From: blakes7-d-request@lysator.liu.se Subject: blakes7-d Digest V99 #138 X-Loop: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se X-Mailing-List: archive/volume99/138 Precedence: list MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/digest; boundary="----------------------------" To: blakes7-d@lysator.liu.se Reply-To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se ------------------------------ Content-Type: text/plain blakes7-d Digest Volume 99 : Issue 138 Today's Topics: [B7L] telemovie [B7L] Re: B7 telemovie Re: [B7L] web chat Re: Man of Iron ; was [B7L] Telemovie [B7L] test Re: Man of Iron ; was [B7L] Telemovie Re: [B7L] test [B7L] tests and "suckerdom" Re: [B7L] videos Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant Re: [B7L] tests and "suckerdom" Re: re [B7L]: telemovie Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant [B7L] Marinated Vila Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila [B7L] Man of Iron [B7L] Flat Robin 42 - Part 1 of 4 ------------------------------ Date: 19 Apr 1999 13:01:55 -0700 From: "Ma.James" To: "B7" Subject: [B7L] telemovie Message-ID: >Gail wrote (re "Man of Iron"): >and of all the Scorpio crew, Vila is the only one interested in >saving Avon. This I would have found very hard to accept in an aired episode. It violates MY established B7 dynamics. I can understand that they might have considered the difficulty or danger in trying to rescue Avon, and that they might have weighed the odds of being ABLE to rescue him against the amount risk. But that no one else was INTERESTED in trying to rescue him is not canon. I think it's been accepted (even by the Tarrant haters) that Tarrant would not leave a crew member stranded. I can't see Dayna or Soolin being willing to leave him either. Even Avon wouldn't leave a crew member stranded. I did enjoy the humor and clever lines Gail quoted :) And, since I quite naturally forgive Avon anything ;) ;), I would probably have accepted the super macho Avon as robot killer... Candace ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 17:14:02 -0400 From: Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com> To: "Blake's 7 (Lysator)" Subject: [B7L] Re: B7 telemovie Message-ID: <199904191714_MC2-72A0-2AA7@compuserve.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Disposition: inline Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Dangermouse responded to my assertion: >>like Vince and Stuart say, "PAUL McGANN DOESN'T COUNT." > >Actually he does. Why d'you think there's a > whole series of BBC books and audios with him? Cos it's a lucrative franchise, of course! Seriously, though I don't intend to get into a Dr Who debate (I care enough about it to protest at lousy telemovies, however good the performance of the individual actor, but I haven't room in my life for another fandom), I see a difference between canon and authorised/legitimate/welcome spin-offs. I'm delighted that a Dr Who industry exists, giving pleasure to fans and rewarding its creators, in the same way that I'm delighted that B7 fanfic exists (and wish it rewarded its creators). I just don't see it as canon. (And whether the BBC authorises it or not doesn't matter much to me.) I remember somebody (Ian? Iain? Another man?) had a wonderful idea for the BBC to authorise a series of PGP novels by different authors, all starting from the end of "Blake" and all going off in different directions. That way, no single version would be the "official" one (and no arguments about canon), and fans would be able to follow whichever one pleased them most. But I can't believe they'd come up with something so imaginative. Harriet ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 17:14:35 -0400 From: Harriet Monkhouse <101637.2064@compuserve.com> To: "INTERNET:blakes7@lysator.liu.se" Subject: Re: [B7L] web chat Message-ID: <199904191714_MC2-72A0-2ABA@compuserve.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Disposition: inline Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Mistral quoted Brian Lighthill's comment: >> Harriet, I think it's quite possible that Avon does enjoy >> killing people. > is quite easily interpreted as Lighthill trying to say that he *does* think Avon enjoys killing people, without starting an argument It may well be me who'sbeen misleading people, as I've been quoting the web chat off the top of my head without going back to read the transcript (so this is lifting other people's quotes), but given that BL continued: > In fact, in conversation with Paul Darrow he always has said > to me how he likes Avon to be really really hard... I believed at the time that he intended to convey (politely) that PD had given him this view. But I am confused by PD's attitudes, as he has explicitly stated that Avon isn't a psychopath (because he smiled when he used the word - not sure I follow the argument, but never mind that). Which contradicts the statement that "I enjoy hurting people." In fact I could accept that line quite happily if it were slightly remodelled to something like "I have no sentimental scruples about hurting people", which I am quite certain that Avon would believe. But I can't swallow the idea that he typically enjoys inflicting pain, or that he's convinced himself that he does. And that's where someone like Chris Boucher might have put them right. By the way, I'm kicking myself for not asking "so who is writing it?", even though I suspect they wouldn't have said... But I very much doubt it's Chris Boucher, as Julie and I both fed them that name a few times and they carefully avoided responding! Harriet ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 20:27:24 +0100 (BST) From: Judith Proctor To: Lysator List Subject: Re: Man of Iron ; was [B7L] Telemovie Message-ID: Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; CHARSET=US-ASCII On Mon 19 Apr, VulcanXYZ@aol.com wrote: > Judith wrote: > > > > I replied: > > > You find that incredible? Well, let me make my statement a little > stronger. > > I not only liked 'Man of Iron,' I loved it. I have even written a review > of > > it in the May 1996 issue of the Avon Newsletter (No. 63), which Ann Bown > > apparently found reasonable enough to print. > > And she answered back: > > No, I don't find it incredible. As I said, tastes differ. I'm sure you > wouldn't like some of the things that I enjoy. > > You don't have to agree with a review to print it (which isn't meant to imply > anything about whether Ann likes/dislikes 'Man of Iron') >> > > If I overreacted to your statement, Judith, I apologize. But when you said, > "I takes all sorts to make a world," I found your comment at the very least > to be dismissive, and at the worst to be a put-down. Wasn't intended that way. As a general rule you can assume that I try not to dismiss anyone's opinion. (If I dismiss something out of hand, then I won't bother replying to it) When I say 'it takes all sorts to make a world' I am effectively saying that there is a wide range of views and opinions and that the world would be a very boring place indeed if we all agreed all the time. > Also, I mentioned my review not to suggest that Ann Bown agreed with me, but > to say that my opinion was reasonable enough to be considered. Erm, that's why I said that I wasn't trying to imply anything about Ann's opinion. Whether she agreed or disagreed I would expect her to publish it precisely because I expect her (like myself) to see all opinions as reasonable provided that they are logically expressed (as yours was). > Furthermore, I wanted the other fans to give the script a chance because I > believe many will find it very enjoyable. Your opinion is highly respected > as it should be for your considerable knowledge of B7, but conflicting > opinions should not be dismissed out of hand. Who's denying anyone else's right to an opinion? There's a wildly enthusiastic review of Paul's book 'Queen The Eye' on my web page in spite of the fact that I didn't care much for the bits I browsed. It's there precisely so that people can see an opinion other than mine. I try and collect essays on as wide a range of topics as possible. I don't limit them to my favorite characters. I don't agree with all the theories expressed in them. I post them on the web because I consider them interesting, sometimes challenging and I hope that other people may too. Anyone want to write any new ones? I added an interesting new one on Avon the other week (Space City members will recognise it, but it will be new to the rest of you). I'll take writing on any topic from an analysis of drug culture in the Federation to a debate on the merits of slash fiction. I won't edit for content (unless the writer agrees), but I reserve the right to add footnotes to express my own opinion if it differs wildly. Any takers? Judith -- http://www.hermit.org/Blakes7 Fanzines for Blake's 7 and many other fandoms, B7 Filk songs, pictures, news, Conventions past and present, Blake's 7 fan clubs, Gareth Thomas, etc. ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 23:03:26 +0100 From: "Neil Faulkner" To: "lysator" Subject: [B7L] test Message-ID: <003d01be8ab0$9e08b300$8e408cd4@default> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Aha - I just knew at least one of you would click this one to read it even if it does say 'test' in the subject header. Should have put a fiver on it, eh? ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 19:04:33 EDT From: VulcanXYZ@aol.com To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: Re: Man of Iron ; was [B7L] Telemovie Message-ID: <1c2359a2.244d1081@aol.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit I said: < If I overreacted to your statement, Judith, I apologize. But when you said, "I takes all sorts to make a world," I found your comment at the very least to be dismissive, and at the worst to be a put-down. And Judith replied: Wasn't intended that way. As a general rule you can assume that I try not to dismiss anyone's opinion. (If I dismiss something out of hand, then I won't bother replying to it) When I say 'it takes all sorts to make a world' I am effectively saying that there is a wide range of views and opinions and that the world would be a very boring place indeed if we all agreed all the time. >> Thank you very much for taking the time to explain exactly what you meant. I was rather nervous about disagreeing with you, believe it or not, and am glad to finally understand your meaning. And a couple of people were glad that I had brought up Man of Iron and talked about it, so I believe that it all worked out to the good. It is certainly true that the world holds a plethora of ideas and opinions, as is so often shown on this list. That's what makes the list so fun to read! Gail ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 19:12:47 EDT From: VulcanXYZ@aol.com To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: Re: [B7L] test Message-ID: <9d17cb51.244d126f@aol.