Some genius has combined the best known work of Welsh poet Dylan Thomas with the latest effort from the Doctor Who production office in Cardiff. The result is Under Torchwood, a work of satirical genius. Here's a brief extract...
Torchwood agent Gwen Cooper, the viewers' proxy.
Plumply pop-eyed, gap-toothed and beyond her fringe, she tiptoes around her flat in the dark, trying not to awaken her boyfriend Barry Backstory, who is dreaming of future episodes where he gets a bigger part.
BARRY BACKSTORY'S DREAM
I'm telling you, Gwen, I have to know who you want: me, or Captain Jack, or several of the others.
GWEN IN BARRY BACKSTORY'S DREAM
Don't make me choose.
Non-dream Gwen opens the door of her flat, where she finds
Hi. I'm Captain Jack Harkness.
TORCHWOOD AGENT 1
Toshiko Sato. I'm an all-new kind of female sci-fi character for the twenty-first century. I can give computers insoluble equations in Algol.
TORCHWOOD AGENT 2
Doctor Owen Harper. I'm a weasel-faced would-be rapist and self-described twat. By dint of great effort, I have made myself even less sympathetic and more unlikeable than the other characters.
TORCHWOOD AGENT 3 [plaintively]
Ianto Jones. I've got a Cyberlady in my wardrobe.
Gwen, you've got to come quickly. It's the Rift.
What is the Rift?
The Rift is a kind of hellmouth that is sucking on a transcendental, transdimensional gobstopper. It is a double-egg MacGuffin served with large flies. It is
an easy way for lazy writers to generate indulgence-straining plots, without ever troubling to think up anything new, or plausible, or to know or look up any science.
RUSSELL T DAVIES
Horizon doesn't bother. Why should we?