Make the most of it

Watched the second part of Root of all Evil? last night. The Doctor arrived just in time for the chimps, and quickly ran away again.

There's an unbearable smugness about evangelical atheists, which I'm conscious of if myself. And I know Dawkins is constantly criticised for the same.

It's difficult, then, to know whether his programme impressed me for preaching to the choir. It seemed, quite fairly, to argue against "demonstrable falsehoods" and how they muddy our lives. There was good evidence of the downright pessimism of religion - that we can only behave ourselves if we live in fear of God.

While there was much made of the gays and abortionists going to Hell, it's not Jesus who talked of damnation. No, Hel was a Viking (thus pagan) god, part of their brutal, pillaging "morality".

The punishment of the wicked by some authoritarian power speaks of huge inadequacy - the equivalent of an child wailing, "I'm telling mum". We should do what's right because we should do what's right, not because some invisible Bogey Man will get us in the end.

The Dr points out that of course many Christians refute the idea of Hell. And, answering her criticism of the first episode, Dawkins did interview a moderate. While Dawkins found the Bishop of Oxford's arguments for tolerance and calm were "music to my ears", he then refuted the man for fence-sitting, for picking and choosing which bits of the Good Book to hold dear.

The need for the Bible to be literally true also speaks of inadequacy. Jesus taught by telling stories, so there's no reason at all the good book can't still hold moral worth while not being right about dinosaurs.

I always thought Jesus was a far more impressive figure without the God stuff. As the perfect son of an omniscient God, part of a divine trinity and blessed with special powers, he's amazing. But because he's got special powers, what he does isn't special.

As just a bloke who stood up to authority and said, "You could be nicer..." he's incredible. And imitable. He was the bastard son of a lowly carpenter, and look what he achieved... I note Dawkins quickly glossed over the not-easy-to-argue-with teaching of Jesus in favour of a pop at St Paul.

At the end, Dawkins was good on dealing with the real world and not seeing it as a test-run for the real thing. There's sheer wonder in what we do know - the hugeness of statistical probability against our very existence, the vastness of the universe, the complexity in the detail.

Yet, he's also keen to admit what we don't know, what we can't prove, what we haven't worked out yet. Which contrasts with the "easy truths" of religion: again that resolute need for certainty speaks of inadequacy. Like people who can't admit when they're lost.

And I couldn't help feeling that by exploring the world as it's given to us, striving never to bear false witness, to pursue truth and morality whatever the received wisdom from the leaders of church and state... Well, Dawkins is probably doing God proud.

Terms of endearment

Started a new freelance gig today, which involves much cutting a pasting.

Also discovered the wonderous term meat crime.

How swarming

After lunch with the folks, mosied back to London in time for the Dr’s housewarming. Yes, technically I live here too, but she did all the work, remembered to invite people, that kind of thing. And deserves all the credit.

Lots of booze and food, and saw some people I’d not seen in ages. Broke the pad in by dousing it in red wine.

Also did pretty well on reading. Have copies of Parallel Lives and Something Changed, which are just smashing – and the dedication went down well.

Clements very kindly provided a copy of his Vikings book, which is already proving immensely enjoyable, and full of top facts about the weather, migration and the various forms of Finn.

He also delighted the hostess by knowing her as “the Dr” from off this ‘ere blog. Ah, the infamy.

Speaking of fame, we have also been immortalised in the latest issue of Mr Bean magazine, which its editor handed over. The Dr is spot on – though she does seem to be stood in a caravan. And I am a brave knight, which was somewhat unkindly remarked on by ladies.

The brother also gave me the new Viz Profanisauraus – updating my treasured old paperback. It is quite, quite the most wonderful thing. Quinnion’s review is spot on.

Also chatted shop, and may have some writing things to announce sometime soon. But nothing like as exciting as J’s news, which warranted my changing from beer to fine wines. Ouch. But well the hell done him.

