Sixth in a series of reviews. Previously: Diamonds are Forever.

Some power wants me to read these books. I happened across Blood Fever, Charlie Higson’s second Young Bond novel, in a charity shop – much the same way as I found its predecessor, Silverfin (reviewed here). This time, the book hadn’t even officially been published. Given how much I enjoyed both books I feel somewhat guilty that Mr Higson will have earned nothing from me for his labours. But then, given that he’s probably not sure of a bob or two, he probably wouldn’t mind that it went to worthy causes instead.

Anyway, Blood Fever is a good book, and a surprisingly adult one. There’s no sex, and Higson hasn’t gone for the gross-out on the violence, but otherwise it could pretty much pass as a book for adults whose central character just happens to be a teenager. And the writing is solid too: while Silverfin felt like a polished and accomplished book, Higson has clearly hit his stride this time out. Bond, his milieu, and the supporting cast are all drawn solidly and the effect is both compelling and surprisingly convincing. Higson’s careful attention to detail means that this adventure, unlike so many aimed at children, doesn’t require excessive suspension of belief.

One reason for that is his Higson’s vivid descriptions of Eton and Sardinia, which create a strong sense of place out of relatively few words. The secondary characters, too, are described economically but efficiently. There’s a feisty damsel in distress, a pugnacious bad-girl who gives Bond his first kiss, a trusty local comrade and assorted other personnel who fill out Bond’s world without becoming simple functionaries to the plot. Count Ugo Carnifex makes for a satisfying baddie with a detailed and surprisingly gritty backstory; his grim origins are one of the more surprising features of the book.

In fact, Higson’s descriptions are solid enough to make even Count Ugo’s mountain fortress seem plausible enough, and the threat of an international criminal conspiracy, propelled by the Count’s fascist tendencies, doesn’t seem as outlandish as it might. Nor is there any of the science-fictional feel of Silverfin, which helps to ground things further. Nonetheless, it feels like the Bond of Blood Fever is heading more towards the Bond of the movies than of Fleming’s original books – more specifically, towards the Timothy Dalton model.

Although really, Higson has made Bond his own. James is recognizably the same character as his film and literary counterparts, but not slavishly so. There are death-defying stunts; but then there’s also a hint of sadism. Blood Fever includes a torture scene that could have relatively easily been fitted into any of the Fleming novels that I’ve read so far: and James succeeds through his willingness to endure ceaseless physical torment. There’s much more of his inner life than I’ve become accustomed to reading; that makes him more sympathetic, but also makes it harder to see how he will take the path that leads towards a license to kill. But I’m pretty confidence Higson will make it work.

As for the sex: well, I wouldn’t bet against it making a suitably discreet appearance next time round: after all, we still have yet to learn of the housemaid-related indiscretion that got the young Bond thrown out of Eton …

Gregory Benford, who wrote the introduction to my edition of LaFM, recommends skipping the first few chapters. I’ve ignored this advice, since it seems like cheating. I’m not sure if he was right, yet, but there have been some interesting resonances, though: the rise of fascism in Italy (but not Germany); China versus America; entire cities devastated by weapons of mass destruction. I wonder:

— Was Stapledon a genuinely skilled extrapolator?
— Am I projecting significance into his “hits”, which are inevitably outnumbered by “misses”?
— Or were some of the features of contemporary geopolitics more apparent back in 1930 than I realise?

In any case, I have to say this chapter has proved remarkably effective at getting me off to sleep at night. It’s like reading the backstory for an alternate-history novel, rather than the novel itself. And Stapledon’s casting of historical development in terms of (supposed) national characteristics has the potential to become more than mildly irritating if he keeps it up.

LaFM confirmed my memory/preconception of an obsession with scale almost immediately, as the narrator (the conceit being that the book is written through Stapledon by one of the Last Men) sets out a stern exposition on just how incomprehensible the size of his story will be. Which immediately put me in mind of Douglas Adams’ parodic version:

Space is big. You just won’t believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is. I mean, you may think it’s a long way down the road to the chemist’s, but that’s just peanuts to space.