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Neil wrote: << Aha - I just knew at least one of you would click this one to read it even if it does say 'test' in the subject header. Should have put a fiver on it, eh? >> Dang, I've been caught! I always read the tests. Any other suckers out there? Gail ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 17:03:29 PDT From: "Joanne MacQueen" To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] tests and "suckerdom" Message-ID: <19990420000329.17561.qmail@hotmail.com> Content-type: text/plain >Dang, I've been caught! I always read the tests. Any other suckers >out there? >Gail I claim victimhood. I started at the top of what was in the in-box and kept going, and so I didn't know there was someone testing. Sally Manton, Stephen Date, anyone else on Hotmail - same for you? Regards Joanne ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 16:08:01 -0700 From: mistral@ptinet.net To: B7 List Subject: Re: [B7L] videos Message-ID: <371BB751.711099A3@ptinet.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Ma.James wrote: > >Mistral wrote: > >The quality of the videos we get over here in America, for example, > >is atrocious. And I'm talking manufactyuring quality, not the flaws > >from the original masters... > > Gee, I'm really surprised to hear this. I bought all 26 tapes from Suncoast > here in Southern California and the quality is superb. The picture is sharp and > clear (not blurry or fuzzy at all), the sound is excellent (even the music is > unflawed). Everyone in our group bought their B7 tapes from Suncoast and no > one has had a problem. Be thankful, then. I'm on a subscription service for the express purpose of getting a nice clear set -- I've got fuzzy ones that I taped from off the air. I'm up to tape five now, and there's only one I've not had to exchange because of broad white snowy lines across the picture, or some equally annoying flaw; I've exchanged tape #3 three times and still haven't got a good one, and settled on tape #4 for one that restricted it's flaws to the opening credits, because I was afraid if I exchanged it again, I'd get something worse. Grins, Mistral -- "And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 16:51:48 -0700 From: mistral@ptinet.net To: B7 List Subject: Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant Message-ID: <371BC194.CDC92070@ptinet.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Judith Proctor wrote: > On Mon 19 Apr, mistral@ptinet.net wrote: > > > > >...I don't consider simple verbal savagery bullying. > > > >I consider threats bullying. > > > > > > Schools would disagree a lot with that. So would other spousal abuse > > > situations. > > > > Yes, nowadays, when the world has become so very PC. But, > > that's a very recent development. I'm not a total geezer, but I > > do remember when people were expected to learn to deal with > > these kinds of situations as they grew up: "Sticks and stones > > may break my bones, but words can never harm me." > > I'm sorry, but you haven't the faintest damn idea what you're talking about. I take it this is some verbal savagery designed to teach me a lesson? I'm sincerely sorry if I've touched a nerve. I certainly hope that things continue to improve for your son. This would explain, perchance, why we have different definitions of the word bully. And I never meant to imply that verbal savagery isn't damaging, hurtful, or a bad thing to do to people. I don't consider that you've just bullied me, however, even though you *have* reduced me to tears. OTOH, Judith, you have no idea what *my* life has been like, any more than I was aware of your son's situation. I do, too, have 'the faintest damn idea' of what I am talking about. And to avoid pouring out my whole life story in public, I'll confine myself to saying that I've lived my entire 40 years *up to the present* with verbal savagery from everyone from family, to *teachers*, to total strangers who feel free to walk up to me on the street and insult me. (I've also come in for my share of bullying -- my definition.) I could wish that I were tougher. I could wish that the people that behave this way had a better upbringing. And this isn't the first time since I've joined this list that I've wished that people would restrict themselves to exchanging ideas and opinions, instead of making personal attacks. :) On the other hand, I still believe in free speech. And I still want to be friends. Please forgive me for hurting you. Sincerely, Mistral -- "And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 01:11:19 +0100 From: "Neil Faulkner" To: "lysator" Subject: Re: [B7L] tests and "suckerdom" Message-ID: <002201be8ac2$51c7f520$b917ac3e@default> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit FWIW, I always read them too. Neil ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 01:16:17 +0100 From: "Dangermouse" To: "Neil Faulkner" , "lysator" Subject: Re: re [B7L]: telemovie Message-Id: <199904200016.BAA13696@gnasher.sol.co.uk> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=Default Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit ---------- > From: Neil Faulkner > I agree with Judith, the script is what matters most. I sincerely hope it > doesn't revolve around some galaxy-shaking McGuffin that has no real part in > the B7 universe, as appears to be the case with the radio plays. Dr Who > might get away with it, Nope, Barry's couple of Who radio shows were trashed as well. -- "When two hunters go after the same prey they usually end up shooting each other in the back - and we don't want to shoot each other in the back, do we?" http://members.aol.com/vulcancafe ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 17:35:42 PDT From: "Joanne MacQueen" To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant Message-ID: <19990420003543.24600.qmail@hotmail.com> Content-type: text/plain Mistral, in response to Judith: >I'm sincerely sorry if I've touched a nerve. I certainly hope that things >continue to improve for your son. Me too. Mistral, just run the "marinated Vila" idea past her (ie he drank because he was bullied), although the meat tenderiser hammer bits might not go too well under the circumstances. Regards Joanne Do not attempt to write on both sides of the paper at once. --Exam advice from 1066 And All That, Sellar and Yeatman. ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 17:48:59 -0700 From: mistral@ptinet.net To: B7 List Subject: Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant Message-ID: <371BCEFB.669FA758@ptinet.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Joanne MacQueen wrote: > Mistral, in response to Judith: > >I'm sincerely sorry if I've touched a nerve. I certainly hope that things > >continue to improve for your son. > > Me too. Mistral, just run the "marinated Vila" idea past her (ie he drank because he was bullied), although the meat tenderiser hammer bits might not go too well under the circumstances. Are you trying to get me thrown off the list, you wascally wabbit? Those are your ideas (although I like them), you run them past. Grins, Mistral -- "And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 09:28:40 +1000 From: Sarah Berry To: Lysator List Subject: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant Message-ID: <371BBC28.4C42A369@connexus.apana.org.au> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit > Mistral on the Avon-Vila relationship and evidence of bullying: > >...I don't consider simple verbal savagery bullying. > >I consider threats bullying. > Schools would disagree a lot with that. So would other spousal abuse > situations. >Yes, nowadays, when the world has become so very PC... >I'd far rather deal with verbal savagery, thanks... >"Words are no more than words."--Zukan Avon being rude to me vs being ejected from a shuttle and exploding in space, yes I reckon I can also see the distinction and make the preferable choice. However, to deny the power of words for good or evil is something I find hard to relate to. Sarah Berry. ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 18:48:53 PDT From: "Joanne MacQueen" To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] Marinated Vila Message-ID: <19990420014854.30042.qmail@hotmail.com> Content-type: text/plain Mistral wrote: >Are you trying to get me thrown off the list, you wascally wabbit? >Those are your ideas (although I like them), you run them past. Oh well, if you like. For what it's worth, it boiled down to this: 1) I suggested that Vila may have developed that fierce thirst of his because he was bullied - "marinate himself in booze" was the phrase concerned. 2) To paraphrase Mistral's response, marinade is used for tenderising, and didn't I think Vila was tender enough as it was? 3) I suggested that Tramila would definitely think he was good enough to eat, but that Vila would prefer marinating in alcohol to being hit with those hammer things used for meat tenderising. 4) Mistral's vision of Vila being alternately marinated and pounded. I can just see Tramila being caught between the desire to giggle and lamentations for the fate of her poor putupon boy. Getting close to lunch in Sydney (yes, I know, a disgusting thought now). What else could you make from B7 characters? Travichyssoise? No, that's tempting fate, (isn't it, Penny?), but it happened to be the first thing to cross my mind. There is a recipe in the archives for a Crispy Avon Sandwich, but I can't remember the details now. Regards Joanne ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 20:16:46 -0700 From: mistral@ptinet.net To: B7 List Subject: Re: [B7L] Re:Bullies, was PiC Rant Message-ID: <371BF19D.E5769CAB@ptinet.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Sarah Berry, replying to me: > >Yes, nowadays, when the world has become so very PC... > >I'd far rather deal with verbal savagery, thanks... > >"Words are no more than words."--Zukan > > Avon being rude to me vs being ejected from a shuttle and exploding in space, > yes I reckon I can also see the distinction and make the preferable choice. > However, to deny the power of words for good or evil is something I find hard to > relate to. I've not, AFAIK, ever said or implied otherwise. For heaven's sake, why *will* people insist on misinterpreting what I've said. Words are in fact *extremely* powerful. And I did *not* say that it is okay to trash people verbally. What I was doing was drawing a distinction between being cruel (which is, yes, *extremely* nasty behaviour) and forcing someone to do as you tell them by making them fear for their safety. Having been a recipient of *both* types of behaviour, I *do* in fact feel qualified to have an opinion, even if it's not the same as everyone else's. I don't believe that Vila was ever afraid that Avon was ever going to dump or kill him, apart from 'Orbit', and that was survival, not meanness. I do think he believed that of Tarrant. As for the "Words are no more than words" quote (which, BTW, Joanne's kindly pointed out to me I've misattributed, it was Chalsa), all I was saying is that when people restrict themselves to verbal slanging you can walk away alive, just like we're all going to do from this discussion. Give me Avon's verbal abuse over Tarrant's coercion any day; I'll snarl right back, just as Vila eventually learned to do. Whew! The things we do for love of B7! Mistral -- "And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 20:20:02 -0700 From: mistral@ptinet.net To: B7 List Subject: Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila Message-ID: <371BF262.7A34B989@ptinet.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Joanne MacQueen wrote: > What else could you make from B7 characters? Travichyssoise? Oooooh, Joanne. Almost as good as the filk (I think it's Judith's): Soup of Cally, leg of Tarrant, Avon's little toasties... hahahahaahhahahahahahah............... Mistral -- "And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 20:55:40 -0700 From: Tramila To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila Message-Id: <3.0.5.32.19990419205540.0087bad0@earthlink.