Tided the place up today, and then watched Life on Mars from last week, which was fun. Loved them jumping over the desk, and the general wheeze of mixing modern coppery with the elan of the Sweeney. Also, in his 70s clobber John Simm looks like Martin Freeman.

Then the Root of all Evil?, which was brilliant. We were both much impressed by Dawkins’s patience and care, especially in the face of two rabidly hostile nuts. The Dr felt, though, that he should have spoken to some more liberal godsquaddies.

More on this after part two, and when I’ve had some think. But we had A Discussion about, from my side, the obviously godless universe, with our actions, ethics and kindnesses the only things to mitigate the otherwise vicious awfulness of existence. If we face the bleak truth of our situation, we can make life better…

And then, thinking I’d type something about that up, heard the shitty news from Sin.

Just shit. Only met his mum a couple of times, but the news over the last months has been more and more awful. There simply aren’t words.

Uncooperative

Am down to see the folks as my Grandpa is 92 today. Happy birthday him.

Fun in the pub with some old friends last night, who'd I not seen since their wedding a year ago. Quite a lot of stupid natter, then a visit to the kebab shoppe of olde and lary booze-rant with the Dr about Dennis Potter and abuse. As one does.

This morning I plodded through the rain to buy the Dr her lefty propaganda, to discover the place round the corner has been half-closed. The Coop twice as far down the road has bought it out and shut all but the Post Office bit of it. Apparently the locals were in uproar.

Too right. This was the shop where I used to buy my comics and sweets. And the Coop, despite being a good place to stand outside when I was 15, never gave me a job. Rah.

Centering

Another first for the blog: a post about tags and my own woefully dirty code.

Posting the book covers yesterday, was a bit confused that the <CENTER> tag didn’t want to play. Was this Blogger being screwy, I wondered, and went for a <P ALIGN> instead. So sly.

Now I’ve had HTML4 explained, it all makes some kind of sense. Blimey, <FONT>’s about the only bit of this ‘ere hippo-tetchy muck-up lingo I understand. And <IMG SRC...> is out in favour of this OBJECT business… Hell.

Wonder how many classicists feel like this after they’ve gone and bothered to learn Latin? Will have to buckle down and learn CSS. Or read Jason’s book.

And I wish someone had explained TAT to me ages ago (hover over the acronym to see what I mean). Would have saved a lot of effort in the last 12 months on something I been working on.

Work proceeds: The School has been delivered, and I've had notes back on the thing I sent in on Tuesday which is yet to be announced. Got some rewrites to do, but it all makes sense.

Finished scribbling about 9 last night, and the Dr fed me and took me to the local pub, where the locals (one in a very fetching brown tracksuit) mocked me for being a scouser. Think I can cope after Saturday.

And on an unrelated matter, thought this the right thing to mark the best mate’s 30th today – though he is deep within jungle and so radio silent. He doesn’t sleep, he waits.

Benny books

Blimey, they're here! My first efforts as Benny's story editor are now on release.

Both have come out together, though the strict reading order is Parallel Lives first. You can read my open chapters, the blurbs and contributor details at the Big Finish site (or click on the lovely pix below).

Adrian Salmon has once more created wonders from my hasty and vague briefs:

Death sucks, doesn’t it?

Am now 8 eps into Lost series 2, which has really come on in spades. Splitting characters up into groups, so there’s been three “stories” running at once, has helped. There’s been revelation ‘pon revelation, and buckets of Good Plot Stuff.

Appreciate that some people don’t dig it – looking at you, Liadnan – but I’ve found it hugely compelling. Partly, that is just the need to know what happens next, which is also largely the appeal of the uberplotty 24. But the characters also work, playing off nicely against each other. Rose’s simple belief that her husband survived the crash has been really nicely delivered. And the more we learn from people’s flashbacks, the more there’s still to know.

I worried last year that it wasn’t gonna go anywhere and didn’t take due risks, but that’s certainly not how it feels now.

