The Battle of Britain (1940)

The Battle of Britain was ‘won’ by Britain due to a few interdependable factors.

The first was Britain’s eye in the sky, RDF (Radio Direction Finding), or what the Americanised English language describes as Radar. RDF was a fantastic defensive weapon during the war as it allowed Britain to keep an eye on what Luftwaffe squadrons were doing over the sea and what direction they were taking (once German planes made it mainland RDF was less effective and instead the British eye in the sky relied people on the ground to report enemy movements) this help Britain plan for enemy attack and mobilise a more effective defence.

The second was the coupling of the Spitfire and the Hurricane planes. The Spitfire was used primarily as a nimble fighter plane against the Luftwaffe’s other fighter planes. The Hurricane was used effectively against the German bombers as it wasn’t as effective as the Spitfire at fighting German fighters.

These two factors were at the route of Goering’s two biggest mistakes when tactically planning the German attack.

One; Goering was encouraged to attack the RDF stations- it should be noted that although the German’s had a vague idea of the existence of RDF and it’s use, there existence was still not wholly accepted as plausible by German leaders. For a short period in 1940 the Luftwaffe attacked these stations however, destroying some such as the one on Ventnor (Isle of Wight) and putting them out of commission for days, weeks at a time. To counter this in some cases, such as at Angmering  Park, where a RDF was completely wiped out a MB1 transmitter was set up that sent the same signal as the RDF into the air leading the Germans to think that hadn’t knocked the RDF out.

As Goering felt that it was pointless attacking what he saw as small defensive units and with the apparent ineffectiveness of knocking many of these of the map, it was decided to ignore these RDF stations (not fully understanding their importance to Britain) and again fully focus on the destruction of the RAF.

Two; Goering wanted the German fighter planes (such as the Messerschmitt 109 and Messerschmitt 110) to protect the bombers (Heinkel 111’s and Junkers 88 for example). To do this the aim was to reduce the fighter’s speeds to that of the bombers to keep them as one tight unit. Bombers were susceptible to British attacks because of the Hurricane’s greater speed and manoeuvrability over them. This limited the effectiveness of the German fighters who were themselves more susceptible to attacks from Spitfires because they were told to fly at reduced speeds and which gave the Spitfire the edge in ambushing them.

There are of course other factors leading to the British ‘victory’. For example, the aim of the German attack was to wipe out Fighter Command and the RAF. If this was done then invasion would be made possible as the Germans would have had a clear path (baring the Royal Navy) across the Channel. However, instead of putting hundreds of RAF planes into the air at a time, it was decided by Hugh Dowding, commander of RAF Fighter Command, to only send small batches of planes in the air. Thus situations occurred where there were 4-20 British planes against 200+ German planes.  This allowed a continuous flow of British planes to be able to take off into the air at any one time- aiding defense. It also helped lower the number of downed British planes and allowed a more robust yet jagged machine line flow of new planes to come out of manufacture to easily replace the downed planes.

Regardless, towards the end of the Battle of Britain the RAF was in dire straits. The Luftwaffe attack on the airfields made many redundant and the inexperience of new fighter pilots was taking its toll. If the Germans continued the war in the air then they would had wiped out the RAF. However- and there are several stories as to why this occurred ranging from Churchill becoming more ruthless and sacrificing huge chunks of the population in major British cities, to a lone Junker 88 dropping a few desperate bombs on London – the Battle of Britain ended the moment the RAF bombed Berlin. This led Hitler to counter attack by moving the focus of Luftwaffe attack from the airfields and to the major population centres- like London. What followed had such a huge cost and effect upon the civilian population and city infrastructure, but in reality it saved Britain from what seemed inevitable invasion.

What’s Left; What’s Right

“When you call yourself an Indian or a Muslim or a Christian or a European, or anything else, you are being violent. Do you see why it is violent? Because you are separating yourself from the rest of mankind. When you separate yourself by belief, by nationality, by tradition, it breeds violence. So a man who is seeking to understand violence does not belong to any country, to any religion, to any political party or partial system; he is concerned with the total understanding of mankind.” – J. Krishnamurti,

An interesting debate has ensued from the corners of the Liberal Conspiracy website and the BNP’s two European election successes that have led to me to question my presentation of political understanding. That is; what is left, what is right?

