Below are the 12 most recent journal entries recorded in alex_wilcock's LiveJournal:

Monday, March 12th, 2007
6:08 pm	Good Luck, Jacqueline Pearce! I waved goodbye (well, actually, I kissed her hand and called her “ma’am”) to one of my icons on Saturday. This was fairly unexpected: until a few days before, I hadn’t even known Jacqueline Pearce – famous as Servalan from Blake’s 7 and in Hammer horrors – was moving to South Africa to work with endangered monkeys, but thanks to a fab little shop in Edinburgh, I got a chance to see her. So, if you feel like wishing Jackie luck, drop by her blog, and if you visit Edinburgh, saunter all the way down Lothian Road to visit Voga. It’s small but packed full of exciting Doctor Who and similar bits, and they’re very friendly… And, as it’s four hundred miles from my favourite shop, East London’s Tenth Planet, I reckon that’s far enough for them not to be competing too directly with each other (both shops are named after worlds from Doctor Who stories involving the Cybermen, you know). Jacqueline Pearce and Servalan Jacqueline Pearce has been one of my favourite actresses for almost as long as I can remember. Servalan was certainly always the character that most grabbed my attention in Blake’s 7. Like Livia in I, Claudius, she was both brilliantly played and an outstanding political anti-hero. I thought she was fantastic growing up, and though it’s fashionable to knock strong woman characters like those two for being bad for women because they were villains, I have to say that’s rubbish. I can’t think of a stronger female role model on TV at the time, and that she was charismatic and three-dimensional enough to win me over despite being, ah, essentially appalling, tells you how impressive she was. Well, I always loved a great villain, and like Francis Urquhart, her mixture of stunning camp and intense emotional drama meant there were points where I definitely rooted for her scheming to pay off, perhaps indulging the side of me that doesn’t want to be so nice, open and constructive about politics. You might also have seen her in Doctor Who’s The Two Doctors (another striking villain, but with a dreadful wig and bacofoil frock), a fanatical nazi in Dark Season (Russell T Davies’ tryout for Doctor Who), The Avengers’ A Sense of History, Hammer’s The Plague of the Zombies and The Reptile, among many others. In recent years, she’s also been much in demand for audio plays, with perhaps the most outstanding being Big Finish’s terrific Doctor Who drama The Fearmonger, in which to no-one’s surprise Jackie played a far-right political leader. She was also great fun as a starry-eyed fanatic and recurring villain in their second Sarah Jane Smith series, though – as Millennium observed on reviewing it – she’s not as multi-layered a character as she seemed to be building up to be. But I digress, so back to Jackie, and scroll to the bottom of this piece instead if you want spoilers for the climax, or anti-climax, of Big Finish’s Sarah Jane Smith stories… Blake’s 7 started off in concept as something like Robin Hood in space, but while Servalan occupied the Sheriff of Nottingham role, she got far more character development than any Sheriff. She starts off as Supreme Commander of the military wing of the Federation, a vicious totalitarian dictatorship, but after a couple of years takes advantage of a galaxy-wide crisis to mount a military coup against the civil administration. That never happened to Bad King John. Before long, there’s a counter-coup, and the show’s final season sees her gradually climbing back to power, with considerably more resolve and success than our heroes’ fight against the Federation managed. It’s no surprise, then, that my favourite episodes of the series remain Star One, in which she declares herself President and has her civilian predecessor arrested, and Rumours of Death, in which an abortive coup against her tangles with a personal vendetta and a love affair gone wrong (yes, it’s all film noir again) to overthrow the usual pro-rebellion course of the series. Sand is another episode to look out for, exploring Servalan’s early life and with her seducing one of our heroes. It’s fascinating to watch the change in Jacqueline Pearce’s performance after assuming the Presidency: is it because the script now calls for a charismatic figurehead rather than a ‘harder’ military commander, or, as Jackie said in one memorable interview, “Because that’s when I discovered sex”? It’s always amused me, too, that I became President of my university students’ union on the anniversary of Rumours of Death being shown, though the coup that removed my predecessor was less bloody and my title wasn’t quite as impressive as ‘President of the Terran Federation, Ruler of the High Council, Lord of the Inner and Outer Worlds, High Admiral of the Galactic Fleets, Lord General of the Six Armies, and Defender of the Earth’ (no, not even when I was Vice-Chair of the FPC). Often described as striding across a quarry in heels and a cocktail frock – because she often was – she looked terrific and, I suspect, may have had something to do with my taste for monochrome, with close-cropped black hair and outfits nearly always in stark white or black. Of course, I wasn’t the only one to notice her looks, nor the most passionately: Jackie gives great interviews, in one of which (for BBC2’s I Love 1978, I seem to remember) she proclaimed with pride, “I was a masturbatory icon to an entire generation!” before throwing her head back and cackling at the thought of it. Jacqueline Pearce in Edinburgh Jacqueline