Olaf Stapledon’s Last and First Men has always struck me as being to science fiction what Lord of the Rings is to fantasy – the genre-defining ur-text that sets the ground rules for a generation of future writers. That impression is given some weight by Stapledon’s description of LaFM as an exercise in myth creation, rather than fiction – a description that obviously mirrors Tolkein’s approach. And just as LoTR takes equal credit and blame for the subsequent development of the fantasy genre, so LaFM should for science fiction.

In that respect, I think of LaFM as the progenitor of a kind of scifi that I haven’t really been interested in for a decade or more – the kind of grandiose, didactic work that aims to browbeat the reader into submission through scale, rather than subtlety. After a point, all those cosmological extrapolations seem pointless: once you’ve accepted the concept of unimaginable reaches of space and time, there’s comparatively little point reading randomly speculative variations on the theme. (The emergence of the Dangerous Visions and cyberpunk sets suggests that I’m not alone in that).

Still, it’s anotherbook that represents unfinished business from my childhood. I read it as a preteen, and don’t remember being particularly impressed by it. But one of my friends swears by it: so perhaps I was just too young to appreciate its virtues at the time. Perhaps it’ll be interesting to see where all that cosmic fiction started out; maybe it’ll be a good book in it’s own right. Anyway, I’m going to divert from my usual format for this, and post rolling notes as I go along. Mainly in case I never make it to the end.

Last Term At Malory Towers represents a dramatic, and in many ways unsettling, break with the arc of the series to date. It’s almost as though Blyton had grown frustrated with her self-imposed chronology, cramming in ideas and themes that have barely figured up in the books until now. The result is startlingly anarchic, tearing down the edifice that Blyton has constructed over the previous five books and giving the lie to claims that her work depends on formulaic appeals to base prejudices.

The catalyst for the apocalyptic events of Last Term is the startling announcement from Mary-Lou that she is pregnant - it’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it? - which prokes a schism among the girls, who cannot understand how this has happened – after all, Mary-Lou is not married! One faction—led by Darrell and Sally – holds staunchly that it must have been an immaculate conception; the other, following Alicia and Betty, is equally adamant that something more diabolical is afoot.

“It’s perfectly obvious that this is an abomination! How else could it have happened?” asked Alicia sharply. And it was true that none of the girls could think how timid Mary-Lou could possibly be with child. “Well, I think you’re all being beastly to poor little Mary-Lou,” said Darrell.

The girls quickly divide into rival sects, their opposing perspectives inevitably setting them on a collision course. Darrell’s group seclude Mary-Lou in the sanatorium, the better to prepare her for the birth; Alicia’s followers, meanwhile, accept Betty’s offer and set about creating a stronghold in the West Tower. Both sides try to persuade the other Towers to fall in line; the South Tower girls quickly pledge allegiance to their neighbours in the West, while the East Tower remains independent.

That standoffishness proves their downfall. Darrell and Alica call a summit in the music room, but any hopes of peace are dashed as a heated war of words breaks out. It does not take long for Darrell to snatch Alicia’s pen and smash it underfoot—a clear declaration of hostilities. (To confirm her intentions, she also pushes a first year over a stool). Oh Darrell, that temper will be your downfall! Alicia calls upon the Towers to take sides; when the girls of the East refuse to comply, they meet with a terrible fate, as Alicia’s followers set their Tower on fire; too late, its occupants call on Darrell to help them, but she refuses.

“They could do with learning a lesson!” Darrell thought, as the smell of roasting pork drifted across the quad. “Fancy being so stuck-up as to refuse to take a side!” She decided there and then that no girl from the East Tower would be named to any school team for the rest of the term.

