Baker Street Beat

Is it just me, or was the ending of Sherlock the other night remarkably similar to that of the most recent series of Doctor Who? Genius hero forced to fake own death to get hordes of enemies off back and enable them to go back 'undercover' after becoming too high profile. That just about sums both endings up. Of course, some similarities were inevitable. Quite apart from the fact that key creative personnel - Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss - were involved with both series, Holmes himself is clearly one of many characters from British fantastic fiction, (I use that term in the widest possible sense), that inspired The Doctor. Indeed, The Doctor even has his own Moriarty equivalent in The Master, a character who, like the Professor, is his polar opposite. Not that I'm criticising Sherlock for these similarities in plot details - it is just an observation.

There was much to enjoy in the episode for committed Baker Street geeks like me, from the brief cameo by Douglas Wilmer, (who had played Holmes for the BBC back in 1964-65 and in the Gene Wilder movie The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes' Smarter Brother in the seventies), as the old gent Watson encounters at the Diogenes Club, to the oblique references to Nicholas Meyer's Seven Per Cent Solution. (In the latter the real Moriarty is revealed to be Sherlock's former maths tutor, only becoming an evil genius in Holmes' cocaine-induced paranoid fantasies; in Sherlock Moriarty convinces a newspaper reporter that he's really an actor hired by Holmes to play an evil criminal genius). The real genius of the series is that, through its skilled use of contemporary settings and references and witty reinterpretation of the Conan Doyle originals, it also appeals to a far wider audience than just us Holmes fans. The 'in jokes' and references I've noted are an added bonus for the likes of me but aren't essential for non-hardcore fans to understand in order to enjoy the series. Great stuff.

The Sleaze is Afoot

OK, let's get the admin stuff out of the way first. I've finally got a new story up over at The Sleaze. This is a reconstruction, (based on a surviving rough draft and memory), of the incomplete story which is currently trapped on the inoperative hard drive of my old laptop. I think that the published version is an improvement over the original. I certainly hope that it is, having spent a significant part of my weekend putting it together and posting it. That, and burning the various back-up and system recovery discs this new laptop seems to need. Whilst waiting for them to complete, it occurred to me that if we were just supplied the Windows install disc, as we always used to be when buying a new PC, we wouldn't have to waste so much time burning new discs. After all, a large part of the cost of a new PC or laptop derives from the operating system (if it's Windows or Mac OS), and the expense of having it installed. Believe me, Microsoft and Apple don't just give away their products. Operating systems aside, I still don't have this laptop set up the way I want it - I just haven't had time to install all the software I usually use, what with burning recovery discs and writing new stories. Maybe by the end of the week I'll have it sorted. If I'm lucky.

Obviously, I didn't spend my entire weekend with my laptop. I did find time to catch up with the BBC's new-fangled modern day take on Sherlock Holmes. As I've mentioned before, there's nothing really new about the idea of updating Holmes. It's only since World War Two that we seem to have had an obsession with filming Conan Doyle stories in period. Before then, most Holmes' films had a contemporary setting, (with the notable exception of the first two Basil Rathbone pictures, which were made for Twentieth Century Fox and had Victorian settings, the subsequent Universal-produced Rathbone series all had 1940s settings). The BBC version wasn't a bad attempt at placing Holmes and Watson in the Twenty First Century. Although the absence of that old London smog shrouding everything, and the lack of a background of Victorian grime and poverty, did take way some of the menace which I always remember as being inherent in the stories. Whilst I enjoyed it, I think I still preferred my version of an up to date Holmes story, with a sports car driving Watson trying to capitalise on the notoriety of his association with Holmes by moonlighting as a TV celebrity doctor, and Mrs Hudson appearing on Ready, Steady, Cook, and publishing her 'Baker Street Cook Book' (fifty recipes inspired by the sleuth's most celebrated cases). Holmes himself could look highly uncomfortable appearing on Crimewatch, or being interviewed by Graham Norton, (cue lots of double-entendres about 'pipe smoking' and 'lemon entries'). Who knows, maybe all that will feature in future episodes of Sherlock. In which case, I'm suing!

