I'm Not Steven Moffat I'm not Steven Moffat, Although folk have told me otherwise. 'Folk' is not a word Steven Moffat would use. Not least in the context of a #poem about himself. I'm not Steven Moffat because he is a writer of exceptional skill and, dare I say it, mystique. Steven Moffat would never stoop so low as to write a #poem about himself. No, Steven Moffat would have a bad, yet illuminating, experience in his sexual career and then attempt to make light of it through one of his many colourful characters: Sherlock has erectile dysfuction. Doctor Who lusts after Asian waitresses. Jack Davenport from 'Coupling' likes it backwards. No, I'm not Steven Moffat, because Steven Moffat has better things to do than write arrhythmic poetry and pass gas by an open window while his girlfriend sleeps beneath a colourful, stripy duvet. But this is partly because Steven Moffat hates childish excitement. And childish duvet covers. And children. Steven Moffat could probably write something much more complex than this attempt at a prose #poem. It would have bad blokes and good guys, It would have mega-mums and bolshy bitches. Steven Moffatt would have woven a well-wound web of wistful wonder. Not this crap. No, I'm not Steven Moffat. Steven Moffat is over by the swings, selling knock-off DVDs of 'Taggart' and the first series of 'Reboot'. Steven Moffat has the hots for the history teacher, And he only lives a few miles from our college.