It is true that when talking about the BNP we (that includes me) correctly use the term far-right (ultra-nationalist, fascist and racist are also accurate). But then again, are they? Tim Montgomerie, a conservative, has written a letter to the BBC to ask them to properly reflect the BNP’s ‘true’ ideological position on the political spectrum. He argues that instead of being classed as far-right they should be considered far-left. And depending on which way you look at it and the level of your political ignorance, he could have a point. Economically the BNP are a party who believe in big state, in nationalisation, in government intervention and protectionism- traditional positions attributed to the left and socialism. (In essence, their ideology stems from Strasserist economics- that money and big companies are being controlled by the Jews, but then also remember that Karl Marx once wrote: “Money is the zealous one God of Israel, beside which no other God may stand… The God of the Jews has become secularised and is now a worldly God. The bill of exchange is the Jew’s real God. His God is the illusory bill of exchange”).

On the flipside, the left (including general liberalism) have been more open to encompass ideologies such as freedom of movement and expression, civil liberties, human rights. These are certainly not what the BNP stand for. Contrary to this we see New Labour who is considered as centre-left bringing about the destruction of civil liberties and the Tories have become the self-proclaimed vanguard of them. Is this left/right wing politics getting muddled? (Maybe the Tories are just fighting ‘big state’?).

One way of looking upon this is the humble evolution of the political compass. During the Cold War it was a case of you being left, right or centre. Now when you take a simple online quiz to find out what you are you have a Z axis, Y axis, X axis and the other one that no-one can remember the name. You still have the typical left/right wing axis, but now you also have the social axis – authoritarian and libertarian.

Perhaps this is a consequence of the troubles with Stalinism. He was supposed to be left wing, communist in fact, which places him traditionally on the far-left, but the repression he placed upon his people and even his own party members makes him extremely authoritarian. So socially links could be made between the BNP and Stalinism, but they can also begin to be made when it comes to economic policies. But if Stalin was indeed a communist (open to debate but I say no) then does that mean the BNP are?

The fact that the BNP are touted as pulling in a lot of the New Labour vote looks like it supports this idea. The left look towards the working class as the majority, they say the working classes represent the repressed majority. The BNP are directing policies towards the working classes and are also saying they are representing the repressed majority, albeit in a racist way by describing the ridiculous notion of the repressed ‘indigenous’ white majority.

Nick Griffin himself describes the BNP as being outside of left/right wing politics. They choose (sick) issues and (sick) policies that they believe in and to them they don’t fit anywhere on the spectrum.

However no-one wants to be associated with the BNP. Even though some of the centre-right are calling the BNP far-right they are much more in favour of pushing them off to the far-left like Montgomerie is trying to do. One example you can find on comment sections on blogs is by using the name ‘national socialism’ (Nazis) as an example of them being socialist (obviously the same way that the German Democratic Republic was indeed democratic…). In turn the left are pushing them to the far-right. Neither side want to be associated with them, but both sides want the other side to be. To have the BNP be on ‘your’ wing is to announce to the world that what you believe in is only a few doors away from them.

Perhaps Mr Griffin is actually right for a change. Perhaps they don’t belong on either side. Perhaps there is more to politics than left and right. Why is it that people are always classed as left/right/centre?

I personally do class myself as left wing, most things I believe in stem from the left wing ideology. I am proud of ‘belonging’ to the left. However, I don’t associate myself in anyway with New Labour, Stalinism or if they can be considered to be, the BNP- even though they are supposed to also be on the left. Perhaps what we need is this scraping of the left/right associations. The world and politics existed before left/right wing terminology was used, indeed the terminology first evolved with in France and then through Marxist ideology. It also stems from a Cold War positioning, us and them. A way to explain what is happening and what you believe. But why do things have to be so black and white? Even with the new direction political compasses’ are taking people still want to place you on either the left or right with the only alterations being ‘far-‘ and centre-‘.

