Hancock’s Half Hour – The Harry Secombe Episodes Part 4

Well, here we are. After three weeks of Harry Secombe covering for an indisposed Tony Hancock we’re back to where we started. The regular cast assembled on 8th May 1955 to pick up where they left off with a recording session at the Paris Studios for transmission a mere two days later. Business as usual? Not quite. There’s a debt that needs repaying so it’s time for a fighting fit Hancock to pay “A Visit To Swansea”.

Kenneth Williams is on duty again as announcer, as he introduces…

KEN … Bill Kerr, Sidney James, Andree Melly and Kenneth Williams in… Hancock’s Half Hour

Still no sign of Hancock’s name in the opening credits. No sign of Harry either. Kenneth continues…

KEN Harry Secombe having successfully deputised for Tony Hancock for the last three weeks, he has now left London for his hometown Swansea, With no one left to impose upon, Bill Kerr has had to find alternative ready-made accomodation, the alternative being Hancock’s empty flat, and the “ready-maid” being Andree Melly. Or so he thinks.

We open on Bill and Andree listening to a recording of Harry singing – the script specifies “Heart of a Clown”. “Must be one of the best records he’s ever made”, comments Bill.

ANDREE Wonderful. I’m going to miss Harry.

BILL So am I. He took all his money with him.

It would appear that there’s enough money left for three or four weeks, after which, it’s time for drastic measures – Andree will have to go out to work. Bill pleads exclusion on account of his war wounds…

ANDREE You told me you were in the cookhouse.

BILL We had more casualties there than any branch of the Australian army.

Bill leaves to conduct some important business – once he’s found his billiard chalk. Andree takes a few minutes to listen to Harry again before carrying on with the washing up, at which point…

TONY Ah, home again at last. Hancock’s Haven. The swallow returns to his nest. Three weeks away, and… hello, I left the gramophone on. Hasn’t done the record any good by the sound of it.

There’s an important task to be performed here. Andree’s supposed to be a regular cast member but she hasn’t actually met Tony yet – she came over from France with Bill. This could be awkward.

ANDREE Is that you Bill? You’re back quickly. I wasn’t expecting you till… oh

TONY Good Evening.

ANDREE Good Evening.

TONY Who are you?

ANDREE I live here.

TONY Well, that solves me problem of what to do in the evenings, doesn’t it? How did you get here?

ANDREE Mr Kerr said I could stay here. He said it would be alright.

TONY Well, it looks as though HE is.

ANDREE Oh, you know Mr Kerr?

TONY Yes, we’ve met.

ANDREE Of course! I’ve just realised who you are.

TONY (Pleased) Have you?

ANDREE Yes. You’re the labourer Bill was going to send round to clear this place up!

At which point Tony clocks the devastation left after one of Bill’s all night parties. A few beer stains on the wallpaper – “me contemporary two tones. Ruined!  One and six and three a yard.” Some cigarette holes in the carpet – and the chair Tony sits down in having come over all faint (the FX instructions add a simple (TERRIFIC CRASH) at this point).

There’s a scored through section in the script here –

ANDREE Well you see, some things got broken.

TONY Add Mr Kerr’s name to the list, will you?

Rather sweetly Andree breaks down in tears on Tony’s behalf. Tony attempts to comfort her – Andree recovers.

ANDREE You’re very sweet.

TONY I have me moments.

ANDREE I’ve heard so much about you. From Bill.

TONY Have you?

ANDREE Yes. I don’t think you’re ugly.

TONY Of course not, don’t let me face mislead you. Methinks Mr Kerr and myself will be having a few words.

BILL (way off mike, singing) I can’t give you anything but love, baby…

TONY Ah. Hear the gentle lark.

Bill enters, speculating how much they could get for Tony’s radiogram (“about thirty seven pounds” comments Tony drily), at which point Bill clocks just who’s got there ahead of him. He attempts to salvage the situation.

BILL Where have you been all these weeks? We’ve had no word! We thought you were dead.

TONY Quite a little wake you had here last night.

BILL I was only drowning my sorrows. You’ve no idea how upset I’ve been. The mental agony of not knowing where you were. Not sleeping at nights, pacing my room, wondering where to find you, looking everywhere for you.

ANDREE That’s right, he searched my room dozens of times.

Tony attempts to explain his absence by taking off on one of his trademark flights of fancy – “when Whitehall calls, one doesn’t question”. On being pressed further he explains –

TONY I can’t divulge it William, but I CAN tell you this. The gayness has gone right out of Budapest. Oh yes, I know the ghoulash at Pauls is quite piquant, and the Tokay at Nikolai’s – ah! But it’s only surface, William. Underneath… well, it’s nasty. Quite, quite nasty.

BILL Seaview Hotel, Bognor Regis.

TONY Eh?

BILL The label on your suitcase.

Eventually Tony cops to it. He’s had a cold in his head and it took him seven weeks to get over it. “With the size of his head, it could be”, murmurs Bill.

At this point it’s worth pausing to realise that Harry’s been covering for Tony within continuity as well – standing in on the radio show the fictional Hancock, Sid and Bill do for the BBC. All of which leads to this  unsurprising revelation – Tony isn’t altogether comfortable with the reaction Harry got on his show while he was away.

TONY I must admit, he was very funny. I laughed. I laughed a great deal. I thought I was going to cry.

BILL Harry did a wonderful job. He made you look a bit sick. You should have heard the people laugh.

TONY Well, of course they would. Look at the shape of him. Short little fat bloke. Don’t know what they see in him.

Another deleted section follows –

BILL What talent the guy’s got. Sings like a dream.

TONY So can I. (SINGS) “Be my love, for no-one else can end this yearning…”

BILL My, what funny dreams you have.

Andree and Bill begin to apply pressure on Tony to thank Harry for covering. (“He got paid!” protests Tony). The others think that’s not sufficient, and Tony should show a bit of gratitude.

Another deleted exchange –

ANDREE It WOULD be a nice gesture.

TONY I could think of better ones.

Since Harry’s gone home to Swansea Bill and Andree suggest paying Harry a visit – “that’s practically abroad!” “Not as far as Budapest”.

There’s a train leaving shortly so with a blast of “Genevive Hancock” (Disc 5, Band 1 of the BBC’s music library, Hancock’s Half Hour for the use of) and a nifty crossfade, we arrive at Paddington.

Deputised to get the railway tickets Tony has the misfortune to get Kenneth Williams at the booking office. The script direction reads (PRECIOUS) which I presume comes out as Kenneth’s traditional Snide character –

KENNETH Oh, I do envy you. Swansea. It’s so beautiful at this time of the year. I took the wife there for a holiday last year, she likes Wales, you know, and we had a lovely time, really, only five days rain during the whole week we were there.

This exchange goes on for several pages with Kenneth utterly refusing to allow Hancock to get in. There’s much play about his sister-in-law. She’s got a bad back, apparently.  When he finally does get the upper hand Hancock turns the table on him, spinning one of his tall war stories and showing Kenneth just how to bore for Britain. Eventually though, both run out of steam –

TONY Oh, er… three returns to Swansea please.

KENNETH You’ve got the wrong window.

TONY What do you… look, please… can’t you try to make an allowance just this once? I’m in a hurry. My train leaves in two minutes. Please, can’t you possibly give me three returns to Swansea?

KENNETH I very much doubt it… this is the Underground.

Tickets finally procured our heroes make a mercy dash for the train, only to be blocked by a ticket inspector – Kenneth again. Bear in mind by this stage Tony and Kenneth have been at it for about five or six minutes of solid to-and-fro dialogue –

KENNETH So you’re going to Swansea, eh? Lovely place, you’ll like it. I’ve got a brother on the Underground goes to see his sister-in-law there every year. It’s her back, you know, gets seized up… OOOOOOOW, my shin!

They dash for the train, now well and truly leaving the station (“Come on Bannister, grab my hand”, exhorts Bill to a knackered Tony) but it’s all to no avail. They’ve got to wait for the next one but thankfully this gives Bill time to go and stock up on reading material. Once comfortably on board with five hours to go to Swansea he settles in for a literary feast.

ANDREE You’ve dropped your glasses.

BILL Oh thanks.

TONY Funny glasses, aren’t they?

BILL (ENGROSSED) Mm? Oh, they’re my reading glasses. They make everything stand out much clearer.

HANCOCK Show us those books. Diana Dors in 3D. Sixteen classical poses in 3D. Artistic nude studies in…

BILL I’m interested in photography!

Tony attempts to interest Bill in the passing countryside – “I’m more interested in Diana Dors than in Pigs and Sheep” – at which point a certain absent member of the cast finally joins them. Sid’s on board, doing carriage to carriage retail – car seat covers, coal, electric light bulbs – “I’ve been from one end of the train to the other”. He asks them where they’re off to.

ANDREE Swansea. We’re trying to locate Harry Secombe. Tony wants to thank him for taking over his radio show when he was ill.

SID THANK HIM? Cor blimey, if I was in your shoes Hancock, I’ve MURDER him.

TONY Oh, that’s a silly attitude to take. Just because Harry was a big success. I mean, it was good for the show, I was pleased that he got all the big laughs, I mean, if I wasn’t such a well-established favourite, it might have worried me, but it’s… it’s…. I’ve still got me fans, one or two of them still write, it’s not that… well, I… what did you say you’d do if you were in my shoes?

SID Murder him.

TONY What size boots do you take?

SID Tens.

TONY Here’s nine and a half, see what you can do.

Following a deleted sing-song (Bill’s promising rendition of “Eskimo Nell” cut short when he remembers the presence of Andree)  Sid suggests they beguile the hours with a game of cards.

TONY No thank you, I’ve played with you before. Strip poker, remember. I had six suits in the wardrobe and I still had to go to work next morning in a barrel.

Bill – forgetting for the moment that Andree is indeed still present – begins to regale the carriage with a dirty joke or two and is interrupted – oh yes – by Kenneth, this time in the guise of an innocent looking Vicar, looking for somewhere to sit. Turns out he’s visiting a relative in Swansea, who has a bad back. As Tony comments, he probably has a relative working on the Underground.

The Vicar seems a nice old soul – albeit one dressed in a sharkskin suit and recently returned from America – “I’m a sort of Billy Graham in reverse”. He “inadvertently” reveals that he’s got two thousand quid on him – he’s raising money for a new church roof. Sid senses an opportunity and invites him to join the card school. Shortly –

KENNETH Well, there we are…. I think that just about cleans you out, doesn’t it gentlemen? That is the expression, isn’t it? Well, good day to you, gentlemen, it’s been such a pleasant journey.

The rest of this scene is scored through. It carries on –

KENNETH … we should have an excellent roof for the church now. Er, before I go, you wouldn’t like to make a little donation to the box, would you?

TONY No, but if you’ll tell us where it is we’ll be your first applicants.

Finally the train pulls in at Swansea.

TONY Rev, just one thing before you go.

KENNETH Yes?

TONY Can we have our suits back?

The only address anyone has for Harry is 32 Penwellyn Road. Eventually our tired and weary travellers arrive, to be greeted by Andree doing double service as a Welsh landlady.

TONY I’d like to speak to my dear friend Harry Secombe please.

ANDREE So would I. He left here four years ago without paying his rent. Are you friends of his?

