#deadwent shrimpling, mocker of sacred robes (derwents) wrote in cultureic, @ 2016-03-10 20:32:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | ! media: wizvis, derwent shimpling |
[This week, he’s stone-cold sober.] DS: And just a few days ago, we received reports of some disturbances on the set of Totboltwax. [#ToTBoLTUAaACS flashes at the bottom of the screen, and Derwent clears his throat.] Sorry, I mean Twins of Terror, Bodies of Lies, The Unauthorised Alecto and Amycus Carrow Story. Isn’t that a mouthful? [He’s almost visibly gritting his teeth throughout the broadcast, making jokes about haunted sets and disgruntled ghosts. It’s all tame and banal. But after the commercial break, when the camera comes back… he’s dressed in full Death Eater garb. There is no live audience anymore; he shooed them all out, just in case. The implacable mask stares at the camera for a moment, then Derwent pulls the hood down, skimming the mask from his face.] DS: Hello, wizarding Britain. The reason I came out in that godawful getup is to remind you that, beneath these damnable symbolic hoods and masks, the Death Eaters are only human. Anyone who knows me personally—behind this suit, behind the moustache—knows that I have a very strict network policy about what I’m allowed to say, what I’m allowed to joke about. I haven’t exactly obeyed this policy to the letter, much to the chagrin of my poor producers. [a tight smile] Love you, Quentin, Emilia, Morgan. But to tell you the truth, I’m tired. I am tired and I’m angry and sick of fear. [There’s a distant buzzing and squawking in his ear. He rips his earpiece out and tosses it to the floor. He also removes the iconic moustache which usually accompanies the broadcasts.] I’m not advocating being an idiot, like me. I still advocate healthy wariness. But you must resist, even if it’s just in the quiet of your own head, in the privacy of your own home, your thoughts, your conversations with friends. If we all shove our heads under the pillows and in the sand, then we actively let this happen, let our world sink into a culture of fear and complicity. We forget our losses. Montrose and Ballycastle, where my daughter died at the age of nineteen. My daughter, who did nothing. [Beat.] We forget the Moon Months, the ruthless werewolf campaign against Muggleborns and Muggles. The murder of the Boneses, of Enid Macmillan, of parents and loved ones, of countless Muggleborns killed or kidnapped. Children killed before Hogwarts, for the mere sin of receiving a letter and being born with magic, just as you are, as we all are. Multiple attacks and murders at Christmas, including my friend, Florence Abercrombie, likely just for the crime of making people laugh. But it’s not funny anymore, Britain, and I find myself utterly incapable of joking any longer. And we don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about it unless behind anonymous Hooters or anonymous radio programmes—and Merlin bless those Hooters and programmes and the Order of the Phoenix, by the by, because we are just too damned afraid. Too afraid to say his name, even, and that’s giving him far too much credit. Voldemort. There you go. I’ve said it. We need to puncture this spell they’ve wrought around their figurehead. Words are power, and calling him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is giving him more power than he deserves. Voldemort. The beginning of this war coincided with the WizVis gala, eleven years ago. Forty-seven dead, ladies and gents. I remember that number, because I was there, and because this nascent medium has apparently struck so much terror in the heart of our purists. When all we want to do is entertain. Every night, on your tellies, a force to make you laugh wildly and think critically. And tell me, what’s so wrong with that? Why did the Death Eater cross the road? Because he was apparently so fucking terrified of technology that he would quake in his boots to get away from it, that he would murder innocent people over pittances. Come on. Leave your medieval cave, let the light in, and it won’t ruin you. I promise. [Derwent holds up his hand, a gesture in a pinky-swear between himself and the viewer.] Anyway. So that’s me and tonight’s monologue. Derwent Shimpling. Signing off. It’s been a pleasure hosting you, Britain. Good night, and good luck. And remember: don’t let the bastards get you down. Whatever happens. Don’t get afraid. Get angry. [Roll credits.] |