About a month ago I had the extreme good fortune to meet Dan Abnett. As my employer – Angry Robot Books – is publishing Dan’s first original novels (after 3 dozen or so widely-acclaimed tie-in books), I’d chatted with him briefly over email, but didn’t get the opportunity to talk to him in person until the Angry Robot UK Launch event in London.

After the launch event (at Forbidden Planet Megastore) a bunch of us retired to a local hostelry, and I quizzed Dan about his comics writing. We then started to reminisce about the cheesy humourous era of the 80s, when Giffen and DeMatteis were writing various Justice League titles, and when Doctor Fate was interesting (my quote, not Dan’s).

It seems over the last 20-odd years I’ve missed all of Dan’s titles, and he recommended his Guardians of the Galaxy for me as a jumping-on point, as it was intended to capture the daftness of 80s JLA.

Two days later, a parcel arrived for me at the Angry Robot offices – Dan had sent me a copy of Guardians.

Swine.

Why “swine”? Because it was good! Huge fun, and highly enjoyable. It meant I had to start hunting out his other titles. As a direct result, in the last month I’ve bought five Abnett graphic novels at a cost of around £80 (Nova, volumes 1 to 5). I’m now hooked! And I now have a 20 year back catalogue to collect – it’s going to cost a fortune!

Thanks, Dan!

There has been a whole lot of debate over the last week or so about the British National Party’s appearance on Question Time.

Now, before I start with my views, I think it important to clarify my particular stance on the subject of the BNP.

First of all, I despise everything the bunch of nasty little shits stand for. Secondly, I’d not lose a minute of sleep if they boarded a plane that mysteriously disappeared over the Bermuda Triangle. I’m not that bothered about their welfare. Thirdly, I think it’s important that I’m allowed to call them a “bunch of nasty little shits” without fear of reprisal.

We kid ourselves that we live in a free society, and we – quite naturally – get very upset when something happens to upset the status quo, particularly when we’ve been relatively content with how quo the status has been.

When the BNP (I can’t bring myself to type out the party’s full name more than once in this entry – I find it offensive that they use the word “British” in their title, as if they represent those of us born or nationalised here)… I’ll start again, as that was far too much of an aside to be easily read: when the BNP won two European Parliamentary seats earlier on this year, I felt ashamed. Not only to be living in the general area where they were elected (“the north”) but also ashamed that nearly a million people in the UK felt that this group of fascist idiots offered more than the other parties running for election. Seriously – how low must the public opinion be of the Tories and Labour, if they’d prefer to allow this bunch of cretinous bigots to represent us in the European parliament!

Now there is outrage that the BNP have been invited to appear on Question Time on the BBC. It is the opinion of many (including a number of close friends of mine) that they should be banned from the programme, as to appear would lend them the appearance of respectability and implied acceptance.

There is a lot of truth in this argument, but the fact remains that the party are a democratically elected body, and if the BBC were to ignore them, just because their policies are offensive to many (not to all, of course – they were elected, after all), or because the BBC has been pressured by other political parties, then this would be tantamount to censorship. It would be the Comics Code all over again – “we don’t mind what you say, as long as we agree with it”. And yes – it’s not art, it’s politics, and it’s an over-simplification, perhaps, but there is truth there.

I hate the BNP with a passion, but if a line is drawn, and they are not allowed the right of free speech, how long before the line is drawn a little closer, and a little closer, until our own opinions are subject to approval before we are allowed to express them? Or we’re not allowed to express them at all?

The BNP are fascists of the lowest order, but as legally, democratically elected members of a legitimate political body, they have a right to express their opinions on the same stage as their competitor parties. I abhor what they say, but as long as no laws are broken, I’ll defend their right to say it.

When I visited Montreal at the beginning of April, I found myself facing a mobile phone bill of nearly £1,000. This was due to the fact that my T-Mobile G1 phone constantly polled the internet while I was there, racking up huge bills without me knowing.