It is at about this point that the teachers, ever watchful, first note that something is going on. Miss Potts is the first upon the scene – and the first to go to her death. Alicia’s upstart cousin June sees opportunity in rising lawlessness and leaps upon the startled Potts; she is followed by a legion of other frustrated girls. Blyton tactfully draws a veil on the ensuing scene.

From there on, the collapse of Malory Towers is all but inevitable as a war breaks out. All sides - including the Southsiders, having broken their pact with Alicia’s Western Front - are hell-bent on recovering Mary-Lou and her unborn child. Pitched battles break out at the entrances to the North Tower, with defenders snatching up make-shift weapons to buy time for Mary-Lou. Lacrosse sticks run with blood; the dorms fill with the dead and dying. Since Matron has been poisoned - after literally getting a taste of her own medicine - there is little medical support for the wounded, and the defenders are outnumbered. There can only be one outcome—or so it seems.

The situation was desperate, Darrell had to admit. Most of the first-formers were gone, and many of the second form. Soon she would have to start sending the older girls to their deaths. And the wound in her side hurt terribly, but not as terribly as the memory of those who had already gone: Daphne, redeemed at last; Connie and Ruth, reunited in death; and of course, Felicity. She had truly served Malory Towers will.

But in a surprise twist, salvation (or damnation?) arrives in the most unlikely of forms: Gwendoline—silly, sentimental Gwendoline; proud, vain Gwendoline; Gwendoline who has spent the two terms since In The Fifth assiduously cultivating the black arts. And Gwendoline is not alone: by her side is the mewling, crazed Maureen, while the unexpected third member of the coven is the American, Zerelda, who has not forgotten her time at Malory Towers during her career as a B-Movie queen (having shot to fame in “Girls’ School Hellcats!”). Gwendoline, so long a hapless figure of fun, finally has the power to control the other girls’ destiny. It takes her no more than a few words and gestures to silence the screaming masses, scorching the earth around the North Tower.

Whose side will she pick? On the one side, there is Darrell: the model Malory Towers girl, everything that Gwendoline is not. On the other, Alicia, whose sharp tongue ensured that hours, days and weeks of torment. Both sides lobby for her favour; but Gwendoline spurns them all. And in the end, she finally proves that she did learn something at Malory Towers after all. “A plague on all your houses,” she screeches, before setting Malory Towers ablaze. That, inevitably, wakes The Grayling, who rises, shrieking, from the pyre, her eyes glowing and her talons outstretched. The final battle has begun.

To say more would be a disservice to Blyton’s carefully constructed finale. The narrative is relatively sparse, but rich in symbolism and filled with potent imagery. Who can forget Mam’zelle Rougier, her face blackened with soot, blade clamped between her yellowed teeth, promising to “streep ze fat” from the squealing Mam’zelle Dupont? Or the scene in which Bill and Clarissa ride their horses, manes ablaze, to snatch Mary-Lou from June? Mavis, singing her final solo amid the ruins of the North Tower? Or Darrell and Sally, united at last as the flames lick ever closer? Last Term; last call: a fitting conclusion to the series.

Oh, all right then.

Sixth and last in a series of reviews. Previously: In The Fifth At Malory Towers.
Contains spoilers.

And so we find ourselves at the end of the Malory Towers series. Has it been worthwhile? I’ve spent probably a day of my life on these books now - perhaps more - and while I’ve stayed the course, I’d have bailed after Third Form if I’d known then what I know now. That said, I’ve had a morbid curiosity about how the series ends, so I’d probably have read at least this book, anyway.

Have the reviews been worthwhile? Well, I take some consolation from the fact that George Orwell thought the male version of this genre worth examining, and it if was worth his time, it’s certainly worth mine. And trying to marshal one’s thoughts on a work of art - even a banal one - is always an interesting exercise. As I’ve suggested before, it’s been challenging trying to separate genre convention from authorial idiosyncracy: it’s interesting to see how my assessment of the books contrasts with Laura Canning’s; she’s clearly much more knowledgeable about the girls’ school story genre and forgiving (accepting?) of its conventions.