A Nightmare at the Cinema

My desire to be a hermit was reinforced by yesterday's trip to the cinema. Why is it so bloody difficult to just buy tickets for a film? Why is there no dedicated box office? Despite having arrived in what I thought was good time for a 7:30 performance, I found myself forced to queue for what seemed an eternity whilst people not only bought tickets, but also what seemed sufficient food and drink to see them through the entire winter, let alone a two hour film. I'm guessing that a large number of the people I was queueing with, like me, just wanted to buy tickets. Popcorn sales should be at a separate counter, for God's sake. Now, I know that many of you are going to point out that I could have bought the ticket in advance, on line. Indeed, I could have. But that would have meant paying an extra fee for the privilege. It's expensive enough to see a film as it is, without being stung for trying to avoid the queues which the cinema itself artificially creates. Anyway, having finally got my ticket, I found someone sitting in my allocated seat. Much 'discussion' ensued until it turned out that they were in the wrong bloody screen! I mean, if they thought they were going to watch Avatar, didn't they think it odd that they hadn't been issued with 3-D glasses? Bloody people again!

But what of the film I finally managed to see? Well, it might well have been titled Sherlock Holmes, but I doubt very much that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would have recognised any of his characters. Granted, it was set in Victorian London (very well recreated, in all its filthy glory), and it did involve a 'consulting detective' called Sherlock Holmes who, assisted by his friend Dr Watson, solves crimes which baffle the police. I'm not saying it wasn't entertaining or well made, it was. But it wasn't really a Sherlock Holmes film. That said, its attempt to reinvent Holmes as an action hero isn't as radical as the makers think. Quite a lot of the silents and early talkies featuring the character also tried to recast the character in this way. Indeed, with its plot involving an attempt by a criminal mastermind to destroy the British government, it was reminiscent of some of the World War Two set Basil Rathbone Holmes movies. Moreover, Robert Downey's choice of hat - a battered fedora - also seemed to be borrowed from the 'modernised' Rathbone films. Actually, as recently as the late 1960s there was an attempt to play Holmes as a comic strip action hero, in A Study in Terror, which even described Holmes as the 'original caped crusader' in its publicity. Getting back to Robert Downey, whilst his was an interesting and charismatic interpretation of Holmes, it didn't scream 'intellectual genius' at me. Which, after all, is what the character is meant to be. However, all-in-all it was a reasonably entertaining way to spend a couple of hours.

Holmes, Sweet Holmes

I'm more than a little annoyed. I recently read that the BBC is planning a new Sherlock Holmes series, the twist this time being that it has a contemporary setting. No doubt they feel it can follow in the footsteps of some of their other successful reinventions of classic characters, such as Doctor Who, Robin Hood, Merlin and Jekyll. Now, it isn't the fact that they intend ripping Homes out of his Victorian setting and plonking him down in the modern world that I object, although I'm sure that there are whole legions of hardcore Holmes fans shouting 'sacrilege', even as I type this. Oh no, I actually think it's an idea with considerable merit. After all, until the Basil Rathbone version of the Hound of the Baskervilles in the late 1930s, film adaptations had usually given the stories a contemporary setting and, after the series moved to Universal in the 1940s, so did the Rathbone pictures. Post-war, 'authentic' Victorian settings became the norm. So, it has already been established that a ,modernised' Holmes can work.

No, my problem lies with the fact that it is my bloody idea! I've been banging on about a present-day version of Sherlock Holmes for years now! I had some pretty radical ideas, and I'm telling you now, if in this proposed BBC version Mrs Hudson has her own TV cookery show, or Dr Watson drives a flashy sports car and trades on his association with Holmes o pull the birds, I'm going to be taking legal action! Oh, and let's not forget Watson's stint on Breakfast TV as a phone-in doctor, where he both dispenses medical advice and recruits prospective (female) clients for Holmes, or his attempts to sell his adventures with Holmes to producers as a TV format. And I want to make it quite clear that if they want to get smart and have Watson suffering from a war wound received during his stint as an army medic in Afghanistan, tough! I've just staked that territory out! Obviously, the key to any such treatment would be the portrayal of Holmes himself. Perhaps having him seen struggling with the superstar status Watson's accounts of his exploits have bestowed upon him would be the best approach. Basically, he wants to appear on obscure BBC4 programmes about criminology, but instead keeps getting booked on Jonathon Ross or Graham Norton. You culd also have a sub-plot where he keeps getting offered a job presenting a Time Team-type programme where a team of top detectives try and solve some notorious unsolved murder. But like I said earlier, if the beeb want to use any of these ideas, tough! Still, whatever they do go for would still have to be better than that bloody Holmes film Guy Ritchie is making - Moriarty as a geezer! What the fuck!

Sherlock Holmes and The Whips of Fear (Episode Three)

The Story So Far: Top Victorian Sex Crime Investigators Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson's investigations into the bizarre attacks on the genitalia of nude statues adorning houses of ill-repute lead them to a supplier of sexual accoutrements in London's docklands. Upon entering the warehouse, the pair find themselves confronted by a masked figure wielding a huge phallic club!

