Magic Rays of Light, by John Wyver

Rekindling the spirits of lost television

An absorbing new history of the interwar period, gleaned from the echoes left by early, experimental TV

by Simon Guerrier

This history of pre-war television is a strange, compelling treasury of ghosts. For one thing, the interwar period has largely slipped from living memory. Few people remain who can share first-hand the wonders and weirdness of the new technological medium described in these pages. The voices quoted, sharing by turns their delight and exasperation, have passed on. What was seen and felt by television’s first audiences must instead by gleaned from old paperwork and stiffly posed photographs, from which we piece together a tantalising sense of the extraordinary range, innovation and visual richness. Sadly, very little pre-war television survives for us to experience for ourselves. It was broadcast live, released into the air and then gone — literally ethereal.

I’ve been haunted by the ghosts of television since, as a child, I learned that lots of old Doctor Who got wiped. Now, I pine for all kinds of lost treasures — I’d love to see Sean Connery’s first leading role, as a washed-up boxer in Requiem for a Heavyweight (1957), or Peter Cushing in sci-fi detective story The Caves of Steel (1964). I’m fascinated by ITV’s coverage of the Moon landing (1969), as David Frost’s live chat show kept being extended through the night and ultimately ran for 10 hours. The guests included Sammy Davis Jnr, Lulu, Dame Sybil Thorndike and Peter Cook. Ray Bradbury walked out in disgust at the shambles of it all, while others passed out from exhaustion and/or drinking. Meanwhile, on the BBC, Pink Floyd played live in the studio, Judi Dench and Ian McKellen recited moon-themed poetry, and Dudley Moore played ‘Moonlight Sonata’. That’s all missing from the archives, too, but the strangeness of it lingers. This major moment in history, this apotheosis of engineering, and TV met it with music hall.

Whatever my personal wish-list, any discoveries of old TV are revealing. Each year, the BFI hosts ‘Missing Believed Wiped’ to show off the latest finds, and it’s always a thrillingly eclectic mix. The 2025 Missing Believed Wiped included a trailer for Cliff Richard in panto, an episode of a sitcom in which a man tries to pay a bill by writing a cheque on the side of a cow, and brief, glitching footage of Tony Hancock enthusing about pilchards. Television is an immediate, intimate medium, so even random, disjointed scraps provide vivid windows on history. What people wore, or drove, or thought suitable to say out loud at prime-time, are all bracingly alive.

Yet it’s rare for material to be recovered from the earliest days of the medium. The last big discovery was in 1996, when a means was found to decode recordings made in the 1920s and 1930s on standard 78 rpm gramophone records — John Logie Baird, the pioneer of TV, having developed a technique to record but not to play back. The peculiar results of the decoding can be seen in an episode of Tomorrow’s World (tx 28 October 1996) reporting this technical feat at the time, now up on YouTube.

In portrait format, like on a modern smartphone, we see in scarlet and black a flickering, distorted moving image, as if though fluted glass. It’s the face of Baird’s temporary secretary, Mabel Pounsford, captured on 28 March 1928. The report then shows, in the same distorted red-and-black, some of a dance routine broadcast by the BBC on 21 April 1933, with the Paramount Astoria Girls all in a row, their pale legs distinct from dark leotards. In both cases, the 30-line resolution is so poor I’m not sure I would have made sense of what I was seeing if I hadn’t just been told.

We can gain further sense of the limited technology and extraordinary ambition of the early TV pioneers from a 4 April 1970 edition of the BBC programme Review, which reassembled the surviving cast and crew to recreate some of the BBC’s very first TV drama, an adaptation of Pirandello’s The Man with the Flower in his Mouth broadcast live on 14 July 1930. The play was chosen because it involved only three characters in a single set, and ran for just half an hour. But it’s an unsettling, moving drama: the titular man is dying of cancer — the ‘flower’ growing in his mouth — but strikes up conversation with a customer who has an excess of time, in that he’s just missed the last train of the night and now has to wait for the first one of the morning. The TV version wasn’t recorded — it’s one of the many TV ghosts —  but the reconstruction lets us see how it would have looked, how it was put together in the studio and how the technology worked.

The ‘pink’ and black picture — to me, it looks red — was the result of the neon light used on the single camera, which could not move or zoom. Even where a second camera was available, there was no ability to ‘cut’; it took eight seconds to mix between shots, so this was done sparingly. In that sense, I think a lot of television of this period must have been like looking through a hole in the wall, and through fluted glass, at a performance taking place next door.

That makes what the early pioneers managed to achieve all the more amazing. The reconstruction shows how the crew of The Man with the Flower in his Mouth evoked the dramatic grammar of cinema, using differently framed shots without cutting. The sequence begins with a hand-drawn picture of the cafe, and some narration setting the scene. That drawing is then slid out of shot, revealing a close-up of the titular man (Earle Gray), seated and speaking to the customer (Lionel Millard), who is visible in frame. A chequered board then slides in front of the camera, blocking our view briefly while the actors reposition themselves. Then the board slides back to reveal the customer now in shot, further upstage so smaller in frame. After more dialogue, the chequered board slides back into view, the actors quickly change position, and the board slides back to reveal both men in frame. Technologically, it’s very basic; aesthetically, it’s how TV drama is framed today.

John Wyver tells us that this first televised drama by the BBC followed and perhaps drew from the one-act The Queen’s Messenger, broadcast in Washington DC on 11 September 1928. This employed three cameras, cutting between shots of each of the two actors and the feed from a third camera that provided close-ups of relevant props. The BBC, then, were trying to emulate this technical marvel with just a single camera — just as BBC drama now, on relatively modest means, tries to holds its own against the big-budget US networks and streamers.