I cancelled my Direct Debit (figuring it was easier to fight charges before payment, rather than try to get them back after payment) and sent them a letter.

I recently received a letter from T-Mobile confirming all the charges have been waived.

This was the letter I sent:

Dear sir/madam,

I have just returned from a weekend away in Montreal. While I was there, my telephone racked up around £950 of charges.

The first I knew of this was when I received a text message informing me that I was approaching my credit limit, and that I should make a payment to receive continued service. As I had sent a few texts and made one telephone call, as well as check my email (text only) on a small number of occasions, this did not unduly concern me. My bills have always been between £40 and £60 a month, so I naturally assumed that I had been assigned a credit limit of around £75 to £100.

You can imagine how surprised I was to discover when logging on that my bill was significantly over £700! £238 of this was added to the account the previous evening when I was busy hosting a party.

I immediately turned my telephone off, and switched it on only sporadically during the day to see if I had any texts waiting, immediately turning it off again, afterwards. During this time, my bill increased from over £700 to around £950.

I queried the bill, of course, by email, but was informed by one of your representatives that the amount billed was mainly due to downloads while abroad. As already mentioned, I checked my emails only very occasionally.

When I returned home from Montreal, I discovered that the service had been switched off completely, despite the fact that my calling plan has inclusive minutes/texts/web time.

On my return, I checked online to see if others had experienced this problem, and it appears that it is a known problem with this telephone, and one that T-Mobile have encountered many times before. Why, then, when I called T-Mobile before travelling, to ensure I could use my phone when abroad, was I not informed that my phone would be constantly polling the internet when I was away, racking up almost a thousand pounds worth of charges (the G1 does not come with a manual)? Why, also, was my credit limit set so ridiculously high, when normal usage on my account has always been within the £40-£60 a month range? Why, also, have I never been informed of my credit limit? If I had, I would have insisted it be reduced to a more sensible level.

I did not download a large quantity of data when abroad – my phone automatically did this without my knowledge. I do not expect to be billed for this usage – particularly as T-Mobile were aware that this was likely to happen, and chose not to inform me.

I also do not expect to be billed for the time when my service has been switched off (for both phones on my account).

I would be grateful, therefore, if you would re-issue my invoice with these excessive charges removed. If you choose not to do so (though a reasonable response would be to accept your error in this situation), please inform me of the next stage in the complaints process – I assume I will need to contact OFCOM and work through their complaints process.

I look forward to receiving your response.

Yours faithfully,

Lee Harris

and the moral of the tail? No matter how big the organisation, when right is on your side you should always fight and try to win.

I got a call this afternoon from Guy Haley – the Editor of DeathRay Magazine. It was to tell me that DeathRay was no more. Despite fairly universal acclaim (it’s late and I’m tired, so I’ll put “fairly” universal if I want – it’s my blog, so there!) the magazine struggled to make ends meet (and that, with a staff so skeletal it made Posh Spice look fat – oh look, I’m not in the mood to search for good analogies – you do it). Rebellion (the owners of Blackfish Publishing, who publish both DeathRay and Film Star) have closed the business – it seems it just wasn’t a viable concern.

It’s a damn, damn shame, as it was a mighty fine magazine. In his official press release, Editor-In-Chief Matt “Did you know I set up SFX?” Bielby hints that all might not be lost, that the magazine (and its sister title, Film Star) might be back in the future.

I, for one, hope this happens. I am truly sorry to hear of its demise, though in the current economic climate, I’m not holding out much hope for its return – a magazine such as this relies on advertising revenue to stay afloat, and fewer businesses are buying advertising these days.

It’s a sad day, and I’ll be drinking a toast to the good ship Blackfish, and all who sailed in her.

So, here I am, back from sunny Zakynthos- and it was lovely and sunny, except for an hour or two when it rained, but it was warm rain, so that’s alright.

