Grammar Is Important

"Shouldn't that be search and destroy?"
"Nah, mate. We're actually searching an actual place called Destroy. It's at one end of the Search and Destroy valley."
"That seems a little confusing. What happens if we destroy Destroy?"
"Don't destroy Destroy! How would we search it?"
"We could just search Search instead, and say we searched Destroy."
"We can't search Search."
"Why not?"
"Search was destroyed by people from Destroy. That's why we're here. We're searching Destroy for people the who destroyed Search. Then we'll destroy them."
"So shouldn't that be search and destroy?"

Adventures In Liverpool

The Mersey is wonderful, what the Tyne could be if it really put the effort in. We watched the sun set over it as we sat in Cargo Bar and Grill and ate a truly astonishing amount of seafood. They were doing some kind of promotion that apparently involved giving people far too much expertly-cooked fish, crustaceans and molluscs, and then cackling quietly as its sheer deliciousness forces you to eat it all anyway.  We went in not understanding why the place was so empty, and left having got it completely; everyone who turns up to eat there turns into a seal and swims down the river to start their new life.

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"These chopsticks are rubbish."
"Those are straws, Ric."
"They gave me straws to tackle my ramen?"
"That's a gin cocktail."
"Ah."

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Mango cider. How is mango cider a thing? And a thing so popular the pub we were in only had enough for half a pint less than 24 hours after hooking spile to pump, no less.

(This worked in my favour, I admit. That stuff was basically sugar dissolved in yellow alcohol. I could hear my pancreas and my liver yell "Oh, for fuck's sake!" simultaneously.)

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There's something utterly brilliant about the Liverpool Maritime Museum and International Museum of Slavery having separate entrances that lead into the same entrance hall. It's both a comment on the stupidity of segregation and a reminder that the two topics are utterly inseparable. Liverpool's status as arguably the country's most important port in the 18th century cannot be disentangled from the massive amount of unimaginable human suffering

Both museums are fascinating, and depressing. You'd think the tone might lighten once you've been through the floor dedicated to slavery, but the maritime sections focus on the Titanic, the Lusitania, and the extended freezing misery of the war for the North Atlantic, so it's pretty much misery wall-to-wall. I mean, you should totally go, but bring tissues.

(There was one moment of strangeness when we along with three or four other people were sitting watching a video in which woman of colour told stories of slavery and we heard three of four other women laughing uproariously beside the photos of lynched slaves just outside. There was a brief moment in which we all glanced around at each other and, by mutual consent, decided not to go out and reprimand the presumed hen party (hell, who doesn't want to learn about the Middle Passage before tying the know?) and instead concentrate extra hard on the video instead. Because we were white British people, and that is how we deal with these things.)

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The day after the museums of slavery and maritime disaster, we wandered over to the Liverpool Museum for some light relief. What we got was poverty, unemployment, labour theft and race-riots. So that didn't work.

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I love food that doubles as social commentary. We found a creperie on Albert Docks we liked so much we had breakfast there both mornings. Our order of choice was the "breakfast brunch"; a combination of French and British cuisine. Well, I say "combination"; it was a delicious cheese and egg crepe (with herbs, when they could be bothered) that they then just dropped a slice of bacon and a hash brown on top of. "There you go, England. This is the kind of merde you like, non?"

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It's never fun being woken at 6 in the morning by the people in the next room yapping on at ridiculous levels for over an hour. It's at times like this I wish I didn't have a pathological need to avoid confrontation (see also: International Museum of Slavery, inappropriate cackling within).

Fliss, who has much better hearing than I do told me the whole thing was basically some dude's attempt to get laid. Seventy-five minutes of negotiation! Have some pride, man. Just spend a few minutes pleasuring yourself and spend the rest of the time getting some work done. Or having a sleep.  Sleep looked pretty good right then.

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"They've stopped talking."
"Yep. He finally got his sex."
"That's what all that was about?"
"Yes. Give him credit. It did work. Eventually."
"It did? I didn't hear anything."
"She moaned four times whilst you were having that wee."

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There's a Beatles pub crawl in Liverpool that features 168 pubs. 168! I'm filing that under both "life goals".

Bantz

Introducing the New Adventures of the Patriarchy Patrol. Can they turn back the latest wave of terror brought on by the Social Justice Criminals? Read on to find out!

2000

Somehow I made it.  Two thousand posts.  This blog has been a real labour of love for the past seven-and-a-lot years, and I'm really proud of... well, most of it, anyway.

My thanks to my commentators and lurkers, my readers and my hate-readers, my muses and those people who are just such colossal turds that I can't resist heading online to explain why they should be accosted by honey badgers.

I don't really have anything useful or interesting to say today, so instead I'll just provide you with a Storify of the ludicrous conversation I had this morning whilst polishing Friday's lecture.  If nothing else, it's been too long since I last got to use that tag.

Three Weeks Late

Somewhere in the darkest yet most well-decorated rooms of the BBC.