A few bits of thought (with MAJOR SPOILERS UP TO AND INCLUDING2.8):

SPOILERS ARE COMING

SPOILERS ARE COMING

The polar bear seems to have come from Walt’s comic, and possibly his imaginings. Certainly, there’s a psychic element to this – Locke’s miracle recovery, Jack’s vision of his dad leading him to the cave, those ever elusive numbers…

So is the huge reactor (if that’s what it is) powering some psychic experiment gone wrong? Something that’s been going on since the 70s – which is where it all seems to originate with the science project and the Peace Corps? Some big project to enhance people’s potential, perhaps?

Goodwin said they took “good people”, which is why they’ve been taking the kids. So those left are “bad”. Or at least, have backstories to resolve.

I wonder if this is a kind of purgatory then, where they’re all working out their shit. Boone died once he’d sorted out his issues with his sister. Shannon died once she had someone believe in her. Maybe death’s the way off the island, and it’s otherwise all in their heads.

But what about the bloke that got dynamited? And why aren’t nice people like Rose and Bernard in trouble? Or, now that they’ve been reunited, are they?

And what the hell was the scary black smoke? Ghosties? Returning consciousness, threatening to break them all out of this? Some cheap CGI?

Hoping it’s not all some big virtual reality wossname. Am avoiding looking at message boards ‘cos I’m so enjoying puzzling it out for myself.

SPOILERS HAVE BEEN

SPOILERS HAVE BEEN

SPOILERS HAVE BEEN

Bellboy!

G. kindly leant The Originals, written and drawn by Dave Gibbons (of Watchmen and DWM1 fame). His unique, chunky style is like an old friend, but I don’t think I’ve ever read something he’s wrote before.

It’s a competent and well-drawn story, effectively mods and rockers fighting over each others’ space-bikes. The juxtaposition works well, sci-fi props (the hover bikes, the far-out designer drugs) playing off a firm grounding in nostalgia (the mods, the suburban setting and, I guess, teen-angst and Gibbons’s own art-style). It’s got the requisite sex and violence for a “grown-up” comic, and it rumbles along quiet nicely.

But it didn’t feel very original. It’s Quadrophenia with space-bikes – the space-bikes not quite enough a twist.

Never really understood the appeal of Quadrophenia, anyway. Yes, Phil Daniels delivers a brilliant angry young man. But one desperately needing a slap. Never bought the “truth” of his horror when he finds that his idol (a peacock played, ably, by Sting) has a day-job.

Yeah, it’s got the anger of teenagerdom right, but even in my teens it rang hollow. Another stroppy, sulky kid who thinks he’s owed something for nothing. Just not… compelled by the betrayal of Sting “selling out” as a hotel porter, kow-towing to The Man. Nor am I bovvered by Phil’s subsequent choice (AIUI) to live free or die.

Not very groovy of me, I know. But then the real revelation of the film is that actually

* NO ONE IS COOL! *

(Was a hotel porter myself for a summer, when I was 17. Remember the amazement of mates – the ones who had money without working – at my knackeredness. “Couldn’t you do something else?” asked one. And as soon as I could, I did.)

Likewise, the bullying, vicious and manipulative thug at the heart of the Originals never won me over. As another character says at the end (who I’ll not name for spoilers), the bugger should just bloody grow up.

Of far more appeal is Fin Fang Four, leant by E. I’ve loved Scott Gray and Roger Langridge’s stuff (again in DWM), and it’s good to see them getting gigs with the yanks.

It’s a one-off story with a neat central wheeze – some rubbish monsters long since thrashed by the Fantastic 4 are released to work in the community. The monstrous Googam! son of Goom! parks cars for celebrities, while terrifying Elektro (with a brain of 32K) runs errands round an office, trying to summon enough courage to ask out the receptionist.

The gags come thick and fast throughout, and the thing zips along, building to a satisfying end. It might also win because it’s about these four rubbish blokes trying to make things right. Redemption’s more fun than fighting.

Inevitably there are websites discussing whether this silly take on such corny old monsters can possibly be canon. Pah. Besides “canon” being a silly idea anyhow, yes it should. Be a shame not to embrace stuff this good.

