The Sixth Doctor
The Sixth Doctor: Loud, brash, arrogant, and
seemingly unstable, many people don’t like you.
Often rough in manner, and never without a
constant barrage of bad jokes and puns, you
display supreme confidence in your abilities.
You are prone to sudden, unpredictable mood-
swings and at times your behavior borders on
the insane. Your harsh exterior hides a deep
concern for your companions and for those in

Which Incarnation of the Doctor are you?
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I’d argue, but it seems too accurate, and I have always rather had a fondness for Baker’s interpretation of the Doctor. Let down by the shonky scripts, and the worst companions in the history of television, but the performances were quite fun, I thought. Of course, I would say that, given who I am…


26th March: Lyn Triffitt swaps her tired old surname for a new, 27% improved one!

19th March: She uses that as an excuse to have a party!

Where: 22 Redfox Crescent, Huntingdale
When: Saturday, 19th March, 7pm onwards.
Theme: Sure, why not? Tacky 80s it is! All the Plastic Bertrand, Toto Coelo, Captain Sensible, and The Buggles you could ask for! The Specials! Jona Lewie! Anybody else we can come up with in the meantime!
Food: Nibblies provided, as well as a bunch of soft drink.

Dress to theme and win a prize (Okay, we’ll probably just take a photo of you, but that’s something…)

RSVP to this address or just turn up and ply me with exotic beers.


A lot has been written about Hunter S. Thompson’s selfish and brutal suicide. But I’ve read nothing more searingly honest and personal than the words penned by pal Martin Livings on his Live Journal.

Martin and I have a relationship based mostly on good-natured joshing. If you’re a pal, or a fan of his work (and if you’ve read his work, you were undoubtedly be an instant fan) then this is required reading. If you’re not, then this is required reading.

I should wish for the honesty this man shows.


Oh, why the hell not, everyone else has done this one:

1. Been arrested whilst walking the streets of Northbridge dressed in an 8ft tall pink rabbit suit and carrying a double-ended dildo of prodigious length.
2. Competed with Rove McManus in a Perth carpark to see which of us could do the better Thunderbird walk.
3. Managed a comedy club, and written its three hour performance each week.
4. Had lunch in the L. Ron Hubbard memorial library.
5. Watched Hal Clement sing Welsh Choral songs in the original Welsh tongue.
6. Danced a conga whilst dressed in a bright orange “Padme’s Handmaiden” costume.
7. Become a single father four days after my first child was born due to the mother’s death.
8. Been married as part of a Science Fiction Convention (okay, I’m 30 days early on this one, but it’s still pretty unusual…)
9. Fit into an aircraft toilet with a toddler at 33 000 feet. (It’s possible, but you have to be really certain about what order you do things…)
10. Received a Dalek-shaped BBQ apron as a Valentine’s Day gift.


Pardon my lack of sympathy, but I’m finding it very hard to get upset at Hunter Thompson deciding to paint his living room with his own brains. Ignoring the man’s work for a second, which I acknowledge as being a substantial body, let’s encourage those who are mourning the man (in some cases so loudly they could get a job as a professional mourner) to look at it from a different angle.

Thompson was not the victim here. The real victim, and the one I feel a gut-tearing amount of sympathy for, is his wife, who will go through the rest of her life never knowing what really happened in the mind of the man she left to go to the shops that morning. Because the selfish bastard didn’t leave her any kind of explanation, she will forever blame herself and wonder if she could have said something, done something, to change what had happened. She will take on the burden he apparently decided he couldn’t, and it will destroy her memories of him.

He may have ended his life, but he will have ruined a very large part of hers. And for that I can only feel anger at him, and tremendous sympathy for her.

And for those who might be jerking knees at my effrontery, both my stepfather and stepbrother killed themselves, with no note to tell why. I know of which I speak.


There’s a church down the road from our place, and every week they hang a new slogan on their signboard outside, guaranteed to draw us all in and make us bask in the glory of the one true Lord, or some such bullshit.

The fantastic thing about these messages is how they manage to contain an unintentional subtext guaranteed to give me a giggle.

This week’s effort, for example: Israel’s survival proves God’s existence.

So what they’re saying is that God didn’t exist before 1947? 🙂


I forgot to mention: Thanks to the continued efforts of the very groovy David Moles of Wheatland Press, I finally received my contributor copies of All-Star Zeppelin Adventure Stories during the week. Oh, this is a groovy book. It is so groovy. You absolutely must avail yourself of a copy of this book. Don’t do it for me, do it for the zeppelins. Won’t someone please think of the zeppelins?


Oh yeah, forgot to mention. Luscious has a new, secondary blog. Apparently, she couldn’t work out what to do with her copious spare time (currently logged as almost three seconds every second month) and has decided to read and review a book every week.

Check it out. First up is Dave Luckett’s brand new fantasy book, The Truth About Magic.