Showing posts with label Doctor Who Live. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Doctor Who Live. Show all posts

Sunday, 24 August 2014

Deep Breath (live)


One measures a circle beginning anywhere.
- Charles Fort

or

Don’t ruin it. 
– Zoë Ball


Me:  So, that was Deep Breath.  Did it feel like ages since we’d last seen any new Doctor Who to you?

Him:  Yeah.

Me:  We watched all the World Tour video recaps in preparation before we left for the cinema – and the countdowns too – we watched those all in one go.  Did that help build up your enthusiasm?

Him:  No.

Me:  Ha!  And we watched…  Let’s see…  We watched quite a bit.  We watched The Name of the Doctor, The Night of the Doctor-

Him:  Which one’s Night of the Doctor?

Me:  It’s the one that doesn’t count.

Him:  Yes, we did watch Night of the Doctor.  There are too many ‘Of the Doctor’s to keep track of.  Night of the Living Doctor being one of them.

Me:  And then we watched Dawn of the Doctor, Day of the Doctor-

Him:  I’ve already made that joke!

Me:  City of the Living Doctor, Land of the Doctor, Diary of the Doctor and Survival of the Doctor, which was rubbish.  Ummm…  Simon Pegg – who didn’t play the Master was-  Oh!  That reminds me.  Missy!

Pause.

Him:  Yeah?

Me:  Who d’you think Missy is?

Him:  I’m not sure that…  I care at this moment in time.  But, I’m sure that Steven Moffat will make us care.

Me:  I think so.

Him:  She’ll probably be him as a child.

Me:  Ha!  Well, there’s rumblings about River Song and, “It’s short for ‘Mistress’.”  So maybe we could be looking at a female Master, which I think’d be quite good.  Michelle Gomez is very good in the part from what we’ve seen.  I had a bit of a thought that I’ve not seen mentioned anywhere else yet.

Him:  Okay.

Me:  Could be Miss Evangelista.  Because she’s kind of uploaded to heaven.

Him:  Yeah, true.

Me:  And then that could tie in with River Song.  We’ll have to wait and see what happens.  I’m quite excited by the whole thing.1  Alright, what did you think of the Paternoster Gang in Deep Breath?

Him:  Well, they’re in everything.

Me:  Do you think they should have a spin-off series?

Him:  I think if they had a spin-off series then Steven Moffat would write it and maybe just do that forever. 

Me:  It’d give him something to do later on, wouldn’t it?  I think they’re worth a series.  I’m going to hide my ‘review’ in the footnotes, because a lot of what I want to say is a little bit different to, possibly, what our regular readers might be expecting.

Him:  Did you think it was terrible?  You did!  You thought it was terrible, didn’t you?

Me:  You’ll have to keep reading to find out.

Him:  I want to know now.


Pause.

Me:  I’ve renamed the ages on the psychoGEOLOGY page and that should give anyone who’s really that interested an idea of what I thought about it.  The Matt Smith era is now the Second Silver Age-

Him:  You should’ve left it as the Second Golden Age and made this the ‘Capaldage’.

Me:  Ha!  I should’ve!  Do you think they spent too much time on him being old?

Him:  Maybe.

Me:  It’s talked about a lot within the episode, which is really weird because it’s not like Clara’s unaware of regeneration seeing as she’s sat in his regeneration stream and counted them.

Him:  True.

Me:  So, that seemed a little bit odd.  And then-

Him:  And after she’s seen Colin Baker, she should really be sure that he can transform into anything.


Me:  Oh!  Right.  We saw it in the top floor of a car park.  It was massive-

Him:  It was actually the second floor of a car park.

Me:  Alright then.  It was pretty big.  It took up the whole of the floor by the feel of it.

Him:  Well, the second floor’s got very few screens just because that one is so big.

Me:  That’s probably why.  It hadn’t sold out, even though it was supposed to-

Him:  I think some people just didn’t show up.3

Me:  When we got there the foyer was packed.  I haven’t seen this before – there was a Dalek usher checking tickets and things.  We’d only just flown in from the Arctic-  I noticed members of Glasgow Who hanging around there.  There’s a bit of link with Glasgow Who and Peter Capaldi and the time I ‘met’ Peter Capaldi, so I’ll-

Him:  It was all in Glasgow.

Me:  It was.  I’ll put a link here to that one. 

Him:  That’s nice.

Me:  Extra features.  We had a few.

Him:  A total of eighteen minutes of bonus material.

Me:  And what was the first one of those?

Him:  I’ll leave that to you to explain.

Me:  As before, when we saw The Day of the Doctor – but not, oddly enough, when we saw Monty Python (Mostly) Live – there was a brief introduction from Strax.  He was explaining the whole process of regeneration for anyone who’d casually, accidentally spent a load of money buying a ticket to go and see something that they could’ve watched at home for free.  I don’t know how many new viewers the BBC were expecting to pick up in however many cinemas it was being broadcast in- 

Him:  You loved the introduction. 