A trying holiday in many ways – my 5-yr-old (I’m not 5, I’m nearly 5 and a half, Daddy!) is going through some behavioural issues at the moment, and does not currently respond well to requests/instructions/threats of toy-removal/etc. There was a major fracas pretty much every day of the holiday, and while we had many lovely times there, the times we didn’t enjoy seemed so much more overpowering, and it’s those I’ve brought back with me. So much so, in fact, that after 11 hours of travelling back to the UK and only 4 hours of sleep, I chose to travel another 5.5 hours travelling to and from work today, rather than have an extra couple of hours of sleep and work from home.

But Greece… ah, how I love Greece.

I’m not a big fan of the weather (any place where you have to apply chemicals to your body in order to prevent the sun from turning you into long pig jerky has something not working in its favour), although I do enjoy the odd bikini or two (spectating, not participating). I love the people, though, and the food. Oh, the food…

Well, I say Oh, the food… but there are two exceptions to this. Firstly, other than ice-cream, Greek desserts are awful. Deep fried stodge for the most part. Secondly, the bread appears to come out of the bakers’ ovens pre-staled. But other than the stale bread and heavy, fatty stodge they serve for pudding, Greek food is glorious.

Oh, and olives suck the proverbial, too, though I’ll forgive them this for their production of olive oil.

So, back in the UK (as the Beatles might have sung if they hailed from Moscow instead of Liverpool), and happy to be here.

This is likely to be a rather long entry, so if you’re pressed for time, pop back later. I’ll still be here. In fact, let me know what time, and I’ll have a cup of tea waiting.

 This is what should have happened:

I had a great time, met some fantastic people, got a lot of work done, and didn’t spend nearly a grand on my mobile phone!

 This is what did happen:

So, after becoming the most successful programme ever to air on BBC3, Torchwood gets bumped up to BBC2, and after trouncing the competition in the ratings, it gets a further bump to BBC1, but gets reduced from a 13 episode series to a 5-episode “event”.

Despite John Barrowman publically describing this drop in episode numbers as a “kick in the teeth”, the move to a 5-nighter appears to have been the best move Torchwood could have made, and both critics and fans agree on that. The fans agree because it made for greater tension, and the single storyline made for more meat on the bones of the plot. The critics agree because it was 8 fewer episodes clogging up the airwaves.

Set over 5 consecutive days, Torchwood: Children of Earth dealt with the threat of an alien race, come to steal our children. The race (known only as the 456, after the frequency on which they communicate) first appeared to us in 1965, when they demanded just 12 children in return for an antidote to a plague that would have devasted the planet. This time around they want more. Considerably more. No, not 14 – even more than that. What’s that? Sorry, I can’t hear you – speak up a bit. No, not 18, either. Look, if you haven’t watched it yet, don’t read this – it’s going to be full of spoilers. Ok, has he gone? Good.

Where was I? Oh, yes – this time around they want 10% of the children on the planet.

The story is centred largely around the British government and their complete and utter ballsing up of the situation. Honestly, if you think the expenses scandal was bad, you ain’t seen nothin’, yet!

Episode One was slow – not a great deal happened, but things rarely do in the first 20% of a programme. It was all set-up, and character introductions. Oh, except for the fact that at the end of the episode the Hub had been blown up, as a bomb had been implanted in Jack’s stomach Ouch. One respected television screenwriter (for the sake of anonymity, let’s call him Julian) described episode one as “the worst science fiction I have ever seen, and that includes the two Matrix sequels”. Episode one wasn’t marvellous, but it certainly wasn’t worse than The Matrix Rehashed (which had… *shudder* Keanu Reeves in it!). It wasn’t a great episode, but it wasn’t as bad as anything in Keanuvision.

Episode Two was much better, though even less happened – it was one long chase scene, but handled pretty well. The science was pretty uneven, though – we know that Jack can’t stay dead, but the scene in which part of his head and torso grew back into a fully-grown Jack inside a body bag was ludicrous. The rest of his body grew from nothing – matter must have simply come into existence for this to happen. Also, of course, if this happened to just part of his head and torso, there must be other bits of Jack blown up from the bomb – why did none of those grow into another Captain Harkness, like a Scottish-American starfish? Mind you, to complain about the accuracy of the science in a programme like this is a bit like complaining about the unfeasible amount of sex that happens in porn films. It happens because it happens, though sometimes the writers should give us something on which to suspend our disbelief.