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" >2) To paraphrase Mistral's response, marinade is used for tenderising, and didn't I think Vila was tender enough as it was? > I can just see Tramila being caught between the desire to giggle and lamentations for the fate of her poor putupon boy. I'm always ready to help pickle Vila. ROTFLMAO Tramila --------- Charter Member and Pres. of V.I.C.E. Vila's Intimately Corruptible Element Am I corruptible? Of course I am! and loving it!!! --- Risa's Rebels (Sime~Gen) ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 20 Apr 99 04:07:00 GMT From: s.thompson8@genie.com To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] Re: Avon & Rubbish Message-Id: <199904200416.EAA20129@rock103.genie.net> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Julie, I've managed to misplace your post, but you queried my comment about Vila's catnaps and Avon's cleanliness. I have the impression, from various interviews, magazine articles, etc., that these were personal characteristics of the respective actors. Apparently Michael Keating used to take little naps in corners of the set when he wasn't needed. Someone (Chris Boucher, maybe? I'm not sure) thought that was funny and started having Vila do the same thing. As for Paul Darrow resembling Avon in being fastidious, there was an amusing article in an old issue of the Avon newsletter about his experiences as a struggling young actor. One of the anecdotes involved a stingy theatrical landlady who, when he asked to take a bath that night, said, "But you only just had one last night!" So I think these qualities in the characters came from the actors. Someone else wondered how Soolin managed to switch the clip in Avon's gun. My theory is that he had foolishly left it with his clothes in another room, and was splashing or singing or something when she came tiptoing in. I'm sure he'll never do that again! Of course, I'm perfectly happy to be persuaded that there was a more interesting explanation, if someone wants to write it. Sarah T. ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 22:32:38 -0700 From: mistral@ptinet.net To: B7 List Subject: Re: [B7L] Marinated Vila Message-ID: <371C1175.68EAD4EC@ptinet.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Joanne MacQueen wrote: > > What else could you make from B7 characters? Travichyssoise? Tonight's menu: * Travichyssoise * Blakened Catfish/Orac of Lamb * Callyflower Casserole * Jenna'nd Tonic * Kerrant Cake Thank you for patronizing the Gan-Restalrant. Mistral -- "And for my next trick, I shall swallow my other foot."--Vila ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 22:56:41 +0100 (BST) From: Judith Proctor To: Lysator List Subject: [B7L] Man of Iron Message-ID: Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; CHARSET=US-ASCII On Mon 19 Apr, Reuben Herfindahl wrote: > > > > >In message <029901be8a06$87a49660$8c458cd4@default>, Neil Faulkner > > > writes > > >>And if Man of Iron is anything to go by, Paul Darrow should be firmly > > >>handcuffed until the script is irrevocably finalised. > > > > Is Man of Iron available in print anywhere? You can buy a copy from Horizon. I've a vague feeling it's about 8 quid. Judith -- http://www.hermit.org/Blakes7 Fanzines for Blake's 7 and many other fandoms, B7 Filk songs, pictures, news, Conventions past and present, Blake's 7 fan clubs, Gareth Thomas, etc. ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 00:25:33 -0600 From: Arkaroo To: blakes7@lysator.liu.se Subject: [B7L] Flat Robin 42 - Part 1 of 4 Message-ID: <371C1DDD.1694@gpu.srv.ualberta.ca> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit By Arkaroo - writing this horribly long chapter has given me what I presume to be carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand ("I'm crippled... helpess!", whimpered Travis). How many wrists will this Flat Robin claim? No snickers, you perverts. Any feedback, good or bad, would be appreciated. Once I no longer need to type with my toes, I'll be back to torture Blake some more. Bwah-hah. *** Back in the cozy confines of Nanny Ogg's lodgings, Blake was feeling poorly. The dull thrum in his head that had been present since his slow ascent into consciousness had mutated into a repetitive thunder which sounded like tiny Morris Dancers were improvising an orchestral movement for kettle drums and blasting caps in C Minor somewhere atop his cerebral cortex. He clutched his head and moaned softly, then opened his eyes slightly, revealing a dark, featureless surface only inches above his nose. Attempting to raise his arms, he discovered that he had passed out with his hands trapped beneath his buttocks, and they'd fallen asleep. "I've been buried alive," Blake whispered. "I knew I shouldn't have named Avon as my sole beneficiary when I got life-insurance." On the other hand, his brain noted, if this was, indeed, a coffin, it was a coffin with a lid made by 'Unseelie Posture-Pedic', according to the little fabric tag dangling above his forehead. It was a remarkably springy and clothlike coffin as well, he noted, poking the soft and yielding surface scarce inches above his face with his nose. Turning his head to the side, he noticed light and fresh air emerging from a gap between the surface he was laying on and the lid above him. "I must... I must go towards the light," he rasped, writhing limblessly towards the opening. Colonies of dust-bunnies went swirling off towards new frontiers as he flopped and twitched through the gap and out