Snippet for the lung cancer 'r' us brigade.
Scene for Specialistic Journalistic Purposes happily achieved, and am very satisfied with it as an example of its genre (though there was a frantic moment where I was messaging katemonkey when I realised I'd lost track of what a limb was doing). Now about 590 words behind, so have to tackle the Indy and Jack adventure.
In other news, I want someone to write more Jenny Sparks-Jack Harkness fic. Possibly even porn, even though I don't as a rule read (and I certainly can't write) het porn. But, y'know, messing around in bed or aftermath would be fun to read.
Well, there's that and the scene that the world really, really needs. Jenny Sparks, John Constantine and Pete Wisdom in a pub in the mid-late nineties. This concept alone would be fabulous enough, but there's a particular scene I have in mind.
They're all standing at the bar, fags and pints in hand. Except Conjob's got his head in his hands. "I'm telling you. I had a vision of the future. it was 'orrible. Really bloody 'orrible."
Pete's looking unimpressed. "And what happened after you dragged your head out of the loo and the elephants stopped tap-dancing on your frontal lobes?"
"I was sober, that's what's awful. We're talking a proper vision here." Conjob groans.
"What was it, then?" Wisdom asks, vaguely interested, taking a drink.
"A smoking ban right across the entire bloody British Isles." Conjob says.
Wisdom spits his mouthful of beer out, and starts coughing. Jenny starts unhelpfully pounding him on the back. "Don't bloody scare me like that, I've got a sodding delicate constitution and scare easily, you bastard. When was it? Fifty years' time? Nanny state gone mad?"
"2007. Smoking banned in all public places. No more lighting up in pubs. Me lungs won't be able to cope."
"Fuck." Wisdom says, holding up his fag and staring at the smouldering tip sadly. "Here's praying the job gets me before then."
Jenny smirks, taking a swig of her pint. "No sympathy from me, I'll be dead before then."
The other two glare at her. "Stop being so fucking smug, Jenny." Conjob says.
"You still buying into that bloody Spirit of the Twentieth Century bollocks?" Wisdom sneers.
"Ask me again in 2007 when I'm smirking down at you poor bastards with a fag in hand." Jenny replies, taking a puff.
Someone behind them mutters "If you ask me, the smoking ban can't come soon enough."
The barman, who's in the middle of polishing glasses, does one of those indrawn whistles as Jenny, Conjob and Wisdom swivel on their seats as one to glare at the apparently suicidal commenter. It probably helps that Jenny's eyes are crackling with electricity, Pete's flicked up his thumb like a lighter, the edge of a knife just showing, and Conjob ... well, he's just grinning. In that special way that John Constantine is renowned for in the murkier protions of society. The member of the public with suicidal tendencies decides to make his excuses, discretion being the better part of valour, and exits stage left into Dean Street. Fast.
Rec of the week : Go to Listen Again on the BBC, and have a gander at this week's I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue. The new meanings for old words bit is on fine form. As is Sound Charades and the sublime scoring of tunes to Swannee Whistle and Kazoo. Also an utterly filthy comment from Humph about Lionel Blair. But the highlight? Rob Dryden, in the second part of his first outing on the Antidote to Panel Games, singing to Tom Jones' rendition of Danny Boy (they stop the music a few bars in and then re-start near the end and you get points for being within a gnats' crotchet of the correct timing, for those who aren't quite familiar with this game). Never mind getting within the gnat's crotchet bit. The man gets spontaneous applause just for his singing before the record is anywhere *near* kicking back in. Also? This week's one is recorded in *Croydon*. Like I said, seriously impressive.
In other news, I want someone to write more Jenny Sparks-Jack Harkness fic. Possibly even porn, even though I don't as a rule read (and I certainly can't write) het porn. But, y'know, messing around in bed or aftermath would be fun to read.
Well, there's that and the scene that the world really, really needs. Jenny Sparks, John Constantine and Pete Wisdom in a pub in the mid-late nineties. This concept alone would be fabulous enough, but there's a particular scene I have in mind.
They're all standing at the bar, fags and pints in hand. Except Conjob's got his head in his hands. "I'm telling you. I had a vision of the future. it was 'orrible. Really bloody 'orrible."
Pete's looking unimpressed. "And what happened after you dragged your head out of the loo and the elephants stopped tap-dancing on your frontal lobes?"
"I was sober, that's what's awful. We're talking a proper vision here." Conjob groans.
"What was it, then?" Wisdom asks, vaguely interested, taking a drink.
"A smoking ban right across the entire bloody British Isles." Conjob says.
Wisdom spits his mouthful of beer out, and starts coughing. Jenny starts unhelpfully pounding him on the back. "Don't bloody scare me like that, I've got a sodding delicate constitution and scare easily, you bastard. When was it? Fifty years' time? Nanny state gone mad?"
"2007. Smoking banned in all public places. No more lighting up in pubs. Me lungs won't be able to cope."
"Fuck." Wisdom says, holding up his fag and staring at the smouldering tip sadly. "Here's praying the job gets me before then."
Jenny smirks, taking a swig of her pint. "No sympathy from me, I'll be dead before then."
The other two glare at her. "Stop being so fucking smug, Jenny." Conjob says.
"You still buying into that bloody Spirit of the Twentieth Century bollocks?" Wisdom sneers.
"Ask me again in 2007 when I'm smirking down at you poor bastards with a fag in hand." Jenny replies, taking a puff.
Someone behind them mutters "If you ask me, the smoking ban can't come soon enough."
The barman, who's in the middle of polishing glasses, does one of those indrawn whistles as Jenny, Conjob and Wisdom swivel on their seats as one to glare at the apparently suicidal commenter. It probably helps that Jenny's eyes are crackling with electricity, Pete's flicked up his thumb like a lighter, the edge of a knife just showing, and Conjob ... well, he's just grinning. In that special way that John Constantine is renowned for in the murkier protions of society. The member of the public with suicidal tendencies decides to make his excuses, discretion being the better part of valour, and exits stage left into Dean Street. Fast.
Rec of the week : Go to Listen Again on the BBC, and have a gander at this week's I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue. The new meanings for old words bit is on fine form. As is Sound Charades and the sublime scoring of tunes to Swannee Whistle and Kazoo. Also an utterly filthy comment from Humph about Lionel Blair. But the highlight? Rob Dryden, in the second part of his first outing on the Antidote to Panel Games, singing to Tom Jones' rendition of Danny Boy (they stop the music a few bars in and then re-start near the end and you get points for being within a gnats' crotchet of the correct timing, for those who aren't quite familiar with this game). Never mind getting within the gnat's crotchet bit. The man gets spontaneous applause just for his singing before the record is anywhere *near* kicking back in. Also? This week's one is recorded in *Croydon*. Like I said, seriously impressive.