Since they were building the place

Went for drinkies at the Dr's work on Monday to celebrate 150 years of the Dr's work. Well, not her's specifically, but as an institution.

Mingled with celebs, chums, colleagues and former colleagues, and drank too much of the free vino. Also seemed to swallow a plate.

Then, yesterday being our wedding anniversary, we dared subsidence and miserable weather to go see Arundel Castle. It's a bit damn top as castles go, with enough of the original fortifications to keep me happy (and, er, it's another genuine Dr Who location*), and lots of emancipated-Catholic Victoriana for the Dr. She went a bit class-traitor over tea, though, and will consider a spaniel should we ever have a garden.

The Pugin-designed bits of the castle lodgings are very reminiscent of bits inside the Palace of Westminster, but lighter and airier, and with more room for kids to run round. The very helpful and knowledgeable staff were able to answer the Dr's various questions about which bits had been nicked from Venice and who the paintings were by, and I had a chat with a nice lady about how difficult the different medieval weapons were to use. She told a nice story about some visiting toxophiles, and a three-year-old boy who could shoot in a longbow while still having a dummy in his mouth.

Got entirely soaked heading home, but curled up in front of some romantic goth movies (Edward Scissorhands and Belle et le Bette) and had booze. Naw.

* Well, genuine in so far as it is doubling for Windsor, because you can only film factual documentaries there. 

Dandy-lion holocaust

Speaking of memes, Millennium Elephant's daddy Richard shares his birthday with Henry Tulip. This fact reminded me to look up exactly where the princes in the tower fit into the Wars of the Roses, in good time for listening to my friend Nev's The Kingmaker.

Ooh look, Henry Tulip's granny was the French bird Henry V married after his European Cup win at Agincourt. Top fact about that: Henry had been wounded 12 years before in the longbow-on-longbow action at Shrewsbury. An arrow hit him in the face, leaving him noticeably scarred. This detail is not included in the best-selling biography by W. Shakespeare.

I think I'm right in saying that the name "wars of the roses" was a contrivance of Shakespeare's, too - it certainly wasn't used at the time the wars were actually going on (1455-1485, or 1487 if you're a pedant). Shakey's plays show those decades of war to be miserably brutal and bleak (until, er, his patron's granddad took control after the Battle of Bosworth Field), so the title's meant to be ironic. Like there being a "buttercup massacre" or a "dandy-lion holocaust".

(Yes that's an archaic spelling, before you write in.)

The ironic title is not just a pretty bit of word-play; it's useful in differentiating from the other civil war. Which is often referred to as two civil wars anyway, because silly King Chuck surrendered and then started fighting again. Yes, that does seem like nit-picking, but this was not 'Nam, there were rules...

Anyway, wars can't be civil either. The civility-bit is a "treaty". It’s always the diplomats and peacemakers who have to clear up the mess, as a wise Time Lord might remark someday soon.

(We also tend not to call the squabbling between the boss-eyed King Stephen and his big sister a civil war, because, er, we tend to forget about it anyway. Oh, and if Henry IV hadn't jumped the queue, we might have had a King Roger.)

This kind of semantic stuff appeals to me anyway (I've always loved the Master's self-contradicting line in Dr Who and half of all the Drs Who, as the Cybermen point menacing guns at him: "I am the Master, and your loyal servant.").

I've also spent a morning beefing up metadata, gathering all the synonyms, homonyms and Houyhnhnms I can think of, which may explain why brain has gone wandering...

Memes don't work

There's a comic strip I remember from years ago, a typical one-off with a twist. A bloke explains how he's been cursed for years (with nightmares about snakes eating him, I think), and it's all because he was told a story.

Telling the story passes the curse on, and whoever hears it takes on the curse. The bloke points out the small native boy he's just told the story to. But aaaaah!, he explains, the native boy is deaf.

This 'ere blog - and my notebooks - serve a similar purpose, letting me get shot of the stupider-arse rubbish clogging my head worse than ear wax. (Updates on ear wax soon; been to A&E who didn't have the right machines but prescribed olive oil...)

Anyway. This has been tinkering through my head for the last few days, as unshakeable as the Muppets' "Mahna Mahna":

"Our kestrel-man hoovering the duck."

Hopefully now I can be free. Don't have nightmares.

"You'd look daft in bermuda shorts"

It's only a couple of months late for the daffodils to be out, but it seems like spring has now sprung. Well done the weather, there.

Instead of being out playing in the sunshine, I have been stuck indoors writing about people playing in the sunshine. I'm quite pleased with the bit where one character tells another that it's a bit like syrup. More on what I'm talking about when I can...

Also got me act together for the Writer's Inc competition, and have two whole stories to send in. Mr J. Lidster was kind enough to send extensive notes on the one of them I sent him, but seems not to have understood the main gag. Some hasty tweaking should prevent me from now looking like a doofus.

Looking more like a doofus.

The Dr has been down to the shops and I now have an early anniversary present - it will be two years on Tuesday since we stood in a genuine Dr Who location and said, "Go on, then."

My Schott's Original Miscellany tells me (on page 55) that second wedding anniversaries should be celebrated with paper, cotton or china. It depends on whether you're British, American or Modern - I like that those are distinct categories.

No mention is made of walkie-talkies though, whether or not they're Slitheen. The hope is, though, to cut down on yelling at each from the far ends of the flat. Now the old Doctor Who can tell me my dinner's ready.

Now off to buy booze to accompany the roast chicken the Dr is making me. She is a good wife, and her anniversary present will be light.

New adventures

Spent a happy day yesterday waiting for a delivery, muttering about the great feat of inconvenience involved in said delivery, taking out my frustrations in the gym and then, finally, writing. Evil Overlord Ian rang about tea-time to check a few things, and said how much he'd enjoyed The Settling.

What-ho, I thought. Which was a bit Wodehousian.