That ambition and competitiveness meant television developed extraordinarily quickly. Wyver charts efforts to televise the Derby, the coronation of George VI and various ballets, in each case explaining how these individual productions helped to progress the medium more generally. By late 1936, when the BBC launched its regular, daily television service, Baird had developed what he called ‘high definition’, 240-line television, which the BBC alternated week in, week out with the rival EMI-Marconi electronic 405-line system. The latter soon won out and remained the standard for TV until the late 1960s (when it was succeeded by a 625-line system as part of the groundwork for colour TV). We can see how radically different, how much clearer and engaging, television had become by the latter half of the 1930s from brief examples, such as in a home cine recording of the coronation on TV, or newsreel reports and documentaries. Film lacks electronic television’s intimacy and immediacy, but Television Comes to London (1936) conjures the excitement of the opening night of the regular service, and lets us see and hear Adele Dixon sing the specially composed song ‘Television’ — with its reference to ‘magic rays of light’ — while also showing a TV camera on wheels tracking her, so we get a sense of how it would have been framed for viewers at home.

The BBC’s demonstration film (1937), used in shops and exhibitions to entice sales of TV sets, gives a sense of the range and breadth of programmes otherwise lost. 

We can sense, too, how appealing this all was from the rapid growth of the audience. It’s thought the first night of the regular service was viewed on 400 TV sets; by September 1939, less than two years later, 20,000 sets had been sold.

Wyver provides a wealth of contemporary accounts to conjure more of what we’re missing. Along the way, there’s loads of fascinating social history: why ballet was so popular in Britain with working-class audiences — the result of Russian emigres putting on relatively inexpensive shows — or why boxing worked so well on TV. The size of the boxing ring suited television’s limited depth of field, while two people with a clear issue to be decided made for good small-screen drama; also, there was a frisson from seeing muscular, bare-chested men in your own living room. That, I think, explains why drama about boxing became such a feature of post-war television — one reason Sean Connery was cast in Requiem for a Heavyweight was that the former Mr Universe contestant looked good in the shorts. But Wyver underlines that this early period contains more than just the origins of later, familiar forms of TV. Lots here is strange and unfamiliar because it didn’t last, such as efforts to establish ‘cinema television’ for large crowds, as a rival to the BBC’s domestic service.

Pioneers made assumptions about the audience watching, given the high price of TV sets. In fact, the relative wealth of different parts of London and so the potential for investing in sets dictated the decision to broadcast from Alexandra Palace rather than Crystal Palace (where John Logie Baird was already based). Though Wyver quotes some working-class viewers, they seem to have been the exception — and were reported in the newspapers for being so. The implication is that programming was designed to entertain and inform middle-class viewers, and aimed less to educate or uplift them as it would post-war.

The audience was also assumed to be white, which informs any sense of the diversity seen on screen. Wyver thinks that Avril Coleridge-Taylor was the first person of colour to perform on TV, in June 1931, and later programming included speakers such as the Jamaican activist and feminist Una Marson. The half-hour variety show broadcast on the first night of the regular service boasted Adele Dixon (as above), then Buck and Bubbles, a Black dance and comedy act, followed by Chinese dancers the Lai Founs — a diverse line-up, as if to get as much of the world into the small frame — but Wyver asks how much these acts would have played to racial stereotypes. Blackface and minstrelling were common and thought uncontroversial, and programming reflected colonial and racial assumptions of the time.

Output also reflected established ideas of cultural value. The classic texts chosen for dramatisation — Shakespeare, Chaucer and Austen — were, says Wyver, from a ‘literary canon [that] had taken form in the later nineteenth century in the complex processes of remaking English identity and the national culture.’ He goes further, arguing that the BBC played an active part in cementing this idea of a national theatre, with texts thought important independent of their box office appeal. He adds television of this period to commercial cinema and nationally distributed newspapers and magazines, the factors that DH LeMahieu, in his interwar history A Culture for Democracy: Mass Communication and the Cultivated Mind in Britain between the Wars (1998), identified as creating a common national culture.

This cutting-edge technology promised ever more innovation and technical wonder — a medium of the future — and yet there’s a sense that much of the broadcast output was reassuring, even nostalgic. There’s no contradiction in this: Wyver links the idea to the ‘dominant mood’ of ‘conservative modernity’ identified by Alison Light in her Forever England: Femininity, Literature and Conservatism between the Wars (1991): modern in form but conservative in effect. I can see that going hand in hand with the popularity of HV Morton’s travelogues of the late 1920s and 1930s, using his modern, affordable motorcar — and encouraging readers to do the same — to take trips into the countryside steeped in nostalgia and whimsy.

In that context, it’s fascinating to see what changed in the lead-up to war. Among the programmes Wyver describes, there are increasing notes of disquiet. A version of Julius Caesar is presented with characters in modern, military uniforms, making a connection to fascism in Europe. There’s a demonstration of anti-aircraft precautions, and an interview with refugees. A photograph on p. 317 shows Neville Chamberlain met by a crowd on the tarmac at Heston Aerodrome on 18 September 1938. In the upper-left of the picture, we can see a television camera, ready to relay the promise of ‘peace in our time’ live to viewers in London, making them part of the moment. 

Today, every beat of a war plays out in real time on TV. As I write this, the BBC boasts live coverage of Iranian strikes on Qatari and Saudi energy sites, and video of a US F-15 fighter jet crashing in Kuwait. The BBC News website offers a wealth of short videos: footage of explosions, vox pops with people on the ground, expert commentary to provide perspective — all in sound and vision. We can pick what to view of this, and in what order, making a story for ourselves.