Taking away these associations is not going to lead to the destruction of left/right ideology and everything in between. Instead it could lead to increased political freedom and understanding. If you are on the left and you like one specific policy from the right, you no longer need to try and ‘reclaim it for the left’. You won’t be bound by thinking ‘I can’t believe in that because it’s a right wing position and I’m on the left. In essence you can pick and choose policies that fit the world or your country best without fear of ‘selling out to the left/right’. These theoretical positions bind us down. Removing the word ‘left wing’ from my thinking is not going to mean that I don’t believe in nationalising the banks anymore, nor does it mean that I think we should tax the rich less, but what it does mean is that it takes away a mental wall that allows others in. Go round telling people you’re left wing then half the world won’t listen to you because they’re right wing, but tell people that your policies and beliefs develop to the needs and best interests of the people you serve then people are more likely to listen. As Krishnamurti said, “When you separate yourself by belief, by nationality, by tradition, it breeds violence”.

[this piece is intended for discussion, debate and evolution]

Art Class

So I got to school late, my first day teaching art. It took me ages to find a job, especially a job that I had my heart set on for as long as I remember. Excitement led to nervousness the night before; I got little sleep. I felt restless, unkempt. But it was my first day, I thought I was ready. I ran through the corridors searching for the room. I hadn’t even had an interview; I was just sent a room number and the class title ‘life paintings’. I studied a bit of this at university and spent hours the days before putting together lesson plans. The idea was to use the first lesson to introduce myself to the students and get to know what they could do artistically. It did cross my mind that just being given a room number and the lesson title was a very unorthodox way of starting a new job. Perhaps my references where so good I didn’t need an interview? No time to worry about that now. I had to get to class. I had a rough idea where I was heading to, as it was this school that I spent a great deal of my childhood; learning each of the corridors, the shortcuts to the nearest exits, the hideaways when I knew a teacher had spotted me drawing penises on the walls. Room E13. This school didn’t believe in bad luck and rightly so, as it was my good luck that I finally found this job. Those hours spent at university on those art projects, reading about Monet and why van Gogh cutting off his ear was actually a post-modernist expression of how belittling pictures of potatoes and sunflowers had become. This was my time to shine. I just had to get to the class on time, a product of not being able to sleep properly the night before: excitement, nerves, anticipation and relief. I wonder what my student’s will be like. ‘I hope they are the first year’, they haven’t had a chance to develop an attitude. I feel perspiration, but saw no wet patch. I wore a tweed jacket. It was my dream to be a stereotype. Images of my childhood maths teacher walking between desks with spectacles on the tip of his nose and leather patches on the elbows of a green and brown tweed jacket. The patches always made a high pitched wail when he sat back at his desk and reached across the polished surface to grab the box of calculators to pass round the class. Tweed may not be typical art teacher attire; my art teacher had curly red hair with 20 ear rings in each ear, and who always wore the tightest tank top possible in order to not set a bad example to her students but still excite those who she deemed old enough. Running through those corridors made me question my choice of a tweed jacket- it was heavy, and certainly didn’t help with my perspiration, perhaps the reason I could feel no damp patch was because of the thickness of the tweed? I was certainly sweating. Turn the corridor, seconds away. Turn again, the door is in front. Room E13. The room where as a child I made clay statues of people sitting on a toilet reading, where my tutor hung up images of topless women and justified them as a typicfication of the beauty in the eroticism of the female image. I stop outside the door; my hand hovering over the handle. Thoughts were racing through my mind: of erotic images of women, of sweaty tweed jackets, of potatomen with 20 earrings hung on it’s ears. Deep breath. In… out… in… out… Hand twitching over the door handle. Come on, this is your moment. I can hear a mumbling from inside, they certainly don’t sound like first years. Final years, that’s still fine. My hand is on the door handle. In one swoop I turn the handle and push through.