1 - Well, DWW, if you want to split hairs. He’s the bloke as drew the transfers free with issue 1, which I’ve always thought is a pretty marvellous thing to have on your CV. Transfers are cool.

Time works

Lots of writing done today: a thank you letter, a note for the ex-pats, a final draft of a feature that’s now gone for approval, and the third episode of The School. I also nipped down the hill to take apart a bed.

So don’t think you’re getting an original post tonight. Sod that.

Instead, here’s something written on 16 May 2005 for a mailing list (which I sent to a couple of other people too). Father’s Day had been on two days before.

People were arguing that the time-stuff didn’t make sense. I’d delivered Time Travellers two weeks before, and so had this kind of stuff in my blood.

(Since learnt that Father’s Day did have lots of explanation in it originally, but it all got cut to move the thing along. And all the better for it.)

Father’s Day timeline

How I thought it went (but what do I know?):

Rose watches her dad die but mucks up holding his hand, so asks for another go.

The Doctor says okay, but warns her that they should stay back from their earlier selves, because meeting other selves is bad. (Cf. Mawdryn Undead).

Rose, however, runs forward and changes history: not just the history of her dad dying, but also of her earlier self standing by and watching passively. The first time round, she didn't see herself run in front of her, and she saw her dad die.

So she's over-written that past version, so the past pastDoctor and pastRose wink out of existence.

That change (both the Doctor winking out of existence and Pete staying alive) create a hole in time. Normally, this would ring a bell on a desk of some poor civil servant on Gallifrey, who'd then despatch someone to sort out Time Being Sodded Up.

(Or, at least, having seen that it was the Bloody Doctor Again, to fill in the usual form).

But there's no Gallifrey, so Other Things come along instead, things attracted to Kooky Time Shit. These may be related to Chronovores, or they may be some other kind of time monster altogether. They feed on history, so they eat people who are older - thus the groom's dad and the vicar over anyone else.

And Mickey gets to live because he's younger than anyone else. (Though, er, his mates being eaten before his mum rather gets in the way of that theory.)

Anyway. The monsters are eating people, changing history with every bite. Which makes time go haywire - so the radio picks up music from Rose's own time, while the mobiles pick up Alexander Bell. The monsters eat more people and time somersaults over itself.

The TARDIS, which (as I'm sure we all know) exists outside of time and space but with an outer-plasmic shell (the police box) that creates a portal to a specific place, loses it's link (so the shell is just a shell, not a shortcut through to the console room).

And it all gets a lot worse, and the monsters get stronger, when Rose again, er, touches herself. If you see what I mean.

You've then got the Killer Car that's chasing Pete. I'll get to why it's following him in a sec, but when Pete throws himself in front of it, everything works out. Why?

Because if he's died - as he was meant to - not only does he cancel out the Things-Are-Wrong-Because-He's-Alive glitch, he also cancels out the Multiple Doctors and Roses. If he's died in front of the church, Rose would never have been taken back to see him die on that other street, and therefore it never happens and blah.

So the car is following Pete, I'd argue, because time is stretched to breaking point. It's like pressure on a vacuum. And the car hitting Pete is the easiest outlet for all the pressure on time to escape to.

QED.

Well, it makes sense to me anyway.

A bit more lost

"This turns out to be one of Benny's darkest and most realistic adventures. There are some lighter moments, including a genuinely funny rooftop chase...

Although well-scripted and tense, The Lost Museum doesn't quite have enough characters or story to sustain itself for 50 minutes. [...] Both [Enil and Markwood] are eventually revealed to be more complex and interesting than they first appear, but it's too little development too late. This is a great - albeit uncomfortable - play."

Vanessa Bishop, "Off the shelf", Dr Who Magazine 365, 1 February 2006, p. 63.

All fair criticism, and I've thought a bit about what could have been added. A visit to Markwood's estranged family could have been good, and Enil could have run off to rally her troops after the revelation about her, which would make her seem more antagonistic...