Ricky Gervais:  Stephen!  Glad you could meet me.  I know you've got a lot of winsomely charming voice-overs on the go, right now, so that's clearly keeping you busy -

Stephen Merchant: Go fuck yourself, Gervais.  I hate you.  I hate you so much.  All you ever do is show up, play yourself, rake in the cash, and tell everyone you could probably have done it without me.

Ricky Gervais: That's not up to me to decide, really.  So, though, if the public want to brand me as -

Stephen Merchant:  There's no way you could have done it without me, Richard.  I could have done it without you, though. Easily.  Because there's only one cocksucker in this room who knows how to be funny deliberately, and we both know it isn't you.

Ricky Gervais: Don't call me Richard.

Stephen Merchant: Give me two hundred grand of the money you owe me for making people think your petulant fucking bullying is fucking fucking hilarious, and I'll think about it.

Ricky Gervais: Anyway -

Stephen Merchant: Prick.

Ricky Gervais: Anyway.  I've got an idea for a new show.

Stephen Merchant: Do you?  Or do you just want to do The Office again with all your famous mates and pretend it's a new show?

Ricky Gervais: Are you talking about Extras?

Stephen Merchant: No, I'm talking about you being a worthless ballsack.  Extras is just Exhibit fucking-A.

Ricky Gervais:

Stephen Merchant: Will it be about an egotistical loser completely unable to recognise his lack of talent, good looks, or comic ability?

Ricky Gervais:... Maybe.

Stephen Merchant: Will it be stuffed to the gills with your famous mates pretending to be idiots so people can get a cheap laugh?

Ricky Gervais:... To an extent.

Stephen Merchant: So what's different about it?

Ricky Gervais: This time we'll be taking the piss out of dwarves.

Stephen Merchant: Wait, what?

Ricky Gervais: We'll get Warwick Davies to do it.  It'll be hilarious.  He's a dwarf, but we'll make him a David Brent style prick!  Literally the same!  That way no-one will feel sympathy when we mock him for being small!

Stephen Merchant... Well, at least it'll make a change for you to not -

Ricky Gervais: I'll be in it.

Stephen Merchant: Oh, of course you will.

Ricky Gervais: And you. And our famous mates will keep popping in to see us.

Stephen Merchant: So why do we need Warwick Davies in this at all?

A very long pause

Ricky Gervais: Liam Neeson say's he'll do the first episode.

Stephen Merchant:  Urrrrrrgh.  OK, fine.  I'll write that bit so it's absolutely fucking awesome.

Tech Lack Of Support

The scene: SpaceSquid arrives at the PC World help desk, his desktop stack clutched in his slightly effeminate hands.

Friendly Assistant #1: Can I help you, sir?

SpaceSquid: Yes.  I paid you guys to transfer my data to a new hard drive, and the CD drive wasn't working when it came back.

FA#1: That's odd.

SS: Yes.

FA#1: It's probably a connection issue.  Or the software.

SS: ...Yes.

FA#1: I guess those are the only two options anyway.

SS: Indeed.  A haunting would be my next guess, but it's a distant third.

FA#1: Well, I'll hand you over to the tech guy.

SS: Thanks.

Friendly Assistant #2: Can I help you, sir?

SS: Yes.  As I was saying, you guys were kind enough to transfer my data to a new hard drive not long ago, but the CD drive no longer works.

FA#2: Oh.

SS: ...Yes.  And I was wondering if you could fix it?

FA#2: Well, we're not allowed to do that kind of thing in-store anymore.  We'll have to send it away.

SS: Really?

FA#2: 'Fraid so.  Should take about a week, cost fifty quid.

SS: Fifty quid?

FA#2: Fifty quid.

SS: I'm finding it hard to understand why you expect me to pay for a repair that only became necessary after you got your hands on my PC.

FA#2: Well, do you have an agreement with us.

SS: Meaning?

FA#2: Do you pay us every month?

SS: No.

FA#2: Then it's not our responsibility.

SS: It's not your responsibility to do the job you say you'll do after I give you money?

FA#2: That wasn't the job you paid for.  You paid for the hard drive.

SS: Yes, because the CD drive was working when I gave it to you!  How is "Don't break anything" not implicit?

FA#2: I'm saying we did the hard drive job.  Think of it like in a garage.  You come in, pay us to fix a wheel, we fix a wheel.  But then you want your suspension fixed: that's a new job.

SS:  Fine.  If this a garage, then this is what happened:  I came in, paid you to fix a wheel, and whilst you were fixing the wheel, you set the car on fire.  And now you want me to pay to borrow a hose.

This goes on for some time, and ends in stalemate.  No money changes hands, but I still can't access by back-up CDs or listen to "Ashes & Fire".  Balls.

How I Make New Friends

SpaceSquid has dropped in to his local massively expensive cocktail bar, since it’s the only place in town with working broadband. The barman is holding court over how awesome his drinks are.


BARMAN: A lot of people ask me “Will I not feel bad after drinking here?” And I say “No. I bet you can drink here all night without feeling bad.”