into the sweet air of freedom. As his eyes adjusted to the relative brightness, he looked back at the gap he'd just crawled from and discovered he'd been under a bed, not inside a coffin at all. This comforted him but slightly -- normally, he *remembered* the beds he passed out or hid under, but he couldn't place this one. This was worrisome to Blake, but not quite as worrisome as the quartet of enormous scented candles teetering precariously on the night-stand above his head. Ever so slowly, Blake heaved himself up onto the bed, and lay back amidst the the room-service trays and rumpled haberdashery to await the return of feeling in his extremities. As his feet and hands began to tingle painfully with the return of blood-flow, he took stock of his surroundings and felt a cold sweat break out on his brow. In the corner, beneath a ceiling pocked with laser-blasts, he could see two steamer-trunks overflowing with voluminous black dresses and hideously complicated undergarments. A horrific pink nightgown speckled with jaundice-coloured spots dangled from the coathooks like a field-dressed creature from the land of delerium tremens. "I've got to get out of here," he muttered to himself. He bent over to tie his shoelaces, but succeeded only in slowly tipping forwards onto the floor. As he rolled over and crawled onto the bed once more, he began to assess his position logically. First of all, he was in a room that belonged, apparently, to some sort of scented-candle-loving sumo-wrestler with a fondness for black velvet. Secondly, at the moment he was having a tremendously difficult time performing even the most basic of motor functions -- it was taking nearly all of his concentration just remembering to blink at regular intervals. And, thirdly, his shoes didn't have *any* laces, let alone untied ones. I am in dire need of a hangover cure, he thought, a Vila-sized cure. A blood-infusion wouldn't be strong enough for this monstrous infliction, let alone Space-Eno or Alpha-Seltzer. He glowered at the contents of the bed, hoping a bottle of soma, or at the very least a power-drill, would appear out of nowhere and give him succor from the pain. Warily, he prodded a voluminous looking monk's robe, causing the bulging pockets to clank, whir, snarl and jingle. Reaching into the innermost pocket (the sweatiest one), Blake pulled out a small velvet satchel. Upending the bag, he examined the handful of objects that tumbled across the bedspread. Three sets of brass knuckles; two bottles of "Somnolent Samuel's Odorless Spirits"; a packet of itching powder, partially used; an unfinished love poem, done in limericks; and a square metal tin. Pushing the other items aside, Blake focused his attention on the metal box, recognizing in the dim recesses of his mind that wonderful cures tended to lurk in little tins. The top of the container had an amusing little picture of a man with clear eyes and a slightly manic grin shooting pink elephants out of the air with an oversized crossbow. Written beneath it, in large type, were the words "Proffefore Marinari's Sobering Pilles (pat. pend)". Grunting slightly with the effort, Blake prised off the lid and looked within. Inside was a small slip of paper, perched atop a snowy expanse of cotton. He picked up the note and peered at the incredibly cramped and tiny writing, his pupils twirling and clicking in a vain attempt to focus on the tiny words. He knew, in some primal level of his mind, that tiny pieces of paper inside containers of powerful chemicals were generally quite important to read, but his eyes were too busy getting in touch with themselves to bother with his needs. Finally, infuriated at his inability to make sense of the gnat-like words, he threw the paper over his shoulder and started to tear the cotton out in huge handfuls. The slip of paper drifted to the floor, lodging upright in one of the large, cockroach-sized gaps present, by order of the Guild of Vermin, in all hotel rooms in the city-limits of Ankh-Morpork. The omniscient eye of the narrator slides across the bed and zooms in on the writing, closing in on the words as the sound of Blake getting tangled in the cotton grows faint: "This product contains 35% Essence of Frog per volume. Warning : Not to be used by those persons who have imbibed, touched, looked at, or thought of "SCUMBLE" (scumbalatine delerizine 5,25) within the past 48 hours. This product may cause headaches, drowsiness, some swelling of the organs, seepage from orifices, short-term memory loss, involuntary dancing, thinning of hair, unbearable lightness of being, chronic echolalia, limb loss, tongue shrinkage, acceptance of fascism as a proper governmental system, loss of libido, increase of libido, corruption of libido, itching, infantilism, disorientation, spasticity, verucal growth, ego loss, discoroporeality, insanity, short-term memory loss, nausea. Suppository only; not to be ingested." With unsteady hands Blake unwrapped two of the foil wrapped pellets. He stared at the greasy green monstrosities apprehensively -- to his parched throat and dessicated tongue the pills seemed as large as ping-pong balls. Grabbing a cracked glass, he stumbled to the washroom to get a drink of water, his feet scrambling around each other like mating horseshoe crabs. He stopped just short of turning the door-handle, alerted by a water-logged squeal from behind the door. Bending down to key-hole level, he looked inside to see what manner of inhuman torture could inspire such a horrific ruckus. Through the tiny aperature he could see a stocky, gleefully happy woman holding a loofa in the same way he'd seen members of the Federation troopers wielding riot-clubs. She held some struggling creature