Promptly invited myself round to Dr Darlington's house to beg my own copy, then hurried back home for a listen. You'll all have to wait a month till it's back from being pressed, but I'm really, really pleased with it. Hooray!

Also got to see a copy of the first Dr Who Adventures, which is tremendously exciting and fun. Like most kids' comics these days, it ejects body copy in favour of lots of splash and dazzle - so it's not dull and fusty like Dr Who Monthly used to be, with so much brain-bludgeoning text it made your eyes bleed.

Despite a devotion to the series I never got into the magazine until I was in my late teens. Didn't give a stuff about who directed what in 1968, or whether the Doctor was not 'generating but rejuvenating.

I just wanted Top Facts like in the superb Droo Monster Book and to feel part of the gang, not inferior. I wanted thrills and strangeness and jokes-I-was-probably-too-young-for, just like in real Dr Who.

Then Philip MacDonald's piece on Season 18 and entropy really caught my imagination. Insightful, concise and about the bit of Droo I'd first come in on, it made me want to write loftily about spaceships. And I did.

(Have since explained this to Phil - now a good chum - and bought him the corresponding booze.)

The new comic has lots of big pictures and activities, as well as stuff on old Doctors Who and a plug for the grown-up's mag. The strip has got cliffhangers, and issue 2's free gift is - as another kid's mag I knew would have put it - sliced genius.

I want to be 8 again. Can someone arrange it?

The Marian conspiracy

Last week one of the Dr's prized acolytes left for pastures new, though not without a knees-up and presents. While a fellow acolyte got a big bottle of booze, the Dr got the first series of Maid Marian on DVD. This says quite a bit about the level of respect and seriousness with which the Dr is served by her underlings.

The Dr was very excited about a rewatch, though I'd only seen a couple of episodes when it first went out last millennia because of not getting home from school until late. (I also missed all of Press Gang and have still not seen a bit of it. This, I feel, is a grevious oversight on the part of those who lend me Things To See.)

We laughed a lot, which is the main thing. As Robinson points out in the commentary, he was trying to put into practice all he'd learnt from Richard Curtis while playing Baldrick (and looking at the date, I realise Maid Marian overlapped with Blackadder, and also when-it-was-still-good Red Dwarf).

He also points out that every episode is based on a hoodie legend. I like how it plays with our ideas about history, with plenty of gags on things Yet To Be Invented (hot water bottles, rubber bands, ball billiards...). More implicitly, there's the central wheeze of Joe Public remembering Robin as the brains of the operation when really it was all down to a girl. In a single one-liner, Kate Lonergan says more about the treatment of women in history than any worthy degree courses in herstory ever could.

"Valentine Harries, whose book The Truth about Robin Hood examines with devotion and determination all possible clues, concludes that the legendary hero existed, first as a robber in Barnsdale, gradually acquiring a reputation for good deeds and remarkable skill with the longbow; that in 1324 he was found as a valet or yeoman of the chamber to Edward II, who was lenient over the question of his poaching and, being attracted to him -"

No sniggering at the back -

"took him into service; and that he died at Kirkless, possibly murdered by the Prioress there and one Roger de Doncaster, to be buried under Robert Hode's Stone in Barnsdale."

Robert Hardy, Longbow - a social and military history, p. 40.

Hardy's excellent book (which I obviously thieved The Immortals from) explains that, in a time when everybody had to practice their archering for the sake of national security, a working-class pretty boy with any talent would swiftly do well for himself. Hood was the David Beckham of his day then, rather than the Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen as Tony Robinson has it.

As well as the historical stuff, Maid Marian also gets in gags about the media versions of Robin, with Clannad-style sighing for the Whiteish Knight and a nice riff on Errol Flynn's horny anthem. I note from a programme guide that later seasons also shows gags about Costner. Was this first batch before even that? Gosh, that is a whole lifetime ago...

Of course, there's new hoodie stuff coming soon, with Droo's Paul Cornell even writing one and Droo's grandson Sam up to Much. Same timeslot and promise of rollicking family fare as Droo, too. I remember back even before Maid Marian being on mutterings that Droo would be better more like Robin of Sherwood. How things have turned all about.

But look at that picture; that bain't be a longbow! I'm with Cornelius Fudge on this one:

"If Robin Hood did not draw six foot of good English yew, then he ought to have done."

Ibid., p. 38.

Looking for Jake

Read China Mievillie’s “Looking for Jake” over the weekend, having adored the New Crobuzon novels (stop by Perdido Street Station if you haven’t already been).

One of the best stories in the anthology is “The Ball Room” – not at all what I’d expected from the title, and which at one point gave me goosebumps. Am sitting on my hands as I type so as not to give anything away, though I will say that it’s one of only a handful of stories to name the narrator / protagonist – and that only comes some way in.

“An end to hunger” is not alone in letting Mieville (who stood at the 2001 General Election for the Socialist Alliance) rave about something political, challenging some comforting ideas about what the Internet can do. Like “The Ball Room”, it’s implicitly about how companies really work – succeeding by winning us over. I also love the idea of a “hide engine” to disappear Jack Straw.

“Tis the season” is another fun political one, a satire on the commercialism of Christmas, with the kind of wheeze and wild violence of a one-off Judge Dredd. A reversal with a singing Messiah took me nicely by surprise.

“Foundation”, about the structural integrity of buildings, is also about real abuses by “our” military in Iraq – as Mieville’s keen to point out in the acknowledgements. “Go Between” is perhaps the most explicit about our having to take responsibility for things happening in front of us, asking how we are complicit.

“Reports of certain events in London” is told by Mieville himself, caught up in a strange-but-true tale like Paul Auster often is. It’s a collection of documents about an odd kind of streetfighting, though that only becomes clear some way through. The glimpses of a squabbling enclave of enthusiasts works very well – Mieville can play it funny as well as freakish.