To the book. Last Term is, in many ways, the ultimate reason for this whole sorry exercise: sating my decades-old curiosity about what did happen, in the end, to Darrell and company. In some ways, the answer to that question is spectacularly banal. There are no great surprises and only one real upset. In fact, the original cast have grown so institutionalised and staid as to be not worth writing about; instead, Blyton passes the baton to the younger girls introduced over the past few books.

But while the narrative conclusion is so much blah, Last Term does provide a definitive reiteration of the themes lain out the earlier books. Unfortunately, as has now been spelt out at considerable length, I find most of these at least mildly repellent. Things don’t start out too badly, with the It Girls showing unexpected maturity in dealing with their “problem” schoolmates. They even consider looking for the good in their fellow pupils before writing them off! (A bit late, given that they’re all about to leave, but still.)

Could Amanda be right? Had their dislike and disapproval of the cheeky, don’t-care June prevented them from seeing that she had the promise of a first-class games-player?”

Well, duh. Even more amazingly, the inmates acknowledge that experience and ability could be of just possible be of more use than time served in Malory Towers. Sally goes in two pages from:

“You’re a new girl, Amanda. But you seem to forget it. You can’t talk to us like that, and you must realise that Moira knows more than you do about our girls.”

to acknowledging that perhaps Amanda, an Olympic-class sportswoman, does, in fact, have a better chance at recognizing and nurturing atheletic talent. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last. The old guard still gain the upper hand by “tricking” her into mentoring June.

The ensuing Amanda-June storyline is one of the more satisfying in the Malory Towers series; both are strong characters, and their relationship is fractious and ultimately doomed – until Amanda over-reaches herself and has to be rescued by June. This is yet another repetition of the now wearyingly familiar Mild Peril and Redemption scenario of earlier books. Sure enough, June and Amanda are reconciled.

The sting is the price that Amanda pays for her hubris: she is crippled, possibly permanently, and we’re given to understand that her Olympic dreams have been snuffed out. This is the story of Mavis, from Third Form, redux: talent is not to be trusted, and invites punishment.

No one said, or even thought, that it served Amanda right for her conceit, and for her continual boasting of her prowess. Not even the lower-formers said it, though none of them had liked Amanda. Her misfortune roused their pity.

But despite this, it feels very much as though the reader is being invited to rejoice in (or perhaps learn from) Amanda’s humbling. Why else the authorial decision to include such a fate? This invitation to schadenfreude is still more evident in Gwendoline’s plot arc. In Last Term, as in Upper Fourth, Gwendoline is genuinely thoughtless and self-centred – the promised character development of In The Fifth having seemingly evaporated along the way. Still, her comeuppance seems disproportionate: condemned (as she, and the others see it) to a life of drudgery. I can’t help but think the punishment doesn’t fit the crime.

But the most obvious, and telling, thematic loop is the story of Jo. Class has been a relatively understated issue in the Malory Towers series – with the exception of Ellen, in Second Form, the reader has been left to simply assume that most of the girls are from relatively privileged backgrounds, and that Malory Towers exists to produce the kind of women who could be relied upon to lie back and think of England.

We’re given a bit of a hint of this with the introduction of Suzanne, a truly redundant addition to the cast whose only purpose appears to be tedious French-accent jokes and a reminder that foreigners don’t have what it takes to run an Empire. But the rules of engagement are made more explicit with the introduction of Jo, the daughter of a nouveau-riche vulgarian. It’s made pretty obvious that this can only end in tears. Jo has only money to show off; she hasn’t had a proper upbringing and lacks the moral fibre to fit in at Malory Towers:

Miss Grayling sighed with relief. “I’m sorry,” she said to the other parents. “It was an experiment, taking Jo—but I’m afraid it’s not an experiment that’s going to work out well. We’ve had other experiments before, as you know – taking girls that don’t really fit in, hoping they will, later.”

