HE HAS MY SHOES AGAIN.
GREETINGS from the 53rd Century! This rift between the 53rd and the 21st opened just in time, let me tell you!
First: yes, everyone is doing well. Jack's given you all the scoop on how we've adapted since coming here. Max in particular is thriving. Second: No, I'm not pregnant. Third: Just to prove I'm really coming to you from the 53rd Century, I had Jack take a holo of me holding today's newspaper:
Boy, has it been a rough week. To tell you about it would be SPOILERS! so I'm putting it behind an LJ cut. If it's behind an LJ cut it won't cause a paradox!
It was very upsetting.
***
Dear Captain Jack,
I need your help!
Not long ago I was swept up in a technological mishap that moved me, my entire team of colleagues, and my husband to the 53rd century. Now don't get me wrong -- I love the 53rd century! The fashion is amazing, the food is good (piggin is kind of an acquired taste) and the blankets are just right for cocooning.
The problem is that there was supposed to be this documentary aired about us in the 21st Century, and I never got to see it. Well, this past week the "RetroBeeb" holochannel was playing a re-run, so I settled in to watch it with my husband, my dog Max, and a huge bowl of hyperpopcorn. Paradise, right?
WRONG.
First, they cast that punk Gareth David-Lloyd to play me. He made a great James Bond when he was a little older (I downloaded all the Bond holos I'd missed. The omnisexual remake of Octopussy was brilliant!) but he still had my choker and I never did get to menace it back from him. Now it's on the wall of the New British Museum!
Second, in the documentary I demanded that Jack Tell Me Things. This upset my husband, who thought I was angry with him for not telling me Things.
THIRD, THEY KILLED ME OFF!
There I was, sat on our futuristic sofa, staring at the holo in shock.
"JACK!" I cried. "I DIDN'T DIE FROM PUKE-SPEWING-ALIEN FLU!"
"HEY WHY ARE YOU DEAD?" he demanded. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN I DON'T TELL YOU STUFF?"
It isn't fair! You're not supposed to just MAKE STUFF UP in Documentaries. That's not how it works! You can't write fictional stories about real people! Well, you can on the internet, but the BBC shouldn't air them! F-lock that shit!
Naturally we were both concerned. I demanded nose-kisses and I'm sure you know what that led to, so Max was really the one who benefited as he got to eat all the spilled hyperpopcorn (it's like regular popcorn, but more so). It was fun, but that night Jack insisted on sleeping on my head and waking me up every hour or so to tell me horrible things that have happened to him just in case I wanted to know. I finally asked him if he was going to blame himself for everything and run away and do you know what he did? HE HANDCUFFED US TOGETHER.
This morning I awoke to find that he'd hidden all my shoes.
"You would never be buried without your shoes," he said to me. "Now you can't be dead because I have all your shoes. TORCHWOOD!"
He still sometimes shouts TORCHWOOD when he gets overexcited.
I want to lay his worries about me being dead to rest. How can I help him work through the pain of fictional me dying? Life-affirming sex isn't solving this problem.
Sincerely,
NOT DEAD In Cardiff
***
When I gave this letter to Jack, all he did was LOL. Then he hollered HIS NAME IS THERESA and also asked if there was more hyperpopcorn. I'm on my own! And shoeless!
So I decided to hold a fake wake. For myself. After all if I'm dead the least I can do is get some booze and nibbles out of it. Harold's offered to cater it with some kind of space-texmex fusion thing, Gwen can compassion you hard, and I'm going to lounge on a sofa so you can come and tell me nice things about myself and pet Max's soft flappy ears.
IT'S MY FAKE WAKE, you have to say nice things about me.
Tributes of flowers, alcohol, and donations to the Buy Ianto Shiny Things memorial trust will be accepted graciously.
Also try the Soylent Chimichangas. I checked, they're definitely not made from people.
EDIT: JACK ANSWERED IT. FINALLY. JESUS!
Dear NOT DEAD In Cardiff,
Okay. I suppose I have to apologise for two things:
1. Throwing the bowl of hyperpopcorn at the holoscreen and smashing the monitor you worked so hard to glue to the wall...If you want company on your trip to Space Radio Shack this weekend, I'm your man to drive you dangerously fast in a hovercar.
2. Keeping you up all night playing all those Morrissey songs. I can't help it. I was upset for "fictional me". "Fictional Me" was in pain! Did you see my handsome face? I think I was upset. Fabulous profile though. Always had the best jawline on Earth, graveyard or not.
Hey, by making these apologies I don't admit that I was in the wrong --- Because I was totally justified. I am keeping up a brave face for Theresa.
Listen, I learned a HUGE lesson watching this miniseries.
When shadowy middle management-types in suits have secret meetings and then come to you with "proposals" you should always read the fine print.
