For Services to Keeping Children Behind the Sofa
There's always been something deeply disturbing about any form of transport where you're basically putting yourself into an adequately upholstered seat under someone else's total control. They say that if man had meant to fly then he would have been given wings. Failing that then god would have not allowed man's carriage to exceed the width of an economy class seat. As a species we've been stiffed on both counts.
At least in the sky all you need worry about is other well directed air traffic and the occasional InterStasis 3000 salon twocked from a drive outside a family marsh pod, somewhere in the crab nebula, by a sentient teenage male octopoid who's just going through one of those rebellious joyriding phases. The real horror always occurs on a coach...
Every time you embark on a coach trip and tell me there isn't an over bearing sense of fear and foreboding. Not to mention overwhelming smell of BO. Because you know, you just know, that at some point during the journey you're going to have to...
...use the on board toilet.
Doctor Who: Midnight
Any number of freaky bodily possessions would be more appealing than having to wedge yourself into a wee-soaked closet that's being propelled at 70 miles per hour up some dreary motorway. The main aim is to get in and get out without making contact with any surface at all. God help you if you need to sit down. Even the odd shoe lace dancing lightly across the marshy floor is justification enough for disposal of said footwear in an industrial incinerator. Contorting yourself into a shape that enables you to achieve said ablutions whilst retaining total clothes security in such a tight space would, under normal circumstances, lead to your appointment as Paul Daniels next lovely assistant. You begin to wish you could just float above the receptacle, never making contact. A bit like you imaging how the Queen must cope during her royal toilet excursions.
Superpowers of non-contact defecation
The Queen, of course, has many roles and responsibilities, in addition to her superpowers of non-contact defecation. Her main duty is passing every single programme broadcast on the BBC as being suitable for her subjects - she's gone through more preview disks than Digital Spy. Everything from Lilly Allen's Bum Hole Hilarity through to the cerebral Andrew Davies' latest adaptation Dickensian Crack Swan Whores on Gin are given Brenda's seal of approval. Which explains why she immediately offered Rusty the gong on seeing Midnight.
Usually wears out the 0 button on his keyboard writing a single scene of dialogue.
He deserves hoisting high and carried through the streets of Cardiff on a sea of hands on the strength of Midnight alone. How this numerically exaggerated man kept things so small is a mystery. Perhaps it's a sign that he's about to go really over the top for the final three and start inventing numbers higher than a Gogol to accommodate the sheer madness of it all. There's something incredible about the fact that the man who usually wears out the 0 button on his keyboard writing a single scene of dialogue manages to keep this down to a handful of people in a single room.
And now that he's turned in quite possibly the best episode of Doctor Who ever, he's off. Why? It's a little like what happens to a relegated premier league football team as the season draws to a close. Once the pressure's off they usually start playing well and even, on occasion, beating top quality opposition in their own backyard.
And after a stunning victory like that even a three hour journey back home on the supporters club coach, with 80 odd pissed up fans and only one communal toilet between them, wouldn't feel half as terrifying as it might otherwise have done.