Well, it's too late now.

Been reading some forthcoming Benny stuff this week, which is really very exciting. Should be some updates on the Big Finish site shortly, too.

The pledge

So, Charlie.

Will is likely to be far more insightful on this – and already links to some interesting stuff.

I like, though, the idea that grog means Charlie isn’t fit to lead a political party, let alone bid for the premiership.

“[Pitt the Younger]’s final years were difficult. His health faltered, no doubt partly owing to excessive drink (he had been told after an early illness to drink plenty of port wine, which he surely did).”

Bartom Swaim, “Young man eloquent”.

Indeed, it’s likely the booze killed him. The last line from Marjie Bloy’s biography:

“He drank heavily and probably died of renal failure and cirrhosis of the liver at the age of forty-six.”

I believe, though can't verify, that on his deathbed his doctor prescribed "just a pint of port per day". And in the days that port was a bit cruder and bolshier than now.

And what about Winston?

“Churchill's drinking was perennially overblown, thanks largely to Churchill, who revelled in his alleged capacity. ‘He was not an alcoholic,’ quipped one waggish observer, ‘no alcoholic could drink that much.’ Another suggested WSC was perhaps ‘alcohol-dependent.’ Whether or not, Churchill once abstained from hard liquor for a year to win a bet with Beaverbrook, so it is difficult to judge exactly what he depended on.”

Michael McMenamin, "Winston's Whisky" – The Churchill Centre.

This is not to suggest that a premier should be boozed up and rioting, nor that times haven’t changed. But Charlie does seem to be dealing with the problem. And the cack-handed way his party have mismanaged all this suggest the words brewery and piss-up…

Appropriately enough, having seen the news I wandered to pub, though it was too cold and me too tired to stay long. Said hello to a few people. K. is delighted I killed her, G. has leant me The Originals, and I now know a wordcount for something. Am currently 1,000 words over.

Monster Maker and Unloveable discussed blogging, both busy diarising the past. I promised reciprocal links and details of SiteMeter. So they’d better be reading.

Richard Dinnick told me what he’s got Sapphire and Steel up to, which sounds fab. We’ve both got a week now to get our scripts in. Eek. And S. was so delighted to remember Richard’s name, he even did a little dance.

And then home, where the heating now works – much to the cat’s delight. Fell asleep, toasty, watching Baker Street Babylon. Courtesy, it seems, of a fellow story editor…

Hot shower this morning. Mmmm.

And Christmas is over. On the way into town this morning I saw my first ad for Cadburys cream eggs.

Churchillian KBO

Seems every time we edge towards solving a problem, we only expose several more.

Imagine our surprise yesterday on taking down the old not-working boiler to discover a great big hole in the wall. A pretty big, ragged hole, too. Certainly big enough for the cat to have leapt through quite easily, had he been so minded.

The narrow exhaust pipe (is that what it’s called?) from the old boiler had not so much been secured in this as just sat in it. You could have fitted at least half a dozen pipes of that size into the breach.

Thus a hasty trip to the builders for cement. Which hadn’t sufficiently dried last night for drilling into, so installation delayed and we’re still without hot water. Maybe by end of today... but I'm learnt now not to hope.

Drilling also dislodged lots of plaster – which has been put on without preparation or PVA. In some cases round the flat, the plaster’s just been slapped on to raw brick. So that’s something else that needs sorting.

But the clingfilm on the windows really does seem to keep some heat in. And the Nice Man is checking our brand new washing machine today, to see if it’s the cause of the water dribbling from our bathroom ceiling.

(Realise I should probably have a diagram now. Kitchen – with washing machine – on top floor; bathroom directly below. Yes, funky and odd conversion.)

B. generously offered hot water and tea. Had said we’d do lunch but, due to hole and work and whatnot, got there about 6. Oops. Glorious, glorious bath, and afterwards I felt so warm (warm!) I could have never gone home.

