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blakes7-d Digest Volume 99 : Issue 141
Today's Topics:
[B7L] Flat Robin 42 - Part 3 of 4
Re: [B7L] Re: Brian Lighthill Chat
Re: [B7L] Telemovie
Re: [B7L] Orac
Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant
Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila
[B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant
[B7L] Singing in the Bath
Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
[B7L] Orbit v Shakespeare
Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant
Re: [B7L] Orbit v Shakespeare
Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
RE: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
[B7L]Orac
Re: [B7L] Singing in the Bath
Re: [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish
Re: [B7L] Shamoutis
[B7L] The Syndeton Experiment - review
Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Re: [B7L]Orac
[B7L] The Syndeton Experiment - thoughts
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 22:26:42 -0600
From: Arkaroo <woollard@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin 42 - Part 3 of 4
Message-ID: <371D5382.3DE@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca>
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***
The atmosphere inside The Jeremy Vellum-Pilkington Memorial Theatre[6]
was, in contrast, positively crypt-like. An advanced system of fans and
tunnels that circulated air around the vast blocks of ice stored in the
sub-basement kept the temperature within the theatre only a few degrees
above freezing, the theory being that a hypothermic audience is less
likely to walk out of a performance than a sweaty, itching one.
In front of the stage, clad in a fur parka, director/playwright Evander
Cravat-Lodger was overseeing the final preparations towards the
performance of his magnum opus. In only a few short hours his newest
musical masterpiece 'Fur' would have its opening night -- and 'Fur' was
the play that could either firmly establish his reputation as an
impressario by succeeding, or would reduce him to the status of
contraceptives salesman at a eunuch's convention with its failure. So,
understandably, he was nervous. He sat in front of the stage with an
enormous clipboard on his lap, anxiously chewing on his assistant's
fingernails and drinking herbal tea[7] by the pitcher.
He looked back at his theatrical history with no small amount of pride.
He had started out simply enough, as the backdrop painter and prop
wrangler at the Republican Academy of the Useless Arts. There, he had
built his reputation slowly, carefully polishing and revising such
grammar-school staples as 'Billy Bumberly Learns About Sharing' and
'Klatchians Are Like You and Me' into obtuse and terrifying explorations
of madness and depravity. The dean, impressed with Cravat-Lodger's
technical skill and his ferocious concern with alienating the audience,
gave Cravat-Lodger free-reign in single-handedly producing and directing
a play of his choice. Ebullient with the opportunity to wholly express
himself, he had gone looking for a suitable script immediately, hacking
his way through the literary community in his search for perfection.
After several months of fruitless effort he unexpectedly found himself
in the presence of 'Cucumber' Fitzwilliams, the esteemed author of the
self-help manual 'I'm Okay, You Suck'. After a fortnight of dedicated
stalking and harassment he convinced Fitzwilliams to write the play.
The original script had been a drawing-room farce called 'Where's My
Codpiece?'. Cravat-Lodger had felt some misgivings about the frothiness
inherent in the script and had made several drastic alterations,
changing the setting from Ankh-Morpork to Klatch and adding more
speaking parts for well-endowed dowagers.
But when the script came back from the printer it had been inexplicably
renamed to 'Master Figgler... and the Girls' and the story had mutated
into a treatise on social injustice written in a thick, unintelligible
Maulish dialect. Well aware that shallowly written studies of social
injustice and big box-office sales were mutually exlusive, he retreated
into his filthy garret for three days and emerged with the final rewrite
-- the play, now a musical, was renamed 'The Pirates of No-Pants', and
it had become an all-nude tale of piracy and rather questionable
wrestling scenes set on the high-seas.
Made on a shoe-string budget, with a cast composed entirely of vagrants
and escapees from madhouses, 'Pirates' was widely reviled by the critics
but adored by the public, who turned the song 'Is That A Dolphin In Your
Pantaloons Or Are You Merely Delighted At My Presence?' into a city-wide
hit, delighting the listening public and crippling those bards who
attempted to reach all 12 octaves necessary to sing the full chorus.
After 'Pirates' he'd fallen onto hard times -- he was forcibly removed
from his position at the Academy after vicious rumours about his illicit
but nonetheless heartfelt passion for the school mascot[8] began to
circulate. Shunned by the theatrical world, he dropped out of normal
society and started drinking heavily in 'The Shades', slumming amongst
the undead underbelly of Ankh-Morpork in his downward spiral. Even while
he was numbing his brain drinking spirits with Spirits, ideas for new
productions came to him -- his collection of coasters covered with
amusing lyrics grew exponentially. He became revered by the regular
denizens of the Shades, who admired both his artistic vision and his
understanding attitude towards coffins and sunlight. So, when the local
undead community started a theatrical troupe, there was little doubt in
the undead minds as to whom they wanted as their leader. So, after two
years of debauchery and stagnation, Cravat-Lodger became the
stage-manager for the Ankh-Morpork Undead Theatre Troupe.
Any misgivings he may have had about directing the undead had been put
to rest after the production of Chester Ramsbottom's 'More Miserables'.
