St. Valentine’s Day

A general answer to those who’ve questioned my general disgruntling on the subject of St. Valentines Day:

I detest both the expectation the day engenders and the associated use of the word ‘romance.’

Nothing makes my goat boil more than people who think that doing something for/with their partner for Valentine’s is romantic. It just isn’t! Any other fucking day of the year, bar birthdays and anniversaries, would be romantic because it would be a surprise but there can be no romance when the gesture is expected/insisted upon.

Anyone who insists their partner does something for them on Valentine’s Day should be dumped forthwith.

Anyone who uses the word romance on 14th Feb should be dragged into the street and shot.

Apart from me in this rant obviously.

I shall now go and lie down.

Unwise Pub Crawl #1

I like a good pub crawl. My interest in the field began when I organised one around my home town the first Christmas I could legally drink back in 1991. The town had about 20 different places to quaff and a modest half of bitter in each seemed like a sensible (this is a relative term) thing to attempt. Thankfully it worked and then, as now, an occasional indulgence of 10 pints spread over 12 hours in the company of friends makes for a hugely enjoyable day.

The photo accompanying this piece was taken during a slightly less sensible endeavour. Not that the picture is wholly or even slightly representative of the occasion, I just like it because there’s a kid sitting at a bar. It was taken at some place in Hebden Bridge which I suspect no longer exists. My friend Rick was added to the picture for scale. We were attempting the ambitious (back then at any rate) feat of having a half in every pub along the A646 between Todmorden and Halifax which became known as the Burnley Road Pub Crawl.

The problem was I don’t think any of us had counted how many pubs there were before we started. In hindsight I think it was about 30. Over the course of the day I lost my camera (not the one that took this picture obviously), my memory of most of the late evening and probably a couple of years of my life. All of us who went on it agreed that 15 pints in a day is way too much. Well, except for Gaz, an ex-squaddie who just treated us with the contempt he rightly reserved for poofy, lightweight graduates.

My favourite memory of the day was of playing pool with my friend Andy in a pub named after some colour lion or other.  The TV was showing Dad’s Army and at one point an air-raid siren went off in Walmington-on-Sea and Andy tried to shelter himself under the table. Not an easy feat given that he’s the best part of 6’ tall.

Of course these days, a similar venture would probably yield only about half as many pubs along the same stretch of road. Such has been the fate of the licensed trade over the past decade. Strangely mind, even though a good number have closed, my home town still has around 20 places to drink as new ones keep popping up. I’ve no idea how Sowerby Bridge has managed to buck the national trend – it must say a lot for the stout nature of the drinkers here.

And yes, most of them are very stout.

You may groan.

Domestic Science

See!

If life has taught me anything it is this: that Andy Wilson (@drbobchoco to some) and I should never share a house. Probably. I’m not saying it isn’t a fun experience but when it comes to household chores we’re both quite lazy bastards. I can admit this now although over the years, in an impressive feat of dual self-denial, we’ve more tended to consider ourselves brave investigators into the effects of domestic neglect. Imagine very, very passive scientists.

This started in our second year at university when we shared a house together along with the very lovely and put-upon Mr Richard Moseley. Our first foray was into behavioural science. We let the house turn into a bigger and bigger shit-tip and waited to see who’d crack first. To our lasting shame, this was usually Richard.

The usual lack of any clean cutlery or crockery did cause us to become inventive however. I once went down to breakfast (probably about 11:30) and was greeted by the sight of sight of Andy, a look of grim determination on his face, eating breakfast cereal from the world’s largest Tupperware bowl using an ice-cream scoop. Indeed, this remains one of the most treasured memories from my entire time at Durham.

Of course not all ‘experiments’ were a success. One, a major cause of suspicion, was the week all three of us went down with a mystery bug. Eventually, in need of sustenance, we were forced to tackle the grubby crockery mountain in the kitchen and found, under a pile of plates, what can only be described as a green, furry chicken carcass. I’m not saying the two things were definitely related but it did give us pause for thought as we washed up our Pot Noodle forks.

