Thousands of years ago, which can't be right...

The future is dark, the present burdensome.  Only the past, dead and buried, bears contemplation.
- G. R. Elton

Or

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
- Anne Sexton

I'm listening to the first Grinderman album and waiting for payday.  It's not the first time.  Everything crossed it won't be the last.  November's been an odd month.  Odder than usual.

This blog's not really about Doctor Who, y'know.  It just looks like it is.  Well, most of the time anyway.  In much the same way that every picture is a self-portrait, every one of the two-hundred and thirty-summat posts me and him've posted're closer to amber-fixed (and permanently petrified) prehistoric insects than 'reviews' of a TV show.  (Not that Doctor Who's really a TV show - but that's a chat for another day.)

I've written elsewhere about how the Him cajoled me into submitting typing toward a book.  Things escalated in the way a handclap in a ski resort'll bring down the mountain.  I'm going to add some links to the things I've written since as a direct result of his initial encouragement in a moment, but only after I get the next three paragraphs out of my system.

I'm a lucky fellow, which is why I'm getting the chance to type this.  You, lady and gentleman, are equally lucky to be reading it.  Not lucky because I'm typing something worth reading, but because we're only occupying this particular moment as a result of chance occurrences that, currently, have totally failed to kill us.  They will eventually, but we've somehow blundered this far without terminal mishap, so let's pretend we're special for a moment.  Because we are.  We're shaping the future. 

Annoyingly, there's no guarantee I'm as lucky as you.  Y'see, you have to be alive to be reading this.  My existence isn't guaranteed after I 'publish' it.  I'm here now, but I might not be when you're reading this.1  Just in case I'm not, there're a couple of things I'd like to say/type here. 

Mostly, I had a blast.  Yeah, a lot of it was uphill, smelled a bit funny and seemed to consist of Fate kicking me in the face with big old boots, but...  I met some incredible people on the climb.  Wonderful, fierce, sparking and sparkling friends I'd give anything to hug in person/analogue rather than binary, but any connection is good.  We're a glorious species, chums.  All of us.  Let's get off this rock, eh?  Reignite the pioneer flame. 

Thanks for your indulgences.  Now, I'm going to ruin the mood by trying to flog stuff.

These're things I've written nearly-essays for as a direct result of the Him's encouragement.  The royalties all go to charity and the books're composed of insights into many different lives and voices.   No pressure at all.  Personally, I'm glad you're even reading this.  Have a hug.

The set can be collected here.  I'm in both, but don't let that and so on and so forth. 
All royalties to Children in Need.

Worth it for the logo and introduction alone. 
I managed to 'hide' all fifty-two story titles in my piece, but if I don't say that you won't notice. 
Again, all royalties to Children in Need.

This went live today. 
(My essay explains what The Prisoner was all about, finally and indisputably.) 
All proceeds to the Terrence Higgins Trust.

1. I'm still hoping to get a short story out of this idea, so I hope I am.  But bears drop out of the sky every day, so who knows?         

Sir Lee at Rawlings End (Choose Your Own Adventure variant)

You continue to make your way around the wall, turning left at each junction.  Suddenly you find an alcove.  Inside it are three futuristic-looking metal cabinets, decorated with rapidly spinning wheels.  Resting on top of these are two mirrors filled with flashing magickal images, some dark sorcery no doubt.  A quizzical-looking man - a wizard? - stands behind three more similarly enchanted mirrors.  The damp hush fills steadily with a disorientating fugue of chattering voices and screeching.  

You're pinned to the damp turf, unable to move or intervene as a strange metal object falls from the sky and knocks the wizard messily unconscious.  As he slumps forward you feel the glamour lift.  Oddly, the cacophony of voices continues. 

And there's still no cake.

Do you:

   Concentrate on the cacophony?

   Examine the mirrors?

   Examine the wizard's pockets and sleeves?

   Examine the strange metal object?

   Smash the mirrors?

   Go on your way?

The Seventeenth Epipod (Choose Your Own Adventure variant)

A stark choice confronts you.  Also, there's no cake.

Do you: 

   Take the money?

   Open the box?

A Date with the Devil (Choose Your Own Adventure variant)

The cramping sensation in your stomach comes in waves, forcing you to bend double.  Three of the dancers break off from the maypole and come over to see if you're alright.  You raise your head, blow a stray strand of sweat-drenched hair away from your face, and repeat the story you've been clinging to since you entered this curs'd land: although there's good eating on a tortoise, it's vitally important they be boiled thoroughly.  