Me:  I thought it was great.  I hope Steven Moffat wrote that.  I’ll be a bit disappointed if it turns out to be written by someone else and I’m praising them simply because I didn’t see a credit for it.  I’ve got bias to maintain here.  I thought it was really good.  Some of it was a little bit forced.  To be honest, that bit had – as with the majority of extra Who material – it’s the Murray Gold music that sounds really forced.  It didn’t match the action.  Someone’s just pressed play at the start of the scene and left the track in there.  It’s like temp music you’d find on a workprint or something, it’s just been left in as an approximation that really doesn’t add to it.  They’d be better leaving it off or writing something new.  But I’m going to talk about Murray Gold properly in the ‘review’. 

Him:  You love him. 

Me:  I though the way Strax broke down all the different regenerations was terrific.  The misunderstanding for comic effect worked well throughout.  It was a treat hearing that many people laugh- 

Him:  People tend to laugh when things are funny. 

Me:  So, who did we see?  There was a guy dressed up as the Fifth Doctor. 

Him:  Yep.  There was another guy dressed up as Peter Davison. 

Me:  Ha!  There were a couple of people dressed up as the Fourth Doctor.  Quite a few bow ties and fezzes, the odd Mohican – I can’t remember which Doctor that was, probably one we haven’t had yet.  So, that was the first thing.  Then we had the main show…  The new titles.  Do you like them? 

Him:  No.  But, I’m never a fan of them.  The music’s alright, it’s just so… bizarre.

Me:  I’m going to say that I think the music’s a vast improvement on the tosh that we’ve had to put up with for the last few years.  Having said that, there was one variation of the Tennant theme that must’ve gone a bit Delaware and escaped…  It sounded really powerful and…  I liked it for a moment.  That was a while back.  Okay, what did you think of the Half-Face Man?  Did you think they were scary? 

Him:  Who’s ‘they’? 

Me:  All the clockwork lot. 

Him:  There’s something about things that don’t move the way they should that I don’t like. 

Me:  That’s what they’re going for.  The movement was really good and the sounds- 

Pause. 

Me:  Did you notice London was invaded by a dinosaur? 

Him:  Yeah, I was there. 

Me:  Pretty good dinosaur effect.  In London.  Jon Pertwee reference? 

Him:  No.4 

Me:  The whole ‘regeneration episode’ thing, did you think Peter Capaldi did it well?  All the disorientation-while-your-brain’s-rebooting-and-all-that. 

Him:  Yeah.

Me:  There’s a couple of things that I want to come back to that tie-in with the extra bit at the end.  After the episode had finished, we had a rebooted Doctor Who Confidential with the wrong name – more DVD extra stuff.  It makes sense.  There’s been so much time and energy invested that there should be makings-of, there really should. 

Him:  “Because that’s how you ruin the experience.” 

Me:   Yeah.  It was a bit of a pain having to sit through it in the cinema without the option of going straight to the Q and A.  It’s just an electronic press kit really, VAM to be stuck on the end of a DVD, or the Red Button, as a lightweight distraction.5  The presenter was too enthusiastic as well, like being bludgeoned by a puppy that’s really, really missed you.  It’d be nice for the BBC to tone that sort of thing down.  It feels as though the whole series has slowed down going on- 

Him:  That’s because the episode was longer. 

Me:  They slowed down the scenes to give them a chance to breath, is that what you mean?  And no, I didn’t intend the pun. 

Him:  Yeah. 

Me:  The second-  No, the third piece of additional exclusive bonus material- 

Him:  Oh yeah. 

Me:  -was the Q and A session between Zoe Ball, Steven Moffat, Peter Capaldi and Jenna Coleman.  Interestingly, the only person who made a mistake and looked mortified-  Did you notice it?  Peter Capaldi got Nicholas Courtney’s name wrong and made it sound like Nick Briggs had passed on.  I felt really bad for him.  The pressure must’ve been immense and after the tour and the hype frenzy, his head must be whirling. 

Him:  Yeah. 

Me:  You could tell that wasn’t just-  Not like the Hound's gaffe.

Him:  Well, that wasn’t intentional either. 

Me:  No, but there’d be more sympathy from me if the Hound hadn’t been so rude about fans. 

Him:  You’re going to cut this bit out, aren’t you? 

Me:  Some of it.  Steven Moffat came across brilliantly.  In my opinion.  He was self-deprecating and…  I think we’ve been giving him far too hard a ride.  Genuinely.  He’s got an impossible job.  Did you think the balance was right between the humour and the- 

Him:  It was a lot funnier with Peter Capaldi than it was with Matt Smith, oddly enough.  Maybe that’s because it’s the first episode with him and every single joke in the series’ll have been pushed into there and the rest of it’ll be really dull and bland. 

Me:  Or it’ll just get grimmer and grimmer. 

Him:  Uh-huh. 

Me:   Don’t worry, Mark Gatiss has written one, so I’m sure that they’ll be jokes a’plenty. 

