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The Compleat Trekwriter by Tom Holt


by Tom Holt
As some day it may happen that I write a Trekkie script,
I've got a little list - I've got a little list
Of overused cliches with which it will not be equipped -
They'd none of them be missed - they'd none of them be missed;

There's the temperamental holodock that's always on the blink,
The telepathic Betazoid who makes a lousy shrink;
The braggart Klingon warrior, with weapons at his hip;
The kid who's still in nappies when he gets to fly the ship -
And the lack of continuity, on which the suits insist -
They'd none of them be missed.

The sacrificial ensign who get beamed down to his doom;
The shapeless evil alien who invades the engine room;
The unexplained anomaly that buggers the controls;
The way our fearless heroes always slip past the patrols,
Then slug it out in fist-fights - well, I'm sure you get the gist.
They'd none of them be missed.

The noises of the engines and the phasers  - out in space;
The overloading VDUs that blow out in your face;
The androids and the holograms who yearn to be like us;
The wooden style of acting that's employed by Mr Russ;
The rampant-hormoned captain and the countless girls he's kissed -
They'd none of them be missed

Those countless forehead ridges - you can hear the latex squeak;
The touchy-feely plotlines and the Issue of the Week;
The technobabble particles (they're only found in Trek)
That go to fill the spaces that the writers leave for "tech";
The thought of all those cliches drives you to your analyst;
They'd none of them be missed


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Book Cover of Who's Afraid of Beowulf?

Quote from Who's Afraid of Beowulf?

`Will they be all right?' Hildy asked doubtfully. `They don't seem very practical to me.'
 The King nodded. `I should think so,' he said. `Take Angantyr Asmundarson, for instance. To join the muster at Melvich, he marched all night from Brough Head to Burwick - that's right across two msin islands of Orkney - and since there was no boat available he swam over from Burwick to the mainland, in the middle of a storm. Then he ran all the way from Duncansby Head to Melvich, on the morning before the battle, and still fought in the front rank against the stone-rolls of Finnmark. Complaining bitterly about his wet clothes and how he was going to catch his death pneumonia, of course, but that's just his way.' He paused, and contemplated his fingernails for a moment.
 `Put like that, I suppose, it rather proves your point. Only a complete idiot would have gone to so much trouble to get involved in a battle.
 Come on,' he said briskly, `it's time we were going.'
(Tom Holt, "Who's Afraid of Beowulf?")
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