From that point on life for him became a flurry of touring, as the
Troupe worked furiously to establish their reputation. And now, after
months of preparation, he found himself only hours away from the
beginning or end of his new career.
So far there had been little difficulty with the physical aspects of the
production. The regrettable incident with the newly purchased
sodium-halide floodlights and the (former) vampire chorus had, after a
rigorous campaign of bribery and glad-handing (and no little work with
the broom and dustpan), been dealt with admirably. The non-physical
aspects, on the other hand, were not nearly as copacetic. He swigged a
tankard of tea and stared around anxiously.
The stage had been set for a final run-through of the dance routines and
and special-effects -- such run-throughs were always invaluable in
exposing little glitches, like the small mechanical defect that
invariably caused the inflatable mongoose to inflate prematurely in the
first act. He clapped his hands, and various technicians began to scurry
about on stage.
"Excuse me, sir," whispered a bespectacled stage-hand, nervously
clutching a large cage of rats. "We have a slight problem with Mister
Cruncher."
"Tell me something I don't know," muttered Cravat-Lodger. During the
last two weeks of pre-production, Staff Sergeant N.T. Cruncher (ret.),
Ankh-Morpork's most feared thespian and the star of 'Fur', had been
making the other actors lives a living (or, for the more dead members of
the cast, an unliving) hell. Everything anyone did inspired long bouts
of verbal assault and physical mayhem -- whether it was complaints about
the salt-pork sandwiches that no-one could make to his satisfaction, the
constant stream of anti-Omnian/anti-Klatchian epithets that emerged from
his mouth unceasingly, or his 'humorous' replacement of the chilled
blood in the ice-box with holy-water, Cruncher had succeeded in
antagonizing every single member of the cast simultaneously.
No doubt, the fact that he constantly and unceasingly drank raw-alcohol
martinis with gloves of garlic in the place of olives also added to his
abrasive personality. All in all, it was quite remarkable that he had
survived this long in a venue where 'death-by-falling-sandbag' was
considered a 'natural' death.
The sound of the stage-hand clearing his throat brough Cravat-Lodger
back out of his reverie. "It's something new," said the stage-hand. "You
know how Mister Cruncher says he doesn't like working with the undead?"
"Yes, I believe I've been treated to that particular tirade on more than
one occasion. Good gods, didn't he *know* about us before he joined?"
asked Cravat-Lodger rhetorically. "I mean, we *are* called the Undead
Theatre Troupe, and you'd think that would be a dead giveaway, to coin a
phrase."
"Yes, but he says he thought you meant the Unemployed, not the Undead.
Anyways, he's been wandering around backstage today saying that the
undead smell bad. Of course, he told me that the unemployed also smell
bad, but not *as* bad. One of the banshee baritones tried to speak up,
but Mister Cruncher did something unmentionable to him with the cold
cuts. Anyways, the crux of the matter is that he says he wants you to
make the rest of the troupe wear little scented pine-trees around their
necks."
"He doesn't smell so good himself, gods know. What sort of person would
think that turpentine makes a good cologne?" he asked rhetorically,
twisting a copy of the script in his hands nervously. "If he wasn't the
number-one box-office draw in Ankh-Morpork, I'd... What's your name,
lad?"
"Ignatius Peril-Rodent," said the stage-hand, pointing to the laminated
badge hanging around his neck. "I'm the rat-wrangler for the conclusion
of the third-act. 'Send in the Vermin', remember?"
"Right, the dancing rats. Good work, that is. Very impressive. With
regards to Mister Cruncher, I'd like you to..."
"Oi! Thick-ears!" bellowed a voice from the stage. Cravat-Lodger winced
instinctively, and looked up. Stalking across the stage towards him,
avoiding a plummeting sandbag with graceful disdain, was N.T. Cruncher,
three time winner of the Ankh-Morpork Dinner Theatre/Unarmed Combat
Awards and a criminal in his own right. Hopping from the stage, the
actor walked towards Cravat-Lodger with violence in his eyes and a
half-empty bottle of 'Sozzled Watchman Gin' in his hand.
"Hello, Mister Cruncher," sighed the director, massaging his temples.
Cruncher sniffed him experimentally.
"Do you really fink that an *actor* of my calibre should be required to
share the stage with a bunch of moldering, buck-toothed neck-nibblers
'oo smell like rancid figs?" snarled Cruncher, spit flying from his
mouth. "Do you really?"
"Quite sorry about the... the smell, Mister Cruncher," said
Cravat-Lodger, swallowing his distaste. "You'll be delighted to know
that we have another 'un-undead' actor coming in today to fill the role
of 'Lord Bevington of Maul'. I'm sure you'll get along famously with
him, haha."
"I fought we already 'ad a Lord Bevington?" muttered Cruncher sullenly.
He took a long and noisy swig from his bottle.
"I'm afraid the former Lord Bevington is still recovering from being
forcibly inserted into the lead sousaphone by person or persons
unknown," replied Cravat-Lodger.
Cruncher smiled. Peril-Rodent jumped backwards at the sudden expanse of
reddened gums and lodged green peppercorns. "Oh, I forgot about that.