Him:  You loved The Crimson Horror. 

Me:   I thought The Crimson ‘orror was really good.  The best thing Gatiss has written for the series.  That’s because it’s one that really plays to his strengths. 

Him:  What are his strengths? 

Me:  Writing stuff that sounds like League of Gentleman.  Pastiche.  Sketches.  Grotesques.  Or Horror Documentaries.  We sort of started talking about Peter Capaldi, so let’s keep going.  He said the moment you see how he’s going to play the Doctor is the very final scene with him in it, the phonecall.  What did you think of that scene?  Were you expecting anything like that?

Him:  It’s Steven Moffat.  If you’re expecting something then he’s not going to do it. 

Me:  Alright.  That’s good.  Peter Capaldi’s been waiting all his life to do this.  What about Jenna Coleman as Clara?  It’s a different companion dynamic now to the way that it was with Matt Smith.  The whole, “I’m not your boyfriend,” draws a line under… something.  I’ve seen comments from people who feel that the phone-call scene was put in to please fangirls, but that seems like a rum way of looking at it.  I think it’s there to ease the transition across- 

Him:  “Yes!  They’re gone.” 

Me:  That was the reaction of fans who’re approaching it- I read some terrible things in a comments section on [redacted on lawyer’s advice] that really shocked me.  It doesn’t say much about the state of fandom- 

Him:   Are you going to tell me what these things were? 

Me:   No. 

Him:  You can leave it out of the actual- 

Me:  I’ll tell you later.  Let’s wrap up then.  Do you think there should be more Doctor Who in the cinema? 

Him:  It seemed a bit random to put it in the cinema. 

Me:  Why’d they do it? 

Him:  To hype it up again, since it’s been several years since we last had a Doctor Who episode. 

Me:  Ha! 

Him:  This year we’re only getting two and then in three years time we’ll get the next two. 

Me:   Nah.  It’s a full run of twelve, all in one go.  No breaks. 

Him:  Well, that’s familiar.  Like years and years ago. 

Me:  Are you looking forward to the rest of the series? 

Him:  Are you? 

Me:   Yeah, I am.  Very much.  Do you think he’s going to be a good Doctor? 

Him:  Yeah. 

Me:   Me too.  Alright, I’ll stick my review under this and we should probably just make barnyard noises for a while. 

Him:  “MOOO!” 

Me:  MAN YAK!”  Oh!  One thing I almost forgot to point out...1


1.  Me:  So, when the Doctor and Clara descend into the pit under Mancini’s, and they’re surrounded by all the clockwork droids – ‘cause it’s the sequel to The Girl in the Fireplace, of course.  I thought this was a much better episode than The Girl in the Fireplace, because I’m one of the few people who think that one’s quite hokey and not really very good at all…  I’ll just put that in there. 

Him:  You loved it when you first saw it.  As opposed to Tooth and Claw, which you hated. 

Me:  You’re allowed to change your mind about things. 

Him:  But that’s such a weird change of mind. 

Me:  Okay, I now think The Girl in the Fireplace is horrendously over-rated, in much the same way that I think Vincent and the Doctor is actually a dangerously misjudged piece of television and one of the worst things that’s been shown as part of the series.  But that’s just my opinion. 

Him:  “And everyone else should think that.”2 

Me:  Not at all, people should- 

Him:  “No-one should think that.”

Me:  Ha!  People should reach their own conclusions about these things.  I’m just saying how I see things and not telling people how to think.  Now then, if you look in the Mancini basement alcoves you’ll notice that one of the clockwork droids looks an awful lot like it should be in The Mind Robber.  Now, I wonder whether or not, maybe Missy is the Master.  "But probably not the one you were expecting." 

Pause. 

Him:  Okay… 


Me:  Because the Master first appeared – well, apart from The Space Museum, where the Doctor decided he was the Master.  And a Dalek. – The Master first appeared in The Mind Robber, as a character who’d later crop up in Promethea.  In fact, this ties in nicely with stuff that I’ve been saying about the Doctor being a fictional construct- 

Him:  Yawn.

Me:  -and whether or not…  Well, it’s my theory about The Chase, which I should probably reveal at some point soon, just in case it turns out that’s what’s going on in the next series.  It’s the World of Fiction.  Now, it’s not impossible that what we’re seeing here is that we’re in the World of Fiction. 

Pause. 

Him:   Yeees… 


Me:  And why not?  The Doctor is – like I’ve said before – real. How important are the faces we wear?  Can we trust them?  Let’s reflect upon reflections – we’ve seen a mirror lie before after all.

Pause. 

Me:  That’s for another day.  I’ll have to explain why The Chase is one of the greatest pieces of- 

Him:  Yeah, because you still won’t say. 

Me:  No.  Although I’ve hinted at it a few times.  Okay.  Thanks for playing.6

2.  Over the past few weeks, I’ve noticed there’re a few people in fandom – not all of them on forums - who seem to believe this, loudly, which is a shame.


