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Saturday, 23 September 2017

Sir Gavin And The Green Dragon

Sir Gavin And The Green Dragon

A post Alpha Warriors Story

Alexander Gordon Jahans

At a quiet backwater bar somewhere near Miami, Viola Hitchcock was sat at a table drinking lager with her colleagues. She was dressed in the same formal style of suit as the mostly white men round the table but her youth and long blonde hair marked her out from her colleagues.

A man in a three piece green suit entered the bar. “Diet coke and whiskey. Pepsi, not coca cola.”

Viola went to the bar to order her round.

The man at the bar sniffed the air then turned to her with a smile. “Peppermint and Fosters? I approve of your taste.

Viola snorted. “Are trying to chat me up by complementing my choice of lager?”

He looked to her and smiled. “It was not my intention but I would not be upset if it succeeded in such a manner.”

Viola looked him up and down. “Interesting choice of dress.”

“We all have uniforms detective.” said the strange man with a smile.

Viola smirked and bit her lip. “Am I that obvious?”

“You call me the Farsh-nuke.” said the strange man reaching out an open palm.

Viola laughed and shook his hand. “Viola Hitchcock, you know I’m going to run a full background check on you.”

“I would expect no less.” said the Farsh-nuke with a slight smile. “Shall we stick with the foreplay or jump straight to the handcuffs?”

Viola grinned. “You are impossible.”

“So I’m told.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Get me a diet coke, no alcohol.” said Viola. “You can join me and my colleagues. If they’re certain you’re not a serial killer then who knows.”

The Farsh-nuke laughed.


The next morning the Farsh-nuke was lying naked between silk sheets and Viola was approaching his bed and handed him a couple of slices of buttered toast and a strong mug of coffee.

“Hey...” said the Farsh-nuke with a grin.

“Hey...” said Viola, smiling back.

“You are a very lovely woman you know?” said the Farsh-nuke cheerfully, his brain still booting.

“So I’m told.” said Viola with a smile. “Curious thing I noticed when I went to check your records, you don’t have any.”

“So, handcuffs after all?” asked the Farsh-nuke with a put upon frown.

“No.” said Viola, backing off to stand by the doorway, looking shapely and feminine, even as her training kicked in. “I didn’t exactly expect to find anything for the name Farsh-nuke and obviously access to dna and fingerprints is somewhat limited without probable cause. I’d just like to know the truth if I may? I can understand if you don’t trust the FBI and I’m not in a hurry to turn you into the ICE if you are an illegal immigrant.”

The Farsh-nuke smiled then he said. “Get your gun, make sure it’s loaded and take whatever other precautions with me to ensure you are safe.”

“Do I need to?” asked Viola, the shrewd professional breaking through the veneer of casual intimacy.

The Farsh-nuke chuckled but controlled his movements carefully. “That’s not for me to say. I will tell you the truth, as much as matters to you. I’m not sure how much you’ll believe but that’s your problem. I do feel however that I do not want you to feel any more distressed than you absolutely have to be by my presence in your life.”

Viola nodded, kept watching the Farsh-nuke and walked over to a wall safe behind a painting and after a moment was armed with a pistol. “Okay then, talk.”

“Okay, I am going to tell you some things that may be distressing but it’s probably important that you listen to everything I have to say before you react. I don’t want you getting in trouble because you wouldn’t let me finish explaining.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Noted.” said Viola coldly.

“Point 1. Yes, I was a serial killer, a cannibal specifically, gets a bit messy on the details but yes I am arguably a threat.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“I’m taking the safety off now.” said Viola calmly.

“Understandable.” said the Farsh-nuke genially. “Point 2. I am an illegal immigrant but I am an illegal immigrant to your universe. You won’t believe me and that’s fine but you won’t find any record of me because I don’t exist within this universe.”

“Great, you’re mad.” said Viola flatly.

“Point 3. I care about you because I sort of have a thing for seducing blondes. I’m trying to quit but I still can’t help feeling affection for you and a desire to protect you.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“And a creep, marvellous.” said Viola with the same flat delivery.

“Point 4. I wouldn’t have advised you get armed if I didn’t know it would do almost nothing to me.” said the Farsh-nuke. “I like you and I want you to be calm and happy but I don’t actually have a death wish.”

“So what are you then?” asked Viola.

“You might want to put to gun down or at least put the safety back on, these are awful nice sheets and I wouldn’t want you to ruin them unduly.” said the Farsh-nuke. “But I can show you what I am.”

Viola stared. “Then show me.”

The Farsh-nuke grinned and as he smiled his skin colour changed, his bone structure altered and his teeth grew. His changed into a green dragon.

“What did you drug me with?” asked Viola.

The Farsh-nuke chuckled. “I gave that up. You’re looking at the truth.”

“I’ve read too much Thomas Harris.” said Viola.

“Bah, Hannibal’s an amateur.” said the Farsh-nuke with a grin.

Viola’s phone bleeped.

“That’s my alarm for work. I gotta go.” said Viola, still looking down her pistol at the Farsh-nuke.

“I could help?” suggested the Farsh-nuke.

“Yeah, because that’s going to happen.” said Viola.

“Well your options are 1. Shoot me. Which won’t work and might get you in trouble. 2. Arrest me which won’t work because I don’t exist in your universe and your evidence is a confession combined with things nobody will believe. 3. Release me when I have confessed.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Can you transform for my boss?” asked Viola.

“Of course.” said the Farsh-nuke with a genial smile. “I have nothing to fear from the FBI.”

“Can you turn back now then?” asked Viola.

“Just so.” said the Farsh-nuke, changing back to an impression of relative humanity.

“Well it’s certainly impressive, whatever you’re doing.” said Viola.

“Telling the truth.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Just telling the truth.”

“Then get dressed.” said Viola.


“What is he doing here?” asked Bert Ingram, a tall thick set latino man in a black suit.

“You wouldn’t believe me.” said Viola. “I’ll explain later but he says he might be able to help.”

The Farsh-nuke stood in his green suit looking at where an old white man had being strung up by a noose from a lamp post, his cock and balls cut off and rammed into his mouth. A confederate flag was tattooed into the man’s chest.

The Farsh-nuke was grinning like a kid in a candy store. “We’re dealing with a vigilante.”

“Oh, truly, what an amazing intellect you have bought to help here.” said Bert.

The Farsh-nuke chuckled and turned back to Bert. “Oh I’ll catch him for you but I’m not actually here for that. Is there somewhere we can talk.”

Bert looked to Viola.

Viola nodded.

“Alright...” said Bert and he led the Farsh-nuke over to a trailer where the forensics team changed into their clean suits.

Bert opened the door and glowered at the people inside and they hurried out. Bert looked to the Farsh-nuke.

The Farsh-nuke graciously entered followed by Viola then Bert.

“So what is it you need to tell me?” asked Bert.

“I’m a former serial killer from a different universe who has no records in this one, bullets can’t stop me and I mean you no harm. Also I’m a dragon. A green one.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Is this some kind of joke?” asked Bert.

Viola shrugged. “I thought he must have just been fucking with me but he did do do something that might be proof if you can see it too.”

“See what?” asked Bert.

So the Farsh-nuke transformed.

“Well fuck.” said Bert.

“At your service.” said the Farsh-nuke, bowing.

“Can you like fly?” asked Bert.

“I can do a lot more than just fly.” said the Farsh-nuke and he blew out a small puff of green fire.

“And you say you’re bullet proof.” said Bert.

“Well, strong healing ability.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“And you’re on our side?” asked Bert.

“I like Viola.” said the Farsh-nuke with a smile. “She’s cute and funny.”

Bert nodded then he looked to Viola. “Do you have a problem with this man?”

“Well he said he was a serial killer.” said Viola.

“I know.” said Bert with a shrug. “But aside from what he’s told me, how do you feel about him?”

Viola shrugged. “We spent the night together and he’s nice enough but I’m not going to argue for him if that’s what you’re thinking?”

“But he’s alright?” asked Bert. “You have no reason beyond what he’s said to suggest we treat him with contempt or care?”

“Not really no. He’s just a strange man who can seemingly become a dragon.” said Viola.

Bert looked to the Farsh-nuke. “Are you prepared to be interviewed and processed to see if we can find anything on you? If we can prove your story one way or another?”

“Sure.” said the Farsh-nuke with a genial grin.


3 hours later the Farsh-nuke sat in an interview room as Viola reentered the room.

“Well, they can’t find anything on you.” said Viola. “Looks like your story checks out. You are an alien to our records. Are prepared to be listed as an American citizen?”

“I prefer Britain but I have no great problem with being American.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Though my writer may struggle to keep up. Bit parochial that boy.”

Viola smirked. “Right, the keystream, you said. He finds me hot?”

“Probably, I mean I do. We’re similar but different.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“You are so bizarre.” said Viola with a smile then she looked at the Farsh-nuke with interest. “Why did you come here? Why did you tell us the truth? I mean you’ve done nothing wrong inside our universe, if your story is true, why go through all this?”

“Well why not?” asked the Farsh-nuke. “I’m on holiday, rest leave from my part in the great multiverse war. I went to bar, I saw a hot chick and old habits die hard.”

“And yet I remain collar free and fully aware of my sensibilities.” said Viola. “If all this was you falling off the wagon why aren’t I wrapped around your little finger?”

“Character development?” suggested the Farsh-nuke.

“Bullshit.” said Viola cheerfully. “You want me, I can see it in your eyes.”

The Farsh-nuke nodded then he sighed, looking away. “Things happened while I was away, bad things, complicated things. I want to begin again, I need to begin again but I’m not the same.”