SPACESQUID: Until you look at your bank balance, obviously.

BARMAN: Well, yes. But you won’t have a hangover. Unless you’ve been drinking already. You have no idea how many people come in here having downed a bottle of Blossom Hill. At which point the bet is off.

SPACESQUID: Yeah.  Just because these drinks are more expensive than NHS prescriptions don’t make ‘em medicine.

BARMAN: Exactly. I can’t undo the damage they’ve already done.

SPACESQUID:It’s like sleeping with a ten quid hooker after lunch. Doesn’t matter how pretty your dinner date is, you’re not going to wake up feeling good the next morning.

BARMAN: Well, I guess that's...Wait, ten quid? Really?

SPACESQUID: I’m from the North. Everything’s cheap up there.

(Scott) Walking Off A Cliff

I don't know if anyone else has been following the situation in Wisconsin over the last few weeks, but it's becoming increasingly interesting/depressing/potentially explosive.  For those not up to date, let's summarise:


GOP Senate Candidates: Vote for us, and we'll protect collective bargaining rights for public worker unions.

Unions: Here are some votes!

Governer Walker: We need to save money.  Public workers; take a pay-cut!

Unions: Umm... OK...

Walker: We must save more money!  I shall now end collective bargaining rights!

Unions:  Hey!  I thought those were off the table!

GOP Senators: Hey, we're elected now.  We're just gonna do what we're told.

Unions: How does taking away collective bargaining save money?

Walker: It just does!  Invisible hand, motherfuckers!  All I have to do now is pass this bill through the Senate, and... GODDAMN IT WHERE IS THE SENATE!?!

Democrat Senators: Thanks for the paychecks, beetchez!  We're all in Illinois now.  Good luck getting together a quorum!

Walker: But I need a quorum.  I need it nooooooooooow! The legislature can't vote on anything that will materially affect the budget without one!

Democrat Senators: You should have thought of that before you guys all became pooheads who smell of poo.  Beetchez.

Walker: I'll be mean about you in the media.

Democrat Senators: You're already mean about us in the media.

Walker: I'll start laying off workers.

Democrat Senators: Yeah, right.  Tell that to the mob outside.

Walker: Oh, crap.

Massive Public Protest: Walker out!  Walker out!  We're not leaving the state house until this crappy bill is put out of our misery!

Walker: Hah!  I shall have the police throw you out!

Police: Actually, we're on their side.

Walker:... Oh, crap.  Bolt the windows!  With actual bolts!

Prank Caller: Hi, Scott Walker?  I'm totally one of your evil capitalist overlords, and I want to know if you've planted agitators in the crowd to ensure everything goes tits up.  I'm not recording this conversation, if that's what you're thinking.

Walker: We thought about it, but we couldn't work out how to do it.  But don't worry, I promise all the unions are gonna get what's coming to them.  Filthy hippy layabouts!

Prank Caller: Psyche! I was recording this conversation.  Let's see what happens now!

Massive Public Protest: Boo!  Let's start the petitions we need to recall the governor.  And his little senate friends, too!

Walker:  Eek!  This is going pretty badly wrong.  Time for drastic measures!

Democratic Senators: Heh!  Whatcha gonna do, dawg?  I don't see any spare quorums sitting around here.  Except ours, obviously, which is just sitting in a hotel and getting loaded by our indoor pool.

Walker: You're paid to do a job, you douches!  You've abandoned the fundamental principles of democracy!

70% of Wisconsin: Don't end collective bargaining!

Walker: Shut up, you ungrateful proles!  This is for your own good!  Ayn Rand told me so!  And it will materially affect the budget, like you wanted!

70% WS: How?

WALKER: SHUT UP!!!  You guys, we can totally still vote on this thing.

GOP Senators: How?  We need our Democratic colleagues to hold a quorum.

Walker: Then we'll just take out the bits of the bill that materially affect the budget.  We can vote on the rest of it right now.

GOP Senators: So all that's left is the stuff that won't materially affect the budget?

Walker: That's right.

GOP Senators: And what would that be?

Walker:... Ending collective bargaining!


I hope that's cleared everything up for you.  To summarise, if 52% of the people elect you to clear up the budget, you can ignore the 70% of the people who don't like the way you're doing it, you can rely on the help of those who specifically said this was one thing they'd never do, and you can do it despite the fact that the only way you can enact the laws you claim will increase revenue is to strip out all the bits that have any chance of increasing revenue.

Plus, and Caller ID is for pussies.

The Spanish Main And Associated Health Risks

Scene: SpaceSquid is inspecting his new allergy medication.