TONY AND BILL No.

TONY Have you any idea where I can find him?

ANDREE Oh no, I couldn’t tell you man, I haven’t stepped foot outside this house for three years now.

TONY I’m very sorry to hear that. What’s wrong with you?

ANDREE It’s my back, you know. I get seized up.

Incredibly, the gag about the sister in Swansea is STILL going… so everyone beats a hasty retreat. Hours of footsore wandering later they encounter the hardest working man at the BBC – at least for the purposes of this script. Yes, it’s Kenneth again, this time playing a little Welshman.

KENNETH Oooh, you’re foreigners from across the border, aren’t you?

TONY We’re English.

KENNETH Well, never mind. We can’t all be Welsh, can we? Now, what can I do for you?

BILL We’re trying to find Harry Secombe.

KENNETH Oh aye, young Harry bach. A fine lad is Harry. I heard him on the electric talking wireless without pictures last week, in that Hancock’s Half Hour. Smashin’, he was. Much better than that fellow whose place he took. What was his name anyway? Oh, he was a dead loss anyway. Harry bach showed him up proper, he did. You’ve never heard such laughs. I wonder this Tiny Hancock has got the nerve to try and follow Harry bach. Of course, Harry’s got the advantage. He’s Welsh, you see.

Finally, Harry’s found. Working down a coal mine. He does it when he’s not working for the BBC because he can’t afford coal on the money they pay him at Auntie. “A grand worker, is Harry. Very handy with the shovel”. He’s working down the mines right now, in that mountain just over there.

TONY There’s no mountain over there.

KENNETH Isn’t there? Cor, he must have knocked up loads of money this week, then.

Sadly their luck’s out – Harry’s just gone down the pit and won’t be back up for eight hours. They’ll have to wait. Or will they? Just coming off shift are three burly Welsh miners – incredibly, Ray, Alan and Kenneth – and they’re just the same size as Tony, Bill and Sid. You can tell they’re Welsh miners, they’re singing “Sospan Fach”.

Having duffed up Ray, Alan and Kenneth for their outfits Tony, Bill and Sid head down the pit. They’re also singing “Sospan Fach”. Just to allay suspicion.

Wonderfully Tony gets sidetracked, having one of his little chats with Alan Simpson. Even more wonderfully, he reveals that these little chats are a feature of the fictional Hancock’s Half Hour he appears in as well. Alan’s interjections are included here in brackets.

TONY … I’m looking for Harry Secombe. He did the radio show for me (I know) Well, you were there. Did he speak to you? (Not a word) No little chats? (Ignored me) I’m not surprised, he’s very unsociable…

Hancock’s jealousy gets the better of him, as Alan rashly reveals that he preferred Harry to Hancock and gets a pickaxe for his pains.

TONY Did my pickaxe go into your head? (Yes) I’m sorry. (It’s alright, it’s only the sharp bit) It’s made a nasty hole, hasn’t it? (Don’t worry) Never mind, somewhere to put your cigarette ash, isn’t it? (Well, exactly). I’ve got to be going now. Give my regards to the wife and the fifteen kids (Sixteen) Well, I haven’t seen you for a few weeks, you lose count. Goodbye. See you next week. Nice man. EVERYBODY hates him.

There’s been a small fat pit pony following our heroes around. On closer inspection it turns out to be none other than Harry. At long last, Tony has the chance to discharge his obligations and thank Harry for his generosity and kindness.

TONY I’ve prepared a little speech. Ahem. I’d like to say on behalf of myself and the assembled cast how much… don’t this coal dust get up your nose? … how much I appreciate your stepping into my radio show and taking it over for me and making it such a success.

HARRY Oh Tony, it was nothing.

TONY Nothing, he says. Flipping nigh ruined me. Well, anyway, thank you.

HARRY Not at all. It was a pleasure. Any time.

TONY There won’t be any more times. I’ll get along to that studio in a wheelchair. Never again will I let anybody else take my place. I’ve learnt my lesson. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go back to London to do me broadcast… so I’ll just say goodbye Harold, thank you, and… oooooooow!

BILL What’s wrong?

TONY Me back! It’s seized up! Help! Me back. It’s the damp. I shouldn’t have come down. Get a doctor. Ooooow! I can’t move!

HARRY Oh, that’s a bit of bad luck. The doctor only comes down here once a week.

TONY But me radio show. It’s tonight!

HARRY Well, don’t worry about it, Tony, I’ll do it for you. I’ll finish up with a song. That’ll get them. Come on lads, we’ll be late for the show. (Goes off singing) “If I had the heart of a clown…”

TONY No. Come back. Bill. Sid. Don’t do it! It’s my show. Pick me up…

KENNETH This has been Hancock’s Half Hour with Tony Hancock, and his old friend Harry Secombe.

With that, it’s all over. Thankfully “The Holiday Camp” – the next episode to be broadcast – still exists and “Hancock’s Half Hour” continued as normal. What a wonderful way to ease yourself back into things though. Out of the four scripts that kicked off series two, this is far and away my favourite. There’s an easy flow to it with a slight end-of-term feel –  a real “thank god, we got through it” sense of relief. The only place it really strains is in attempting to write Andree into her proper place as a series regular – by the next week she’s just there, living with the others and acting as Hancock’s (occasional) love interest. Easy to forgive though.

There’s so much else to enjoy, from the running gag about the sister with the bad back, to Kenneth’s virtual domination of the show with his multiple characters, to Sid’s once-an-episode fiddle backfiring on him spectacularly. The succession of jabs taken at Hancock and his towering jealousy when he discovers he wasn’t missed one bit are a highlight – you can only imagine the levels of aggrieved, suppressed rage Hancock would have injected into those lines. The way the show ends as it began with Harry singing “Heart of a Clown” is lovely as well. That they could pull this off at such short notice… well, it takes my breath away.

All told, these four episodes are a beautiful example of grace under pressure. Under almost impossible conditions, they did it. They really did it, and I can only hope that somewhere out there copies of all four survive. To judge by the scripts they would have been absolutely top-flight Hancock’s Half Hour, even lacking the star. One of the show’s charms was always the supporting cast and I’m sure Sid, Bill, Andree and Kenneth gave totally of their best. They always did. Harry Secombe stepped in for his old friend and held it all together, giving Hancock the time he needed to get back to full strength. I only hope at some point in the future we’ll all get to hear him do it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hancock’s Half Hour – The Harry Secombe Episodes Part 3

Here we are then. Week three of Hancock’s Half Hour, without Tony Hancock. It’s been a strange run of episodes so far. Everything is almost normal but not quite, simply because of the gaping Hancock shaped void at the centre of proceedings. We’re almost there,though. For one more week then, let Kenneth Williams – doing extra duty as announcer this week – usher us into this strange little alternative universe as he presents Hancock’s Half Hour, Series 2 Episode 3… The Racehorse.

KEN We present Bill Kerr, Sidney James, Andree Melly and Kenneth Williams in Hancock’s Half Hour… and in place of Tony Hancock Who is indisposed – meet Harry Secombe!

Though his regular meal ticket, Mr Tony Hancock Esq, is still absent, Mr William Kerr is still living off the fat of the land… Mr Harold Secombe Esquire. And with Andree, his French amorata to look after as well, Mr Secombe is finding it increasingly difficult to feed three mouths on the miserable pittance he gets from the BBC.

 

Interesting to note Andree’s an amorata. A word you can imagine Ken rolling gleefully around before delivering it in that way that only he does. You’ll also note that in this universe Harry’s also working for a pittance at the BBC. Not stated whether it’s his own series – like the in-continuity one Hancock’s got – or whether he’s part of another show altogether. Not much time to rewrite at this stage, presumably.

Meanwhile, things are fraught at the breakfast table.

HARRY Food, food, for pity’s sake, food. Three days ne’er a bite has passed these lips. I’m a living skeleton. Food. Food…

ANDREE Harry, calm down. Breakfast’s ready.

HARRY (Slobbering) Breakfast. Ha ha. Where is it? Where is it?

ANDREE Here you are. Bean on toast.

HARRY Come now, Andree, you must get your English right. In English the plural has an “s” on the end. Like sheeps. Understand?

ANDREE Yes. And you’ve still got bean on toast.

Times are hard and it’s all Kerr’s fault. Harry gave him ten shillings three days ago to go and get some food, and… well, you can guess where this is going to end up, can’t you?

BILL Well you see, Harry, I bumped into an old Army pal and well…

HARRY How much can we get on the empties?

BILL I didn’t booze it.

HARRY What did you do with it?

BILL I wouldn’t throw money down the drain like that.

HARRY What did you do with it?

BILL I’ve got more sense than that.

HARRY WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT?

BILL We need food, and food costs money, so I did the only sensible, logical thing.

HARRY What?

BILL I bought a horse.

HARRY Quick, light the oven, I want the fetlocks.

Bill got himself a good bargain, or so he says. Seven and six for a prime racehorse, the thing that’s going to make their fortune. Where’s the rest of the money? Horses have to eat so Bill’s spent the rest on some hay. “I wonder what it’s like with chips?” ponders Harry.

The horse is presented to the rest of the household to a less than enthusiastic response.

BILL There you are, it’d take a keen eye to find out why I only paid seven and six for that horse.

HARRY (Flat) It’s only got three legs.

BILL Huh? Where, let me see… one two three… I’ve been cheated! So that’s why he had it standing up against that post.

ANDREE Yes, and that front leg looks a bit stiff to me.

On tapping said leg it turns out to be wood. Backed into a corner Bill defends himself by claiming all it needs is a good trainer. “He’ll have to be a good carpenter too!” is Harry’s only response.

Andree asks whether the horse – who turns out to be a she – has a name.

BILL Sabrina.

HARRY What did you call her that for?

BILL Well, I’m hoping she’ll be well out in front.

Seasoned Hancock watchers will know that Galton and Simpson peppered their scripts with references to fifties culture, and here’s a belter. Norma Ann Sykes – aka Sabrina –  appeared every week with Arthur Askey on “Before Your Very Eyes”. You can probably guess what everyone’s referring to here. Regularly mentioned in dispatches by The Goon Show as in “by the sweaters of Sabrina!” and the like, her name will appear again in latter Hancock scripts. I love it when Galton and Simpson do this. The casual, throwaway mentions of things that would be utterly familiar to the listening audience give you a real feel for a vanished world, one you’ll never know. All we can do from this remove  is peek in from the outside.

Needless to say, Bill’s made another foresighted arrangement for the training of the lovely Sabrina. The Sid James Racing Stables at Epsom are awaiting their pleasure.

HJARRY That man’s been warned off every racetrack in the country!

BILL Only under one of his names.

With a clip-clop-bonk, clip-clop-bonk, they’re off. Only as far as the nearest bus stop, though. “It’s a long way to Epsom”, protests Bill. “It’s been raining – her leg might get warped”.

Once on board, things get even stranger.

HARRY We’d better take her upstairs. The people downstairs might object.

BILL What to?

HARRY To her smoking.

BILL Don’t be ridiculous. You know very well that pipe isn’t alight.