3.   As part of the obligatory Car Park Attendant’s speech – “Exits are located here, here and there.  In the event of a fire, it’s the end.” etc. – whoever was sitting in seat K9 was offered complimentary buckets of popcorn and carbonated sugar fluid.  The seat was unoccupied. 


4.  Yeah, it was, and it was one of lots.  I’m hesitant about using the term ‘kisses to the past’ for several reasons, most of them being that the obvious references have vastly annoyed a surprising amount of fans (if the internet’s to be believed) whilst the ones they missed didn’t bug ‘em at all.  We’ll get back to The Mind Robber earlier.1 

5.  Like Night of the Doctor.

6.  Deep Breath ‘review’.  Apart from the fact that every department, including music, has – finally - given itself a kick up the backside/moved up a gear, see above for full details.

Thursday, 24 April 2014

Who, on Earth, is Tom Baker.




About a quarter of an hour passed, during which time several of the rooted queue glanced furtively at the man who’d coughed, as if in the desperate hope that he might cough again and thus suggest that we were still alive.  As these sly glances darted about the Trappist line, something happened; an event took place.  This event changed my life.
- Tom Baker, Who on Earth is Tom Baker?

or

I deny this reality.
- The Doctor

So, final time then: my first confirmable memory is watching Tom Baker bang a ganglion to annoy a prawn.  I’ve repeated this in public so many times over the last year on podcasts, online articles, printed essays and so on, that it might even be true.  If it isn’t, who cares? 

While I’m being familiar, how do you want me to go about this?  Perhaps you’d prefer an analogous road trip; maybe something psychogeographical; possibly an introspective retrospective; the old favourite’s always the painfully unfunny vanity piece - I usually fall back on that one.  Let me know at the end, we’ll have given most of them a tip of the fedora by that point.  If we work on the basis that time is simply an illusion then it doesn’t really matter where we begin or end, or even what order the story’s told in.  Let’s start near the end then.

On a hill in the Arctic Circle there’s a shop that sells toys, comics, nostalgia and books.  In the year before the old wizard’s third big screen outing, the Him had spotted a friendly face staring fixedly from one of the high ledges above the poster section.  Hidden amongst the Adventure Time handbags and optimistically-priced t-shirts, crouched the Doctor.  The Him immediately set his heart on this image in cardboard.  I asked one of the assistants how much it would probably cost - you can see where this is going.  When I’d recovered, I thanked her, grabbed the Him and we ran out into the teeth of a screaming ice storm.  The Him was quite disappointed by this turn of events.

One damp Friday, at the start of last December, I made the final payment on a piece of original Mark Buckingham M*****man artwork.  It was too big to fit in a bag, so getting it home was a challenge.  Flushed with enthusiasm and a sense that anything was possible - it was a payday - I made an executive decision and cajoled the Him into a return journey to the blinding white wastes.  I set my jaw in a stoic jut and we trudged through the ghosts and up the endless hill, toward the future in general.

I’m not sure exactly what happened next.  I asked an assistant, again, how much the relic would cost and got told a totally different price.  Oh well, anything’s possible.  The chap headed into the dungeons to find a ladder, leaving us with a hairy minder who may or may not have been an employee.  With a lot of grunting - and under the breath swearing - the Doctor was pulled from his hiding place near heaven and lowered into my sweaty hands.  This was the point that I realised it wasn’t just a torso, but a life-size replica - it’s still taller than I am, even after all that exercise.  Our hairy minder stuck his head next to the Doctor and started grinning, pointing and bellowing: “Hey!  Tom Baker!  Hey!  It’s Tom Baker!  Hey!"  Which was nice. 

The Him was glowing with earned embarrassment by now and I was starting to panic about how we were going to get this giant effigy home.  Luckily, he folded in two places.  Unluckily, he didn’t fold into a shape that would fit into any of the shop’s bags, so me and Him headed out into the howling hell with the Doctor stuffed into a black sack.  Behind us, someone was having a strip torn off for flogging the shop’s not-for-sale mascot.  The angry shouts were soon scraped away by the storm’s icy claws.  We got home undamaged and propped our guest up between The Scream and the bookshelf, where he spent a fortnight terrifying me whenever I entered the room.   

The festive season came and went and one of humanity's illusory chronometers clicked once, causing the arbitrary concept of a twenty and a fourteen to begin appearing on fuel bills.  Shortly after this, the lower third of the UK lost a bet with Neptune and had to cosplay as Atlantis for a couple of months.  Then, just when it seemed that nothing new would ever happen again, Tom Baker announced he’d be making a belated birthday appearance in London’s Sci-Fi Collector Stamp Centre Shop on London’s The Strand in London.  Seeing as I’d recently said to the Him that I’d do whatever it took to meet Tom Baker while I still could, this put me in a bit of an awkward position.  And not just because the manifestation was scheduled for first thing on a Thursday morning in a different country. 

