Friday 18 March 2011
The Greatness of the Ben Chatham canon
The Ben Chatham canon now consists of a body of work unparalleled in Doctor Who fandom. The sheer volume of stories, the fact that they have their own forum on a major Doctor who site and the unmatched creative energies which have gone into the stories indicate that they represent the finest in British science fiction.
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8 comments:
Except you're too ashamed to post them on your own blog.
Cobblers.
Wow... you've totally snapped, haven't you?
One Year Old This Month!!! Originally posted on Gallifrey Base; commented on by many, but never by Spara...
...yet.
THE ULTIMATE NEMESIS
by Andrew Philips.
Ben Chatham is draped elegantly along his chaise-longue swigging absinthe and listening to Bowie’s ‘Low’ album. His expensive new top-of-the-range mobile phone bleeps at him, indicating he’s received a text.
“A text. How uncouth. People should talk properly to one another more often. This is such a lowbrow way to tell me something. Ooh, it’s from Torchwood. Better read it, I suppose – they probably need me to save the world again...”
“Jack’s been watching my Avengers DVDs, I see.”
Without wasting a moment, Ben showers, finishes off the absinthe, towels himself dry, opens a bottle of red wine and pours himself a glass or three, admires his reflection in the mirror as the sunlight bounces of his lush blond hair and falls elegantly across his smoothe chest, has another glass of wine, gets dressed, finishes off the bottle, rinses the glass under the tap, grills a fillet of salmon for Sebastian which he places on a fine Wedgewood side-plate and leaves on his luxuriously-tiled kitchen floor, and saunters out to Bessie. Stopping at the Mermaid Wine Bar on the way, he has a light salad accompanied by a bottle of red wine, and texts his colleagues.
Later, Kyle arrives.
“Where are the others?”
“Adam’s marryin’ his boyfriend up in Scotland, an’ Julius is actin’ as ‘is best man. You should’ve heard ‘im practicin’ ‘is speech, like. Life an’ soul o’ the party, ‘e’s gonna be. Katie an’ Barry got a room in the Hilton, an’ say they can’t meet you ‘cos they’re doin’ some crucial top level shaggin’. Jake’s away wiv’ the fairies after samplin’ his latest batch o’ flapjack – you won’t get anythin’ sensible from ‘im fer the rest of the day at least. Craig’s too busy writin’ poetry, and Isobel’s been taken in by Torchwood fer dissection again. Jack says sorry, but they’ll put her together again tomorrow. Oh, an’ Anselm said to tell you to ¤¤¤¤ off. ‘E’s got a foul mouth, that one. Paul went to take K9 in for ‘is annual MOT, but got lost on the way ‘cos ‘e’s too incompertant to read a map. Corrinne’s gone to look fer ‘im. Chiara’s at her kung fu class. So’s Piers. ‘E don’t do kung fu or nuthin’ – ‘e’s jus’ gone to ‘ave a letch at Chiara.”
“So it’s just you and me, then, Kyle!”
“Nah, sorry – I’m mannin’ the office ‘cos Lisa’s got a hangover. Told ‘er she shouldn’t ‘ave nicked Julius’s whiskey bottle from ‘is desk drawer, but she wouldn’t listen...”
“But you’re here! The HQ is unmanned! You’d better get back, Kyle. I’ll handle the emergency myself!”
Arriving at the office the next day, Ben finds it is locked. He heads to the nearest Michelin-starred restaurant to devise a plan to gain access.
“If only I had the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver. Or K9 – he could shoot out the lock. Or Kyle could pick it. I’m going to need to rely on my own ingenuity and come up with a cunning and fiendish plan to infiltrate the building. This will require a lot of thought. Waiter! Another bottle of your excellent house red, and hurry up about it!”
Later, he goes back to the office, picks up a brick and lobs it through the window. He perchances to venture inside. It is deserted; the whole place is empty and all the lights are off. He takes the lift to the first floor, but the office seems to be unused. The vast expanse of empty space gives Ben a view of the city from the huge windows at the end of the building. As he turns to leave, a tall figure emerges from behind a pillar. With his back to the light, Ben has trouble making out his physical features, but he seems to be wearing a cheap suit and a long coat. As the figure turns his head, Ben notices he has an enormous nose which resembles a fat sausage.
“You appear to be somewhat ugly. From your unkempt hair, your trashy clothes, and that suspicious brown puddle you’re standing in, I assume you’re some sort of homeless vagrant. This is private property, and you’re clearly a trespasser. I suggest you leave.”
The stranger looks down at Ben over the meaty expanse of his gigantic proboscis and glowers at him.
“Did you not hear me? I’m Ben Chatham, and I’m here on a crucial mission to save the world from... well, something or other. I have no wish to associate with scruffy down-and-outs. Now move along.”
The tall man steps towards Ben, and as he moves, Ben sees the sun shining through the window from the spot where the man had stood. Momentarily dazzled, Ben squints...
...and feels the splatter of a warm liquid hit him in the face!
Spluttering in anger, Ben brings up his hand to block out the harsh sunlight, and turns to face his attacker...
...but he has disappeared. Ben searches the building, but there is no sign of him, other than a few small puddles of brown liquid, similar to that which is dripping off his finely chiselled face and onto his exclusive Harrods shirt.
“Most bizarre. This liquid smells like...”
Some time later, Ben is back at the Mermaid, discussing his strange encounter with Kyle.
“I just don’t understand it. One is utterly vexed. Why would anyone lure me all the way to an empty building in London just to play a juvenile and lowbrow practical joke like this on me?”
“It coulda bin worse, like. ‘E didn’t spray you with acid or chemicals or nuffink like that, innit?”
“But why tea?”
“’E must’ve bin drinkin’ some before you came in, like!”
“But why me? What does he want? Is it a grudge against Operation: Delta, or does he have a personal vendetta against me for being so brave and handsome and intelligent? Who is he? Where does he come from? To what end doth he spitteth the tea? It’s frustrating, Kyle. No-one knows! It’s a mystery! An enigma! This strange man just comes along into my life for no reason, and ejaculates his hot liquid all over my finest clothes and my beautiful golden hair! It’s senseless! Who is he, Kyle? I must know – I simply must!”
“Maybe you’ll meet ‘im again, like!”
“There’s no other course to take, Kyle. We must put Operation: Delta on full alert, 24/7/365. This humiliation is too much to bear. The Tea Spitting Man must become our top priority. We can leave saving the world to UNIT and Torchwood and the Doctor and Sarah Jane and Doomwatch and all the other lowbrow amateurs. This is far too important to let go! I hereby declare the Tea Spitting Man to be Operation: Delta’s Enemy Number One! The fiend must be caught before he can spit his tea again!”
“But we don’t know when he’ll strike next! Or where!”
“Then we must be ready for him... hey, wait a minute!”
“What is it?”
“Did you say Adam had a boyfriend? That’s a bit implausible, isn’t it?”
“Not boyfriend - civil partner now, innit.”
“He’s sacked!”
THE END.
Unparalleled: Certainly there's nothing else quite like them.
Volume of work: only because you ignore everybody's pleas to stop.
Forum on GB: sub-forum created to hide the horrors away from true Who fiction.
Unmatched Creative energies: every other writer uses some creative energy, but you don't seem to.
Volume, presence and effort do NOT amount to quality.if they did, my cat would be representing the finest in hairballs and vomit.
It is time.
Thou art summoned.
http://www.moopy.org.uk/forums/showthread.php?75630-Monday-Morning-5.19/page3
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