“Ah, Mr Stevens” says an old man, perhaps in his late 60’s, with a pig belly that his jumper only just cuddles and with a receding hairline that has stretched back to the middle of the back of his head but which has forgotten the snow coloured hair on the side of his head. Thick black spectacles are resting on the end of a vein popped nose, clay dusted hand prints are wiped across his front. “It is Mr Stevens isn’t it?” Looking round the room I see paintings of various body parts on the wall directly in front of me, not gory, and huge paintings of animals in erotic humanlike positions covering the wall to the right. I hadn’t time to study what was to my left as my attention was drawn to the seating arrangements, a class of about 12 people in a semi circle, each with an upright canvas, and in the centre of this semicircle was half a bed with pillows occupying one side and a silk sheet covering the rest. “Mr Stevens?” I could hear these words, words, words, “Mr Stevens?” I couldn’t speak, for some reason I had froze, it felt like hours, but it was probably mini-seconds, but my name continued to be uttered from the pig bellied man by the chalk blackboard with a picture of an eye a pair of hands sticking out of it holding onto what I assume are a pair of eyebrows. “Oh yes, yes, I’m Mr Stevens.” Dread filled me. Speaking didn’t make me feel better. Thoughts spread through my mind ‘does he think I am a student?… no, no, I am being paid for this, why would I be paid to be a student?… ah I know he must have just been waiting for me so he could introduce me to the class’. I felt better; he must have just been waiting to introduce me. I head over to shake his hand. “Hi, yes, sorry, I am Mr Stevens, I hope I am not late?”, “Ah no problem Mr Stevens, you are not late at all.” The pig bellied man turned to the students in the room, “class, this is Mr Stevens, he has kindly agreed to model for us.” Silence. My mind stopped. Model? “Mr Stevens, if you could just head into my office to unchange, I’ll get the class prepared and you come out when you are ready.” Unchange? Model? Then it struck me. The bed, the pillows, the silk sheets, ‘life paintings’, no interview. I was meant to be a nude model. I turned bright red. I was a nude model wearing a tweed jacket. Unchange? I couldn’t turn back now. I need the money. I couldn’t say I was not Mr Stevens, I’ve already said yes and shook his hand. I had to do it. It would be a story. I don’t know any of these people. I’ll never see them again. I’ll do it. It would be funny when I tell my mates down t’pub. The pot bellied man ushered me to his office on the left. I walk passed the silk bed and literately stepped into his office. He closed the door behind me. I put my bag on the floor and rubbed my face. Am I going to do this? I am going to do this. I have to do this. Think of the money. Think of the story. I take off my tweed jacket. That’s my teaching dream gone. I saw my shirt, dark sweat patches. Really attractive. I unbuttoned my top, my sweaty hairy chest popping out between the gaps. My shoes, socks, trousers. I’m just in my pants. They have got to come off. I haven’t shaved! It’s natural, it’s natural. It doesn’t reassure me. But they have to come off, down they go. I’m naked. I turn round to the door, there is no bathrobe. I remember staling before I walked into this classroom, I shouldn’t hesitate this time. Pull the knob and go in.

The room looked round at me, all with straight faces, no expressions. This is eerie. For the first time in my life I am naked and the people in the room with me are not making faces. I walk towards the bed; the pot bellied man came over to me and uttered two instructions: get comfortable and don’t move. I choose an angle that allowed me to spy on those who were going to be painting me at my most vulnerable. I lay on my back twisting to the left towards the group, but with my left leg up slightly to try and hide my male passport. The pot bellied teacher reached for my left leg, pushed it down and pulled up my right. “Hope you are still comfy”, “Oh yes, fine”. My member was now laying on my left thigh, pointing and eyeing up the group.

“You may start, you have 20 minutes.”

Twenty minutes lying here, shouldn’t be too hard. Think of the money. Think of the story.

With just the movement of my eyes I started spying the group. I could only see the four people directly in front of me, the others were lost to the temporary paralysis of my head. The first man I saw was older than the teacher. He must be on his last legs. His wrinkles where deep set and looked like a Borrower’s Cheddar Gorge. He had glasses as big as his forehead pushed right back to the top of his nose making his eyes look like pool balls. His hair was thin, and when he lifted up his paintbrush his body hid behind it. The old man put his paintbrush down and this time lifted up his hands. Like his nose and his ears, his hands where well oversized, as if they did not belong on this small man. The only way in which you could link these hands with the man where the wrinkles that acted like supports, connecting his hands to his torso. The old man put his hands together, making an artist’s square out of the thumbs and fingers of each hand. Instead of starting at my feet or my head, the old man went directly for my groin. I was staring straight at an old man who was in turn looking through the square his hands made at my penis. He put his hands down, picked up his paintbrush and started scratching away at his canvas.

