Guy Burgess (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thatmadbastard) wrote2011-09-25 02:15 am
thatmadbastard) wrote2011-09-25 02:15 am
1st Broadcast- [voice]
[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.]
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.]
[written]
As for the map, one moment. [Some seconds later, there will be a handy link to the map with circles drawn around F and J.]
F is Seventh Heaven, with the nightclub Cloud Nine above it. J is the bakery. Shall I point out other locations for you?
[written]
The one place I'm the most eager to find is where I can find what one would need to fix a proper breakfast for himself and his dear friends.
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[Being an alcoholic makes coffee a morning addiction after scores of hangovers until it all blended together. By then, of course, it was too late! Dear coffee, forever embedded as morning routine.]
I've no preference in how I'm called. Friends call me 'Guy', professional relationships 'Burgess', and there's occasionally a relationship where I've earned a fond and endearing call of 'mad bastard.'
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[He'll match the tones she wants. He's very mutable in that way, moulding to the contours of whatever relationships require.]
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[Here, before here, it doesn't matter. Guy's been making discreet inquiries for the Foreign Office for so long he practically falls into practice. Not that it won't serve him here.]
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I believe you would like one of my friends.
[written]
And why do you believe I would like one of your friends?
[written]
Ah yes. My friend. Perhaps I should rephrase: I believe he might like you. Though I've not heard your voice, you seem enchanting enough to catch his attention.
[written]
I'm afraid there's no voice to be heard. Hence the writing. But then, I suppose some guys like that. [Hey, she's heard all the jokes and can make them herself too.]
[written]
Terribly sorry for my presumptions there. I thought perhaps you were being the alluring sort of mysterious that men typically like. That isn't to say Kim won't be taken with the mystery of it still.
Kim Philby. That is the friend I think perhaps you would like. Tall, lean, angular face, very much the gentlemen. He has quite the tastes in music.
[Trying to set up Kim with this lovely writer? Why of course.]
[written]
Nothing to apologize for, it's not an apparent fact over these journals.
I shall keep that in mind.
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