“And these things are why I get to remain Miss Independent?” asked Viola.

“You say that as though you have no say in things?” said the Farsh-nuke compassionately.

Viola blushed and forced herself to look the Farsh-nuke in his emerald green eyes. “I really don’t think I do. I felt it last night too, this pull like gravity. I feel like I want to please you, like just looking at you I want to kneel before you and bow my head.”

“Then go.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Get away from me while you still can. I didn’t intend for this.”

“No, I like it.” said Viola smiling. “I’m not stupid, I would kill you if I had to but if I don’t then I think I like being with you.”

The Farsh-nuke chuckled and he shook his head. “You don’t want to be with me, you want the calm of defeat. The serenity of submitting before a powerful being. I’m not that.”

“But you want to be.” said Viola with a grin.

“I want a great many things.” said the Farsh-nuke. “I’m not playing this game.”

Viola sighed and leaned back. “So what do you want?”

The Farsh-nuke shrugged. “A world free from Elder Gods and Sylphs. A world where women are badass, men aren’t total dicks and politics is just a choice between two bland alternatives of Meh.”

Viola nodded. “I think Bert wants to weaponise you. Lots of uses for a man with no name.”

The Farsh-nuke smiled. “So long as he aims me well I have no problem with that. Serial killers are a quiet reprieve from multiversal politics.”

“Anything you need?” asked Viola. “Beyond Diet Coke, Whiskey and access the best and brightest young women Miami has to offer.”

“I did not ask for that last one.” said the Farsh-nuke irritably.

Viola smirked. “Tough.”

The Farsh-nuke sighed then he leaned back. “Well there is one thing?”

Viola nodded. “Anything?”

“I need the number of a good leftwing psychotherapist, preferably a white man. Feminists scare me.” said the Farsh-nuke.

Viola nodded. “Got some issues then?”

“A few...” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Well I’ll see what I can find out. I might be able to find someone who can suit your particular sensibilities.” said Viola.

The next day the Farsh-nuke was shaking hands with a tall skinny white man with a scruffy beard, a brown cardigan and jeans.

“Sir Gavin Burr, at your service.” said the young man.

The Farsh-nuke shook Gavin’s hand and smiled, looking into his sapphire blue eyes.


The racist ran through the concrete jungle. “Fucking cuck! Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Stop running and I will be merciful, Adam.” said Gavin as he bought the lasso up from his waist, striding calmly after the white man.

“You’re insane!” cried the racist, throwing back a look.

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few and you are a nazi aren’t you Adam?” said Gavin, striding after his prey calmly.

“Yeah, I’m a member of the Alt-Right, what of it? Freedom of speech, man! Freedom of speech!” cried the racist.

“The Genocidal surrender all rights.” said Gavin as he readied his lasso. “You would pose an existential threat to the human race. You are a cancer and there is only one cure for for cancer.”

The racist came to the end of a cul de sac and looked back to Gavin in panic as the predator approached calmly.

“Hush now...” said Gavin as threw the lasso.

The lasso fell about the racist’s neck then it was pulled taught, suffocating the racist and pulling him to the ground.

“Now are you going to be a good little boy worthy of mercy or do I need to humiliate you as you die?” asked Gavin.

The racist spat in Gavin’s face.

“So be it.” said Gavin, pulling out a knife.


Gavin broke off the handshake and asked. “What are you thinking about?”

“That you may be of more help to me than I first realised.” said the Farsh-nuke with a grin.

“Shall we begin then?” asked Gavin.

“Well why not?” said the Farsh-nuke gleefully as he took a seat.

The Appeal Of The Chess Player

The Appeal Of The Chess Player

Alexander Gordon Jahans

So I have been through the Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul and I think I have come to understand and make peace with the shadow inside myself and so I return that first love, geeking out about bullshit.

When I first discovered the chessplayer archetype I was finding what made sense and seem comforting to me. Emos and Goths were far too cool and fashionable for what I was. I was a pathetic small, fat ugly thing that everybody ignored as too weird or strange. I know now that this was Autism, Kallman’s Syndrome Growth Hormone Deficiency and familial background that would make anyone out of step with conventional society. At the time however I was just weird but I felt noble. I was the pacifist who survived hell. I aspired to a great morality. I had the kind of unwavering faith in goodness that only the very young and very ignorant have. At the same time I was filled with anger and bitterness. Why can’t they see the fire they play with? It was an arrogant assertion of my own intelligence that combined with the other factors to in retrospect make me quite the prick.

So when I read the Virgin New Adventures and saw Time’s Champion angsting about the morality of using his great power or watched Matt Smith’s Oncoming Storm struggle with whether he was a good man, I saw myself. I saw these broken pillars of hubris as powerful empowering mirrors. No wonder my closest friends say (in far nicer and more polite terms) that I was a prick back then.

I discovered Doctor Who, the chessplayer Archetype and started writing about the Farsh-nuke in 2009 when I was seventeen so I had long since discovered my fetish for shrunken women, which would broaden out into a general appeal for submissive women over time. 2013 was when the course I was on at university outright covered feminist interpretation of media and about the time I was first trying out tumblr and so recoiling in knee jerk horror at all these nasty people who werre calling themselves feminists.

Looking back this seems like the most dreadful foreshadowing. If the keystream exists I bet my author in another dimension is a real pretentious arsehole. I mean fuck I know the human brain likes to explain after the fact but the parallels are there. The alien with a secret genetics he doesn’t know about associating himself with humans and angsting about being a good guy while being a thundering cunt, and all the while casually misogynistic at variant times.

Except now I am older, wiser, considerably more aware of myself and my faults. I believe in greed, stupidity, selfishness and sadism. I believe that humans are predators by nature who work together out of survival and because it is objectively better and science is like the ultimate in trying to convince stupid selfish greedy apes to agree and accept things. I am also experienced more in the ways of creation, critique, feminism and politics. I doubt there are many who would not find some problem with my conclusions but at least I have a much greater awareness of when I might be fucking up.

So I’m now aware that the characters I identified with were meant to be problematic. It’s meant to be debatable, it’s meant to be difficult, to be nasty. You can argue that the Doctor did what he had to do, that there was no way, that he did it brilliantly but even the Doctor wishes there was another way.

Now I see the Chess Player not just in Doctor Who but in Tyrion Lannister, Hannibal Lecter, Kerr Avon, Scorpious, Malcolm Tucker, Josh Lyman (People might object to that one.), Sherlock, Francis Urquhart, Loki... The list goes on and on and includes Jon the letsplayer Many A True Nerd when he is playing the Total War Games or Stellaris and you get to see a much more literal version of the chessplayer archetype as a letsplayer plays a marvellous manipulation game against a game’s AI.

And holy fuckballs looking at that list do I have a type or what? Err yes can I get an older white male with an accent, a scary intensity and several degrees in badassery and manipulativeness, preferably with some good looking long haired intelligent female friends/pawns to manipulate. And you thought the repetitiveness of the skinny white blonde women in my fiction was obnoxious. I literally realized that the new show I’m watching is basically a less gory gender flipped Hannibal in terms of its older psychotherapist lead seducing younger person who shows interesting promise of matching the badass manipulativeness of the psychotherapist.

And that’s the thing my position has changed. I’m not the Doctor, I’m not the Farsh-nuke, I’m certainly not Hannibal Lecter, heck I watch Sorkin era West Wing and wince at how Bartlet is too rightwing, warhawk, corrupt and dishonest for me. I mean I know Theresa May looks good compared to America’s current President at the time of writing but that’s who I am.

There’s this arc in the watch books that is capped off amazingly in Thud! and Snuff with the character of Sam Vimes. Sam Vimes is an alcoholic in a dead end job in a city gone to hell. He is a man who routinely struggles with his anger and visualises it as a great beast pulling at its leash. I am reminded of how Neil Gaiman once said that Terry Pratchett wrote from anger because the portrayal of that struggle Vimes has with anger is well written and so true of what I’ve felt. It’s capped off by his genuinely violent butler pointing out that though Vimes fears his anger he would bring the sadistic murderer of his wife and child to justice before the courts even if it killed him emotionally because Vimes has his own inner watchman and he will never let the beast win.

I am not Sam Vimes, I am not worthy of it but I take solace in that declaration and assertion. These years have pushed me close, so close, I mean I was stripped of everything, doubting myself, facing familial and societal pressure and I had nazi stalkers. But I didn’t break and I don’t think I’ve ever really believed that I would. Heck I’ve been nearly catatonic at times over these three years at the fear and offense I caused to my father and strangers I don’t know who may just have been twats.

I keep telling myself I’m like the Doctor, that I could do terrible things for the greater good if the need arised. Perhaps it’s arguable that if I had enough proof that it would make a difference objectively, that the reason might overwhelm my natural revulsion but I doubt that. I have a feeling that I am far more likely to die myself before doing anything to anyone else.

Except that’s what I needed after school. I needed confidence, I needed reason to live without fear. I know have a strange confidence born of experience, an absense of fucks born of living with such great risks for so long. Being a 6 foot tall broad chested cisgendered bisexual white Englishman in the south of England also helps. I may fear feminists but privilege has its upsides and when I go walking at 4am I am far more concerned about not creeping people out than I am worried about bumping into someone who means illwill towards me.

My relationship with the chessmaster’s has changed then. I definitely aspire to that level of skill and intellect. I’ve told myself that my autism makes me powerful because my social skills are put on and so I could affect them to manipulate people if I wanted. Yeah, that is no longer true. I can barely be in the same room as a person without the anxiety being such a drain on my resources.