still looks very striking now, though her long hair is streaked with grey: well, I think of it as ‘long hair’, but that’s merely because the picture of her in my head has such very short hair and in fact It’s only just long enough to have a bit of flow to it. Knowing she’s recovered from cancer in the last couple of years, it was great to see her looking so healthy as she prepared to set out on a great adventure that’s clearly making her very happy. And, with Voga being a friendly little shop – particularly Brian, on discovering that, almost on the spur of the moment (well, two days’ notice), I’d come up from London specially – and not a huge crowd there, she was happy to sign quite a lot of different things. Yes, I’d lugged several items with me, though I wasn’t the most extravagant, and of course I bought a couple of glossy photos for her to sign to help raise money for her monkeys. Glossy photos aren’t usually my thing, but just this once… We all had a great afternoon, too. She’s a great attention-grabber, and all the wine helped (what a very nice man Martin at Voga is); I think it helped Jackie, too, though she did claim that she’d never tried any before. Well, all right, she subsequently modified that to saying that she’d not previously had any that day. I’m sure you’ll know the myth that the Eskimos have dozens of different words for snow; well, in a reversal of that idea, Jackie has her own language that consists entirely of the dozens of meanings with which she can imbue the word “Darling”. Indulgent, ecstatic, interrogative, flirtatious, warning; it’s uncanny, but more repeatable than the line from White Mischief she declaimed after hooting with laughter on seeing a large print of her from that film which someone had brought along, exposing her breasts to, well, critical attention. I think the three and a half-month-old baby in attendance had to have his or her ears stoppered. I suspect I can’t print most of the stories she came out with about people she’s worked with, either, though she agreed that the cover of Hammer’s stylish The Plague of the Zombies (in which an eerily zombified Jackie quite loses her head) was peculiarly unattractive – the male lead, not much of a looker, being goosed by a zombie, even less of a looker – and could have done with her name in larger letters. And spelt correctly. I enjoyed her dazzling smile, too, as I produced a booklet from Dark Season for her to sign and declare, “I did enjoy making it. For all the wrong reasons!” I think the second biggest cheer of the afternoon was the moment when the sound was turned up on the Blake’s 7 DVD that had been playing in the background so we could hear her ordering a sinister nurse about with huge aplomb (it was Powerplay, if you want to watch it). For most of the afternoon, the picture was Blake’s 7 but the soundtrack was an assortment of Carry On themes, which was faintly disturbing, though I notice they didn’t dare put on the Carry On in which Jackie actually appears. However, the biggest cheer was for a startling cameo. Jackie had finished signing all the memorabilia brought by the group who’d been waiting for her, some had moved on, and the rest of us were standing around with drinks in our hands while Ms Pearce held court when a familiar white-haired figure appeared at the door. It was Gareth Thomas, an actor best known as the eponymous Blake, come simply to pop in, thank his opponent for 29 years of knowing her, hope that she would one day return, and wish her luck in working with real monkeys. Then he blew her a kiss and was gone while we were still gawping. So, I had rather a lovely Saturday afternoon, though I couldn’t do it every week (physically or financially). “You’re insane,” was the view of one familiar face who I often see at Tenth Planet, and indeed of Richard a little before six that morning as I left to get my train. But I’d not been to Edinburgh for years and I’d been tempted just the previous week while watching BBC4’s new drama (surely some mistake) Reichenbach Falls, so when I saw that Jacqueline Pearce would be making probably her final public appearance in Britain there… Well, it was worth it, despite the long rail journeys being completely exhausting and packed with noisy, drunken rugby fans particularly between Edinburgh and Newcastle (“That was the longest hour and a half of my life,” breathed one woman to me as she fought her way out at Waverley, evidently spotting I wasn’t a scarf-wearing fan). Besides, I had time to stroll around for a bit, even taking a little while to sit and relax half-way up the Mound on the same rock I always used to sit on and read when getting away from family holidays there. With only seventeen hours between leaving my front door and staggering back in, though, there was no time for any Lib Dem canvassing. Shucks. 