SS: I like that this stuff has an active ingredient called "acrivastine".  Sounds like something a pirate would use.
Si: Acrivastine?
SS: AcriVAAAASTine!
Si: What would a pirate even be allergic to? They were some pretty tough cookies.
SS: Pieces of eight?
Si: Oh, the humanity!
J-Dawg: Forced to don latex gloves whilst fondling their booty.
Si: Unable to bite the coins to test their authenticity without risking death.
SS: "Yaah!  I be in anaphylactic shock!  'Tis gold true an' pure!"
J-Dawg: It's probably a bit too early for epi pens, too.
SS: Epi cutlasses?
J-Dawg: Ouch!
SS: "Yaargh!  My heart be pierced but me sinuses be clear!"
Sam: Surely parrots would be a more plausible culprit.
SS: Can you get hypoallergenic parrots?
Sam: In 18th century Tortuga?  Good luck.
Si: They'd have to come pre-plucked.
SS: Maybe that's what all the beards were about.  To hide their parrot's shame.
Si: And then it turns out the parrots are allergic to beard hair.
SS: Man, being a pirate was hard.

Budget Kafka

Scene: The Other Half's admin office.

THE OTHER HALF: You're paying us early this month, right?
ANONYMOUS SECRETARY: That's right, what with it being Christmas and all.
TOH: Does that mean there's a different deadline to normal on when I can hand in my expenses forms?
AS: 'Fraid so.
TOH: So...
AS: So?
TOH: So when is it?
AS: We haven't decided.
TOS: Really.
AS: Nope.  It's probably before today, though.

They Could Type Faster, Too

Today, the staff coffee room became that bit more exciting when plates of an unknown but possible dairy-based substance are discovered.

SpaceSquid: Is this free cheese?
BigHead: I believe it's free cheese.
SS: Because it looks like free, y'know, orange rock.
Anonymous McNoname: I thought you loved all forms of cheese.
SS: Even I have limits.
Edenspresence: Yeah, it's not like you can't create really, really bad cheese.  If you cut costs.  You probably can't with honey, though.
SS: Yeah.  Wait, what?
E: You can't make honey any more cheaply.  I mean, you could make it more expensive-
Brutal Snake: I'd imagine you could do that pretty easily, actually.
SS: Make the honey pots out of diamond.
AMcN: Put your apiaries on Mars.
E: I'm just saying there's a baseline to-
SS: Hire the queen to tend the hives.  She's probably pretty pricey.
E: She'd need her crown modified as well, to fit over the hat.
AMcN: Plus I don't think she'd be able to maintain much of a pace.
BS: And you'd have the Duke of Edinburgh hanging about, as well.  Insulting the bees.
SS: "Why don't you all just piss off back to Beeland?"
AMcN: Surely the bees are indigenous to Britain, though?
SS: He won't care.  They're black!  And yellow! Two of his least favourite colours!
AMcN: This doesn't sound like it's good for the bees.  If we're spending all this money, why don't we buy the hives plasma TVs instead?
BS: Or give every bee a computer.  They could sign up to Facebook.
SS: "You have a friendship request from Bee #14838."
E: I'm not sure their updates would be worth reading, really.
SS: "The queen bee has laid an egg.  The queen bee has laid an egg.  The queen bee has laid an egg."  "Bee #58796 likes this."
AMcN: That's actually oddly cute.
BH: It's almost a shame they'll all be dead soon.
SS: "The queen has updated her relationship status to 'Functionally Extinct.'"
AMcN: Aw.  I'm sad now.
SS: Here.  Have some free cheese.

What My Downtime Looks Like

The scene: Pinshitter, Kitten-Breaker and our hero are watching the snooker final.

PINSHITTER: Dott's gone to pot.
SPACESQUID: Don't make me come over there and slap you.
PS: I'm just saying; it's all gone wrong. I guess that's what happens when your manager resigns.
SS: His manager resigned?
PS: He manages Higgins as well.
SS: Ah. That must be pretty difficult for the Wizard of Wishaw, huh? "I can't tell you why I was in Kiev, or in that hotel, but I promise I haven't done... wait, my manager's resigned? Er... look, kittens!"
KITTEN-BREAKER: Aw, kittens? That would convince me!
SS: So as long as the snooker authority's membership is made up entirely of you, he'll be completely fine.
K-B: Excuse me? I'd make an awesome head of snooker! I'd start each match with a Wheel of Fortune... wheel, and if it landed on "kitten" then half the balls on the table would be immediately replaced with kittens.
SS: So it's a foul for missing, hitting the wrong ball, or injuring a kitten?
K-B: Yes. But if you can persuade a kitten to enter a pocket of its own volition, then that would be fine.
SS: The kittens are coloured?
K-B: Each player will bring their own white kitten to the table. There'd be a certain amount of animal husbandry involved.
SS: So the plan is to herd cats with another cat. What could possibly go wrong?
PS: How do you colour the kittens?
K-B: Dye, I guess.
PS: I suppose pink would be the easiest.

Pause

SS: There is no way I want more details on that.
PS: I just meant that you could shave them.
SS:... OK, I confess that I was imagining something much worse.
PS: Let's give it a try. Right now.
K-B: Oh, you know any 24 hour pet stores in Coniston, Pinshitter?
PS: There's the garage down the road. It sells charcoal.
SS: And thus by extrapolation, immature cats?
PS: I accept that it's a long shot.
K-B: It is not a long shot, Pinshitter! It's imbecilic beyond mortal ability to express!
SS: Be fair, Kitten; that's at worst the eighth most stupid thing he's said all day.
PS: Which makes it a personal record.
SS: True, though I'm not sure that's something you want getting around.