Equally, while this hormone rollercoaster has been fun, it is not now enough to me for women to be submissive to be exhilarating. The game has become important. In fantasies and fiction I take far more delight in a well rounded and strong character being bought to heel by another.

It’s kinda like how I have this autistic friend who only plays games where the odd are so highly stacked in his favour. Yeah, it’s fun to be god but it gets boring fast for me. I want to win and I want my victory to be near certain but I want it to be a challenge.

However I have found that I no longer just identify with the chessmaster having the power over their pawns, I also find in my fantasies and enjoyment of fiction that I take great pleasure in seeing myself as the pawn. In being the game to be dominated and bought to heel by a worthy mind.

Not sending a tiredness induced invite to any would be nazi stalkers by the way. You are not worthy so don’t bother. Not even actual eldritch Adam Godwinson would be worthy.

This is purely fantasy and fiction related.

For me the enjoyment of the Doctor, Avon, Hannibal, Tyrion or Francis Urquhart comes from this idea that I have a competency bias and humans are stupid.

Donald Trump boasted about committing sexual assault while representing a political party that was justifying the persecution of trans people with spurious fear mongering over the possibility of sexual assault. Then the fucker got elected president and we are all looking wistfully at a neoliberal warhawk because at least she was competent at being a neoliberal warhawk.

See at this point I am so jaded and so cynical and so aware that I can do so little that the idea of a manipulative bastard is deeply arousing. It’s competency porn. I mean fuck it the world is so fucking awful why wouldn’t you stick around someone that competent even if they were going to kill and eat you eventually. Hannibal Lecter the hot date is fascism personified. Sure he’s going to kill you but at least the trains will run on time while you’re getting there.

I mean I’m kind of torn on Hannibal because on the one hand he does kill and eat people just because they’re kind of a dick but on the other hand almost every other chessplayer has caused much more collateral damage in the aid of their nobler causes and obviously in a multiverse I can handwave that as safe sane and consensual under the right circumstances because healing factors exist. I mean Jack Harkness and Mads Mikkelson’s Hannibal anyone?

Although obviously for me it’s far more the Tyrions, the Doctors and the Avons of the world that have the appeal. They combine sadism, immorality and manipulativeness with the objective utilitarian greater good. Doesn’t hurt that they usually surround themselves with beautiful young women either.

I’m English so I celebrate status quo. Great men come and great men go. Empires rise and empires fall. Arthur and Merlin fall at Camlann, Robin Hood looses his final arrow, even the Doctor regenerates and James Bond gets recast. It’s why Hamilton struck such a chord with me I think. It is an American story of American Revolution and compromise but it follows a very British structure of rise and fall. Particularly in light of who the current President is. So the great manipulators should one day die.

The Doctor gets away with their death and rebirth every few years but on the whole most of the chessplayers do die. Urquhart meets his end. Avon finally catalyses his tension with Blake. Sherlock has the Reichenbach Fall then retiring to keep bees. The only manipulative bastard who has so far gotten away with it entirely is Hannibal Lecter and I think that’s only because Hannibal is the horror monster so his victory is a downer ending and everybody has been so physically repulsed by the ending that they daren’t see any more, even though it will inevitably entail unpicking that “happy ending” a bit. Heck even I, with a character who was once many moons ago, explicitly based on me, keep killing the Farsh-nuke off and bringing him back.

The manipulative bastard is the fantasy of competence, of the one smart guy who knows exactly how you think and feel, who wants you and will turn his immeasurable talents to your end because you matter so much to him. It is the fantasy of escape combined with the fantastical freeing from the consequences of escape. The idea that you had no choice to accept this incredibly good looking and charismatic stranger with impeccable taste and amazing abilities, he’s just that good so it’s not your fault. At the same time the illusion of control because you are so important.

Also from a creative standpoint such a team up allows for great stories because you have someone to do the smart explaining and perform the heroic violence or illegality while having someone else to connect emotionally to people and get in danger.

Also, I love it when a plan comes together, it’s like watching dominoes fall.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Lost Culture



Alexander Gordon Jahans

Hubris. It’s an odd word and one I confess I’ve never really understood. One of those big words that sounds cool to say and I sort of think I know from context but it could be latin for ‘he caught his dick in his zipper’ for all I really know. But I think that’s what did me over.

I had already broken. I had already failed. I had already lost so much but instead of stopping. Instead of grieving. Instead of confronting and coming to terms with what I saw in the mirror that so upset me, I ploughed on and I ploughed deep. I was so certain that I could champion people I knew nothing about, so certain that I could make money when I gave no fucks.

I did this. I did this and I hate it. I broke my own rules. I lashed out and I hurt people. Even in ignorance I hurt people. Alex Jahans does not hurt people. Alex Jahans is a pacifist in the face of unending violence. Alex Jahans is moral. Alexander Gordon Jahans failed at this most basic tenet to do no harm. Alexander Gordon Jahans was a beast born of necessity, a survivor whose sworn duty is to stagger ever onwards and do whatever it takes to facilitate this.

Well I’m not dead but I betrayed the core of who I am and I must make peace with that. I can’t survive if I still hate myself for what I did. Oh what a melodramatic narcissistic fool. Even the nazis probably have more evil plaguing them than the terrifying demon that has so haunted me. I wrote a thing and I upset people. Truly, this is a calamity worthy of months, years, spent tearing seven kinds of hell out of myself over. How pathetic. I was bad and I upset people. Truly, I am a martyr.

I must accept this. I must accept the demons within myself. I shall try not to make the same mistake again, I shall try to be a better man but I cannot run from this anymore. I cannot keep apologising for this as though it makes it better. I’m not a nice man, I’m not a good man, I must accept that and make peace with it.

I’ve been hiding from the world, retreating from even my closest friends because I do not trust myself not to be an insulting failure again. I have been blurting out my remonstrations in this public forum because even when I crave the oxygen of awareness and recognition, even when I see the value in sharing I fear the danger of intimacy and closeness, the responsibility of having people who matter to me and that I matter to.

I killed the Farsh-nuke off, condemned them all to eternal war then had the Great Farsh-nuke sent to hell while the one remaining Farsh-nuke suffered staggering defeat, torture and much much worse. Such hatred. Such disgusting malice. It was born of a condemnation that the Farsh-nuke was assumed to be me, that he was thought to have done this terrible thing that I had not intended but was none the less interpreted. How much has that character suffered because I fucked up and could not deal with it?

But I’ve been writing again. I’ve been playing games again. I’ve been pulling myself together, the mind that was broken is being reforged anew and now I am writing a story that might let the Farsh-nuke be forged a new. I am a white man who likes manipulative bastards and can’t stop writing submissive women for the life of me. That is not the Farsh-nuke’s fault and I think I know now that it will only stop with my death and I do not plan on dying any time soon.

I don’t know who or what the new me will be. I don’t know what that me will be like but I do know now that the time is coming. Alexander Gordon Jahans, the promise and this particular incarnation of the personality that resides within the flesh and blood of this person, it will no longer be needed and will be discarded. I may well continue writing under this name but the promise won’t be needed and the personality will change.

I have survived and I did a fucking good job of it all things considered but mere survival is not going to be enough. The house will be sold and I will need to start a new life elsewhere. The walks I know will change, the places I go, the things I do, even this sacred room that has kept me so safe. All shall pass and things I know will be but memories, relics of a man I used to be.

I am older now, more jaded, cynical, I am trained in the ways of politics, a weary anti-feminism has become bitterly self aware understanding of my own ignorance and privilege and the very real need for change to stop my demographic fucking over everyone. At the same time I have come to terms with the fact that there is darkness within me that shines like a fucking beacon in dark times.

I have faith in human stupidity and greed, I see that my lust is something that will keep me warm and happy no matter how cold alone and swallowed by the dark I am. Even my fears serve me now. There is a prat in the real world called Adam who sounded so annoying I wanted to punch him in the face but as I became the Great Farsh-nuke through fiction so that pathetic and mostly harmless prat has become the much more formidable and entertaining alpha god Adam Godwinson, a troll worthy of going seven shades to Sunday with me in my mind. A troll worthy of giving voice to those callous doubts and so letting me counter. I have come along way from the scared little boy who called the bluff of his nightmares by swimming willingly into the mouths of the beasts who stalked his nightmares.

So yes, I am sorry and I grant forgiveness. I am better and I shall be better.

Oh and and if the real prat is reading this. I am not the Great Farsh-nuke and you are not Adam Godwinson. You do not matter to me. He does.

Sunday, 17 September 2017



A Bloggage
Alexander Gordon Jahans

So my brain broke, well not my brain but my facade of normality, and things were shit, they really were, I clung to podcasts like a lifeline and my mind was unable to focus on ideas, to write. I’m not in that place anymore. I could pull explanations out of my arse but I really think it’s just that I never really allowed myself to acknowledge what had happened and to grieve.

I lost a lot and I do have to rebuild and rebuilding means my mind. Except I was so close to the edge and so scared about going over it that I clung to what I knew fiercely. I mean this is why I refused to take anti-depressants. When your sanity is so finely balanced on the edge of functionality why risk upsetting the balance. Only it’s like a computer going through an update, there’s only so much you can do while the operating system is booted.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not fucking cured. I’m not dumbo, the answer was not inside me all along, dada!!! I’m still in pain, I’m still tired, I’m still at the mercy of bugs, viruses and the chaos gods in charge of when I sleep and wake. I’m still a moron and there are still nazis and people who hate me. I still might die from a lack of any other option if I can’t find a job and the DWP gets sick of me. I mean I know I am still so far from even realistically trying to get a job.

