I'm off saving the fucking planet; what the fuck are you doing? Leave me a message and I'll get back to you when I'm crying tears of boredom.

Click here to send me a private message if you haven't got the fucking bollocks to post it here. Afraid your mummy's going to see it, are you?

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[Forward-dated to sometime around midnight on Musical Flood Day 1. It's been a long and humiliating day for Malcolm Tucker and he's cranky, and hanging out up on deck alone. Or so he thinks. And before long, a voice rises in song...]

( It's kind of like Susan Boyle, only really not. )

[Anyone up on deck or in the gardens or whatever? You totally heard him, whether he knows it or not. Get 'im.]

[Anyone on either side of Malcolm's room (level 7, room 5) will have heard him crashing about in confusion—door opening and shutting a few times, occasional expletives as he goes back through the archives and discovers how much time he's lost, etc. Then he posts the following text entry.]

How the fuck is a man supposed to know what's going on and make any fucking progress when he keeps involuntarily fucking disappearing like a fucking B-movie plot device?

[Private to Claire]
Back like a fucking bad penny or something. How you been, love?

[Private to Damon]
The fuck? Last time we talked you were saying you didn't know anything about Rex getting his arse killed, and now you're confessing?

What the fuck else is going on here anyway?

[Malcolm was en route from the men's bathroom to his room when the flood hit. Now there's a really grumpy (handsomely salt-and-pepper patterned) common European adder (Vipera berus) slithering along the halls. To humans it will sound like he's hissing a lot, but any animals will hear a first-class Malciavellian stream of profanities. Open spam; harass him at will! His eventual destination is the kitchen. Also, I know I owe scheming tags to a bunch of folks; sorry for my fail! I will get to them as soon as I can, promise.]

[Malcolm's been awake for the last few hours and doing nothing but reading through all the postings he's missed while in his hiatus coma. Colour him gobsmacked.]

Right.

So, this sort of thing happen often around here? Go for a quick lie-down and wake up a fucking week later?

...

Glad to see you fucks made it back from the Bank Holiday of the Living Dead, anyhow. Really fucking glad I missed out on it too

ADDED LATER: ( Private to the Baroness )


[OOC: And with this, I am officially back from hiatus. Hello to all the new folks who arrived while I was away!]

Okay, any of you fucking party-crashers know who won the 2010 general election in the UK?

[OOC: Feel free to fourth-wall the crap out of him. He's overdue for figuring out that Tom Davis is the fictional inhabitant of Downing Street, not Gordon Brown or Blair.]

Youth fucking wasted on the young my fucking arse.

[Private to Claire]
Did I fucking hear right? About the warden thing?

[The camera clicks on revealing Malcolm, no longer bespectacled and looking absolutely fucking awful, like he just spent the whole night pacing and cursing in his cabin. Which he did. He starts to say something, then scrubs his hands over his face.]

Fucking fuck it.

[And he reaches out and slaps the camera off. If anyone responds, his responses will be in text only.]

[OOC: Malcolm's Masterworld Daily Briefings? Are all publicly visible to anyone who feels like backtracking in his public journal entries. He doesn't know it yet.]