I don't care what the posh musos I know say

I love Nigel Kennedy!!! (It's all about following a long, sombre partita with a swing version of an air called Das Pendel.)

[ETA: The video is no more, but it's on Radio 3 here for the moment: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/console/b018hbkk]

In other iPlayer news - baking + baking history + baking science + reality-style competition + charming reality bods + Sue Perkins? Why did no one tell me The Great British Bake Off existed???

Spikeid I (Revised Version)

It's with this that I herald the beginning of the end, pretty much. The P required to complete this WIP is vanishingly small now, and so in hope that people might be interested in reading the whole fic now it's done, I present the 2011 version of book I, in which the tone is more in line with the rest of the poem and the syntax should be more natural and easy to follow! If you have some sort of nostalgic preference for the old version, it's still here, but this is what I'm going to archive etc.

After I've posted book XII (with an ETA of maybe sometime towards the end of next week, with X and XI over the weekend/beginning of next week? This is dependent on other things also, though X and XI are ready to go with just a couple of final once-overs), I'm going to put up an index post with a proper blurb, but suffice to say this is a ~50,000 word Spuffy-gen parapocalyptic jaunt set a short while after the AtS finale, rated either PG-13 or R depending on how much blood they put in on the film version. ;) General warnings for issues and events concerning death, agency, gods and violence. Also, it's all in blank verse, which I think of as being slightly more petulant in demanding attention than prose, so you might like to get a cup of tea and a comfy chair.

This first part is ~4300 words (~535 lines). Humongous thanks to gillo, who did masses of beta work for me on this back in the day - without her I doubt I'd have ever started, let alone finished. Also thanks to stultiloquentia, who cheerled (and kept on cheerleading) the idea from its inception.

The situation in LA unfolds.

I

      Of bloody awfulness and fallen towns,
O Calliope, would I sing if you
Would lend your aid. And, wow, I sound a bit
Pretentious, don’t I? Sorry ‘bout that – what
I meant to say was this: ( I've got a plan... )