Where was I? Oh yes. Hello November. You are pleasingly cold and if you could refrain from pissing down with rain for the fortnight I am off work (which begins on Monday) I should be infinitely grateful. I want to go to the seaside. Ta very much.
How are you all?
(1) After watching the wonderful Control, I found a copy of Deborah Curtis' memoir on which the film was based, Touching From A Distance and almost wished I hadn't. What an a death-obsessed, selfish idiot he was. He had fascist sympathies, was incredibly sexist and controlling, a racist and he voted Tory. Having a chronic illness does not excuse his fuckwittery and lies. And this is according to someone who loved him. Weirdly, the one person who comes out of the book looking better than he did when I went into it is Peter Hook.
There's a Joy Division documentary out soon which I might have to go see, just to find out if the rest of the band share the book's vision of Curtis.
(2) I am amused (where amused = disgusted) by this afternoon's conclusion of the case of Jean Charles De Menezes who was shot seven times on the Stockwell tube for the crime of looking slightly like a Somali fundamentalist, terror-loving tosspot who had one, solitary connection to the house where he lived. Ian Blair may be a forward-looking, pro-active, solutions-oriented [insert your chosen bit of bullshit management speak] police chief but the man should be sacked for this reason alone: he is a disaster-magnet. He spouted off about the impressiveness of security on July *6* 2005. He congratulated his officers on shooting an unarmed Brazilian in the head for long after it was known that it was a terrible mistake - it's not necessarily wrong to defend your officers right up to the point where it is irrefutably known that they have screwed up royally, but Blair is PR poison and perpetuated lies about this case. I dread every public pronouncement he makes. He almost induces calamity whenever he opens his gob.
It doesn't matter that De Menezes overstayed his visa or took cocaine and was twitchy, though these are things he should not have done, it matters that he had his brains plastered across a tube carriage because your operational force that afternoon could not tell their arses from their elbows and let someone they thought was a suicide bomber get on a train. Please be slightly less incompetent Met Police, we know you can do it, and stop blackening the names of dead people, as it makes you look weaselly and pathetic. Love, London.
(3) Spooks this week was a bit of a letdown, aside from one fantastic setpiece in the Iranian Embassy. Is the agent-in-mortal-peril thing getting old for me? I hope not, given that it is the raison d'etre of the show. But something was lacking. This week was merely functional rather than firing on all cylinders. Not bad, just not up to the standards of the previous two.
I read that there's going to be another X-Files film. Talk about giving the people what they can't be arsed with any more. Is there really an audience for this?
I am unconvinced that Mr Carter, for all his strengths in certain areas, has the least idea why his show worked for so long as it did (and more to the point, why it stopped working for so many people). I have no great expectations of the film, nor any great excitement, more's the pity. But I hope, I very much hope that it does recapture the magic the best episodes had, just because it would be nice to see that one last time.
In honour of the possible XF film, I found this file while trying to clean up my computer the other day so I could install Leopard. It's quite old.
I only took the piss because I read that sort of story and loved it dearly. Oh my crack-addled little fandom, I miss you so.
Fox Mulder was one of the brilliantest profilers the FBI had ever known. He was a legend in his Armanis: the unconventional Spooky Mulder, who thought rules were what you measured stuff with and laughed -- yes, laughed! -- in the face of fear.
What most people didn't realise was that Mulder was also impossibly handsome. He had amazing eyes of mossy green with gold flecks and bits of blue that occasionally made people say they were grey when really they were hazel -- well, hazel if you really had to give it a name, but Mulder didn't see why things had to be programmed, categorised and easily referenced like that. He was a free spirit.
Everyone said he was on the fast track to the top of the FBI. He had pulled in more killers than anyone else because he dared to walk on the dark side. So why did Patterson hate him?
Why? Why? Why?
He banged his head on the airplane window a couple of times to express his mortal anguish at the pain of his existence and immediately felt a warm sense of purpose flooding through him. Either that or he had upset the damned coffee from his tray onto his crotch again.
He took a quick look at the casefile. Five grisly murders. He could feel the rabid dogs of his psyche barking and straining at the leash, waiting to be loosed on this case at the expense of his sanity.
He was already on edge from the hideous dream he had had again about Bertha and her hideous cake-decorating equipment, cream just peeking from within the spiky nozzles' gleam, ready to frot and squirt his every groove. No one could understand how the dreams tortured his psyche. Now there was this case, with the cream everywhere. A coincidence, or was his soul sick?.
