He leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased. Moments later I realised that we were not alone in the Hackney. A distinguished, middle-aged man was with us,
"My word! The Prime Minister!" I expostulated.
|A series of implausible plot devices, ready for installation in Baker Street|
"So you thought, Watson," replied Holmes. "So the Butcher of Gerard Street thought. But in fact, judging by the Raxacoricofallapatorian dust on his shoes, the distasteful odour and the tendency to flatulence, what we actually have here is not William Gladstone - who at this very moment is in Piccadilly, trying to save ladies of the night - but a member of the Slitheen. And after all, what could look more like a Slitheen than Mark Gatiss in a fat suit?"
"By Jove, Holmes! You mean you have just introduced a load of themes stolen from a different TV series?"
"Indeed, Watson. I suspect that when the authors of this little piece were in their mind palaces, unable to come up with a decent plot line, they realised that a Victorian twist, some snow and something a bit spooky - all stuff they could rip out of something else they wrote in the past - and then maybe an analogy between the mind and a computer (think the Forest of the Dead) - would make up for any real inspiration."
"But, Holmes, in that case would one expect the BBC still to fall for it and show it on Christmas Day? Or would it be relegated to a less important day during the Festive period?"
Holmes took from his pocket a copy of the Radio Times, and indicated the listing for the show in which we were to feature.
"Elementary, my dear Watson".