1st Broadcast- [voice]

[thatmadbastard]

[Guy Burgess hasn't been in Luceti long enough for most things.

Being a smaller man with little luck, he hasn't found his own clothes yet, or even been told that they were in a shop somewhere, waiting. He hasn't gotten over his newest accoutrements and the fact that no fine haberdashery could adequately swathe a pair of wings. He does like their colour, however. Reminds him of the coat he misses. He hasn't gotten the chance to make something of his bedroom or have anyone in it, but he certainly has plans. Personalizing his every surrounding is part of what Guy enjoys. His own loudness is everything his world mirrors, but none of that has happened yet.

One thing Guy has most definitely, however, been in Luceti long enough for is to make a bloody fit of breakfasts had so far with Kim and Anthony in mornings after too little sleep.

He's far too damned lazy to write, but he's sorted his way through enough of the guide to know he can press something and broadcast his voice. If there is one fucking similarity in this place, it is that he could broadcast at all. It isn't BBC radio, but what he has to say isn't exactly their material either.]

There's nothing continental about a bloody continental breakfast. At least an empire is built on a start of its kind. The best of thinkers eat empires as their breakfast, lob them into bowls and think of all the ways their countries could devour one another. Yet there's something appalling and dull, spooning into one's mouth the liquid and creamed wheaty remains of a box made hot.

At least in a continental breakfast one has something to chew on, physically, as they realize how bloody little there is to eat. EAT YOUR CONTINENTS TOMMY. THEY'RE BLOODY GOOD FOR YOU.

[There's a pause in his speech, perhaps for dramatics, though it's just as likely he's taking a suck from his cigarette.]

I've yet to find where everything is in this buggering town, but I refuse to endure another unacceptable morning of a spoon in an opened can of something. The best anachronisms are catchy, but I'd prefer not to be using little three letter blots in regards to my morning meal. Breakfast should not be UFO's... unidentified food objects splattered about in a bloody bowl.

Coffee can only take one so far without a country in it. Irish, Spanish, it doesn't matter. There's something to make it tolerable. I never knew it was possible to brew undrinkable coffee but it would seem my beloved compatriots have made a talent of it.

No more, I say. NO BUGGERING MORE.

Hello and good morning, Luceti. RISE AND SHINE YOU SHEEP OF THE WORLD. Guy Burgess, September the 24th, midmorning greetings.

[So ends your broadcast. Hope you like that you're now a substitute for the radio in part.

OOC: Backdated to before the event, that way he can get a proper introduction with people acting themselves. Also will begin tagging after work tomorrow. For now SLEEP.]

Comments

[thatmadbastard]

I'm more traditional to the English way of things. My custard is quite good, though I haven't had reason to make it in a long time.

[Reason being he got lazy and had a handsome showboy around the house to cook and clean and have is way with.]

[herotypical]

Trifle and puddings and cream tea. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've known my fair share of to-the-hilt Brits.

[thatmadbastard]

That isn't to say I'm close minded. I'm rather fond of the French and their cooking, though everything is so ghastly rich it catches up after more than a week end.

[herotypical]

I cannot tell a lie, Guy. Mostly? I'm just fond of chocolate. French or English? I don't care.

[thatmadbastard]

Now chocolates I will agree with you about. I carry them with me, typically. A box of little morsels for when the mood so strikes. Nothing quite better than that.

[It's right up there with the cigarettes and gin he always has on his persons.]

[herotypical]

...Beautiful.

[thatmadbastard]

One of the food of the gods, I think. Though having little around has denied me of my chocolates. I'm a very unhappy boy, you see.

[herotypical]

...I see. [ dry. a little on the who is this guy? side. ]

There's always the local bakery.

[thatmadbastard]

That is part of the problem. Being someone who's hardly spent enough time here to rid themselves of the back pain, I don't know where a damn thing is.

[herotypical]

...Have you seen the big old village square, yet?

