those dr who rumours put to rest

December 24, 2008

The BBC have announced the new Dr Who and Assistant for the fifth full series.  Jeremy Clarkson will be the Doctor and Richard Hammond will feature as a new character “Hamster”.

Discussing this ground-breaking move of combining the BBC’s two most popular light-entertainment programmes, Lord Attenborough said, “How else to bring the power of Top Gear and Dr Who to new and exciting audiences? We’ll splice their very DNA! Like in Jurassic Park! What could possibly go wrong? We’ve spared no expense!”

A special scene has been filmed between the two new characters and shown to the media. A transcript follows:

Doctor Clarkson: Some say that I’m a mysterious traveller in time, meddling in things that are of no concern to me. Others call me an omen. All anyone really knows is that I’m called… <camera zooms to face> The Doc

Hamster: Doctor, can we, that’s you and me, little me, little Hamstery me, go to Roman times and do chariot racing?

Dr Clarkson: Don’t be so stupid, Hammond, of course not! They’re the cocks of history. Never trust a cock in a toga, that’s what I say.

Hamster: I thought it was cocks in Audis?

Doctor: Well, yes, they’re cocks too. But! If you look on this special wall I’ve had installed in the Tardis… I like to call it the “Cock Wall”… we can see that over on the right side, waaaayyy over there,  the Romans are Massive Cocks, whilst over here on the left, Ford Mustang engineers are little teeny-tiny winkies.

Hamster: So… so, so… What you’re saying… is… stuff history, let’s go drive some proper cars… Cars with big, hot, throbbing engines.

Doctor: Yes. Something with a lot of meaty power. And not at all cock-like. All that thrusting, manly power! And we’ll be sat there, feeling it giving us the ride of our lives!

Hamster: Right! Right! Right!

Doctor: So, let’s go to a Ford Mustang salesroom in the USA in the year 2009! Hear that deep throaty roar! In fact… <looks at camera> let’s stop off… and get <he winks> The Stig…


further exclusive christmas e-card goodness

December 18, 2008

Instead of going out and doing Christmas shopping this evening, I stayed in and did this third exclusive card. For you. Just you.

Friends, relatives: You have no presents this year.

Card 3

The final design will be with you quick-sharp.


exclusive boredofjam christmas cards for 2008

December 17, 2008

As usual, I’m too much of a lazy tosspot to send out Christmas cards to the majority of my friends, acquaintances, family, etc etc.

Here are two exclusive designs for you for this year. I’ll do another two in the next few days*.

Download and print ’em out, they’re exclusively for you.

Happy Christmas Readers!

Card 1
Card 2

*This is not a promise. Or a fact. This is a vague possibility.


not that way, declined

December 17, 2008

Taking in the air this evening on the way home from The City, I was rather startled to see my chum Pratish behind the wheel of an ancient Renault car.

Not the most startling of things there you might think, but consider these facts:

  1. I was in Ipswich
  2. Pratish was last seen in London, not getting on the train I was getting on
  3. Pratish doesn’t own a car. And, well, even if he did, he doesn’t own one in Ipswich.
  4. How in the name of all things holy did he end up in a traffic jam on St. Helen’s Street?

Of course, I realised that it wasn’t Pratish. However, this not-P was staring right back, which was one of the reasons I caught sight of him in the first place. Anyhow, I nodded a curt ‘good evening’ and continued on my way, adding ‘freak’ after I’d passed, so as not to start any trouble.

Two hundred yards later at the corner of my street, I was yelled and beckoned at by a rather over-excitable little man in an ancient Renault. It was Not-Pratish who, I gather, was after giving me a lift home.

I expect he was also after a go in my tight little boy bottom too.


wednesday morning, 6am

December 17, 2008
6am, Ipswich

This picture proves I was up too early this morning.


from the phone of the poet laureate

December 17, 2008

Andrew Motion, the Poet Laureate is always keen to exploit new technologies and new media. This mornng, whilst on the train to London, he wrote a four-part epic on his mobile phone using the T9 entry system.

