Post by HTT on May 4, 2005 12:36:12 GMT
[glow=purple,2,300]I started doing a parody of Jeff Musical. I'd got as far as Horsell Common, then the Coming Soon on PPs site spured me on to do Forever Autumn. Maybe I'll get round to doing the lot at some point - unless anyone else wants to take it up and do the bits I ain't got round to...[/glow]
Hail The Tripods Parodied Version Of Jeff Waynes Musical Version Of War Of the Worlds
1. THE EVE OF THE WAR
No one would have believed, in the last years of the
nineteenth century, that human affairs were being watched by the couch potatoes of space. no-one could have dreamed we were being scrutinized, as someone with a television studies cretins that squirm and play up in front of a camera. Few men even considered the possibility of life on reality TV, and yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded these shows with envious eyes, and slowly and surely, they televised their votes against us.
At midnight on the twelfth of August, a huge mass of flatulent gas erupted from arse and sped towards nose. Across two foot of bed and a duvet, invisibly hurtling towards us, came the first of the smells that were to bring so much calamity with the Wife. As I dozed, there was another jet of gas. It was another stinker, starting on its way.
And that's how it was for the next ten nights. A fart, spurting out my arse - right mean, raising the duvet behind it - a beautiful, but somehow disturbing sight. My Missus, the dominator, assured me I was in marital danger. She was convinced there could be no living thing that could live with that remote, forbidding stench.
"The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one," she said. "The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one, - guess you won't come!"
Then came the night the first postman approached us. It was thought to be an ordinary bit of mail, but next day there was a huge package in the middle of the hallway, and The Missus came to examine what lay there: a cylinder, seven inches long, glowing not... and with faint sounds of buzzing coming from within. Suddenly the top began moving, rotating, vibrating, and The Missus feared there was something inside, trying to escape. She rushed to the cylinder, but the package stopped vibrating before she could embarrass herself by opening it.
"The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one," she said. "The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one, - guess you won't come! Yes chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one," she said. "The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one - but still I'll come!"
It seems totally incredible to me now that everyone spent that evening as though it were just like any other. From the kids bedroom came the sound of mobile phones, ringing and rumbling, tempered with Crazy Frog melody in the distance. It all seemed so safe and tranquil…
2. HORSELL COMMON AND THE HEAT RAY
Next morning, a crowd gathered on the Common, hypnotized by the screwing of some doggers. Nearby, two feet of shining screw projected when, suddenly, the lid fell off! Two luminous disc-like eyes appeared above the bin. D-Fs huge, rounded bulk, larger than a bear, rose up slowly, glistening in a tight leather basque. His lipless mouth quivered and slavered, and snake-like tentacles writhed as his clumsy body heaved and pulsated. He then toppled into the pit, which gained one young man £250 on 'You've Been Framed'.
<...not done yet...>
FOREVER STALLING
The Spring deadline is fading as the year grows old
And Coming Soon's not drawing near
The bl**dy film will be much older
It's still not here.
I watch my hopes fly south with every web update
And one by one they disappear
I wish Pendragon would just heed them
It's still not here.
Like a fool in a dream I did support you
Acting like a big tease is not the way
Now April's deadlines passed we should kick Tim Hine ass
Perhaps they meant April next year
Pendragons staff sleep undisturbed now
It's still not here.
Posts suddenly leapt from forum to forum, the fan base excited and supportive - and I was swept along with them, aimless and lost until now. Finally, I headed Westward for the US, and it's only hope of survival - a movie out of Paramount.
Like a fool in a dream I did support you
Acting like a big tease is not the way
Someday a DVD might meet my weary eyes
But this might not be for some years
Tim Hines will be Forever Stalling
It's still not here.
As I hastened to Paramount, Jeff Wayne and Howell threads, more and more people joined the painful exodus. Sad, weary fans, their voices stumbling and streaked with tears, feeling bitter and angry, as if Tim's rubbing our noses in it, treating us like beggars and outcasts. Fans snarled and whined, of course its just an excuse like Chrome... and here and there were supportive postings, as useless as the rest. We wanted tripods wading up the Thames, cutting through bridges as though they were paper - Waterloo Bridge, Westminster Bridge... the trailer had a floating Big Ben! Never before in the history of the world had such a mass of human beings moved and suffered together. This was no disciplined production - it was a farce - without order and without a goal, six million dollars wasted and unpublisised, driving headlong. It was the beginning of the rout of Pendragon, of the massacre of Tim Hines.
A small crowd had warned us of the already doomed steaming pile. I looked up enviously at those publicity posters - straight into the eyes of my an authentic martian! At sight of it, I began to think it might pack out cinemas worldwide. At the last moment, the film was delayed, and I wish Tim had got a last glimpse of our despairing faces, as the the film got swept away from us.
Like a fool in a dream I did support you
Acting like a big tease is not the way
Now April's deadlines passed we should kick Tim Hine ass
Perhaps they meant April next year
Pendragons staff sleep undisturbed now
It's still not here.