Let’s go back a bit now – don’t worry, it won’t take too long.   

There’s something about the Doctor that I’d like to clear up.  A lot of people seem to confuse the character with the actor – which is ridiculous.  There’s only ever been one Doctor (and a succession of thespians whose skin he hides in for as long as he’s having fun) the only mortal who ever came truly close to imprisoning the myth was Tom “Well, yes, some people know me as that” Baker.  That’s not even an opinion, it’s a fact.  Or as close to a fact as we’re likely to get in this murky confusion.

(This where I should really start listing viewing figures and dull pseudo-scientific rot.  What’s the point?  Search your heart; you know it to be true.  Yeah, you do.  And this is the point where I’m supposed to regale you with my childhood memories of learning to read through Target books, the unutterable glory of Doctor Who Weekly’s comic strips, the raw, eyeball-scratching terror of the wizard’s television adventures and…  

(Look.  Shall we just take all that as read? I’m hardly expressing a unique experience here.  Some of us - maybe even you - are of an age to remember being there at the moment this strange British character became first an icon, then a folk hero and then… something else, something other.  Something very possibly immortal.  Something looking very, very much like a god.)1 

I phoned London’s Sci-Fi Collector Stamp Centre Shop on London’s The Strand in London to make sure I’d got all the details correct.  The gentleman I spoke to was lovely and very helpful.  I told him I was planning to bring down a life-size standee and he laughed.  

Yeah, you should.  We’ve got one in the doorway advertising the event.  This might be the last signing that Tom does though, so make sure you get here early.”

“Ah, right.”   

I told him I’d be traveling down from the Arctic Circle.

“That’s not the furthest.  I’ve heard someone’s coming from the States.”

Suitably mollified, I thanked him, hung up, booked the necessary time off work, bought a coach ticket and started preparing for the pilgrimage.


Millions of years later, I muddled my way through work, journeyed home, did the ironing, showering and general ablutions and waited until it was as dark as it gets up here, before heading off for the first stage.  By train.   

The standee folded mostly into a black sack, with only the hat sticking out.  There was a fair gale blowing, trying its best to steal the stationery statue.  I managed to hang on until the train slid into the station like an anaconda.  The doors opened to reveal a brand new penny on the floor.  Taking this as a sign of good fortune, I picked it up and lumbered aboard. 

I made fairly good time to the main railway station and hopped off, self-consciously lugging the folded Doctor up the hill adjacent to the shop he’d come from and into the bus station.  I found the coach fairly easily; the driver checked my ticket and said I could carry the Doctor on as hand luggage.  The coach was fairly empty, which was a relief.  I’d decided not to risk the luggage hold as it’d be embarrassing to present a childhood hero with a mangled effigy to enhance, so I slipped the Doctor between my knees and the seat in front, then prepared for the long-haul interactive veal experience. 

We didn’t depart until Thursday in the end, which left me in the delightful position of already being late ten hours before anyone else needed to start queuing.  The coach filled up in Manchester.   

The gentleman forced to sit next to me was obviously uncomfortable but made a huge effort not to damage whatever it was that I had in my sack, for which I’m grateful.  It had been light for about an hour before I finally managed to fall asleep.  

In the end, the coach was only quarter of an hour late landing at London’s Victoria’s Coach Station in London.  I’d guessed that I’d be daft to try and make it on foot, so spent half of my emergency budget on a Tube ticket to Embankment.  After nine hours sat in the same position, walking had become a much more challenging activity than I was used to.  This, twinned with the fact that London was also experiencing a bonus delivery of wind, hopefully made my rambling, shambling, re-enactment of Hick in the City entertaining to anyone who fancied a laugh.

While I’m being crushed up against a tube door, let's have a quick aside and talk about London.   

London’s more like a country than a city and it weeps history.  However, like every other human colony, it’s only as special as we allow it to be.  London’s largely an ideal - filtered through a quick-cut prism of legends, celluloid and mass-reproduced images, flickering and repeating.  This is how reality gets built up of course: repeating and flickering holiday snaps, innuendo, lies and songs and unreliable narrators construct the fabric we hide inside as a species.  It’s a wonderful, liberating, terrible, shambolic, disappointing and understandable way to create worlds.  Apophenia meets the Naked Lunch moment.  Each of us carries a London within us – it’s as real and as false as we are ourselves.  Mind the gap.

The doors open and I come lurching out and into the human tide.  Up the stairs and out into the sunshine.  It’s beautiful but that might be post-veal experience disorientation.  Each step feels like I’m sinking into the ground slightly.  Up the shallow hill and onto London’s The Strand.   

Turn right.  

Advance.

And there’s a queue.  Is it the queue?  Of course it is: that fellow’s dressed as the Autumnal Doctor from JN-T’s debut season.  He's even got the socks.   

The queue’s huge already.  It takes a bit of time to locate the end of it, folding around the corner off London's The Strand.   

It’s 1015.