Pause

K-B: I really want a kitten now.
PS: And I really want to shave it.
SS: And I really want to stop recording this conversation.

Squids On A Plane

Today, our hero is surrounded by his mathematical colleagues, discussing his clear superiority by dint of his recent promotion.

CHUCK: Looking forward to the day someone starts dying on a plane and they have to shout “Is there a doctor on this flight?”
SPACESQUID: Yes, that’s exactly what I’m looking forward to: some poor bastard to die on a plane because elementary set theory doesn’t cover the emergency trach. I shall settle back in my seat, my hand held high, and when they approach and ask “Are you a doctor?”, I shall smile and say “Technically.”
EDENSPRESCENCE: Technically it’s the MD’s who technically are only technically doctors. Technically.
SS: I shall be sure to explain that to them as the patient breathes his last. “Your customer died for your lack of specificity”.
ED: “And my lack of training.”
SS: There are many pieces to this puzzle.
CHUCK: Well, no, actually; mainly you just killed a guy. No offence, but you’re the pretty much the worst doctor anyone could fly with ever.
SS: Not necessarily. It depends what you’re looking for. A doctor without a scrap of physiological knowledge of biological comprehension, or a genius-level organ-tinkerer who coincidentally happens to be Davros.
BRUTAL SNAKE: Davros?
SS: For example.
BS: What, it’s you, Davros and a guy having a heart attack? What the Hell kind of plane is this, exactly?
SS: All I’m saying is: sure, he’ll fix you up, but you might end up mutating into a radioactive green blob driving an armoured inverted ice-cream cone.
EP: So in an ideal world they’d need to ask whether you’re a doctor, whether you specialise in medicine, and whether or not you’re Davros?
SS: Not just Davros. Doctor Mengele, Doctor Moreau…
EP: Doctor Manhattan.
SS: Him too, though it’s kind of hard to imagine you needing to quiz him about his identity.
CHUCK: Whereas Davros is notoriously hard to identify, of course.
SS: He has a brother.
EP: He does not have a brother.
SS: He has a brother. An identical twin named Gary.
BS: Named Doctor Gary.
SS: Sorry, yes; he didn’t spent all that time in Kaled medical college to be called Mr Gary Davros.
EP: Literally no-one but you knows or cares about what you’re referencing right now.
SS: All he ever wanted was to use his single withered hand for healing. “Bring the patient closer to my feeble and atrophied digits. Let me stroke their tender fleshy regions back to health.”
CHUCK: Yeah, I don’t want to fly with either of those guys.
SS: I’m saying.

Taken Under Advisement

Definitely one of the funniest news stories I've seen for a while: Rage Against The Machine performance pulled for swearing by Five Live.

The fact that this happened is in no way a surprise, any more than it was when Sean Ryder launched into a torrent of naughty words on TFI Friday all those years ago. What makes it uniquely brilliant though is that the radio show told Rage Against The Machine they couldn't sing the line "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me."

How did they not see that failing?

Radio 5 Live: We really like your music, Mr Rage, sir, honestly; big fans. We were hoping the "Evil Empire" would be defeated by "Renegades" at "The Battle Of Los Angeles", too, don't get me wrong. It's just that we can't let you swear on national radio.
Zack de la Rocha: What are you telling me?
R5L: I'm telling you you can't say "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me."
ZdlR: I can't say "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me."?
R5L: That's what I'm telling you.
ZdlR: I'm still not totally clear on what you're telling me to do.
R5L: I'm telling you you can't say "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me".
ZdlR: Ah, right. I am now entirely clear on what you're telling me to do.
R5L: And you'll do it?
ZdlR: Do what?
R5L: Do what we tell you?
ZdlR: Fuck yes, I will do what you tell me.
R5L: Terrific.

More Reasons Why We Never Get Anything Done

More secrets of the maths department are revealed on the internet. On the walk down to acquire sandwiches and milkshakes, our heroes break out the Big Maths.

BigHead: After Sunday's abysmal pub quiz performance, I have determined that if we were Bayesian statisticians, we would never engage in a tie-break, and instead always choose to share the winnings.
SpaceSquid: (rather half-heartedly) Explain.
BigHead: We never win the tie-break. Thus our prior probability of winning the tie-break must at this point be less than a half. It follows that sharing the money is a better strategy than gambling for the whole pot by trying to win the tie-break, because the latter has the smaller expected value.
SpaceSquid: That follows if you assume a linear utility for our winnings, but I think that's questionable.
BigHead: For small sums of money, I don't think there's a problem with saying OH MY GOD A HORSEY!
SpaceSquid: Yay! A horsey! Hello, horsey!

Awestruck silence as horse struts past.

BigHead: It's nice that we can adapt so quickly to changing circumstances, isn't it?
SpaceSquid: Let's talk kittens.

