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Saturday, April 16, 2005

razor

OFFICE - Part 2

Flattering dilemma, and one I'd not anticipated in all my years of chugging out words by the yard:

I can see it now:

Camilla to Charles from the royal mousepad, "I say, Chazzah, that squit Holmes is at it again - being awwfleh unfair about some Am-er-ican TV show."

Chas: " What's that m'dear? Yes, by all means ... you go right ahead ..."

Millie: "No, seriousleh, darling - here's your chance to do something reelly reelly *useful* and tot up some much-needed PR on the way. No need tell Tony about it - *you* take the initiative this time. Call up their Bush fellow direct and tell him you're one *hundred* per cent on his side and it's absolutely not-on for one of Mummy's subjects to be over there writing beastly things about everything they hold most dear.

Tell him he has your Royal go-ahead to evict Master Holmes forthwith. Just sound decisive, darling - they love that sort of thing over there."

Ch: "What's that, m'dear? Yes, of course, damn'd good idea. I'll have the Privy Council get right on to it ... "

M: "No, Charles - *now*. While it's cheap rate."

Cut to White House:

"Who the hell'm I talking to, Karl? Who? Oh, OK ... good morning to you, Your Princey-ness. How's it going over there? Great, great. And your good new wife? I mean your new good wife? Great. So what I can do for you, Your Eminence?

Uh huh, uh huh, okaayy ... uh huh, uh huh, yes indeed - that is the kind of thing we take very seriously and I surely do appreeshianate your bringing it to my attention. I'll have the apro- ... the appropr- ... I'll get someone right onto it. Thanks again. Yes 'tootle pip' to you, too. Tell y'r mom Laura says hi.

Karl! Do we have a "blaggerd" redcoat name of Holmes holed up on some island? What's that? *Blogger* not blackguard? OK - no big deal. I think we can score big with the immigration lobby as well as the couch potaters (p't-ah-ters, in this case, heh heh. Remember that one Karl for the press release).

I can see it now. Me and the cast on the tarmac. They're dragging this limey away in chains and I'm shaking hands with Steve Carell. Maybe have Condi tear up his green card application on the evenin' nooz.

Front page of Variety, op-ed in the Times - *and* I get to stick it to those pinko treehuggers up there."

Yes - not a pretty picture. Plus which, no thanks to my inarticulate disgust at this recyled abomination, I had to pad like crazy by a) Making mockery of various other reviewer buffooneries; b) A rather effective dovetail detour via a phenomenon I've been meaning to tackle, namely the presence in this country of outwardly normal coves who suddenly spout whole gobbets of the Monty Python canon (accents and all, groan), not to mention dissections of plot minutiae from The Prisoner, The Avengers (ahh, that Diana Rigg) , AbFab, Day of the Triffids - and don't even get me started on the codswallop I'm dished on
  • Doug Adams
  • Red Dwarf
  • Doctor Who.
  • Fawlty Towers
  • Blimey - if I'd known at the time I was watching kudos kult history in the making, I'd have gone easier on the old GCEs. All it was back then was Aunt Molly calling up the stairs,

    "Tea time, Chrissie - and yer favourite show coming on the tele."

    "What show's that, Aunt Molly?"

    "You know, the one you like with the bloke who talks posh - ever such a handsome dresser, 'e is - and that bird you fancy who's always taking her clothes off so 'e can escape ... "

    "Which one's that?"

    "Oh YOU know - the one where he's in this car whizzing down the M4 but there's these foreign gemmun after him so he hides in this stately manor where he meets Lady Wotchamacallit who takes her clothes off except her husband comes in but it turns out they was at the same school so that's all right - that one. *You* know ... "

    Uncle Hugh: "Leave the boy alone to do his homework"

    Me: "I've done my homework, Uncle Hugh."

    UH: "Oh yeah? Well what's pythagoras squared, then? What's the capital of Timbuctu? How many acres to the groat? Wossa date of the battle of Frinton?"

    AM: "Perhaps he don't want to do his homework. Perhaps he wants his tea and watch telly ..."

    UH: "Course he wants to do his homework, you silly moo. How else 'e going to have a posh office in Harley Street and drive round in an effing Roller?"

    AM: "Perhaps he don't want to drive round in an "effing Roller", as you put it."

    UH: "Give over - What? Doctor Sir Christo-bleedin'-pher Holmes, MD - 52 Harley Street and 12 Eaton Square - by royal appointment to the rich 'n' hypochondriacal - Christmas in Bermuda, feeling famous actresses up the khyber? Stands to reason!"

    AM: "Perhaps he just wants to watch television."

    UH: "Bleedin' 'ell, gel - what good's *that*?"

    AM: "Well, one day our boy might travel to distant lands and when the natives find out he's watched all the Avengers and all that Pallisers *and* read 'Brideshead Revisited' before it was on telly, the wise men will bow down before him and the people will make brazen images and the pharisees will cry 'Verily, come for tea and chocolate cake and tell us all about those wondrous days' ... and then he won't need no Rolls Royce coz he'll be chauffeured about. Won't you, love?"

    Me: "Yeah, sumfink like that, auntie".

    UH: "Yeah, n pigs might fly! Blimey, you two deserve each other. Awright, lad, get yer bum down here while the pot's brewing."

    Atop of all which, what spendid timing for the heretical TV Turnoff Week.

    : Post-scriptural nod of thanks to Bainbridge Beat for encouraging understanding feedback on all this brouhaha.


    Comments:
    We get the drift. But we'd love to see your prose, purplish or otherwise, once your worldwide reproduction rights have been granted. Sounds like a fun assignment -- and right up your particular alley!
     
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