The release date began to move slowly away - but on the horizon appeared the trailer with a Spielberg Fighting Machine. Another came (Jeff), and another (Howell), striding over Washington DC, publicising far out to sea, and providing light at the end of the Tunnel. To follow them, sits the silent, grey company 'Pendragon'. Slowly it moved towards cinemas; then, with a damp squib and no announcement, it swung about and drove at no speed towards the waiting public…
<...rest not done yet...>
Hail The Tripods Parodied Version Of Jeff Waynes Musical Version Of War Of the Worlds
1. THE EVE OF THE WAR
No one would have believed, in the last years of the
nineteenth century, that human affairs were being watched by the couch potatoes of space. no-one could have dreamed we were being scrutinized, as someone with a television studies cretins that squirm and play up in front of a camera. Few men even considered the possibility of life on reality TV, and yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded these shows with envious eyes, and slowly and surely, they televised their votes against us.
At midnight on the twelfth of August, a huge mass of flatulent gas erupted from arse and sped towards nose. Across two foot of bed and a duvet, invisibly hurtling towards us, came the first of the smells that were to bring so much calamity with the Wife. As I dozed, there was another jet of gas. It was another stinker, starting on its way.
And that's how it was for the next ten nights. A fart, spurting out my arse - right mean, raising the duvet behind it - a beautiful, but somehow disturbing sight. My Missus, the dominator, assured me I was in marital danger. She was convinced there could be no living thing that could live with that remote, forbidding stench.
"The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one," she said. "The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one, - guess you won't come!"
Then came the night the first postman approached us. It was thought to be an ordinary bit of mail, but next day there was a huge package in the middle of the hallway, and The Missus came to examine what lay there: a cylinder, seven inches long, glowing not... and with faint sounds of buzzing coming from within. Suddenly the top began moving, rotating, vibrating, and The Missus feared there was something inside, trying to escape. She rushed to the cylinder, but the package stopped vibrating before she could embarrass herself by opening it.
"The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one," she said. "The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one, - guess you won't come! Yes chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one," she said. "The chances of you getting any tonight, are a million to one - but still I'll come!"
It seems totally incredible to me now that everyone spent that evening as though it were just like any other. From the kids bedroom came the sound of mobile phones, ringing and rumbling, tempered with Crazy Frog melody in the distance. It all seemed so safe and tranquil…
2. HORSELL COMMON AND THE HEAT RAY
Next morning, a crowd gathered on the Common, hypnotized by the screwing of some doggers. Nearby, two feet of shining screw projected when, suddenly, the lid fell off! Two luminous disc-like eyes appeared above the bin. D-Fs huge, rounded bulk, larger than a bear, rose up slowly, glistening in a tight leather basque. His lipless mouth quivered and slavered, and snake-like tentacles writhed as his clumsy body heaved and pulsated. He then toppled into the pit, which gained one young man £250 on 'You've Been Framed'.
<...not done yet...>
FOREVER STALLING
The Spring deadline is fading as the year grows old
And Coming Soon's not drawing near
The bl**dy film will be much older
It's still not here.
I watch my hopes fly south with every web update
And one by one they disappear
I wish Pendragon would just heed them
It's still not here.
Like a fool in a dream I did support you
Acting like a big tease is not the way
Now April's deadlines passed we should kick Tim Hine ass
Perhaps they meant April next year
Pendragons staff sleep undisturbed now
It's still not here.
Posts suddenly leapt from forum to forum, the fan base excited and supportive - and I was swept along with them, aimless and lost until now. Finally, I headed Westward for the US, and it's only hope of survival - a movie out of Paramount.
Like a fool in a dream I did support you
Acting like a big tease is not the way
Someday a DVD might meet my weary eyes
But this might not be for some years
Tim Hines will be Forever Stalling
It's still not here.
As I hastened to Paramount, Jeff Wayne and Howell threads, more and more people joined the painful exodus. Sad, weary fans, their voices stumbling and streaked with tears, feeling bitter and angry, as if Tim's rubbing our noses in it, treating us like beggars and outcasts. Fans snarled and whined, of course its just an excuse like Chrome... and here and there were supportive postings, as useless as the rest. We wanted tripods wading up the Thames, cutting through bridges as though they were paper - Waterloo Bridge, Westminster Bridge... the trailer had a floating Big Ben! Never before in the history of the world had such a mass of human beings moved and suffered together. This was no disciplined production - it was a farce - without order and without a goal, six million dollars wasted and unpublisised, driving headlong. It was the beginning of the rout of Pendragon, of the massacre of Tim Hines.
A small crowd had warned us of the already doomed steaming pile. I looked up enviously at those publicity posters - straight into the eyes of my an authentic martian! At sight of it, I began to think it might pack out cinemas worldwide. At the last moment, the film was delayed, and I wish Tim had got a last glimpse of our despairing faces, as the the film got swept away from us.
Like a fool in a dream I did support you
Acting like a big tease is not the way
Now April's deadlines passed we should kick Tim Hine ass
Perhaps they meant April next year
Pendragons staff sleep undisturbed now
It's still not here.
The release date began to move slowly away - but on the horizon appeared the trailer with a Spielberg Fighting Machine. Another came (Jeff), and another (Howell), striding over Washington DC, publicising far out to sea, and providing light at the end of the Tunnel. To follow them, sits the silent, grey company 'Pendragon'. Slowly it moved towards cinemas; then, with a damp squib and no announcement, it swung about and drove at no speed towards the waiting public…
<...rest not done yet...>
;D