Every bus needs a conductor and Kenneth Williams is on hand. However, he isn’t happy with a horse being on board his bus. He’s reluctant to have her stay on the grounds that she might interfere with the other passengers. Sabrina’s already eaten an old lady’s straw hat.  Harry’s offer to buy her a new one falls on deaf ears – she’d prefer the old one. “Her hair was still in it”, Kenneth tartly explains.

Thanks to Andree’s blandishments the conductor reluctantly allows them to stay on but not before Bill attempts to blag a three and a half on the grounds that Sabrina’s under fourteen. As it turns up they end up walking anyway. Sabrina keeps stamping on the floor with her wooden leg, meaning the driver thinks someone wants to get off. Interfering with corporation business is a capital offence in Kenneth’s book so it’s off they have to get.

Several hours later…

BILL Young girls of today have no stamina, that’s the trouble…. Lead a horse for fifteen miles and they’re finished.

ANDREE Well, here we are, boys. (PAUSE) Well, shall I help you down off the horse?

Having arrived at the establishment of “Honest Sidney James, the owner’s friend”, they find Sid on the phone to someone called “Nobbler”.

SID I want you to put two hundred pounds on the other horses. No, not money. Weight. I want to make sure…

Sid’s rates are fifteen guineas a day. Since Harry doesn’t have that sort of money, he agrees to a quarter share. One slight problem there. The cry goes up from Sid – “Who’s whipped my share??”

SID Do me a favour fellows, be reasonable. Do the kind thing, take her away and put her out to graze.

EFFECTS: NEIGHS

HARRY See, you’ve offended her now. She heard that. Her hearing aid must have been switched on.

Bill wants Sid to train her up to Derby winning standards. Sid remains unconvinced.

SID Billy, she’s only got two good legs… and they’re not even level.

ANDREE You could put a book under one of them.

SID That’s alright when she’s standing still What about when she races? She’ll be lopsided.

HARRY A definite advantage when she goes round the bends.

SID Only right handed ones.

Reluctantly, Sid agrees to give her a trial. Sabrina Clip-Clop-Bonks off. Enormous crashing noise off-stage. “Don’t worry Sid”, says Harry. “That won’t happen when her glasses arrive”.

You get the feeling that Ray and Alan are absolutely flying with this one, having a ball in seeing just how ridiculously decrepit they can make this poor broken down nag. They’re not done yet.

Several days later, and Sabrina’s out on a trial gallop of two hundred yards.

SID She had one six hours ago.

KENNETH It’s the same one. She’s got another hundred and twenty five yards to go.

Despite all this, Harry has entered Sabrina for the Britannia Steeplechase. Sid is horrified.

SID You must be off your chump. Besides, there’s not a jockey in the country who’d ride her.

ANDREE That’s why Harry’s going to ride her.

SID Well, good luck to him. I hope… WHA??!

ANDREE Harry.

SID Him? Jockey?

HARRY And why not?

SIDNEY Well, you’re the right height, whichever way you measure.

HARRY My size doesn’t matter. Steeplechase jockeys always weigh more.

SID Yeah, but not more than the horse.

BILL I think Harry’d make a good jockey. He gets on well with Sabrina.

SID Blimey, what a pair. His weight and her wooden leg. If the going’s soft, there’ll be a bloke following behind planting potatoes.

Some time later, the training seems to be working. Sabrina can now jump over two whole fat worms and the jockey doesn’t have to dismount and throw her over the fences like he used to. Race time is three o clock. . “Gastonia Yankee”’s on twenty to one. “Red Lion Street” hundred to eight. “Sabrina” seven hundred and fifty eight thousand to one. Yesterday, seven hundred and fifty nine thousand to one. “Just as I thought”, comments Sid. “They’re getting the wind up”.

Sabrina is led to the starting line.

EFFECTS CLIP CLOP, CLIP CLOP

ANDREE Oh Sabrina, you silly girl, you’ve forgotten something, haven’t you? Go on, go back and get it.

EFFECTS CLIP CLOP BONK, CLIP CLOP BONK

Beautiful.

Down at the racecourse Sid is despondent. Even after going round the paddock poking the other horses with a syringe stuck in the end of an umbrella, he’s still lost a heap on the first three races of the day.

SIDNEY I’m not sure, but I think there’s someone on this course who’s got a bigger umbrella than mine. I’m going to complain to the stewards, this course is full of crooks.

Bill’s put threepence on Sabrina – he wired home for it. It’s his share of Grandpa’s inheritance – “I was always his favourite”.

Harry arrives, wearing his new riding gear.

Sid ponders how they found enough material to make his silks –

ANDREE Oh, I just sewed together a pair of curtains.

BILL Where from?

ANDREE The Palladium.

SID I like the riding breeches. Did you have them made specially?

HARRY Of course not. These are my cricket flannels. My legs have always been this shape.

The weigh-in follows. Needless to say, Harry breaks the scales spectacularly. “I wonder what would have happened if I’d put both feet on?” he ponders.

It’s all up to Harry now. Sid’s given him his riding instructions.

SID The usual stuff. As soon he gets over the first fence, tip a bagful of marbles all over the track. That’ll bring a few down. And I’ve had petrol poured in the water jump. All he’s got to do is drop a match in as he goes past. If nobody cheats, we might win this.

The race begins. Things got off to a predictably bad start –

BILL Two hundred yards behind the field. Three hundred yards behind the field. Four hundred yards behind the field. Ten yards behind the field.

SID What happened?

BILL They’ve lapped him.

Somehow they stagger through to a promising position, although only because Harry goes first – Sid excitedly noting, “Blimey, look at that horse holding onto Secombe for dear life!”

It’s a close run thing, but Sabrina’s done it – Ken announces the winner, by a short leg – Sabrina.

Back at the flat glasses are chinking, and everyone’s happy.

BILL For the first time in our lives, we’re rich!

ANDREE You’ve got Sabrina to thank for that. You ought to be grateful to her.

HARRY I haven’t forgotten Sabrina. I went out this morning and bought her a lovely present.

BILL What did you get her?

HARRY Something she’s always wanted. Come on, I’ll show you, she’s out in the yard… there she is. Complete with present.

ANDREE Oh, Harry, how sweet.

BILL What a wonderful idea.

HARRY She’s very pleased with it. I’ll call her over. Sabrina, come over here, dear.

EFFECTS Horse neigh, followed by CLIP CLOP BONK BONK, CLIP CLOP BONK BONK.

With that, we’re into the end music.

What a lovely, silly script this one is. Galton and Simpson flying with an utterly ridiculous premise – pushing it as far they can go, but never cruel with it. The balance feels shifted slightly – it’s very much Sid who gets all the best lines, with Andree and Bill stooging somewhat this week. Harry doesn’t do anything that Hancock wouldn’t have done in this one – a few cracks about his weight but otherwise it’s very much business as usual. It has a really sweet ending – you can hear the audience going “aaaaaawwww” over the final gag, and it feels like it could have been one of the great radio episodes. Sadly, barring miracles it seems unlikely we’ll ever find out.

With that Secombe gracefully steps back, allowing a fully recovered Hancock to return to his place at centre mic. Following this unexpected bump in the road Hancock’s Half Hour settles back into its accustomed groove, and business continues as usual. Except it doesn’t, not quite. Hancock has a debt to pay, and he’s going to do it. Join us next time for Hancock’s Half Hour starring Tony Hancock AND Harry Secombe in … A Visit To Swansea.

Hancock’s Half Hour – The Harry Secombe Episodes, Part 2

Right, where were we then?

Several centuries ago I started to take a look at the mysterious episodes of Hancock’s Half Hour on radio which Tony Hancock isn’t even in. That first installment can be found here https://ladydontfallbackwards.wordpress.com/2013/05/29/hancocks-half-hour-the-harry-secombe-episodes-part-1/.

Listeners in 1955 didn’t have to wait this long to pick up where we left off but at long last, it’s time to see what happens in episode 2 of series 2, The Crown Jewels. Rehearsed and recorded on the 24th of April 1955 and transmitted on the 26th of April 1955, this episode no longer survives in any recorded format. However, the script does and it’s this that we’re looking at to try and get a flavour of what S-S-S-Secombe’s Half Hour might have sounded like.

Anyone who missed the previous week’s antics in France would be forgiven for thinking it’s business as usual as the usual doleful sig plays in. However, our announcer (credited as Michael Brooke on the script’s title page, simply as “Reggie” thereafter) soon puts us right :

 

REGGIE We present Bill Kerr, Sidney James, Andree Melly, and Kenneth Williams in Hancock’s Half Hour, and in place of Tony Hancock…meet Harry Secombe!

 

 

 

after the theme plays out we hand over to Kenneth Williams, directed by Ray and Alan in the stage directions to play it “very John Snagge” :

 

KENNETH In the continued and unfortunate absence of Tony Hancock, Mr William Kerr the international vagrant has been compelled to find some other way of providing himself with succour. The sucker in this case being Handsome Harold Secombe. Mr Kerr has rooted himself in Mr Secombe’s London flat, where he freely enjoys the amenities that are offered. Well, not actually offered, but well…

We fade to Harry’s little box in town, where “Finger of Suspicion” is playing in the background. Bill’s been at the drinks cabinet and is making substantial inroads into Harry’s supply of scotch.

 

HARRY There were four bottles left last night!

BILL I’ve had a cold, Harry.

HARRY You had a cold. Four bottles of scotch for a cold. Bill, promise me one thing. Move out before you catch Pneumonia.

 

Harry soon finds out that his supply of fags is virtually all away as well. Bill has his own justification – he’s doing it all for his mate.

 

BILL I like you. I don’t want to see you end up as a dipsomaniac with a smoker’s cough.

HARRY The sooner Hancock comes back and collects you the better…

 

Andree has moved in as well. She’s upstairs, getting ready for Harry and Bill to show her the exciting fleshpots of London Town.

 

HARRY I’ve worked out the routes to take her on. If you’re coming with us, Covent Garden, Trafalgar Square, Westminster Abbey, The Tate Gallery and the Tower of London.

BILL And if I don’t come with you?

HARRY Hyde Park, Regents Park, St James’s Park and Hampstead Heath.

 

If ever there was an exchange crying out for Hancock’s voice, there it is.

Andree enters, wearing a provocative dress. The neckline’s a bit daring, and our boys are a little taken aback.

 

ANDRE ….Dior calls it his Empire Neckline.

BILL Oh well, that’s another Empire fallen.

ANDREE Oh, you Englishmen. You have such nasty minds. If I wore this dress in France nobody would notice.

HARRY That’s the trouble with Frenchmen today. They’ve lost interest in everything.

 

The tour begins. Covent Garden first stop and Andree wants to savour the local atmosphere. Harry warns her to cover her ears, because an enormous worker balancing fifteen baskets on his head is about to walk into a wheelbarrow. Cue GRAMS crashes, followed by Kenneth Williams in as precious a voice as he can manage:

KEN Oh, spit. This just isn’t my day. That’s the third lot of daffs I’ve dropped this morning. I might as well go home. Makes you sick. It does, really.

 

A handwritten exchange – presumably worked out during rehearsals – is penned in here:

 

HARRY And he looks so tough.

BILL With a voice like that you’ve got to be.

 

Another moment of pure Hancock arrives, with Harry flannelling furiously to cover up a severe lack of London knowledge.