Except I’m happy. I’ve had two or three days of genuine happiness and when I close my eyes and I’m without distractions I’m okay. I’m flawed, I’m problematic, things are not great but I’m okay. I no longer fear the parts of me that are not great. I’m writing again, I’m walking again, I’m watching letsplays again, I’m cutting back on snacks again. The hunger is gone. Heck I’m drinking much less diet coke. And I have a plan.

I am not just a mad man clinging to hope to delay dying. I am an ill man with a plan of how to get better and clear steps along that. My mind has been through a lot and it needs to heal but I’m confident I have a chance now. I don’t know what or who I’ll be once I’m done but that’s okay. It’s okay.

I am going to finish the Golden Girl and then I’m going to finish Come Again. Other than that, until the house is sold, Fuck knows, but I trust I’ll find a way.

Or maybe this is just a good day and this will pass like wind but fiuck it I’m choosing optimism.

Gordon's Alive

Friday, 15 September 2017

What Victory Would Mean

What Victory Would Mean

Alexander Gordon Jahans

I have no idea what victory will look like. I have idea what my life, if I get one, will look like, because the person I am has been destroyed. And yes, the nazis were part of that only part. My destruction was complete and total.

I am a phantom, a lingering reminder of the things I used to like and love but now can no longer have. A personality without a bedrock of action to build upon. I lost everything that defined who I was. I lost my manhood, I lost the protection of privilege and the arrogant confidence that has stopped feminists and other social progressives from harming me. My attempts to rebuild only further isolated and hurt me.

I can’t rebuild who I am while I remain in the same situation, while I have people whose perceived connection to me keeps dragging me back in to the past. I can’t rebuilding when I have nothing to build upon and am still haunted by the sins of the past.

I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am fairly sure of it, as much as I despise self diagnoses. At the same time my Autism and Kallman’s Syndrome means I doubt a counsellor will be able to help me because my mind is so radically different at the bes of times. If I’m going to get better I need to do this myself but if I am going to do this myself I need the time and energy to do it myself.

The problem with my situation right now is that everything about where I am puts pressure and pain on me. The loving mother who needs help because of her own problems. The loving sister who is fortunate enough to not understand the pain my father caused me. The house that protects and reminds me of pain, that brings my father back into my life time and time again. The risk, however small, that a nazi might turn up on my doorstep with a loaded gun.

I need to be without people who so fail to understand autism that they think people will help me. I need to be without people who so fail to understand the nature of my ‘sleeping pattern’ that they think the solution is more schedules to try and stick to.

The diet coke and the snacking are crutches, of course they’re crutches but they are crutches I will need until the other problems in my life are solved. Telling me to sort my life out while the nazis still know where I live, while my father still has a key to where I live, while the stress of the house move still hangs over me, stupid. I can’t do the other things until I leave this fucking house, until the people I care about are gone from it. I cannot mourn and move on while twisted stalkers might yet do something drastic to those I care about in an attempt to grab my attention. I can’t move on while I need to be mentally in a place where I have to be the alpha male ready to twat a prick.

I don’t know if I’m going to ever recover but I do know that I can’t move on until I have moved on. It’s not going to be easy, it’s not going to be quiet and I am not going to be a good man for some time but if I am to achieve victory I need to be in a place where the conditions allow me to become something new.

I can’t move on from the desire to die because right now the desire to die is an asset. I don’t have confidence. I don’t have intelligence, it’s too distracted. I am right now a weak, pathetic self loathing husk of a person. The only thing giving me the ability to stare down bureaucrats, nazis and my father is that I have no fucks to give. That I would be glad of excuse to throw my life away. I can’t stop being suicidal because my willingness to pull the trigger is one of the things giving me the space to avoid doing so.

At the same time however I have seen my mother freak out and mourn my sister when she is happy with the dream boyfriend and dream job in a far away and beautiful place. I see now that if I were to kill myself that would be a failure. A failure that would at least leave me free from the pain and torment of continuing to exist but a failure none the less. I am not a fan of failure.

So as of now the plan to achieve victory and get a life is officially begun. 

Tuesday, 12 September 2017

Escape Velocity

Escape Velocity

Alexander Gordon Jahans

So I’m stuck in a mental orbit, a mental orbit that is decaying slowly and held together by the relief of other long term problems being abated. My family tries to help but they fail to understand because their thought process is so far from mine at best. If I am going to get out of this I need to be the one to do it. Drugs may keep me living, keep the orbit maintained but they are not a solution for me. I am not biologically depressed, I’m logically fucked.

I don’t lie. I don’t like lying. I am different. I think differently and I have to try so hard to even approach what the majority consider normal. No wonder I had no fucking clue about what would be offensive to trans people, neurotypicals struggle with that.

I have spent three years now running from a question I already know the answer to. How do I get out of this shithole I am in? Answer: Either I bash my head against the brick wall of capitalism or I kill myself and I am not bashing my head against the brick wall of capitalism when that’s a whole lot of aggravation for a whole lot of failure. Death seems like the logical pragmatic answer and honestly this orbit has felt more like a goodbye tour. I’m not hanging on until the move is sorted because that’s the cure but because then this big fucking albatross about my family’s neck will be over and I can take the cure because I’ll have given them a shot, died at a less inconvenient time...

Yeah, that’s grim. You can’t talk about that. I mean I don’t want to die. I like living, under the right circumstances. It’s just capitalism’s a bitch and I don’t belong. A cold equation. Except I may now have a third way.

You see a lot has happened to me. Part of the reason I cocked things up so very badly with that fucking fanfic was that I was lost and reaching out to a community I thought would understand and be able to offer support. That’s why their words cut so deep. They made quite clear that I was a dangerous element not fit to interact with their community and I felt kind of instinctually, in a way I have never felt before as an autistic person, that since I tried to reach out to the trans community because this Kallman’s Syndrome had so knocked me then kind of implicitly that was the problem there as well.

It’s the same reason things with my father have been so much worse these last three years. I mean lets face it my dad is an angry shite hole of a person and he always will be because the fucker refuses to seek help but nothing he did was anything different. Oh he had a stupid rant about how I was pathetic and a selfish waste. Big woop. Git did worse things when I was a kid. Except I’m sitting here with this fucked up body and a drastically affected social life because that the man who calls himself my father fucked up his one cocking job.

Sorry, the anger is still there.

I had everything at the end of university and now I have nothing. I am a broken wreck surviving on meds and injections. This isn’t right. This isn’t good. I am tired and in pain and I’m still grieving for the life I could have fucking had had my parents cared less about phantom fears, the washing up and who was to blame and more about doing the fucking job of raising their kids. If they had listened to me earlier, if they had noticed earlier.

This isn’t as simple as a cold equation. This was event after event hammering home that death would be a mercy. That it would be a morally good thing if I died.

Except I didn’t want to die and so I entered this mental orbit and as I have fallen the circumstances justifying the myth of the cold equation have changed. Problems that affected me have begun to be solved, problems that affected the world have been recognised. Things are different now. There is hope. More importantly the very fact of my continued survival suggests that I can survive and if I can survive I can live. I went back to Nine World’s Geek Fest and I was home and my friends were there to meet me and not only was I not shunned for my sins, they saw progress towards, well being less of a sexist dick.

At the same time I have been finding the person I used to be. It isn’t perfect. Like trying on a suit that doesn’t quite fit anymore but it has been helpful. You see as an autistic person, as me at my place on the various spectrums, I adapt, I kind of mould myself to fit my environment and the people I’m with. Except there is kick back. An essential version of me will bolt like a horse, rejecting adaptations that don’t sit right.

I have reminded myself of the survivalism, the normality seekingness and morality of my past and I have felt myself tempted by a metaphorical darkside. That I could say fuck it. That I could give into the power. That I could lie, could let myself be so self interested, greedy and confident. That being this timid self loathing wreck is to a certain extent a choice. It is choosing to display my honest feelings and thoughts.

At the same time I have written and written and found myself trying to be better than I am. Failing certainly but still trying and making small progress. Cutting out problematic scenes, rewriting, editing and perhaps most importantly, no longer needing to write out of distraction but instead actively following plans. I could be so much more, be so much better. I can’t not be a cis white male with a cis white male’s perspective but I can consciously included other characters and give them interesting storylines. Ultimately so what if I can’t write a trans, black or female perspective accurately, when a robotic shark is angry with them what matters is their ability to deal with the danger.

So here’s the irony of ironies. The third way is so called in my writing because it is survival through being exploited as opposed to the domination of the first way and the second way, what normal people do. I have felt torn between survival through the darkside, of wearing the fancy suits, lying and playing the great game of capitalism, or the nobility and morality of accepting that the struggle is not something I want and that I don’t deserve to exist. My third way is my second way. To do what normal people do. To exist in shades of grey.

I mean if there is one thing I have learned for certain it is that nature and nurture both fucked me up so I shall play Frankenstein to my own monstrousness. I will create the new version of myself, not the whims of fate or the idiocy of neurotypicals. I will be socially progressive, confident and dominant. I’m done being the victim of fate and shiteholes.

Sunday, 10 September 2017



Alexander Gordon Jahans

A young man in, pyjamas and a dressing gown falls to his knees.

A younger man in a suit bounds past, explaining. “A wise man once said that the art of flying is failing to hit the ground being distracted the last moment.”

The pyjama clad man groans.

“That’s good.” says the younger man. “Because it’s the fall that’s going to kill you.”


