So the Ashes to Ashes finale has been and gone and the programme has shuffled off this mortal coil…sigh. Anyone that knows me knows I’m partial to Gene Hunt. He could call me Bollyknickers anytime. In fact, he could call me a lot of things….
But I digress…
Couldn’t help wondering if maybe there was a funny little between this life and the next one place for writers. Who would be the Gene Hunt of that? Edgar Allan Poe? Syvia Plath as the typist working out her angst under his watchful eye?
Somehow when I picture it, all I can see is Stephen Jones charging out of that DCI’s office and shouting ‘We’ve got an anthology to put together, and no one gets a drink until it’s done! Smith – put out that fag. Pinborough, I told you pink was banned in here. Morris, stop watching Dr Who re-runs. Why is Tim Lebbon the only one in this office doing any bloody writing? And what do you mean Kim’s still working on an Empire review?? Oh fuck it, let’s go to the pub.’
It’s an afterlife I could buy into….