 

ANDREE Ah, that must be Nelson’s Column

HARRY Quite correct. Built by Nelson in 1895 as a look-out post from the top of which he could keep his eye on the movements of the galleons as they made their way towards Plymouth Hoe. Note the hordes of pigeons still hanging around waiting for him to come back with a message from the fleet.

 

Hancock may be absent, but his voice can be heard ringing through many of these exchanges. Much tortured mangling of London history later, we fetch up at the Tower.

 

HARRY …and this of course is the famous Bloody Tower, built in 1132 for the imprisonment of enemies of the crown, and where you’ll remember in 1543 James Robertson Justice had Richard Todd thrown in when he caught him going at it a bit heavy with Glynis Johns.

 

Thankfully Kenneth arrives as the official guide to put Andree right and he isn’t too impressed with Harry’s grasp of events.

 

KEN The man’s off his chump. That’s not what they learned me at school… Madam, will you PLEASE tell that revolting child to get his jammy fingers off Anne Boleyn’s Tomb!

Several pages worth of debate later, we arrive at the room housing the Crown Jewels. Unsurprisingly the ranks of the Beefeaters have been swelled by one.

 

BILL …. Harry, you’ve met Syd James.

HARRY Why yes of course. I’m sorry, Mr James. I didn’t recognise you in the Beefeater’s uniform and black mask.

BILL How long have you been a Beefeater, Syd?

SYD I joined this morning. If all goes well I resign tonight.

 

Syd appeals to Harry’s sense of patriotism to secure his assistance in removing the Crown Jewels for safekeeping. There are thieves about and the jewels need to be taken to a safe location to protect them. One hacksaw and several bars later, the job’s nearly done.

 

HARRY …we must help Mr James transfer the jewels. Don’t you realise the honour that has befallen us? We will go down in history. Harold Secombe and William Kerr who were instrumental in removing the Crown Jewels of the British Empire.

Shortly after –

SYD Hold this, will you?

HARRY What is it?

SYD A Brick.

HARRY No, no, please. Allow me. You might miss.

 

So, Harry is naive, patriotic and kind-hearted, easily manipulated by people he trusts. Neddy Seagoon is hanging around in the shadows, giggling and blowing raspberries.

Job done, Syd discovers Harry plans to show Andree the Tate next and offers them a lift. After all, the thieves might strike there next and those paintings might need to be transferred for safety as well. Unfortunately, the Rozzers are onto them the minute they drive off.

 

HARRY It must be the crooks. They must have seen them take the jewels. The cunning devils. Look at them… disguised as policemen. They won’t catch us. Faster man, faster. We must get to the Tate Gallery and take those paintings before they do.

 

At the Tate Syd gets to work. before too long an entire row of “Toulousey Lautrecs” and a “Dotty Kelly” are preserved for the nation (“Might sell well in Dublin”, muses Syd). Andree wants to go and see the Elgin Marbles next.

 

SYD No, you don’t want to bother with them. I think we ought to go round and save Lord and Lady Docker’s stuff first.

ANDREE I want to see the Elgin Marbles!

SYD There’s plenty of marbles at Lady Docker’s place…

ANDREE Mr James, the Elgin Marbles are ancient Greek Statues

SYD So what?

ANDREE They’re beautiful.

SYD No.

ANDREE They’re priceless.

SYD I’ll go and get a lorry.

 

Before too much longer, the evening papers break the news of the sensational robberies. Shortly thereafter, Syd disappears.

 

ANDREE He’s gone… when you got to the bit about heavy sentences he muttered something about South America and letting two other men take the blame.

HARRY Who could he have meant?

ANDREE I don’t know. But both their christian names were Charlie.

 

Bill meanwhile has been reading the description of the felons given, and presents the news to Harry with a flat, dead “Hiya Charlie”. Now, at long last, Harry gets a chance to do a bit that plays to his strengths.

 

BILL The descriptions of the criminals are as follows. One man in a beefeater’s uniform. One short fat man with enough hair for three people. One thin Australian…

HARRY A short…fat…man….and…a….thin….Austral…. (GULPS)

 

The game’s up and our heroes make plans to try to get out of this mess. Harry suggests they leave the jewels in an empty railway carriage. Bill vetoes it – “the number of times they get cleaned out, they’ll still be missing for the next coronation”. Eventually they decide to try and put them back where they found them. Job done, Harry thinks they can all relax.

 

HARRY You’ll be able to sleep safely tonight, Andree

ANDREE Why? Are you going to have Bill locked up?

 

Along comes Kenneth Williams, this time as a stern-faced representative of the law (no room for Snide in this one but Ken more than makes up for it by playing more or less everybody else)

 

HARRY Found those jewel robbers yet?

KEN Yes, I think so.

HARRY Ahem. Yes. Lovely moon out tonight.

KEN Yes, quite a picture as it glints on the old Koh-in-noor stuck on your nut there.

HARRY Pardon?

KEN I think you’d better come along with us… your majesty.

 

Turns out in the dark, Harry’s nervousness has got the better of him. If he hadn’t been caught comments Bill, the next monarch would have to be crowned with a size-ten bowler.

Finally we arrive back more or less where we started, with Harry continuing his history lesson. Well, almost.

 

HARRY … and over there, we have the prison walls, built in 1763 by the convicts themselves.

ANDREE How interesting, Harry.

HARRY Yes, there’s not much I don’t know about this place. This is my cell here, and it has quite an interesting history, in 1847 it was built by….

etc, fades into theme tune.

With that the announcements roll, the music fades in and Hancock’s been successfully covered for another week. Multiple clues can be gathered from the script as to how broadly it would have sounded – the GRAMS instructions are all present and correct, with the details of which pieces of music are to be used and where. Galton and Simpson also give Kenneth Williams a few pointers, with their indication of the type of voice they’re after (I can just hear his John Snagge impersonation reverberating down through the ages). Andree is presumably still lumbered with her accent – it’s still fairly cut-glass when we reach the actual surviving episodes from this series. Bill’s still fairly sharp, albeit naive, although he’s exhibiting signs of the permanently unemployed, boots-on-the-pillow layabout he’d soon become. Syd’s character is fully formed, and on the fiddle – no tweaking necessary. He’s found someone else to twist in Hancock’s absence and he’ll take full advantage. Harry? He plays on the page as part Hancock, part Neddie Seagoon. Equal parts pompous but kind-hearted innocent and frantic, hyperactive giggler. It’s an impossible situation for Harry to take on but I’m sure he aced it.

Hancock would remain absent for a further episode – frantic antics involving Harry and a foolish investment in a racehorse, before returning himself to harness for episode four.  We’ll hopefully look at both of those soon. In the meantime, I’ll let Reggie have the last word.

 

REGGIE You have been listening to Hancock’s Half Hour, with Harry Secombe, Bill Kerr, Andree Melly, Sidney James and Kenneth Williams. Incidental music was by Wally Stott and recorded by the BBC Revue Orchestra conducted by Harry Rabinowitz. The script was written by Ray Galton and Alan Simpson, and the programme which was recorded was produced by Dennis Main Wilson.

CLOSING THEME (To to & End)

 

And who can argue with that?

 

Who is That Man?

It started with a wall.

At least that’s where I saw him first. You wouldn’t have believed it if you’d been there. You really wouldn’t. The very few people I told about it looked at me as if I was making it all up. They shook their heads in despair. I knew what they were thinking. “There he goes again. Telling his stories, confusing reality with something he saw once, in an old film. Just nod understandingly and get away from him as fast as you possibly can.”

It happened, though. I saw it, others saw it. They put it down to coincidence and circumstance but I KNEW.

He was standing there, leaning against a wall in the most exaggerated, theatrical manner you could imagine. One leg crooked against the other, one arm stretched up over his head, palm flat against the wall.

He looked a mess. Clothes, far too big for him. His trousers an enormous patchwork, more patch than trouser leg. A huge hanky sticking out of his jacket pocket. Violent ginger fright wig jammed on his head. He was old, too. God, he was old.

The eyes – they were young. They sparkled, mostly. There was a joy of living, a vivid and keen delight in just being alive. They radiated energy out of that ancient face.

I’d seen him so many times before. Seen that pose. I knew what was coming. A policeman came round the corner. You don’t see them too often these days, but they’re out there, if you know where to look. The gods of comedy had sent him along, just in time. This one was taking his job just a bit too seriously, I was delighted to note.

“Oi, you! What do you think you’re doing? Standing there all day. Haven’t you got somewhere to go? Move on, will you?”

The old man didn’t move.

“What do you think you’re doing? Think you’re holding that wall up?”

The old man nodded, vigorously.

“You think it’s going to fall down if you move?

Another nod, followed by a cheery grin that said, you’re going to get a bit of surprise in a minute.

“Come on….”

The policeman grabbed the old man by the arm and pulled him away. And slowly, with an almost balletic motion – the wall collapsed.

Amongst the chaos, the old man disappeared. I don’t know where he went; I was leaning against a wall of my own, laughing myself into a choking fit.

Every day, for the next few weeks… I kept on seeing him. Everywhere I went, this demented force of nature seemed to appear before me. Leaping like a satyr into the middle of normality, disrupting then disappearing. I was sitting in an internet cafe and I heard someone curse soundly a couple of computers up.

“Ah, bollocks. I’ve forgotten my damn password.”

At which point, the old man leaned over from the next PC, opened his coat and produced a gigantic fish with a sword sticking out of its mouth. He pointed at it, then at the screen in front of my cursing colleague, then back at the fish. Nodded his head vigorously and smiled THAT smile again.

The bloke at the PC turned to me, wonderingly. We shared a glance. I knew that when we both turned back, the old man would be gone.

“Swordfish, right?” I said.

“Yes…” said I-forgot-my-password-man.

“I’d change that if I were you”, I said, and left the internet cafe before they giggles overwhelmed me.

Next time I saw the old man he was being hauled away from a local lemonade stand. How the hell he found the only lemonade stand in the country, I don’t know. Yet there he was, lemonade dripping from his bare feet as the police hauled him off, the vendor looking in horror at the open top of the barrel of lemonade they’d just dragged the old man out of. I knew that the health and safety people would shut him down, but I also knew that the bastard deserved everything he got. He’d short-changed me the day before last.

It couldn’t last. He was becoming “a public nuisance”. Every new disruption, every new “outrage” got him hauled up before the local authorities. He made headlines with the “paste a naughty picture over the top of every public notice” campaign. The repeated theft of crockery from local hotels got him into court – the cascade of knives, forks and spoons that erupted from his sleeves when he got there was enough to send him down for thirty days (I swear a couple of plates and a soup tureen came down in the cascade too).

They got him eventually. After he devastated the local immigration office with a bunch of rubber stamps, franking everything and everyone he could get his hands on, they called in the doctors. The presence of an ancient horned gramophone strapped to his back with Chevalier ’78 spinning on the turntable was a particularly nice touch, I thought – but it proved to be one touch too many. They put him away. The ancient old man with anarchy in his eyes disappeared from public view and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. People could go about their business again, untroubled by the possibility that they might find themselves holding a casually hooked leg. Phone calls could be carried out in normal voices, with no risk of the human on one end of the line being replaced by a carefully modulated sequence of horn squeaks in lieu of conversation. In short, life returned to normal. Things were dull, but normal. The old man? Forgotten. A problem for someone else.