Things were very different in 1939, when the BBC decided to halt all TV transmissions before any official declaration of war against Germany. Just after noon on Friday, 1 September, the scheduled broadcast of the eight-minute Disney cartoon Mickey’s Gala Premier was followed by closedown. War was declared two days later and the TV service only resumed on 7 June 1946 (when the same cartoon was repeated). This is where Wyver ends his story. He explains the reasons for halting the TV service: it was expensive, still in very experimental form and had a limited audience. Management felt that, with war looming, resources could be better deployed: some 50 TV engineers soon went to work on radar, and electronics companies who’d been manufacturing TV sets moved into such work as military radios and radar screens.

I’d previously read that TV was halted because of the fear of air raids: the TV signals broadcast from Alexandra Palace might guide the Luftwaffe to densely populated north London. Wyver confirms this and then, in the closing pages of his book, shares something extraordinary. The German radio navigation system, Wotan, worked on an operating frequency of 45 MHz. By chance, that was also the frequency of the vision transmitter at Alexandra Palace, which could be used to disrupt the German system. As a result, some broadcasting continued during the war and proved so effective that the Luftwaffe abandoned Wotan. 

It’s left me haunted by one last thought: How many lives did television save?

More of this sort of thing by me:

• My book, David Whitaker in an Exciting Adventure with Television
• ‘Where the strange, secret world of Mr Benn came from’, for the Telegraph
• ‘The secret Coronation Street pilot episode lost for 66 years’, also for the Telegraph
• On The Intimate Screen — Early British Television Drama by Jason Jacobs
• On Writing for Television, by Sir Basil Bartlett
• On Starlight Days, by Cecil Madden

Doctor Who Magazine #632

The new issue of Doctor Who Magazine is out today, and features another Who Connections piece by me, this time on Star Trek (pp. 44-49), examining how and when it first influenced Doctor Who and when, exactly, Doctor Who then influenced Star Trek. For this, I spoke to Star Trek books writers Diane Duane and Barbara Hambly, and to Jean-Marc Lofficier.

If this is of interest, you might like to read my posts on the anthologies Star Trek by James Blish, Star Trek 2 by Blish, the original novel Spock Must Die! by Blish, and also The Disappearing Future edited by George Hay.

The new issue of DWM also includes a glowing review by Jamie Lenman of Space Security Service - Bret Vyon Lives, the audio set on which I am producer and co-writer, which is released by Big Finish next week.

I took pictures of the Star Trek and early Doctor Who novelisations to illustrate my article, and here are some of them for those that like that sort of thing.

Talk on David McKee, Mr Benn and Elmer

You can now watch my talk, "The David McKee Sketchbook - The Origins of Mr Benn and Elmer", on YouTube:

The talk was given on Friday evening for the friends of the St Barbe Museum + Art Gallery in Lymington, which is home to the exhibition "Elmer and Mr Benn: the magic of David McKee" until 6 September. It's a lovely exhibition, full of amazing original artwork - so bright and colourful in real life, and full of detail and interest. I would like to stand at the back and watch the expressions on people's faces as they enter.

I helped write some of the panels for the exhibition, as well as a piece for the Sunday Telegraph, "Where the strange, secret world of Mr Benn came from".

NB in the Q&A at the end of the talk, I mention Ralph Steadman when I of course mean Gerald Scarfe! But another example of how people working on these different things kept an eye on each other's work: Cliver Juster (film editor and producer on Mr Benn and the King Rollo Films output) told me that Oliver Postgate was a big fan of Towser.

Hookland Fragments vol 1, by David Southwell

In the Before Times, pre-Covid, when I lived in London, I would pop along to bookish events — launches, talks and readings — that caught my fancy. Often, I’d bump into David Southwell, who seemed to share similar tastes in odd, unsettling writing that didn’t quite fit any genre. We would prop up the bar and natter at length about the weird things we’d been reading, the arcane bits of telly I’d been digging into, the latest gossip from our time writing stuff for Doctor Who Magazine.

Since those days, I’ve followed with great interest David’s extraordinary conjuring, the fictional county / borough / municipal authority — I’m not really sure what — that is somehow a blend of MR James and Devil’s End from Doctor Who, the woods from X the Unknown, the village from Went the Day Well and a whole hotchpotch of everything else. Hookland is an at once recognisable, vividly real place and frustratingly intangible, a manifestation of social media, constructed from hints and citations. It is brilliantly beguiling.

Now, at last, comes a first Hookland book, largely comprised of ‘Remembering Differently: the Fortean and Folklore Origins of Hookland’, a talk David gave to the London Fortean Society on 28 April this year. In addition, he tells us about the inspiration behind some of his ‘contributors’ (Emily C Banting, C Josiffe and CL Nolan), recounts his real-life meeting with JG Ballard, details how Hookland is not influenced by anything so obvious as public information films, and provides an A-Z of various influences and interests. The latter includes, on p. 51, a reference to me that makes me wonder what on earth I must have said, in a rare moment of coherence.

Just as Hookland is familiar and strange, I’m knitted from many of the same elements that made David and his realm — he’s a little older than me, so TV stuff he watched on broadcast I saw later on video — and yet I also had a markedly different, less precarious childhood. It strikes me that we are from two very different worlds, but Hookland is a name for the fog between time zones, the imaginative space in which we are able to meet as fellow travellers. In fact, quite a lot of my lasting friendships were forged in different iterations of that same rich, creative fog.