under a mass of pink-tinted bubbles -- stray limbs and muffled curses emerged at irregular intervals from the churning foam. "Just a moment more, my dear," cooed the woman holding the loofa. "The conditioner has almost finished its work, and soon you'll have silky smooth locks." The creature under the bubbles said something, presumably vile, that was obscured by a sudden flurry of aggressive loofa work. Shaking his head, Blake stood up and lurched towards the bedside table and the pewter pitcher that was perched amongst the dog-ends and oyster-shells. He picked the pitcher up shakily and filled his glass with what he could only presume was water, though it far more resembled Vila's infamous Iced Tea[1]. He sighed deeply, then swallowed the enormous pills, gagging slightly as they wormed their way down. I'm getting far too tired for this regular cycle of drugging and kidnapping, Blake thought to himself as he sat down on the edge of the bed. A nice long vacation, after this business on Star One, was definitely in order. Maybe a camping trip on some out-of-the-way planet, a place where he could spend a few months living off the land and seeing the sights. On the other hand, his travel agent was always recommending the 'Dude Ranches' of Gauda Prime as inexpensive, rustic spiritual retreats. From what he had heard, it sounded like a nice place to visit, though by all means he wouldn't want to spend the rest of his life there. But getting a chance to spend some quality-time on horseback again would be a treat. Breathing deeply in anticipation of future relaxation, he lay back on the cluttered bed. Without warning a soundless explosion went off inside his head, as the cobwebs clouding his mind dissipated in a puff of chemical antagonism and were promptly replaced by bright orange badgers clad in sweater vests singing 'The Horst Wessel Song'. His eyes snapped open with unnatural swiftness; the pupils of his eyes were large as potholes in a poor neighbourhood. Thoughts began to race through his mind with incredible clarity, tripping over themselves in their desire to get to the front. Why, he understood everything, Blake realized -- every deed and function of the Federation, every mass execution and brain-washing made perfect sense now. Why had he spent all these years fighting the system, he wondered, when such a brilliantly executed system kept the population where they should be, safe and happy and under the control of those best equipped to do the thinking. He sprang from the bed and clicked his heels together, then strode to the mirror beside the dresser. Changes wracked his face as he stared at his reflection; the worn bags under his eyes shifted, the perpetual expression of affable manipulation dissipated, and his mouth twisted into a pompous sneer. His left eye tightened up into a menacing squint involuntarily. "Pathetic," he muttered. He grabbed a half-eaten tin of sardines from the table, poured a generous helping of sardine-oil into his palm, then slicked his hair back into a rough pompadour. He admired his reflection with viciously cheerful glee. "I must have been a fool to think that people want freedom," he said to his reflection. "People need to be led -- no, they *want* to be led. Freedom is desirable only to those half-wits incapable of understanding the natural order of society. Fools." He practiced his sneer for a few minutes, then looked down at his earth-toned leather outfit disdainfully. "This hippy gear won't pass muster. I need something with *style*," he said, stomping around the room. He began to mutter and curse as he walked around the room peering into the shadowy corners and upending packages in his search for more suitable attire. His rant was stopped short as he kicked aside a crumpled bag of crisp packages and revealed a gleaming black leather suit and matching boots. "Yeah, baby," Blake whispered as he caressed Travis' suit. A more sensible person might have questioned the ability of Blake to insert himself in a tight leather suit tailored for someone approximately five sizes smaller, but it was the badgers who were doing Blake's thinking now. Tearing off his more sedate clothing, he tugged and wrestled with the black leather uniform which, as luck would have it, had been equipped with wide, expandable gussets along the sides[2]. After doing up the numerous zippers and convoluted series of buttons, he looked at his new reflection in the mirror and grinned. It fit him like a glove -- an overtly fascistic and somewhat perverse glove, true, but a glove nonetheless. The boots, unfortunately, didn't fit; whoever owned the suit posessed comparatively slim calves. Blake threw them into the corner with disgust and grabbed the monk's robe. After one final preen in the mirror, the transformed Blake slipped out through the door, donning the monk's robe while little sparks of imperialistic fervour snapped and quivered around his head like fireflies on an ether binge. The first thing I've got to do, thought Blake, is find Servalan -- she's out there somewhere, and she holds the key to getting in good with the Federation. I'll wine her, dine her, whisper sweet fascistic nothings in her ears until I can metaphorically dip my metaphorical chip and get back into *power*. Giggling quietly to himself, he slipped through the door and latched it carefully behind him. The room filled with silence -- nothing moved but the gently galloping silverfish as they went about their evening calisthenics. The dust-buffalo crept out of their warrens and started to graze, convinced that any dangerous activity was long over -- they were rudely dissuaded of that notion when the bathroom door burst open and a figure clad only in an eyepatch and