“Jack” takes us back to New Crobuzon to explain what happened to the famous bandit referred to in other books. Must admit my brain has muddled Jack Half-A-Prayer with Neal Stephenson’s similar Jack Half-A-Cock, so I probably missed some of the effect. But it’s a good story, again with insight into the politics of the mob.

The other stories are all good, too. The comic strip needs close attention to follow (I think, but then I am dim), and I felt again what I did when I first read the novella “The Tain” as a small-press paperback (which I think I’ve gone and leant someone ‘cos I can’t find it again now) – that I’d get more from it were I better read. It does rely on knowing some Borges, being all a bit unfathomable until that quotation at the end.

Though the stories range in subject and scope, they all have a similar, dark feel. Though often about everyday, recognisable things and people, they’re all full of strange, vivid imagery and a growing sense of disquiet. And then he’ll drop something downright nasty on you, in a flash.

The tone is a bit too samey across the anthology; more a book to dip into than read in one go. That said, it’s a very strong collection, with plenty to change how you see some things.

He’s also not one for spoon-feeding answers, and several of the stories end leaving you on tenterhooks, wondering how events played out. You're never quite sure if the author wants you to suss it out for yourself, or just can't be bothered.

(I got criticised for exactly that in my own "An overture too early", but one day I might explain all. Maybe. Conceivably. If you're lucky...)

Castellations

After a long day's meeting on Saturday, I hurried down to Selling in Kent to meet the Dr, C. and S. in the pub. The ladies had booked us two nights in a converted hop-picker's cottage with a real fire and plenty of logs. Which was nice.

Yesterday, after getting up not too early, we made our way to Count Grendel's castle in Leeds. It's a very pretty place with plenty to do, though £13.50 each is a bit steep - even if we can all use our tickets for the rest of the year.

The castle itself is more decorative than it is defensive, the insides decked out in pastel colours and 30s stylings very like we've seen in Eltham Palace. We felt it all a bit corporate and for those-as-can-afford it, and the Dr railed against its claim to be a "living museum". The picturesque views across the Great Water were somewhat spoiled by the inevitable golf course.

We admired the birds (and a boy-duck waddling nonchalantly around after a girl-duck in the hope he'd wear her down eventually), got lost in the maze and the Dr was upset by the beautiful birds of prey all tied to the ground and looking miserable in the cold weather.

Then it was home to roast lamb from the Dr and Trivial Pursuits that I won. Hurrah!

Today we were out of the place by 10, and dropped the Dr at Rochester station before heading into the cathedral and castle. The castle is much more my period, in a commanding position on the Medway and clearly built with defence in mind. Only £4 to get in, and so much more satisfying. Got a good view of the damage done by King John in 1215 - there's a great big arch that just stops abruptly where one whole corner was rebuilt.

Basically, John lay seige to the place after having been bullied by some not-exactly-democratic landowners into signing a piece of paper letting them do what they liked. This Magna Carta, though, proved not to be worth much; as soon as the rebel lords had gone home, John ran round after them and beat them up.

Rochester castle held out against his army, though, until it was literally undermined. Sir Hubert de Burgh provided a whole bunch of pigs...

"Once the mine was finished, it would have been stuffed with brushwood, straw and kindling to feed a great fire. How the pig fat was introduced is a matter of debate. An older generation of more imaginative historians envisaged the forty-strong herd being driven into the tunnels while still alive, burning torches tied to their tails. Sadly, modern military experts now think this unlikely; the idea of live pigs running around with firebrands attached is just too farcical, even for King John. It is now believed that the pigs were slaughtered and rendered down for their fat, which was subsequently poured into barrels and rolled into the mine.

With or without an accompaniement of squealing pigs, the scene that followed must have been both horrifying and spectacular. Torches were introduced to the tunnels. Deep underground, the kindling caught and the pig fat crackled. Flames started to lick the fatty wooden props and, as the fire grew to a roar, the props started to snap. Suddenly, the ground above the mine fell away. The great keep shuddered and split. With a final deafening roar, a quarter of the building came crashing down."

Marc Morris, Castle, p. 88.

After stopping off in a tea-shop (and, er, what's apparently the biggest second-hand bookshop in the country), we headed to the more modern Upnor, just up the river.

This is a very different sort of castle - and not really a castle at all what with not having had a lord or been a residence. This is a military fort. And not a brilliant one either; we watched an exciting, low-budget diorama explain how the Dutch had rolled up, sunk a few good English ships and stolen some others in 1667, all under the nose of Sam Pepys.

But there was lots of rooms to explore and steps to climb around, and S. and C. enjoyed themselves. They then dropped me back at Rochester station just in time for a train back home. Just time to write this up before the one with the maggots. 

Beyond good and evil

Been a bit caught up in things the last few days but little to show or say for it. A last pitch in for something that closes today (and that has failed to be wowed by my efforts so far), some research for something I'm pitching tomorrow, and some etching away on a story and script that are still far from finished.

"Some people don't believe in evil, Rose. It's all subjective. No moral absolutes."

Dr Who in "A Groatsworth of Wit" part 1 by Gareth Roberts, in Dr Who Magazine 363 (7 December 2005), p. 30.

Was meant to see AC Grayling talk on Wednesday about his new book, Among the dead cities. (Do you see someone talk, or hear them?) It's about how heftily the goodies of World War Two bombed the baddies, and asks difficult questions about moral absolutes. Can the ends justify the means?

Was going to post something about what got said and how it relates to the opening moments of Genesis of the Daleks part 6, having thought about the subject myself. Saw (read) the Guardian review and (heard) comments on Grayling's book in the House of Compromises, and years ago I read Slaughterhouse 5. So considered myself quite the expert.

Didn't happen though - went to collect our tickets only to be told they didn't know who I was. The Dr took me to the student bar instead and then for nice pizza where the she told me all about that heathen hound you'll likely hear more about later in the year...

So this is a bit of a non-post, really. In case you hadn't noticed.

To introduce the guest star

As it happened there were 12 of us for curry, and as many as two had not ever been employed by happy finish. I cannot count.