For the first hour or so, I listen to Coil.  During the eighty minutes of the Moon’s Milk Cycle the line moves about three steps per track: forty-five in total.  It’s not until I start typing this paragraph that I realise it’s the only music I took with me – everything else was spoken word.  Apart from the standee, which is whipping and twisting with each sudden blast of wind, I’ve got the first issue of Doctor Who Weekly with me.  The back up strip’s by Steve Moore; I’m listening to moon music.  We shuffle forward a step. 

Buses glide past – red, re-occurring smears filled with inquisitive faces: occupants on an unexpected safari.  We stare back at them.  My sense of time is shot to hell after the journey.  Turns out to be a surreal blessing.  We shuffle forward a step.

There’s a gap in the line to allow civilians through.  At midday I cross this invisible Rubicon.  I finally catch sight of London’s Sci-Fi Collector Stamp Centre Shop on London’s The Strand for the first time.  My heart sinks.  It’s not far – you could walk it in moments – but it might as well be on the moon.  By my calculations, I’ll have to leave at 1330 if I’m going to walk – I can wait until 1400 if I’m going to spend the rest of my emergency money on another game of underground sardines.  We shuffle forward a step.

I’ve been putting names from Facebook to people around me.  I’ve reached the point that I’m almost certain I ‘know’ at least ten of them.  Of course, I’ve gone to such lengths to retain my anonymity that none of them’d recognise me, so there’s not much point announcing myself.  We shuffle forward a step. 

One of Coil’s guest vocalists walks past.  I have to stop myself from calling out.  It’s a very odd moment.  We shuffle forward a step.

By 1350, I’m fourteen people away from the front of the queue.  Punters are being allowed in two at a time.   

We shuffle forward a step.

1400.  Although there’s some griping in the queue, what can you do?  Punters are walking out, clutching envelopes and grinning.  Eight people in front of me.   

We shuffle forward a step.

1410.  Four people in front of me.  I can see in the shop now.  There’s another queue there.   

We shuffle forward a step.

1415.  It’s just me and a lovely fellow now.  I’m remembering the joke about the Channel swimmer who makes it until he’s a mile from France, then gives up and turns back.   

We shuffle forward a step-


- and we’re in the shop.  The queue moves much faster here.  The Lovely Fellow strikes up a conversation with me – he’s as excited as I am.  After a quick chat with the shop owners – I think one of them remembers me from my phone enquiry but that’s because I always think stuff like that – I’m allowed to make a token payment in lieu of purchasing one of their prints.  This means I can get the magazine signed as well as catch the underground and buy some water. 

I’m shaking as the Lovely Fellow heads forward to meet the Doctor.  I’ve purposefully not tried to snatch a glimpse yet – time’s weird enough as it is, I can wait.  I take a fumbled photograph of the Lovely Fellow's moment with the Doctor.  Now it’s my turn to drift briefly into Tom Baker’s life. 

Mixed in with the rest of the day’s surreality, he's just eyes, smiles and curls to begin with.  I fumble the standee out of the bin bag and bring out the gold pen I picked up specially a fortnight ago.  I try and explain about the Him and the whole pilgrimage thing and get a chuckle.  The gold pen doesn’t work so great - strange, I’ve been shaking so much the ink flow should’ve been like molten ice.  The Doctor gets signed twice, the second time in moon-silver.  I hand over the Doctor Who Weekly.

“Could you sign this ‘to Al’, please, Mr Baker?”

He’s amused.   

He signs the square where the transfers aren’t, scratches his cheek once, thoughtfully 
and 
then
points
straight
at
me.

His eyes are huge – he’s far too real.

Are you… Al?”

“I’m afraid so.”

HA!   

His laugh’s huge and rattles my ribs. 

“Thank you for everything, Mr Baker.”   

I shake his hand and our individual journeys disentangle(d).

I retraced my steps to Embankment, then to Victoria, then to the coach station.  All tucked in, the coach headed off in a stuttering exit from the imaginary city.

I stared out of the window, trying to find some sort of sense and failing.  The coach stopped next to a Marble Arch that looked very different to what I was expecting.  While we idled there, I watched the people passing on the pavement below, their lives drifting by silently through the glass; our slipstreams interacting with only the flimsiest of connections.  The coach was next to a small market with a newspaper dispenser set up adjacent to its fruit stall.   

A young girl, possibly on her way home from school, stopped the adult she was with and pulled him and his bike over to the metal containers.  She yanked one open, pulled out a newspaper and began flicking through it quickly.  She stopped about five pages in, pressed her finger down against the photo on the page and started laughing hysterically.  Then, she pulled about seven other copies, folded them into her rucksack and skipped off. 

Smiling and pushing his bike, the adult followed.


The point of philosophy is to start with something so simple as not to seem worth stating, and to end with something so paradoxical that no one will believe it.
- Bertrand Russell
 
Dedicated - with immense gratitude - to Tom Baker and Steve Moore. 

Thanks to all the staff of London’s Sci-Fi Collector Stamp Centre Shop on London’s The Strand.