Fun fact: the horse was pulling a gypsy-style caravan, which had in its rear window a sticker reading "100% BASTARD". Nice. Also, Blogspot's spell-check refuses to recognise "half-heartedly", "internet" or even "Blogspot's", but "horsey" is apparently fine. Weird.

I Sort Of Stole This From MGK

Late evening in ITV headquarters. The meeting room is awash with cans of Red Bull and cold cartons of Chinese food.

Big Boss: Gentlemen, this is infuriating. How difficult can it possibly be to develop a new zeitgeist-capturing water-cooler game show?
Minion #1: Don’t blame us, boss.
Minion #2: Yeah. We’re up against Anne Robinson, and she burned her soul to get her show.
Minion #3: Plus, that third cocaine break was probably a mistake.
Big Boss: NO EXCUSES! The last bunch of minions whined and moaned just like you little bitches, but damn it if they didn’t eventually come up with What Katie Did Next.
Minion #1: If they were so awesome, how come they’re not around here anymore?
Big Boss: They asked too many questions about the minions that came before them.
Minion #2: Gulp.
Minion #3: Recursive threats are the scariest threats.
Big Boss: Focus, minions! What do people want in a game show?
Minion #1: Awesome prizes?
Minion #2: Sexy hosts?
Minion #3: Absurdly easy tasks made to look difficult?
Big Boss: Yes, and?
Minion #1: Um… an absurd gimmick?
Big Boss: Excellent, Minion #1! You shall be eaten last!
Minion #1: What?
Big Boss: Nothing. Continue the brainstorming, my minions. Think outside the box.
Minion #2: What if we think inside the box?
Big Boss: Don’t make me order new minions.
Minion #2: No! Wait! Let’s bring back The Crystal Maze! Put a bunch of presumably partially lobotomised people inside boxes disguised as historical locations, and force them to perform obscenely simple tasks in order to humiliate them on national television.
Big Boss: I do like humiliation.
Minion #3: We’ll never get Richard O’Brien back, though.
Big Boss: Fuck else is he doing?
Minion #3: It’s like a pride thing, or something.
Minion #1: What about Ed Tudor Pole?
Big Boss: Your status as “last to be eaten” is hereby rescinded.
Minion #1: What?
Big Boss: Nothing. Can’t we just find some other freak?
Minion #2: Philip Schofield?
Big Boss: Is he bald?
Minion #2: He’s grey-haired.
Big Boss: Is that freaky enough, though?
Minion #3: We could put it about that he was sleeping with Gordon the Gopher.
Big Boss: I like it, Minion #3!
Minion #3: But, we wanted a sexy host, didn't we?
Big Boss: Let's have a sexy lady demonstrate how the games work.
Minion #1: As well as allowing practice goes?
Big Boss: Gotta get the sexay in there somehow.
Minion #2: Isn't that pretty gratuitous, even for us?
Big Boss: We'll stick her in a mask.
Minion #2: ...Yeah, that's a lot better.
Minion #1: What if we can’t get the rights?
Big Boss: We plagiarise! We are thinking outside the box!
Minion #1: The box represents copyright law, now, does it?
Big Boss: It does for those who wish to remain uneaten.
Minion #1: What?
Minion #2: Let’s just throw out all the dead wood. Like the different zones. Don’t need them. Or all the running between rooms. Bollocks to that. All you need are the pathetically retarded tasks that idiots will somehow make a hash of.
Big Boss: Get rid of the links, you say?
Minion #3: Like The Krypton Factor?
Minion #2: Fuck off! The Krypton Factor actually was hard. No-one wants to watch that in the 21st Century! It’s got to be childish party games that the dregs of society find impossible to grasp. Counting squares, maybe, or successfully dropping a ball inside a bin! Plus, we don’t need less links, we need *more* links! Only let’s include a bare minimum of choice-making in there as well, so we can pass that shit off as tension. If we’re going to rip off the Crystal Maze, we may as well do a number on …Millionaire as well.
Big Boss: You’re talking lifelines?
Minion #2: Yes! You could have a lifeline that gives you a free go at a game that looks to hard. Or a lifeline that makes a task even more grotesquely simplistic, to the point where monkeys could complete it with two minutes of trial and error!
Minion #1: And if they somehow still fail to walk in a straight line with their eyes closed, they get kicked off the show.
Minion #2: I dunno. Best give them a couple of extra chances, so they don’t. Say, nine?
Minion #3: Nine? We’re going to have to *really* search out some idiots for this one.
Minion #2: I doubt it’s going to be much of a problem.
Big Boss: So, let’s review. A grey-haired freak in a studio taking far too long to offer basic choices to contestants in-between wretchedly simple games, demonstrated by a woman in a mask, that are played again and again until the hapless fools beg for them to be made easier still. Have I missed anything?
Minion #1: Er… bullet time?
Big Boss: Bullet time? The Matrix was ten fucking years ago.
Minion #1: The Matrix didn’t use it to humiliate people in slow-motion.
Big Boss: ...Fine. Right, I think we’re done.
Minion #3: Wait! We still don’t have an actual set for all the games to take place in!