As always, time spent with David has got me feverishly thinking, and making connections in what I am writing now that I had not seen before. More to follow...

Bat Eater, by Kylie Lee Baker

“Something grabs the back of her shirt and Cora can’t scream, all her words extinguished in her chest. This is when she dies. The weak link, the boring character in a horror movie who nobody liked anyway, the one with no defining traits, a name no one can remember.” (p. 160)

This deliciously horrible thriller won the Shirley Jackson Award over the weekend. It was first published last year as Bat Eater and Other Names for Cora Zeng, but the Hodder & Stoughton paperback I read is just Bat Eater — on the cover, on the title page and in the indicia, but not in the closing Author’s Note. How ironic to erase the main character’s name from the title of her own story, given what it’s about.

Cora Zeng is an anxious young Chinese American woman living in New York in 2020, during the Covid pandemic. She works as a cleaner of crime scenes with two other Chinese American misfits, Yifei and Harvey, and she’s grieving the death of her half-sister Delilah, who Cora witnessed being pushed in front of a train by a white man who used the term “bat eater”.

That murder is described in shocking, gory detail and the novel doesn’t hold back on what Cora’s job involves. It is a literally visceral novel, all wet and tender. Cora is haunted by the death of her half-sister, and then haunted by a hungry ghost. She and her co-workers then realise there’s a pattern to the crime scenes they’re cleaning, which seems to be linked to the ghost. To make sense of this, Cora must explore aspects of her own identity and cultural history. There is more than one way to deal with jiāngshī, not all of them successful.

This is a brilliant, compelling novel, especially good on character so that — despite the quote above — we really feel the loss of people. It was interesting to read this so soon after The Lost Voices of Pompeii by Jess Venner, which attempts to return voices to the voiceless victims of a tragedy. There’s something similar going on here, too.

At one point, Bat Eater also reminded me of the most haunting bit in the film Halloween (1978), when Laurie (Jamie Lee Curtis) runs to a neighbour’s house for help, and though we can see the neighbour through the window, he doesn’t answer the door. For all the film is about a violent serial killer, it’s that small moment of ordinary indifference that has always stayed with me. It’s the same here: for all the supernatural stuff going on, what makes this so powerful, so disturbing, is the horror or ordinary people.

Mr Benn in the Telegraph

I've written a piece on Mr Benn and the work of my hero David McKee (1935-2022) for the Telegraph: "Where the strange, secret world of Mr Benn came from". For this, I spoke to McKee's son Brett, film editor Clive Juster, and am also grateful to the team at Andersen Press.

ETA: It's also in the print edition under the title "Remembering the man who gave us Elmer and Mr Benn", pp. 14-15, Sunday supplement to Sunday Telegraph 12 July 2026. 

The piece ties in to the new exhibition, "Elmer and Mr Benn: the magic of David McKee", running at St Barbe Museum + Art Gallery in Lymington until 6 September. I helped write the panels for the exhibition, and this Friday will be giving a talk at Lymington Baptist Church about McKee and his work:

The David McKee Sketchbook: The Origins of Mr Benn and Elmer

7.30 pm, Friday 17 July 2026

Lymington Baptist Church, New Street SO41 9BH

Tickets £5, or free to friends of St Barbe Museum + Art Gallery

Arturo’s Island, by Elsa Morante

Having whizzed through The Lost Voices of Pompeii while on holiday in Naples, I found — horror of horrors — that I had nothing to read, so nosed through the Feltrinelli bookshop in Stazione Centrale looking for something in English. This classic novel, set on an island in the Bay of Naples, seemed the right sort of thing…

Arturo Gerace is 14, and has lived his whole life in a ramshackle old house — a castle — on a little island, where the only other distinguishing feature is a prison. The previous owners of the house banned women from it, and Arturo has grown up with little female contact beyond a dog who died giving birth to a litter that didn’t survive either.

So when Arturo’s wandering father returns home with a new wife, Nunziatella, who is only two years older than Arturo, she makes quite an impression. Arturo is variously angry, jealous, contemptuous and lusty. Meanwhile, his father disappears for months on end — and turns out to have some kind of relationship with one of the inmates of the prison. Arturo’s mother also died in childbirth, and his feelings for this perfect woman he never knew informs a lot of his outlook and unconscious desires.

First published as L’isola di Arturo in 1957 and translated for this edition by Ann Goldstein in 2019, there’s a lot going on here that isn’t quite spelled out — because Arturo, narrating, hasn’t quite figured it all out for himself. At first it seems quite simple but there are depths and undercurrents: Arturo misreads people’s words and actions, assuming for example that Nunziatella does not reciprocate his feelings because she tells him “no”.

In some ways, Arturo and Nunziatella are just as much inmates as the men in the prison, and then there’s wandering Wilhelm, the paterfamilias, who escapes whenever he can. The Freudian psychology running through a lot of the novel is very of its time (see, for example, my piece for the Lancet Psychiatry on the Freudian influence on Frank Herbert, author of Dune.)

It feels relatively timeless until the last part of the novel when Arturo, turning 16, learns there is going to be a world war. When the prisoner is released, turns up at the house and helps himself to food left our for Arturo, there’s an uncomfortable confrontation — when Wilhelm gives his verdict of his son, and Arturo storms out, meaning to sign up to the army. The book ends with him leaving the island for the first time without looking back, off to an uncertain fate.

As I read the novel, I wasn’t sure there was much to it — it seemed to keep promising something about to happen, and then never quite deliver. But in retrospect I’ve been picking over what characters said and did and must have been thinking, making sense of the real story going on under the surface. Then haunting thought is that Arturo, going to war, did not live to do the same.

