Doctor Who and the Runaway Bogey

Issue #297 of Doctor Who Adventures, out in shops tomorrow, features a comic strip by me. "The Runaway Bogey" is, says the magazine's deputy editor, "the most disgusting comic we’ve ever done". I cannot imagine higher praise.

Last week, Doctor Who itself was 49 years old, and the DWA gang celebrated by watching the very first episode during our lunch break. You can read what we thought of "An Unearthly Child" on the Doctor Who Adventures website.

The AAAGH! Who Waited

Here's the AAAGH! from Doctor Who Adventures #236, last week, nicked broadly from The Girl Who Waited but with a guest appearance by Prisoner Zero. The new issue, #237, is out today and features a homage to The Shining which I'm particularly proud of for a magazine aimed at 6-12 year-olds.

As always, script by me, art by the amazing Brian Williamson and edited by Paul Lang and Natalie Barnes, who also gave kind permission to post this here. Why not read all my AAAGH!s so far?

Gallifrey and nine

Gallifrey was exhausting and brilliant and silly. Saw a whole bundle of old chums and made a great glutch of new ones. Flogged product and drank one or two ales. I said at the closing ceremony (where you have to say something) that I wished it could be Gallifrey every day. Which would be fun, but I wouldn’t long survive.

James Moran has made a number of very serious allegations about me, but surely there’d be pictures. And if there were pictures, surely there’d be evidence of Photoshop in them. I deny all accusations.

Didn’t sleep a wink on the flight home, and my entertainment system wasn’t working either. So I sat in the darkness and thought Thoughts that may one day become things I can brag about. Slowly the hours ticked by.

Eventually we plonked down in Heathrow. Turns out we shared our flight home with the Hoff, and dared each other to ask for pictures with him while we waited for our baggage. Don’t think we actually did – but by then my brain was drooling out my eyes. Out through customs to fall into me and M.’s waiting taxi. We slalomed through west and south London and then finally we were home.

Slept. And slept and slept. And woke up not knowing what day it was or where I’d left my head. Confused and stupid (no, more than usual) have got myself back into work. There’s been quick rewrites on a thing as-yet-unannounced and rewrites requested on something else. Went to the Post Office and the bank and fell through two splendid episodes of Being Human and nearly 300 emails. And then started sneezing; think I picked up a cold on the plane home. Dammit.

The Dr is, of course, delighted by the state I’m in. The whole point of jetting off across the pond without her was to come home relaxed, refreshed and skippy. Not snuffling and stupid and snoring. But I’m taking her out tonight for a posh tea, so she can’t complain.

Because nine years ago this evening I stumbled over to the Dr to tell her she was lovely. And dammit, she still is. The lesson is, my young padawans, that if you fancy someone, tell them.

New postal service

Printed on a letter* today, this charming offer:

www.royalmail.com/safebox
Sending diagnostic specimens?
Use Safe Box
from Royal Mail

What, like goo and secretions and stuff? (One day, I'll post my hilario-comedic Adventure of Giving Rude Specimens.)

I can see that sending man-juice and snot through the post might be something some people might have to do. But is there really such a demand for such service that you advertise it on everyone's letters? Or perhaps this a response to it being quite common, and there being too many icky leaks.

(Me on the decline of the postal monopoly.)

* the letter itself was a contract for something exciting and as yet unannounced. Woo!

Not a good start

Happy new year – and happy birthday to the legion of chums whose birthday it is today. I don't think I'll be going to the celebrations as I have caught the flu bug that was fashionable a few weeks back, and am generally feeling beaten up and blue. Ow.

The Dr sweetly duveted me up in front of the telly to watch the Doctor Who Prom and brought me pasta and porridge (not in the same bowl).

Various bits of things I'm meant to be doing currently sit undone. But I've booked flights to Gallifrey, and a sojourn to San Francisco just beforehand which is all very exciting. I've sent some emails to get things rolling on another as-yet-unannounced project, and a load of rewrites is probably due my way once various bosses get back to their works.

Now I'm going to have some tea and a sandwich and watch episode five of Alistair Cooke's America - on which more another time.

Fountain of snot and knowledge

I've returned from Chicago with a cold, plus chocolates and Indiana Jones Lego for the Dr. She's also pleased I know the stink she likes after only four years of being hitched.

The convention was great fun but exhausting - a Doctor Who convention is one of the rare places where the rubbish filling my head can be useful. The food was huge, the snow was festive, and everyone was just lovely. Made a lot of new friends and got drunk with some old ones. The air-con made it feel like I'd sunburnt my face, and the heating meant I couldn't decide whether to where muppet-skin jumpers or tee-shirts.

Spent most of my time in the hotel itself, though we did escape to TGI Friday one night for enormous food and K. took me to Target. Both were just the far side of the hotel car park, so they hardly count. But hey, it was cold.

Oddly, the snow seemed to affect domestic flights more than it did international. There was much concern as the blizzard came down on Sunday, especially amongst those who had a million miles to drive.

On Monday, a fantastic fellow called Dennis ferried us into town for a last look round the Art Institute of Chicago. How strange to see it covered in snow, the same yet so different from last time.

I'd last been there in June 2004, in the blistering heat of my honeymoon. Chicago was the one place we visited in our grand tour of family and friends that the Dr and I thought we might like to live. Again, I was impressed by the beauty and history and buzz of the place, still zinging from the election of their boy.

After the art we went for a long walk looking for something to eat. Had a last, gargantuan lunch at the Cheesecake Factory, then nabbed a taxi back to the car park and raced to the airport.

My plane home was on time until the last minute, when the cold killed the tug towing us from the gate. We eventually took off about an hour and a half late; hope everyone else got home okay.

I watched WALL-E (which might have been written by Russell T Davies), Iron Man (far, far better than I'd expected) and a really rather brilliant documentary called Young @ Heart. Also did plenty of writing.

Have spent the morning trudging through my email. Now have Codename Moose popping round to show me his homework and to watch something that counts as Research. Have pitched for something, been organising something else and am generally back in the thick of it like I was never away...

Cat portents

Snot and sore throat since last Tuesday is not the only sign that the nights are drawing in. The air bites briskly on the way into work, and the cat leeches our warmth at night.

I’ve been reading, researching and writing these last few days, mostly for some on-spec projects that I’ve been meaning to get to for ages. The cold may also be my body reacting to the fact that for the first time in maybe as much as three years I don’t have a pressing deadline. What a giddily light and airy world it can be. However do any of you cope?

Yesterday, we met up with A. and her new beau J., who have been visiting from New Zealand. We lunched on burgers (in the kiwi style, with fried egg and beetroot), got a tour round the fun old stuff in the Petrie Museum (for which I’ve been doing some of this ‘ere research), and then fell into the Birkbeck student bar, where five drinks were less than ten quid.

The Dr was able to join us having reached a good point in her own book-writing efforts – I’ve chapters to edit on the train tomorrow, as I make my way to Swansea. Plan is not to be part of the official convention, but rather part of the fringe. That is, in the bar.

Have heard from the best mate, as he storms through the Russian railway, while a colleague heard I’ll be in Sheffield next week and tantalised me with talk of Eyam. So next week I shall be reading a book about it.