Tragic, really," Cruncher said, throwing the empty bottle over his
shoulder where it smashed on a janitor.
"By the way, Peril-Rodent," asked the director, turning away from
Cruncher. "When *is* Mister Stefan Sorrow arriving?"
As the last syllable of the sentence left his mouth, Cravat-Lodger felt
himself being picked up by the lapels with astonishing speed. He turned
his gaze forwards and looked up into the Cruncher's clenched white
features. "When is *who* arriving, you filfy little man?" hissed
Cruncher, rattling the director from side to side.
"Ste-ste-fa-fan So-so-ro-row," rattled Cravat-Lodger, pens and small
black cigarillos flying from his pockets.
"I fought you said that," grunted Cruncher, dropping the slightly addled
director onto the floor. "I don't get along with him, you know." Turning
on his heel, he paced away from Cravat-Lodger's crumpled form and stared
off into the rows of empty seats.
Cravat-Lodger got to his feet slowly, trying not to moan at the pain in
his coccyx. He stared sadly at his crushed megaphone. A tentative hand
tapped him on the shoulder as Cruncher stalked further away. "Um, by the
way, sir," said Peril-Rodent. "Some of the rats don't want to wear the
tutus. Or the slippers."
"Don't be ridiculous," Ignatius replied absent-mindedly, as he attempted
to straighten his megaphone. "Rats love ballet. It's high culture --
rats *love* high culture."
"Quite so. However, they've taken a vote. They want to wear clogs and do
the scene as a step-dancing routine. Here, you can ask their leader." He
held out a disgruntled looking rat to the director. A small velvet beret
was perched precariously atop its pointy little head. It stared at
Cravat-Lodger with a haughty expression.
"I'm not even a proper rat," said the rat, sniffing with disdain. "But
even if I was, I wouldn't wear this bloody thing." It gestured at the
little pink tutu with a grubby appendage. "I'm a highly-placed miltary
official -- and military officials *never* wear tutus. "
A small rattish cough emerged from the cage in Peril-Rodent's hand.
"Excepting the occasional Christmas party."
Another cough came from the cage, along with several muffled giggles.
"And Naval exercises. Look, that was a long time ago. I was cleared on
all charges, right?" said the rat, its facade of dignity slipping
slightly. "Anyways, we won't wear them frilly pink ghastlies, and you
*can't* make us."
Cravat-Lodger snatched the rat from Peril-Rodent's hands. He held the
rodent up to eye-level and stared into its little face with a horribly
dead expression. The rat looked taken aback. "You *will* wear the
bleeding things, and prance about like slugs on a salted griddle, and
you'll *like* it," hissed Cravat-Lodger through clenched teeth. He
prodded the rat in its fat little belly. "Otherwise you'll find out what
the Dwarvish Plumbers Union make their toilet brushes out of. Capiche?"
"No need to get violent, sir," said the rat sycophantically. "I was
merely trying to participate in the artistic process, haha. Prancing,
you say? We can do prancing."
"Hello all!" bellowed a cheerful voice from the stage doors.
Cravat-Lodger dropped the rat and looked over his shoulder in time to
see Cruncher slink into the shadows behind the curtains. A dapper,
youthful looking figure wearing a sensible grey-tweed suit walked in
through the stage-door. His hair, apparently still his own, was
jet-black and full-bodied, and he carried a large metal suitcase. He
looked around the wide expanse of the Theatre and smiled happily. He
turned to Cravat-Lodger and grasped his hand firmly. "Gibbet-Ledger, old
chap, I haven't seen you since that scandal with the vegetable
shortening and the alabaster albatross. How've you been since then?"
"Ah, the rash cleared up in no time, and they dropped the charges. I
really can't express how delighted I am to see you on such short
notice," said the nervous director. "I should really warn you, however,
that Mister Cruncher..."
"Ahh, Mister Cruncher. A decidedly fine chap -- I had the pleasure of
working with him, briefly, back in my public-school days. He was my
understudy in our production of 'Billy and the Super-Fantastic Seven'. I
was cast in the role of Stoat-Impaler Brevis, the devilishly clever
Sea-Commander of the Imperial army. I got to sing 'Duelling in the Sun
is Fun' in the first act, which invariably brought the house down." He
sighed theatrically. "Alas, I broke my arm in an unfortunate croquet
accident, and he got the chance to try on the role for the rest of the
season. You know, I never really could *see* him as Brevis. Too oily and
psychopathic, and he reeked of sardines. Poor bugger never could carry a
tune, either."
Stefan Sorrow looked around, then pulled Cravat-Lodger close. "I hear
he's aged like an apple dipped in alum," whispered Sorrow
conspiratorially. "Is that true? He never was much of a looker, but if
he's gone that decrepit, then I think you'd better smear the mirrors
with squid-jelly, know what I mean?"
"Ooooh!" howled a voice from backstage. Cravat-Lodger looked up in time
to see Cruncher swinging down from the lighting platform on a rope, with
a plaster gnome clutched aggressively in his right hand. Letting go of
the rope at its perigee, he flew forwards and walloped into Stefan
Sorrow's chest. The younger-looking man hurtled backwards into the
orchestra pit.