Episodes Three and Four upped the ante, somewhat, and provided some truly memorable TV (the fans will say it was memorable for mainly good reasons, the critics… less so). Episode Four was noteworthy for a few reasons. It was the episode in which Torchwood’s Grand Plan is discovered to be Jack and Ianto telling the aliens to go away or else. Evidently it’s something Jack learned from the Doctor, but the Doctor has been around a lot longer than Jack, and is a lot better at improvising solutions when things go awry. It’s also the episode in which Ianto dies a pointless death. The character of Ianto has developed significantly since season one, in which most viewers wondered if Gareth David-Lloyd was actually an actor at all, and not just someone who happened to wander onto the set while the show was being filmed. Season Two saw his character grow balls (while Jack systematically emptied them) and the actor appeared to grow a degree of talent. In reality,of course, the writers recognised the popularity of the character, and simply gave David-Lloyd more to do. In Children of Earth, Ianto is a key player, and his death resonates – certainly more than those of Tosh (who was well-named) and wide-mouthed-frog Owen.

Episode Five, however, is the episode that divides. And mainly for that scene – the scene during which Jack Harkness sacrifices his grandson in order to save millions of people across the world. The main complaint is that this action was out of character. I disagree. Jack was and is a soldier. Unlike the Doctor he is comfortable killing others for the greater good. He doesn’t like it, but he recognises that sometimes it is a necessary evil.

He was willing to sacrifice the children of Earth at the end of the previous episode to save his beloved Ianto. Why, then, does he agree (albeit reluctantly) to sacrifice his own grandson at the end of Day Five? Well, Ianto was his life, his love, his reason for living, his grounding, and his soulmate. His grandson was none of these things. Oh, Jack undoubtedly loved him after a fashion, but in a remote sense. His love for his grandson was almost certainly bourne of duty – the thought that you have to love your family, and the love bourne of responsibility. We know that Jack’s daughter ran from him, and keeps out of Jack’s life, as Jack is dangerous to be around. Ironically, it was her running from her father that probably sealed the fate of her son – had Jack and his grandson shared a fraction of the time and the love that Jack and Ianto shared, he might not have been killed.

So, who is right, and who is wrong?

Well, I’m wearing strong trousers, and splinters hold no fear for me, so I’m going to sit on the fence and say : everyone.

How so?

Were Jack’s actions out of character? I’d say no, as we know of Jack’s background as a soldier, and we know that he has had to do things of which he is ashamed. Unfortunately, we have not been shown ebough evidence of this in previous series; we’ve not experienced first-hand Jack’s dark side, so when we see it for the first time, it feels like a betrayal. This is the fault of the writers, of course. Partly of the writers (and series producers) of series 1 and 2, but largely for the writing team on Children of Earth for relying on evidence that was only barely referred to in the past. So, the writers were wrong.

The audience who complain are also wrong for expecting Jack to act in anything but a conventionally heroic way. His background has been hinted at, but if we expect him to act in the interests of himself (by saving his grandson, and therefore his relationship with his daughter) instead of the interests of the world (although, let’s be honest – it would be nice if there were fewer chavs on the street – not that I’m advocating mass alien-abduction, of course… just throwing it out there…) then we’re not only fooling ourselves, but denying ourselves the possibility of enjoying one of the few less-than-perfect heroes on television.

The audience who don’t complain are also wrong, because we should have been given more, and to accept it with the flimsiest of historical references is weak, and shows a willingness to watch just about anything. Including Big Brother.

So, if everyone is wrong, then who is right? Well, everyone, of course. For exactly the same (or diametrically opposite) reasons.