We got onto fascists and boobies pretty quickly by discussing the great works of Joel Grey.

As well as being the evil goblin doctor in Buffy (who seemed so lovely and fluffy when first we me him), he was also the third special guest on the Muppet Show.

It shows how weird the Muppets were that, on a silly, family entertainment show they had the bloke best known for cross-dressing in Cabaret, a scary, funny-perculiar film for grown-ups. As well as Joel's rude dancing (with Nazis and bosoms and an ape), the film features the murder of a Jewish dog and Michael York in a threesome. Can't remember offhand if it's an actual threesome or just a suggested one, but it's not exactly teat-time family fun, is it?

The Muppets, I argued, got away with all sorts of mad shit that even late-night telly wouldn't dare.

Grey is not, though, Lloyd from the Shining - as I'd thought, and as Dr D Darlington corrected me last night. That is bloke called Joe Turkel. Sorry, Joe.

Still, I'd not be that surprised if the evil ghostie barman who gets Jack Nicholson pissed (and also built Daryl Hannah and an owl) turned up as a Muppet guest, too. It's the sort of thing Kermit might do just to freak out our minds.

The Muppet Show also seems to have been shot out of order; I'm guessing the episodes were assembled later from a pick-and-mix of gags, so the continuity's a bit all over the place. Fozzie shows up backstage after we've just watched his act, for example, complaining he's not had any work this week. In Episode 1 (the Juliet Prowse one) he starts with the voice we know him with, and then two episodes later he's grown up in the Bronx. Miss Piggy likewise looks and sounds more or less right, and then in some sketches she's much softer spoken.

The glorious DVD is apparently in production order, too, though that's not the way they were broadcast. Gosh, I sound like I'm on the Restoration Team forum, and must just stop myself there.

Also discussed over curry last night was why blog. Isn't it a bit sad and self-indulgent? Well, yes, pretty much. But then you don't have to read it.

The pies! The pies!

S. and S. invited us round to their flat yesterday, which is on the same road as where my brother used to live. The Dr and H. had also looked at a flat there in the Time Before Me, and almost took it on the basis of it having the same name as one of Jane Austen's cads. They instead chose a flat with a view onto squirrels.

Anyway. As we rang the doorbell, the Dr and M. asked what I might like to eat on my birthday (it being merely three months away). "Pies," I said.

So it was with some excitement that S. then revealed what she'd cooked us. Oh yes. Home-made, hand crafted pies of some excellence. And pecan puddings and ice-cream. And a modest amount of nice wine. Mmm. I had enough belly afterwards to rest my drink on, though the gathered ladies seemed not to appreciate this feat.

Conversation led inevitably to bosoms and the Nazis. No, not at the same time. The taximan on the way home tried to run L. over as he dropped her off, and then told us about his rank being asked if they'd beaten up a fare.

"The police didn't think we'd done anything, but they still had to check our books," he said. I wondered why you'd keep notes on roughing someone up, which seemed a bit officious.

Our road does not have the same name as someone in Jane Austen, but there is another road with the same name a few miles away. Which would be confusing enough if our's wasn't hiding.

Tonight there is curry for 10 of us, and all but the Dr has been on the Big Finish pay roll. Will report back how long it takes us from kick-off to reach Hitler and tits.

What pants are you wearing?

Dressed up like James Bond for posh cocktails last night, and then 11 of us in our glad-rags trooped round the corner to the local fish and chippie. There were sparklers and many bottles of fizz, and a whopping great chocolate cake too. What a brilliant way to celebrate being past it.

Amongst the learned and astute conversation, I used the dead clever analogy "like knowing what pants you're wearing". And was then a bit surprised that most of our party actually knew.

Pah. It's not something I ever remember, anyway. Is it Darth Maul? Is it Wallace and Gromit? Is this too much information?

H. is getting married and C. is starting to show. J. was telling me about SpongeBob though I already knew.

The After Eights (yes, that's how posh we were being) came with a game where I was Madonna and the Dr John Tavolta, and in Celebrity Top Trumps Brad Pitt proved more chav than Johnny Depp. Perhaps this is because he boffed her-out-of-Friends, I suggested.

No, I didn't know who any of the other trumps were. Apparently there's some bloke who is Famous because he went out with somebody who went out with somebody in EastEnders. Good for him. But as H. (a different one from the getting-married H.) and L. went through the cards, I could only respond as the elderly Duke of Wellington did to the names of the new Tory Cabinet in 1850.

Who? Who?

Nosotros amigos en el norte

Last night, the Dr finished watched the last of Our Friends In The North, which she'd not ever seen. This time 10 years ago, she might have been at a proper red-brick university, but my scabby ex-poly at least had televisions.

The nine-part series follows four friends over 31 years, each hour-and-a-bit episode set in just one year. The story covers the corruption of the Metropolitain police, the self-destruction of the Labour party, sex, drugs, violence, sex, pub bands and shagging.

It's odd to see James Bond, Dr Who, the Queen of Shadows and the one good thing in Revolver all in one place, like some special Marvel/DC universe cross-over. The performances are all very striking, and the leads especially show no fear at uglying themselves up - though Eccleston's hairpieces are a tad distracting. I'd also not realised watching it originally what sods the characters are pretty much all of the time.

The Dr was less excited by the last three episodes, set in the 80s and 90s, which she felt lost the anger and power of the first six. I still found Peter Vaughn's brilliant, awful descent into Alzhiemer's mortifying, - it's really just awful to watch. The Dr also found the whole thing too worthy and hard-going, and we put on an episode of the Muppet Show afterwards to cheer her up. I will speak of Muppets another time, but it is clearly the greatest TV show ever made.

OFitN does have flashes of wit and levity - some of them genuinely brilliant - but they're rather well-spaced apart. This is probably the point; there's a sentiment in the final episode about making a stand against life continually pulling you down. It seems the last gap of the angry, working-class writing so prevalent in "serious" telly of the past.

