Sooooo...
"In the Master's chambers
They gather for the feast.
They stab it with their steely knives
But they just can't kill the beast."
Am I the only one who, upon hearing those lines, gets the mental image of a dimly lit room, lined with ornate wood and finery, in which the Doctor et al from The Year That Never Was are gathered around a long table? At the head, a diabolically smug Master. On the table? A not-dead-but-trussed-up-like-a-Thanksgiving-turkey Jack. :-|
Yeeeeeeah, I'm probably the only one. WTF at the way my brain wanders as I drive and listen to the radio. I sort of want to write or draw that. But I'd feel insanely guilty. (I'm so sorry, Jack.)
So... Um... Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
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