The hairiest of the three sharpens and with a shock you recognise Alan Moore.  Then you notice the other two and ice water flushes through all your marrows - this thaumaturgic tomfoolery must be far more serious than dodgy guts from an undercooked reptile.  

Now that your hallucinations have started to include a zombie boy genius and a box that walks like a man, the whole being-stabbed-twenty-three-times-with-an-enchanted-blade at the start of your adventure is looking a lot more likely to be what's causing the dreadful metamorphosis that you can feel beginning deep in your boots.

Did you acquire the old man's brass ring earlier?

If so, slip it on your finger, start rubbing and click here.

If you didn't then your back arches like a piece of nationalistic architecture and you become a creature composed equally of darkness, smoke, evil and melodramatic laughter.  You begin to drift towards the trio of cowering shapes.  

None of them have any cake. 

 Do you:

  Possess them all at once?  Click here.

  Possess the box first?  Click here.

  Possess Alan Moore first?  Click here.

  Possess Adric first?  Click here.

  If you manage to eat them all, claim victory and click here.

Om Mani Padme Amidala (Choose Your Own Adventure variant)

You find yourself in space.  It's cold and starry.

A sudden voice startles you.  (Test your luck to see if your armour becomes soiled.)

The voice is deep, authoritative and not at all giggly or excitable.  

"Furbies.  Remember them?  The twitchy missing link between tamagotchi and kill-bot?  Yeah, those.  They seem to be having some sort of resurgence now, which makes me think that there weren't enough hammers at the turn of the century.

"For a few months after Kairos the Millennium Bug failed to make his face-chewing appointments, there was an interesting off-shoot of Furby evolution waddling about.  Somehow these abominations - these crimes-against-nature - made their way onto the shelves of unwitting toy shops.  Like the really cool Jurassic Park dinosaurs that were too expensive to appear in the films, these mutants were able to camouflage themselves to match their surroundings.  I got presented with one for a birthday or something.  It was disguised as Yoda.

"This 'Yoda' was able to identify movements using rudimentary photo-receptors and would mimic phrases it had learned in order to 'train' you in the 'ways' of the 'Jedi'.  Basically, as long as there was a light on, it would wobble alarmingly and bark out observations in a weird impression of Frank Oz after a head injury.  It was possible to send it to 'sleep' by placing it in a darkened room but this was only a temporary solution.  Any stimulus - any - would waken it and you were back to attempting to placate an inanimate object; the slightest nudge, the quietest squeak of a mouse fart, anything could set it off.  For hours.

"It's a long way from the Arctic to Wales on a train.  I had the 'sleeping' 'Yoda' thoroughly wrapped up in my hand luggage.  I'd been pretty good at the egg and spoon race in school - after long jump, reading and pestering science teachers for apocryphal biographical information about ex-punks, it was my favourite thing in the whole world - so I managed to get the bag loaded into the luggage rack of the Quiet Coach without any alarming consequences.  I settled into the seat and tried to nod off.

"Halfway to Carlisle, the train juddered slightly.  I snapped awake - listening intently.  The carriage was packed, the windows were smeared with condensation and above the silence I could hear a chilling rustling.

"Looking up slowly, I could see my bag begin to ripple.  At first it was a hint - easy to miss - but then the struggling from within grew more frantic.  The warm, slightly-moist, silence of the Quiet Coach was shattered by a panicked: 

""MMMMM HMMMM HEE HEE HEE!  DARK IN HERE IT IS!"

"It's a very long way from the Arctic to Wales on a train."

The voice fades away.  In front of you, the starscape shimmers slightly.  Something begins coalescing, totally trashing the void's USP.

It's nearly, but not quite, Yoda.  He doesn't have any cake.

Do you:

   Listen to what he's got to say?  Click here.

   Ask where the box is?  Click here.

   Ask where the hairy fellow is?  Click here.

   Believe that RTD's opinion of Robert Holmes was wrong?  Click here.

   Believe Steven Moffat most resembles Terry Nation?  Click here.

   Slay him and claim victory?  Click here.

   Ignore him and go on your way?  Click here.

The Waking Ally (Choose Your Own Adventure variant)

You find yourself in space.  It's cold and starry.  Three figures (and a mysterious but familiar face) appear in front of you.  None of them have any cake.

Do you:

   Listen to what they've got to say?  Click here.

   Look inside the box?  Click here.