At the same time, it does have important things to say about the complex inter-linkings of people and politics, and how history is shaped and affects us. And I wonder what Nicky, Mary, Tosker and Geordie are up to now...

Up at six this morning for getting to Invasion on time - my first convention as a proper, named guest. Right at the bottom of the bill, of course, but got to see lots of good chums and had a lovely lunch with Richard Briers. He made us laugh a lot telling stories about drunk actors he'd known.

Also met Alan Ruscoe, who played monsters in both Droo and Star Wars, and also a small role in The Settling. He said nice things about the few pages of script he'd seen.

The panel itself was a bit nerve-wracking (never been keen on having to speak in front of people), and I'm glad I had colleagues with me. Think I survived the thing by just not shutting up. We announced the titles and authors of the year's forthcoming Benny plays, and discussed how New Show has got us all thinking.

Then an hour or two's signing, which was all rather friendly. I did, though, manage to make a boob of scribbling something for Millennium Elephant and his daddies. This is because I am rubbish.

Snuck out early as have a 30th birthday bash tonight. Off now to make myself pretty.

Oh, and this is, incidentally, my 200th post. Corks.

No speak?

I have 15 minutes to play before my dinner is ready, so this had better be quick.

No aural explosion as yet, thanks to those who asked. Meant I couldn't hear one of my bosses calling me today, though she was only a desk away.

Went last night to a discussion of British silent films at the NFT. M'colleague Matthew Sweet was on the panel, and there were clips of his forthcoming "Silent Britain", which looks just as whizzo as you'd expect. There was a proper preview after this debate, but being a clot I'd misunderstood you had to buy separate tickets. So we skulked off home early.

The panel were keen to enthuse that silent film deserves a larger audience, and much mention was made of the Good Stuff - the films, the actors, the direcors, what did cool films before people invented talking.

Having shamefully not yet read Matthew's book (it's only just come out in paperback, and I am still up to my elbows in Venice) we did feel a bit ignorant about who and what they were talking about, and it all felt a bit technical and for those-in-the-know. But that's rather to be expected given where it was, and the clips from the documentary itself were a bit damn good. Look out for that.

We also got seven whole minutes from "Piccadilly", with new music by Neil Brand (also sat on the panel). It showed the shocking goings on in a gin joint, with people asleep at their drinks, and ladies dancing in a manner most unladylike. Sex and booze and violence and race, and some rather nice camera tricks and set-ups. Star Anna-May Wong was also the sultry sidekick in Shanghai Express, of course (he says, having just read it here).

I was also thrilled by a projected still from an early sci-fi something, with the clocktower of the Palace of Westminster (yes, the one with Big Ben in it) dwarfed by the space-age skyscrapers either side. And the air full, of course, with new-fangled bi-planes.

And the programme notes the NFT does speak of a film in which we see

"the channel tunnel blown to smithereens by a terrorist bomb"

and from before 1929. You can't leave it there, you rotters! What, and when, and is yet on a DVD?

The big thing, though, was the problem of getting Joe Public interested in this stuff. One suggestion was that it needed a better name that "silent film", and something more snappy than "British film from earlier than 1929". "Live cinema" suggested Neil Brand, who had spoken of live scores and the sense of occasion you just don't get watching at home.

Having already mourned the loss of all the people who worked in the industry - there's only a handful of survivors still living for Sweet to interview, for example - that seemed rather good.

Ear air ear

Here is more information than you probably want to know. In our view, it is not suitable to those of you who may have a squeamish disposition.

"Different individuals vary considerably in the amount and consistency of their ear wax. There are two types described, wet and dry, which are inherited. Dry wax is common in Asia, while wet wax is common in Western Europe."

Timothy C Hain, Ear wax: What is ear wax?

My left lug'ole is a shriek of tinnitus, and not much of anything else. It's a bit like that "underwater" feeling you get on an airplane, before yawning pops it. Only yawning isn't working, and neither is being surprised.

It's been like this a few days now, but a prescription of 5% sodium bicarbonate ear-drops is promised to unclog the whole thing, in the manner of cleaning a drain. Nice.

The Dr gets the fun job of administering this unblocker, and then having me completely unable to hear what she's saying. My sense of balance is also a bit out, so I'm a bit dizzy as well as a bit deaf. (And I've eaten too many pies recently, too. As we roll merrily on towards our second wedding anniversary, I'm sure she's just thrilled how I turned out.)

My dad, what is expert in these matters (and also an authority on snot), says the bright orange clog is a bit like roof-tiles held together with velcro. The mildly alkaline unclogger persuades the velcro to unstick, and then the whole roof caves in. Looking forward to that, then.

My mum, from who I have apparently inherited rubbish aural passageways, tells me that it'll suddenly all unclog with a strange gurgling noise. And probably drool bright orange gak down my neck, most likely while I'm out shopping or commuting.

So look out for that if you're coming along to the gig on Saturday.

Yesterday I had an unexpected day off, so pootled down to see the best mate, who is back from extensive travels in the east and must now be referred to as Chief Piako. He's not got anyone to be chief of yet, but I've asked about membership. Many stories told and beers drunk. And I bought a new top.

Right. On with some writing things. Or maybe even some lunch.

Chewing gum for the soul

The grand tour part 2: Rome

A five-hour trip down to Rome from Venice, where I mostly sat opposite a doting, snogging couple sharing one seat. Which didn't help the limited legroom.

