For a short while there, I thought I'd glimpsed a tiny wobbly crack in the universe.
Watching Being Human, BBC3's supernatural dramcom about a werewolf and a vampire and a ghost sharing a house in Bristol*, I am almost convinced from my standard dislike of the vampire in fiction as an aristocrat rockstar bullshit.
My personal sympathies tend to lie more with the dirty, punkrock spittle of the werewolf or the democratic dead-eyed slump of the zombie. Vampires are poseur fucks. They literally suck.
However, my interest in things toothy was piqued by one Annabel Scholey, who plays a genuinely sexy vampirixen. Dark bob, chewable cheeks, heaving cleave. This however is not the story. 'Specially since she been finished by a table leg through the bosom anyway. The story is that she had seemingly not been recognised by the interweb.
I could find little or no trace of the little lady. Tiny pieces of the corner of my mind began to drift toward the ceiling like dark grey smudges rising from a bonfire. How could this be? Something had become loose at the hinges in the universe. Some graven law was rubbing away before my keyboard-clacking fingers.
Then I realised that her name was spelt wrong. History was denied, but there was a press shot to be admired.
Your pal, Coc x
* Not even a squat, which seems terribly law-abiding.