I Think I Have Talent.

So, the Smurfs have basically had northwestern Europe in a chokehold since the 1950s. Then in the 90s, techno and house music blew up in the Netherlands - and of course, the Smurfs had to ride that rave wave 💊⚡️🌈

They released a bunch of CDs where they covered popular dance tracks, actually sung by the original voice actors (no joke). One of the biggest hits? A Smurfed-up version of “No Limit” by 2Unlimited. It stayed at number one for over seven weeks. I still have a copy somewhere. it’s both a musical crime and a cultural treasure. (Here’s a live TV performance if you're curious. It’s... something.)

Anyway, imagine if the same thing happened to Ring-a-Ding. A dance remix, kids everywhere chanting his name, sparkly marketing, the whole package. I’d honestly believe it.

A short translated extract of the lyrics:

"in smurf land, yeah that's correct we discovered house, you didn’t expect? we house ourselves almost to bits with heavy beats and louder hits tiktiktikke here we go again about twelve times a day, my friend the speaker’s about to explode when we all sing in party mode"

Mr. RaD reminded me of this historical event. :')

Felt cute, might delete this later.

Music recommendation: “The Time of Angels ” – Doctor Who Series 5 Soundtrack, composed by Murray Gold

The velvet seats swallowed her whole.

Nora pressed herself low behind the middle row of seats, breath shallow, heart hammering against her ribs. From behind the heavy red curtains on the stage came the faint groan of aged floorboards, an echo that seeped through the theatre’s old timbers, reminding her she was not alone.

Then, click. Tap. Tap.

“Stay calm”, she repeated silently.  “Observe before you act.” The sharp rhythm of his shoes echoed through the auditorium, lighter than footsteps ought to be, like fingernails dancing on glass. He moved with the swagger of a showman, head tilted, voice drifting through the air with a melody both charming and grotesque.

“Lights, camera… trespassing,” he sang softly.

Nora dared a glance through the gap between the seat backs. There he was, silhouetted against the half-lit screen, spinning slowly, hands clasped behind his back as if conducting an invisible orchestra. His grin was painted on, but the malice beneath it was all too real.

“Darling girl,” he called, dangerous delight in his tone. “I do admire your theatrical instincts - exit stage right, such flair! But you are aware this isn’t participatory theatre?”

He leapt from the stage with a flourish; his frame landed far too heavily for someone of his size. The carpet barely muted the thud. Nora flinched.

He began weaving through the aisles, each step eerily precise.

“Come now,” he purred. “Don’t be shy. I promise I only bite on special occasions.” Then, almost sotto voce, “And tonight feels… very special.”

Nora clenched her jaw, trying to control her breathing. The back of her hand pressed against her mouth. Her entire body buzzed with fear - cold and alive.

“I take it you’ve heard the stories,” he said, his voice drawing nearer. “The marquee that still flickers. The films that never end. The doors that don’t stay locked. Oh, they always come sniffing, the curious ones. You, though…”

He stopped.

“You’re different.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her spine had locked in place, like the film reels in the booth above. Different how? she wondered, dread and curiosity colliding.

He took another step.

“Were you hoping to be rescued?” he asked. “A dashing projectionist, perhaps? Or one of those clean-cut boys from Singin’ in the Rain?” He snorted. “Wrong genre.”

He stopped beside her row, eyes glittering in the half-light. “Tell me, “He whispered, voice low, “why do you haunt these seats?”

She swallowed, lips parched and trembling. At her feet, a length of filmstrip slithered from beneath the seat in front of her, unspooling like a dark, writhing serpent. Nora’s pulse thundered as reels began to slide and coil around the legs of the chairs, forming a menacing ring at her feet. Panic flared in her chest when the tape rose as though alive, its glossy surface glinting in the projector’s half-light, and she leapt backward with a choked cry, eyes wide at the uncanny sight.

She forced herself to speak. “I-I thought it was the movies pulling me in,” she whispered.

His head tilted sharply. She hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

There was a pause.

She rose slightly, just enough to be seen, hands lifted in something halfway between surrender and honesty. “I… I did heard the stories,” she said. “At the diner. About this place. About people going missing. About lights that never go out. I thought maybe…”

Her voice faltered. “I thought maybe it was something beautiful.”

He stared at her.

“Like in the old musicals,” she continued, quieter now. “When the music swells, and the lights hit you, and suddenly… you’re part of something magic.”

For a moment, just one, his expression cracked. Something in his eyes shifted. They shimmered like glass catching firelight, reflective and ancient. He seemed to see right through her, past the words, past the fear, down into whatever it was that churned beneath her skin.

And then he grinned again. Wider. Hungrier.

“You’re not just curious,” he said. “You’re cursed with curiosity. The most dangerous kind of fool.”

He tapped his temple.

“Like a moth to the flame, darling. But flames burn. Always.”