13 March update: The Voga blog has very kindly linked to me today, complete with a lovely picture of Jacqueline Pearce and I (and my chins). You can also find a link to other photos from the day, including a few of me and many of Jackie. Look out for an especially great photo of a laughing Gareth Thomas (and, as chance would have it, I’ve just been listening to the radio version of The Naval Treaty; Gareth played one of the main characters in the Jeremy Brett TV version of this Sherlock Holmes story). In another post, they have a video clip of Jacqueline in the shop. SPOILERS for the climax, or anti-climax, of Big Finish’s Sarah Jane Smith stories: The second Sarah Jane Smith audio series was, for the most part, pretty gripping, and all a huge improvement on the first (the five stories in which were, respectively: tediously uninspired; tediously uninspired, idiotic, and homophobic; a bit crude but rather exciting; tediously uninspired again; and not bad. Best to start with the second season, then, or at least miss out 1.2 and 1.4, which add nothing). The real problem with it was that the only ‘episode’ that didn’t deliver was the final one, and not just because by the time that CD spins, Jacqueline Pearce’s character has just died. No, it’s the story: all the wheels suddenly come off. It’s always irritating when you think you’ve worked out a plot and your version is better than the one the author goes on to reveal, but, with two rival secret societies plotting around the return of an evil alien entity that Sarah had previously fought with the Doctor, I’d worked out that Jackie’s ‘nasty’ lot believed the entity was an evil conqueror and were therefore ruthless in killing all who might help it, while the new-agey, hippie-shit cultists protecting Sarah were of course deluded in welcoming their astral tyrant. So I reckoned the final episode would see Sarah working out what the alien force behind it all was, and being forced to ‘switch sides’ because the ‘villains’, while murderous, had the right idea. Instead, she works it all out but, er, seems to be so desperate to relive her outer space days that she goes along with the hippies to welcome their alien overlord anyway, rather than trying to stop it. Then the ambiguous ending implies that they were all so deluded anyway that they just expire while waiting and it didn’t bother showing up, if indeed it was ever planning to. In both ways, this seemed dramatically unrewarding. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
5:21 pm	Still Excited By Terrance* After All These Years (*clean version of title) Yes, after a mere… Well, perhaps I shouldn’t count up just how many months it’s been, I’m making another visit to this poor derelict journal (and the one I mentioned in the previous entry has fared almost as badly). I’ve been to several signings recently, so it seemed only fair: particularly as the next one is a piece that’s appearing on my ‘main’ Love and Liberty blog, too, which seems like cheating. It’s been a strange few months, and not conducive to a lot of writing: September consumed by Liberal Democrat Conference and related matters, then a horrible Autumn in which injuries to my right arm that made it very difficult to type even when I was feeling sociable played a large part. So, my health has been even more ludicrous than usual, but after months of having problems using my arm, the physiotherapy had just got to the point where I could start some proper typing again when my glasses fell apart, a month and a bit ago. It took a while to get an optician’s appointment, then for the glasses to be made up… Then the prescription was slightly wrong in one eye, so I had to wait for a re-test, then sent them off to for a lens to be replaced. Oh, how I laughed as I was blind as a bat and made the mistake of telling Janet Fielding so just after complimenting her on her appearance. D’oh! No, really, from a couple of feet away I could make an informed comment, but it didn’t come out well… Anyway, the latest signing hosted by those nice people at Tenth Planet was their third annual Doctor Who Day, with guests spanning old to new Who, a display on the stage of the shopping centre and free goodie bags and face-painting for the children. A jolly afternoon out, though I’d come for the guests rather than to have ancient sigils indicating my possession by the Beast tattooed on me. From the world of new Doctor Who celebrity cameos and TV’s Blue Peter, there was Matt Baker; from the world of audio Doctor Who and of course Eastenders, they had Anita Dobson, recently heard in Big Finish and BBC7’s Blood of the Daleks; and then there was Terrance Dicks, once script-writer and script editor for the TV series from as far back as the 1960s, writer of innumerable books, and there signing Made of Steel, the first novel published with the Tenth Doctor and Martha (yet to be seen on screen, unless you count the teaser trailers that have just started up). I’d like to say that I turned up mainly to engage Matt Baker in hip observations about Never Mind the Buzzcocks – and I like to think I made a stab at that, too – but you know that I was really there not for either of the household names, but for the man considered a deity on some planets, where there are gigantic sculptures to which human sacrifices are made (according to Paul Cornell, anyway). So, yes, I did something I rarely do and, rather than just get a couple of things signed, splurged out an extra fee so I could get (cough) ten items autographed and not be glared at by the minders for holding up the queue. Well, it was a shortish queue by the time I got to the guests. But what could I do? Terrance Dicks has written so many things over the years that ten was my shortlist – I daren’t tell you how many books and DVDs I initially brainstormed. And, you know, though he’s been signing appalling amounts of merchandise for about as long as I’ve been alive, he was absolutely lovely. I’d never call him the best Doctor Who writer, though his first book is still just about the best in the series, but he’s solidly professional (I’ve written about him before), and his style’s kept me reading all these years. It virtually got me reading in the first place, as his books were pretty much the ones on which I learned to read. It’s difficult to imagine life without reading (and of course writing) so