On the command bridge of an advanced spaceship an older man with emerald green eyes watches the fall of the pyjama clad man. “Except Orbit is hard to maintain and requires constant effort, something which takes a physical toll on a body.”


A man in a floppy hat with an absurdly long scarf, pauses, two wires in his hands. “The question that has required this orbit is a problem with one obvious and easy answer but if you cross it there is no going back and one that he really does not want to answer. He may have the right and he may have no other rational option but the finality creates the need to stall.”


In a dark alley a young white man who has been to the gym too many times looks down at an army of angry white men. “So he stalls. Distracts himself with fears and phantoms.”


At a loud nightclub with thumping music and copious sweet alcoholic drinks an elder god with a corset and an adam’s apple turns from their friends to address through the keystream. “He tries to be better, tries so hard to be as socially progressive as those he ideologically supports.”


A young slender ginger Scottish woman watches a volleyball tournament on a sunny beach, sips a cocktail and plays with a leash fondly. “But in the darkness when reason becomes his enemy he caves to the allure of the flesh and all of a sudden the great sins of patriarchy seem like flirtatious foreplay. A guiding light of lustful comfort and reassurance.”


On the spaceship the man with the emerald Green Eyes stares and the new leader of a resurgent nazi movement and grits his teeth. “Except with great privilege comes great responsibility. These monsters stand against everything he has ever stood for. They are incompetent, existentially dangerous to humanity and the fuckers made it personal.”


The young white man and his army of angry white men in the darkened alleyway sieg heil as the pyjama clad man rounds the corner angrily. “And so we have our fun.”


An old white man in a lab coat watches readouts on a screen as the pyjama clad man lays in an mri machine. “It’s all in his head of course and he could stop. Could rationalise but this is not his only problem. White man is not quite so privileged in all regards all the time. The mentally ill, the physically deficient, they are still very much discriminated against and misunderstood. There are many maladies plaguing his existence for which a cure would be magnificent.”


In an office a man sits at a desk pressing the same button over and over as the narror explains. “And even if he could get the cure, if he could end the pain, the tiredness and sense of inferiority and shame there is still the unfortunate reality of a world where if he is very very lucky he might get to press a single button over and over again for hours.”


The man with the long scarf grimaces. “And what makes this all so terrible is the knowledge there is one dreadful final solution to all the tedium, tiredness and pain. There is the ultimate of cures that could be administered at any moment.”


“So we’ll fight.” says the pyjama clad man as he launches himself down the angry of angry white men. “And we will keep fighting, over and an over.”

“Neither one of us maintaining the upper hand.” says the leader of the angry white men.


“And if they do the temptation will pull him back into a restorative haze.” says the tall ginger woman on the beach.


“Because the orbit is safe and holding.” says the younger man in the suit as he watches the man in pyjamas fall.


“It can’t last forever.” says the man with the emerald green eyes. “But maybe it doesn’t have to.”


“He will keep learning and striving to be a better man.” says the Elder God in the nightclub.


The Doctor in the labcoat examines the screen. “His body will ride out some of the storm affecting him. There will be no cure but he will adapt and solutions can be found even if they aren’t easy.”


The younger man in the suit stares in the mirror and sees the pyjama clad man looking back. “And in time he might be able to retrace his steps back to a version of himself that had faith the system and is capable of fighting to succeed in it again.”


The pyjama clad man walks down a dark and lonely road. “And my brain is not stuck in stasis. I may have to keep the majority of my intellect distracted by a never ending cycle of self love and self hate but I’m still processing all that has happened to me and one day I’ll know who I am again. Well hopefully.”

Friday, 8 September 2017

Rule Beta 7

I have been and am in a very bad, no good, place at the moment. Three years of bullshit has finally drenched me and I am left panting for air as my mind is caught on a maelstrom of guilt, bitterness, rage and regret. It's okay though the Down And Safe Blakes 7 podcast is acting as a relaxing and very handy distraction. I am safe and surviving as I process this trauma.

One thing I am realizing though is that the core problem I face at the moment is that the fundamental duality of my nature as a writer has never stood alone before. Yes, I am a feminist and a misogynist. A social progressive and a problematic white male. That's fine. That friction and conflict gives my writing spice and tension.  The problem is that I currently have nothing in my life apart from my fiction.

I am a plate spinner and a bullet dodger. I juggle projects and people and my brain delights in the complexity and challenge. I have gotten weak, lazy. I have cut back and cutback and now all I have left is the overwhelming toxicity of a habit I cannot quit that makes me despise myself. I am a writer and writing gives me life and purpose but I am a shitty problematic writer and the worst part is I know it. I know exactly how much of an arsehole I am and I can't stop it. Not really.

So I'm going to start pecking away at that mountain again. I'm going to try and play the game of capitalism again. I will fail. I will fail over and over. time after time and I will hate and rage against it but because I'll have the system to rage against I hopefully won't tear the stuffing out of myself as much.

The Farsh-nuke is coming back and I am finishing my stories but I am getting back in the game. So yeah, sorry peeps, I am a misogynistic, transphobic,  xenophobic, anti-Semitic self loathing social progressive who knows exactly how much of a shite hole he is and tries hard to counter his darkness but you probably shouldn't consider my blog as safe space, especially if you are a misogynistic, transphobic, xenophobic anti-Semite because if the Farsh-nuke stands for anything, it's that sometimes monsters are useful weapons in the fight against other monsters. I am not the Farsh-nuke, I am not as impressive, powerful, or as useful as he is but while there is breath left in my body I pledge my life, mind and words in service of a leftwing feminist utopia, even if I would not be welcome in it.

And yeah, I'm not particularly well. Good memories aren't always so great. the stings stand out, the data is easily lost.

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

Forgive Me

Forgive Me


Alexander Gordon Jahans

I just tried to write a blog. It went badly. I can't do stream of consciousness right now because my brain is not in a good place and has not been for some time. I am petty and vengeful and I remember everything with great clarity everytime I do a thing related to a thing. Everytime I play minecraft I remember everything I listened to when I played minecraft. Every time I watch a show I remember the last time I watched it as I watch it. Everytime I have a conversation about a subject I remember the last time I had a conversation about that subject. So everytime I write...


I wrote part one of a redo of the Queen of Mirth today. An entirely fictional account of how Lucy Danse walked the hundred million universes, inspiring revolution and discovering the sylph cure. All problematic aspects related to trans people will be excised. I am changing around the demographics of the fictional characters so as to be more inclusive and have less white male characters but the Queen of Mirth herself will remain a trans games journalist because it's no good striving to create a canon version that is less problematic if at the same time you cut out a key character of representation. Do it right and proper, don't just cut the attempts at representation out. 

As for why it remains a story of a games journalist, an interviewer and a rockstar? Well on one level I want to create a melody that is recognizably similar to the original. This is the canon version of the forsaken original, it should have a similar cast. And secondly the story requires a group of civilians rising up to be heroes. Internet reviewers have a lot of cult of personality. I have experienced how loyal and effective their followers can be and I remain forever amazed by the skill and work of games journalists to find the truth in a world of churnalism, unlabeled satire and propaganda. Also the Doctor has a sonic screwdriver and I like bards as a D&D class so I'm keeping a musician in the triumvirate. And triumvirates are just cool and historically effective at bringing people to power.

Also I am technically starting a thing when I am halfway through a thing that I started when I was nearly finished with a thing. If I had it be say, an artist, a voice over actor and a cosplayer becoming the leaders of the glorious revolution I'd have to think of some new plot. I don't really want to do that. 

Anyway I'm doing a thing and I'm still not dead, so yay. 

Sorry about everything. I'm a moron. 

Ah, that'll be the darkness coming again. Time to stop writing about myself. Go do stuff. Be happy. Be safe. 

Monday, 21 August 2017

So, stuff

The Trouble With Talking nsfw

The Trouble With Talking

A Bloggage
Alexander Gordon Jahans

Content warning: Rape mentions. References to fictional trans cures and people trying to cure trans people in reality. References to characters changing gender in fiction. Incest mention. War mention. Poem insulting nazis. 

A wise man once said that all it takes for evil to win is for good men to do nothing. He neglected to add that it really doesn’t help when well meaning morons wade into the fray. I am such a moron and it burns.

I have been trying to stay off social media. I blame nazis. I blame family. I blame Trump. I blame Algorithms. I blame feminists. I blame everyone but me.

Do you know what the big problem with honesty is? Lies are what we’re made of. Our whole memory is a system of oft repeated lies, stories that are easy to remember. In being honest I took myself out of the equation. Oh I have always been a good little capitalist who knew how to wield the truth like a weapon when I needed to but a pacifist does not build a personality on weaponry.

That’s why Doctor Who is important to me. Not because it’s the greatest show in the galaxy because it isn’t. Every single show and book I have experienced since then has been better. Farscape. Babylon 5. Blakes 7. The Culture. Firefly. Hannibal. The Thick Of It. House Of Cards. The West Wing.

The list goes on and on and on but Doctor Who remains important because it taught me the importance of lies. The Doctor is a monster. He is a white imperialist interfering cruel, sadistic, genocidal monster. Yet he tries to be better. He believes he can be better and he tries to use the terrible nature he has for the better. He is Bruce Banner getting himself dropped into the path of a monster so that his own darkness can fight the good fight.

I don’t think that logically I am a monster. I don’t think that logically I have done much I would genuinely consider immoral. However there is a scene in the West Wing that I think sums up my feelings. Vice President Hoynes has been running this discreet Alcoholics Anonymous forum for so long during the series when it becomes relevant to point out that hey maybe the Vice President shouldn’t be an alcoholic. He explains that he never had so much as one night binge drinking but all it took was one little drop for him to know he had a problem.