Blyton repeatedly pins the blame for Jo’s failure to adapt, as other “experiments” have in the past, on her parents’ irresponsibility. Her father, in particular, appears to have no idea about the importance of proper conduct. On the one hand, this seems reasonable; and it touches a chord with modern concerns. We’ve been shown something similar with Gwendoline and her doting mother. But on the other, one is left wondering why this particular scenario. Why are Jo’s parents irresponsible?

Mother says I’ve let the family name down [writes Jo]. All I can say is, it’s a good thing it’s only ‘Jones’.

Jo certainly does makes a bit of a mess – but others, notably Daphne, have been forgiven greater sins. There are mitigating circumstances, and you could make a case for leniency. But that doesn’t happen, and Jo’s misdemeanours instead draw the ultimate sanction: expulsion. There’s no place for her kind at Malory Towers.

So what did happened to Malory Towers’ more favoured daughters?

Well, Darrell, of course, grew up to be, er, Enid Blyton’s second husband. There’s some amusing speculation about what happened to the rest of the characters here. There was also a series of peculiar (or perhaps that should be “queer”) “sequels” written under Blyton’s name in Germany, in which Darrell (or rather, “Dolly”) has returned to Malory Towers as a teacher. That certainly seems the most appropriate scenario; perhaps she eventually deposed The Grayling to become head. And wrote some childrens’ books on the side.

But of course, the real question is: What happened to Malory Towers? Rather like Hill House, it’s one of the most important characters in the series. Well, it’s clear that Blyton is setting up Malory Towers: The Next Generation. There’s Felicity, who is for most purposes Darrell Junior; there’s June, who’s as gifted-but-wilful as her elder cousin Alicia; and analogues can be found for the rest.

And no doubt their children will attend Malory Towers, as their mothers did before them – trapped in an unending cycle of kindly, but determined conservativism and prejudice. That conjures up the image of Malory Towers self-perpetuating, endlessly full of identical girls going through the identical rites of passage, walking like repeated ghosts through its echoing corridors until the end of time.

Malory Towers was here before any of us; and it will be here when we are all gone.

Or will it?

Fifth in a series of reviews. Previously: Upper Fourth At Malory Towers. Next: Last Term At Malory TowersContains spoilers.

In The Fifth At Malory Towers follows on directly from Upper Fourth in plot, characters and themes—so directly, in fact, that I’d be unsurprised if they turned out to be two halves of a much longer original. (I gather that Blyton’s more, er, enthusiastic manuscripts have been thus divided in some other cases). Nor do they read quite like the earlier Malory Towers books – whether because Blyton was consciously writing for an older audience, or simply because she was feeling stroppy, I can’t say.

Stylistically, however, there’s been a shift. In The Fifth builds on Upper Fourth’s harder edge, moving further from the straightforward dramas of the earlier books towards the more nuanced conflicts of a cast of characters whose behaviour isn’t always easily pegged as good or bad. There’s almost - almost - a tacit acknowledgement that in real life, human behaviour isn’t entirely determined by a few personality traits, but also by social contexts and situations.

Of course, since we’re in Blytonia, this trend only goes so far; all this character work is fomented by a familiar mix of prejudice, judgmentalism and plain old-fashioned bullying. The best example is probably the fate of new girl Maureen. I know virtually nothing about the development of girls’ schools in the postwar period (you’ll be surprised to hear) but I would guess that Maureen is Blyton’s way of warning of the dangers of a liberal education. Having arrived from a more relaxed rival school (now defunct), Maureen goes off the rails almost immediately:

“I must be friendly!” she said to herself. “I must keep my own end up, I must impress these girls!” So she chattered away in a light, airy voice, and didn’t seem to realize that new girls should be seen and not heard! It was only when the others very pointedly began to talk to one another, turning away from her until she found that no-one at all was listening to her, that she stopped.