What is clear is that Torchwood: Children of Earth has got people talking, and arguing about television, and that can only be a good thing. It had strong viewing figures, and (unusually for a five-nighter) it retained them. It was certainly better than anything series 1 or 2 had to offer, and it treated the genre seriously. It was adult television which felt comfortable to eschew the need for sex and swearing. In short, it was everything Torchwood always wanted to be, but never was.

Badly written? Badly acted? Badly directed? Opinions differ wildly on this, but what is clear is that it was a television event that made people sit up and listen (and write – my god, did people write about it!*)

It also made people think, and that’s got to be good. Hasn’t it?

*the irony does not escape me.

I’m not generally one to employ bad language, except when, you know, I want to, but sometimes the only word that fits is the one you can’t say in front of your parents.

I live in York. It’s a beautiful city, and I’m lucky enough to live in a particularly nice part of it. The only time I don’t actively relish living here, though, is on race day. York has a quite famous racecourse, and my house lies firmly on the route from racecourse to town centre, which means that every drunken yob that attends the race meeting is pretty much guaranteed to pass behind my house.

Oh, to be sure, there are some very respectable people that go to York races. I think they must get taxis into town, though. In general (and it is in general), the type of person that walks past on his way from pub to pub, having squandered his hard-earned dole money on the gee-gees, is the sort of person that thinks that wearing a short-sleeved shirt constitutes “dressing up for the races”. That, or the suit that is only ever otherwise seen by magistrates.

There is a small alley that leads from this migratory path, alongside my cluster of houses, and it is generally this alley that these ridiculously out-of-control twats use to piss in (about 30 feet from the local primary school). It’s not completely out of character for them to do it in a group, or for one to decide that pissing isn’t quite enough, and are there any dock leaves handy?

So, this weekend the local council arranged for a row of 5 portaloos to be installed temporarily. Oh, the hilarity when these got knocked over (every 5 fucking minutes), the laughter and the joy from the idiots that believe it’s ok to force a temporary building to the ground just because they can. And oh! How much more fun when there’s someone actually inside one. I mean, what a bunch of cunts.

Don’t get me wrong - statistically-speaking, the person inside is also likely to be a Gareth Hunt, but just put yourself in their place. You’re so desperate for a wee (or more) that you subject yourself to the indignity of using a portaloo that is situated on the flight path of the common-or-garden-twat. You settle yourself down inside a room so small that your stomach could touch the door if you breathed in too deeply, and you arrange your feet so that your trousers - once lowered - don’t trail in too much of someone else’s urine or vomit. You then find yourself falling backwards as the whole building falls over, piss, shit and vomit swirling around your feet, and then your back and arms. Twats.

But now for the cunt de resistance…

We overlook my daughter’s school and playground. It is easily the best primary school in York and arguably one of the best in the country. On Thursday, a 5-year-old from my daughter’s class was almost abducted. It was after school, and most of her friends were in the playground. Her mother was there, too, sitting on the bench, breastfeeding her baby. MDF (my daughter’s friend) needed to go to the toilet, and like 5-yr-olds everywhere, she couldn’t wait until she got home, so her mother (like parents of 5-yr-olds everywhere) told her to go behind a tree. The tree in question was maybe 150yards away, and she was within sight of her mother at all times.

A man approached her, and said that if she went with him, he’d give her a motorbike. First of all, cunt. Secondly, a motorbike? Jesus! Know your target audience, cunt! That might work on a lad, but what a stupid lure for a 5-yr-old girl! So, he was evidently not a particularly bright cunt, but a cunt nonetheless.

MDF played her part brilliantly. She didn’t say anything to the man, but ran straight back to her mother and told her everything. She even gave (for a 5-yr-old) a pretty good description to the police. We’re told they took someone in for questioning the following day, but we’ve no news other than that.

This girl could have been murdered. Worse, she could have been abused before she was murdered. If that sounds like an exaggeration, think about what the man wanted, why he attempted to lure this girl away from her mother and friends in broad daylight. I’m pretty damn certain a motorbike wasn’t really in the offing.