many words, so when I meet one of the men to whom I feel I owe a lot of that, there’s a certain amount of awe. And yet, what a nice man – so practised at putting you at your ease. Unused to waving quite so many items at a guest, I apologised for the number, and he waved it away; “At conventions, small boys come up to me with two shopping bags full of books, and I sign them all,” he said (NB, readers: this is not a contractual obligation. And he did nod when I suggested that a lot of those little boys might have their dads behind them nudging them in the back to make sure they get them all done). He expressed surprise anyone should want to listen to a DVD commentary, so I congratulated him on doing his in such an entertainingly acerbic style. Some of them are desperately flat, but he’s definitely one of the contributors worth listening to – his bitching about Eric Saward’s Cyberman fixation greatly enlivens The Five Doctors, for example, if you pick up the Region 1 disc with the commentary on it. Prompted by that observation, he recalled that, on visiting Mr Saward (then Doctor Who script editor) to discuss writing The Five Doctors, he’d noticed a Cyber-helmet on the back of the door. And Cyber-boots. “Do you dress up when there’s nobody here and stomp about in all that?” demanded Terrance. Well, if you’ve seen The Robots of Death, you’ll know Eric’s not the only transistorvestite about. One book I didn’t bring along, though purely because my copies seemed too knackered to bother getting autographed, was his novelisation of The Dalek Invasion of Earth. In many ways the best of the three versions of the story, it does open with my favourite sentence of his, and I know several other people who’ve quoted it to me as the perfect establishing line. Explaining this, “Through the ruin of a city…” I started – “stalked the ruin of a man,” he finished, beaming. I don’t want you to think that I ignored the other two guests. Actually, all three of them were wonderfully enthusiastic. I felt I had to apologise to Anita Dobson for spending so long with the chap sitting next to her, explaining that I learnt to read on his books (well, in a diplomatically quite tone). But she was lovely, too, and thrilled to have been in Doctor Who at last, heard as the unloved ruler of another ruined world. Having heard all my conversation with Terrance, though, she wondered if she could ask me a few questions. Well, of course I said yes, and of course I knew the answers, and of course she marvelled that I was “a mine of information” – though no doubt 90% of the queue could have done the same. “Fans know everything in the world,” Terrance wisely advised her, though he knows a bit as well: she was trying to work out how many Doctors there had been, and after I’d given the simple answer of ten (there are many other answers, but that way madness lies), I added that Paul McGann, with whom she’d done her story, was the eighth. “Does he count?” she asked, forcing me to hold in any references to Queer As Folk lest she run screaming from the room. “He wasn’t on the telly.” “Well, he did one TV Movie in the ’90s,” I started to explain, “And it was rubbish!” boomed Terrance, before pithily explaining just what was wrong with it in terms almost suitable for children. So, he’s a Queer As Folk man, though apparently Russell T Davies isn’t. I stood my ground, and said that, while it desperately needed a script, on the bright side I thought Paul was very engaging in it as the Doctor. “Well,” said Terrance grudgingly, “casting him was the one thing they got right.” Making my escape to Matt Baker, he’d obviously heard it all and started asking the “mine of information” questions, too. But I did get to talk about Buzzcocks, and to confess that, when we had friends round to watch the whole of the 2005 season with an exciting array of food, though we’d considered his ‘spaceship cake’, it just seemed too complicated and that we didn’t actually make one. Neither, you’ll be shocked to learn, did he. I know: it’s like finding out about Father Christmas. The moment of the day was still Anita Dobson’s peals of laughter as she played with a two-foot talking Freddie Mercury doll, though. (Comment on this)
Monday, August 28th, 2006
8:26 am	A New Bloggy At Last Now that I’ve finally hit on a way to give this journal a bit of the attention it needs (poor wilting flower) with occasional posts about signings to give it its own identity, I’m going to spoil it all with a plug for a new other blog. I know, I’m just unfaithful in my blogging. Anyway, if you’re reading this, you’re probably either a Doctor Who fan or enjoy horrific tales of dental torture. Sorry, but with any luck I’m going to be a bit slack on the hideous torture side of things in future, but to the other readers, you’ll probably have heard of Doctor Who Magazine. They have a splendid project called Time Team reviewing the whole of Doctor Who. After sending in my ‘reader’s thoughts’ for some years, on Saturday I created a blog to record them all, beginning with the experimental Pilot episode of Doctor Who, judged unsuccessful at the time and remade before the series started – the only piece of TV Doctor Who the Time Team don’t cover. This seems an opportune moment to start this selection. So, I’ve started my third blog: Next Time, I Shall Not Be So Lenient! Yes, I know, starting a third blog when I can’t keep up with the two I have sounds a bit silly, but bear with me. I’ll still be doing all the usual Doctor-Who-and-lots-of-other-things at my main Love and Liberty, and posting the odd crazily stalkerish