A sudden mechanical whirr cut through the tension, shrill, precise: the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding snapped his head toward the door, hat tilting askew. For an instant, his painted grin fell away, replaced by something like rage.

Nora seized the moment. She bolted upright and ran, her shoes clattering against the carpet as she weaved between the rows. Behind her, the hiss of shifting reels chased her like whispers, but she managed to turn away just in time, narrowly escaping the threatening film tape that slithered along the floor. With no time to think, no time to breathe, she made a snap decision and threw herself between the last row of seats, heart hammering as she crouched low.

Music recommendation: “Insurance Policy” – Doctor Who Series 11 Soundtrack, composed by Segun Akinola

Around 2:30 a.m., about an hour before the Doctor and Belinda would set foot in the Palazzo, Miami’s sky was an inky black, smeared with faint traces of cloud and streetlamp haze.

Inside the diner across the street, Nora sat in a vinyl booth, nursing the last of her coffee. She watched the steam curl upward and wondered, “Is this how every morning will feel?”

She wasn’t much for conversation, but the low hum of fellow night-owls and the clink of silverware offered a welcome sense of company. She traced the flickering neon letters of the Palazzo Picture Palace with her eyes, especially the lone “O” that pulsed on and off every few seconds, until the waitress interrupted her reverie.

“Refill, honey?” the young woman asked, pen poised over her notepad.

Nora jerked upright, startled. “Oh - no, thank you,” she said with a gentle smile. Then, curiosity crept into her tone. “Any word on those fifteen people who vanished from the cinema three months back?”

The waitress shook her head, her brow furrowing. “Heard nothing, I’m afraid. Mr. Pye’s still tending the place, but the police, well, they’ve got nothing.”

Nora nodded, handing back her empty cup. She slid the porcelain to the edge of the table, pulled a light wool cardigan around her shoulders, and stood.

“Have a pleasant night,” she called to the two behind the counter (her voice sounded steadier than she felt).

As she turned, the waitress leaned toward the soda jerk and whispered just loudly enough for Nora to hear.

“Oh my, Logan, the poor thing… she’s alone, don’t you think? No family. Do you reckon she’s just passing through?”

Logan sighed, wiping his hands on his apron. “Well, word is her room’s only for three more nights. After that, a niece from North Carolina takes over. Isn’t that right, Peggy?”

Peggy nodded, glancing at Nora’s retreating back. “That’s what the chef said.”

Nora stepped out into the humid night. A warm breeze brushed past her skin, carrying the scent of salt and gasoline. She paused, glancing back at the diner’s cozy glow behind her before her gaze was drawn, almost against her will, back to the Palazzo’s façade.

Now the “P” and “Z” in the neon sign blinked erratically, casting a flickering pinkish light that pulsed like a heartbeat, as though whispering her name.

A faint echo of orchestral music drifted from within the shuttered building. Nora’s heart fluttered. Her fingers traced the iron padlock securing the main doors. Beneath the lock lay wilted bouquets, forgotten tokens to the missing souls. She remembered the rumours: Mr. Reginald Pye, the reclusive projectionist, still maintained the place, though no one dared enter.

The street was deserted; the diner’s staff had retreated to the back. Convinced she was unobserved, Nora knelt beside the lock. The rusted chains clinked in her hand like a warning. Unable to ignore the pull, she rose and skirted the side alley, where a narrow service door hid behind a toppled trash can.

Her pulse quickened as she twisted the knob. It groaned open. “Okay,” she coached herself, “Just in, look around, get out.”

Inside, a dim corridor stretched before her, lit only by the green glow of emergency exit signs casting long shadows across cracked walls. Briefly uncertain, she pressed forward until she reached the foyer. The tiled floor was littered with debris: stray soda bottles, popcorn kernels yellowed with age. A stale, buttery scent clung to the air.

Nora paused and listened. Somewhere ahead, a celluloid projector hummed, a soft crackle like an old phonograph. She followed the sound down a narrow hallway, peering around faded posters for matinee showings now months past.

Finally, she reached the grand entrance to the auditorium. Through the narrow gap in the heavy doors, a silver beam of light danced across the dusty velvet seats. A black-and-white romance played on the screen: a lady in a floral dress leaned languidly against a white picket fence.

Drawing a steadying breath, Nora grasped the cold brass handle and pushed the door open. It creaked, announcing her arrival. She stepped onto the plush red-carpet stairs and descended, each footfall soft but certain.

Midway down, she looked up and spotted Mr. Pye perched at the projector booth, his gaunt profile backlit by the flickering film. He hadn’t noticed her until their eyes locked. His hand froze over the film reel, his brow snapping into a mask of alarm. He rose abruptly, fumbling for a switch, and waved her away in panicked haste.

Mistaking his gesture for a greeting, Nora lifted her hand in return, a polite wave. Only when the booth light clicked off did she realize her mistake: she was too late.