I couldn’t rest. I had to speak to him. You see, I had to tell him. I knew. Knew who he was. Knew what he did, why he did it. I had to tell him that someone recognized him, remembered him, and valued him for everything he gave us. I wanted to see him, just to say “thanks”.

It took a bit of doing. They hid him well but I found him. God, the hoops I had to jump through, just to get them to admit that he even existed. Grudgingly after several months of nagging, I was granted an interview. I was nervous, frankly. How often do you get to talk to a force of nature?

The nurse led me down through the traditional warren of corridors. Everything smelt musty and forgotten. These places do, they always do. It seemed to take forever to reach his room but I knew we were getting near because I heard him before we ever reached him. The harp melody rang through those forgotten corridors, clear and strong.

When I was growing up those bits were always the bits I fidgeted through, waiting to get to the lunacy I knew was waiting on the other side. Now I’m older I realise that he was always a master of pacing, as were his compadres. They all knew. They knew that you can’t keep laughing constantly. You have to take a breather every now and then. You need to stop, recharge your batteries and when the next onslaught hits, it’ll be twice as funny because you’ve had the chance to process the stuff that came before. Always the master of pacing, that one.

I peeked in through his door. He was sitting there, rapt with concentration. The fingers glided over the strings of the harp, teasing the melody out. I never ever knew what it was called, but it was the one that kept on turning up in their films, the one that went “sugar in the morning, sugar in the evening, sugar at suppertime”. His brother made great play of it when he was shooting the keys on that old piano of his as well.

I stood in the doorway and listened. He seemed utterly at peace. Consumed by the music like he always was. He couldn’t constantly be running around disrupting the world, deflating the pompous. I always felt that this was where he wanted to be, where he could rest. Just for a few minutes. The fingers started to spin that wonderful glissando down the strings and I knew that he was nearly done. He looked up at me and smiled gently.

I walked over to him and sat down. He looked at me, silently.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” I said. “Arthur died, all those years ago but it’s you.” He gave me the innocent, I-don’t-understand baby face. “It’s ok, I’m not going to tell anyone.”, I said. “I always knew you were still out there, somewhere. The world’s full of idiots and maniacs. Every bit as much as when you were around the first time.”

He threw me a gookie.

“You’re still loved, you know.” (baby face again). “We grew up with you. We never forgot. We never will. I know you’re probably going to go away for a bit. You have to. I’m sorry about the way you’ve been treated. It’s not right, and it makes me angry.” As I’d hoped, this brought forth the “I am furious” face, complete with the straight arm fist swing. I waited til he’d finished.

“They don’t mean to hurt you. They just don’t know. They don’t know who you are. I do. I can’t help you, but I wanted to come here, just for a few minutes with you. Just to say…. Keep on being silly. Don’t let us get too serious. And thank you.”

He looked at me solemnly. Just for a moment. Then as I turned to leave, I heard him speak. Just two words. Low, soft… spoken with a voice rich and dark, smoked with amusement.

“Honk. Honk”.

I walked out before he could see the tears in my eyes. Behind me, “Sugar in the Morning” started again.

Images From Der Golem (1920)

I’m just a little bit in love with Der Golem, from 1920. The only complete extant film of the three made by Paul Wegener (the original Golem from 1915 and – gawd help us – the short 1917 comedy The Golem And The Dancing Girl are sadly lost), it is a beautiful film. The set design is like nothing I’ve ever seen anywhere else. The Golem (played by Wegener himself) is a remarkable piece of work, especially in close-up – all bared teeth and eyes glowing. Stop the film at any point and you have a beautifully composed frame, packed with detail. I don’t think there’s a conventional looking shot in the whole thing. It’s a fantastic film. It’s one of the finest of the silent era – eerie, haunting and utterly unique. See for yourself. Click any of the frames for an enlargement. Believe me, they’re worth it.

Doctor Who and Me 3 – To Earth With Love

So – 1996. TV Movie done, and we all waited for the series. And waited. And waited. Eventually, we gave up hope and Paul McGann became the great lost Doctor. Barely an hour of screen time.  It just wasn’t enough. He deserved so much more.

I am the man that gives monsters nightmares. The Daleks call me the Bringer of Darkness. I am the Eighth Man Bound. I am the Champion of Life and Time. I’m the guy with two hearts. I make History better. I am the Doctor.

Someone else who deserved so much more was Virgin Publishing. After several years of sterling service and two highly successful series of Doctor Who books the BBC suddenly withdrew their license. The book ranges were taken in-house, becoming the Eighth Doctor Adventures and the Past Doctor Adventures, respectively. “The Well Mannered War” by Gareth Roberts became the final Missing Adventure; Lance Parkin’s “The Dying Days” was the last New Adventure to feature the Doctor. The Eighth Doctor appeared only once for Virgin. In the final pages he was ambushed by Bernice Summerfield, who claimed that she’d never be able to forgive herself if she didn’t do a certain something at least once. The reader is invited to draw their own conclusions.

Having got that out of her system Bernice stepped up to take charge of the New Adventures. Using characters and concepts created specifically within the range and focussing on everyone’s favourite good-time, party-loving, slightly damaged archaeologist, the books continued for quite some time – eventually grinding to an apocalyptic halt some twenty-or-so novels later.

I loved them. Sometimes, I loved them more than I loved the New Adventures which actually featured the Doctor. The withdrawal of BBC copyrights forced the writers into producing some dazzlingly good books and Bernice proved herself to be more than capable of holding the limelight by herself. There was something about the character that just refused to lie down. In 1998 her first solo novel “Oh No It Isn’t” – a romp through the wild and wonderful world of pantomime – became the first audio play to be released by the fledgling production company Big Finish. A further Benny adaptation (“Beyond The Sun”) followed, before… but I’m getting ahead of myself.

What was a slightly jaded and disappointed fanboy to make of the new BBC Books? As it turned out, not a great deal. Things started bizarrely for the Eighth Doctor, as Uncle Terrance kicked things off with “The Eight Doctors”.

It’s a bizarre book, it really is. An amnesiac Eighth Doctor (whose debut television adventure it’s obvious Terrance really hated with a passion) takes a wander through his own back pages. In chronological  order, and stopping off at stories that either Terrance had a major hand in, or were written by people he worked closely with. Hence, “The Daemons” unexpectedly gains a sixth episode, “State of Decay” a fifth. Manfully Terrance attempts to sort out the mess of “The Trial of a Time Lord” and in the process leaves us with the winning image of a Sixth Doctor so egotistical that unless he’s actually being referred to directly, he just doesn’t bother listening.

“The Eight Doctors” had another job to do, introducing the teeth-achingly right on Sam as the new companion. There are three things about Doctor Who that I utterly loathe, and Sam’s all three of them. The anti-companion, the most aggravating character in Doctor Who history, she first appears in a drug-related plot at Totters Lane, which features yoof dialogue so archaic I expect someone to turn up and say “don’t worry. I speak jive” and interpret for everyone. Sam would pollute the range for a long time to come, sad to say.

Things improved almost immediately with Orman and Blum’s “Vampire Science”, featuring someone who was meant to be Grace Holloway but wasn’t, a San Francisco setting and an Eighth Doctor so attractive to kittens that he ends up festooned with them at one point. It even found time to throw in a reference to “Forever Knight”. All too often though, the range wandered all over the shop and despite the introduction of serial fantasist Fitz as a companion and some good work here and there – I gave up. “The Burning” was supposed to be a clear-the-decks, reset everything and let new readers jump on book but it proved to be the point at which I jumped off. I’ve never been back, so I have no idea what happened after that although I’m given to believe at least one human Tardis is involved.

Shoot at anything that moves. If it doesn’t move, shoot at it until it does

Over in the PDAs things started alarmingly with a Day/Topping Third Doctor pastiche so alarmingly accurate I feared for the sanity of the authors. It remains one of the few Doctor Who novels for me that completely captures Pertwee on the page – frighteningly so. Sadly, my interest in this range began to wane as well and after years of dedicated service I fell off that particular wagon too.  Sometimes I wonder what I missed. But not often.

Remember that little company who produced those Bernice audio adventures? One to watch, they were. Or at least, listen to. In 1999, they appeared again. They’d managed to achieve the impossible. They had the rights to produce full cast Doctor Who audio adventures featuring past Doctors and companions. Peter Davison, Colin Baker and Sylvester McCoy were signed up from the beginning, which meant that a multi-Doctor story kicked things off in fine style. Nick Briggs used the traditional four episode structure to showcase his three Doctors in single episode stories before having everyone pile in (literally) in the final episode and the warmth invoked from a sudden re-acquaintance with friends thought long gone got them off to a cracking start.

One particular Doctor has benefitted remarkably from his association with Big Finish. His crisis-ridden years on television really didn’t give Colin Baker’s Sixth Doctor a proper crack at things and it was something BF were determined to address. They did (and continue to do) him proud. The Big Finish version of the Sixth Doctor is charming, adventurous, urbane, witty, swashbuckling, sensitive, gentle, wistful, generous and kind. Prone to bluster occasionally, but always totally, wonderfully Doctorish in all the best ways – Colin Baker now frequently tops lists of favourite Doctors amongst those of us who’ve spent the last  fourteen years or so in his welcome company. The rehabilitation of the Sixth Doctor is surely one of Big Finish’s two greatest gifts to Doctor Who.

The other – well, it wasn’t long before Paul McGann popped up to join in. I remember the excitement terribly well. “Storm Warning” suffered in its first episode from the aggravating problems of having a Doctor talking to himself and explaining the plot to us but as soon as India Fisher’s Elizabethan Adventuress Charlotte Pollard (capitals absolutely deliberate) turned up we were off and running.

Hey! Doctor! Leave those kids alone

Big Finish has a knack of producing new companions you take to your heart instantly, none more so than for the Sixth and Eighth Doctors. Septugenarian Evelyn Smythe kept the Sixth Doctor well and truly in his place and remains one of my all time favourite characters in Doctor Who. Most of the Eighth Doctor’s friends aren’t far behind her. Although Charlie exhibited distinct bunny-boiling tendencies as time went on India Fisher was never less than sparkling, and it’s obvious that Big Finish can’t quite bear to let her go. Quite right too. C’Rizz was a bit of a misstep – no harm to Conrad Westmass but the poor soul didn’t have any sort of character he could latch onto in order to produce a memorable companion. Besides which he was soon overshadowed by the introduction of the divine, the devastating, the delectable Lucie Miller.

Conceived absolutely deliberately – I’m told – as a gobby Northern response to developments in television Doctor Who, Lucie Miller is up with the very greatest. Sheridan Smith plays her to the absolute hilt and her eventual departure from the series is one of Big Finish’s most emotionally affecting moments. Equally adept at the silly and the serious stuff, Lucie is terrific.  I love her. I miss her and I hope she’ll be back. Sometime.  No other companion has ever – ever attempted to distract a Dalek by flashing their chest at them.  No other companion would dare.