Much later in 2001 I was living with Andy in Halifax, this time with no third person to fall back on. Most normal folk in this situation would eventually be conditioned out of their sloth and become decent human beings but alas, we suffered a major setback – a scientific breakthrough of sorts. Around May, in an attempt to get women, and therefore potential girlfriends, into the house we held a chocolate mousse party.[1] Four bowls of different mousses were produced but not all of each was eaten. The semi-full bowls hung around for a bit.

About week or two later in a bout of emergency tidying (one of the girls from the party was coming round) the bowls were hidden in a kitchen cupboard and forgotten about. Maybe a month or so later one of us chanced to look in the cupboard (probably searching for a clean pan) and discovered, in a scene reminiscent of the best horror movies, the abomination that had developed.[2] There was only one thing to do. We gingerly carried all the bowls to the cellar and then ran away.

But here’s the thing – when we went back to the bowls some six months or so later, the offensive bio-matter had turned completely into a light grey dust which could easily be washed away under the tap. This seemed to vindicate our entire attitude!

Over the years however my attitude has changed. We tend to get fussier about our surroundings as we age which is why most parents are such insufferable twats when it comes to bedrooms. I now live in quite a small hovel that doesn’t lend itself well to the accumulation of mess. It also, unlike previous residences, has quite a damp cellar (don’t ask how I found out this is a bad thing.) The upshot is that I now wash up around two to three times a week.

I have a nice clean, odour-free, unscientific kitchen.

I do sort of feel I’m letting the side down.

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[1] This low tactic actually bloody worked, for me at least.

[2] I seem to remember from school biology that moulds develop on food in a progression, each subsequent one feeding on the preceding or its by-products, etc. For the scientifically curious, my own observations (based on frequently repeated ‘tests’ like any good scientist) are as follows:

Firstly, at about 3-6 days depending on time of year, comes the light-green fur familiar to everyone from almost inedible bread. (I’m sure this is perfectly normal Penicillium or some such and is thus probably even good for you.)

Secondly, at 1-2 weeks, comes a more whitish fur occasionally accompanied by black dots. I suppose this could be mildew but I’ve never convinced myself that the black bits aren’t just coffee grounds.

Thirdly, at 2-3 weeks, a really quite disturbing orange and black slime  develops. This not only looks unappealing but, when disturbed, releases a smell that makes one gag quite violently. This was the stage the bowls had got to.

Autumn

Last night, for the first time this year, it actually felt like autumn. I was walking home in the light drizzle. There was a mist settling in the valley and the sodium light was glinting off every moist surface. I even believed I could discern a hint of bonfire smoke in the air. Now to me, it doesn’t get more autumnal than that but here’s the best thing: it was actually cold!

I’ve been waiting for it to stop being warm since bloody September. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the summer months. I can remember three separate occasions this year when the temperature was such that I summoned up the will to leave the house without a jacket and each time the experience was tolerable. I just prefer the colder seasons.

We have the immense good fortune in this country, living as we do on an island in a temperate climate, of having distinct seasons. It is a gift. Whilst I accept that I’m probably in the minority, preferring as I do October to March, I have never understood the mentality of people who would seem to want it to be warm & sunny all the year round. Actually, these people generally fall into two main categories.

Firstly there are the idiots – the depressingly unimaginative folk who at some point have been conditioned into a warm-good/cold-bad mentality and don’t have the wit to break out of it. I imagine they holiday on fetid, baking little islands and think sun-tans look attractive. They also seem to have a childishly simplistic view that sun equals warmth. This is why, usually around February time, on the first bright day of the year they start wandering about in shorts and a T-shirt even though it’s still only 2°C.

Secondly are southerners, mainly Londoners, who get warm weather for much of the year and have presumably come to see it as a right and feel put-out when it’s no longer there. It is probably due to such arrogant thinking that the Edinburgh Festival is held in August meaning that I get to wander around one of my favourite cities whilst drenched in sweat. (As an aside, I’m prepared to believe there’s a perfectly good non climate related reason why the festival’s held in August but if you know what it is, don’t tell me ‘cause I don’t care!)

Why do so many people fail to appreciate living in a country where they get to experience just about every type of weather imaginable? We should revel in it. Like Billy Connelly said, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes!” Our climate should be absolutely treasured and frankly, those who can’t see it should just bugger off somewhere else.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, autumn.

It’s still crisp & misty out.

Nice.

