Oh, All Right Then...

...yes, yes, I know. I'm just bitter and jealous.



The last time I tried to e-mail Steven Moffat was, predictably, shortly after he got his sneery Scots backside into the producer's chair. No, it's true: even his backside is capable of sneering. I asked him whether he could possibly lift my exile from BBC Books, (a) because it'd keep me quiet without requiring him to have any personal contact with me, and (b) because I'd probably do a better job of writing for the re-vamped range than anyone else who might possibly want to do it (remember, he actually liked my work, at least when it wasn't pointing in his direction). He never replied, and a couple of months later, it was announced that Michael Moorcock would be writing a Doctor Who novel. Call me paranoid, but just for a moment, it felt as if someone were deliberately trying to prove me wrong.



Then again, maybe I shouldn't have started the e-mail with the words "Dear Cheeky-Chops".



Over and out.

