearing a wig.
SERVALAN (in best Whitehall accent) - I hope you've got a good explanation
for all this.
2ND ALIEN - Sorry dearie, just a routine patrol check.
1ST ALIEN - That's right. A 'routine check' before we let rip with all
blasters and turn you into bleedin' history.
SERVALAN (sotto voce) - Oh dear. Precisely the kind of irritating encounter
I had hoped to avoid on this flight. (To the aliens) Well, I'm extremely
sorry, but I'm afraid it's YOU who will have to move out of MY way, or I
instruct my pilot to reduce the pair of you to atoms.
The aliens promptly fall about laughing.
1ST ALIEN - Hah, that's a good 'un. Reduce us to atoms, eh?
2ND ALIEN - You tell her, Reg.
1ST ALIEN - You don't have the bleedin' firepower to do that.
SERVALAN - I'm afraid I do.
2ND ALIEN - You never.
SERVALAN (quietly stubborn, as only Cleese can be) - I think you'll find I
have.
1ST ALIEN - You're having us on.
SERVALAN - No, really. Sometimes even I am left awestruck by the sheer
level of devastating lethality I can unleash with a single word of command.
2ND ALIEN - Reduce us to atoms. Honestly...
1ST ALIEN - Now look 'ere, 'duckie'. Have you got any idea how many
kilojoules it takes to reduce the complex molecules of an organic being down
to a level of constituent atomic unity?
2ND ALIEN (suddenly pensive) - She probably could do that to the soft
tissues, Reg.
1ST ALIEN - The soft tissues? Well (thinking hard) ... yeah. I mean, the
soft tissues, yeah. The soft tissues go without saying, don't they? But
what about the cartilage, eh? What about the compact bone?
2ND ALIEN - She might be able to do that and all.
1ST ALIEN - No, no, no. It stands to bleedin' reason, don't it? Any solid
tissue with that percentage of inorganic calcinic content is going to
require a consistently higher input of catabolic energy in order to sever
the covalent bonds that hold it together.
2ND ALIEN - Surely it's ionic bonding in an inorganic lattice structure.
1ST ALIEN - Well, whatever. But either way, it stands to bleedin' reason
that she can't just go and reduce all of our composite tissues to -
2ND ALIEN - Reg?
1ST ALIEN - What now?
2ND ALIEN (pointing to blank screen) - She's buggered off...
Will we venture forth in mighty gleaming spaceships,
Go to planets where no man has been before?
Make new friends with our galactic next-door neighbours,
Or through sad misunderstanding go to war?
Will we listen to the sage advice they give us,
Learn the secrets of the cosmic universe,
Or will we come to see, that however strange they may be
Underneath it all they're just the same as us...
Neil
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 01:06:06 +0100
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] tests and "suckerdom"
Message-ID: <013d01be8b94$0af67fe0$cd17ac3e@default>
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Joanne wrote:
>I claim victimhood. I started at the top of what was in the in-box and kept
going, and so I didn't know there was someone testing. Sally Manton, Stephen
Date, anyone else on Hotmail - same for you?
Er ... isn't this how people get Melissaed?
Neil
http://homepages.tesco.net/~N.Faulkner
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 01:19:17 +0100
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Message-ID: <013f01be8b94$0cc350a0$cd17ac3e@default>
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Mistral wrote:
+ADw-Hmm. Hal Mellanby brought Dayna from Earth to Saren
about twenty years before Aftermath. Makes it sound like he
thinks the war was maybe six or eight years long. I don't dispute
that+ADs- but I do wonder where he came up with it from?+AD4-
Justin's genetic engineering team were sent to Bucol-2 six years before the
Andromedan invasion, when Dayna would have been about 14. So any tutoring
(read that how you will) he gave her must have been before then.
Personally I'm glad that Jan Chappell was out of it by the time they made
Animals, so sparing Cally the ignominious fate of being in that dismal
episode. And what would the prior Justin/Cally relationship have been
anyway? Even if their paths had crossed in the past, they would have been on
opposite sides.
Neil
http://homepages.tesco.net/+AH4-N.Faulkner
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 02:17:25 +0100
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish
Message-ID: <014701be8b94$b83738c0$cd17ac3e@default>
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Penny wrote:
+AD4-At 03:40 AM 4/20/99 PDT, Sally Manton wrote:
+AD4-
+AD4APg-Avon singing in the bathtub...lovely idea, Sarah, but +ACo-what+ACo-?
+AD4-
+AD4-The same song we +ACo-all+ACo- sing in the shower, of course. Those of us who sing
+AD4-in the shower, that is.
What, 'New York, New York'? Oh dear what a giveaway...
Neil
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 18:38:36 PDT
From: "Joanne MacQueen" <j_macqueen@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila
Message-ID: <19990421013836.92696.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Neil wrote:
>1) Tie Avon face down over the back of a chair and pull his trousers down.
1) That'll get Julia's attention, no problem.
>2) Hammer a large Shamouti up his catflap.
<puzzled> 2) What on on earth (or off it) is a shamouti? (Or is it better not to ask? Reply or not, according to appropriateness.)
>Make sure you do them in the right order or there'll be hell to pay.
Well, that bit wasn't hard to understand, though I humbly suggest there'd be hell to pay regardless.
Regards
Joanne
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