So now everyone is on red alert. Parents are being extra vigilant, and children are being reminded about stranger danger. There has been a bigger police presence near the school (two men, caught videoing the school, ran away when approached by police), and everyone is more aware of the danger that cunts like this pose to unsuspecting children, who would never in their lives get over the ordeal these scumbags would put them through - if they lived through it, that is.

On a smaller scale, innocence is being eroded across the board, and children are being molly-coddled even more. My own daughter, who usually gets collected by a friend and taken to the playground, is now being brought home straight after school, as the friend has her two children to look after, and - understandably - does not want the added risk and responsibility of looking after someone else’s child for half and hour when she is now having to watch her own children even more closely than she was before. I’d probably do the same, in her shoes.

It’s difficult to know what I would do if I managed to accost someone who was behaving in a suspicious manner outside the school, or who started talking to a child near the school - near my home! It’s sad, because every man becomes a suspect. I love kids, and my natural inclination when out and about, is to smile at a child my daughter’s age, if they’re with their parents. I now hold myself in check. My own innocence has also been lost, and I suspect it is the same for other men, everywhere. We can’t give smiles any more. And children can’t receive them.

Ok, it’s been a while, I know, but you have to watch this.

The 40 seconds in the middle is shit, but it’s worth it for the rest:

That’s my holiday, by the way, not me!

I’m currently sat in a glorious little cottage in South Wales, having come down for a week to visit family and generally get away from it all.

I’ve managed to check email only a couple of times a day, and the mobile reception in the area is so bad (and inconsistent) that when I’ve needed to upload files, documents that would normally have taken 5 minutes have taken 3 hours or more! Honestly - the local idea of broadband access, is upgrading to a first class stamp!

I’m not someone who finds it easy to turn off, and I miss  having email and twitter and facebook and [insert latest thing here] on tap.

Nevertheless, it’s been a relatively relaxing week (as relaxing as you can reasonably expect while accompanies by a 1 yr-old and a 4-yr old - “I’m not 4, daddy, I’m 4 and three quarters!”).

Still, I’m looking forward to getting back to work next week.

Sending someone an email with more than one question in it, and receiving a reply with only the answer to the first point.

Way to read an email, guys!

Ok, so if you read my previous rant, you’ll know I’m not terribly impressed with the way National Rail goes about its business.

Yesterday I had need to change a ticket booking due to a sick child. Rather than simply drive to the train station, I thought I’d call National Rail enquiries. After all, why waste a trip?

“Hello,” I said, “I wonder if you can help me.” And wonder, I did. “I need to change the outward date of an Advance ticket. Can you tell me what I need to do?”

“Yes,” came the positive, if somewhat disinterested voice at the other end, “you need to visit your local ticket office.”

“Ok, thank you.”

So visit it, I did, only to be told that in order to change the ticket I must first get a refund, and then buy a new one. The refund can only be obtained from the place where it was purchased. Therefore I should check the “how to” instructions online.

For various reasons, I decided not to do this. “How about if I just buy another single, instead? The return is £38. How much is it one way?”

“£37.”

Ah.

“What if I travel at a different time?”

“Well, then it goes down to £15.”

“I’ll have one of those, then, please.”

“There you are, sir. For future reference, you might want to take anything National Rail Enquiries tells you witha pinch of salt. They’re not actually National Rail staff - it’s a BT call centre and they’re always getting things wrong.”

“Right. Thank you.”

And fuck you once again, National Rail. You are a bloody disgrace.

BUT

Onto some news about good customer service…

I have an Acer Aspire One netbook. I’ve had it since about a week after they came out, and love it love it love it! It goes everywhere, Acer and me. Wherever I go, it goes, too. There’s always it and me.

Imagine how devastated I was then, when it refused to boot last week. Devastated, I tell you.

I’m pretty IT-literate, and I quickly determined it was not due to a dead battery, or my inability to recite the Lords Prayer in Welsh while tap-dancing on a trained mule.