1 – An Unearthly Child

The first ever Doctor Who episode has built up quite a reputation over the years as a timeless classic. Which is rather fitting really. I however am not just watching the first episode but the serial as a whole. To most fans this means 25 of the most important minutes of TV science-fiction ever made followed by 75 of the dullest. This is a little harsh. Anthony Coburn’s 3 episodes of pre-historic capture/escape/capture/escape larks are perhaps passable at best but the main problem is that they pale in comparison to what he wrote immediately before.

Episode 1 is a fantastically crafted piece of television and you can tell how much time and effort were lavished on it. William Hartnell even knows all of his lines. Indeed, his is the stand-out performance imbuing his Doctor with arrogance, slyness, wit and intelligence. You’re not sure you like him but you definitely want to see more.

Carole Ann Ford as Susan is indeed intriguingly different to the other girls at Coal Hill School who all look scarily middle-aged to my eye. William Russell and Jacqueline Hill as Ian and Barbara are simply superb and indeed continued to be so for the rest of their time on the show. In the scene where they discuss their motivation for investigating their odd pupil they effortlessly sell to us their characters and the relationship between them.

So what about the rest of this four-parter? Well, authentically depicting a primitive Mid-Paleolithic society was never going to be easy so it’s probably just as well they didn’t try. The Tribe of Gum’s dialogue is a little ropey to say the least. In some scenes it’s easy to imagine you’re overhearing a playground argument with all the attendant lies, exaggeration and false reasoning but the lines are generally delivered with such earnestness that it’s difficult not to warm to the guest cast.

Eileen Way as Old Mother is the highlight of Episode 2. She’s a delightfully miserable old witch. I love the way she pours scorn on her hapless son Za as he tries to make fire in the style of Tommy Cooper sans fez. In fact Za isn’t particularly well served by the women in his life. Prospective partner Hur (a sort of proto-Lady Macbeth) has no qualms about talking him into potentially dangerous situations to secure his position as tribal leader. The other major character is Kal, an outsider who happens to thinks he should lead the tribe instead, presumably because he has a slightly better false beard.

The Doctor has a mixed time of it in this little pre-historical jaunt. After a good start (Hartnell’s ‘oh shit I’ve lost my matches acting’ is lovely) the character spends 50 minutes or so grumping about the place before shining again in Episode 4 as he unmasks Kal as a murderer then has him run out of town, sorry cave. Other highlights include Barbara falling over for no good reason (twice), a wild animal attack that takes place without a single glimpse of wild animal and a specially filmed overlong fight sequence, something which I thought only came in with the Pertwee stories.

I’m not old enough to have watched these episodes when they first aired but I did experience the next best thing. In November 1981 the BBC repeated the serial. I was 7 years old and, having watched Tom Baker’s Doctor regenerate into Peter Davison’s eight months previously, at the height of my passion for the show. And I was absolutely sold on it. But the thing that sent my imagination racing the most wasn’t the brilliance of that first episode but the writing at the end: “Next Episode THE CAVE OF SKULLS.” Doctor Who has always been made primarily for children and those six words were penned by someone who knew precisely what a seven-year-old wants to see.

Fast forward 49 years and I’m watching The Wedding of River Song which gives us a scene in a crypt with a lot of skulls, albeit bitey ones. Steven Moffat knows what Anthony Coburn did half a century ago – Skulls are cool. And that’s timeless too!

Introduction

What ho!

This is the beginning of my slow trundle through every episode of the world’s best television programme in the original order of transmission. This is not a new concept – Doctor Who Magazine’s excellent ‘Time Team’ has been running for years and there’s been at least one book published in the last 12 months covering similar ground. However, I’m choosing to start this now myself for two main reasons:

1. I’ve only recently built up my Who collection to the point where I can consider it. I’m starting at the beginning and some of the 1960s stories are tricksy in so far as they’re either a) missing all together, or b) considered so bad that the BBC hasn’t released them on DVD yet (yes, I’m looking at you The Sensorites.) A combination of audio soundtracks and the misguided push to have all complete stories available by the 50th anniversary should fill in any gaps in timely fashion.
2. The process will force me into experiencing stories that I’d otherwise avoid, e.g. those which are audio only, those with bad reputations and a huge lump of Pertwee stuff (just a personal thing.) I like the idea that I’ll be experiencing some of these stories for the first time.