name-drop here. Just so this one feels loved. The new one’ll be occasional, too, and again with its own identity. I’ll start at the beginning of Doctor Who and simply publish all the random thoughts I’ve sent into Time Team over the years, so it’ll be less a set of reviews than a bunch of bizarre fragments. As I didn’t start sending in comments to DWM until the end of William Hartnell’s time as the Doctor, there are a couple of dozen stories I’ll be doing slightly more coherent reviews for at the start, to lull readers into a false sense of, well, making sense. I’ll be posting a few pieces over the next week or so to explain exactly what I intend to do with the new blog, but after that it’ll probably settle down to about once a fortnight. As well as being a partial solution to three blogs by someone who’s not exactly fast at putting an article together, although for most posts to the new one I need in theory just copy in something I’ve already written, it’s taken the Time Team since 1999 to get from the Doctor Who stories of 1963 to the cusp of 1982. It wouldn’t do to overtake them. (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 24th, 2006
8:16 pm	Writers, Writers Everywhere Tenth Planet’s had rather a lot of signings over the past couple of months, before taking most of August off; I might return to the first weekend in August later, but in the meantime, the most recent signing I’ve been to was, unusually, at Forbidden Planet instead. I’ve only been to a couple of signings previously at their Central London megastore – in part because they don’t have nearly so many Who-related guests, in part because Tenth Planet are terribly nice chaps and I don’t know these ones, and in part because Tenth Planet are in a lovely, practical, heated indoor arcade, while Forbidden Planet requires you to queue in a seedy London backstreet for hours in the rain. Queuing there last year I got so sodden that I developed a cold I couldn’t shake for about three months, so this time I brought a brolly, and needed it. Anyway, this was back on Saturday 12 August (‘from 1pm to 2pm’, they advised optimistically), for a very impressive lineup promoting The Doctor Who Storybook 2007, a rather groovy annual-sized publication from the publishers of Doctor Who Magazine. In we trooped, weary and dripping, past a long set of tables festooned with the most extraordinary collection of authors: Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Gareth Roberts, Tom MacRae, Robert Shearman and Nicholas Briggs, plus DWM editor Clay Hickman and fabulous artists Alister Pearson and Martin Geraghty. I mean, wow. In theory, a fantastic lineup, particularly for someone like me who’s as much or more excited by authors as I am by actors. And it was exciting, up to a point. The trouble is, there are one or two logistical difficulties when there are multiple guests in attendance, and while conventions have generally learned to solve them, it’s difficult to manage in a shop. Imagine, for the sake of argument, that – er – a friend might have brought along a complex selection of things to get signed by thrilling writers who rarely turn up to such things. Then imagine the difficulty I (damn, what a giveaway) might have, ushered in, dripping, to see a table side-on. Not only can you not get your things ready in the rain, but it’s impossible to see the order people are in even once inside before they’re actually signing. Being a relatively well-brought-up chap who doesn’t want to cause a tailback, it inevitably meant getting to the end, finding an item buried under the rest, and thinking, “Bugger, and that was his best script / book / piece of art, too.” There are other problems, too. I like to say hello, but it’s very difficult to make conversation when the people all down the line of signers will hear you long before you get to them, or to remember what tack you were planning to use when there are nine in a row. The poor guys were so cramped together they were like a chain gang, but there’s also the problem of how to be, ah, differently enthusiastic to people; there were ways I could praise all of them, but I found it difficult to say to one author “I thought your story was brilliantly plotted, what a superbly crafted ending,” when I’d have been left telling the next one “And yours… Looked nice.” It’s like sitting two Doctors together (whoops, Tenth Planet are doing exactly that next month). Still, a few interesting exchanges, and good to pass the time with those I’ve met before and recognise me (and goodness, hasn’t Rob lost weight). The longest chat was, of course, with the one in the book who, like the evil fairy (despite, I believe, being one of the straight ones), hadn’t been invited but turned up anyway, lurking at the back of the shop ready to cast a curse when it came to the free drinks. I wonder if any of them now have 5198 weeks of sleep left to go? It feels mean while so enthused by all these people to mention that the real star of the day, while also an accomplished screenwriter with a feature film and work on Doctor Who spin-off Torchwood to his credit, wasn’t someone people saw as an author and wasn’t even on the bill. Yes, all the poor, soaking children in the queue cheered when Noel Clarke, Doctor Who’s own Mickey and Ricky Smith, turned up to shake hands, pose for photos and sign the odd thing that a kid didn’t mind turning into papier maché. This unexpected bonus definitely cheered everyone up on the three-hour wait. I must admit, I nabbed him for a signature inside afterwards, while he was talking to a shop assistant who was