I grew up with my dad displaying the dangers of the anger management issues I inherited and I went to a school where those issues were tested with fire. Literally once I think. My whole life I have felt like I have been living under this shadow of what I could do. It doesn’t help that I was a weird kid. Maybe it’s just my own personal anxiety. Like a variant of the imposter syndrome. I am David’s monstrous doppleganger waiting for the signal from the shadows.

Doctor Who matters because it told me that no matter how broken, how strange, how monstrous, evil and pathetic I felt, that I could be powerful. Useful. An asset to the good.

Except I did have a dark secret. It just wasn’t what I thought. There’s this moment in This Book Is Full Of Spiders where a character finds out he is an imposter. That he is a clone created by the shadows and killed himself. What I love - What I have always loved - Is that you expect the aftermath to be like Torchwood Children of Earth. Quiet devastating victory for the bad guys. Instead the imposter finds a way to carry on where the original left off, to fight the good fight.

I was worse than a shadow bound terminator who killed his original self. When I found out my dark secret I should have grieved in private. Retreated from the world and figured myself out. I didn’t. I have explanations and justifications. I blame many people. I did this to myself. I set myself up on a stage, set up a loaded gun, drew a large crowd then pulled on a thread that unravelled my sanity. What happened next was my own doing. I can blame so many people, I can explain and justify so many things but if I had been smarter, if I had even just stuck to what I said only a few months before I made the changes that screwed me over...

For Want Of A Nail the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the message was lost.
For want of a message the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the war was lost.
For want of a war the government was overthrown.
For want of a government the peace was lost.
For want of peace a thousand generations died in horrendous bloodshed.
For want of a nail.

There are so many fucking nails the coffin of my sins.

And in digging my own grave and hammering those nails deep I stopped myself dealing with the incident that caused all those problems. Easier to think about them mean feminists than stare headlong into the abyss and accept that it serves as a mirror by which to see and learn about myself. Who gives a rat’s arse what I did why I did it? That’s the wrong thread to pull on.

Learning I had Kallman’s Syndrome fucked me up. It fucked me up bad. It fucked me up because I needed someone who could tell me it was going to be okay. Instead I had anger management issues, anxiety issues, depression, self loathing and two sides in my head that gave no shits about the issue.

I tried to do what I have always done. I tried to be good. Except I knew nothing. I reached out to a community I hoped and prayed would be able to understand me and I offered them the solace I wish I had. I could not have insulted them more deeply.

I fucked up so bad and it caused so much shit to rain that I am only now at the point where I can begin properly shovelling it out. I needed to write and I needed to be confident in my writing but I should not have been on a fucking stage. Everything about how I handled that was a trash fire.

Except I see now that I did and do need to write. This kind of revelation is not something you can look directly at. I mean I’m still pulling at the thread of that revelation. Kallman’s Syndrome led to Growth Hormone Deficiency, led to Sleep Apnoea, led to so overweight I am in agony and my ankles grind and crunch when I walk.

I have stared long and hard into the abyss. I have studied politics and technological unemployment. I have read the terrible history of Autism and learned how attempts to cure Autism led to attempts to electrocute the gay and trans out of children. I have listened to history podcasts. I have been stalked by nazis and witnessed the terror of Trump. I am older and wiser, more cynical and heart broken by how fucking awful the human race is.

I don’t fear and hate my lust any more because my lust has become my lust for life. Because who cares about war, disease, tragedy and heartbreak when you are looking into thee smiling face of someone beautiful and adorable? Because I can cope with the world when I think of the cute ones being happy and loved. My deep dark beast became my reason to survive.

I am in so much pain and I am always so tired. I keep writing dystopias and finding hope, family and happiness within them. I suppose it’s the competency bias. It’s the lust coming out because there has to be a submissive woman somewhere. I suppose it’s just that if nobody cares about your characters there are no stakes.

I always have explanations and justifications but ultimately its me.

I keep coming back to that fucking fanfic and why it burns. Why this particular bullshit must be redeemed? I’ve hurt people before. I’ve hurt people since. God help you if you have ever had the misfortune to make me genuinely hate and try to hurt you. I hurt as lot of people with that fanfic but it wasn’t special, important, or significant as flame outs go. It’s not even the first time I got kicked out of a fan community. So why does it hurt still? Why is everything I write a response or reflection or a conscious distancing and avoidance of that moment?

Well as I said lies are what we are made of and Doctor Who told me how to lie by inspiring me to write fiction. I have been writing a lot and the last three big stories are kind of impossible not to read as direct reflections of that fuck up.

The Phantom Raspberry Killer deals with a tortured Farsh-nuke being convinced by the nazis to aid them in creating a way to switch the genders of a person so that their glorious leader can fuck their son/daughter. Yeah, I’m about as subtle as a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick when it comes to my trumpists are nazis and this shit is terrible metaphors.

Come Again features the non-binary Elder God Viorum Kaztif-tan and their trans woman journalist companion Claudia Green as they investigate why the Great Farsh-nuke has sent a message from his hell dimension and why people are fighting each other as part of a strange competition. It is about dealing with the legacy and fallout of the Farsh-nuke. It also features two canon versions of myself as I face my demons, or the judgement of my better angels and at least 5 different submissive women.

Those two were planned. Those two had a lot of thought put into them. They were bold steps forward while dealing with the past. The third is not like that. It was inspired by stumbling across art for a kink that is, or maybe was, not my kink on twitter after feminists criticised the artist. Ideas are dangerous things to plant in my head.

The Golden Girl is a distraction fic that might be so terrible it very swiftly gets moved to the Old Shame section of my website. It is the story of a man who becomes a girl. It’s nothing to do with trans and I have done my best to make clear that in-universe this is radically different. This is a powerful organisation and privileged individuals taking advantage of a desperate man’s choice in a world where the best qualification he can get features changing gender as a passing grade. I literally wrote an essay before I even started on this distraction fic just fleshing out the organisation because I knew I wanted to focus on the human story without leaving this stuff unanswered.

What I have slowly begun to realise is that the fan fic still burns with me because it is so emblematic of what I was trying and failing to do. The fanfic concerned the founding of the United Civilisations of the Multiverse by the manipulations of the Great Farsh-nuke to create the perfect leader and champion to replace him in the form of Lucy Danse the Paragon of Virtue. It was a story of how taking a stand and trying to achieve revolution when you are out gunned and out manned is still worth it because thought the forces of oppression seem impossible to topple against a forever war all you need is to kick enough space to begin to grow your power.

Lucy Danse walking the hundred million universes was supposed to be the great cure. It was supposed to end the bloodshed and allow for glorious post-scarcity. To ensure that being progressive could win against Neoliberalism and the war on terror. That monsters and saints can unite to fight for a better tomorrow.

Then the UK voted to leave the European Union, Trump got elected President and I got driven off youtube by nazi stalkers. So the Farsh-nuke and Lucy Danse sacrificed themselves to end the great Septagonoid war, The United Civilisations took out the tyrannical fascism of the Logicio empire and the Sylph Liberation Front was left as the biggest swinging dicks in the multiverse. Only for a newer worse kind of Fascism to step up, aided by an even more ancient god called Adam Godwinson, the dreadful scheming of a Bam-Kursh and an imprisoned Farsh-nuke who tried to stand against them. There is hope and there is victory very much in sight but things are far from over.

I am tired and I am in pain. I want the cure. I am not even sure if I care about my gender or anything any more. I have sunken so low that I genuinely think hell might be psychologically easier to deal with because at least then when I felt pain and tiredness I wouldn’t also feel fear and anxiety. All I can do is keep going. And that’s fucking hard.

A person is built on a bed of lies. I am honest and that sucks because I look at the facts and I try to calculate the odds. When the most optimistic you can be is to point out that you are bad at math so maybe you’ve calculated the odds wrong then things are bad.

There is this idea in scifi, in reality, of the cold equation. That there is a right answer to a problem that isn’t nice and nobody likes it but the facts are what the facts are. Humans in general do not react well to the idea of the Cold Equation.

Kurt Vonnegurt apparently thought that the great sin of man was that we kept telling ourselves these damaging narratives that aren’t how reality works. I very much agree with this idea. It’s like people who get mad at spoilers baffle me. When I know a main character is going to die that’s not a spoiler, that’s a moment of tension in a scene that otherwise would not exist. How do they not know that the main character is going to be okay and the status quo will be restored by the end of the episode?

Here’s the thing I’m getting help for Kallman’s Syndrome and all the other things. I could add psychological help to that already long list and I probably will someday once things are a little calmer but it wouldn’t help me now. I am under no immediate danger, I have coping mechanisms, I get by, make it through the day, but on the long term I know that I am falling. I hope I can slow my decent enough to make it to the next boost and the next boost. I hope the things weighing me down can be dealt with. I hope someday I might have the strength to actually pull myself up by my bootstraps.

People who are okay generally think of people who aren’t okay like a character in a story. You’ll find a solution to the problem and get over it. Even if you know it’s not that simple the desperation makes you see cure alls where there are none. I’ve done this to myself. Desperately sought things I hoped would solve everything so much only to find that it was just a different kind of frying pan over a different kind of fire.

I want the happy ending. I want the solution. I want the answer. I want the cure. I want to believe that there is something better than this. That life can be better, more possible. The fact one of my solutions now is something I long since gave up as impossible has me severely doubting that. Any plan that relies upon a person who is all out of fucks finding fucks to give is a plan doomed to failure.