The Train, part 1

Send me to hell on
a National Express train
Down to London
And then back home
On one again

The Train, part 2

Sat next to a man with a cold
And no tissues
Or manners
So he sneezes over me
Spreading germs liberally
Wiping his nose
On his hand
And his Blackberry

Come, Shenfield and silver my day
Come, Liverpool Street, you City of Gold
Steal me away from this man
And his liquid nose-cold

The Train, part 3

Welcome to Gidea Park
Says the sign
But like the cheap suits in Coach G
It lies

The Train, part 4

Stratford
With your sporting pretence
Just a muddy building site
Olympic-ringed by an electric fence

And now the terminal station
Nearly in view
Round next corner
200 yards
45 minutes left to go
Go slow
No go


oliver postgate

December 9, 2008

Obviously, kids these days don’t know they’re born. If they did, they’d probably be more bother than they are now, so don’t let on. It’s relatively quiet where I live.

I woke this morning with a funny sensation in my stomach. I’d been dreaming of Ivor the Engine, Clangers and Bagpuss. I stared at the ceiling in my room for a while before checking the time. It was 7:14. That meant I’d missed the news and I had overslept a bit (due to being up all hours last night cooking my Christmas cake. Delia, you’re a Goddess, but dear me, can’t you make your cakes cook in less than four hours?).

Slowly I realised I’d not missed the news, but had been in that half-awake/half-asleep mode and that Bagpuss and his pals had been featured on Radio 4. This could not have been good news. It could only mean one thing: Oliver Postgate had died.

These days, with so much computer-generated buffoonery, villages inhabited by every minority possible and seemingly drug-induced Midnight Garden-ing, kids telly is all very very high production values. I don’t mean that a lot of cash is necessarilly thrown at it (I believe it’s cheap enough that Cat from Red Dwarf and Terry Wogan will occasionally read a story), but that it must not appear to be anything less than shiny-perfect.

There is no room for torn-edges or washed out colours. It’s sharp and primary or nothing. And whilst you’re about it, we need a pop band to sing the theme  – and release it on iTunes too.

Indeed, earlier this year, a bunch of feckwads with the terrible name of Coolabi bought the rights to Bagpuss and announced with the omnious and over-enthusiastic blah-speech of people who just don’t know when to leave stuff alone, that they were going to “introduce Bagpuss to a new generation”.

Anyone notice that they’ve done this to Postman Pat this year? No longer Greendale for bachelor-boy Pat. Oh no, dear god. Pat’s got a helicopter, a wife, a kid and probably a jet-pack, some rollerblades and an expensive cocaine habit.

Let us consider what, perhaps, this will mean for Bagpuss:

  • Will it be out with the simplistic animation and the folksy-songs?
  • Perhaps we’ll say so long to Bagpuss’s rather slothful and rotund attitude?
  • Will know-it-all Professor Yaffle no-longer be bossy and no longer know-it-all? (Bossy know-it-alls aren’t acceptable in modern-day kids’ telly, unless at the end of the episode the bossy know-it-all has been taught a lesson and has befriended a lesbian in a wheelchair).
  • The mice will be on Ritalin and will have calmed down a lot.
  • No remake of the infamous chocolate biscuit from butterbeans and breadcrumbs episode. Well, not without the next episode focussing on how good fruit, veg and organic farming are.

So my normal friendly attitude has been wearing thin today under the thought that more of my childhood is about to be presented back to the world as a bowl of vomit from some independent production company’s crazed minds.

The wonderful thing about the original stories, written, drawn, animated and told by Postgate and Peter Firmin was that they were so beautifully handmade and simple.

No.

That wasn’t the thing. That was a good thing, an excellent thing. It is something that should be taught in Media Studies courses and in art lessons.

The thing about Pogles’ Wood, about Ivor the Engine, about the Clangers, was Oliver Postgate’s narration. His voice is not just the voice of Noggin the Nog, or Bagpuss, it is the voice of the entirety of children’s television from the ’60s and ’70s.

I’m sorry if that annoys you Trumpton fans. Brian Cant was good. Roobarb and Custard’s Richard Brier’s was ace. But only Oliver Postgate had a voice which could make your soul cry with wonder and happiness.

Purchasing the Noggin The Nog DVD a few years back, I watched it all in one sitting. On my 31st birthday. It made me cry.

Thank you Smallfilms. Coolabi, beware.