I won’t be writing any plot synopses or giving the stories marks out of 10. Neither will I pretend I’m watching the episodes unaware of what comes after. These will simply be my thoughts as prompted by what I see on screen.

A Note on Titles

Some Who fans would have it that a number of the early serials be named differently to what has become the convention. For example, the first ever serial should be referred to as ‘100,000 BC’ whilst the third becomes ‘The Mutants.’ Such people are arses and should be avoided at all costs. I don’t give a rat’s ass what the original umbrella title was, if the Target novelisations, BBC VHS and DVD releases and BBC web site have them down as ‘An Unearthly Child’ and ‘The Daleks’ respectively then that’s what they’re bloody well called!

Toodle pip!

Eighty Six

According to 5 Live this morning, today is supposedly the most miserable day of the year. Apparently, by mid January people make the final mental severance from the excesses of Christmas and the New Year and realize there are a depressing number of months to get through until thoughts of holidays roll around and an even more depressing number of days until pay-day.  Insult is apparently added to injury by the fact that it’s a Monday.

Personally, I quite like Mondays. They are the beginning of a whole new week – a clean slate, an opportunity. There’s the possibility that this week I might actually achieve something instead of fucking it up or tossing it off like most of the others in recent memory. It was therefore in an unwise state of optimism that I decided to weigh myself.

Eighty-six kilograms! I don’t even want to think what that is in stones, pounds and ounces. Too fucking many, that’s for sure. I used to weigh a mere 9 stone back in my dim and distant university days. I know this because I had a friend called Hamish, a sturdily-built rugby player who weighed 18 stone and could confidently claim to be “twice the man” I was. I can’t put off the metric to imperial calculation now, hold on…  Jesus, when did I become such a fat knacker?

I suppose the signs have been there. Thinking hard about it, I’ve noticed that my pyjama bottoms have been getting lodged around my calves and that shirts which I’ve worn happily for years are beginning to feel tight across what can only be described as my tits. Perhaps I’m just one of many in my generation experiencing such things as we hurtle together towards middle age. I certainly can’t be the only one thinking it colossally unfair whilst at the same time feeling just a tad guilty.

In a vague attempt to salve my conscience I went for a walk. I have the good fortune to live in a solidly urban area which just happens to turn pleasantly rural if you walk for ten minutes in any direction. Sadly for the lazy and tubby, almost all of those directions are uphill. I fought down the sloth and chose the steepest one possible.

My first obstacle was not one of gradient but of several hundred horrible children as I attempted to pass the local secondary school. I detest such places – a feeling which stems from an unsuccessful attempt a few years back to get through training as a science teacher. I’ll probably write about the experience some time when I’ve calmed down. As an aside, I would actually recommend a PGCE course to anybody as it can be quite revelatory, not least with regard to the piss-poor quality of some graduates these days. All I got out of it though was 9 months of depression and an utter loathing for all children between the ages of 11 and 16.

Pushing such grim thoughts aside I trudged onwards and upwards half-heartedly fighting off the tendency to fantasize. This really is something I should stop doing as it serves absolutely no purpose. I lazily let about a mile slip by whilst I inhabited some imaginary world where I was a radio presenter. One with wittier things to talk about than how depressing the day is whilst being gobbled-off under the desk and no doubt looking forward to the awards season. Pathetic really.

As I snapped back into reality and started to head downhill towards home, my attention was drawn to a stream of water flowing along a roadside gutter. I imagined for a moment the all the molecules zipping by as part of their long journey. Down into the drain for a brief sewery adventure followed by a plunge into the River Calder then the Aire, the Ouze and finally the North Sea before being squeezed through unnumbered sets of gills. I think dim memories of lesson plans were affecting my brain.

For instance, thoughts of molecules reminded me of that odd science fact which involves the tendency of atoms to be constantly swapping places with each other. The result is that every eight years or so your body has acquired a completely new set – you are literally a totally different person.  Weird huh? Of course it doesn’t lighten my mood to feel that over the past decade my new atoms have brought an extra 4.5 stone of mates with them to the party. Bastards!

Ok then, plan for the week: More walking, less fantasizing, join gym.

Roll on Saturday.