Sherlock - fake death nonsense

That's me finger on the pulse of the nation (pay attention now pulses are important).
I just watched the DVD and thought I'd commit my own theory to posterity before they reveal all.

1. He asks Molly for help. He then sits there playing with a tennis/squash ball (pay attention this is important too)
2. Up on the roof he tells John to stay where he is (the other side of the lower building) - obscuring his view of the landing
3. He jumps, he lands in the hospital laundry truck - rolls out complete with fake blood etc.
4. John comes around the corner, he gets hit by the cyclist just in time for the laundry truck to pull away so it doesn't register with the good Dr.
5. John gets over to the body - note he only takes his pulse from the wrist - remember your tennis balls: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC97Uie7IVM (how to fake your pulse with a tennis ball - only works if you are taking a wrist pulse)
6. Cue Molly's confederates who turn up and bundle the body off.

The only think bothering me is the rectangular marking s on the street and they may be irrelevant.

Of course the real triumph of Moffat and Gatiss is that in a mere 6 episodes they have managed to convert me to referring to Dr. Watson as John. Now that's the real trickery.

Of course the actual mystery is why, when the Post Office are making cutbacks and redundancies, a provincial Postman has been trained to fly a helicopter ? I thought it was only Royals in the armed services that got to learn how to fly. Though a closer inspection of Pat - big-eared ginger, looks a bit like Prince Harry in specs if he'd really let himself go.

The Royal Order of the Spaz

As we enter the end of days - it's good to see the slender pillars of salt upon which our society has been propped up for the last two decades crumble - the electorate turn on the politicians who turn on the journalists and everyone turns on the bankers. The dawning realisation, not that there is no society as someone with big hair once claimed, but that most people have known it for a long time but didn't care as long as they got their bonus/stolen trainers whilst rioting/moat paid for out of the public purse - because there's not a great deal of difference between any of them (as any fule who's read the end of Animal Farm will know).
It's important to blame someone. That, we can all agree on, blame in this century rallies us, it unifies the nation. The divestiture of Fred Goodwin's knighthood is a start, but does it go far enough ?
I was disappointed to learn that Fred doesn't actually have to go back to Buckingham Palace to hand the award back personally. This seems like a missed opportunity for pomp and shaming - two things we still do best. I imagined a cermony in which Goodwin is made to hop down the red carpet in a clown outfit whilst being pelted with rancid haggis. He then kneels, hands back the gong, whereupon the Queen will kosh him with the pommel of the sword. He is then given the option of having his knuckles rapped or being given a smack on the arse with the flat of the blade. A royal corgi will then ceremonially piss on his real clothes which he has to put on before being chased down Pall Mall. It doesn't matter who by.

Why stop there. There should be a regular Dishonours List - each year, those who have disgraced themselves in public life should be forced to endure some sort of ritual humiliation. The classical Athenians had a similar (rather more severe) mechanism - those who sought public office could be privately prosecuted for the decisions they took on behalf of the state. It meant some thought twice before even running for office.
Anyway I propose the Order of the Spaz. Spaz - derived from the Greek 'spastikos' - meaning pulling in or tugging - the medal or 'spastika' would come in the shape of a clenched hand - denoting the universal sign for tosser. Recipients would be forced to wear these medals whilst in public.
Failing that - they could start including more stringent ethical requirements in their terms of service upon which their pension pots were calculated or include pension and bonus forfeiture clause in their contracts. Sadly it's even less likely than the Order of the Spaz or The Venerable Merkin Order.

TV Obituary: Tim Lovejoy & Something For The Weekend

It's with a warm pint of joy that we bid farewell to BBC 2s horrible Something For The Weekend, a show so at home with its inability to deliver anything other than mild nausea and a rapid changeover that it's incomprehensible that it has lasted as long as it did.
Lazy television at its zenith, as if a bored producer whilst picking someones nose (maybe their own) had thought for several seconds:"What do people like on the telly ? Cookery programmes and celebrities" and had then vomited this non-idea every week into a bucket which presenter Tim Lovejoy then threw mirthlessly in our faces every Sunday.
You may be blissfully unaware of Tim; he once declined an award due to his 'hatred of long words'. Tim was named after the Reverend Tim Lovejoy in the Simpsons (despite being born before he'd been created) in a desperate attempt to make him funnier, he's a result of the embarrassed coupling of Lovejoy (off of the Antiques Roadshow) and the actress Phyllis Logan (as played by Joyce Grenfell when she was 15) in the back of a converted horsebox.

Tim has a proven track record in making unwatchable television that little bit less exciting and he goes at his job with all the zeal of a fucked corpse. The only presenter I've ever seen who's clearly counting the seconds until the end of the programme under his breath, which is more than can be said for the audience.

There's some lazy football chatter between him and resident chef Simon Rimmer, a tired swipe at students, 'taxdodgers' one of them declares hilariously, Rimmer can at least cook but it's as nothing next to the visible onscreen chemistry of the two. Simon sympathises with TIm after he went skiing and paid '40 euros for a burger.' Scandalous, their bored, dead eyes both seem to say, but it's alright because Tim reveals, 'it included drinks too.' Phew. Those of us holding out for the payoff aren't disappointed when Tim confides that the cycling he's doing is, 'hard work.' It is difficult to see why ChannelBee - the internet tv channel that was TIm's idea, failed after a year (2008-2009) given that a mainstay was a forum called The Banter Pit.
But there's a diamond in the rough, halfway through an interview Tim interjects: "We do a lot of offal on this show." There's a pause, the entire studio goes quiet - the camera goes to Tim. Has Tim said something funny ? There's not a hint of recognition from Lovejoy, everyone is relieved, the moment passes - he was simply making a factual statement that a lot of the cooking does involve the use of internal organs. And now, gentle reader, we can share the tv crew's relief because the production of offal is about to stop.

In the Garden of the Night

"The night is black,
And the stars are bright,
And the sea is dark and deep

And someone I know is safe
And snug, and the're drifting
Off to sleep
Round and round, a little boat no bigger
Than you're hand, out on the ocean, far away from land.

Take the little sail down,
Light the little light.
This is the way to the
Garden of the night"

Or Isle of the Dead as it should be known. Iggle Piggle (clearly an offshoot from the Hills Have Eyes Clan) guides you there as the eponymous ferryman - you'll notice he never sleeps until the end, ever watchful is Charon. There you are met and judged by Minos (Father Christmas), Sobek (the Crocodile from Punch & Judy/Peter Pan)
and probably Macca Pacca (a suspicious creature with the bodyshape of uncle Jesse from Dukes of Hazard who looks like he has had mouldering dog turds glued to him and then painted pink). If you have been very good you can spend eternity in Nigel Slater's herb garden eating his simple meals and pissing all over the rosemary.

For the rest of us it is the Night Garden itself - an endless purgatory populated by those whose souls hang in balance and their wardens.


With snakes for hair one of the Erinnyes pursues the denizens of the garden.

The Hahoos - imprisoned there by the gods of Olympus after their revolt lead by Typhon.

The Pontipines and the Wottingers - two houses alike in dignity, perhaps once known as Montagues and Capulets

The three-headed guard - Tombliboos - a grim wide-eyed Cerberus

All under the watchful eyes of Macca Pacca from his cave.

Lucky it's only for children or I'd be terrified.