Took time off from Norwich on Venice to zip through the fun Colosseum book the Dr had bought me, co-written by one of her PhD examiners. It's very good on the way the Colosseum has been used over the centuries - as propaganda for one group or other. Despite the best efforts of the church to claim otherwise, for example, there's no evidence that Christians were ever fed to lions there. Also:

"In the sixteenth century, Benvenuto Cellini, the brilliant Florentine jeweller (even if appalling self-promoter and thug), went to the Colosseum on at least two occasions by night in the company of a Sicilian priest (and part-time necromancer) in order to use the black arts to recapture his girlfriend. On the second occasion this proved a rather too successful experiment in summoning the spirits and the necromancers terrified the wits out of themselves. As Cellini explains in his Autobiography, no fumigations seemed effective in persuading the demons to leave - until one of the party in panic 'let fly such a volley from his breech' as John Addington Symonds' delicate translation puts it ('gave such a blast of a fart accompanied by a vast quantity of shit' is closer to the demotic Italian) that the evil spirits took to flight."

Keith Hopkins and Mary Beard, The Colosseum, pp. 150-2.

The train called at Florence, with a tantalising glimpse of Brunelleschi's tower. Golly, wish we'd had room in the schedule to see more. Next time, next time...

Arrived in Rome early evening, and was immediately assailed by the noise. It's a dirty, smelly, autophile capital, no worse than my beloved, curmudgeonly London, but still a shock after the tranquil Rialto.

We dumped our bags in our dismal hotel room and went to explore. The Dr found the quite backstreet where Charles Newton had stayed about 150 years ago. Then we got a bit lost making our way to the Spanish steps - the Roman equivalent of the 7-11 for bored teenagers to hang around listlessly. And then we found a restuarant on the way home where I ate all of a huge Calzoni. Mmm.

Not getting up as early as we'd meant to, we reached the Colosseum by 10 the next morning, having stopped for a peak in the Santa Maria Maggiore on the way. The Colosseum is very cool, but close up it becomes obvious just how much it's been rebuilt and mucked about with over the centuries.

The queue to get inside would have eaten up too much of our one day in the city, so we admired the place from outside, and the Dr took pictures of tourists taking pictures of the gladiators.

We then made our way up the Via Sacra to the Forum, hanging a left to go see what was left of the Circus Maximus. It's not quite all it was when they filmed Ben Hur. We sat and watched the joggers and dog-walkers still using the ancient site.

Next we headed to the Tiber and followed it round into the Jewish quarter. There's an ancient theatre and more ancient stuff round the back of the synagogue, ruins side-by-side with memorials to those taken off to concentration camps in 1943.

Then, on the Ponte Sisto while admiring the great wolf murals decorating the Vatican side of the river, the Dr bumped into one of her colleagues - a freelancer, running a school trip. Last time she was in Rome, 10 years ago, the Dr had bumped into a group from her old school in the Colosseum. I suspect bumping into her learned chums in the world's hellenic-period sites is going to become a more and more regular occurence.

We followed the river up to the Castel Sant' Angelo - a castle that's star-shaped on the maps and round on the horizon. Then we doubled back onto the Via della Conciliazione and up to St Peter's. The Dr, crowing about my Catholic past, was insistent I see inside.

Dear Christ. The HQ of the most theatrical religion in the world is a strangely unmoving and clinical place. The twisted, black canopy over the altar is just nasty, but otherwise the vast marble cladding and statuary left me cold. Obviously the clattering prattle of the tourists didn't help, but there just wasn't any empathy or spiritualism in sight.

The one exception was Michelangelo's Pieta, a genuinely heart-breaking vision of a mother distraught at the death of her son. It speaks to emotions we all relate to - love, death, our's mums and the awfulness life can deal us. I tried, distracted by the epileptic flashing of cameras all round, to see what I'd been taught at school - that Mary is a good third bigger than her son, which is how Michelangelo can have Jesus sprawled across her lap like he's on some great, comfy sofa. It's a hell of a nifty trick; it just seems so right, so natural, so universal.

But that was the exception. Rather than speaking to the people in the congregation about their own lives, as the other various churches we'd seen did, this was all about the cult of dead popes.

St Peter's is a church not to God, his son, or his people, but to a line of uncharasmatic old men in funny hats. Popes, you know, aren't the most exciting bunch - the more inbred pedigree royal's are more fun.

Then again, we didn't have to queue to get into St Peter's - the great snake of fans pilgrims was there to see the tomb of Jean-Paul 2. So we must be wrong, I guess. Popes are cool. We bought a pope calendar and pope magnet in the gift-shop.

Then on to the Piazza Navona, where they're all out having tea in Fellini's Roma. Wasn't too bothered by the Pantheon, whose 17th century roof looked like it had been built in the '30s, and by one of those boring fascisti. The Santa Maria Sopra Minerva was much more beautiful, the darkness and quiet, the sense of intimacy and mystery, exactly what the last two churches had lacked. It felt less like it was saying, "Do as you're told" as "You are welcome here".

Our Rome guide recommended us some eats round the corner, the tiny Enoteca Corsi on the Via del Gesu, which you'd miss if you weren't looking specifically for it. "Very cheap, and a real taste of old Rome," said the book. And exactly right.

Then to the Trevi fountain, which lacked the feeling of the film by being jam-packed with tourists - especially, for some reason, those with huge rucksacks. We tried to work out where Charlie Newton's father-in-law had had rooms, and think we identified the right street.

Then, as evening fell headlong into the night, we trekked back to the hotel up La Nazionale, for beer and (really very unpleasant) take-out. The taxi came for us at half four, and we were back at Stansted by 8.

But our adventures were not yet over, as there were no trains through Penge East because of a fire. We had to go round and down and about, and then walk the half-hour back, already foot-sore from the previous day's touristing, and under the weight of all our luggage.

But home, eventually, where M had made us breakfast (as well as preparing Dr Who's sandwiches all week), and then sleep. Marvellous sleep.

Turned out that a carpet warehouse down the road had caught fire. They were still putting it out in the evening, when we went to see if the local pub we'd found on our detour proved to be any cop.

M's picture, right, is from out our living room window, earlier in the morning. Foom! 

Do look now

The grand tour part 1: Venice

The boat from the airport took longer than the flight, allowing for some initial impressions. The first delight was the sunshine. From a distance, the Venetian skyline with its towers and domes reminded the Dr of Istanbul (a city with many links to Venice, as John Julius Norwich’s history of the place explains in detail).