There’s not really space here to do Big Finish justice. Their output is incredible – hundreds of plays, with a remarkably high success rate. Spin off series all over the place.  Releases for a plethora of other television series. They’ve enriched my days immeasurably and if I’ve fallen behind it’s entirely my fault, not theirs. I’ve sometimes felt that it’s impossible for one person to keep up with everything they do, although I do try. There’s just so damn much of it. The only reason I’ve not mentioned Peter and Sylvester here is that developments for the Fifth and Seventh Doctor haven’t been as striking as for Colin and Paul. All the Doctors have had great stories to play with. They’ve all had some stinkers too. In that, Big Finish replicate the parent series precisely.  After years of refusing, Tom Baker joined the party recently and he seems to be having a ball. We are too.

I fight – frequently – with friends who refuse to listen to any of the audio plays on the grounds that if they’re not on tv, they “don’t count”.  I suspect very strongly that they get great pleasure in telling me this because they know how much it annoys me. My version of the Doctor Who universe features an Eighth Doctor who’s been in the role for thirteen years, has appeared in multiple wonderful adventures and travelled with companions I love equally as much as the ones from the television show. A Sixth Doctor who has appeared in some of the most dazzlingly audacious stories I’ve had the pleasure to hear. Jago and Litefoot have romped through multiple series of adventures. Romana II has been Madame President of Gallifrey to me for years. Ace has grown up considerably and now acts as an almost mentor figure to young Hex, ably played by Philip Olivier. Sarah Sutton’s  Nyssa has grown considerably more of a spine than she ever had on television and now fires off sparks like a catherine wheel at least three times a year with the reunited season 20 team of Davison, Fielding, and Strickson. It’s an enormously rich universe they’ve created and terribly easy to get lost in. I do so, frequently.

And then. And then…

You think it’ll last forever. People and cars and concrete. But it won’t. One day it’s all gone. Even the sky. My planet’s gone. It’s dead. It burned like the Earth. It’s just rocks and dust. Before its time

What happened?

There was a war. And we lost.

You think it’ll last forever. People and cars and concrete. But it won’t. One day it’s all gone. Even the sky. My planet’s gone. It’s dead. It burned like the Earth. It’s just rocks and dust. Before its time. – See more at: http://www.planetclaire.org/quotes/doctorwho/ninth-doctor/#sthash.DNPhy2DU.dpuf

One day in 2003, the announcement came. We’d gone through years of “ooh, it’s coming back, and Alan Davies is playing him!” “Ooh, it’s coming back and John Cleese is playing him!”. Novelty casting and repeated barbed jabs at the old series had worn us out. Suddenly – and it took a while to believe it – it was happening. The Ninth Doctor was on the way, and Christopher Eccleston was playing him. That put a stop to the stunt casting rumours, once and for all. The Doctor is an actor’s role once again as opposed to the subject of a thousand “wouldn’t be funny if so-and-so were to play him?” newspaper pieces. Fandom decided to disgust me one more time, though. The casting of Billie Piper was greeted with howls of anger. Abuse, chauvinism, sexism and filth spewed forth just because a pop singer had been cast as the companion. I have my problems with Rose Tyler. Goodness, I have my problems with Rose Tyler. I have none whatsoever with Billie Piper – a fine actress who didn’t deserve any of this. Russell T Davies has said he was ashamed of fandom for their reaction to Billie’s casting. So am I. It was unforgiveable and was only surpassed by the reaction to Catherine Tate’s casting several years later. We really are nasty pieces of work sometimes. I wish we could behave better, or at least with more dignity. However…

In March 2005 our best friend came back. He hasn’t been away for too long since. Russell T Davies, Julie Gardner and Phil Collinson grabbed that battle weary Time Lord by the scruff of the neck and kicked him back into life. The night that “Rose” aired was unforgettable. It had happened. Doctor Who was back, and nobody could stop it. Except, perhaps, Christopher Eccleston, who quit the part after just one series. The announcement came three days after “Rose” aired. Once again it looked like disaster was upon us. Actorly restlessness, disgust at the way other members of the crew were being treated, distaste at the way the first shooting block had gone? Who knows? All I do know is that he left behind a year of remarkable work and a portrayal of a Doctor that was up there with the finest. I’d rather have a year of a good man giving his best than several years of inconsistent performances. Christopher Eccleston, Russell, Julie, Phil , Billie et al put Doctor Who back where it belonged, at the heart of family viewing and I can never thank them enough.

No Little Shop! I like a Little Shop.

1979! Hell of a year! China invades Vietnam. The Muppet Movie. Love that film. Margaret Thatcher. Ugh. Skylab fell to Earth with a little help from me. Nearly took off my thumb. – See more at: http://www.planetclaire.org/quotes/doctorwho/tenth-doctor/season-two/#sthash.FzjOVRrP.dpuf

Far far too soon Chris was gone, to be succeeded by that grinning chap from the billboard on Slateford Road. David Tennant arrived on Christmas Day and was an instant, enormous success. Whether you’re a fan of the Tenth Doctor or not, I find it hard to deny that almost immediately David became possibly the most popular Doctor there’s ever been. Certainly it’s between him, Tom Baker and possibly Matt Smith. It might just be that because Russell T Davies is a master publicist, David was absolutely everywhere from 2006 through to 2010.

It’s very well-behaved, this place. I thought there would be happy slapping hoodies. Happy slapping hoodies with ASBOs. Happy slapping hoodies with ASBOs and ringtones. pleased with himself. Yeah? Yeah? Oh yeah! Don’t tell me I don’t fit in. – See more at: http://www.planetclaire.org/quotes/doctorwho/tenth-doctor/season-two/#sthash.FzjOVRrP.dpuf

It’s very well-behaved, this place. I thought there would be happy slapping hoodies. Happy slapping hoodies with ASBOs. Happy slapping hoodies with ASBOs and ringtones. pleased with himself. Yeah? Yeah? Oh yeah! Don’t tell me I don’t fit in. – See more at: http://www.planetclaire.org/quotes/doctorwho/tenth-doctor/season-two/#sthash.FzjOVRrP.dpuf

Now, this is all very well if you like the Tenth Doctor. I had problems, though. The Tenth Doctor aggravated the living daylights out of me. The moments of “I’m crazy me!!!” wackiness, the I’m-such-a-lonely-god schtick that Russell seemed to favour. Most of all though – and I’ve gone on about this at length in the past because it aggravates me so much – suddenly the Doctor / Rose relationship began to cloy. Pretty much from the opening moments of “New Earth”, and it never got any better.

It’s very well-behaved, this place. I thought there would be happy slapping hoodies. Happy slapping hoodies with ASBOs. Happy slapping hoodies with ASBOs and ringtones. pleased with himself. Yeah? Yeah? Oh yeah! Don’t tell me I don’t fit in. – See more at: http://www.planetclaire.org/quotes/doctorwho/tenth-doctor/season-two/#sthash.FzjOVRrP.dpuf

I know the overarching theme of series 2 was that the Doctor and Rose were having so much fun together that they became overconfident, made mistakes and received a massive punishment by the end of the year. Unfortunately, that punishment was for the two of them to be separated for-evah, and it was something I was screaming for since those first moments in New New York. I remember shouting very rude words at the screen during “The Impossible Planet” when Rose and The Doctor had their little “You’d have to get a mortgage”. “Oh, stop it. Stop, I’m dying here” exchange. When the Tenth Doctor got smacked in the face in “The Idiots Lantern” I cheered, and then was astonished to discover our hero was honestly prepared to let countless others suffer in the same story, only kicking into high gear when something nasty happened to Rose. It felt wrong and it got wronger. The “Ghostbusters” moment in “Army of Ghosts” is a nadir. If Doctor Who never gets any more teeth-clenchingly embarrassing than that, I’ll be a very happy chap indeed.

Then… series 3, and The Doctor became even more of an arse. His awful, cavalier treatment of Martha Jones left me – at times – really hating my favourite television character, and it wasn’t pleasant. The Doctor/Donna (no, we’re not married) nonsense in series 4 made things even worse and it reached a high/low point when Rose returned and was rewarded with her own personal Tenth Doctor shaped sex toy at the end of a series that she wasn’t even supposed to be in. By the time “The End of Time” rolled round I couldn’t wait to be shot of the bugger.

That said, though – some of the stories the Tenth Doctor was given…. well, they really are quite superb. “School Reunion”, with Anthony Head delivering a masterclass in just how to do Doctor Who Villainous Acting (that swimming pool scene, with Head walking round Tennant, sizing him up like he’s absolutely nothing). The return of Sarah-Jane Smith. Once we got past the awful Doctor/Rose exchange, the rest of “The Impossible Planet / The Satan Pit” was fantastically dark and nasty. “Love & Monsters” – a story like no other, and one written specifically as a love-letter aimed at the heart of fandom – was beautifully sweet and loving and terribly moving to boot. “Gridlock”‘s 2000ad inspired antics were merely a taster before the second half of series 3 barely put a foot wrong, with “Human Nature / The Family of Blood”, “Blink” and the “Utopia” trilogy all superb. Series 4 is crammed with good stuff too – “Partners in Crime” was fun, and sets up a remarkably nasty gag later in the season. “Midnight” still takes the breath away, as does “Turn Left”. “The Next Doctor” has a breathless, headlong rush to it that I find most appealing, with David Morrisey proving to be one of the best guest turns Doctor Who ever had. “The Waters of Mars” proved to be a one last terrific hurrah for The Tenth Doctor as, unleashed from the restraining influence of his companions he went ever so slightly mad – before being brought up short by a single, shocking action on the part of Lindsey Duncan’s character. Nearly 50 years in and Doctor Who could still make me sit up and go “hang on. What have they just done???!!!”

Over on CBBC, something wonderful was happening. Following her glorious reintroduction in “School Reunion”, Lis Sladen became a hero all over again, to an all new generation of children. Of all ages, because “The Sarah Jane Adventures” held me spellbound for four and a half glorious seasons. The Doctor always referred to her as “my Sarah-Jane”. She was “our Sarah-Jane” as well and Lis Sladen’s sudden, shocking death midway before she’d finished series 5 hurt more deeply than anything connected with Doctor Who had ever done. It really – honestly – felt like I’d lost a member of the family. Lis Sladen doesn’t die. It just doesn’t happen, it’s so unlikely it doesn’t even enter your frame of reference. Ditto Nick Courtney, Caroline John, Barry Letts and so many, many others. They should all be here to share the happiness of Doctor Who’s fiftieth anniversary. Without them, we wouldn’t be here to celebrate. These celebrations are for them as much as us. We love them, we miss them, we cherish them. Their legacy lives on forever.

As The Tenth Doctor took one last valedictory trot through his back-pages (and incidentally sealed my love for Jacqueline King and Bernard Cribbins in one short scene that brings a lump to the throat even thinking about it) – regeneration time was imminent. I didn’t know what to expect but I knew I was ready for something different. Murray Gold’s standard Tenth Doctor swelling choral harmonies suddenly stopped short to be replaced by a skanking electric guitar motif and Matt Smith exploded into my life, into the series, into my heart.

The Impossible Truth, in a glass of water. Not many people see it. But you do. Don’t you, Doctor?

A few months later he crash-landed in a young girl’s back garden. From the moment The Eleventh Doctor stuck his soaking wet bonce out of the Tardis doors and brightly asked, “can I have an apple?” I was sold. By the time he’d gathered his support team of The Legs, The Nose and Mrs Robinson around him, it was clear to me that Steven Moffat was making Doctor Who entirely the way I’d always wanted it to be, the way it always was in my head. The Eleventh Doctor lives in a remarkable limbo, half way between Science and Phantasmagoria, and that’s just where I want him to be. Series 5 is my single favourite run of Doctor Who stories ever. Before too long Matt Smith became my favourite Doctor.

