One would assume that those working for a secret organisation would live their lives accordingly; living secret lives in secret underground locations, with no dealings to ‘normal people’. One would even be forgiven for thinking their wardrobe ranged in colour from charcoal to black. But the truth is; Torchwood isn’t like that. Well, apart from the clothes.
If you asked Captain Jack, their enigmatic boss, he’d say it was because Torchwood didn’t follow conventions; that they were ‘outside the government, beyond the police’. He’d try to stay aloof, preserving that image those foreign to Cardiff have of Earth’s protectors, providing they know about Torchwood. Which most of them don’t, so it’s irrelevant.
But in reality, no-one can survive like that, let alone an organisation dependant on the co-operation of their civilians. You’ve got to go out into the world. Obviously, to save it, but because they need stuff. Basic stuff, like stationary, coffee, loo roll. It’s strange, thinking of this invincible agency, who fight aliens and demons on an everyday basis, needing to buy pens and toilet paper. It makes them a bit more accessible, a little less distant.
Though, obviously, they don’t go parading around telling everyone yes, that piece of paper will soon be emblazoned with the Torchwood logo. They still hide their identity. As far as the lady that runs the stationary shop is aware, Ianto Jones is the young man that works in the Information Centre down by the Plass. Not an agent involved in almost every major spate of deaths and unsolved anomalies in Cardiff in the last three years. Gwen Cooper’s just ‘that police lady who got promoted’. The nature of this promotion sparks some gossip, naturally: ‘Special Ops they say. All hours of the day and night’ - ‘Her poor husband never sees her y’know.’ — ‘Such a shame.’ No-one ever knew Tosh, and that’s how it’s remained. Owen Harper’s still active in his one-man-mission to shag the entire female population of Wales, and not doing too badly by all accounts. Jack may be with Ianto, but he too has had his fair share of Wales’ finest. Only they don’t remember.
RetCon does of course help tremendously in their battle to remain unknown. I’ve had a taste of it myself, but thanks to some freak of nature, it didn’t stick. Which is how I’m able to share this information with you, along with the aid of my trusty laptop. And the interweb of course. Though I’m sure Ianto will be watching me type these words, he’ll notify Jack and I’ll receive a little visit. Ending with a dose of RetCon, which he knows won’t work, though he tries anyway. But for the other nine hundred and ninety nine million other cases, RetCon does it’s job. People forget they ever knew anything about Torchwood, forget that handsome man they were dining with, forget why broken glass lays glinting around them, why their friends and family and countless others are dead. It’s tragic, in a certain way. Cardiff’s apparently had a major surge in amnesia recently; the doctor’s are bewildered. Every time it appears on the news, I stifle a giggle.
I’m not the only one who knows, or suspects, something is up with Torchwood. If you search around a bit, you find hundreds of people who’ve encountered the organisation. Many of their lives have been ripped apart. There’re countless sites and forums on the internet discussing theories and such on who they are, what they do, how Jack learnt to shag like he does. It’s amazing really, the sheer amount of people Torchwood have dealt with. That SUV is the most-seen vehicle in Cardiff. And yet, somehow, the truth is barely scratched at. No-one knows what really happens.
It truly shocks me. Of course, there are those who speculate that it’s ‘something out of this world, something supernatural’. But they’re labelled nutters. Like that poor Eugene bloke. Nice guy, we chatted sometimes. He once asked me what I knew about Torchwood. Perhaps I should have taken a career in acting, because he believed me when I answered with random trivia I had gleaned from the forums. And that’s what this all comes down to really, in my opinion. The façade of normality.
None of the five members of Torchwood ever studied acting at school. Well, Jack may have, but he’s never mentioned it at any of our ‘encounters’. None of the current team’s predecessors learnt more than the basic requirement either, dating right back. And yet they spend every minute of every day of their lives putting on this front, pretending they’re normal human beings, living boring lives in which aliens exist only on the television and in books. I was never any good at acting — you could practically read the lies on my face as I spoke them. But that Ianto Jones…man, he’s one good actor. I truly believed he was from the National Board of Tourism when he turned up at my office and enquired as to the location of certain classified files. Honestly, I swear Jack does it just to irritate me. But the rest of them are just the same.