Manfully plodded back to the igloo in time for the shopping delivery. The driver was also having a bad day. The light had gone out in the back of his van, so he couldn’t see whose shopping was whose. Had to unload bag by bag, checking the name and address via streetlight.

Work continues apace. It has to, what with all the renovations to be paid for. And a tax bill which is twice what I'd expected 'cos they want some of nexy year's dosh in advance. Joy.

Officially confirmed a job title – I am “story editor” of Bernice. Oh, and you can also buy Benny knick-knacks. My own personal faves are the bib and the tea towel.

Also delighted by something very clever from Very Clever Lee. In which he cameos, in fact. But you’ll have to wait to join the rejoicing. Should get announced sometime soon, and I'm sure many of you can guess anyway. Lee's blog is fun, too.

Slowly getting towards the end of the unannounced writing thing. Got the last of my interviews done yesterday, and also some guidance on what not to reveal. So, er, I can’t explain any of this. Give it a year, though, and it’ll all make perfect sense. Promise.

All interviewees get to check what I’ve written, to which some have expressed surprise. But, I explained yesterday, I’d rather make this small bit of effort at this stage than get things wrong. Responsible journo-hack, me. It's not exactly difficult to check details.

Hadn’t, at that point, heard the news. Christ.

Great not good

Very much enjoying the book about a spy in Central Asia, as recommended to me last month – which is all the boy’s own stuff you could hope for. Though I question the “master of disguise” bit, as Bailey keeps being spotted by anyone who looks at him.

“I had learnt that, in the eyes of the type of man in the employ of the Bolsheviks, the House of Commons was an assembly of riff-raff who were almost Bolsheviks themselves; the name itself lends colour to this idea. The House of Lords, on the other hand, was a kind of counter-revolutionary White Guard; the two coming to some sort of compromise over the government of the country! They badly wanted the good opinion of the House of Commons.”

FM Bailey, Mission to Tashkent, p. 75.

The introduction by Peter Hopkirk refers to Bailey being a “Great Game player to his very fingertips”. Really uncomfortable about referring to the period as a great game, (also the name of Hopkirk’s own book).

The body count is alarming – whole towns decimated by the Bolsheviks, prisoners shot while awaiting trial (sometimes by drunk soldiers, sometimes just to forgo the trials). All round Bailey there are people being questioned, arrested and shot. “Great” here just means “bloody awful”.

Like, I guess, in the “Great War”.

Bobbies on the beat

The play last night began with some New Labour newspeak about freedom being the price we pay for our liberty. Which reminded me of this, gleaned from one of the Doctor’s learned periodicals, and which I’d meant to post before.

"17 October. No newspaper that I’ve seen discusses the police in institutional terms or sees them as subject to the same compulsions as govern other large corporate organisations. […]

Ninety days’ detention suits the police not so much because thereby more evidence is forthcoming and with it an increased likelihood of convictions but because it will result in them having more power: more staff, more premises, more funds. This has nothing to do with justice, civil liberty or the preservation of order and the prevention of terrorism. It is the law of institutions. Like Tesco, the police must grow."

Alan Bennett, Diary,
London Review of Books vol. 28, no.1
(5 January 2006), p. 39.

Will link to the LRB when my broadband isn't all up the spout. Or maybe it's my PC that's all screwy.

Spent all day in with the plumber cleaning the gak from inside our boiler and radiators, and am generally in despair at things made. Ng.

I said you’d better not have it when the big one comes

Been writing about schools and odd things that happen in them these last few days.

A formative thing: a parents’ evening at my sixth form, where I got to go along to get told what to do with my A-levels. Were I to get any. ‘I remember his brother,’ said the teachers one after another. ‘What’s he doing these days?’

And then one teacher beamed and said ‘Simon’s essays are a pleasure to read. Marking, I always save his and another boy’s till last.’

I sat there beaming and blinking, trying to remember if I’d ever made anyone enthuse before. ‘You see,’ said the teacher, ‘they’re not always any good, but they are usually different.’

That nice thing decided me on doing English rather than history. And it’s meant conscious effort for things written to be a bit… well, differenty. Twistish. More often than not, silly.