I would like to read more of and about Elsa Morante; Penguin Classics published a new edition of her debut novel Lies and Sorcery in April and is reissuing History in November.

The Lost Voices of Pompeii, by Jess Venner

For my recent 50th birthday, the Dr and the children took me to Pompeii — a trip I’ve wanted to make since studying the subject at school. They also bought me this new novel, which is an exercise in what the author calls “critical fabulation”, a,

“refusal to treat gaps in the evidence as dead ends,”, 

while seeing,

“absence as production space” (p.18).

This is very much my wheel-house — I’ve written books about absences in the historical record relating to old Doctor Who serials: The Evil of the Daleks (1967), where just one of the seven episodes survives; and The Edge of Destruction (1964), where no production file and very little paperwork survives.

After a scene-setting introduction, each chapter of The Lost Voices of Pompeii follows one of seven people in the 24 hours before the eruption of Vesuvius. There’s some overlap between the lives of Petrinus the slave, Julius Felix the businesswoman, Aulus Umbricius Scaurus the everyman, Umbricia Forunata the matriarch of a working poor family, Euxinus the innkeeper, Amisusius the priest of Isis, and Gaius Cuspius Panda the politician. The structure reminded me a little of 253 by Geoff Ryman, with the same sense of these individual lives connecting into something bigger and more profound.

We see some of the same events from their different perspectives, so understand what a business deal or prayer or shopping trip mean depending on class and status. It’s a good way to explore the intricacies of Roman society. The book is peppered with photographs and footnotes, underlining the fact that this is based on the real, and I found it a bit strange to visit the real-life house of Julia Felix having just read about her.

There’s then a chapter on what happens to these people in the hours after the eruption, and a chapter on the longer-term aftermath. It’s a moving story, but then I also found Pompeii by Robert Harris (2003) and the TV mini-series The Last Days of Pompeii (1984), bits of which we watched at school. 

What’s different is how much more firmly Dr Venner bases her story in fact. That includes some relatively recent new assessments — that the eruption did not take place on 24 August 79, but was later in the year (she suggests 24 October), and that fewer people died than once thought. She gives a figure of between 1,600 and 1,700, or between 9% and 11% of the population (p. 19). (That will be of some solace to Donna Noble, I thought, as we watched The Fires of Pompeii after our trek around the town.)

Dr Venner argues that her “critical fabulation” gives a voice back to the voiceless. I really like the way she explains, in the footnotes, where she’s based things on evidence and where she has embellished things. I can see she’s also tried to make this relevant to now, so there are referencing to upselling, personal brands and so on. I wonder how much those and this fictionalising approach will date over time.

We were in Naples for three nights. On our first evening, we went to the National Archaeological Museum in Naples, where I was stunned by the frescoes. They’re were once displayed like works of art in a gallery, but now they’re vivid evidence of people’s ordinary / extraordinary lives.

That was a good grounding before a long, hot day at Pompeii itself. I’d seen photos and footage of the site but being there I was knocked out by the scale — a whole town, with main thoroughfares and back streets, whole chunks of it still buried. Waiting in a shady spot at one end of the forum for the Dr to catch us up, it struck me that it was of a similar scale to the Winchester, where I grew up, once a Roman city.

The following day, we explored Herculaneum, which I think the children preferred because there were fewer herds of tourists and more cats. 

The Dr has written her own blog post about the trip, “What remains of humans: Casts in Pompeii.”

A British Childhood, by Frank Cottrell-Boyce

I've written a review for Social Care Today of the new book A British Childhood - How Our Children Live Now by the children's laureate Frank Cottrell-Boyce.

Slow Gods, by Claire North

Mawukana na-Vdnaze, the narrator of this novel, has been dead a few times. But being remembered or even thought of brings him back from the dead, or brings back something very like him - he refers to himself as a copy.

The reason he's become immortal, or whatever it is he's become, is that Maw is a pressganged pilot through arcspace, which normally drives people insane or makes them and their ships disappear. For some reason, it has made him something unsettlingly other. He calls himself a monster.

At the same time, Maw's people have been visited by god-like beings who warn of the death of a star in 200 hundred years time which will wipe out a sizeable chunk of the galaxy, including populated worlds. The oppresive regime has time to prepare, but instead decides to suppress news of this announcement. The undying Maw carries out assignments, falls tragically in love, and all the while the clock is ticking to the inevitable foom...

This is space opera on mind-bending scale, and yet it's about something we have seen and continue to see in our own lives here on mundane Earth - the ways people deal with, or refuse to even recognise, crisis. There's loads of strange and haunting stuff going on: the exact nature of what has happened to Maw, and what he now is and can do; the efforts of communities to preserve something of themselves before it is all lost; the way we live with impending and actual loss. 

The result is something big on ideas but also very emotional. It is thrillingly exciting on an epic scale and yet also very personal, which is a natty trick to pull off so well. One key element is an unrequited love story where completely understanding the perspectives of both parties doesn't make it any less heartbreaking.

The stuff about the weird effects on pilots in arcspace reminded me of the classic "Scanners Live in Vain" by Cordwainer Smith (1950). In the deaths and resurrections, there are echoes of North's brilliant The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August. But, brilliantly, it remained surprising right up to the last page.

Justin Richards, 1961-2026

My former editor Justin died last weekend. His great friend Peter Anghelides has written movingly about him. 