"A dried apple, am I?" asked Cruncher. "And whose fault is that --
'Don't worry, Cruncher,' you said. 'It's only a little spell to keep me
young, Cruncher old pal. I just need your blood and fingernails as a
magical garnish, Crunchy.' You've been sucking my life away with that
spell, haven't you? That's why I've aged so quickly, isn't it?"
"You've aged like that because you never stopped drinking those
embalming-fluid cocktails," said Sorrow angrily, rising from the mass of
dented cymbals and flattened trumpets. "Whereas I've retained my boyish
good looks through a steady regimen of self-aggrandization and the
adrenal glands of small, Maul-dwelling rodents."
"Give me back my youth!" bellowed Cruncher. He thundered towards Sorrow,
holding the plaster gnome above his head aggresively. With lightning
quickness Sorrow kicked Cruncher's legs out from under him and flew at
his throat with claw-like hands. Cruncher rolled out of the way and
leaped onto the stage. A sand-bag thundered from the ceiling onto the
stage beside him as Sorrow threw himself after Cruncher.
Back and forth rolled the two actors, from one side of the stage to the
other, with fists and curses flying outwards in a dizzying flurry.
Cravat-Lodger peered at the flailing mass from his vantage point behind
the first row, ducking as the occasional piece of scenery came whizzing
towards his head.
Finally, with a animalian grunt and well placed knee, Cruncher threw the
younger-looking actor aside and rolled to his feet. Reaching into his
boot, he pulled out a long knife and whipped it at Stefan's head. The
black-haired actor easily deflected the thrown blade with the plaster
gnome, and then he tackled Cruncher, driving him onto the floorboards.
The forgotten knife zipped into the darkness offstage, eventually coming
to a quivering
rest in the end of a long-forgotten wooden lever. As Sorrow and Cruncher
attempted to crack the floorboards with each others skulls, the lever
squeaked sadly as the weight of the blade dragged it downwards with
agonizing slowness.
With a loud crash, a trap-door beneath the grappling forms of Cruncher
and Sorrow opened up, dropping them into the storage area under the
stage where, unfortunately, the props for the previous season's
production of 'Our Town Surrounded by Pointed Sticks' had been stored.
An ominous silence, broken only by soft dripping noises, rolled out from
the inky aperture like a funeral march played on a calliope.
Cravat-Lodger clambered onto the stage and looked into the opened
trap-door mournfully. He turned to Peril-Rodent. "I guess we have no
choice. Get one of the lads to find Colonel Persnickety and tell him
he's hired."
"Right, sir," replied Peril-Rodent, looking into the pit with horrified
fascination. "Um, where would we find him?"
"Look for the milling crowds of adoring acolytes and large numbers of
wig vendors," said Cravat-Lodger. He flipped through the pages of his
clipboard and excamined his checklist. The costumes were fine -- those
holes could be sewn up in no time. He wouldn't have to spring for the
vampire's lunch platter, either, assuming the former stars didn't leak
anymore. He shrugged philosophically; things could have been worse --
they could have landed on *this* season's props.
"Right -- wigs and fanatics," said Peril-Rodent. "What should we say
happened?"
"Tell him the previous actors dropped out at the last minute."
"That was uncalled for, sir."
---
[6] Immediately after the naming of the theatre, the titular Mr.
Vellum-Pilkington sold all of his Ankh-Morpork assets and moved to the
countryside, taking the name as a warm but thinly-veiled signal from the
local business community to take early retirement before early
retirement took him.
[7] 'Sleepy Shogg's Blissful Stupor Blend' herbal tea -- a potent
mixture of belladonna, valerian root, and whatever interesting plants
the employees found growing outside the factory.
[8] The school's mascot was one 'Marcus the Melodramatic Marmot', and
his stuffed corpse had been on display in the Academy's lobby for almost
thirty-five years.
------------------------------
Date: Sat, 17 Apr 1999 16:38:51 +0000
From: "Reuben Herfindahl" <reuben@reuben.net>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Re: Brian Lighthill Chat
Message-Id: <199904210452.XAA18309@athena.host4u.net>
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>From: "Dangermouse" <master@sol.co.uk>
>To: "Julia Jones" <julia.lysator@jajones.demon.co.uk>, <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
>Subject: Re: Fw: [B7L] Re: Brian Lighthill Chat
>Date: Sat, Apr 17, 1999, 11:54 AM
>
>> Of course, if they keep Paul Darrow from having anything to do with the
>> script, and get Chris Boucher to write it, we may be on to a winner.
>> Otherwise I fear it will be Dr Who telemovie all over again.
>
>Oh, it'll be worse than that. The Who movie was at least a reasonable SF
>TVM, even if wasn't quite Dr Who, and could have used a more coherent plot.
>What's being described here would just be an incestuous fanwank mess
>foisted upon us by talentless egos who think they know better than
>everybody else, and who tell us we should be grateful for any old crap.