Agent John Infodump of the Dallas Field Office picked him up from the small airport and filled him in on the details of the murders.
"The victims were stabbed, hung upside down and covered in aerosol cream of the kind found in cheap baked goods," he said.
"Ah," said Mulder, nodding wisely.
Infodump gave him a searching look. "Our new medical examiner has been insisting we keep very detailed records of crime scenes from the beginning. It's almost as if she knew the FBI would send a profiler."
"She?" asked Mulder, lifting an eyebrow. The gesture felt oddly familiar to him.
"Yes, Dr Scully only moved here three years ago and she has offended some people with her insistence on playing by the strictest of rules but she comes with the highest recommendation, she's incredibly smart and she's very good at her job."
"Really?" said Mulder. Already he was intrigued by this "Doctor Scully" and wished to know more.
"Oh yes," said Infodump eagerly. "But she's been hurt in the past and that makes her wary of making connections to new people. She's from a naval family originally, so maybe it goes with the territory, you know, moving around all the time."
"Thank you, Agent Infodump," said Mulder as the car pulled up outside the Medical Examiner's office. "You've been very helpful."
* * *
Dana Scully ran thin elegant fingers through the tousled vermilion whorls of her hair and looked at her sparkling azure and yet somehow desperately sad eyes in the mirror, wishing she could just let the case go instead of having it play across her brain constantly, preying on her every thought.
She climbed into her car and headed back to the office. Those poor, poor victims, who had been killed and covered in dairy products! She couldn't get it out of her brain for one second.
Now what could she have for supper? Tagliatelle, perhaps, with salmon and pine nuts and maybe an exquisite but slimming sauce she could whip up thanks to her her cordon bleu training. She longed to get to her comfortable home which was calm and serene and reflected her personality but without the inner torment (only the kitchen cupboard with the poptarts, cheetos and marshmallow fluff in it reflected her inner torment). She cast aside the traitorous notion that all it would take to complete the picture was a man. She did not need a man. And was that lovely George Clooney on the ER reruns tonight?
She brought herself up short suddenly. How could it have slipped her mind? She had to go see the Agent who Infodump had brought from the airport, dammit!
She had to speak to him about the poor, stabbed, dead people!
Infodump had already told her that he was young, handsome and impossibly brilliant but that he was tormented by nightmares and by memories of the sister who had been abducted from under his very nose by unknown forces. His life had been sickeningly twisted by cruel fate. And he didn't like his first name very much either
"He's damaged goods, Dana," Agent Infodump had said. "Be careful."
"Thank you, Agent Infodump," she said, taking his hand and rubbing it until his ears turned red. "You've been very helpful."
At least when she got back to the morgue she could chat to her beloved assistant, John Redshirt. Redshirt was gay, and offered her dating advice which she never took because she did not date. She did not need a man!
She looked forward to meeting Mulder, but she wasn't going to let him push her around. Definitely not!
She had no idea that she was about to meet the man who would complete her, the missing half of her soul, who matched her like a stolen slice of succulent cocoa-brown mud pie matches the forlorn sundered cake.
* * *
When Mulder reached the morgue, he startled to see only a young student in scrubs there.
God she was beautiful. Small but perfect! The proud prow of her nose! The sweet pillows of her lips! The womanly curviness of her bosom! The bosomy womanliness of her curves! The curvy bosomitude of her womanliness! He was transfixed!
That was it -- he was a redhead convert. He was throwing away all those videos he had of scantily-clad chesty brunettes! (The Dutch ones featuring donkeys had to go as well, he reminded himself. It was a legality thing.)
He kablinked, but she was still there. She wasn't a vision conjured up by his tortured soul after all.
Her wild auburn tresses were springing free from a head band like cinnamon explosions of hair and stuff. Mulder only just restrained himself from taking a few errant locks of titian hair and tucking them behind her ear in a gesture which seemed absurdly familiar.
"I... I'm looking for Dr Scully," he said. "Could you tell me where she is please?"
"I am Dr Scully," said Dr Scully, helpfully.
"No *I* am Dr Scully," said Redshirt, a Kirk Douglas enthusiast who had an endearingly wacky sense of humor like all good doomed sidekicks.