God forbid that a new arrival should seek to, y’know, make friends or anything. She’ll be wanting to choose her own name next! Nor is there much sympathy when she admits to missing her family and old friends. So much sentimental stuff and nonsense!

“Better get over being sensitive then,” said Darrell, shortly. In her experience people who went round saying they were sensitive wanted a good shaking up and, if they were lower school, needed to be laughed out of it.

Unfortunately, Maureen doesn’t take the hint (and she does turn out to be a bit of a big-headed bore). Girls and mistresses alike agree that her old school must have been better at promoting its pupils’ self-esteem than teaching them How To Behave. That, of course, feeds directly into a controversy that’s still being vigorously debated today, but I’m not touching it with a ten-foot pole. Anyway, the cure is obvious: be even less nice to Maureen:

“And about this being unkind to Maureen. Sometimes unkindness is a short-cut to putting something right. I guess that’s what Maureen wants—a dose of good hard common sense administered sharply. And that’s what she’ll get if she doesn’t stop this silly nonsense of hers.”

And thus a plot is hatched to take Maureen down a peg or two: or to put it more plainly, to be a complete bunch of bitches in the hope of destroying her utterly. The girls encourage her to do endless work on the upcoming school pantomime, having already decided to reject it laughingly as soon as Maureen submits it. Not only will this be a big jolly jape, but Maureen will learn her lesson about, er, being keen to help out.

I mean, honestly? Am I just being a hopelessly silly and sentimental liberal here? Or is this not a completely bastard thing to do? Why not just throw her down a well and tell her that unless she rubs the lotion on her skin, she’ll get the hose again? As it is, the plot comes off without a hitch, and Maureen is duly devastated. Good job, girls.

Darrell, in a rare outbreak of fairness (being Head of Games must have gone to her head), ventures the thought that this might have been an excessively spiteful thing to have done – but maddeningly, Blyton fails to follow up. That moment of doubt aside, it’s never referred to again. And Maureen simply drops out of the story altogether, except inasmuch as she is used as a pawn in the girls’ tireless war against another lame duck: dear old Gwendoline Mary, who starts the term with fine intentions:

Gwendoline felt pleased to be back. Of course, it was nice to be at home with her mother and Miss Winter and be waited on hand and foot, and be fussed over—but it was fun at school. She made up her mind to be sensible and join in everything this term.

Quite why she feels this way is a mystery to me. Perhaps she’s just looking forward to getting back to her stash, or something. In any case, she doesn’t have any chance to do anything about it, because she’s immediately lumbered with Maureen as her “special friend”. This proves to be an education: Gwen’s Eyes Are Opened to how terrible she has been, and she resolves to Improve Herself. Presumably we’ll see whether this resolution holds in the next book.

If I were her, though, I wouldn’t bother, because let’s face it, fitting in at Malory Towers basically means cutting yourself off from everything you might hold dear. Unless lacrosse is close to your heart, of course. We get the tail-end of the disturbing story of twins Connie and Ruth, which establishes that loyalty to the Form trumps all other attachments, even blood:

“I know you’re my twin and we’ve always been together,” said Ruth, in an unnecessarily loud voice. “but I’m in the fifth now and you’re in the fourth. You can’t come tagging after a fifth-former, you know that. Leave me alone and clear out!”

We also find out what happened to Alicia’s upstart cousin June (whose story arc fizzled into nothing in the last book); it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but no change there, really. Darrell’s sister Felicity presses on with her efforts to become a complete clone of her sister (except she doesn’t beat up any other girls in the music rooms. Well, there’s time). We’re introduced to bossy-boots Moira, who is unusually fortunate in being a secondary character who gets to sort out her own problems, rather than being forcibly sorted out by the agency of others; and also to her fellow sixth-form hold-back, Catherine, who couldn’t be more of a doormat without writing “Welcome” on her head, and is duly pilloried for it.