some strategically placed bubbles darted through. He sprinted across the room and dove behind the bed for cover. "I don't *that* waxed, thank you very much," bellowed Travis from his position beside the bed, crouching down so that nothing but his eye showed. "Come on, laddy, it'll be smooth and lovely," cooed a voice from within the bathroom. "Make it easier to get in that suit -- and easier to get out of it, as well, har-har." Travis shuddered momentarily, then looked around the cluttered room. To his shock and dismay, his leather suit was no longer concealed under the bag of garbage, and his wonderful new robe wasn't squatting atop the bed like a terry-cloth dragon. His lip curled back as he noticed that his old enemy had disappeared as well. "So, Blake, trying the old 'steal-your-enemy's-trousers' trick, were you? Well, I don't need trousers to finish you off." Nanny Ogg emerged from the bathroom. Her hair and clothing were exceedingly damp. "Look, ducky! I've found a nice fluffy towel for you," she said. She held a large expanse of kitten-patterned fabric towards him, flapping it enticingly. "Erk," said Travis, as the kittens resurrected long-dead memories of Servalan's inevitable trips to the beach and the resultant horrible feeling of sand inside his uniform. Hissing maniacally, he braced himself on the mattress and pointed his Lazeron Destructor at her. He twisted his ring and waited for the pleasant snap/crackle/scream that inevitably followed. Instead of the expected sound of death-inducing particles hurtling outwards, though, his arm remained inert. After several seconds a few half-hearted sparks dribbled from the barrel and plopped onto the floor pathetically. Travis started down at his arm with astonishment as wisps of smoke and the rank smell of roasting insulation began to seep out from the elbow joint. "My arm!" cried Travis as he attempted to smother the smouldering appendage with a pillowcase. "You got water in the circuitry! I *knew* I shouldn't have let you take it off and use it as a bath-toy! This is -- this *was* a highly complicated weapon's system. It simply wasn't meant to serve as Admiral Cuddler's submersible war-ship in your reenaction the 'Battle of Otter Bay'!" He started hyperventilating. "Got that out of your system, my boy?" asked Nanny Ogg kindly. "Mustn't let these things fester -- I always say, you should lance those mental boils before they get to the point where your psyche can't sit down without a pillow. Is there anything else you'd like to get off your chest?" "Blake stole my *uniform* as well, that mean old doody-head," snuffled Travis, half-heartedly beating out the flames on his arm. "Tcch. And it was such a nice suit. I was thinking about getting one of those made for myself," Nanny said sadly. I don't imagine there's enough cows on this world, Travis thought to himself. The mental image of Nanny Ogg in full-body leather made the few remaining hairs on his body rise in terror. If I ever get the opportunity to wipe out the human race, thought Travis, I'll take it just so I'll never, ever have to chance seeing this woman in a Space-Commander's uniform. "Luckily, I've got another outfit just your size tucked away in the linen closet," said Nanny Ogg. "It's made out of seersucker." She waggled her eyebrows. "I'll be back with it in a moment. And get those thoughts out of your mind, you cheeky little bunny-rabbit. My Nell doesn't like boys who disrespect their elders." She lumbered back into the washroom and closed the door. Travis stared at the washroom door blankly, his mental gears whirring and snapping. With an instantaneous decision born of loofa burns and a fear of chafing, he grabbed the nighty and his boots and dove into the dark orifice of the laundry-chute, trailing thin bluish smoke behind him. After a few second of silence, a short series of pained animalian yelps emerged from within its inky-black depths. "Oh, and don't bother to put the nighty in the laundry-chute," yelled Nanny Ogg from the bathroom. "The maid said they've stopped the laundry service, so the chute just leads to the rat-trap depository." Nanny Ogg emerged from the bathroom, clutching a ghastly green wad of clothing. She looked around the empty room curiously. "Now where *has* that boy gone off to? And I'd had such high hopes for him and my Nell. Well, he'll find I don't lose prospective suitors that easily." Grinning merrily, she tugged off one stocking and proceeded to pour the contents of her change purse into it. She smacked the improvised cosh against her palm experimentally, pleased by the weighty potential of it, then she grabbed her valise and left the room. Silence returned once more. *** Far below Nanny Ogg's room, deep in the dank and cluttered cavern of the basement, Travis groaned gently. He got to his feet slowly, wincing as the remaining unsprung traps clamped onto his freshly-exfoliated toes. He lurched to the door, sprung rat-traps dangling from his fingers like angular possums, and limped out into the hallway in search of a safe and private place to get dressed. "I'll get you yet, Blake," muttered Travis as he removed a large 'D-Luxe T-Bolt Rat Crufher' from his eyebrow. "And your little dog, too." --- [1] Recipe : Three pints of bourbon, three pints of flat lager, two raw eggs and one teabag. Mix thoroughly, chill for two hours, strain through a reindeer, then avoid drinking until all other options have been exhausted. Serves one. [2] All Federation officer's uniforms are equipped with this feature, due to the popularity of Federation Mess-Halls and their notorious "Fried Cheese Fridays". -------------------------------- End of blakes7-d Digest V99 Issue #138 **************************************