Your head was so lumpy (and irritated with me) last night, I couldn't sleep. I pulled out my Quality Street tin of television studio contracts and had a good look.
WOW I shoulda have read this sucker more closely before I stamped it huh?
By sharing any contribution (including any text, photographs, graphics, video or audio) with the BBC you agree to grant to the BBC, free of charge, permission to use the material in any way it wants (including modifying and adapting it for operational and editorial reasons) for BBC services in any media worldwide (including on the BBC's site accessed by international users). In certain circumstance the BBC may also share your contribution with trusted third parties.
Copyright in your contribution will remain with you and this permission is not exclusive, so you can continue to use the material in any way including allowing others to use it.
SHIT!
When they said 'Do you give permission to use the names 'Jack Harkness', 'Ianto Jones', 'Gwen Cooper'? Sign here..." I assumed they meant "use" in a sexy way. Put our photos on edible panties, coffee mugs and posters. Lunch boxes. Do kids still use lunch boxes? There were kids in the miniseries but they were screaming and struggling too much for me to pick out fine details.
When the suits said "We're going to do a BBC miniseries" I assumed they meant they'd put Gwen in a corset and set it in Pemberley. Think of how fabulous her tits would have looked. Ianto, I thought they'd put you on a horse and have you ride over the moors. If we book some time in the holodeck we should do that this afternoon.
In hindsight, I should have investigated what they were doing. They gave me £500 for the rights to use our images. I guess the fun of stamping stuff and getting cash for it blinded me to the potential downside. I should have asked for creative control, maybe?
What deal is it that J.K. Rowling got? I asked the BBC if they were giving me that deal and they just LOLed. Why do I always assume LOLing means "Yes, Jack!" I need to break that habit. Ianto, you LOL all the time when I holler for shit. I know you call it "managing your unreasonable requests, Jack."
Well, if the BBC thinks they can use Torchwood for unsexy deeds that's fine. I have a Harkness plan to save the day. AND NO, I'm not killing any relatives. Fuck.
I'm shooting this problem hard in the face. With an official Torchwood stamp. All you kids reading this...You get the same deal I gave the television folks.
You don't even have to give me £500. It's free. You have Torchwood permission to make up sexy stories about us and make them awesome.
Ianto, you get the shoes back when I feel a bit more settled. If you'd stop fussing with the pillows and make room for me to lounge on the sofa with you I'd enjoy your fake wake ever so much more...
Yrs lovingly,
Cpt. Jack Harkness
First: yes, everyone is doing well. Jack's given you all the scoop on how we've adapted since coming here. Max in particular is thriving. Second: No, I'm not pregnant. Third: Just to prove I'm really coming to you from the 53rd Century, I had Jack take a holo of me holding today's newspaper:
Boy, has it been a rough week. To tell you about it would be SPOILERS! so I'm putting it behind an LJ cut. If it's behind an LJ cut it won't cause a paradox!
It was very upsetting.
***
Dear Captain Jack,
I need your help!
Not long ago I was swept up in a technological mishap that moved me, my entire team of colleagues, and my husband to the 53rd century. Now don't get me wrong -- I love the 53rd century! The fashion is amazing, the food is good (piggin is kind of an acquired taste) and the blankets are just right for cocooning.
The problem is that there was supposed to be this documentary aired about us in the 21st Century, and I never got to see it. Well, this past week the "RetroBeeb" holochannel was playing a re-run, so I settled in to watch it with my husband, my dog Max, and a huge bowl of hyperpopcorn. Paradise, right?
WRONG.
First, they cast that punk Gareth David-Lloyd to play me. He made a great James Bond when he was a little older (I downloaded all the Bond holos I'd missed. The omnisexual remake of Octopussy was brilliant!) but he still had my choker and I never did get to menace it back from him. Now it's on the wall of the New British Museum!
Second, in the documentary I demanded that Jack Tell Me Things. This upset my husband, who thought I was angry with him for not telling me Things.
THIRD, THEY KILLED ME OFF!
There I was, sat on our futuristic sofa, staring at the holo in shock.
"JACK!" I cried. "I DIDN'T DIE FROM PUKE-SPEWING-ALIEN FLU!"
"HEY WHY ARE YOU DEAD?" he demanded. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN I DON'T TELL YOU STUFF?"
It isn't fair! You're not supposed to just MAKE STUFF UP in Documentaries. That's not how it works! You can't write fictional stories about real people! Well, you can on the internet, but the BBC shouldn't air them! F-lock that shit!
Naturally we were both concerned. I demanded nose-kisses and I'm sure you know what that led to, so Max was really the one who benefited as he got to eat all the spilled hyperpopcorn (it's like regular popcorn, but more so). It was fun, but that night Jack insisted on sleeping on my head and waking me up every hour or so to tell me horrible things that have happened to him just in case I wanted to know. I finally asked him if he was going to blame himself for everything and run away and do you know what he did? HE HANDCUFFED US TOGETHER.