I turned to the next man. Perhaps in his midlife, it was difficult to tell. The years have been bad to him, perhaps he smoked, perhaps he drank, but he certainly ate. His belly was hanging well over his trousers making it difficult for him to sit close enough to his canvas. He had to stretch out to make the paintbrush reach, and each time he went to collect more paint he had to wheeze to force his arm to reach and keep it at the canvas. I saw him look down at his belly, I saw him look up at mine, I saw him look down at his body, I saw him look up at mine, I saw him look down at his body, I saw him scratch his groin, I saw him grab his right chest, his moob, I saw him look at my body, I saw him look at his moob. It was about halfway through the 20 minutes, I moved my eyes to the next person.

This person was the total opposite to the old man, the pig bellied man and the moob grabber, not least because they were thin and young, but more noticeably, they were a She. And what a She. She wore the tightest of jeans with the tightest of tops that stopped an inch before the jeans and which allowed a inch high band of golden brown skin to slightly bulge just above the jean line. Her hair came down to the middle of her top and was a highlighted blonde with chocolate brown bursting through the surface. The skin on her face was as golden as the band above her jeans and as smooth as the silk on my bed. She had a petite nose with lips that smacked of lip gloss. She wasn’t a she I would go for, but after looking at a man with moobs scratch his groin and an old man stare at my penis, She was a welcome distraction. I started imagining what She would be like, take her for a drink, have a dance, would She be a tease? Would She insist on starting in the taxi home? Would She demand twice in a night, She deserved a least a second go. What about again in the morning? Would it be a case of do the busy and go, would She cuddle? She looked like a goer. A huge sigh went round the room. I had lost myself in my thoughts. I forgot where I was. Tutting sounds carried around the room. I saw the old man take some white paint from their brush to his canvas. I remember where I was. I jumped back into reality. Then I realised. My member wasn’t pointing to the class anymore but towards my forehead; it was as if it had eyed a weird mole in the middle of my head. I went red. I saw the she giggle.

My mind blanked out, I mentally left the room, my body stayed on the bed. I went to my happy place. This wasn’t happening to me.

As soon as the pig bellied man called time I jumped up off my bed and headed straight for the office, for my tweed jacket, my tweed jacket was safe, my tweed jacket was my aspiration, my hope, my dreams, my future, a happy place, my childhood, my maths teacher in a squeaky leather outfit…

I walked out of the office, hoping for a speedy exit. “Ah Mr Stevens, thank you for your effort. Come and see some of these expressions of your body.” I just wanted to go. Outside the classroom it didn’t happen, I wouldn’t lose control of my body in front of she again, not in front of those moobs, the old man or the pig belly. “I insist, come and look.” Twelve paintings, look at each, smile, nod, leave. Simple.

