THERE was the sense of an oncoming storm at this weekend’s Hugo awards, of a terrible brilliance gathering momentum just over the horizon.
The maelstrom was centred around two men – Steven Moffat and Neil Gaiman – and one show – Doctor Who.
The Whorunning genius and the dark mastermind of storytelling picked up one award each, with Moffat getting the Best Dramatic Presentation Short Form prize for Blink and Gaiman the Long Form counterpart for Stardust.
Both were hugely impressive pieces of work and, in Moffat’s case, his third victory in three years had a sense of inevitability about it.
Blink was so pants-wettingly brilliant that it was just not fair – not only one of the best Doctor Who episodes ever, but one of the best things on television in the past decade by a Gallifreyan mile (about 2.75 leagues, if you’re interested)
It was (and I don’t say this lightly) the lesbian spank inferno of TV shows.
While Stardust could not claim to reach the same cinematic heights on the lesbian spank inferno scale, it was funny, exciting and magical.
I love Gaiman’s writing – try reading Snow, Glass, Apples more than once – but the film added scope and drama to the short story it was based upon.
Robert De Niro in drag? Claire Danes looking gorgeous? Killing a dead man controlled by a witch again and again? And did I mention Claire Danes?
Now, the rumour which has been going around is that the Moff has already asked Gaiman to write an episode of Doctor Who.
The sheer geek-charge of even thinking what that episode would be about makes the hairs on the back of the neck of everyone within a three-mile radius my street stand on end and dance the samba.
In my fevered imagination, I have already convinced myself that that is all they have talked about for the past few months.
I am convinced that even now – 17 months away from the Who’s next series – they are huddled in a corner of a secret laboratory somewhere, cackling as they invent story ideas that are so good, anyone who read them would either a) go blind, b) go mad or c) wake up six months later in Cardiff, naked and covered in tattoos, asking what had happened.
Is that true? Who knows? A load of bollocks cooked up by a blogger with too much time on his hands? Almost certainly. But maybe, just maybe …
As I said, hay una tormenta próximos … there’s a storm coming.