It must be the acting that maintains that shroud of mystery, ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t their subtlety. I don’t think ‘Jack’ and ‘subtlety’ have ever been used in the same sentence, unless the words ‘doesn’t have any’ sit between them. The others are a little less free with words, but still. Subtlety = not their strong point.
Does acting count as an artform? Because it should. Well, it should with Torchwood. The network of lies and deceit is truly remarkable, almost beautiful to an observer. Though that may just be the liar. If anyone ever found Jack ugly, I think the world may implode. But the beauty assists with the deceiving. No one argues with a face like that. And Ianto’s not too bad either, I’ll admit. Yes Ianto, you read that right. And no, I’ve not been taken over by aliens. Jack's taught me to appreciate a pretty face. I can imagine your quirked eyebrow. Ah, the pleasures of innuendo.
If my rough calculations are correct, by now Ianto will have informed Jack I’m typing a piece about Torchwood, Jack will have sighed and complained about my being a pain in his rear end, jumped in the SUV and be somewhere near to my place of abode. Sorry it’s not up to your standards of precision, Mighty Teaboy of Torchwood. So I’ll wrap up today’s musings on that supposedly-secret-organisation-that’s-as-bloody-obvious-as-an-elephant-in-a-china-shop. There is one reason, possibly two, as to their continued invisibility, despite their staring-you-in-the-face existence. Number one: the level of their acting skills are to a degree that everyone believes their cover stories. Despite the fact they regularly turn up covered in blood and gunk and whatever other fluids the alien of the day has coated them in. Or maybe it’s Jack's ability in bed. Who knows.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Though why he has to break my door down, god only knows. He could just ring the doorbell like a normal person. Did I just really type that? I must add normal to my ‘list of words never used in a sentence with the word Jack’. Aw, he’s so adorable when he’s angry. Does he get like this with you Ianto? It’s rather a turn-on isn’t it?
Another mental note; never let Jack read over my shoulder. The only thankful thing is that he’ll be finished here soon. Doesn’t want to hang around now you’ve told him that delivery of special blend has arrived. I’ve never seen a man get so horny over coffee. Actually, he asks if you can put a cuppa on. Oh dear, must dash, he’s about to ‘operate’ my new coffee machine. The world would be much simpler if Captain Jack Harkness could just keep his desires to himself.
This is Idris Hopper, signing out.
If you asked Captain Jack, their enigmatic boss, he’d say it was because Torchwood didn’t follow conventions; that they were ‘outside the government, beyond the police’. He’d try to stay aloof, preserving that image those foreign to Cardiff have of Earth’s protectors, providing they know about Torchwood. Which most of them don’t, so it’s irrelevant.
But in reality, no-one can survive like that, let alone an organisation dependant on the co-operation of their civilians. You’ve got to go out into the world. Obviously, to save it, but because they need stuff. Basic stuff, like stationary, coffee, loo roll. It’s strange, thinking of this invincible agency, who fight aliens and demons on an everyday basis, needing to buy pens and toilet paper. It makes them a bit more accessible, a little less distant.
Though, obviously, they don’t go parading around telling everyone yes, that piece of paper will soon be emblazoned with the Torchwood logo. They still hide their identity. As far as the lady that runs the stationary shop is aware, Ianto Jones is the young man that works in the Information Centre down by the Plass. Not an agent involved in almost every major spate of deaths and unsolved anomalies in Cardiff in the last three years. Gwen Cooper’s just ‘that police lady who got promoted’. The nature of this promotion sparks some gossip, naturally: ‘Special Ops they say. All hours of the day and night’ - ‘Her poor husband never sees her y’know.’ — ‘Such a shame.’ No-one ever knew Tosh, and that’s how it’s remained. Owen Harper’s still active in his one-man-mission to shag the entire female population of Wales, and not doing too badly by all accounts. Jack may be with Ianto, but he too has had his fair share of Wales’ finest. Only they don’t remember.
RetCon does of course help tremendously in their battle to remain unknown. I’ve had a taste of it myself, but thanks to some freak of nature, it didn’t stick. Which is how I’m able to share this information with you, along with the aid of my trusty laptop. And the interweb of course. Though I’m sure Ianto will be watching me type these words, he’ll notify Jack and I’ll receive a little visit. Ending with a dose of RetCon, which he knows won’t work, though he tries anyway. But for the other nine hundred and ninety nine million other cases, RetCon does it’s job. People forget they ever knew anything about Torchwood, forget that handsome man they were dining with, forget why broken glass lays glinting around them, why their friends and family and countless others are dead. It’s tragic, in a certain way. Cardiff’s apparently had a major surge in amnesia recently; the doctor’s are bewildered. Every time it appears on the news, I stifle a giggle.