I brought up my arm to try and protect myself from the gigantic penis swinging toward my head. However, before it could connect the bizarrely masked figure cried out in pain, dropping the phallus. I looked round to see that Holmes, back on his feet, had hurled a set of heavy iron manacles at my assailant. Before I could grab him, the figure had fled through the warehouses open door.

"An African ceremonial leather dildo," observed Holmes, picking up the weapon with which I had so nearly been bludgeoned. "Stuffed with Water Bison testicles, it can be a deadly weapon in the right hands!"

"What about that poor fellow?" I asked, gesturing toward the prone figure of the man assaulted by the masked attacker. "Were we too late?"

"I'm afraid so, old friend," said Holmes, sadly shaking his head as we looked down at the blood-stained body. "It seems that someone wanted to ensure that we couldn't speak to Mr Ephraim Winkler, the proprietor of this emporium !"

"Then you think that we're on the right trail?" I asked.

"Indeed, Watson," Holmes replied, turning his attention to an office at the far end of the warehouse. "However, it might be that we managed to disturb this fiend before he had a chance to destroy Winkler's sales records - we might yet be able to find out where the statues originated from!"

The office was a shambles, furniture overturned, drawers and filing cabinets ransacked and, most ominously, the fireplace was full of ashes.

"They're still warm - it seems we were too late," declared a crestfallen Holmes, poking the still smouldering hearth with his stick. "I'll venture that all of Winkler's purchase records are destroyed!"

"Perhaps all is not lost, Holmes," I said, as I rummaged through Winkler's drawers. "The purchase records and his supplier lists may be gone, but it seems the attacker missed the sales ledger - if nothing else, we should be able to find out just how many of those infernal statues he supplied, and to whom!"

"Excellent work Watson! But what's this?" enquired Holmes, his attention drawn to something on the floor. "It appears to be a piece of dog crap - and it is still warm!"

"I thought I felt something brush past me as we entered the warehouse," I recalled. "He must have had a dog with him - good God man, what are you doing, have you gone completely insane?"

"My dear fellow, this could prove to be a vital clue," responded Holmes, as he picked up the lump of feaces, rolling it under his nose like a cigar, before wrapping it in his handkerchief and placing it in his jacket pocket. "You will, no doubt, recall my treatise on the subject of canine excrement, in which I showed that it was possible to identify no less than seventy breeds of dog merely from the smell, texture and taste of their droppings! If the animal which left this turns out to be of a unique breed, it may be possible to trace the owner through the records of the Kennel Club! Now, Watson, we must return to Baker Street so that I may thoroughly analyse this evidence!"

Back at Baker Street, Holmes busied himself with his scientific apparatus, subjecting the dog feaces to a series of tests, whilst I sent a telegram to Scotland Yard, informing Lestrade of the latest developments. Within the hour, the Inspector was back in our rooms, which were now filled with an acrid odour and clouds of brown vapour, as Holmes continued his experiments.

"What is that peculiar odour, Dr Watson?" he asked, sniffing the air as he entered.

"Crap, Inspector," I explained.

"No, really, there is a distinct smell in here, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Have you made any progress in your investigations, Inspector?" enquired Holmes, his face lit by a strange putrid glow as he hunched over a bunsen burner, heating up a test-tube full of bubbling liquid.

"I'm afraid not, Mr Holmes. We've still not identified the origin of the statues, but your description of the mask worn by Winkler's murderer tallies with those of the mask worn in the statue maimings! The two crimes are obviously linked!"

"Of course they are Lestrade! The sales ledger we recovered from the warehouse shows that what Winkler described as 'homoerotic sculptures', were sold to two houses of ill-repute other than those already targeted. I propose that you and your men keep the 'Little Olde Shoppe of Titillations' under surveillance, whilst Watson and I do the same at the second establishment. Logically, the fiend will strike at one or other of these next, affording us an opportunity to catch him in the act!" Holmes broke off, inhaling deeply from thte test tube he had been heating, coughing violently before gasping: "Incredible! I've been wrong all along! This excrement - it isn't canine at all! It is most definitely human!"

To Be Continued...

Sherlock Holmes and The Whips of Fear (Episode Two)

The Story So Far: Top Victorian Sex Crime Investigators Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson have their breakfast interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Lestrade. The Scotland Yard man brings news of a series of horrific attacks - all perpetrated in houses of ill-repute. An astounded Holmes and Watson learn that in each case the genitals were snapped off of a sexually explicit sculpture and smashed to pieces!