All of which is strange, because on paper there’s no discernible difference between the Tenth and Eleventh Doctors. It’s all in what Matt does with it. He’s utterly unpredictable and that gawky giraffes body which he doesn’t seem altogether in control of is a great asset. Even more of an asset is that face. The oldest, kindest, saddest eyes, looking out of a young man’s face. There are so many Eleventh Doctor moments that I can hear David Tennant saying – “Look how COOL this stuff is!” “I wear a Fez now. Fezzes are cool”. The Pandorica Speech in particular. The sequence in “A Good Man Goes To War” where the Doctor experiences fury for the first time. It’s the twist Matt puts on it that makes it fly. Almost as much as Troughton, it’s the performance that sells it. I will miss him, more than I can say. His time on Who was my personal golden age. I’m just glad I was able to recognise it while it was happening.

Back in reality, strange things were happening. Remember the girl from the pub on the night of the TV Movie? I fell head over heels in love with her instantly, then spent forever dancing around her like a demented pigeon. The feelings we had for each other grew ever stronger and by the time The Eleventh Doctor popped into view we were very much an item.

Unfortunately a lifelong battle with a crippling combination of anxiety and depression was taking its toll. I struggle more or less every day with this. I’ve learnt that it’s not something to be cured, but something to be managed. It blights my life, makes me withdraw from the world and makes me say and do things I’m sometimes not proud of. On the night that “Vincent and the Doctor” aired, Luisa was sitting next to me on the sofa. There’s a scene where Vincent Van Gogh has been struck down suddenly with another violent bout of depression. Hunched on his pallet, he tries to shut out the world. The Eleventh Doctor tries to jolly him out of it, suggesting all he needs is to get up and about to shake the mood. Tony Curran lashes out, screaming his hurt, then turns to the wall, leaving the Eleventh Doctor defeated and for possibly the first time in his lives, unable to help. At that moment Luisa leaned over to me and took my hand. Gently she whispered, “I understand, now”. With infinite understanding, kindness and empathy, Doctor Who made clear to her exactly what I was going through and it did in a way that I could never ever express. I will be grateful to it for the rest of my life.

Enough of this heady emotion. Series 6 confused and bewildered fandom with a plot that you actually had to think about and we all turned into Harry Hill’s older brother, taking to the internet to cry “If it’s too hard, I can’t understand it”. It wasn’t, it isn’t, and Series 6 is magnificently rich television, repaying your dedication in any number of ways as it careers through some of the finest episodes in Doctor Who’s history. “The Impossible Astronaut / Day of the Moon” gets better everytime I watch. I know at least one person who loathes “The Doctor’s Wife” but that person isn’t me, who loves it dearly. “A Good Man Goes To War” comes close to being the rompiest romp wot’s ever been romped, while still managing to deliver nasty shocks when you least expect them. “The Girl Who Waited” and “The God Complex” are both extraordinary in so many different ways – the former with Karen Gillan’s natural exuberance giving way slowly to a lifetime of sorrow and loneliness expressed in a few short scenes; the latter being possibly the best-ever directed Doctor Who story. Gita’s extraordinary moment of “Go away – I don’t want you to see me lose my faith” is such a great, take-your-breath-away moment that it makes me well up just thinking about it.

I found a disassembled quadricycle in the garage.

I don’t think you did.

Oh! I invented the quadricycle.

Series 7, I’ve yet to watch again since it first aired. It’s always the second screening that kicks things into place for me and there’s been so much going on this year that I haven’t had the chance. On initial viewing it was the Karen Gillan / Arthur Darvill half of the season that stuck in the head much more than the Impossible Girl shenanigans of the second half – despite the fact that Jenna Coleman made an instant impression on me to the point where I’m becoming dangerously obsessed with Clara. As with every series of Doctor Who, the joy is rewatching, reappraising, being surprised at the bits you’ve missed, loving the bits you did get, making connections, losing yourself in yet another part of the story that never ends. I can’t wait to get started, but there are other things to do first.

In four days time it’ll be the 23rd of November, 2013. Fifty years ago William Hartnell stumbled through a BBC studio fog and into the psyche of the British viewing public. Before too much longer we’ll be saying goodbye to Matt Smith and hello to Peter Capaldi’s Twelfth Doctor. Things are changing again, as they always must. For now – it’s a time to celebrate. It’ll be even more of a celebration for me, because Luisa and I are getting married on that day. We finally stopped dancing around each other, and now we’re about to take those steps into a future together which I think neither of us ever quite thought would happen. It’s the single most important thing in my life. Finally admitting to her how I felt was  the single best thing I’ve ever done.

One last thing. Last week, the BBC continued their promotional push towards the 50th anniversary with a special mini-episode of Doctor Who. “Night of the Doctor” begins as so many other stories have, with a scared human in a dangerous situation. Screaming at the communications console to stop talking about Doctors, she is suddenly interrupted by a voice from behind her. “I’m a Doctor”, says Paul McGann. “But probably not the one you were expecting.” I was sitting at my desk at work, watching at lunchtime. I burst into tears, much to my astonishment, and the bewilderment of my workmates. Astonishingly, impossibly, the BBC had pulled off the surprise of a lifetime. I never knew. Never expected. They brought the Eighth Doctor back to us and for a few short moments there was magic in the air.

But here’s the thing, the one last thing. I met Luisa in that pub in 1996, entirely because we’d both decided – completely independently – to watch the Doctor Who TV Movie in the company of like-minded people. It was entirely down to Paul McGann’s Doctor that we met, grew to like each other, fell in love. Now – the week before we’re due to get married – here he was again. Back playing the Doctor at the most perfect time he could possibly have chosen. There’s something so beautiful, so poetic about that, it quite stops me in my tracks. Walter Dunlop and Luisa Rampin. I’m about to become Walter Rampin. That’s not how it works. Yeah, it so is.

Flippancy aside – I hope I’ve managed to make a stab at what a life with Doctor Who has done for me, done to me, meant to me. It has brought me some of the deepest, most lasting friendships I’ve ever had. It brought me and my wife together. It means the world to  me but I hope I never forget that this exuberant, silly, strange, occasionally demented, frequently quite daft and almost always very odd indeed series is there – firstly and most importantly –  so that we can all have fun. Lots of it, and in many different ways. I love Doctor Who. Happy Birthday, old chap.

Doctor Who and Me 2 – 1990 – 1996 : I don’t want to see the sights

Doctor Who disappeared off our screens in 1989. It went not with a bang, or a whimper, but a voiceover. “Come on Ace – we’ve got work to do”, said a cheerily optimistic 7th Doctor, and indeed they had. Not on television, though.

Just Who is Who… on Doctor Who???!!

  Over in the brave new world of satellite television – great things were afoot. Squarials festooned every wall. Well, one or two, including ours, following a sustained period of pester-power and wails of “but I’ll pay for it!” from me. Goodness, how I wanted BSB in my life.

In 1990, I was a 20 year old hairy person. British heavy metal was exerting a deep and altogether healthy influence on me. It still does, because – much like everything I love – it has a very highly developed sense of just how ridiculous it can be and cheerfully accepts it. It’s also highly tribal – heavy metal fans tend to be very aware of how they’re perceived by the rest of the world, cheerily blow raspberries at it and just get on with having fun. When I was 20 I needed that. When my Squarial was first connected and started receiving pictures the first thing that came through was Aerosmith and Run DMC’s “Walk This Way” video. This seemed like an omen, a good one. BSB didn’t last but they lasted just long enough to get to one remarkable weekend in September 1990. For two entire days the schedules on the Galaxy Channel were cleared, showing nothing but Doctor Who. Even now that takes my breath away. A remarkable act of faith on the part of the station and one which enabled me to get my first viewing of several Hartnell and Troughton stories which the BBC hadn’t released yet. The murky world of video trading was still a couple of years off for me. I woke up that Saturday morning, resolved to watch EVERYTHING. Even the serials I’d already seen. I lasted until part 3 of An Unearthly Child before I had to go for a walk.

Came back just in time for the first of the unseen treasures. “The Edge of Destruction” started, with the second episode accidentally shown first. It took a good five minutes before I noticed. The rest of the weekend was composed of equal parts bliss, boredom and embarrassment. Bliss – my first sighting of what were then the only two surviving installments of Troughton’s Yeti serials, billed as “The Yeti Rarities”. As someone pointed out drily, the missing ten episodes were considerably rarer. Boredom – lots of filler features designed to illustrate elements of Doctor Who – but using clips from the stories cleared for tx that weekend. I grew heartily sick of certain sequences as they cropped up over and over again during those 48 hours. Embarrassment – the quizzes, the attempt to make Peter Purves join the ranks of companions who screamed, the bizarre experiment to see if members of the general public would recognise what a sink plunger was if waggled about in front of the camera suggestively. I was hugely grateful to BSB, though. Twelve serials shown over a weekend, with no ad breaks? That was the way to do it, and I loved them for it.

A Battle-Weary Time Lord, languishing in the backwaters of popularity

Meanwhile… Doctor Who steadfastly refused to appear on BBC1. Statements came and went which meant very little. Terry Nation and Gerry Davis popped up with a proposal for a new series. DWB claimed it was entirely JN-T’s fault and mounted a witch hunt which – to my eternal shame – I happily joined in with, not knowing any better. The fan press was hysterically anti-JN-T back then. The internet was yet to be invented and the keyboard warriors had to have some outlet. I found an issue of DWB recently which featured a letter complaining about JN-T’s connections with BBC Worldwide – “having this man in charge of the video releases is akin to putting Myra Hindley in charge of a children’s home”, they said – unaware of just how awful they sounded. It makes me shudder just typing it.

On the other hand, they were comprehensively first with the news that “Tomb of the Cybermen” had been returned. The grail – or one of them.

Lost television is fascinating. What might have been, ifs, ands and buts. Was it rubbish? Was it the greatest thing ever screened? Nobody knows until it comes back. The lost episodes of Doctor Who in particular exercise a remarkable hold on the imagination, much to the frustration of those who want to know about other programmes that may or may not have been found. Any new discovery is greeted with cries of “Any Doctor Who”? Even to a died in the wool fanboy like me, it gets a bit wearing. I can’t pretend that it’s not terribly exciting when something turns up, though. In 1992, an entire serial came back. Not just any serial, either. “Tomb of the Cybermen”, one of the “classics”. Younger fans would sit at the feet of the old ones and listen in awe as they recounted the story of how Toberman battled the Cyberleader, how the Cybermen coming out of their Tombs was the greatest bit of television ever, how… well, you know. It’s easy to talk something up when you haven’t any fear of being contradicted. Now we’d all get the chance to find out for ourselves.

When May 1992 came round, I steeled myself to watch. It was – no two ways about it – magical. It always is, when something’s been found and you settle down to view something you thought you’d never have the chance to.