I’m not the only one who knows, or suspects, something is up with Torchwood. If you search around a bit, you find hundreds of people who’ve encountered the organisation. Many of their lives have been ripped apart. There’re countless sites and forums on the internet discussing theories and such on who they are, what they do, how Jack learnt to shag like he does. It’s amazing really, the sheer amount of people Torchwood have dealt with. That SUV is the most-seen vehicle in Cardiff. And yet, somehow, the truth is barely scratched at. No-one knows what really happens.
It truly shocks me. Of course, there are those who speculate that it’s ‘something out of this world, something supernatural’. But they’re labelled nutters. Like that poor Eugene bloke. Nice guy, we chatted sometimes. He once asked me what I knew about Torchwood. Perhaps I should have taken a career in acting, because he believed me when I answered with random trivia I had gleaned from the forums. And that’s what this all comes down to really, in my opinion. The façade of normality.
None of the five members of Torchwood ever studied acting at school. Well, Jack may have, but he’s never mentioned it at any of our ‘encounters’. None of the current team’s predecessors learnt more than the basic requirement either, dating right back. And yet they spend every minute of every day of their lives putting on this front, pretending they’re normal human beings, living boring lives in which aliens exist only on the television and in books. I was never any good at acting — you could practically read the lies on my face as I spoke them. But that Ianto Jones…man, he’s one good actor. I truly believed he was from the National Board of Tourism when he turned up at my office and enquired as to the location of certain classified files. Honestly, I swear Jack does it just to irritate me. But the rest of them are just the same.
It must be the acting that maintains that shroud of mystery, ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t their subtlety. I don’t think ‘Jack’ and ‘subtlety’ have ever been used in the same sentence, unless the words ‘doesn’t have any’ sit between them. The others are a little less free with words, but still. Subtlety = not their strong point.
Does acting count as an artform? Because it should. Well, it should with Torchwood. The network of lies and deceit is truly remarkable, almost beautiful to an observer. Though that may just be the liar. If anyone ever found Jack ugly, I think the world may implode. But the beauty assists with the deceiving. No one argues with a face like that. And Ianto’s not too bad either, I’ll admit. Yes Ianto, you read that right. And no, I’ve not been taken over by aliens. Jack's taught me to appreciate a pretty face. I can imagine your quirked eyebrow. Ah, the pleasures of innuendo.
If my rough calculations are correct, by now Ianto will have informed Jack I’m typing a piece about Torchwood, Jack will have sighed and complained about my being a pain in his rear end, jumped in the SUV and be somewhere near to my place of abode. Sorry it’s not up to your standards of precision, Mighty Teaboy of Torchwood. So I’ll wrap up today’s musings on that supposedly-secret-organisation-that’s-as-bloody-obvious-as-an-elephant-in-a-china-shop. There is one reason, possibly two, as to their continued invisibility, despite their staring-you-in-the-face existence. Number one: the level of their acting skills are to a degree that everyone believes their cover stories. Despite the fact they regularly turn up covered in blood and gunk and whatever other fluids the alien of the day has coated them in. Or maybe it’s Jack's ability in bed. Who knows.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Though why he has to break my door down, god only knows. He could just ring the doorbell like a normal person. Did I just really type that? I must add normal to my ‘list of words never used in a sentence with the word Jack’. Aw, he’s so adorable when he’s angry. Does he get like this with you Ianto? It’s rather a turn-on isn’t it?
Another mental note; never let Jack read over my shoulder. The only thankful thing is that he’ll be finished here soon. Doesn’t want to hang around now you’ve told him that delivery of special blend has arrived. I’ve never seen a man get so horny over coffee. Actually, he asks if you can put a cuppa on. Oh dear, must dash, he’s about to ‘operate’ my new coffee machine. The world would be much simpler if Captain Jack Harkness could just keep his desires to himself.
This is Idris Hopper, signing out.