I borrowed this DVD set from my local library and had to turn it off ten minutes or less into the "programme." The dialogue was written so unnaturally, immaturely, and talentlessly, it felt like the author was spitting barbed-wire insults into my ear with each half-shat, incredulity-spawning utterance of the script-cursed actors. I loved Lenny Henry in his show "Chef" -- he's obviously an intelligent and witty man. Neil Gaiman, on the other hand, has proved throughout his publishing career that he possesses no more literary talent than one would expect from a prancing-penned, new-age, semi-goth, leather-jacket-and-sunglasses twit who apparently missed the musical bulletin that Bela Lugosi is, in fact, dead. (To speak more precisely, "twit" in this man's case should be spelled with an alternate vowel of the species "a.") The urinary outpourings of Gaiman's clammy handed word processor make me want to reach for an Ebola-spiked cyanide capsule. May he be cursed with a Tori Amos lunch-box full of shame for having sprayed the gullible reading public with his nonstop stream of poorly chewed mythological magpie stew.