practically drooling on him (well, yes, he is jolly handsome as well as a jolly nice man) about the distinct lack of Mickey figures in Forbidden Planet’s toy section. Why is there, for example, a toy Chip, Cassandra’s unassuming sidekick, and not a slash-fiction special double-pack of his Defenders of the Earth? Bless him, he was insisting on a Jackie and Pete pack too. Awwwhhh. If you’re wondering why he turned up, unexpected and unpaid, the secret lies with one of the authors who I chatted to briefly on his way back from the loo. I’d better not name him, but he’d been having lunch with Noel the day before and mentioned the signing: “Shall I turn up and cause chaos?” is an approximation of Mr Clarke’s reply. And, of course, everyone loved him for it. I notice, by the way, that the BBC’s own Doctor Who Annual this year is labelled in huge letters as DOCTOR WHO – THE OFFICIAL ANNUAL 2007, as if trying to imply the DWM Doctor Who Storybook is some cheap knock-off and not something they’ve very expensively licensed from, er, the BBC. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, August 3rd, 2006
11:14 am	“I Am Not Worthy” Yes, I know this has been neglected for much too long, but when Nicholas is kind enough to syndicate my other blog, just re-posting it doesn’t seem that exciting… However, I’ve thought of a few things that I don’t put on Love and Liberty; no, don’t worry, it’s not more agonised surgical detail. Some would call it name-dropping, some a stalker’s diary, but actually it’s just going to be about some of the people for whom a gushing fan is prepared to queue. I’m a frequent visitor to top Doctor Who shop Tenth Planet, out in Barking, not just to pick up the latest Who-related tat and have a bit of a gossip, but for their recurrent Saturday signings with special guests. I was there last Saturday after the release of Doctor Who DVD The Hand of Fear, one I remember very fondly from my childhood, to get my copy signed by two icons of the period. For those of you who don’t know, The Hand of Fear features a fossilised hand which starts to move – in one of the two or three most terrifying moments of my childhood – then grows back its body into the rather stunning form of an actress called Judith Paris, playing an alien made of living stone. Things go a bit to pot later when she further transforms into a male alien in an ill-fitting costume who shouts a lot, but while Judith was on screen, I remember being enthralled (though not for the same reasons Tom Baker relates in the DVD commentary). I always loved a good villain, and unlike today’s series there weren’t many female ones in Doctor Who at the time, so she had novelty value as well as being terrific in her own right. Well, she still looks rather stylish today, and seemed to enjoy herself tremendously. Oh, she also knighted me at one point, as ‘Sir Richard or Alex’ (you can probably guess what I ask people to write when they sign an autograph). Apparently I was the only person who knelt in front of her. Well, I always think it’s rude to tower over someone when they’re sitting down and would rather converse at the same level, wouldn’t you? The other guest was former Doctor Who producer Philip Hinchcliffe. Now, I’m usually pretty self-confident, some might say gobby, meeting people one-to-one. I tend not to be nervous even saying hello to fabulous heroes of my youth (while Richard blushes and hides, bless him, so he tends not to come along. That, and not seeing the attraction of a two-hour queue). The main exception since I started going to these events was meeting Julian Glover last year – possibly the most dependable villain on screen, and an actor I’ve been in awe of since I was a boy. Everything went out of my head and I just gushed embarrassingly. Philip Hinchcliffe wasn’t quite that bad, but ‘awestruck’ still sums up my reaction. Stony-faced and impressively-eyebrowed, this man was the producer of Doctor Who for the first three years I watched it, and his vision of the show – horror, history, wit, memorable images – utterly captivated me. It’s a period that I’d still say is the greatest the series has ever had and, yes, meeting him was like an audience with God (or more appropriately, as Mrs Mary Whitehouse saw him, the Devil). I’m enormously grateful to him. So there was a bit of gushing for the man who got me into Doctor Who and, by extension, probably reading, politics and getting me to meet Richard, and the eyebrow raised. Still, it raised a lot more for the couple of very fixed views who were queuing a little way behind me, so at least I wasn’t the worst… (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, May 14th, 2006
7:45 pm	Tooth and Awwwgghhh! – The Aftermath Several days later, the tear at the edge of my mouth (yes, it is possible for even me to open my mouth too wide) has just about healed, but my gum is still swollen, painful and strange-tasting. There’s also a hole in it in the middle of the lower left side that seems about the size of a house. It’s so big that I counted the teeth on the other side and, yes, there are two missing. I don’t remember having had one out before. Was it so long ago that I’d forgotten? Or did she just break and uproot a neighbour during that no doubt exhausting ordeal? I’ve not dared ring and ask, but it’s left me feeling suspicious as well as sore. My Mum also gave me a heavy cold to take home, so I’m still not quite as healthy as usual (which, you’ll be shocked to learn, isn’t very). Had this taken place this week rather than last week, and had I therefore seen last night’s Doctor Who, I’d have had Tight Fit going through my head instead. Probably a good thing I didn’t. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