   Commission a print from the artist?  Click here.

   Show them your 2000 AD collection?  Click here.

   Ask where they're from?  Click here.

   Slay them and claim victory?  Click here.

   Ignore them and go on your way?  Click here.

The Jealousy of the Doctor

The great thing about human language is that it prevents us from sticking to the matter at hand.

- Lewis Thomas

or

Reality is not digital, an on-off state, but analogue. Something gradual. In other words, reality is a quality that things possess in the same way that they possess, say, weight. Some people are more real than others, for example. It has been estimated that there are only about five hundred real people on any given planet, which is why they keep unexpectedly running into one another all the time.

- Terry Pratchett, Moving Pictures

I think there’s a fox living in the garden. 

That’s not how I was originally planning to start this entry but seeing as the animal in question keeps distracting me I thought it only fair to give them a mention.  And, let’s be fair, it’s pretty cool.  Well, it is if you like foxes anyway.

For a while now I’ve been livening up the rolling-stock sections of my commute by texting ludicrous and unfounded observations to the blameless folks at the Blue Box Podcast, Starburst’s Doctor Who audio conversation.  Often, they’ve been good enough to read them out.1  More on this in a bit - I’ve got to officially declare a conflict of interest3 but that can wait for a few paragraphs.

I’ve been hinting obliquely about other projects for the last few months.  Both of them are going to be fun, and one of them is something that I’m very excited about indeed.  I’ve started the research stage and done some groundwork.  It’s already led to the Forbidden Books section of one major library as well as a psychogeographical4 field trip disguised as a genuine vampire hunt.  I’m fired up and ready to go but there’s been a problem.  Every time I’ve freed space to work on these alternate avenues, the Doctor’s thwarted my plans.  Seriously, you’d think I was Davros or something.  I’m beginning to wonder if he’s a bit, y’know, possessive.

In the aftermath of 2013’s regeneration, I was able to excavate a long blocked-off section of the nostalgia mine I’ve uncovered in Cardiff.  I didn’t find what I was looking for, which means that it’s gone forever, as unobtainable as yesterday or childhood.4  However, I did find some other things, including the first issue of Starburst that I ever read.  You’ll notice I didn’t say ‘owned’ there.  That’s because, technically, it’s not mine – having been accidentally left in my past by a neighbour’s grandson.  

The first Starburst Three.

 My relationship with Starburst had been pretty stand-offish up until last week, despite it springing from the same explosive imagination as Warrior and Doctor Who Comic.5  (Dez Skinn is a bit like John McShane in that he keeps making unexpected guest appearances when I’m researching things.)6  As is usually the way, our weird sideways glances and awkward shuffles are all my fault.  Starburst wasn’t – and isn’t – a comic.  When I was still forming, this was an important factor in whether or not something cultural grafted successfully onto my personality.  Of course, we change our priorities and opinions over the decades, but let’s not go into that here.

When the Him encouraged me into submitting essays to You and Who: Contact Has Been Made (posts passim) I didn’t realise there was any connection to Starburst and I certainly didn’t expect to find myself as a guest percentage on a podcast as a demonstration of synchronicity in action.7

Click Me.

I always get nervous before a performance.  Always have and hopefully always will.  After all, if you aren’t sweating fear bullets then you either don’t care enough to be doing it, or you’re just going through the motions.  The panel on the above link consists of me, Doc Whom and the Reverend Captain Hullo Porro (known from this point on as the Reverend)8 – with Talent-taming courtesy of J. R. Southall.9 

We recorded the podcast nine days ago; earlier today it went live, Warrior’s M*****man finally got republished and this escaped into the wild:

Epipod the First: Journey Into Terror

 I think there’s a fox living in the garden.

1. But you already know this because you’ve been following us on Facebook and Twitter, ain’t that right?2

2.  Yes, both of you.

3.  It’s an old tradition, or a charter, or something.4

Doctor Who Comic yesterday.

4.  Yeah, yeah.

5.  I wrote a true and accurate history of Doctor Who Comic4 for the Doctor Who Appreciation Society.  Go on, treat yourself.

6.  Apophenia the Library Angel is also going to be popping up a lot through 2014.  Clang! goes another name.

7.  A percentage that sounds more like the correct speed to play Jeff Wayne’s Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of H. G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds at that.4

8.  No, not that one.

9.  His debut gig story is the second coolest one I’ve ever heard.10 

10.  Correct at time of typing.