>
The bit that worries me is that it is an independent production outside of
the BBC, so when people forward there concerns to the beeb, it'll be pretty
much worthless. (Although if they were producing this and got our concerns
they'd probably ignore it anyway.)
>Speaking as a professional who's done Dr Who, DS9 and Voyager, I say they
>should at least have the professional decency to look back at the whole of
>series, and at least try to work out what people liked about it. As opposed
>to just doing a one-dimensional caricature of the last couple of episodes,
>which seems to be all they can remember....
>
Speaking as someone who's enjoyed your work, I'd love to see them recruit
someone with your level of talent, appreciation and understanding of the
series into the script.
Or at least get Chris Boucher in on this. I'd love to be optimistic, but my
mind keeps flashing back to Avon:A Terrible Aspect and cringing.
Reuben
>--
>"When two hunters go after the same prey they usually end up shooting each
>other in the back - and we don't want to shoot each other in the back, do
>we?"
>
>http://members.aol.com/vulcancafe
>-------
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 17:46:59 -0700
From: mistral@ptinet.net
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Telemovie
Message-ID: <371D2003.213421E5@ptinet.net>
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Ellynne G. wrote:
> Or at least don't have Avon's father build the pyramids.
This first brought up in my mind the idea that you could nicely
start a new version of B7 by having Darrow, Keating, etc.
playing their original character's parents, and bring in new
people to replace them as our heroes.
Then I realized, given all the parameters involved, even the
mere whiff of such an idea is dangerous. They might simply
turn the new telemovie into a film of Avon: A Terrible Aspect.
<grin>
I vote for wigs, corsets, lots of makeup and computer
manipulation.... and Barry Letts.
<grin>
Mistral
--
"And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 17:48:42 -0700
From: mistral@ptinet.net
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Orac
Message-ID: <371D2069.6694B0A8@ptinet.net>
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Judith Proctor wrote:
> It just struck me that Ensor exaggerated somewhat about Orac's abilities.
>
> If Orac was that good at predicting things, how come he didn't predict that
> Servalan would try to cheat Ensor?
Silly Judith ;) Ensor didn't ask!
Grins,
Mistral
--
"And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 18:53:10 -0700
From: mistral@ptinet.net
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Message-ID: <371D2F85.2A97A014@ptinet.net>
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Julia Jones wrote:
> 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.
Well, I was trying to be unbiased. Sean Connery was actually
voted sexiest man alive in some poll a few years back. PD's
appeal is a bit narrower in scope. For which we must be glad.
I can't imagine Sean Connery being able to appear in person
at a con. Hmm... has he done a Highlander con?
Grins,
Mistral
--
"And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 20:52:44 -0700
From: mistral@ptinet.net
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant
Message-ID: <371D4B8C.3246DF56@ptinet.net>
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Judith Proctor wrote:
> Then why dismiss the intent to protect people from verbal abuse as PC rubbish?
> (We'd better take this to private mail if we want to discuss it any further)
Okay, yes. <smile> I wouldn't, however, like anyone on the list
to be left with the impression that I think that it's okay to harrass
anyone -- including children. I don't.
Grins,
Mistral
--
"And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 02:24:13 -0600
From: Penny Dreadful <egomoo@mail.geocities.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila
Message-Id: <3.0.6.32.19990421022413.0084c350@mail.geocities.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
At 06:38 PM 4/20/99 PDT, Joanne MacQueen wrote:
>>2) Hammer a large Shamouti up his catflap.
>
><puzzled> 2) What on on earth (or off it) is a shamouti?
And, do shags eat shamoutis? While sitting in frequent service trees? Golly
gee, if I'd known biological nomenclature could be made to sound so
obscene, I might have stayed awake long enough to pass. Good thing
algebra's eroticism was never so understated.
--Penny "In Bloom" Dreadful
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 08:17:37 +1000
From: Sarah Berry <berrys@connexus.apana.org.au>
To: Lysator List <Blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant
Message-ID: <371CFD01.D33B715B@connexus.apana.org.au>
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>For heaven's sake, why *will* people insist on misinterpreting
what I've said.
'Cos that's what's happens to most people most of the time.
>...What I was doing was drawing a distinction between being
>cruel...and forcing someone to do as you tell them by making
>them fear for their safety.
Aha. Fair enough. I don't entirely agree, but I understand now. Ta.
>Having been arecipient of *both* types of behaviour,
>I *do* in fact feel qualified to have an opinion...
Great to have your opinion, but devastating to have experienced the behaviour.
I don't think anyone is stopping you having your opinion, just not entirely
understanding all the time and not necessarily agreeing. Not agreeing is okay,
it's not automatically a personal attack as people often seem to interpret it on
lists. And you're not alone in experiencing such behaviour. And, luckily,
other people can have an opinion on something without experiencing it. (In
sympathy mode, not patronising, as this could quite easily be interpreted).
>As for the "Words are no more than words" quote...
>all I was saying is that when people restrict themselves to verbal
>slanging you can walk away alive...
This is usually, but not always, true, for instance, 'X sentences Y to death'.