Pause

Big Boss: Eh, fuck it. Let’s just stick ‘em in a big transparent box. Done.

Philosophy With SpaceSquid and Big G

Our heroes have settled down to watch Outpost, a decision based entirely on the box's promise of undead SS soldiers. To begin with, though, all we receive is a bunch of stereotyped mercenaries cussing their way around Eastern Europe.

Big G: Why is that guy part of the UN?
SS: I assume he's a deserter.
Big G: So why is he still wearing his swanky blue hat?
SS: Nostalgia?
Big G: Bollocks to nostalgia; he's supposed to be camouflaged.
SS: Maybe that's the only reason he joined the UN; a desperate need for a rakish blue hat.
Big G: The UN being the only place such things can be found, obviously.
SS: "Don't go, Taka! I have procured an azure stetson! Do not throw away your life!"
Big G: "No hat is worth being forced to stand in war zones and be entirely fucking useless!"

Eventually, the promise is fulfilled.

SS: Gasp! Zombie Nazis!
Big G: Are those the worst kind of Nazis?
SS: Depends on whether you think consuming human flesh is worse than trying to exterminate the Jews.
Big G: Werewolf Nazis would be pretty bad.
SS: Especially if they bit a Communist.
Big G: Poor bastards. Every full moon they are fated to pull down the monuments to the people that they have worked so hard to build.
SS: "Take that, proletariat; seig heil!"
Big G: What about Nazis that transform into tanks? They'd have to be pretty damn scary.
SS: I've heard the Germans were working on that at the close of the war. If they'd made up their minds between them and the Bomb, Berlin might never have fallen.
Big G: They got as far as a Nazi Gobot, but then all he was really doing was lying down. (High pitched voice) "I'm a Transformer!"
SS: Why did they choose such a girly Nazi for their experiments?
Big G: Girly Nazis are the most in need of cybernetic improvement.
SS: I don't give a shit about who needs the most improvement. This isn't a self-help group, G; we have to create a Nazi who can turn into a tank before the Allies reach the Rhine!
Big G: I guess if you're not sure the procedure will work, you don't want to risk precious butch Nazis.
SS: That's true.

Streams Of Consciousness And Beer

SpaceSquid has wasted his lunch hour fighting with Durham County Council. He is displeased.

SS: I have wasted my lunch hour fighting with Durham County Council. I am displeased.
Bighead: I thought they were giving the council the chop this month?
J-Dog: Not the whole council. Just one layer.
Bighead: Like they did with Stockton?
SS: And the rest of Cleveland, back in the Nineties. That's why SpaceSquid Senior started working in the private sector. Made us all rich, 'til he decided he couldn't be arsed.
J-Dog: That selfish prick.
SS: I know! We could have had a yacht by now.
J-Dog: You wouldn't know what to do with a yacht. Well, other than fill a swimming pool with booze and floating it on top. Go for a swim every now and again.
SS: Nobody would be allowed to swim in it! Risk of contamination. It's hard balancing alcoholism with germophobia.
Bighead: You could sit on deck with a long straw.
J-Dog: Or buy a submarine.
SS: Now there's a plan. I could just drink from the ballast tanks whenever I got thirsty. I could try to drink them dry and bring the sub to the surface.
J-Dog: I don't think that's in line with the laws of physics.
SS: So I'm just a drunk guy in a submarine? I'm actually pretty much OK with that. We could take her for trips through Durham.
J-Dog: Along the Wear? I wouldn't advise it.
SS: Yeah, I suppose the decontamination procedure would need to be pretty thorough. What we really need is some kind of device that can convert the ocean to beer. Sure, all the fish would die, but we'd all be too drunk to care.
J-Dog: But if the ocean is made of beer, you wouldn't be able to sell it.
SS: I don't want to sell it. I want to drink it. I'm not a seller, I'm a buyer, and now I can buy it for zero pence. This is my favourite amount of pence.
Bighead: You could try and build the device so it only works on British territorial waters.
SS: I would suggest that that would be ludicrous, but I sense that ship has sailed.
Bighead: Or maybe an inland body of water, like the Caspian Sea.
SS: Isn't that drying up due to global warming. About which I was only slightly concerned, until it threatened my vast beer reservoir.
Bighead: We can alter the chemical composition of beer, to give it a lower heat level.
SS: Lower heat level? What the fuck is that? You're supposed to be a scientist!
Bighead: Fine. Lower boiling point.
J-Dog: It wouldn't boil, surely.
SS: It wouldn't need to. It's that triple-state-point-thing.
J-Dog: Fucking physics.
SS: I'm pretty sure it's chemistry.
J-Dog: Fucking chemistry.
SS: Damn right, fucking chemistry. Can we make sure we're bigoted towards the right science, please?
J-Dog: Fucking science.
Bighead: Even maths?
SS: Especially maths. And we should know. Besides, everyone hates maths. Or thinks they do, at least. What most people think is maths is just arithmetic. It is not maths if it can be performed by monkeys with an abacus in exchange for bananas.
Bighead: Apparently baby chicks can count.
J-Dog: Won't be long until we start hiring them for postdocs, then.
SS: Does that mean that the first chick can actually count its brother chicks before they've hatched?