I knew Justin, first, for his brilliant, brilliant debut novel Theatre of War (1994), which is so smart, funny and surprising. He found clever things to do with companion Bernice Summerfield being an archaeologist, and it’s really good on what history actually is. But for all it’s keenly intelligent, it’s also great fun.

By mid 1999, I was in correspondence with Justin as he patiently read and gently rejected my pitches for Doctor Who novels. He was always encouraging, on one occasion recommending that I read Story by David McKee before trying again, on another telling me that a thriller plot like I had in mind needed to feel— as the reader read the book — like a zigzagging path, lurching in different, surprising directions. But at the end, when the reader looked back the way we’d come together, they should see it had really been one long, straight avenue, the ending inevitable.

He bent the rules to commission my first book before the particular range was brought to an end. There would always be “just a few notes”, often saying what he liked as much as what he wanted changed. 

When I had a bit of a bruising, unhappy experience on a writing project nothing to do with Justin, he insisted on buying me lunch so that he could share — off the record — his own similar, bruising experience of some years before. He was so funny about it, so at ease, and lifted off all the weight I’d not even been conscious of carrying.

I saw his patience, his generosity, his intelligence and mischievous sense of fun on numerous occasions. It’s why he is such a keenly felt loss. 

Talk on David Whitaker and Terrance Dicks

The talk I gave on Doctor Who writers David Whitaker and Terrance Dicks for the York Festival of Ideas earlier this month is now up in full on YouTube for your delight:

The books mentioned at the end are my biography David Whitaker in an Exciting Adventure with Television (2023), and my archive-investigating analyses of the Doctor Who stories The Evil of the Daleks and The Edge of Destruction for the Black Archive range. 

It is my 50th birthday today, so you should buy at least one of these.

My new biography, Written by Terrance Dicks, will be out later in the year. I am busy writing it right now.

Interview with Nadine Kaadan for Macfest

Last month, I interviewed children's author and illustrator Nadine Kaadan for an online event that was part of the annual Macfest international festival. She was born in Paris, raised in Syria but left during the conflict there and moved to London, where she still resides. It was fascinating to hear how that life experience informs her work, and a whole lot besides...

You can now see the whole thing on YouTube here:

The books cited are:

• Tomorrow, written and illustrated by Nadine Kaadan (2012)
• The Jasmine Sneeze, written and illustrated by Nadine Kaadan (2016)
• The Kind Activity Book, by Alex Scheffler, Nadine Kaadan and Renia Metallinou (2022)
• The Power of Welcome: Real-Life Refugee and Migrant Journeys, by Marie Bamyani, Ada Jusic, Nadine Kaadan, Ramzee and Sonya Zhurenko, illustrated by Ada Jusic (2023)

I also mentioned what I should have called the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook 2026, and there is also a Children's Writers' and Artists' Yearbook 2026. I am so old, I still think of them as annual handbooks.

You may also be intereted in a previous post, my family the refugees. And previously for Macfest I've interviewed Shirin Shamsi, Sefi Atta, Fatima Manji and Osman Yousefzada.

Parable of the Sower, by Octavia E Butler

This gripping thriller, first published in 1993, comprises diary entries written by American teenager Lauren Oya Olamina between 2024 and 2027. Listening to the audiobook read by the late Lynne Thigpen was a little perturbing; I was on the M6 passing Birmingham as we passed into the future.

The basic wheeze feels depressingly prescient. Climate change is hitting the planet and there is growing unrest and violence in the US. To begin with, Lauren and her family do their best to carry on life as normal. But Lauren becomes increasingly conscious of the need to prepare for disaster.

At the same time, this pastor's daughter is working out her own religious ideas, based on the idea that "God is change" and humanity must get out into space if it is to survive. She comes to call this religion "Earthseed", and quotations from her thoughts on the subject open every chapter.

As well as the prescient stuff about the collapse of civilisation, and Lauren's philosophical musings on change, there's a fair bit about the effects of different made-up drugs. The drugs Lauren's late mother used while pregnant have left Lauren as hyper empathetic, so she feels the pain she sees in other - making it hard to fight back when she is attacked. Another drug makes people set things on fire, including themselves. 

That Lauren is a Sharer is a useful complication: it means Butler must find more ingenious ways of dealing with any given threat than simply whacking or shooting it. But I felt the pyromaniac drug made its users a bit generic - the punks in all manner of cod sci-fi who have no more motivation than a delight in causing chaos. That's a shame because this book is otherwise so good on the nuance and contradiction of character. It's a long way from depictions of Lauren's family: her brother's descent into crime, her father being in her eyes a good man for all he beats his children, the coldness of Lauren's stepmother. 

Lauren navigates various difficult situations where people don't want to face difficult truths and find it hard to trust strangers. There are some big action sequences, and a fair bit of violence, but what's epecially compelling is how the tension builds and builds. I found it utterly engrossing.

See also: me on Kindred by Octavia E Butler

The House of Shattered Wings, by Aliette de Bodard

Fallen angels stalk the ruins of Paris. The newly fallen Isabelle is preyed upon by a street gang who sever two of her fingers, keen to steal her magic. The immortal Phillippe, once a Vietnamese courtier now living in reduced circumstances, is involved. 

Soon, Phillippe and Isabelle are caught up in the machinations of House Silverspires, based around the ruins of Notre Dame. The once-grand House has also fallen on hard times. It used to be overseen by the very first of the fallen angels, Morningstar, who disappeared in mysterious circumstances. His apprentice Selene now rules in his place with the help of a mortal alchemist called Madeleine, who has her own shameful secret. Then the House comes under attack from strange, magical forces, which seem to be linked to Morningstar's disappearance...

