Tan? You'll go ORANGE, my friend, orange like a satsuma (or, um, an orange) and who wants to do that? Well, apart from the inhabitants of Essex and the shaved primate currently running as the most likely candidate for Prime Minister of This Great Nation. Did you hear we've upped and left Europe? We properly threw our toys out of the pram on that one. There was this whole voting malarkey, you see, where the two options were 'Remain' or 'Flounce' and by God, Andy, we Flounced. You've never seen anything like it. Fully 52% of the electorate gathered their skirts haughtily around their ankles, informed the room icily that we weren't going to stand for this sort of thing any longer, and walked out. Whereupon David Cameron (a non-alcoholic ripoff version of Tony Abbott disguised in a shiny toe-like fleshsuit) resigned his post and all hell broke loose. Except it didn't, really, because it'll take two years to leave Europe. Two years! That's fully enough time for two X Factor winners to conduct a similarly farcical voting campaign and sink without a trace beneath the waves of BBC Radio 1. They'll all have forgotten about it in three weeks, mark my words.
Good grief what a paragraph. It's been too long since I've replied, y'see, it's all tumbling out. So I'm no longer European! It's all right, my French is and always has been bloody horrible. When we went to Disneyland I did my best French accent and went 'merci' in all the shops, trying to show respect for the culture, and TO A MAN every Pierre and Marie-Belle among them went, 'yeah, cheers,' in earthy British tones as they slapped down my receipt. They just had to let me know that I was a stranger in a strange land, and my accent was GOOD, dammit. Or at least, not as murderously awful as my Australian. ;)
Our Comic-Con bloody should be about Doctor Who! There should be a big fat Welsh presence, but no, BBC Wales go gallivanting off to San Diego to do the proper one, despite the fact that I've yet to meet an American fan. They're like dragons and public buses, mythical beasts that no one's ever caught a glimpse of. In London, Peter Davison, who I am reliably informed was a Doctor long before I was born, was signing sh*t at a desk, and there may have been a single Dalek somewhere on the show floor, but no-one from the last century, more's the pity. I've have paid extra for Billie Piper. Oh get your mind out of the gutter.
I'm simultaneously frightened and impressed that the term 'dipping sauce' is apparently a thing in Australialaiala, by the way. ;) Is it so far removed from ketchup or mayonnaise or Another Civilised Concoction that y'all just refer to it as 'sauce... you know, for dipping' and give up? It's like that hideous orange potion you sometimes see labelled only as 'burger sauce' outside the chip van. 'Burger sauce'. I ask you. It's clearly composed of ingredients so foul that they ran shrieking off the label in shame.
*nudge nudge* tell me of your crusade, brave Christian soldier! Did you lay waste to the fiendish fields of salted caramel? Or did you accidentally knock up a doe-eyed peasant wench and have to detour through Rome to pick up an indulgence or three on the way home? I must know. ;) actually, what am I saying, you'd have more chance of that indulgence actually working than knocking up any wench at all. :P But I like the word 'wench' and it was too splendid an opportunity to pass up. Wench. Try it! That single syllable rolls around the mouth like a fine peanut butter.
AND SHOW ME MR BONES. Oh get your mind out of the gutter. xxx