6:33 pm	Tooth and Awwwgghhh! – The Conclusion Last weekend I finally travelled up to Stockport to see my regular dentist. Yes, some might say 200 miles is a bit far for even an NHS dentist, but I’ve been with them since I was four, and besides, it gave me a chance to see my Dad for his birthday and my Grandad in hospital. One out of three being a fun bit wasn’t bad… Anyway, the short version is that I had two fillings and the infected tooth taken out – though that rather under-describes a process that took well over an hour. So if you’re squeamish, stop reading now. I went into the dentist’s surgery at 10.30 and came out at 12.15, after having the upper filling that had crumbled away replaced, along with another that had cracked in the meantime. What took the most time, though, was having the rotten lower left tooth pulled. That sounds easy and quick, but unfortunately it wasn’t like the ‘one tug and it was free’ that you always see to comic effect on TV, though I’d certainly been influenced by that fanciful notion when I was given the option. She could do some root work, I was told, over four different appointments each a week or more apart, at the end of which she still might not be able to save the tooth. Or she could just take it out. Well, what would you have chosen? During the hour it took, I kept trying to distract myself by running through favourite TV scenes in my head, but it kept coming back to Clouseau committing dental horrors in The Pink Panther Strikes Again or the Doctor with toothache in The Gunfighters. The same Doctor Who story had been going through my head a lot the previous weekend, when the toothache reached its height; I remember about three o’clock one morning, having had no joy from mixing two painkillers, thinking of the Doctor being offered a shot of whiskey or a tap from Doc Holliday’s revolver. I rarely drink, but was inspired to try a large measure of one of our liqueurs. No effect on the pain, though it made other things a bit blurry. I took to considering the possibility of waking Richard to ask if he had a handgun (he doesn’t). But I digress. I was in a happier position than the Doctor by way of having had a strong anaesthetic injected into my jaw, but on the bright side for him, his tooth popped out in one go. Mine broke. Though I couldn’t feel the pain, I could hear the crack. Blimey, it was loud. There followed an hour of my dentist calling for smaller and smaller pliers and looking generally worried, at least when I had my eyes open. Most of the time I kept them closed – the spray of blood into them was distracting, and though I’m not especially squeamish there’s a limit to how many minutes I can watch someone reaching into my mouth and coming out drenched in blood. It was bad enough hearing and feeling my other teeth being knocked about as she tried more and more angles. Endless cracking sounds, signalling bloody chunks of me being pulled out as she got a purchase but more frequently another failed attempt. Out came a root! Call for more pliers. Out came another root! Can I go home? “I think there’s another bit down there.” She takes an X-ray and, yes, there were three roots and one’s still right down there, invisible to the naked eye. My joy was palpable. It did all come out eventually, but I did spent quite a long time wondering if it ever would. She then added a strange fibrous brown substance to the gaping hole to help it heal or, possibly, burrow down to lay its eggs and grow to take over my mind as part of an invasion. It’s still giving every bit of food an offputting taste. At the end I was, unsurprisingly, told to keep taking the painkillers for a few days, and by the time I next saw a mirror a couple of hours later my left cheek was swollen and the left side of my mouth was drooping horribly, crusted with blood. I probably looked like a stoned vampire – well, all right, it’s quite a while since I was gaunt – and children and small animals were fleeing my path. I look better than that now but, really, it wasn't a fun morning. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
6:21 pm	The Return of Tooth and Awwwgghhh! Another fun, event-filled couple of weeks down, and here’s what happened next. They eventually called back and talked through my symptoms, so I was given an appointment for 8pm. I was seen about 8.40, and after going over the problems with my teeth, she decided not to give me another temporary filling, as it would just have to be drilled out in a week and it was already badly infected, but to give me painkillers and antibiotics for the infection itself. Between the Dihydrocodeine tablets (brilliant, after not one of the over-the-counter pills worked) and the Orajel going directly into the lower left tooth that had been giving me the agony, the pain dramatically reduced. I was a bit knocked out and woozy that night, though without much sleep, but on Monday May 1st I had my first full night's sleep for a week. On Tuesday – waiting in all day for an electrician that didn’t bother turning up, but that’s another whinge I’ll spare you – I was still tired, still throbbing, but now no longer a zombie (or hideously pain-wracked). Phew! Add to that Amoxicillin for the infection and things seemed to be on the up. Wednesday, and more aggravating phone fun with electricians, then off to deliver in stately, picturesque Southwark and busy, built-up Hampstead and with various jolly Lib Dem candidates. By the end of the day I was