I walk to the first. It was a stack of boxes, somewhat resembling the shape of a man. There was a small rectangular box between what looked like my boxed legs. I turn next to the painting that the old man drew. There were deep heavy shades all around my body, with dot’s representing the colour of my skin. So I was a stack of boxes and some coloured dots. I moved swiftly onto the next painting. I was smiling. I look again, I had a smile on my face. I look at the rest of the painting. I don’t remember smiling. Not with that much of a grin on my face. I see it. I see a huge exaggerated erection looping over my belly button, and I was smiling. I was surprised this painting didn’t have my hand around it at the same time. I didn’t smile at all. But my erection went noticed. I went red. I felt two foot tall. I wanted to get out. It even detailed the veins, albeit in an inflated sense. Nine paintings left. I shifted speedily along the following paintings, seeing images of me as a horse, with my legs coming out of my head, seeing a painting where I am not in it at all apart from my eye, no eyebrows. Apart from the picture of my eye, they all had my erection painted hastily in, the picture of the eye would had had it if it weren’t for its proximity. The erection had probably only lasted a minute, but they all saw. How could they not? Then I came to the painting the man with moobs did. He painted me the size of Jupiter. With my belly hanging well over my legs, but with stress marks around my groin area, obviously representing what must have been my erection. He drew his moobs as my moobs, hanging down to the left, one covering most of my thigh thick arm and the other hanging into the space left by the former. This was how I felt after a hefty dinner. I felt ill. I’ll move on. It was the She, what had She painted I wondered? A quick glance. It all looked normal. There must be something weird about it. But the face looked right, I wasn’t fat, wasn’t a load of dots or squares. She must like me. She looked at me and saw me. Should I try? I must not have put her off. Then I saw it. No wonder I hadn’t noticed it. At first I could argue She drew it before the incident. But on closer inspection I saw it was pointing at my head. It was comparable to the size of my little finger. She giggled. I died a little inside. One painting left then I could leave. I moved on. I looked at the painting. I looked at the painter. It was my mum.

by Matt Blackall

A very geeky introduction…

So, i’ve been writing a bit recently, not writing on the internet, instead i have been writing a story, a Doctor Who story (i am indeed a geek). I do not intend to do anything with the story, because what could i do with it exactly? It is born out of fun and intrigue. However, below is the introduction, flaws and all. I do have a complete idea of the story line, mainly because i have been writing it, but the only thing i’ll say about the story is that it is a proper Doctor Who geek story- one the old fans would appreciate. It would be interesting to hear your thoughts, just be kind and remember i am not planning on getting this published or becoming the next head writer of Doctor Who on TV.

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Approaching the TARDIS the Doctor leaps through the open door while clutching the hand of the new woman in his life Elisa. Stumbling with excitement and from the force of the Doctor’s stride, Elisa giggles before stopping still in stunned silence.

“Yeah, it has that effect on people during their first time.”

“I thought you were mad when you made me jump into a police box. Thought we would slam into the back of it.”

“I guess you’ve noticed it is bigger on the inside.”

“Not hard to miss. Wow mister, you are full of surprises.”

“Doctor”

“As you keep saying! Anything else I should know?”

“If I tell you now it would ruin the surprise.”

Elisa bit her bottom lip and burst out laughing. She started skipping around the TARDIS controls, the Doctor watching with a smile born from the excitement eradiated from Elisa. This is why I continue travelling he thought.

“I can’t believe this, I can’t believe you, oh my god, this isn’t suppose to happen to me!”

The Doctor still smiles as Elisa leaps from her skip into the arms of the Doctor.

“Thank you so much, now I believe, now I believe in you”, mimicking a dame from an old period drama Elisa exclaimed “oh take me Doctor, take me to the stars and back.”

“Steady now.” Elisa releases the Doctor and lightly punches the Doctor’s arm “oh lighten up.”

“So where would you like to go Elisa?” focusing upon the ‘El’

“Sorry Doctor, the man with two hearts, but that’s a very silly question to ask a lady who has never even been inside a blue police box before.”

“We could go to Kalag-gafey where the land is made of jelly”

“Jelly?”

“Well not jelly as you know it, but you can still bounce around. Or howabout a planet where the moons are so close you can literally touch them while standing up?”

“Sorry, there’s a planet made of jelly?”

“Its compounds are more condensed than jelly, so you can’t sink right through like quick sand or as when you put your finger in jelly pudding. Well, unless you stand in the same spot for days on end. I tried it once, it took 6 days for the whole of my left ankle to disappear, amazing.”

“You stood in the same spot for 6 days?”

“Six days is nothing compared to 900 years.”

“Someone stood still there for 900 years?”

“No, that’s how old I am”

“You what? You’re 900?”

“Well, give or take a few years. Very hard to remember at my age.”

“And here was me thinking you were in your late 30’s”

“I wouldn’t have even been given a TARDIS if I was that young- I’d be considered a baby! Anyway what do you say to a trip to Kalag-gafey then? Or, we could go and walk under a diamond waterfall; a diamondfall!”