I logged onto the Acer website and reported the fault online (luckily I had previously registered the machine, and it remembered all my details). I received clear isntructions on what to do, so I followed them, and the following day (last Friday) my machine was collected from my house by a courier.

I received an email when the machine arrived at Acer Accident and Emergency, and another when it was dispatched back to me. Acer will have received it Monday. It arrived back with me today (Wednesday), safe and sound, and feeling better after its little adventure.

See, National Rail - that’s customer fucking service!

Buy Acer - they’ll do right by you.

Those of you who know me will be shocked to the very core of your being when I tell you this: I am not perfect, and I sometimes make mistakes.

No, no - I know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t false modesty on my part, this is a statement of fact - and before some of you suggest it, this confession is not further proof of my perfection. We’re not in Life of Brian land, here.

I’ve made a few mistakes over the years, and several train-related ones over the last couple of weeks. It’s the train-related ones I want to talk about, here. This is a rant, pure and simple. A written transcript of a conversation I have had with myself (and several rail personnel), and a rail (pun not intended) against the extraordinarily low level of customer service we have come to expect, and accept in this country.

Yes, it’s one of those blog entries…

I’m a self-confessed Whedonite. I draw the line at dressing up as a browncoat, or carrying a stake with me, but I think the man is the best thing to happen to genre TV since Roddenberry said: Hey - wouldn’t it be a great idea to do a space series. His latest project - for those of you not paying attention at the back - is Dollhouse.

The Dollhouse of the title is a corporation who hires out people for specific jobs. A bit like Office Angels but with a better hourly rate. The ‘temps’ in this case are the dolls - five men and women who have had their personalities erased (all similarities to Eamonn Holmes is entirely coincidental). When a client needs a doll for a specific task, the Dollhouse team implant an appropriate personality, along with the memories and skills needed to complete the job - be it corporate espionage, hostage negotiation, or plain old rumpy pumpy.

In the series pilot, we meet Echo (the trouser-tightening Eliza Dushku)  - she has agreed to work for the Dollhouse for 5 years in return for which the corporation has agreed to help her escape from some undisclosed transgression from her past. As dolls, Echo and her ‘colleagues’ have but a simple personality imprinted - enough to allow them to walk, talk and interact with the doctors and technicians at the facility, but little more.

Echo has been implanted with the memories and abilities of a top-rate negotiator, in order to secure the release of a client’s kidnapped daughter. During a fragile negotiation process, Echo remembers snippets of her treatment at the Dollhouse facility - something that should not happen - and the transfer of the kidnappee is compromised (and the client is shot in the process).

In the pilot we get to see Dushku in a shower, Dushku in black leather on a motorbike and Dushku as a sexy secretary type, complete with glasses - something for everyone. You’d almost get the impression that the producers weren’t sure people would tune in to the show, so decided to throw everything into the pot. However, we also get to see her act, and at no point do we see Dushku the vampire slayer - no high kicks, no back flips, no smart quips; and of course, with this particular format we should get to see her play a different character every week.

It’s not a perfect pilot, but there’s enough here to make you want to come back next week. In that respect, it’s done its job.

Also starring: Olivia Williams, BSG’s Tamoh Penikett, and Angel’s Amy Acker. If the show is a success, you’ll also start to recognise some of the other names, particularly Fran Kranz, who excels as techie Topher Brink.

Last week I said some hurtful things. You do, sometimes, in the heat of the moment, then dawn arrives and you realise that although you meant what you said at the time, you weren’t really in your right mind. There was something else going on. Honestly. It wasn’t you, it was me.

Ok, not quite. I stand by my thoughts about last week’s episode, but in its defence, it was a series opener, and although it had a pilot last year the producers - quite rightly - saw episode one as an opportunity to start from scratch and introduce everyone anew, in order to pick up the stragglers like me, who missed the original.

So, last week: a bit shit. Not  huge, steaming pile of moist horse manure - more a patter-patter-patter of rabbit droppings. As I say, a bit shit.

This week, though… Oh, this week it more than lived up to its premise, and I’ll definitely tune in next week. Not - as I hinted last week - in the hope that it gets better, but in the hope that it’s at least half as good as tonight’s episode.