For all that Malory morality is growing ever more questionable, In The Fifth is a much better read than Upper Fourth. The girls’ efforts to stage a pantomime give direction to the book, while the rising tide of suspicion and resentment supports a kind of junior Murder She Wrote scenario (yes, I know, how exciting) when Moira starts receiving poison-pen letters. Is it Darrell, the frustrated writer? Alicia, the offended prima donna? Or even Moira’s own jealous sister Bridget? (Who cares, you ask? Well, that’s a jolly heartless thing to say).

Of course, the panto is a triumph, the culprit is unmasked, all is super and smashing at Malory Towers. The disaffected and downtrodden are forgotten, left to lurk in dark corners of the school as the It Girls rejoice in their triumph:

“This is about the most exciting thing I’ve ever done in my life, Sally,” Darrell said. “You know—I shouldn’t be surprised if I don’t turn out to be a writer, one of these days!”

God help us all.

So Paramount Comedy was too chickenshit to show this episode of South Park in the UK, and decided to show this one … on the same day that this happened. Oh dear.

This is the episode of South Park that UK residents (like me) weren’t supposed to see, thanks to Tom Cruise throwing a hissy fit after its US airing. (Allegedly.) But alas, putting the fear of ElRon into a TV channel no longer suffices in these days of the interweb, which has made it possible to watch all manner of suppressed material. Here, say, or here. Or here. Or you could even download your very own copy on one those fancy file-sharing thingies, as endorsed by South Park’s creators! (Bonus irony points: The Paramount Comedy Channel is currently promoting South Park in the UK by claiming that no other channel “B as brave as we B”. Oh yeah, that’ll be it.)

Anyway, in this episode, Stan is introduced to the Church of Scientology, whereupon he’s told that he’s “one messed-up kid”. But his high score on a Scientologist gizmo leads him to be identified in short order as the reincarnation of ElRon himself. Hijinks ensue, notably an amusing exposé of Scientology’s deeply goofy teachings (complete with the helpful on-screen caption “This Is What Scientologists Actually Believe”, for those whose minds may be understandably boggled by the story of Xenu and his fleet of space-borne DC8s).

Our Tom might have been offended by this stuff, but was probably more so by the scene in which South Park Tom asks for Stan/ElRon’s thoughts on his career. Stan offers up a resounding “meh”, at which South Park Tom flees into Stan’s closet. Cue much hilarity as many well-wishers fail to persuade him to “come out of the closet”, including John Travolta, Nicole Kidman and R Kelly. (If, like me, you don’t understand the inclusion of the last, or why he keeps pulling out a gun, the answers you seek are here; and you can watch the whole scene here.)

Anyway, Stan decides that the Church of Scientology shouldn’t make money out of helping people, at which point the wheels come off the wagon. The head of the Scientologists reveals that making money is the whole point of the exercise (a nod to the dispute over Scientology’s legal status). Interesting the Scientology boss isn’t named: presumably someone was watching the libel-meter, after all. The organization’s predeliction for lawsuits is lampooned in the concluding scene as massed Scientologists threaten to Stan for defaming their “religion”.

The final moments see South Park Tom (freshly out of the closet) join the dissenters: “I’ll sue you in England!” he cries. (Oh, the irony). “Go ahead! I’m not scared of you! Sue me!” rejoins Stan—which is the cue for the credits, in which a sly gag sees everyone on the show named as either “John” or “Jane Smith”. This would have been an above-average episode of South Park anyway, but the overlap with reality, and consequent edginess, made it twice as funny. Apart from the bit where a millionaire filmstar gets to determine international TV programming and attempts to suppress free speech without any form of judicial mandate. That’s not really funny at all.

Well, Patrick Stewart, more or less. He usually provides value for money. But also because I quite like the premise of a decent thriller based around science (bioscience?), and creator Stephen Gallagher has pedigree.

First episode’s focus on cloning was a bit old-hat, but I liked the characters and the direction. Next week’s - dealing with an outbreak of Ebola-type disease - could be interesting.