Knowing the skill of Ewen Campion-Clarke of following me across the internet, I might as well announce right now that I'm now in a second clip on YouTube, once again not uploaded by myself.
A couple of notes - before I ... er, performed in this I was under the impression that there would be a script. That it would be edited into a narrative. And that, given it was entitled 'hunting for boxes' when discussed, it would actually include some shooting of cardboard boxes. Also this is part of a 45-minute (yes, you read that right) video my friend made for his girlfriend's birthday, and I imagine would make less sense in context. Furthermore, I would recommend not actually watching this.
I WARNED YOU, DAMN IT!
Because I am unable to withstand the guilt of posting beneath a certain arbitrary length, especially after so long a period of silence, here is something I've also posted on OG, my latest in a series of utterly confusing stories channeling the brain warping I endure from reading one Mark Goacher of Colchester's fanfic.
Doctor Who and the Ttos-Pyle of Lugumbooo
"So, anyway I's all like, like, where you wanna go, you know, like, right now, to you and stuff" said the Doctor to his new companion. Such was the authority in his voice that Timmy Westwood was lost for words for nearly a second.
"We need some 'eat, something hoff tha meter! Check it out, Venus in ha Brazilian style, realise!" responded the Archbishop's son whilst pulling all his clothes off and producing baby oil seemingly from mid-air.
The two young-spirited adoni slept, themselves naked in the full light of the twin naked sun, bellies simmering lightly under the smooothe oil of Gardilian faffer monkeys replenishing themselves with the bounties of the Gods - solar power and all-male nudity.
"Does this look like a bit gay and stuff?" asked the Doctor whilst texting friends with two mobiles and uploading on to phototube with his left foot.
"Mate, if we was blazin' hany straighter we would be tha road from Piccadilly to the public toilets in Broadwick at 1 in tha morning!" said Westwood in response, as he did so gesticulating in such generous measure the air movement would have directly caused an avalanche in most places on Earth.
The Doctor nodded, to cover up the fact he hadn't bothered listening to a word the DJ had said, and let his mind wander to the contemplate the wonders of the Universe - whaletails, canabis, teabagging, various forms of underwear not yet invented in this time zone, Heat Magazine, Grey's Anatomy, that bird from the telly, upskirting, Harry Potter and his testicles. Sighing in introverted wonderment, he could not deny that truly reality was well good, when he was asked on Skype-Talk.
Seconds later, he found out that the "lady with a jenarous bossom" he had been chatting to was actually his mate, Tha Masta, playing a cruel trick on him and was left with no choice but to shut down his mini communications network and cry weakly on to his chest. Westwood watched on, perturbed yet naked as a new born lamb that is well-equipped if you know what I mean, dear reader. He felt the need to empty his soul at the moment, so did so directly into the nearest bucket. And then said:
"UK understand whats about to go down, Westwood the Album. And we're goin to bang in your face with the hottest joints around, real hip hop, nothing but big things. Now drop the bomb! BOOOOOOOM!"
The Doctor nodded sagely. Or at least like a sage that had undergone severe head trauma yet still felt obliged to play the part. He understood the wise words of his companion, and it was time to return to the TARDIS.
"Gadzooks, like!" he cried in horror "The door to the, y'know, like, TARDIS and stuff, an' that, is all, like, locked, 'n spaz"
"Ho no!" shrieked Westwood, as if he were a Polish banshee trying to do the voice of a Jamaican banshee and frankly embarassing himself "You gone flipped tha script - the joint straight bent flopsy, man, it's hoff tha meter!"
"Isn't off the meter good?"
"Generally, yes, but in this case it is failing to register on the meter."
"Ah, right, I'll bear that in mind, like"
"For really real?"
Matt Smith, erm.. I mean, the Doctor looks the TARDIS with the look of impotence that you have to imagine your father regularly gives to your mother. "How can I open the door, Tim? I left the key in my pocket, like, and my pocket's with my suit, right, and my suits on the hatstand, right? And my hatstands by the door! And that's, like, in their, innit and whatnot? Insert token term off MySpace here."
"This be well mad difficult! Hold up, check it, his tha hatstand on THIS side of the door?"
It was not.
"Bollocks," spaketh the Doctor with so much dignity that were it to be distilled into liquid form and injected directly into the heart of Johnny Vegas during the making of Sex Lives of the Potato Men he would O.D from sheer class. "I'm, like, all trying to remember whether the threshold for hominid flesh on Venus in full sunlight is, like, 50 minutes or-"
It was fifty minutes.
And everyone important lived happily ever after.