Venice is a lot like the Dr herself – very pretty, packed full of history, quite goth out of season, and on the costly side. Yes, I shared this observation with her, and yes, I survived. Eventually the boat dropped us just by our pad, La Calcina, where Camberwell’s John Ruskin put up in the 1870s while updating his book on local stones.

We found a little place for breakfast, then walked into St Mark’s square. The sunshine prevailed, lifting our wintry spirits, and the perfect blue sky picked out the green of the water and the pale pink and white of the buildings. You’re suddenly able to understand what all those paintings you’ve seen of the place are trying to capture.

We stopped to admire things on the way, like the baroque splendour of the church of Santa Maria Zobegnigo (or Santa Maria del Giglio as it called itself – the churches seem to have numerous names, which makes finding them in the guidebook lots of fun).

Sculptures of the patronising Barberos are resplendent on the front, with the same silly hats, beards and cloaks as Guy Fawkes. It’s odd to see such “hip” fashions on the outside of a church; because of the Reformation, the most contemporary catwalking you tend to see in English church stonemasonry is medieval and, at a push, early-modern.

Much less impressed by San Moise, in an ugly little square with its own ugly hotel. Venice is elegant but a bit gone-to-seed, the shabby tat and graffiti adding to its appeal. But this little square was something else, and stuck out like a sore thumb of concrete.

And so we reached St Mark’s square, more full of pigeons than people. Odd to see seed being sold; London’s long realised the damage done by winged vermin. We admired the outside of the Basilica – which reminded herself of pictures of Moscow, and me of the Brighton Pavilion. We opted to get the Dr’s homework done first, and scurried round the piazzetta admiring the bits of statue the Venetians had nicked from antiquity before that kind of thing got all trendy.

Pushing through the clots of tourist who – as everywhere else – stop to gape and take pictures wherever streets bottleneck, we took a detour into the Museo Diocesano where an exhibition caught my eye. It began with several rooms of pretty unremarkable religious efforts, gloomy and none-too-well observed.

Then we emerged on to Tintoretto’s sequence of huge canvases, a vast comic-strip biography of St Catherine. The Dr was captivated, admitting she knew little about the artist (a surprise, since he’s a favourite of her beloved David Bowie, whose tunes are published under the name Jones (his real surname) Tintoretto).

The series mixes quick, blurred impressionism and moments of fine detail to create a strong sense of movement and physicality. I commented that in the scenes where St Catherine gets shockingly but rather tastefully disrobed, her tits look all wrong. We decided that Tint was probably not allowed to see his model’s naughty bits – so limbs and hips are womanly, but torso and norks are a man’s.

Next we got a boat across to the Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, which affords a picturesque view back across to St Mark’s, but little else. There was an advert being filmed for some breed of car, which I assume was being archly ironic. Venice is incredibly quiet and chilled out being car-less.

We popped back across the water to the Arsenale, the most beautiful military base I’ve ever seen. The Dr was delighted to catch up with the vast stone lions the Venetians had half-inched from the then newly-exploded Acropolis. I liked the sorry-looking maneless one best, but the other (as Ruskin noted) is very like that from Knidos, now languishing in the British Museum’s Great Court.

This was our reason for coming, so lots of pics got taken as soon as the gaggle of overly dressed and middle-aged ladies had buggered off out the way. There’s a lot of fur coatage in Italy, which to my untrained eye looked stitched together from small, brown creatures, the tall, narrow patches creating – I assume – a slimming effect. Again, like Venice, it’s elegant and rather tatty at the same time.

The Scuola Dalmata di S. Giorgio degli Schiavoni was closed until 3, but our wanders found a bar where the bloke – in English barely better than our guidebook Italian – explained that it was his compleannos, and we were welcome to a beer though really they'd closed. Which was all very pleasant, if sitting down made us realise how tired we were.

The Scuola itself had a fun St George, defeating a dragon amid a wasteland of bits of other bodies. Which was pretty grisly and cool. The Dr remarked on how much is lost seeing holy decorations like this in a museum or gallery; they’re much more impressive and powerful stacked up against one another in the dark and god-terrified ambiance of a church.

Then the boat back to the hotel for a much-needed siesta, before stepping out for dinner. I had the steak. It was good.

Next morning, we were at the Basilica for 10am, a beautiful place mixing Byzantine and more western traditions, picked out in black and gold. I’ve never really been that wowed by gold, though, and was less impressed by the pay-to-view gold plate behind the altar than the exquisitely carved marble columns nearby.

Also enjoyed the museum upstairs, which my mum had recommended just for the horses. We took some pictures on the balcony to text to our friends, and in reply got a picture of the cat not missing us in the slightest.

Then, shivery with cold, we headed on to the Chiesa di Friari and Scuola Grande di San Rocco, with the Rialto Bridge along the way. The day was greyish, but warm whenever the sun peeped out. Deb was wowed by much more Tintoretto, though again his women all sport man-boobs.

After returning to the hotel for lunch, we ventured out for another explore and found a pizzeria where the service was pretty atrocious. And we think the jug of water may have come out of a tap…

We made a hasty exit, and found a nice little bar off a side-street, where we made friends with a six-week-old puppy comprised mostly of Labrador and bounce. I regret to say that this might have been the highlight of the holiday.

Some hours later, and rather full of wine, we stumbled back to our digs in time for my bottom to fall off. Spent a not very happy night feeling like some villain was squishing my intestines. Have since discovered there’s a noble tradition of Venetian Tummy. Ick.

The Dr left me to sleep the next morning, and nipped away to see the fun things in the Acaddemia. We then caught the boat down the Grand Canale to the train station, marvelling at the pretty buildings along the way. We had a while to wait for the train itself, so we sat reading on the steps in the sunshine, letting the world turn around us.