So, as some of you know, I got into The West Wing pretty late. So late, in fact, I was able to get hold of a copy of the Season 1-7 box set for a ridiculous price.

Tonight I saw the last episode of season 1, and it is still my favourite TV series. This is what TV was invented for!

Fantastic characters, great performances, amazing writing.

But, uhhh… that Mandy character… is there, you know, a point?

Right at the start of the series a huge deal was made of the fact that she’s pretty much the best political PR person in the country. Why, then, do all of the other characters dismiss pretty much everything she says? And why do the writers feel embarrassed that she’s there? She’s had about half a storyline in the whole of season 1 (she’d written something dismissive about the president before she started working for him and everyone said “boo, sucks”, then the president said “give her a break” - which doesn’t happen in real life, believe me!)

So, all you West Wing gurus - spoiler-free, please… does the (slightly odd-looking, but you still would) Moira Kelly get any screen time worth a damn?

Earlier this week I posted that we had rejected a couple of excellent manuscripts for not being “genre enough”. This was a copy of a post I made over at the Angry Robot website.

Someone responded and asked - well, what is “genre enough, then”?

A good question, and one which you can see my answer to over at www.AngryRobotBooks.com if you can be bothered…

Following last year’s successful pilot, the BBC ordered a full 6 episodes of their “comedy drama” Being Human. I didn’t see the pilot, and when I heard the concept I was intrigued, but not particularly excited.

It’s the story of three flatmates - one is a ghost, one a vampire, and one a werewolf - and of how they cope with the loss of the humanity, or their struggle to maintain/regain it.

It was shown on BBC3 on Sunday night (25th January) and I watched it with Gina last night.

About 20 minutes in I asked G what she thought. “It’s alright.” she said.

Russell Tovey as the werewolf (and the only actor to return from the pilot) was good, but helped by a few decent lines and situations. The guy who played the vampire (I’m sorry, I just can’t be arsed to look him up at the moment) was about as brooding a vampire as you could imagine, and the actress who played the ghost was ok. Just ok.

We do “ok” well in Britain, and we tend to count ourselves lucky for it. If this was a big budget US production I’d have given up, but as it’s a British show I’ll probably watch next week to see if it has improved. If not, I might watch the following week, just in case. ‘Cause that’s what we do. We expect UK genre shows to be a bit shit, and if they’re a bit better than a bit shit we’re happy.

We really should demand higher standards of ourselves - not just as producers of genre TV, but as viewers.

So, yeah - Being Human? It’s a bit shit, but that’s ok, ’cause it’s our shit.

Originally posted at www.HubFiction.com

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Welcome to the second Annual Hub Awards. ish.

As with last year’s star-studded ceremony, the Hub Awards are simply a chance for me (your genial host, Lee Harris) to reflect on some of the genre highlights of my year. (Important note: These are my choices, and do not reflect the views of other members of the editorial team at Hub).This list includes a number of “Best Of”s. These include categories such as “Best Horror Novel” and “Best Film”. These aren’t necessarily items that were published/released in 2008; rather, they are indicative of the best I have enjoyed this year – thus, there may be works that have been produced prior to 2007, but that (for whatever reason) I didn’t get the opportunity to enjoy them when they were first released. So… onto the Awards…

1.    Best Science Fiction Novel

2.    Best Horror Novel

3.    Best Fantasy Novel

4.    Best Comedy Novel

5.    Best TV Tie-In Novel

6.    Best Comedy (Audio)

7.    Best Film

8.    Best TV Series

9.    Best Audio Drama

10.  Best Comic or Collection

11.  Best Writer

12.  Best Collection (single author)

13.  Best Anthology

14.  Best Artist

15.  Best Short Story (within Hub)

16.  Best Short Story (non-Hub)

17.  Best Podcast

18.  Best Dead Tree Magazine (UK)

19.  Best Website for Timewasting

20.  Best Blog