What is the universe? Is it a great 3D movie in which we are the
unwilling actors? Is it a cosmic joke, a
giant computer, a work of art by a Supreme Being, or simply an experiment? The problem in trying to understand the
universe is that we have nothing to compare it with.
- Heinz B. Pagels
Him:
What’s this?
Me: What’s
what?
Him:
This.
Me:
This blog entry?
Him:
No. This.
Me:
If there was anything there it’d be a seahorse.
Him:
Right. That’s the blog over. I’m finished.
Done.
Me:
You didn’t check your phone messages yesterday did you?
Him:
I’m not replying.
Me:
And you haven’t once looked on the table.
Him:
Not replying.
Me:
Go and have a look. And then I
can do the review.
The Him discovers two autographed DVDs.
Him:
Wait? What? I don’t remember getting either of these
signed.
Me:
You weren’t there, that’s why.
Because of the licensing laws you couldn’t go.
Him:
Did they recognise you?
Me:
They did. The sock in the kilt
stared at me through most of the set.
Him:
Really? That’s kind of creepy.
Me:
It was. Shall I tell you the
story?
Him:
Ok.
Me:
I made notes you see. Like a
proper journalist.
Him:
Is that why you got stared at?
Him:
And he gets his biggest fan to say good things about him? Have you ever met your biggest fan? I mean, apart from my Business teacher.
Me:
Hey, don’t derail the review.
There’s derailing to be talked about later. Well meant though. And very funny.
The Him stares blankly.
Me: First off then, shall I give a bit of
background?
Him:
Ok. If you really want to.
Me:
I think it’s essential. The Socks
announced they were doing a new show a while back. Remember the one that wasn’t Boo Lingerie
last year? On my birthday?
Him:
Did you know that boulangerie is actually French for ‘bakery’?
Me:
See, that’s why this blog needs the both of us. I didn’t know that. But it explains why some of the new show is
in French. Or was last night
anyway. Hang on. Do you exist?
Him:
Don’t you mean ‘the both of us’?
Pause.
Me:
I’m fairly sure that I’m real. I
was beginning to doubt it when I went to see Judge Minty – about which, more
later – but I’m about 80% convinced that I’m non-fiction.
Him:
Well, I’m about 20% convinced that you’re fictional.
Me:
There’s no need for maths.
There’s never a need for maths.
This particular tangent isn’t going to do my argument any good either. You exist, yeah?
Pause.
The Him has a think.
Him: Are you addressing me?
Me: You’re
the only other person here.
Him:
But am I? Am I really here? Are you really here? I’m not sure that any of us are really here.
Me:
Last night, John McShane pointed out he’d never met you, so he can't have been at the John Wagner signing.
Him:
Was he upset he’d never met me?
Pause.
Me:
He seemed to be taking it well, truth be told. I was going to try and avoid name-dropping.
Him:
That’s probably for the best.
Me:
Right. Well, the last Socks show wasn’t
about Greggs, like you’d think, but actually dealt with horror films and horror
as a genre. With songs.
Him:
Greggs isn’t a bakery, is it?
Me:
And this new show is, ostensibly, about science-fiction. Hence, ‘Socks in Space’.
Him:
Which isn’t French for anything.
The Him picks up his phone.
Him:
Except…
Phone:
tippetytippytytap
Him: “Chaussettes dans l’espace”.
The Him settles back, and pops a mint into
his smug gob.
Him:
Are you… Are you going to say
something about “E-Space”?
Me:
I don’t think we should go anywhere near Adric or JN-T for the
foreseeable future. They’ll be busy.
Him:
So I shouldn’t go anywhere near you?
Me:
I only looked like Adric when he was a companion.
Him:
You still look like him now.
Me:
Matthew Waterhouse has weathered better than me. I’ve eroded.
Him:
That actually translated as ‘Socks into the space’.
Me:
Which is more of an instruction yelled before a bugle parps. Look, can I get this started?
Him:
Do you want to?
Me:
So when it was announced that the Socks would be occurring in a venue
that I could actually reach-
Him:
You couldn’t get tickets.
Me:
Are you going to trample on all the lines?
Him:
No. That’d be weird.
Me:
Yeah. Back in January I went into The Dram – which is a lovely pub made of wood and bottles – and asked a very
nice lady behind the bar if I could buy a ticket and then… And then she said…
Pause.
Me: Yeah.
You’ve killed it. I couldn’t get
tickets.
Him:
If you were a cyborg, what would your name be?
Me: Unpronounceable. So, over the next
couple of months I kept an eye on things from a distance because I don’t use
the internet to buy anything. Which made
things a bit hairy when HMV started drowning, because it’s the last place
selling Doctor Who DVDs. Remember what
happened when I asked if they’d stock them in that Enormo-Asda?
Him:
My name would be…
Me:
They laughed at me. But, like
Citizen Snork said: “Who’s laughing now?”
Him:
Who’s Citizen Snork?
Me: He’s an obscure Judge Dredd character I’ve mentioned to clarify my credentials as a walking cliché.
Him: I got that much.
Me:
Hush, imaginary creature.
Him:
I'm a cyborg not an imaginary creature.
Me:
You’re probably thinking of a centaur.
Seeing as I wear glasses-
Him:
You wear glasses?
Me:
Just imagine. Seeing as I wear
glasses, I’m technically the first stage of Cyberman evolution.
Him:
But where’re your bra and high heels?