weaving about and pouring with sweat, which I thought was down to exercise and a warm night. Off to the doctor’s Thursday for more painkillers – he wouldn’t give me the same ones I got from A&E at the weekend because they’re addictive, tsk – and then set off for sunny Leyton for polling day. A little over half-way, I started reeling on the tube. Perhaps it was the old painkillers on top of the new, but I managed to get home and then just keeled over. About four hours later I came round to find a few missed calls, rang back to say I wouldn’t be over for knocking up, reckoned I wouldn’t be out for a drink that evening with Who fans either, and just tried to feel less out of it. I’m still feeling guilty after a particularly good councillor in the ward I was on my way to lost his seat by a handful of votes. Oh dear. But it looked like I had a choice between zombie through pain and lack of sleep, or zombie through the painkillers, so I kept taking the tablets… (Comment on this)
Sunday, April 30th, 2006
3:09 pm	Tooth and Awwwgghhh! (II) Thanks, Ramtops, for the suggestion – I’d just gone out, with poor Richard driving me round Whitechapel, and here’s the latest... Back from A&E, who said it wasn’t their problem and sent me next door to the emergency dentist, who weren’t letting anyone in the door and sent me a/ to ring a number to get an appointment and b/ to the Sainsbury’s pharmacy across the road. Was put through to an answering person and told that I’ll be rung back to discuss details and possibly fit me in sometime tonight - hasn't happened after well over an hour. This is not the NHS's best day ever. Pharmacy gave me Solpadeine, which has done bugger all, and Orajel (with clove oil and other things), which has made my mouth numb. Except for the hideously painful bit, obviously. No, to be fair, it’s gradually taken some of the edge off – I can survive for more than two minutes without filling my mouth with cold water, which is an improvement. Another thoroughly lovely person online mentioned DIY temporary filling kit, though naturally the pharmacy didn’t mention them, despite me explaining what was wrong. Shame, really, as they sound a good idea. Despite waiting for that call, may take the opportunity of ameliorated agony to try and sleep again while Richard watches Miss Marple. Bit embarrassing when my biggest ambition is unconsciousness… (Comment on this)
11:32 am	...Because Self-Pity Is So Attractive I've been neglecting both blogs, now, and in part because I'm having some real difficulties with concentration. A few weeks ago I had two temporary fillings put in to replace ones that had fallen out – with a ‘proper’ appointment for fillings on May 8th (and my dentist is, er, 200 miles away, which makes it very difficult to just turn up there and see if they can fit me in). Both temporary fillings have crumbled away since - the upper one in a charming miniature re-enactment of the plaster falling down in Carry On Up the Khyber, the lower popping out all in a lump, unbidden, during conversation. Lovely. I’ve had intermittent toothache since, but manageable until this week. Suddenly, it’s been getting so bad it’s been waking me in the night. For the last four nights, I’ve not slept past three, save brief snatches in the day. I’m increasingly wrecked, and unable to concentrate (unsurprisingly). It’s been ebbing and flowing in severity, and I managed to get out for a bit yesterday, but now it just doesn’t seem to be going away again. The past two days it’s suddenly become almost full-time, and I’m at my wits’ end. I’ve tried as many different makes of painkiller as I can lay my hands on, as well as several stiff drinks (I rarely drink - you'll probably know that my vice is chocolate, which hasn't done me a lot of good in this regard). None of them have the slightest effect. Richard has also declined to tap me on the head with his six-shooter (Doctor Who joke). So I'm feeling very, ah, blurry through lack of sleep, but not at all blurry where I'd like to be. Yesterday I found that brushing the gums around the broken tooth provided relief, but it’s now too raw to carry on. Since about 4am today I’ve managed only by keeping my mouth full of water, which slightly ameliorates it – but I’m, well, turning into a balloon, and as my mouth becomes agony within a few seconds of emptying it I can’t exactly try to relax. A few minutes ago I resorted to locking myself in the bathroom and screaming, which is understandably alarming my beloved. And me. In short, I'm really losing it right now... (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, April 7th, 2006
4:20 pm	Ooh, I Do Feel Queer Well, I've been ill and / or away for much of the last month, so I've not done much on one blog and cruelly neglected this poor fledgling. Awwwhhh. But today’s news is something that, I’m sure, will surprise no-one: Which member of the Carry On Team are you? Kenneth Williams. You are of noble blood and can talk for Rome. Oh, 'ere, stop messing about! Take this quiz! Quizilla | Join | Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code (Comment on this)
Monday, March 6th, 2006
9:29 am	Hello world, hello trees, hello flowers I’ve recently started blogging, and while I do that over at Love and Liberty (see below), I have friends at Livejournal too and opened this mini-account to keep in better touch with them. So, I probably won’t be posting here directly all that often, though the lovely Nicholas (nhw) has syndicated me on here http://syndicated.livejournal.com/alexwilcock/ if you want to keep it in-house. (9 Comments |Comment on this)