I am still writing and I’m still breathing and I’m still hoping and learning. I might survive this. I might be a better somebody. I might get a happy ending. I might find workable solutions. Answers that work for me. I might get the medication I need.

My story is not over. Not yet. I just don’t have any answers for you. Except sorry because this is going to suck. It is going to suck for everybody. And if you are a sadistic nazi moron laughing at the outrage and agony of the filthy SJWs, remember this:

This too shall pass. 

Nobody wins forever.

Your time to suffer will come.

When suffer people will smile.

When you are dead people will forget you or spit upon your name.

You are alive today.

Be grateful for the mercies, liberties and victories you get.

It can always be worse

Anyway I’m going to go writing my story about a man becoming a beautiful giggly enthusiastic submissive girl. I will burn in hell and I will deserve it but for now I live and I am writing what I want because I feel like it and I am no use to man nor beast if I stop myself doing the things that give me the strength to continue.

Sunday, 20 August 2017

Reality is not fiction. Why is that confusing?

It is so weird to be writing a (very radically different - they like sports) character having a conversation with their family member when your family member is next door. Like I am writing this intense interpersonal drama and make up between these two very fictional characters but I'm still like what if the X thinks this X is them and they think Y must be me because I am Y to them in real life. Maybe this is why so many writers kill off the families?
Oh tragic back story. So sad. Never feel awkward writing about it though.
I mean its one thing when the plot is zombies, aliens, robots or nazis. There is something very simple and understandable about the weird trying to kill you. I mean can quite easily imagine writing a scene where a protagonist talks about the need to go on the run from nazis. Not least because in an incredibly painfully slow fashion that is what I am trying to do. Migrate out from under the nazis before they notice.
I am not writing that kind of story now. This is much more small scale. Much more personal to the characters and thus so much more awkward to explain. Even if it weren't taken as a base concept from from delving too deep onto the internet and finding weird stuff involving only consenting adults. This is the kind of personal story that people can't help but assume is based in reality.
The Farsh-nuke eats people, removes their brains and can reprogram reality and they think he's based on me. What the fuck are they going to think when they see a 20,000 word story about a guy who finishes college and has to decide what he's going to do with his life? I mentioned in a story that in universe I was somewhere else and people were still like. "That psychopath with the alien abilities is you"
I hope to fuck these are just people who think the Legend Of Zelda is Shigeru Miyamoto's desire to play Robin Hood or I honestly have no idea how this won't generate just the most awkward outrage and confusion.
Call out the male gaze, call out shitty representation, call out when I am rightly a moron but with this story please do not confuse fiction and reality. I am Sir 'Not appearing in this story' except for one story where I obliquely do as two different characters but that is the exception not the rule

Wednesday, 16 August 2017


It is so easy to lose hope right now. So easy to throw your hands up in disgust and surrender to what seems like inevitable. The world is in a bad way and problems that have existed for decades are causing catastrophic fractures within our cultures. Depression, desperation and confused anger at a world that would not let us be have turned people to hatred.
We live now in a point where even the good may feel the need to get blood on their hands as we are forced to do battle over great and terrible issues that are themselves distractions from the real problems created by men who just don't care about the truth so long as there is profit and power in it.
I'll be honest I feel myself to be a mess. In so many ways I feel myself to be a traitor, to have wronged good people and still wrong headed in a few key ways. I am tired and I am in pain and it would be so easy to convince myself that I don't deserve redemption, that I don't deserve to try. Because who looks at this shit tip of a world and relishes the challenges presented? But I will persevere as must we all.
It's not about goodies or baddies or anything else like that. There is no justice in the clusterfucks raining down upon us. There is just desperate confused people trying to survive and feeling angry when the way they think is best doesn't seem to get anywhere.
I have a side in these conflicts and it is a side I will support with blood if the problems we face get that bad but we are all humans and we all have the capacity to be misled, stupid and passionately defensive of our own stupid ideas. There are toxic centers, sources of toxic ideology that must be eliminated, but the vast majority of even those we consider the worst foes are just people following what they believe to be right.
Ultimately even wars are in the end about convincing the other side of the strength of your arguments. I am no warrior, no diplomat and no politician and have never claimed to be. All I can give is the hope that the majority of us survive, learn and come out of these dark times better people.
Self loathing is not fun. Self loathing when the mistakes of your past and the political morality of your present are fighting it out with very real casualties is hell. I have been seriously tempted to just delete my youtube channel and facebook page more than once recently because facing past feels so difficult but I persevere and dream of a better tomorrow.

Monday, 7 August 2017

Nine Worlds Geek Fest 2017

Nine Worlds Geek Fest 2017

A Bloggage

The Social OS Update

Alexander Gordon Jahans


I am wired and tired and, frankly, a little manic after nearly 5 days without writing or letsplays.

I have been on what can perhaps be best described as a psychological orbit during the last two years. Fatigue, pain and fresh crises causing me to fall further while letsplays, podcasts, writing, tv shows, walking and some very lovely people have kept boosting my altitude so that I never quite head into a death spiral. Though there have been one or two close calls.

The reasons for this are far too many to mention and frankly the answers bore me right now. The point is that I have not been well. Then as Nine Worlds Geek Fest approached, a number of things combined, some good, some bad, to make my mental state particularly ragged.

*  I missed Universal Credit then had the rescheduled appointment a couple of days before I headed off to Nine Worlds Geek Fest.

* After waiting two years, my family picks the time period just before to get estate agents round to look at the house. So lots of stress as sleeping arrangements are shifted round to accommodate house viewings and certain members of my family seriously misunderstand how an autistic person will react to them cleaning without consent or oversight.

* I finished watching Blakes 7.

* I came close to the end of a short story I had been working on for weeks.

* I got the galloping shits.

So when I at last made the trip to Nine Worlds Geek Fest I was having serious doubts about whether I should go. I lived in absolute dread that I would get there and effectively have a nervous breakdown from the destruction of the fragile routine that had kept me in that stable orbit. Or worse that my isolation and mental instability had made me into a kind of offence generating time bomb waiting to go off. Between the last Nine Worlds Geek Fest I attended and this one I had after all managed to get myself publicly shamed and hated as a transphobic misogynist. Now here I was walking into perhaps the safest of safe spaces.

Incidentally the journey in (and trap back) was not fun. Taking luggage on the London underground, and having to go up escalators and stairs, not good. I got on the wrong train once and even when I arrived I started off walking in the wrong direction. My abusive father’s painfully insistent advice that there was a direct bus to Heathrow resounding loudly in my ears and I realised quite viscerally just how utterly unhelpful that advice would have been had I taken it.

The hotel I stayed in was shit. I had to go out to buy proper bogroll and the sink was too small to fit my bottles under the tap so I had to make squash by using a glass like a ladle to spoon the water inside the bottles held over the tiny sink. The walk from my hotel to the convention venue was bracing but not too tiring. Indeed the most tiresome aspect was negotiating the many crossings.

There is not actually much I can say about Nine Worlds Geek Fest 2017 itself. It was what Nine Worlds has always been, albeit perhaps smaller. I didn’t go for the guests and I considered the panels almost incidental. There were some good ones. A decent panel on Sansa Stark’s development in Game of Thrones. A nice one on Post Colonialism in Doctor Who. An interesting one on the city in SciFi and Fantasy. A good round table discussion on redemption in SF&F. A lot were alright but not memorable. Though the wrestling panel strikes me as something entirely outside my comfort zone but entertaining and interesting regardless.

There was the odd car crash of a panel. A couple I was in note worthy for providing me with a first hand view of how both old white women and old white gays can be dismissively bigoted in some ways. As a cis white male with interests in women I’m so used to being the demographic of the oppressor that it was eye opening to see that no women and gay men are indeed equally capable of being ignorant and problematic. Even these car crashes were enjoyable in their own way. A spectacle of stupidity. That said polyamorous and bisexual discrimination are not things to laugh about and are issues that need addressing in society. The fact I can take a punch down doesn’t mean others can and nor should they have to.

Which brings me to the the best part about conventions for me. The friends and friendly interactions. Nine Worlds Geek Fest is full of amazing and interesting people. I have to write and write from my perspective for my own reasons but this year I was very conscious that the world does not need more opinions from white cis males. Biting my tongue was at times hard, sometimes very hard, because I have spent so long on my own without a need to restrain myself but fundamentally I know what I think so I want to hear what they have to say instead. They have the new and interesting perspectives and they deserve to have their voices heard.

There is a misnomer within the right wing that what they want is freedom of speech. Now I will genuinely fiercely argue against censorship, if only because the old white cis rich men are still in charge in the vast major of cases. Yet like with the freedom of markets, something else I will ferociously champion the right wing doesn’t really want freedom.

Freedom is protected. You have a military (or vary good diplomats) to protect the freedom of your citizens from outside forces and you have a police force to protect the freedom of your citizens from internal sources. (Leaving aside the issue of police brutality and industrial racism just this once.) In the same way you have a regulation to protect the freedom of the markets from corporate bullies who would reduce competition. Freedom of Speech is protected in a similar way.

The right wing wants a world without rules because they have the money, they have the power and they like to think they have the physical might to enforce their will. (Even if the right wing and far right are by far the shittiest players of the martyr olympics.)

Never mind that freedom of speech refers specifically to protection from the government and nothing else, the spirit of their argument is self defeating. To protect free speech we do have to control and punish those with the largest power to exploit if they try to silence others. Even I have been cowed by the harassing voices of those who claim so viscously to defend the freedom of speech. These pricks silenced me and they react with outrage and indignation when their further harassment is silenced.