Pause.
Me:
God help us if Chris Chibnall takes over when the Moff’s off. Anyway, I’d been told that if I turned up on
the night I might be able to get in. And
then the Friday and Saturday nights sold out.
Him:
Ooo. Kick in the face.
Me:
It’s the Eye, actually. And I
don’t think we’ll be talking about Peter Murphy anytime soon either. It’s hardly been a slow news week. Oh, James Herbert died.
Him:
Who’s James Herbert?
Me:
For a bit of time he was my favourite author. Thinking about it, I was reading The Rats in
my first year at secondary school.1 He
was a horror author. Bit pulpy and very
full-on. My first signed novel was a
copy of Moon. It was posted after a
signing he did in Denmark Street. I read
it to bits.
Him:
Can we get onto the Socks now?
Me: Yup. First up, here’re the tweets
from yesterday.
Me:
The Dram wasn’t open and I had a full shift at work with no breaks, so I
wasn’t going to be able to get a ticket until that was done, if there were any
left. I didn’t see the Socks tour bus
anywhere either.
Him:
They have a tour bus?
Me:
Bound to. Anyway – someone at
work offered to order them online. So I
paid for the ticket, printed off the confirmation and then worked until it was
dark. And then, when I was looking at
the confirmation, I noticed that in order to pick up the ticket, the card-holder
would have to sign for it. To prevent
fraud.
Me: So I sloped up to The Dram,
ordered a water and waited for the room to open.
Him: “There’s oil underneath this building.”
Him: “There’s oil underneath this building.”
Me:
I spotted the aforementioned Mr McShane, but there wasn’t any sign of
the Socks manager. And then a lovely
chap named Tony called everyone through to the performance area.
Nobody asked to see anything, so after two months of working on a
stomach ulcer, I could’ve got in for free. I grabbed a front row bench.
Him:
As you do.
Me:
Yeah – you need to be able see the performer’s eyes really.
Him:
I just wanna dance.
Pause.
Me:
'Night on Bald Mountain' with Socks commentary was playing and the tartan
theatre was trembling. Tony the ticket
warden was also on technician and tune duty and there was a bit of an odd
moment before everything started.
Him:
What happened?
Me:
Well, it sort of started early but late.
Him:
Right.
Me:
I’m glad you got that. It was the
first outing for some of the material and it’s great. I don’t think there was quite as much of the
science-fiction stuff as there will be later in the year, but a fair whack of
it was new. Oh – and the opening number, ‘I’m a
Sock’ was lyrically different to the version you’ve seen.
Him:
Really? Oh. I knew that.
Me: Part of the audience was very
enthusiastic and got roped in to recreate a pivotal moment of cinema
history. My face was a bit sore from
laughing.
Him:
You’d don’t need to make me feel bad that I wasn’t there.
Me: Sorry.
You might not like some of what’s coming up then. But – legally, you couldn’t be there. And you weren’t the only person who was a bit
miffed about this. But that’s why we
have laws. I reckon we’ll be able to
get in if they come back to Edinburgh.
We’ll definitely go.
Him:
Yay!
Me: So.
Some of the new material might only have been aired last night and
dropped since-
Him:
Right.
Me: But there’s some really good stuff in
it. Especially if you’ve heard of a Hemingway who wasn’t known for typing.
There’s one bit with a doorbell that’s genius. Sorry, this isn’t meant to be gloaty.
The Him sneezes.
Me: They
finished with their version of Star Wars too. I hung around afterwards to get the DVDs
signed-
Him:
Yeah, I figured that much. That’s
what we did last time. When I was there.
Me: I told their manager that you’d be
furious about missing them.
Him:
I’m not furious. I’m just a
bit… Upset. It’s fine.
Don’t worry.
Me: They did send their personal best
wishes and congratulations to you.
Him:
Yay!
Me: Although, I’m not sure what they were
congratulating you about. Existing
possibly.
Him:
They could be.
Me:
Nearly there. Because the manager
was a bit busy after the show, he said he’d get the Socks to come and sign the
DVDs after their post-gig sauna. Well,
something like that. So I went back
through to the main bit to wait and - CLANG! goes another name – had a drink
with Mr McShane and Pete Renshaw, the wonderful gentleman whose ear I once talked off in Plan
B. It did feel a bit like I’d wandered
into the VIP area by accident.
Him:
Had you?
Me: Ha! So, the Socks' manager, Kev F, came out and we all had a big chat about this and that; where
javascript came from, Clevedon’s history as a filming location – I almost
mentioned Oliver Tobias in Smuggler, but nobody’s ever heard of it. Clevedon keeps cropping up at the moment –
it’s weird. Most of the essays I’ve
written for You and Who mention it in one way or another, it’s where I first
met Judge Minty, Captain Clevedon’s a local lad and of course Broadchurch is largely
filmed there. Hmmm…
Pause.
Him:
Sounds fun.
Me: It was.
It was incredible actually, I had a fantastic time. I also forgot to mention – when we were
talking about The Time Monster and Robert Sloman – Darth Vader and Ingrid
Pitt. Oh – and The Green Death was the
story that everyone forget.
Pause.
Me:
Don’t be mad. There’ll be other
times.
Him:
Will there though? Will there
really?
Me: There will. Oh yes indeed.
Me: We may have gone too far with the title though.
Him: Wait until the next one...
Next: sssssssssssssssssssssssss
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