The problem, in the main, with Clara slapping the Doctor is that it didn’t go far enough. Why settle on slapping a man when you can rupture the time vortex and use it to eliminate the very existence of men? The mind boggles.
The less you eat, drink and buy books; the less you go to the theatre, the dance hall, the public house; the less you think, love, theorise, sing, paint, fence, etc., the more you save – the greater becomes your treasure which neither moths nor rust will devour – your capital. The less you are, the less you express your own life, the more you have, i.e., the greater is your alienated life, the greater is the store of your estranged being.
God, I love the 1844 manuscripts. I don’t believe there is any serious rupture in his thought, and that what you get in Capital is a project stemming from the mature and refined version of essentially the same philosophy expounded in 1844.
‘Suspect Device’ by Stiff Little Fingers is my new jam.
So come on then interwebs, where are my props for being so fucking fair and balanced and shit, huh? I posted something positive about Moffat today. On my proper blog. I was expecting homages and floral tributes.