[thatmadbastard]

Old Village square. Can't place it, so I couldn't say whether I have or I haven't. I've been around the fountain, and there was a lovely party the other night I came upon at a Recreational Centre.

[herotypical]

The fountain. That'll be it. The plaza...square, whatever. The bakery's just off there. Along with the bar. And most things, really.

[thatmadbastard]

I suppose my adventures begin there, then.

[A pause.]

Are parties something of a frequent addition to the evenings?

[herotypical]

I wouldn't say frequent. But they happen. Occasionally spontaneously.

[thatmadbastard]

A gift for the dispirited?

[He doesn't mean it to be rude, but he's very aware that it may sound it. He's heard very little about the Malnosso outside of the guide, and while he may have gathered facts about them, he's hardly begun to even understand the opinions of what they are to the citizens here.

The party may as well be a gateway into that curiosity, as cynical as it is to think that parties are coping mechanisms.]

Very generous organization. If it so happens that they are, in fact, a charity of morale.

[herotypical]

...We make our own charity here, Guy. The best parties are our parties. They usually come with fewer catches or strings attached. That's a plus.

[thatmadbastard]

I do like the sound of that. It heartens me a bit more than I thought it would.

I rather like planning parties. I did so quite a bit back in England.

[herotypical]

What kind of parties?

sorry for the delay, RL kicked me around. ;; also, have a Guy ramble.

[thatmadbastard]

That is the most beautiful part about parties, they need no occasion. It was typically done in our flat in London. 'Ours' meaning it belonged to myself as well as both of the friends I came here with.

Live music, if I could, an open bar and a piano as inviting as an empty glass to be filled. Circles of businessmen, artists, actors, politicians, Foreign Office workers, and even the tea ladies, all looking for some bloody escape from daily haggard hours of nothing but doldrums. Even when the sirens went off, nobody ever left.

So the Germans are going to bomb London! Bugger them all! It's nothing terribly new, and you have to make something good out of dreariness.

It's what they all were. Drunken, overly amorous, attempts to make it all bearable when the man with the nose warmer and the stiff arm is making it terribly hard.

ahaha it's cool.

[herotypical]

W-wait. Bombing London?

[ a beat. ] You're not twenty-first century, are you? [ and for a moment she thought he was! ]

thankyou

[thatmadbastard]

The worst of it was five years ago, though the previous year was particularly bad. The last I knew, it was 1945.

Great Britain has only just admitted that the bombs were German, even though we all knew it. The most recent V2 I remember dropped two weeks ago. When I was in London, that is. It was March, quite cold, as always.

[A small, bitter chuckle.]

Kim was telling me I needed a new coat. As if the one I had wasn't perfectly well.

[herotypical]

...Jeez. 2005, for me. I don't think I've -- huh. Usually people are from a real, real long time ago. Or the future. Or the same now.

Sorry. I know the chrono-stuff can get a little awkward.

[thatmadbastard]

Honestly, I find it is the most interesting part about this place. I may be eating canned breakfasts and at a complete disadvantage with my lack of knowledge here, but I simply love being able to engage with people of different times.

I read History at Cambridge. A passion of mine.

[herotypical]

...Fancypants. Me? I'm a college drop-out who now -- as you now know -- tends a bar. Believe me, there's very little passion involved in my career choice.

[ she lies! she lies about it all! of course -- anyone already acquainted with the village's guide would know she's not just the barmaid anyway. ]

[thatmadbastard]

Privileged, yes. Though I wish what I was given simply by being born into a wealthy family was something as easily attainable to everyone.

[His redder colours are showing, something he knows he shouldn't be showing. For all that Luceti could know, or should know, was of their public face. Being a well-placed old boy, even if it was only to benefit a hidden affiliation, could not afford sudden re-emergence of undergraduate Communist rashes.

Still, if she truly is from years ahead, the tides of everything are already determined. At least to her.]

There's nothing shameful about not completing schooling. I know highly successful fellows who were sent down.