Silence.

J-Dog: I hope a chick gets your job.
SS: If she's hot, then so do I.

Silence.

J-Dog: You are really off your game today.
SS: I wanted to use my lunch hour writing jokes, but I have wasted my lunch hour fighting with Durham County Council. I am displeased.
J-Dog: The Rule of Three is the last refuge of the twelfth-rate.
SS: Fucking Rule of Three.
J-Dog ...Point taken.

New Rules

J-Dog: Success! I have put together my six-month work plan, and it only has one thing on it.
SpaceSquid: Is it something particularly tough?
J-Dog: Nope. Prevarication awaits! I shall become a gentleman of leisure. I may or may not learn to smoke a pipe.
Bighead: Unless the overlords find out, then they'll throw every spare lecture they have at you.
J-Dog: Shudder.
SS: I thought you wanted to talk more shit at more twats?
J-Dog: That's Black-Lung. I want to keep the twats away at all costs.
SS: You could build a castle for yourself and fill the moat with crocodiles.
J-Dog: We could cast the twats into the moat from the tallest towers. Those that successfully escape will be judged worthy.
SS: Then we'll burn them as witches.
J-Dog: Of course. No mere human could negotiate the moat of crocodiles.
SS: And then those that survive the bonfires as well shall be given jobs in the stats department. If you can make it through a crocodile attack and prove to be made of asbestos, you must be worth hiring.
J-Dog: Surely if they're made out of asbestos the crocodiles won't eat them anyway.
SS: Good point.
J-Dog: We've rendered the crocodiles redundant. That's no good. After all the money we've shelled out for them.
SS: They could serve in an advisory capacity.
J-Dog: I'd really rather they were eating someone. How about we replace the burnings with something else?
Bighead: Get them to dress up as puffins and then punch them in the face?
J-Dog: What?
SS: Different dialogue. It's a long story. How about we get them to bring a puffin, as some kind of quest?
J-Dog: It would make for an interesting invitation to interview. "Meet us at midnight on the Sabbath near Castle J-Dog. Bring a puffin."
Bighead: "Do NOT wear crocodile skin".
SS: It would certainly sidestep the need for all this A* at A-level bollocks. And the Russians in the department would finally stop whining that our intake aren't as well-taught as those in Moscow.
Bighead: No, they'd start whining that they weren't as effective at fighting flesh-eating lizards.
J-Dog: "Crocodiles twice as vicious under Communism."
SS: That's just because they're trying to keep warm. Moscow State University really isn't the best of places for reptiles.
J-Dog: Or parasitic academics.
Bighead: That's why they end up over here. Time to get rid of them, I say. Any suggestions?
SS: I have this idea involving cobras...

The Truth Exposed

The scene: a board meeting for St Helier Cider Corporate Headquarters.

CEO: Ladies and gentlemen, we are in the shit.
Mook #1: Sir, there are no ladies here, sir.
CEO: What about that one? That's a woman, surely. Or possibly Colin Farrell.
Mook #1: That's Agent Edmunds, sir.
CEO: What the Hell has he done to his hair?
Edmunds: This is how we wear it in St Helier now.
CEO: Really?
Edmunds: We've had to put taxes on scissors and shampoo.
CEO: What was I saying?
Mook #2: We are in the shit.
CEO: We are in the shit. Business is going tits-up! No-one has the money to spend on pear cider anymore. People are just drinking the antifreeze from their cars and hoping the weather warms up. We need a new angle. A new gimmick. Any suggestions?
Mook #1: A new flavour?
CEO: Can't afford one. Do you know how long it would take to set up the brewing process for a whole different type of fruit?
Mook #2: We could just add flavoring.
CEO: Paugh! Who would fall for such cheap chicanery?
Mook #1: Idiot teenagers?
CEO: I like your thinking! But idiot teenagers don't drink cider unless it has a lightning bolt on the side and comes in plastic bottles. Too busy with those damn alco-pops.

There is a pause.

Mook #2: What if we flavoured the cider with alco-pops?
CEO: You're a genius, witless flunky! We can just take near empty vats of pear cider and then fill them up with Blue WKD! That way not only will it taste of sugar mixed with alcohol, it will be a crayzee colour that the kids are bound to dig. Er, get down with. On. Fo' shizzle.
Mook #1: Won't it taste a bit odd? Why not just replace the cider entirely?
CEO: And compromise our standards?
Mook #1: I'm fired, aren't I?
CEO: Let's just say it might be wise to start broadening your CV. You can start by taking this penknife and this bottle of Windowlene, and take Edmunds somewhere private. I just wish I had some pan-scrubs to hand.