This rich, imaginative novel was first published in 2015 and winner of that year's British Science Fiction Association award. It's a gothic fantasy set in a beautifully realised nightmare alternative Paris, the Seine running black with ashes. This Paris is, in turn, set within a world of which we only get tantalising hints but promises more adventure to come. The back cover of my paperback edition describes the book as,

"A superb murder mystery, on an epic scale set against the fall out of a war in Heaven."

Yes, there's big stuff going on here, but it's an intimate story, largely told through people's thoughts as they endeavour to navigate multiple webs. The story is relatively slow moving, I thought, allowing us time to explore the details and get to know the characters. A lot of it hinges on the circumspection of people deprived of their agency. Various characters are or have been tortured prisoners. The fallen arrive on Earth with no memory of why they were banished from Heaven. One character is a kind of drug addict. People are bound by allegiances and contracts.

I've seen fallen angels tackled elsewhere, often in gothy / fantasy stuff inspired by Milton's Paradise Lost, but this feels very different. The elements of magical war in a period setting reminded me a little of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke, but we're dealing here with the aftermath of a war. There's something, I think, of Peake's Gormenghast in the House steeped in history and magic and eccentric characters. But more than anything, I was struck by how much this doesn't feel like a world I've visited before. 

At the end, some compelling mysteries remain - about secrets as yet unrevealed, about the rules of this fantasy world - and we are left on tenterhooks about at least one relationship. My paperback edition includes a short story, "The House, in Winter", set in the same world, and two more novels in the series have been published. 

The Time Team Unearthed - The Art of Adrian Salmon

I've had some late nights reading / poring over this beautiful new book collating the artwork that Adrian Salmon produced over more than 20 years for the "Time Team" feature that used to run in Doctor Who Magazine. The brief was simple: produce a single, sizzling image based on the TV episodes under discussion that particular issue. But original editor Gary Gillatt wanted Ade to use dramatic licence, to show us the things that aren't seen on screen but should be.

The result was that Ade produced a captivating image for almost ever TV Doctor Who story of the 20th century. For this book, he's gone back and filled in the gaps - and added a few extras.

The result is gorgeous, and gorgeously packaged, providing a thrilling, vivid, fast-moving history of last millennia's Doctor Who all from one artist's perspective. It is fascinating to see Ade's style develop, and the commentary explains how this was in part down to changing the tools he used (he names the specific makes of pens) and in part due to influences of other artists and an effort not to get bored.

There are loads of details I'd not noticed before - the Sandbeast in his image of The Rescue, the way the artwork for Resurrection of the Daleks mirrors what he did for Earthshock, or the tiny Doctors visible in what he did for The Power of Kroll and Time Flight. The new material is great, too, my favourite probably The Myth Makers with another tiny Doctor. But also, cor, The Evil of the Daleks. And also, woo, The Massacre... 

I'm delighted, too, that the book contains so many sketches, drafts and alternate takes. As the commentary says, some of this material has been a job to track down, and Ade has helped restore some artwork by hand painting new colours. The effort is well worth it. Kudos, too, to editor William Brooks for pulling the whole thing together.

Some of the stuff contained here is from the same period when I employed Ade for cover artwork for the Bernice Summerfield range of audio plays and books - I could tell exactly when just by looking at the style of art. In those days, it was a thrill to receive by email his thumbnail pencil sketches and discuss with him which of two or three options worked best for a particular new title. I've always been particularly, er, drawn, to his pencil sketches - and have failed more than once to convince my masters to employ him to illustrate a novel or novelisation just in pencils. One day...

But while we discussed the various options for any given cover, I don't think we ever talked about Ade's approach to his art, or how he put it together. So this book has been a revelation. How illuminating to learn his approach to colour, and what makes an image pop. The art of the art, as it were.

As Ade says, there's more of his artwork out there, as the "Time Team" was born anew to look at 21st century episodes. He also produced a wealth of other Doctor Who related artwork - I remember the unused cover he did for Short Trips: Zodiac in 2002 (not least because that book included my fiction debut). So I hope there's a second volume.

(A collected Cybermen strips next with new instalments, please and thank you.)

The Case of the Missing Masterpiece, by Terrance Dicks

This is the first of 10 novels to feature the “Baker Street Irregulars” — not the street gang who assisted Sherlock Holmes in The Sign of the Four but four modern-day schoolchildren (and their dog) who solve mysteries by applying the methods of the (to them fictional) Holmes.  

Published in hardback in May 1978 and later reprinted in numerous editions, The Case of the Missing Masterpiece was the first original novel by Terrance Dicks since the last of the Mounties trilogy, War Drums of the Blackfoot, two years previously. The Mounties series had been conceived and commissioned by Richard Henwood at Target Books; when he moved to Blackie & Sons as group publishing director, he invited Terrance to Glasgow to meet with his team and come up with a new line of adventures.

The result was originally called “Robinson’s Irregulars”, as per the title page of the surviving manuscript in Terrance’s archive. By the time of publication, that had been changed to make the link to Sherlock Holmes more explicit.

In the book as published, the gang is referred to, once, as “Robinson’s Irregulars”, as well as “The Magnificent 3½” and “The Frightful Four” (p. 21), which may mean those were other working titles, too. One is clearly a reference to The Magnificent Seven (1960), Terrance a big fan of westerns; the other is clearly a reference to Enid Blyton’s The Famous Five, which is also a range of adventures involving four children and a dog. That gives us a sense of what Terrance was stirring into the mix: a mash-up of Holmes, westerns and Blyton.