1.  Trust me, there’s a legitimate case to be made for this.  But not today. 

Friday, 25 October 2013

A #TheDayOfTheDoctor Prologue




Just give us the facts, man.
- Joe Saturday, Chronocop

On the first of January every year, me and the Him take the jars of change that filled up in the year that just died and pour them into a machine that changes them into a piece of paper that you can swap for real money that you can then swap for a special, Well-Done-On-Being-Alive present.  It’s a tradition, or an old charter or something.

We’re now six days on from the most recent sinking of Atlantis, which I’ve written about in public as well as on this here blog, and five days on from the moment that I realised I might have made a terrible mistake.  Sure enough, tickets for the cinema screenings for The Day of the Doctor were duly announced as becoming available from 0900 today.  Two weeks before my payday.  Also, as I’ve mentioned before, I don’t do purchases online, everything’s a cash transaction, face to face.  This means that I can’t take advantage of online discounts, exclusive offers and all the stuff that you young whippersnappers take for granted.  I’m working on it. 

I almost walk past a soulless car park cinema on the way to work, so I thought I’d depress myself and ask how much milk they’d be requiring me to squirt in exchange for tickets.  Seeing as BBC (“licence-fee payers already enjoyed the chance to watch the programmes in the late 60s”)1 Worldwide are involved, I knew that it was going to be painful, I just wanted to find  if there was any possibility that I’d survive the procedure. 

We’d been planning to go and see The Day of the Doctor with friends in a cinema in Cardiff for months, but there was absolutely no way that could be done now, which is a shame.  I’d have liked to get us to the London Convention in London’s London as well, but the tickets had sold out instantly and there wasn’t a cash-in-hand option anyway.  It should, by rights, be taking place in Cardiff but that’s a conversation we’ll have another day.  Back in the past, I’ve just entered the soulless car park cinema for the first time.

There wasn’t a queue, which is a shocking indictment of something, so I went straight up to the person guarding the information and tried not to come across as a Doctor Who fan.

Me:  Hi.  You’re showing The Day of the Doctor, the Doctor Who fiftieth anniversary special.

Information Guardian 1:  Yes, yes we are.

Me:  I just wondered if you could tell me-  Oh.  Hang on a minute.  I’ve just realised.  It’s going to be a one-off live showing isn’t it?

Information Guardian 1:  Ummm.  Yes, I think so.

Me:  Are they more expensive than just your usual 3D prices then?  I don’t need glasses.  Ha ha ha ha.  No, really.  I’ve got glasses at home.  Quite a few pairs.  3D glasses that is.  Are these live things usually more expensive then?

Pause.

Information Guardian 1:  They can be.  What day is-

Me:  November the twenty-third.  Saturday.  Twenty-third of November.

Information Guardian 1:  Thanks.

Information Guardian’s keyboard:  tappitytappitytap tap tappity tap

Information Guardian 1:  Well, there’s no information on it here.

Me:  Okay.  Thanks for looking.  How much are these live shows usually

Information Guardian 1:  It depends really.  Somewhere between £10 and £20.

Me: “£20”?  Seriously?  “£20?”

Information Guardian 1:  Yes, but that’s the top end.  It’s not likely to be that much.

Me:  Oh, I wouldn’t bet on it.  Right.  Great.  Thanks.  Bye.

Information Guardian 1:  Next!

And so on.

I had a quick check online and found that the Australian showings had already sold out.  One chap said he’d paid $180 for three tickets which, having seen both the Regeneration and Fourth Doctor Time Capsule box-sets, I can well believe.  Still, the prices weren’t definite so there was still a chance.  I could probably manage £20 at a push but nothing more than that.

The next morning I decided to try again.  I couldn’t find a list of opening times anywhere on the soulless car park cinema’s website which was a bit annoying – I was still hoping that maybe they’d have them available early or something.  It wouldn’t be the first time Whoniversary related things were prematurely issued by huge organisations would it, BBC America?

Information Guardian 2:  Next!

Me:  Ah, hello.   I was in yesterday and I wondered if you could tell me how much the tickets for the Doctor Who 3D live special on the twenty-third of November are going to be, please?

Information Guardian 2’s keyboard:  tappity taptap tap

Information Guardian 2:  No.  We don’t have it on our system yet.  You’re the second person to ask today.  I’ll just ring the manager.

Me:  That’s lovely.  Thanks.

While she’s off ringing the Manager, I’d better mention something that happened on my way to the soulless car park cinema.  After I got off the train I’d checked a cashpoint and found that my balance had been kidnapped.  Following a panicked visit to the bank itself, I managed to piece together the events leading to this.  A wandering direct debit that I’d forgotten about had turned up unannounced in the small hours and been told to spack off by my bank who then helped themselves to my The Day of the Doctor ticket money as a reward.  We’ve all been there.  The whole experience hadn’t done me any good, and I was only in the soulless car park cinema because when I set myself on a course of action I stick to it.  Hang on, she’s coming back.

