I don't know Black Books, but that was the best thing I've read in ages.

::beams::

Bless you! Black Books is splendid, though! 3 seasons of 6 episodes each, oldskool UK sitcom from 2001ish, about the grumpiest chainsmoking pisshead bookshop owner in the history of bookshop owners, and his 2 best friends.

Fay, I know nothing of Black Books and I'd forgotten the names of the angel and demon from Good Omens until you sprung it at the end, but I love what you did with them. I could tell that they were totally inhabiting/consumed by these other characters and the way you brought the truth out was genius. And I squealed to think of them together.

I love Black Books and you totally captured those characters.

dances the dance of joy

Thank you!

Lovely, Fay. A smiling kiss to crown the rest of my day, whatever that may hold, this is lovely.

Oh, Fay. I've missed your writing voice so very, very much.

That is wonderful stuff, Fay. I don't know Manny or Bernard, but they are so vivid here I find I don't mind not knowing the source material.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Encouraged by this - and procrastinating with masochistic abandon (rather than running in to do REALLY URGENT THINGS at school), here is another one. Doctor Who/Black Books this time.

LOST IN SPACE (AND TIME)

“Where have you BEEN?” Bernard's voice is ragged and hoarse, but that's probably down to the fact that he was smoking three cigarettes simultaneously when they walked through the door. He bounces upright on the leather sofa and stubs all three fags out against the cover of a battered-looking Cliff Richard autobiography, then fixes Manny with a look of righteous indignation. “I have been subsisting on a diet of old teabags and nicotine! I had to roast that dead pigeon that's been lying in the garden for three months! I was reduced to licking the ink off old wine bottle labels! We ran out of WINE! I could have DIED!”

“You could have gone to Tesco,” counters Fran, looking unimpressed, before Manny can start apologising.

“Tesco is not for the likes of me! My kind are not welcome there!” Bernard proclaims, his lower lip wobbling piteously. “You deserted me! My own flesh and blood! Well, well, well I don't need you, either of you, I was getting on just fine without you! I've got new friends now! Better friends! True friends! Friends who won't say they're popping out to get a pizza and then never be seen again!” He slings a possessive arm around what looks suspiciously like a grimy pillow with a face scrawled on its front in magic marker. “This is Petey. Petey will never ever pop out to get pizza and leave me all alone for a whole week!”

“So you missed us, then?” says Fran.

“I'm sorry, Bernard!” Manny has been feeling vaguely guilty this whole time, and now that he sets eyes upon Bernard once again the guilt has swollen into a mighty tidal wave that threatens to drown him where he stands. “I'm really, truly, terribly sorry!” He has just had the most exciting experience of his life, but the whole time he kept thinking that it would be so much better if only Bernard could be there too. (Even though he was fairly sure Bernard would be scowling and making disparaging remarks the whole time.)

“And where is this bloody takes-a-week-to-cook-it pizza, then?” adds Bernard, in mounting indignation, looking from Manny to Fran and back again. “Petey and I thought you must have been grinding the wheat by hand to make the flour to make the pizza dough to make the stupid pizza. In Italy. But I'm not seeing any pizza. Do you see any pizza, Petey-old-pal-old-mate-old-chum?” He squeezes the pillow and makes it bob in what might, if you were feeling very generous, look faintly like a puppet-like motion. “No I don't, Mister Bernard,” he answers himself, in a squeaky voice.

“See, the thing is, we were only gone for a day, really,” says Manny. Bernard switches his glower up to eleven, and Manny hurriedly tries to explain. Fran perches on a table and lets him. “In our time line, it was only a day. Only, we were travelling in time and space, you see, and, and, and...you're not believing any of this, are you?”

“What, you were kidnapped by aliens?” Bernard pours all the withering scorn of which he is capable into this sentence. Fran and Manny exchange helpless glances, and then they both nod. Bernard snorts. “Did you hear that, Petey? They were kidnapped by ALIENS. On the way to the PIZZA PLACE. And then I suppose the dog ate your homework, did it? Did it? Eh? A-ha! Not so clever now, are you, my fine treacherous former friends? You have to get up pretty early to fool Bernard Black, and it's the early bird that catches the... thing that birds catch. Cold. Probably. Or possibly seed. Or something.” Bernard seems to sense that the sentence has run away with him. “So there!” he adds, for good measure.