Not that this is necessarily what gets achieved, but that there’s intent at this end not to be dull. (Typing this now, Martin Amis’s War Against Cliché springs to mind. Not that I’ve read it, but I do like the title).

Which all sparked thoughts tonight, watching the History Boys at the National – a Christmas present from the cat, in lieu of in-binning his sick and his poos.

Without spoilering the very enjoyable play (nor the forthcoming film version), there’s a lot said about flashy writing, of taking a contrary point of view just to be noticed. And then rooting around for soundbites of quote to bolster this pre-formed j’accuse.

Think I get away with it inventing stories not history. And I agree with the distrust of people who speak reverently of “words”.

Less convinced that applying “history” to, say, the Holocaust – trying to understand how it came about – somehow makes it less awful. That attempting to answer why? softens the thing being examined.

Even leafed through Richard Dawkins’s A Devil’s Chaplain, looking for a quote about how doctors learning about cancer don’t like cancer any more for understanding it. Couldn’t find one. Bah.

Think the play would also have been less… glib about government, been more insightful of politics, if we’d had more about why the headmaster is so keen for better results and more places at Oxbridge. The education of the history boys is itself the product of history, of choices, of dictats from on-high.

And troubled that education might be played as pass-the-parcel, a hot potato handed on like Wilde’s good advice. Until what? Surely not until it’s found vulgar use. Seems nostalgic for a pre-curricular age, when teachers could fritter the years away wittering. Indulgently. About themselves.

Like bloggers.

Merry new year

Saw in twenty-oh-six at a fun party in Lancaster – where get quite a mansion, just for not living in London.

As well as enjoying Andrew Marr in a kilt, we discussed nearly every topic there is. Somewhat railed into the small hours against Serge Gainsbourg, and his inexplicable appeal to the ladies.

I mean, his most famously erotic song is all about slipping in and out between his intended’s kidneys – a vivid and intimate image, but not a very nice one. He’s also done jolly pop-nonsense about the antics of that amusing cad, Jack.

Therefore “translated” some of the other tunes warbling from the music machine. A serenade for Ian Brady, for example. And Dr Crippen despairing how, when getting shot of a girl he fancies, she’s only goes and clogs the plughole.

Made the ladies laugh, anyway. Though not as much as with my Serge-is-a-tit “dancing”.

Strangely, have felt a bit rough all day, even in swanky first-class with it’s complimentary flap-jacks. Stinking of beer ‘cos I’d run out of clothes, and all.

New year’s resolution #1: drink a bit less sometimes

Return of the train

I love North by Northwest, and I especially love the train journey between New York and Chicago, when Eva Marie Saint explains to Cary Grant that she'll share her carriage with him (yes, a euphemism), though they've only just met.

Honeymooning last year, the Dr and I did the same journey in reverse, and paid out a shed-load for the "luxury" room. A proper, romantic trip, we thought. And maybe the Dr could foist filth on me, just like the bird in the film.

But trains are not what they were. Our compartment was tiny - I barely fitted in it - and the toilet was also the shower. Other passengers' rooms were, er, a chair with curtains either side. Service was lowsy and rude, and we slowly realised that the only people who travelled by train were freaks.

(That is, in the American sense of "people without cars", or unwilling to fly.)

The view out the window was quite good, though. Odd thing to be in the middle of a swamp, dip into a tunnel and then emerge in the midst of Manhattan.

Anyway. Virgin has been advertising "the return of the train", with Cary and Eva Marie CGId into one of their swanky new carriages. "Yes, bollocks," I'd thought.

Then yesterday, me and the Dr took one of these new trains up north (for visiting in-laws). There's not a lot of luggage room on them - like a plane, you can just fit a handbag and coat. So, what with all the Christmas/New Year travelling, people were laden down with baggage there wasn't room for and there were various strops and arguments going on while we waited to leave Euston.