Sarah Berry.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 03:18:44 PDT
From: "Stephen Date" <stephendate@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: [B7L] Singing in the Bath
Message-ID: <19990421101848.81986.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
Avon could have been singing any of the following:
"Paranoid" by Black Sabbath
"I'm Going Slightly Mad" by Queen
"They're Coming to Take Me Away" by Napoleon XIV
"Wasteland" by the Mission
"I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor
Of course, if you want to be really sentimental you can imagine him
singing "Life's a Gas" by T-Rex and thinking of Cally (Aah !)
Stephen.
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 03:47:17 PDT
From: "Stephen Date" <stephendate@hotmail.com>
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Message-ID: <19990421104719.38359.qmail@hotmail.com>
Content-type: text/plain
I asked:
>>Am I being excessively cynical here ?
To which Mistral replied:
>
>Er, yes, actually, either that or jealous ;-)
Well now, (mounts high horse, tethered convieniently near) am I
expected to dignify that with a reply ?
>Sociologically speaking, eligible males generally become more
>valuable as they age, since they tend to acquire power, money,
>poise, etc.: also, men die earlier than women, and western
>society is still predominately slanted toward older man/younger
>woman couples, so there are fewer of what are perceived as
>available men in proportion to available women as people age.
>For these and other reasons, many women are attracted to
>older men.
I am aware of this. And of course, I utterly eschew, abominate,
anathematise and reject ageism. (After all, I've just turned 30).
However, when I see a sex scene between a middle aged man and a
younger attractive woman which has absolutely no relevance to
anything that happened before or after, I incline to the view that it
did not happen in the name of gritty sociological realism.
>Sean Connery is still the sexiest man alive. And from
>what I've been told, PDs not completely unattractive.
You couldn't have got that impression from any of the women on this
list could you ? <veg>
Stephen.
______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 11:54:26 +0100
From: Steve Rogerson <steve.rogerson@MCR1.poptel.org.uk>
To: Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] Orbit v Shakespeare
Message-ID: <371DAE60.3D57B4A@mcr1.poptel.org.uk>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; x-mac-type="54455854"; x-mac-creator="4D4F5353"
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The May issue of Cult Times in the UK has a two page article on Orbit,
which compares the episode's style with that of Shakespeare's.
--
cheers
Steve Rogerson
http://homepages.poptel.org.uk/steve.rogerson
"What is it with you and holes?"
Xena to Gabrielle, Paradise Found
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 04:06:48 -0700
From: mistral@ptinet.net
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant
Message-ID: <371DB147.3E527A6B@ptinet.net>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Sarah Berry wrote:
> I don't think anyone is stopping you having your opinion, just not entirely
> understanding all the time and not necessarily agreeing. Not agreeing is okay,
> it's not automatically a personal attack as people often seem to interpret it on
> lists.
I'm quite sure everybody is tired of this thread, but
having offended against Sarah in public, I owe her a public
apology. I'll try to be brief.
1) I overreacted.
2) I was wrong.
3) I certainly don't think we need to agree about
everything; exchaging ideas is one of the
main reasons I'm here.
4) You're correct that you don't have to experience
things to have a valid (and even informed)
opinion on any given subject. I mentioned
my personal frame of reference *only*
because I felt I'd been told by Judith that I
had no right to an opinion because I didn't
have a frame of reference. I understand now
that that is not what she meant. I also understand
that my frustration about it had nothing to do
with your post. And I certainly didn't mean to
be complaining about my life, which is better
than many people's.
5) Please forgive me.
> >As for the "Words are no more than words" quote...
> >all I was saying is that when people restrict themselves to verbal
> >slanging you can walk away alive...
>
> This is usually, but not always, true, for instance, 'X sentences Y to death'.
Powerful words indeed; and yet not quite what I meant by
verbal slanging :)
Regards,
Mistral
--
"And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 04:14:58 -0700
From: mistral@ptinet.net
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Orbit v Shakespeare
Message-ID: <371DB332.1E379B84@ptinet.net>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
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Steve Rogerson wrote:
> The May issue of Cult Times in the UK has a two page article on Orbit,
> which compares the episode's style with that of Shakespeare's.
Favourably or Un?
Having a Holmes-written Avon-Vila episode mentioned
in the same article with the Bard is a Mistral's delight!
Somebody please tell me about it. Offlist so as not to
spoil everybody else's fun would be fine.
Pretty please?
Mistral
--
"And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 04:31:00 -0700
From: mistral@ptinet.net
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Message-ID: <371DB6F3.21432801@ptinet.net>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
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Stephen Date wrote:
> Well now, (mounts high horse, tethered convieniently near) am I
> expected to dignify that with a reply ?
<grin> You just did, thanks.
> >For these and other reasons, many women are attracted to
> >older men.
>
> I am aware of this. And of course, I utterly eschew, abominate,
> anathematise and reject ageism. (After all, I've just turned 30).
Take heart, then. Another few years and you may be
interesting indeed. <g>
> However, when I see a sex scene between a middle aged man and a
> younger attractive woman which has absolutely no relevance to
> anything that happened before or after, I incline to the view that it
> did not happen in the name of gritty sociological realism.