“Wouldn’t that hurt? So wait, would that mean that any wonderful feature I can think of a planet having, there is likely to be a planet with it?”

“Well, within reason.”

“So a planet made of jelly and a diamond waterfall are within reason! What about a planet where you float to get around.”

“Coponova”

“A planet made of Velcro?”

“Shuot, not Velcro exactly, but it makes you stick in a non gooey way”

“Or a planet where marshmallows fall from the sky instead of rain”

“Now your just being silly”

“Just take me anywhere, surprise me, even going to the moon would make me happy.”

“Why would you want to go there, its just dust, it hasn’t been inhabited for millions of years”

“You mean aliens lived there once upon a time?”

“Where do you think humans come from?”

“Just take me anywhere!”

The Doctor runs over to the TARDIS dashboard and slams his fist onto the controls, a big grin on his face with the prospect of taking Elisa on a trip of her lifetime across the stars to a small remote planet at the end of the universe.

The moment the Doctor’s hand hit the dashboard, the TARDIS screamed out in pain. The pain bought with it a harsh red light that flooded every corner of the room. The Doctor knelled over clutching the back of his head and started screaming in agony. Unbeknown to Elisa this was not normal for space flight. Briefly it appeared to Elisa that the Doctor’s screams were linked to those of the TARDIS, as if the Doctor and TARDIS were one and the same. As the moment sunk in Elisa had distinguished between the Doctor’s screams and the siren going off in the TARDIS and her smile wiped off her face as she jumped forward to stop the Doctor collapsing on the hard metal floor.

Unable to stop the Doctor falling in time, Elisa started running around the now unconscious Doctor, pondering what to do. Panicking as the TARDIS was making its way through the universe to a place unbeknown to her, away from her family, her friends, her life on Earth, Elisa knelled beside the Doctor and inspected his face.

With the sirens blaring in what appeared to be the inside of her head, and the flashing red light eliminating one half of the Doctor’s motionless face, Elisa performed all usual human checks unsure as to whether they apply to an alien. Pulling back his eye lids she inspected his eyes for a sign of life, a galaxy spiralling inside his pupils. When this failed, she put her ear beside his mouth, wondering whether this alien breathes air- he certainly looked like a human Elisa thought, so why can’t he be biologically like a human, who said aliens were small grey creatures with huge black eyes? Remembering this she put her hands atop of the Doctors chest, left side first- ‘thud thud’, then right side ‘thud thud thud’, “weird” she said out loud, definitely not human, yet all human life checks come up positive, and if he were a human, he would still be alive, so there was hope yet.

The sirens still rang, and the red light constantly blinded her every few seconds. Seemingly unconcerned with the Doctor’s plight and the TARDIS’s flight, Elisa stood up to find the source of the alarm system. If she could just stop this noise, then she believed she could help nurse the Doctor back from where-ever he appeared to be.

Walking over to the dashboard Elisa saw leavers, switches, buttons, weird glass tubes with some kind of liquid, all of which were inscribed with some useless symbols, not resembling any form of human correspondence, and not showing any obvious sign as to what they do. ‘Oh Doctor, what do I do?’

Running around the dashboard, Elisa figured that there must be something obvious to stop the ringing in her ears, a big red button or a leaver with the word stop on it, anything. She ran past the TARDIS consol and briefly caught a word flashing in huge letters on the screen. Assuming this would be some alien language Elisa ignored it, considering the red light and the annoying siren of more concern than a fanciful interest in an alien dialect. Elisa continued running around the dashboard, examining every nook and every cranny, thinking there must be something she had missed, there just must be, afraid of actually flicking any switches until being given a sign of what they could do, Elisa felt useless. It was not until the fifth lap of the dashboard that Elisa focused once again on the consol screen- perhaps there she could find a control base to shut off these alarms. Bending over and studying the screen she looked for the basic symbols that could represent controls. The screen though was not sharing any of its secrets, and upon a dark blue background one word was repeatedly flashing in bold white letters:

Gallifrey…Gallifrey…Gallifrey