“Tomb” is flawed. Very flawed in places. Jamie attempts to kid us on that the door to the Tomb is too heavy to open, despite his foot holding it in place being clearly visible. The Toberman / Cyberleader fight features wires and a very obvious dummy Cyberleader. When the Cyberleader is revealed for the first time he’s squatting like Frank Hovis in “Absolutely”. The Cybermen salute like Gumbies. But… the regulars are in wonderful form (Pat leading the other two backwards into the first scene with the guest cast is merely the start of one of his greatest Who performances). The George Roubicek / Clive Merrison double act is sweet – doling out Space Anoraks and trying to keep Cyril Shaps on the right side of hysteria, and responding to Victoria’s pained “Oh, who’d be a woman?” with a sarky “How would you know?”

As with the best in Doctor Who, the concepts take root. The Cybermen setting traps intriguing enough to draw in the most intelligent of the human race  and then harvesting them for their own use is a chilling concept, and I love the way Pat hovers around the edges of scenes, letting everyone damn themselves. There’s one shot in particular where Kaftan’s about to trap Victoria, and you can see Pat in the background, just standing. Watching. To this day I haven’t worked out if he’s just waiting for his cue, or whether it’s a genuine scripted bit of business involving the Doctor manipulating everyone to his own ends, including his companions. He wasn’t immune to it in the story immediately prior, after all – using Jamie to trip up the Daleks and bring about “The Final End”.

Years later, “Tomb” still has an aura about it. At least, it does for me. Anything falls apart if you watch it often enough and we did. I don’t think there’s any Doctor Who story I know better, but it still carries a certain cachet that others didn’t. At least, until recently, when “The Enemy of the World” and “The Web of Fear” reappeared. You can’t beat a bit of new Troughton.

That was the past. Doctor Who did have a remarkably rosy future ahead of it. Not on tv, though. Virgin Publishing were about to unleash the first of the New Adventures upon us, with stories “too broad and too deep for the small screen”. Initially, they tried far too hard. A linked series of books seemed a good way to go, but John Peel’s “Timewyrm : Genesys” tried far too hard to be “adult”. It succeeded in the same way as early “Torchwood” is adult – lots of gratuitous sex. Lots of gratuitous talking about sex. Lots of swearing. Nakedness. Bare breasts. It was all very unedifying, but thankfully Uncle Terrance came galloping over the hill and put things right. Ish. The second book was much more what we thought the series was going to be, with the Seventh Doctor battling returning villains in a sort of sequel to a television serial. Even Terrance succumbed slightly though, with the revelation that the Doctor liked ’em “blonde and bouncy”. Deary dear.

Things settled down a bit, although the swearing became a problem. It reached something of a peak with the legendary moment in “Iceberg” which I won’t repeat here. This is a polite blog and I won’t sully your ears. Besides which, it’s a very very stupid line. In the end the NA’s compromised with “Cruk”, which is about as useful as “Drokk” in 2000ad. You know what it actually means but it somehow sneaks past the censors.

Anyroad, I was a faithful little fanboy. I read every one of them, from first to last. Some were easier than others. Indeed, some left so little impact that I couldn’t tell you even now what they were about, much less what I was doing or where I was when I read them. Sometimes it was a pleasure. Sometimes it was a duty. At their best they joyously pushed boundaries while staying on the right side of gratuitous. Sometimes they featured companions undergoing a trepanning for reasons which appropriately enough, I completely forget. They kept the flame burning, and they (mostly) did it well. Unfortunately, Ace proved to be something of a problem. In an attempt to do something different with the character she was bent and twisted into shapes that I’m sure Andrew Cartmel and his team of original writers hadn’t been expecting. Her virtues became loose, her clothing became tighter, she became a hardened space soldier (which suited David A MacIntee, with his loving descriptions of military hardware). She was also terribly, terribly boring. Something clearly had to be done. Thankfully, moves were afoot.

New companions were created. Some were more successful than others. Chris and Roz didn’t seem to have much life to them (although Chris’s routine involving a small grinning penguin and a bucket of snow, recreating an old W.C Fields routine in “Sky Pirates!” was a bit of a favourite). “Love and War” introduced Paul Cornell’s most enduring contribution to Doctor Who, as Bernice Summerfield first entered my life in a book which – thanks to an unfortunate cover – fandom instantly joyously dubbed “Attack of the Bollock Monsters”. Bernice endures. She’s still out there, sporadically appearing in print and played by Lisa Bowerman in a series of audio adventures which has lasted well over a decade. More of them later.

Eventually, editor Peter Darvill-Evans admitted defeat and caved in to increasing howls of “what about the old Doctors?” I quite understand his reluctance. Doctor Who should always be about pushing forward. If it looks back, it stagnates. The best thing it can do is invent, invent, invent. Unfortunately – and I count myself well and truly in this camp, but not all the time – a proportion of the readership didn’t want new. They wanted old – specifically books that read like they were stories off the telly. Reluctantly, grudgingly, the Missing Adventures were born and some of the regular NA writers joyously jumped ranges. Gary Russell, Gareth Roberts, Christopher Bulis and others seemed much more comfortable there, carving niches for themselves. Gareth’s recreations of Tom and Lalla’s season 17 rapport in particular were uncanny – cups of tea carried about in the pocket and all.

The thing about the MAs – and later the BBC Past Doctor Adventures – an awful lot of people wanted them to be nothing more than Chicken Soup. A comforting read, something to reassure you and not challenge you too much. Something to remind you of good times and favourite characters. Didn’t always pan out that way. Fans of Dodo Chaplet – and yes, there are those out there who might qualify – were well advised to stay well away, as the horrendous fates she kept on meeting became something of a running joke.

Me? I plugged along with them both. The bit of my brain that thinks it’s intelligent read some of the more opaque NAs, scratching a mental chin and going “hm”. The bit of my brain that likes to join up dots pounced on some of the MAs with their love of filling in past bits of continuity. There were some wonderful books. There were some truly terrible ones. They were there, though. There wasn’t much else, then, and it seemed the way forward, it really did. How could we know what was waiting around the corner? A very very long corner as it turned out, and thinking back I remain immensely grateful to Darvill-Evans, Rebecca Levene and all who contributed. The future of the television series was shaped here – several writers became key contributors to the programme when it came back. One in particular – a particular tall, welsh gentleman who contributed a little number set on a housing estate quite late in the run. From little acorns, and that.

While the future was bold and experimental / backwards looking and defiantly retro in print, what were the BBC up to? A kagoule on a stand presenting clips in a Brummie Accent, that’s what. “Resistance is Useless” was the apotheosis of the “phew, aren’t fans loony” perception. Well, some of us are, usually the ones with very loud voices and strange ideas. Quite a lot of us though – we just wanted to enjoy ourselves. There was an anniversary round the corner, but before that…

…1992, and my first convention approached. A good friend urged me to go. I wasn’t going to, as I was still being Solitary Fan. Goodness knows a regular DWB habit isn’t conducive to wanting to meet anyone else, but I eventually went. Panopticon 1992 in Coventry was my first, and I couldn’t have imagined the chain of events it’d set off. I also couldn’t have imagined starting my first convention dancing on stage with Nick Briggs. Or at least, essaying a soft shoe shuffle beside him. He danced to the left, I danced to the right. We met in the middle. Which is why I should never – ever – be allowed to dance in public.

Shortly after that, I was wandering the merchandise hall when I was accosted by a Scottish Chap. He liked the t-shirt I was wearing. I’d arrived proudly emblazoned with the logo from Fish’s last tour and this Doug gentleman obviously felt safe to approach. We got chatting and before the day was out he’d invited me to the next meeting of the Edinburgh Local Group. Apparently he should have told others in the Group first, so I could be checked out in case I was a loony. I still don’t know what the final verdict was, but that was that. The die was cast. My path was set.

Before too much longer Manopticon rolled around. Manchester Town Hall was invaded by Who fans, and it’s safe to say that over that weekend the Edinburgh and Glasgow mob – who previously hadn’t had much to do with each other – gelled. We became a family, and that lasted for several years. I made some great, great friends that weekend. Some of those friendships endure to this day, and I’m proud to know you, folks.

Back at the BBC there may or may not have been an anniversary story. Adrian Rigelsford might or might not have been writing it and it might or might not have featured David Bowie and kd lang. BBC Worldwide might or might not have been putting up the cash, but Colin Baker definitely wasn’t going to be doing it. Given that his minuscule part of the script involved him being stuck in a courtroom again, I’m not surprised. It all fell apart, leaving us with the remarkably brave 3D special for Children In Need.

You’re all going on a journey. A very long journey.

Most people try to deny that “Dimensions in Time” ever existed. If we do that, how can we learn from history? It happened. We must ensure that the likes of it never happen again. It is one of the single stupidest, barely incompetent pieces of television ever to go out with the name Doctor Who attached – but it did tick an important box in that the Sixth Doctor finally met The Brigadier. These things – they’re important, you know. Sort of. Meanwhile, fandom gave Sam West’s character a suitable name – Shagg – and developed a drinking game which is really the only way to watch Dimensions in Time. If you’re going to put yourself through it, you might as well anesthetize yourself.

Meanwhile, Kevin Davies gave us a thing of rare beauty in the form of the celebratory documentary “30 Years in the Tardis”. Lovingly recreated scenes, intelligently chosen clips. Rare footage, real affection and Sylvester beginning his remarkable transformation into Thora Hird. Really, it had everything. The video version had even more and I still have real affection for it. It was nice to see Doctor Who being shown a bit of love for a change. All too often it seemed be ushered out of the back door of the BBC with a jacket over its head.

Then – suddenly – America came calling. Before we knew it the long-standing rumours began to coalesce into facts. There was a pilot episode for an American funded series on the way, and it absolutely definitely would feature The Doctor in a quest for his Father, Borusa. There’d be some rapping Tardis lips, too. And an excess of unnecessary continuity. Lies, all lies. Apart from the last bit, but it did mean that Sylvester got to come back for one last hurrah. He got shot, was hacked about by the Amazing Grace Holloway, said “blargh” and died. In a mortuary, he gurned his gurniest, and regenerated into… Paul McGann.

I thought you were a Doctor?

I thought YOU were a Doctor!

Now, the TV Movie has many, many things wrong with it. Some would say Eric Roberts as the Master is a major one, although his obsession with correct grammar is a rather nice touch. Others would say the Smurf Daleks and a Master who looks like one of the Pet Shop Boys in the pre-credits sequence doesn’t help the cause much.

For me, it’s the sheer amount of mucking about before anything actually happens is the problem. What it gets right – and spectacularly – is a new Doctor – Paul McGann absolutely, blissfully right even before he opens his mouth. Watch him in the lift scene, when he’s curiously staring at Grace while she studiously ignores him. There’s our Doctor, and he hasn’t even spoken yet. By the time his shoes fitted perfectly and he went scampering off leaving Grace to Oliver Hardy at the screen, I wanted him to stay forever. Wasn’t to be. His first appearance would be all we’d have. At least on television.

For me, though – there was something rather more important afoot. The night the TV Movie aired I was sitting in a small pub in the darkest corners of Edinburgh. The Local Group had convened for a celebratory screening. I noticed a young lady sitting in the corner, staring raptly at the screen. It took a while before I had the courage to speak to her – in fact, I don’t think I did manage to speak to her that night – but things began to happen. My life – well, it was about to change. My goodness, but it would change….