As Deanna Troi out of Star Trek said to me mere seconds before I stoved her pretty Tottenham-supporting Betazed bonce in with a length of lead pipe: "I... sense....anger..." Too bloody right I'm angry. I'm so cross I can barely get my clothes on in the right order of a morning; and by the looks of things (peers downwards) I've written some pretty bizarre stuff this week whilst under the influence.
So why the fury? In short, my precious book script failed to come up to the mark. Not to worry, things can be rescued by changing a) the plot b) the characters and c) the white spaces between the words, so all is not lost. And Scary Book II is shaping up rather well, so we'll just see how it goes. What I really want is to be taken on as a highly-paid gag-writer for Jonathan Ross. Anybody out there with clout/free beer, money and sex?
Any road up, it's Thursday, so it must be time for (dramatic chord) the Weekly Vote-o. The descriptions, naturally, may not bear close examination:
* The Raspberry Club: "Deja vu - all over again."
* Father Abraham: "Is that your blood?" "Some of it, yeah."
* Barmy ‘army: "On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero."
* Worst. Gig. Ever: "May I advise against the lady eating clam chowder?"
* Space Dust: "It was beautiful. We were selling rich women their own fat asses back to them."
* Oil: "Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken."
Vote-o! Suggest-o! Send me money-and-stuff-off-my-Amazon-wish-list-o!