True. But it might be to please the female audience rather
than the male star. If you want to be cynical, call that
profit-oriented ;) After all, the *average* age of a hero in a
romance novel is ten to fifteen years older than the woman.
Or at least it used to be; I haven't read one in about fifteen
years. Has it changed, ladies?
> >Sean Connery is still the sexiest man alive. And from
> >what I've been told, PDs not completely unattractive.
>
> You couldn't have got that impression from any of the women on this
> list could you ? <veg>
And off-list, as well :)
Grins,
Mistral
--
"And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 08:26:00 -0400
From: "Roberts, Patricia " <Patricia.Roberts@ccmail.l-3com.com>
To: "\"blakes7@lysator.liu.se\" " <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: RE: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Message-Id: <199904211243.OAA21949@samantha.lysator.liu.se>
Content-Type: text/plain
Agree 100%!!!!!!!
Pat
______________________________ Reply Separator
_________________________________
Subject: Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Author: "Julia Jones" [SMTP:julia.lysator@jajones.demon.co.uk] at
L-3COM-CSE
Date: 4/20/99 3:21 PM
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: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 13:51:38 +0100
From: "Julie Horner" <julie.horner@lincolnsoftware.com>
To: <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L]Orac
Message-ID: <01be8bf5$b27f2d00$170201c0@pc23.Fishnet>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Judith said:
>It just struck me that Ensor exaggerated somewhat about Orac's
abilities.
>If Orac was that good at predicting things, how come he didn't predict
that
>Servalan would try to cheat Ensor?
Quite. And another thing I wonder is, what sort of technology did
the computers on Star One use? Because if they used Tarriel
cells, how come Orac couldn't pick up the traffic from Star One
and trace it's source, thus saving Blake and his crew the
effort of racing all over the galaxy looking for it.
Julie Horner
Software Engineer
Lincoln Software
Tel: +44 (0) 1625 616722
Fax: +44(0) 1625 616780
E-mail: julie.horner@lincolnsoftware.com
Web: http://www.lincolnsoftware.com
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 05:46:50 -0700
From: mistral@ptinet.net
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Singing in the Bath
Message-ID: <371DC8BA.6765044D@ptinet.net>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Perhaps Avon likes Elton John.
He could have a nice long bath, starting with:
Love Lies Bleeding in My Hands
segue into:
Madman Across the Water
and towel off humming:
Funeral for A Friend.
Mistral's Evil Twin
--
"And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 10:21:52 EDT
From: Pherber@aol.com
To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se
Subject: Re: [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish
Message-ID: <38745224.244f3900@aol.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
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In a message dated 4/20/99 7:19:06 PM Mountain Daylight Time,
N.Faulkner@tesco.net writes:
> What, 'New York, New York'? Oh dear what a giveaway...
nonono, dear Bubbles would never condescend to sing something so maudlin as
that..."Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" perhaps?
Nina
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 15:29:30 +0100
From: "Neil Faulkner" <N.Faulkner@tesco.net>
To: "lysator" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Shamoutis
Message-ID: <000801be8c03$5f61fb80$7a1aac3e@default>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Joanne asked
><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.)
Don't get too excited. A shamouti is merely a kind of orange. The fruit
packers where I used to work handled tons of the things.
Mind you, they're rather tasty.
Neil
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 15:45:11 +0100
From: Steve Rogerson <steve.rogerson@MCR1.poptel.org.uk>
To: Lysator <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>, Space City <space-city@world.std.com>
Subject: [B7L] The Syndeton Experiment - review
Message-ID: <371DE471.802FBB58@mcr1.poptel.org.uk>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; x-mac-type="54455854"; x-mac-creator="4D4F5353"
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I missed the radio broadcast of The Syndeton Experiment and have spent
the time since then avoiding reading the messages on the list about it.
However, I bought the CD today and here are my views:
First, I thought this was far superior to The Sevenfold Crown. The story
was more coherent and overall the characterisations were better - it was
so nice to see Vila drunk again, though he did seem to have some
remnants of that strange eating disorder that overcame him in TSC.
The one main let down was Angela Bruce's portrayal of Dayna. I thought
the lines she was given were suitable for Dayna, but that her delivery
of them was awful, for an actress I'd go as far as saying lazy - how
much effort would have been needed to at least learnt how to pronounce
Orac.
Paula Wilcox made a much better job of Soolin than last time, mainly
helped by a more fitting script (I think Barry Letts' writing of the two
women is massively improved), despite the uncharacteristic piece of
stupidity when she let the Servalan-controlled Tarrant fool her into
untying him.
Of the new characters, I enjoyed Judy Cornwell's Gaskia the most - very
over the top and a typical B7 guest. She also provided the funniest
moment of the play when she embarrassed Avon, first with the sloppy kiss
and then calling him a "cheeky little sod". However, the general lack of
humour was a bit of a let down - where were all the one-liners? The only
half decent one was Tarrant saying "What could I do with one hand?" I
bet that'll end up as a badge.
I had a few minor gripes, such as federation troopers being called feds
and Orac saying "this Servalan" as if he'd never heard of her before.