Scully pulled a face at Redshirt to show that she loved his jokes but would he please bugger off home now as she was on the pull and he was cramping her style.
Redshirt was her bestest friend in the world who knew her better than anyone.
Except this man. She suddenly felt sure he knew her intimately even though they had never met. She shivered and put it out of her mind because it wasn't rational.
She looked up at her visitor and was immediately struck by the warm bark tones of his astonishingly beautiful eyes, which seemed to communicate truths about missing little sisters and melancholy at the random cruelties of life. They were deep hazel-green pools of sorrow and mourning. And impossibly sexy obviously.
For his part, Mulder saw now that she was older than he had first thought (or usually liked). And very, very short. But she was still glorious, so that was okay.
He looked deep into her eyes.
He had never seen such sparkling cerulean orbs before, glittering with unshed tears for a life she only half recalled, coming as it did from an alternative universe; the memories snaking through a labyrinthine nexus of feeling and being so complex that it would have given Jung a bit of a headache, and permeating into this one until they saturated the very lobes of their two brains.
It was that simple really.
It hardly seemed believable that they had shared other lives in alternate universes and yet he was sure they had.
Who would ever believe, for example, that he had been kidnapped by aliens while she had been left with a genetically-modified sprog? Or that someone so integral to his life would have turned into starlight and gone skipping off into a sparkly blue yonder to the trippy strains of Moby? Or that she was destined to be his other half, the thing without which he could not do without within the boundaries of a life with which he graced her. Or something.
Who would ever believe something that insane?
Actually, he would. "Do I..." he began.
"...Know you?" she concluded.
He shook his head sadly. "I don't think we've ever met. I am Fox William Mulder of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You can call me Mulder. You must be Dr Scully."
"I am, " she said, "But I'm going to ask you to call me Scully for no apparent reason."
He nodded thoughtfully. That sounded so right.
She ran a hand through her bronze waves of hair, until they sparkled under the hot lamps of the morgue like starfields (albeit starfields which contained many, many red giants, obviously). He was transfixed by her mouth, the colour of strawberries set on fire, perhaps with one of those little blowtorches they use for the creme brulee in fancy restaurants. He was falling in love with her right now.
But how could he expose the depths of these murders, dairy products and all, to someone so pure? How could he soil her life? And yet he was certain that, in this other life, they had faced just such a pain together. Yet here, he was determined that she would not be tainted by the Mulder curse.
She switched on the morgue radio and there emerged the heart-wrenching tones of chart sensation Christina Aguilera. "You are beautiful no matter what they say," the tiny songstrel crooned and both he and Scully blinked back a single crystalline tear that such profound truths could be revealed by one so young and busty.
Scully bravely pushed aside personal epiphanies to top pop tunes for the good of the work. "Let's get started," she said.
"Kiss me first," he said, letting go of a breath he didn't know he had been holding.
* * *
The phone rang, interrupting their reverie. "Dammit!" snarled Mulder, as Scully picked up.
"Hello? Yes John? Oh God, no!" her face turned a ghastly puce and he plucked the handset from her trembling grasp.
"Mulder here!" he barked.
"Agent Infodump here. I'm sorry to have to tell you that we found Redshirt's body a couple of minutes ago. He appears to be the latest victim of the dairy killer! We think that the killer may have discerned his close relationship to Scully and is using this as a way to discomfort her and thereby ruin your work."
"Thank you, Agent Infodump," said Mulder. "You've been very helpful."
He had only known this Scully for half an hour and he had already fallen in love with her and put her in danger. It was all his fault, dammit!
He turned back to her. "Poor Redshirt!" she cried. "Why did poor sweet gay Redshirt have to die?"
A single tear threaded down flawless peachy skin.
He knew then that he was poison. He had to get away from this Scully before he wrecked her life.
But there were so many things she would never know about him, unlike those other Scullys.
He would never be able to share with her the noble quest for his sister, lost these 20-something years.
She would never hear of the torture of his nightmares (particularly that recurring one with Bertha, the vast, leather-clad Belgian tormentress who threatened to do bad things to his cream horn). He was grateful for that. Nothing should besmirch her pure, stellar soul. Particularly not large Walloon-speaking cake fetishists.
Most of all, she would never get to see why the gussets of his black silk Y-fronts had to be tripled stitched for strength. It was the tragedy of their lives.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
[no, I don't remember why I found the idea of giant Belgian cake fetishists funny then either]