Despite the blissful setting, and the kind attentions of herself, I was feeling pretty raw. So this bit appealed especially:

“Columbus’s three ships, returning to Spain from the Caribbean in 1493, had brought with them the first cases of syphilis known to the Old World; through the agency of the Spanish mercenaries sent by Ferdinand and Isabella to support [Neapolitan] King Alfonso against the French invasion, the disease had rapidly passed on to Naples, where it was rife by the time Charles [VIII of France] arrived. After three months of dolce far niente, his men must in turn have been thoroughly infected, and all the available evidence suggests that it was they who were responsible for introducing it north of the Alps. Certainly it had reached France, Germany and Switzerland by 1495 and Holland and England by 1496; by 1497 not even Aberdeen had been spared. In that year Vasco da Gama rounded the Cape of Good Hope and reached India, where the disease is recorded in 1498; seven years later it was in the Canton.”

John Julius Norwich, A History of Venice, p. 379.

Next episode: The Slave Traders.

Stop, look and listen

Hello!

Had a lovely time away, and will detail the grand tour just as soon as is practicable and I'm not so tired.

Busy catching up with work at the mo, and all sorts of very exciting things are pretty much bursting to be announced.

In the meantime, gaze in wonder at this lovely work by Lee. Isn't it wonderous?

You can also hear a trailer for it by clicking through to the Big Finish site.

...and Robert Dick

Off to Venice first thing tomorrow, so have mostly been doing chores and getting things agreed so they can progress without me. A few new projects are up and running, and am already embroiled in a learned discussion on the teaching of 20th century history...

Also come up with a silly idea I only hope I'm allowed to do, and have until the end of the month to get another pitch in for something that's already turned me down five times. This is what freelancing is all about; throwing ideas every which way, in the hope that one or two of them stick.

It used to be ('cos I counted) that maybe one-in-ten on-spec pitches got a reply, and-one-in ten of those ultimately led to paid work. Not surprisingly, I have a stack of pitches, scripts and stories of one sort or another lying about the flat.

Every now and then something gets reused. "A Good Life", for example, took the better bits from my very first pitch to Big Finish, "Killing Demons". But generally, it's better to come up with new stuff.

Not only are there usually good reasons why stuff has been turned down, it's also less exciting to write about something second-hand. Which all leads me back to stuff I've been discussing by mail, regarding this Da Vinci Code trial.

(The discussion began because a mate pointed out that the third author of "The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail", and the one not taking part in the court case, is Henry Lincoln, who co-created Yeti, Quarks and Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.)

Anyway, my not-entirely-the-same-as-what-the-court-case-is-about view is it's not helpful to bogart your ideas. Don't look back, just get on with the next thing.

Right, back to work. Being dragged off to do my second interview this week (with me being asked the questions). And it's also just been announced that I'll be doing my first panel at a Doctor Who convention next week.

Rabbit season

“It was only commissioned in the first place 'cos Tony Robinson took a year off from Maid Marion.”

Russell T Davies, interview for BBC.co.uk’s Cult site.

A chum kindly leant me Dark Season, Mr Rusty’s first go at telly drama. (Well, technically he’d done dramatic stuff to Why Don’t You…?, but anyway…)

Three kids – Reet (played by Kate Winslet), Marcie and Thomas – suspect a suspicious blond man of being up to no good when he offers everyone in their school free computers. And they’re right – the suspicious blond man plans to use a decades-old programme (coded by Cyril Shaps) to blow up the world. Blimey.

CBBC don’t make this kind of spooky stuff any more (at least, that’s what they said the last time they rejected me), and it does feel like telly from another age. And here are a few thoughts scribbled down as I watched it.

The serial owes an obvious debt to the then-just-dead Dr Who. The strange and scary Other invades an everyday street and school, and only the sassy kids notice. There’s evil computers, neo-Nazis and archaeology. And it’s up to the misfit kids and their nerdy, clue-spotting mate to save the day. The kids themselves could go to Ace’s youth club, and be just as sulky about it.

As well as Shaps, there’s a brilliantly batty turn from Jacqui Pearce as a big lesbian Nazi, with Brigit Forsyth as a put-upon teacher, trying to keep everyone calm. A bit cheaper looking and much more aimed at kids, it still says a lot about the state of the last years of Who that it wasn’t a whole lot more clever.

The Cult site mentions similarities to Buffy in the set-up, though it’d only be Season 1, and then the more silly episodes. Then again, the not-a-uniform pastels all the kids wear at school reminded me of the rock n’ roll utopia in Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey.

Like his subsequent Century Falls, Russell creates a great spooky mystery, which is not altogether explained. There are some odd continuity things: what happened to Olivia – the swotty girl taken over by the baddies in episodes 1-3? She doesn’t even warrant a mention in the second half.

Likewise, it’s established early on that Marcie’s in a different year to her friends, and there’s some stuff about the irony of her being the youngest and bossing them around. In part 4, though, she’s in the same class under Miss Maitland, allowed a visit to the dig. Maybe part four is many months after part three, and the school’s brought in some drastic streaming.

Such nit-picky details don’t matter – it’s the atmosphere conjured that counts. Dark Season is more a mood piece than Dr Who usually ever was. Holding back on the explanations ensures that the weirdness is never punctured, and leaves the viewer to join the dots for themselves. And, I’d argue, is something we’ve seen more of in New Show.

The splitting of the serial into two 3-parters is again like late 80’s Who (squeezing the most from the budget while also not trusting the audience’s loyalty for six weeks). The return of Mr Eldritch at the end of part five is exactly the same gag as the Daleks popping up right at the end of Bad Wolf.

The stuff about kids not being listened to by adults is a little over-wrought, and the gag about Marcie carrying a canoe paddle is too contrived. The Nazism stuff is just… shit, to be honest. But there’s plenty of wit and mystery, and things crack along at some speed.

I also really like Miss Maitland finally rolling her sleeves up to combat the Nazis, and her taking charge of the JCB is a joy.