The book begins with a prologue in which two villains we can’t see because of their stocking masks — but who in stature resemble Laurel and Hardy — steal a painting from a posh house, and brutally cosh the man who tries to stop them. They bind and gag the poor man but, notably, the Laurel-like burglar then goes back to remove the gag so the man doesn’t choke. It’s an intriguing bit of kindness.

The story proper then begins in what Terrance calls an ordinary London school, as if that’s something to which all readers will relate. It’s not a very racially mixed London school judging by the names and descriptions — something Terrance would be better on in his later books. But I love the description of the chaos of the school yard, the kids,

“all fizzing like shaken-up Coke bottles” (p. 11).

Amid this, Dan Robinson sits quietly reading The Hound of the Baskervilles. Tall, skinny, bookish and a loner, Dan is rather modelled on Terrance as a schoolboy. When the book is taken from him by a bully and ruined, Dan immediately fights back — and calls the bully a “moron” and “stupid cretinous spastic stinking twit” (p. 14). Later, Dan also pulls at his eyelids to affect being Japanese (p. 79). This is our hero!

When the fight is stopped by a teacher (“Potty Benton”), the bully challenges Dan to a wager: he can have a new copy of the tattered Hound of the Baskervilles if he can solve the real-life case of the stolen painting, in the week that they’re off school. Dan accepts.

He’s joined in his task by three friends. Best mate Jeff Webster is a stocky, sensible boy. Liz Spencer, we later learn, works on the school paper and is the daughter of a journalist. To begin with, we are told that,

“Liz was a keen supporter of Women’s Lib. She was a tough, wiry girl, who had dealt out many a thick ear as a practical demonstration of her principles.” (p. 17)

From this, I suspect Liz was named after Lis Sladen, who’d played plucky journalist and women’s libber Sarah Jane Smith in Doctor Who, a character Terrance helped to create. Finally, there’s Mickey Denning, younger than the others, dead keen to help and liable to get into trouble. When he goes to spy on the villains later on, he is quickly caught — fulfilling the kind of plot function of Jo Grant in Terror of the Autons.

The four friends start by visiting the house from which the painting was stolen — which is open to the public. As luck would have it, the eccentric Sir Jasper, who owns the place, is also an aficionado of Holmes and gamely recreates the burglary and his being coshed on the head for the benefit of the children. He also shares with them the words of a rude song involving his own name, “Oh Sir Jasper, Do Not Touch Me!”, which isn’t exactly suitable for children. Today, they’d be on to the police about him.

Then Terrance does something brilliant: on the basis of their conversation with Sir Jasper, Dan tells the others what is going on, as a cliffhanger. We have to read the next chapter to discover — always the best bit in a Holmes story — how he’s put this together from a series of logical deductions.

This is swiftly followed by another great moment, when Dan declares that instead of acting like characters in a mystery story, they’ll go straight to the police. Again, the details of routine police work seems a bit odd for a children’s story — we’re told it consists of dealing with flashers, knicker nicking and dog mess (p. 45). But then there’s another great twist: Mickey goes off on assignment to investigate a clue, and spies two men who turn out to be brothers. That doesn’t mean anything to him but it does to us, as readers, because we’ve already heard that the Hardy-like villain from the prologue is working in league with his brother.

Things move swiftly. At one point, Dan and Jeff are trapped on the roof of the villains’ headquarters, the villains climbing up to get them. Then, the villains get hold of Dan’s address and lay siege one evening when he’s home alone. It’s all brilliantly tense — and the solution is ingenious, even if the police arrive very quickly. Still, it seems nuts that the police then leave Dan in the house alone for the rest of the night, assuming the villains won’t return. Also, why don’t the police insist on speaking to Dan’s parents, who would surely come home when they heard what had happened?

Next morning, the nice detective Dan has met, Inspector Day, gives the boy a stern talking to.

“It’s not like in books. It isn’t suspecting, it isn’t even knowing whodunnit that counts. It’s proving it.” (p. 110)

He advises Dan and his friends to give up the case and lie low. Of course, they do no such thing and — by somehow identifying a splash of mud on the side of a van briefly glimpsed as it sped past — they head by train to the Essex marshes for a final showdown.

This is clearly based on the real-life village of Althorne, the battered old houseboat that the villains use as a hideout just like the one where Terrance and his family had regular holidays. Terrance may well have written this section of the book there, his own children fizzing like Coke bottles around him. (I think the nature reserve as described in Doctor Who and the Three Doctors is the same spot.)

There’s other stuff of this sort: Dan’s room at the top of his old, terraced house, complete with office and sloping ceilings, is very much like the top floor of Terrance’s house in London, including the office where he worked. Mickey’s large Cockney family is very much like Terrance’s family, on his mother’s side. 

By peppering the book with such real details and observations, the more outlandish bits of adventure are kept grounded. It’s obviously a much more relatable story than the Mounties novels, and more real than Doctor Who. It is of its time but a cracking adventure, and leaves us wanting more. 

Art by John Bolton

The back cover promises two further titles: The Fagin Foundation and The Blackmail Boys, which were published in November 1978 and sometime in 1979, the suggestion being that, like the Mounties, this was commissioned as a trilogy. 

But the idea for the Mounties came from Richard Henwood. I think this is something different; it’s very much Terrance’s book: what he wanted to write, rather than what people wanted from him, for the first time since he became a novelist.

For more, see my list of the 236 books written by Terrance Dicks, with links to posts on them. You might also like my 2015 article “My Immortal Holmes” for the Lancet Psychiatry on the appeal of Sherlock.