“No, but he really was an alien, though,” says Manny. He frowns. “Although he was from the North. Which was a bit confusing.”

“An alien. From Yorkshire.”

“Or Manchester, maybe? He didn't say.”

“Gallifray,” says Fran helpfully. “I think it's near Huddersfield.”

“So your (continued...)

( continues...) story is – stop me if I've got this mixed up – your story is: an alien from Huddersfield kidnapped you on the way to collect a Jumbo Hawaiian Special with Extra Anchovies from The Leaning Tower Of Pizza? And forced you to travel through time and space? For a day, which turned into a week?” His eyes narrow. “Is there going to be anal probing in this story? I bet you loved it, you dirty bitch!”

There is a little pause, whilst both Fran and Manny try to figure out whether that last part is directed explicitly at them, and then Manny shakes his head as if trying to dislodge something from one of his ears. “No, no anal probing,” he says, and laughs nervously. “He wasn't that sort of alien.” He doesn't notice the way that Fran starts to blush, while her gaze skitters away from meeting Bernard's eyes. “Actually, it was all rather thrilling – you see, there were these space creatures posing as Italians, and they had this plot to take over Britain using mind-control garlic bread, only The Doctor found out about it and he saved the day! And we helped him!”

“You helped an alien GP from Huddersfield to stop space creatures from taking over Britain using garlic bread,” repeats Bernard, slowly.

“Yes!” agrees Manny brightly. Fran nods. “It was great!”

“Once they switched off their image distortion fields, they looked like giant prawns,” says Fran, giving a little shudder. “Giant space prawns, sort of a blue-grey colour. But with hair.”

“Fair play to them - it was in great condition,” says Manny.

“It was great hair,” concedes Fran. “But still – giant space prawns. With Italian accents. Bent on world domination. I thought we were drunk.”

“Well, we were drunk,” points out Manny, in the interests of full disclosure.

“We were drunk, yes. But not hallucinate-giant-space-prawns-drunk. Just, you know, fancy-some-pizza and oops-we've-run-out-of-fags drunk.” She sighs. “I really fancied that Marco, too. Before he was, you know, a prawn. He had a really nice arse. For a prawn.”

Bernard stares at them both in silent disgust.

“Anyway, we were just waiting for the pizza, and Marco said: 'Have some of this free garlic bread, it's delicious.'” Manny looks to Fran for confirmation and she nods. Bernard picks up one of the cigarettes he's just stubbed out, straightens it a little, and lights it once more.

“Special recipe from the old country, he said,” Fran chimes in. “It smelled great, actually.”

“Yeah. And we were just going to have some, because, you know – free garlic bread! - only there was this voomyvoomyvoomy noise,” Manny waves his arms in the air vaguely, “And then this big blue box appeared out of thin air!”

“A box.”

“Yeah! Sort of like a phone box!”

“But blue,” says Fran.

“Yes, okay, blue!”

“And wooden,” says Fran.

“Well, yes, and wooden!”

“And with no windows,” says Fran.

“And with no windows,” Manny agrees.

“So not very much like a phone box at all, then, really,” says Bernard.

“Well...no. But it said Police Call Box on it.”

Bernard looks at them both, and lights another cigarette, and proceeds to listen to the rest of their tale with one fag in each hand, taking alternate drags. “Go on,” he says grimly. “Let me hear the full, foul, spurious web of lies you've spun whilst you've been off on your little mini-break without me. Space prawns. Magical phone boxes that aren't phone boxes. Well, go on! Go on! Mush!”

“So we're all standing there, thinking, you know, blimey, this is a turn up for the books all right, and then this bloke with sort of sticky-out ears comes bursting out through the door of the box! Like a sort of angry Jack-in-a-box! With a Northern accent!”

“That was the Doctor,” Fran says.

“Doctor What?”

“....he never said, actually,” says Manny. “And you know how it's a bit embarrassing after you've been chatting with someone for a while, and then you realise you didn't actually catch their name? I didn't like to ask. Felt a bit silly.”

“That's the bit that made you feel silly?” asks Bernard. Manny nods. “Right. Right. Of course. Carry (continued...)