This morning I awoke to find that he'd hidden all my shoes.
"You would never be buried without your shoes," he said to me. "Now you can't be dead because I have all your shoes. TORCHWOOD!"
He still sometimes shouts TORCHWOOD when he gets overexcited.
I want to lay his worries about me being dead to rest. How can I help him work through the pain of fictional me dying? Life-affirming sex isn't solving this problem.
Sincerely,
NOT DEAD In Cardiff
***
When I gave this letter to Jack, all he did was LOL. Then he hollered HIS NAME IS THERESA and also asked if there was more hyperpopcorn. I'm on my own! And shoeless!
So I decided to hold a fake wake. For myself. After all if I'm dead the least I can do is get some booze and nibbles out of it. Harold's offered to cater it with some kind of space-texmex fusion thing, Gwen can compassion you hard, and I'm going to lounge on a sofa so you can come and tell me nice things about myself and pet Max's soft flappy ears.
IT'S MY FAKE WAKE, you have to say nice things about me.
Tributes of flowers, alcohol, and donations to the Buy Ianto Shiny Things memorial trust will be accepted graciously.
Also try the Soylent Chimichangas. I checked, they're definitely not made from people.
EDIT: JACK ANSWERED IT. FINALLY. JESUS!
Dear NOT DEAD In Cardiff,
Okay. I suppose I have to apologise for two things:
1. Throwing the bowl of hyperpopcorn at the holoscreen and smashing the monitor you worked so hard to glue to the wall...If you want company on your trip to Space Radio Shack this weekend, I'm your man to drive you dangerously fast in a hovercar.
2. Keeping you up all night playing all those Morrissey songs. I can't help it. I was upset for "fictional me". "Fictional Me" was in pain! Did you see my handsome face? I think I was upset. Fabulous profile though. Always had the best jawline on Earth, graveyard or not.
Hey, by making these apologies I don't admit that I was in the wrong --- Because I was totally justified. I am keeping up a brave face for Theresa.
Listen, I learned a HUGE lesson watching this miniseries.
When shadowy middle management-types in suits have secret meetings and then come to you with "proposals" you should always read the fine print.
Your head was so lumpy (and irritated with me) last night, I couldn't sleep. I pulled out my Quality Street tin of television studio contracts and had a good look.
WOW I shoulda have read this sucker more closely before I stamped it huh?
By sharing any contribution (including any text, photographs, graphics, video or audio) with the BBC you agree to grant to the BBC, free of charge, permission to use the material in any way it wants (including modifying and adapting it for operational and editorial reasons) for BBC services in any media worldwide (including on the BBC's site accessed by international users). In certain circumstance the BBC may also share your contribution with trusted third parties.
Copyright in your contribution will remain with you and this permission is not exclusive, so you can continue to use the material in any way including allowing others to use it.
SHIT!
When they said 'Do you give permission to use the names 'Jack Harkness', 'Ianto Jones', 'Gwen Cooper'? Sign here..." I assumed they meant "use" in a sexy way. Put our photos on edible panties, coffee mugs and posters. Lunch boxes. Do kids still use lunch boxes? There were kids in the miniseries but they were screaming and struggling too much for me to pick out fine details.
When the suits said "We're going to do a BBC miniseries" I assumed they meant they'd put Gwen in a corset and set it in Pemberley. Think of how fabulous her tits would have looked. Ianto, I thought they'd put you on a horse and have you ride over the moors. If we book some time in the holodeck we should do that this afternoon.
In hindsight, I should have investigated what they were doing. They gave me £500 for the rights to use our images. I guess the fun of stamping stuff and getting cash for it blinded me to the potential downside. I should have asked for creative control, maybe?
What deal is it that J.K. Rowling got? I asked the BBC if they were giving me that deal and they just LOLed. Why do I always assume LOLing means "Yes, Jack!" I need to break that habit. Ianto, you LOL all the time when I holler for shit. I know you call it "managing your unreasonable requests, Jack."
Well, if the BBC thinks they can use Torchwood for unsexy deeds that's fine. I have a Harkness plan to save the day. AND NO, I'm not killing any relatives. Fuck.
I'm shooting this problem hard in the face. With an official Torchwood stamp. All you kids reading this...You get the same deal I gave the television folks.
You don't even have to give me £500. It's free. You have Torchwood permission to make up sexy stories about us and make them awesome.
Ianto, you get the shoes back when I feel a bit more settled. If you'd stop fussing with the pillows and make room for me to lounge on the sofa with you I'd enjoy your fake wake ever so much more...
Yrs lovingly,
Cpt. Jack Harkness