"Good God, that's astounding," I exclaimed. "You are quite right, Lestrade, it could only be the work of a depraved sex-maniac, possibly with a severe case of penis-envy!"

"Indeed, Watson, that is one explanation," mused Holmes, sucking on his long-stemmed pipe. "But tell me, Lestrade, were all of these sculptures identical, by any chance?"

"That they were, Mr Holmes," the Scotland Yard man concurred. "They were all plaster casts of an original sculpture."

Holmes leant forward intently, fingering the firm rounded bowl of his pipe, before asking: "And what exactly did these sculptures represent, Inspector?" The police detective fingered his collar uncomfortably, before replying to Holmes' enquiry.

"They depicted a pair of male youths engaged in cetain acts," he stuttered, his face reddening. "I've never seen anything like it before. Well, except maybe that time in the municipal steam baths at Bow. Come to think of it there was that time in the changing rooms after the Metropolitan Police-Royal Navy rugger match..."

"When you say 'certain acts', Lestrade, I assume that you mean that they were 'going Greek'? Holmes's question was met by a blank look from the Inspector. "Perhaps they were 'going up the old dirt road', Inspector? 'Building a log cabin?' Playing 'Jacksie Jockey'?"

Lestrade's face lit up in understanding at the last phrase. "That's it precisely! The shattered penises belonged to the one on the receiving end, so to speak. Moreover, both of the figures are masked, making identification impossible!"

"Masked, eh? Could it be that the original models are public figures?" I pondered. "The masks intended to shield them from scandal?"

"I don't know about that Doctor - they appear to be some type of fuzzy-wuzzy ceremonial masks. For all we know that could be standard dress code for these sodomites," Lestrade responded. "Besides I couldn't imagine any gentleman participating in such acts! Personally, I think the masks indicate they were filthy foreign perverts!"

"Perhaps, Inspector," I said. "But the masks surely preclude the possibility of these being personal attacks directed at the model?"

"Not entirely, Watson. Perhaps the model can be identified by other means," observed Holmes cryptically. "Also the fact that the attacks are confined to this particular penis in this particular sculpture, would seem to rule out penis-envy or any other form of sexual madness. No gentlemen, I believe that this is the work of a highly intelligent individual with some sort of close connection with his victim!"

"Could he have contracted a dose of the arse-clap from the man in sculpture, and is symbolically taking his revenge?" I speculated.

"That is one possibility, Watson," said Holmes. "It seems to me that, as the models in the sculpture cannot be identified, then the next logical step is to locate the sculptor. I don't suppose you have any clues as to his identity, Lestrade?"

"Unfortunately not, Mr Holmes," the inspector replied, rising from his seat. "Apparently the sculptures were bought through a third party - some kind of wholesaler that the institutions in question are unwilling to name, for fear that we'll close them down! I'm afraid that we're at a dead end on these terrible attacks! It was too much for me to suppose you could do any more!"

"I fear you are correct, Inspector," said Holmes, rising and escorting Lestrade to the door. "By the way, out of curiosity, what were the premises at which these attacks took place?"

"Madame Whiplash's in Westminster, the 'House of Rubber' on the Edgeware Road and the latest was at Mrs Wackworth's 'Pleasure Palace' in Lambeth," volunteered Lestrade as he left.

"Get your hat and coat, Watson, the game's afoot," Holmes exclaimed as soon as the policeman had departed.

"But I thought you told Lestrade there were no leads?" I enquired, perplexed by my friend's state of agitation. "Is there some significance in the establishment's he mentioned?"

"Indeed, Watson! You will recall that last spring we had cause to visit the 'House of Rubber' in connection with the blackmailing of Lord Lanyard and ascertained that the strap-on used to fatally sodomise young Jenkins the Naval clerk was made of Indian rubber," said Holmes impatiently, adjusting his hat.

"Ah, yes," I recalled. "Lanyard was allergic to India rubber, proving that he could not have worn the murder weapon and that the photographs were faked!"

"Exactly, Watson! I also established that such strap-ons were supplied to the 'House of Rubber' by an importer and wholesaler in the East India docks, which also supplied virtually every other such establishment in central London," he continued. "That, my dear fellow, is where we are headed!"