Also, since when has boolean algebra been complicated? Tarrant too had
an uncharacteristic bit when he forgot his teleport bracelet - he's much
too professional. Eeek, did I really say that?
These though were more than made up for by the gorgeous scene of Peter
Tuddenham arguing with himself as Orac and Slave (he only gets credited
with Orac on the sleeve) and Servalan's dalek impersonation as she loses
control of the machine. In fact, I thought Jacqueline Pearce did an
excellent job, apart from the silly tantrum when she temporarily lost
control of Tarrant.
Peter Jeffrey's Dr Rossum was an average guest character who had his
moments. Graham Padden's Vledka was too minor a role to really comment.
I also think the BBC are underselling it with such a dull sleeve for the
CD - how about some pictures for the next one? Also, anyone spot the
'deliberate' mistake of the first broadcast date?
In summary, I was a bit wary of this after The Sevefold Crown debacle,
but was pleasantly surprised by what turned out to be a good story, well
acted. Paul Darrow and Michael Keating shone as expected, but there were
significant improvements on the other characters. I am now looking
forward to the next one, and I could even handle another Barry Letts if
he continues in this vain, though like most of us I would prefer to so
see a Chris Boucher written episode set in the first two seasons with
Blake and Travis. Brian Croucher has said he'd be willing to do it, and
I'm sure Gareth Thomas would as well.
Congratulations to the BBC for getting over The Sevenfold Crown and
producing a welcome addition to my B7 collection.
--
cheers
Steve Rogerson
http://homepages.poptel.org.uk/steve.rogerson
"What is it with you and holes?"
Xena to Gabrielle, Paradise Found
------------------------------
Date: 21 Apr 1999 17:47:39 +0200
From: Calle Dybedahl <calle@lysator.liu.se>
To: B7 List <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L] Scripts (was Man of Iron)
Message-ID: <us3e1ugelg.fsf@sara.lysator.liu.se>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
mistral@ptinet.net writes:
> After all, the *average* age of a hero in a romance novel is ten to
> fifteen years older than the woman. Or at least it used to be; I
> haven't read one in about fifteen years. Has it changed, ladies?
In accord with the laws of synchronicity, me and a couple of BOFH
colleagues were discussing exactly this last night over a beer or
seven. Apparently it *has* changed, and the common pattern these days
is that he is only about five years older than she.
--
Calle Dybedahl, Vasav. 82, S-177 52 Jaerfaella,SWEDEN | calle@lysator.liu.se
Truth is stranger than fiction, because fiction has to make sense.
------------------------------
Date: 21 Apr 1999 17:55:23 +0200
From: Calle Dybedahl <calle@lysator.liu.se>
To: <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: Re: [B7L]Orac
Message-ID: <us1zhege8k.fsf@sara.lysator.liu.se>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
"Julie Horner" <julie.horner@lincolnsoftware.com> writes:
> And another thing I wonder is, what sort of technology did the
> computers on Star One use? Because if they used Tarriel cells, how
> come Orac couldn't pick up the traffic from Star One and trace it's
> source
Why would being able to contact a machine necessarily mean that one
can also locate that machine? I can contact the machine that recieves
your mail, but I can only guess about where it's physically located.
When it comes to whatever it is that tarriel cells use to communicate
we don't even know if it's affected by distance or direction at all.
--
Calle Dybedahl, Vasav. 82, S-177 52 Jaerfaella,SWEDEN | calle@lysator.liu.se
Hello? Brain? What do we want for breakfast?
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 11:02:52 -0500
From: Reuben Herfindahl <rherf@tursso.com>
To: "'blakes7@lysator.liu.se'" <blakes7@lysator.liu.se>
Subject: [B7L] The Syndeton Experiment - thoughts
Message-ID: <0F144D2FBA41D211A6A000A0C9DD630D090578@STPNT4>
Content-Type: text/plain;
charset="iso-8859-1"
Well, like Steve, I just received my copy of The Syndeton Experiment.
It seemed quite a bit more Blake's 7ish. Villa got drunk, Dayna was
properly agressive, and Orac and Slave...
The only major quibble I have with it was that it really felt like a
children's program at times. I cringed in horror when I heard the "sloppy
kiss". Uggh, I know it's radio and it's difficult to recreate the sound of
a deep passionate kiss, but dear lord in order to reproduce that sound one
would have to be slobbering all over, and mostly missing the mouth. Also
they missed the subtleties of the sexual tension. Hint at the fact Sleer
brings someone into her bed, but they carried it too far. Subtle is what
was the halmark.
The performances were overall fairly good. A major hats of must go to
Peter. Wow. After all this time, he still has Orac and Slave pegged. You
really can't tell they are the same person, especially when they trade
barbs. Amazing. Also Steven Pacy was amazing. Of all the cast I would say
he managed to preserve the original tone, and style better than anyone. He
also had the best line of the whole episode. What could he do with one
hand, indeed!
It still wasn't perfect, but I would say of Letts four Who and B7 radio
plays, this is by far the best. Even more important, he listened to the
fans input!
Reuben
http://www.reuben.net/blake/
--------------------------------
End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #141
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