I raise my eyebrow at you, sir

Victoria Coren: Who do you normally have in YOUR front room?
Benedict Cumberbatch: … me.

— Have I Got News For You s40e1, extended version

[link]

Benny I love youuuu.

God and he just fucking purred “a damn good shag”.  Stop killing me dead, Cumberbatch. Stop it.

“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the magazine down on the table; “I never read such rubbish in my life.”

“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with my eggspoon as I sat down to my breakfast. “I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I don’t deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me, though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third-class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him.”

“You would lose your money,” Holmes remarked calmly. “As for the article, I wrote it myself.”

— A Study In Scarlet

LOLOL burrrrrrrrn.

“We already have our own musical on set. I’ve made up various songs about the crew, so it’s more a case of behind-the-scenes where they’d get to see the musical numbers that happen. Mackenzie Crook Cook Book Song is a personal favourite, and there’s one about Ivan, our focus puller. It hasn’t really got a title yet. It’s just called Ivan. He’s very jolly and it’s a very jolly song. There’s a kind of dance as well.”

LOLOL BRADLEY. NEVER CHANGE.

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fyderrenbrown:

Pre ordered Derren’s new book today! YAY! :D

So THIS is going on my bookshelf right the fuck now.  Or at least. On October 14th. When it is released.

(Catching Fire spoilers within~)

I think of Rue, how maybe I could sing a song or something. But I don’t even know the morphling’s name, let alone if she likes songs. I just know she’s dying.

Peeta crouches down on the other side of her and strokes her hair. When he begins to speak in a soft voice, it seems almost nonsensical, but the words aren’t for me. “With my paint box at home, I can make every colour imaginable. Pink. As pale as a baby’s skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water.”

The morphling stares into Peeta’s eyes, hanging on to his words.

“One time, I spent three days mixing paint until I found the right shade for sunlight on white fur. You see, I kept thinking it was yellow, but it was much more than that. Layers of all sorts of colour. One by one,” says Peeta.

The morphling’s breathing is slowing into shallow catch-breaths. Her free hand dabbles in the blood on her chest, making the tiny swirling motions she so loved to paint with.

“I haven’t figured out a rainbow yet. They come so quickly and leave so soon. I never have enough time to capture them. Just a bit of blue here or purple there. And then they fade away again. Back into the air,” says Peeta.

The morphling seems mesmerized by Peeta’s words. Entranced. She lifts up a trembling hang and paints what I think might be a flower on Peeta’s cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “That looks beautiful.”

— Catching Fire, Suzanne Collins, Chapter 22.

Oh my god, can I just? Kills me dead.

Also don’t tell me anything about Mockingjay, I’m still reading!