Within the hour we were knocking on the door of a dingy warehouse in Codpiece Street. "Strange that there's no reply - the place is usually a hive of activity at this time of day," mused Holmes, pushing at the door, which appeared to be unlocked. As the door swung open we were greeted by a horrific sight: a cloaked figure stood over a prone body, with what appeared to be a blood-stained giant penis in one hand. "Quick Watson, we must stop him," cried Holmes, rushing through the door. As I followed I felt something brush past my legs, pushing me off balance. Struggling to stay on my feet, I saw the figure swing his priapic club at Holmes, catching him a glancing blow on the shoulder. As Holmes fell, his assailant turned toward me, and I saw that his face was covered by some kind of ceremonial African mask. Before I could react, the attacker was upon me, swinging his giant penis toward my head!

To Be Continued...

Sherlock Holmes and The Whips of Fear

"Did you enjoy your wank, Watson?" enquired Sherlock Holmes as we sat down to breakfast one grey morning in November.

"Good God Holmes! However did you know that I'd just spent the last five minutes galloping the antelope?" I enquired, once again astonished by my colleague's apparently supernatural powers of deduction. "You surely couldn't have heard me? I went to great trouble to bite down on my bedpost so as to keep my erotic outcries down to acceptable levels!"

"My dear fellow, it is merely an elementary matter of observation," he explained, spearing his kipper. "You will recall that in that business of the Balham Buggerings last summer I was able to show that Cruddocks, the transvestite strangler, had used his feet to hold the rope whilst killing his victims by identifying the marks it left between his big and second toes. I observed similar marks between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand, indicating that you had recently been firmly gripping a tubular object there. This, coupled with the fact that you bought the October edition of Gentleman's Relish yesterday evening, and the smear of jism on your cuff, led me to deduce that you had been milking the moose."

"How absurdly simple, now that you explain it," I concurred, buttering my hot toast. At that moment the doorbell rang. Crossing to the window, Holmes looked down into the street.

"Aha, Watson! It is Lestrade," he exclaimed. "What could have brought him to our door at such an early hour?"

"Undoubtedly another strange case he cannot solve himself," I ejaculated, wiping the table clean before continuing. "Evidently he requires your help again, just as he did last month during the Camden Town Cock Stranglings!"

"Indeed Watson," my companion replied. "An intiguing case if ever there was one. Who could ever forget those chilling words uttered by Hansen the Hermaphrodite upon his arrest: 'I only squeezed it gently, but it turned purple then went limp, guv'nor'?" So saying, Holmes walked to the door and called down to Mrs Hudson to show the Inspector up.

"So Lestrade," said Holmes, as soon as the policeman was seated. "What bizarre occurrence brings you to Baker Street today? Another outbreak of nude pick axe murders in Streatham, perhaps? Or even another sighting of the Brentford Beast - that sex attacker who dresses as an ape and exposes himself to women whilst swing from trees?"

Lestrade shifted uneasily in his seat before replying. "Well, Mr Holmes, it is a crime, a sex crime even, of a very curious nature. I must admit that I hesitated before bringing it to you, but I know how you and Dr Watson, as England's most famous sex crime investigators, relish the bizarre and unusual, like that business of the Copper Birchings last year."

"Very true, Lestrade," Holmes interjected. "You have brought me some of my most unusual cases. But what, exactly, is the nature of this new matter you are bringing to my attention? Murder with one of those new-fangled electrical sex stimulators? Attempted murder with one of those sex stimulators? Horse molesting? Buggery of a cabinet minister by a gang of chimney sweeps at the very least, surely?"

"Ah, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade, sinking back into his chair. "With your expectations so high, I fear I may disappoint you! Nevertheless, although the case has so far not involved murder, molestation or buggery, it does involve a sexual assault, for want of a better term, which has some points which I feel may intrigue you."

"Pray continue, Inspector," Holmes replied, raising his eyebrows and filling his pipe.

"Well, this is the third time in as many days that an assault of this nature has occurred! Each time in a house of ill-repute, each time between the hours of one and two in the morning, and each time witnesses have caught only a fleeting glimpse of the perpetrator!"

"But exactly what, Lestrade, actually happened?" I interjected, frustrated by the Scotland Yard man's obsfucation.

"Well, Doctor, the actual crime is, as I've indicated, rather unusual, to say the least," he responded. "Whilst it is an assault, it is not upon a person, but upon what might be described as a sculpture. A vulgar sculpture depicting an unnatural act! To put it bluntly, Dr Watson, in each case a penis was hacked off of an obscene sculpture and shattered with a hammer! This is clearly the work of a depraved sexual maniac!"

TO BE CONTINUED...