One group were especially worried because their chum was running late, they couldn't reach him and still had hold of his ticket. The train was due to leave in a minute, and what were they going to do?

At which point a Virgin person appeared from nowhere. He offered to take the ticket to the customer services desk, where the chum could collect it and jump on the next train - all so easy and at no extra charge. Blimey, I thought. That's a bit good.

And then we set off, and the journey was very smooth, and guards came through every so often to make sure things were dandy, and took away litter and... well blimey, it's not what you expect, is it?

Didn't get any filth out of the mrs, though. Perhaps 'cos we'd not only just met.

Cold Bath builds character

My parents tell of the misery of bording school in the 50s, where days began with long runs followed by ice-cold baths. Apparently this built character.

So I am probably much better rounded after a day in Bath where the trains were freezing, as was the pub, the museum and the shops... and we spent a fair bit of time outside, too.

Arrived in time for lunch with two ex-pat friends, over to wave their new kid at its in-pat relations. Aardpig had his first cider in two years and it was merely a half-pint (for driving reasons).

When they'd buzzed off to do family things, the Dr and I tried the Museum of Costume. Had fun strapping her into the corsets to try. She liked the later versions best as they were longer. Didn't try the Jane Austen dressing up, but she did coo at Darcy's cast-off shirt.

Then we went and found her some new shoes. I am a good husband today.

Train journeys meant I've finished that bloody story (8,127 words) and sent it in. And written an episode of something.

Off to darkest north tomorrow, which may be even colder. Gah.

All-dancing Nazis

Never really been one for musicals – they tend to be low-budget, low-effort opera with all the emotional truth of soft porn. But I’ve seen two musicals in as many days.

Saw the Sound of Music yesterday, for the first time ever. Can see why the Dr got giggly. As well as being fun – a lot of the appeal in Maria’s clumsiness and silly faces – its last half-hour really lifts it up. Laughed at Liesl, who’s meant to be sixteen, and found it a bit odd that little Friedrich is Spider-Man while the suave Captain’s also a bald Klingon.

(Via which link I've learnt a new word: fanon. Christ.)

It could easily all have ended with the wedding and still been a memorable girlie movie. The Anschluss gives a jolly, frothy story some real depth. Rolfe is an interesting character, and I genuinely didn’t know which way it would go in his final confrontation with von Trapp. Would he shoot? Would he let them go? Would he flee with them? Blimey.

Today we ambled down to Beckenham to see The Producers. Knew I’d seen the original, but couldn’t remember how it all played out due to mixing it up in my head with Cabaret. Which, as the Dr pointed out, is not the same. She laughed and laughed, and it’s all good fun.

Though Captain Jack is scary in his blue contact lenses.

Did you miss me?

Christmas was pretty damn top. Silly, giddy mood on Christmas Eve having finally finished a draft of a story at 8,155 words. Needs some polishing, but the hard work’s done. Such a relief! And I now know what a Mim is.

Festive curry and then down the road to the pub with good chums. Surprised by how many were there, but had lots of good cheer and chatting. Rolled home a little on the drunkish side, though I’m sure no one noticed. The Dr was amazed to discover that Father Christmas had been and a stocking awaited. But she’s been rather good this year.

Excitable all yesterday, despite best efforts of hangover. Loot included the Dr Who annual (care of the cat) which is full of brilliant top facts, and all kinds of other suitable reading. Dr did pretty well, too.

Once all the smoked salmon had been ate we went for a gander round Crystal Palace park. Dr then set to the turkey, and I watched two hours of old Droo – in preparation for the next installment. Was practically bursting by 7pm, and by golly that was fantastic. Blood control was really rather chilling. And a new room in the TARDIS! And aliens being outed for all the world to see! And the new theme music! And and and!

Skilfully saw off the Graske before our chums B. and D. popped round. Huge, glorious roast dinner thanks to the Dr, then watched Christmas invaded again. Dr sloped off about one-ish, but we tough chaps stayed up to watch Big Lebowski and see of the wine. Got to bed about half four.

Best Christmas Day ever.