Nine Worlds Geek Fest is a safe space because it protects freedom of speech and representation from those who would seek to silence others with their might and violence. It is filled with lovely people from all walks of life and it feels like home.

I am immensely sad and kind of irrationally angry right now that it is over. I felt alive. I was talking to people and I liked it. More over I didn’t have to hide the scars I bore. I mean I didn’t flash them at anyone because I’m not a dick but this island of social progressivism, the safest of safe spaces, it didn’t make me feel unwelcome. Now maybe that’s because I’m a fucking unknown and a lot of my sins happened a long time ago now. Maybe the details would change it. That’s fair and that’s fine. What matters is that I was able to belong, however temporarily, however falsely, among this collection of different identities that I fundamentally champion and want to be victorious.

This convention finally put into words what I have been seeking for so long. Redemption. I fucked up and I fucked up bad. I hurt people, I made it about me and then my enemies hurt those people again. And the worst part is I know that it’s not just the writing, that I fucked up so bad but I will never really understand exactly, how, why and what I did wrong. There are so many steps along that chain where a different decision might have altered things so that I could maybe at least know how not to be such a fuckhead in the future.

That said there are some things I don’t think I will ever see eye to eye with some people about. I don’t believe in justice. I believe in the moral calculus of utilitarianism. I recognise social and political context as factors in that moral equation. That privilege and discrimination modify the result of whether a given action is moral or not. But I do not believe in justice.

I am a petty man with a long memory and I can be genuinely quite sadistic. I am not the hero of my own story. By my own morality I am a shithead who, at best, barely scrapes by without causing too much harm.

I will never trust in any system that trusts in the virtue, morality and goodness of anyone. I don’t care what demographic you are, you’re a person and that makes you capable of being moronic, petty, sadistic and corrupt. I would rather not have a society where ‘justice’ was carried out by well meaning citizens. The level of utter glee exhibited by some among the socially progressive at silencing, harassing and trying to end the livelihoods of people they have judged unworthy shocks and sickens me.

I don’t care what they’ve done, I don’t care what your demographic is. We have rules and systems to facilitate the protection of fundamental rights. Or we should anyway.

I cannot ever condone such actions. I can never condone revenge in real life. I have been hurt too deeply by far too many people to allow myself such an excuse. The things I could do to my hate stalkers in recent years alone. I appreciate that from another perspective that might seem like a demon criticising an angel smiting demons because as a demon, he’s not a nice guy. Unfortunately I think there is evidence enough to suggest that selective application of the rules leads in general to the wrong people exploiting that ruleset.

I do not think I can be redeemed, I don’t feel like it is possible. Barely passing for neurotypical in public is hard enough. Abiding by new sets of rules and identities is already hard at 25 and has to be consciously worked upon. I’ve already given up trying to reform the way I write fiction to a certain extent. I just don’t have the energy. Maybe the answer is I just don’t publish anything and quietly withdraw from public life. Heck I’m already sort of doing that.

I love Nine Worlds Geek Fest, I love the people, I love how they make me feel welcome and like I belong but if and when I get this short story collection published I feel like it’s going to be a nuclear bomb going off. The worst part is I’ll probably think I’ve gotten away with it. I mean what’s finished is already more than 80,000 words. So it’ll go unread and uncared about until the next time someone searches within the text for buzz words removed from context. In this story collection I break all of my rules. It is intended as a part 1 but also a capstone in case I never write again. It is also about my dealing with the wrongs I did through fiction.

If you think Steven Moffat and Joss Whedon are horrifically sexist, transphobic and otherwise problematic then block me now and save yourselves the bother. I wish I could say that I am seeking redemption through being a better man. I wish I could say this was a socially progressive short story collection. I wish I could be even half as good as they should like me to be. The reality is that a lot happened over the last two years. A metric fuckton happened. So this is about unpacking and displaying the horrors I feel like I was attacked for. This is about beginning the grieving process by finally drawing closure on the subject by earning the outrage.

I can’t seek redemption for something I don’t fully understand and know I did in good faith, meaning well. I can’t grieve for being a shit until I feel like I unambiguously am one and know why. It’s not as bad as it could be. It’s not as crude as it could be. There are story and plot reasons. No trans characters are actually harmed. None the less there is evil in these stories a level to which I have forbidden myself from writing before.

I kind of forgot about Richard Raspberry and how very evil he is while I was at Nine Worlds Geek Fest. I’m so close to the end of what is so far my most socially progressive short story that it clouded the memory of him and his actions. That I forgot that technically the story I’m writing is deliberately offensive and disgusting both in and out of universe.

I feel like a fraud and a monster. Oh and my diet is shot.

Anyway, I’m going to recover and then I’m going to review Blakes 7 and continue writing this short story.

Actually I don’t think even George RR Martin has anything quite as grotesque as what Richard Raspberry does.

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

Survival bloggage nsfw


Alexander Gordon Jahans

So there’s people looking round the house as Universal Credit happens and Nine Worlds Geek Fest happens not long after. I am knackered. Held together by mints, diet coke and fantasies of submissive girls.

Kallman’s Syndrome, Growth Hormone Deficiency, Sleep Apoenia, Autism, Piles, Cataracts, Millenial Angst and now I’m on a diet while dealing with the stress of a house move, my abusive father and those loyal to him and Universal Credit. Oh and because I am currently writing a story featuring a Non-Binary Elder God and their Trans Woman companion my brain is just torturing me.

Nazis are fine. They are dangerous and scary and I feel such disgusting hatred but they don’t get you in the head. If a monster who is clearly drenched in darkness says horrible things about you it’s like so what? The evil shit thinks I’m evil. Who cares.

Feminists and trans people thought. They are right and strong and they deserve protection, support and victory but what they say burns. It motherfucking burns and corrodes away at your psyche. Though maybe that’s just me raging at myself and using that as an excuse. Like I can’t tear into myself over what the nazis say because if the nazis said water is wet I’d have to double check that. They’re fucking nazis but with a feminist, with a trans person the opposite is also true.

“God is real and he hates you. Also Lucifer knows you’re coming and he’s preparing a buttplug razor blades, lemon juice and disease iunfested fish guts. You are the secret aborted insane sun of Donald Trump and actually an evil being made of hate and shit. Your pathetic excuse for a cock is actually a cancerous growth and your consciousness is actually a virulent parasite developed by the men in black to take care the truly evil. You are a too with no agency built to suffer and die.”

“Well okay then I guess I bewetter consider that as valid criticism.

Don’t get me wrong no feminist has ever been as shitty as my own self destructive and self loathing instincts but the point is they don’t need to.

One phrase that someone said once still burns with me though because I never got to hear them specifically clarify it “... It’s not just the writing...” Understand that nothing  they actually said could ever be as bad as planting that seed and never clarifying. No truthful bitter account that burns, not eful sadistic rant I disagreed with, nothing could ever fuck me up as bad as such profound hatred over my writing but then ‘Oh, not just that...’

It’s like in my mind that they have become elevated to some great seer ‘And lo in the year 2049 you shall do the bad thing and for that you will be satan’s personal plaything for all eternity’

And here I am ranting about being criticised. Because if one thing encourages people to actually explain their criticisms it’s when a crazy guy on the internet rants about criticism that was given.

I’m sorry.

I’m just tired. Perpetually tired and now hangry as well.

Except I’ve now reached this weird almost religious revelation. The universe will never actually let me die because death would be a mercy so instead it gives me just enough hope, escapism and support to keep me clinging on in the darkest moments and then it tortures me for pleasure. As much pain and annoyance as it’s possible to get without sending me over the edge.

Bizarrely, I feel like this explains why things are actually maybe starting to look up. Nine Worlds Geek Fest, beginning to sell the house, universal credit maybe not being a complete trash fire, even the coming impeachment of Trump and the approaching Corbyn government. All these things feel like the universe compensating for the fact that I am physically so much weaker and psychologically so much more ready to chuck everything in. It’s the torturer letting you have a nice bath and a good meal because you nearly died during the last session and they need you scared and in pain, not a gibbering wreck.

I mean I don’t actually consider it to be true but I know sod’s law is a load of horseshit, doesn’t stop me believing in it and acting like it’s real on the basis of anecdotal evidence. There are reasons I don’t believe in summer or winter clothing, why I always dress the same no matter the weather.

I do have hope. I do think that with time the house might be sold and this particular purgatory might be at an end. That I might have a lock between me and dad which he won’t have a key to. That sooner or later the conservatives have to go. That Trump has to go. Apart from anything else, even as my magnum opus, as a collection of short stories I keep adding to, I am slowly finishing this beast I am calling Alpha Warriors.

I am tired, I am in pain but I will not die, the universe won’t allow that mercy. I will get my writing finished. I will proofread it. I will publish it. Absolutely noone will care but it will be done.

Before I go I leave you on this thought.

The tardis can’t go back to New York but Clara has a different Tardis. It is my personal headcanon that Amy and Clara went travelling together (and totally had an affair, maybe Rory was aware and involved)

Oh and I have nearly finished watching Blakes 7. It’s a great, if at times wildly problematic, series. And when the guy who writes vore, and tears himself to pieces wondering what feminists think of him, considers a series to be problematic that is a serious thing to consider. That said Avon is a badass and I love him. I now want to imagine him travelling with Amy, Clara and Mad Mikkelson’s Hannibal for reasons. (they are all insanely attractive and charismatic actors and characters)