Information Guardian 2:  No, the Manager doesn’t know either.

Me:  Great.  Okay, how much do you think the tickets’ll be?

Information Guardian 2:  Well, live events are a bit more expensive than standard showings.  Shouldn’t be more than £21 though.

Me:  £21.  Bargain.  It’s gone up since yesterday.  Okay, thanks.  Oh – what time do you open on Friday?

Information Guardian 2:  10.

Me:  10.  Of course. 

Information Guardian 2:  Well, 9:45 for 10.  Thereabouts.  It’s not likely to be £21 though.

Me:  I wouldn’t bet on it.  Okay.  Thanks.  Bye.

Information Guardian 2:  Next!

I managed to get the problem of the wandering direct debit sorted out, replaced the money the bank had treated themselves to and, after a lot of walking, got myself back to the exact place I’d been in before the day had started.  I tweeted BBC (“licence-fee payers already enjoyed the chance to watch the programmes in the late 60s”) Worldwide, the soulless car park cinema and Twitter in general, asking if anyone had any idea how much the tickets would cost.  No one replied.  The general online consensus was that, come 0900 they’d be on the site buying up their tickets while they could – after all, a single showing is a pretty limited number of seats.  I’d gone to sleep before some lucky individuals started announcing they’d managed to buy tickets because they were already online.

I’m conscious that this is very much a First World Problem by the way, don’t worry about that.  I totally understand the thinking behind it, and I don’t begrudge BBC (“licence-fee payers already enjoyed the chance to watch the programmes in the late 60s”) Worldwide their eye for a buck.  The problem is that Doctor Who means a lot to me and this is a special occasion.  

Me and the Him were sat about ten feet away from Nick Hurran when he announced he’d got the directing gig, there’s a nice circularity to seeing the fruits of his labour with all the attendant experience of an event shared by a roomful of people who care just as much as you do about what's on the screen.  As cheesy at it sounds, I think it’s important, if I didn’t we’d watch it on iPlayer.  Trips to the cinema have become so commonplace that sometimes it’s hard to remember if you’ve even seen a film, although that might just be me.  Whatever else happens, this is going to be an important moment for a hell of a lot of people.  In these days of time-shifting, torrents and twenty-three million channels of nothing/sensorite2 those moments have become quite rare.  I really wish I could have taken the Him to Longleat.  This is, for now, the nearest I think we can get to that.  Oop – that’s the alarm.  Time to get up.

It’s chucking it down and it’s dark.  The website still says nothing about prices.  It goes 0900 as I leave the house, my head's stuffed with images of online transactions and my internal Countdown Dalek is barking the number of remaining tickets with every puddle-bothering step.  I catch the train, stalk up the hill that goes on forever and get to the soulless car park cinema at 0944.  There’s a young man standing right in front of the doors but otherwise no queue. 

0950.  More people join us.  It’s really wet.  I’m going to get a cold.  Inside the staff are moving the queue posts around and laughing.

0955.  One person’s banged on the windows.  I’m soaked and starting to stress.  The staff are having a great time.  Every now and then one will come up to the door and then walk off.

1000.  Nothing.

1002.  Still nothing.  The internal Countdown Dalek’s celebrating the triumph of technology.  The Master of Earth.

1006.  Someone opens the door.  They take their time doing so.

1007.  It’s not listed on the system.  My first thought is that it’s already sold out.

Information Guardian 3:  Do you have an Unlimited card?

Me:  No.

Information Guardian 3: Oh.  It’s only coming up as Unlimited.  Can you go and stand over there please?  There’s a queue forming.

I get directed across to stand behind the young man from earlier.  I’m actually shaking with nerves by now, which is ridiculous.

Information Guardian 4:  Oh, the site’s updated.  Here we go.

The lad in front of me buys five tickets.  I hear the price, divide it by five and then double that.  Blimey, I might be able to do this.  Now, it’s my turn.

Information Guardian 4:  Yes?

Me:  How much for one and a half tickets for the Doctor Who fifti-

She tells me.  It’s more than I thought.  Of course it is, I’m not eligible for a discount.

I stand there for about a million years.  I’m drenched.  I’m shaking.  I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t-

Me:  Go on then.

On the first of January every year, me and the Him take the jars of change that filled up in the year that just died and pour them into a machine that changes them into a piece of paper that you can swap for real money that you can then swap for a special, Well-Done-On-Being-Alive present.  It’s a tradition, or an old charter or something. 

The Him doesn’t know we’ve got tickets3 yet.


1.  And for everyone panicking about the bare-bones releases that The Enemy of the World and The Web of Fear are ‘enjoying’ – of course there’ll be Second Efforts further down the line.  They released Scream of the Shalka, didn’t they?  



2.  We don’t do that joke anymore.



3.  I do like the way the tickets are personalised, I must say.  Unfortunately my name’s on the Him’s one and his is spelled totally wrong.