Have you met the French?

What a beautiful episode - though the Dr denies that the posh frocks and cleavage qualify it as costume porn.

(Afterwards, she got to watch Sense and Sensibility (for its healing qualities), and I teased her about the Alan Rickman thing. You know, where he runs down a corridor like someones pulling at a string tied to his... breeches.)

The Girl in the Fireplace reminded me, probably inevitably, of Casanova - the style, the pace, the sexual frission of court, and the unavoidable end of the party... Loved how scary and funny it was by turns, and every line part of the ultimate, clever resolution. It's nice the audience gets an answer that the Doctor misses out on. And yes, bananas are good.

Two things struck me watching it that then didn't happen.

1. This was the first time we've ever seen Dr Who drunk.
Actually, it turns out he's pretending. We already know the Doctor can handle his booze: the Twin Dilemma referred back to the fourth Doctor's drunken antics (though onscreen he was only drinking ginger ale), and we've seen him drink wine several times.

On the intoxicants front, he also started out as a smoker (he's landed in trouble when a caveman sees him lighting a pipe with "his fingers" (actually a match). And the Left-Handed Hummingbird (a book from the days when Dr Who really wasn't for children) has him take some magic drugs that will let him get to the baddie. We also know, though that what with his alien physiognomy, an aspirin could kill him. Which might explain why he's soft on the boozing.

2. He takes the long way round
For a minute, I thought he was really going to hang around for 3,000 years and catch up with Rose and Mickey the slow way. He's a Time Lord, he can do that. Again, the books had him stuck on Earth for a century waiting for his mates to turn up, and it's the sort of huge and mad idea New Show has made work so well (just like, "It's not 12 hours, it's 12 months... Sorry.")

These aren't criticisms - I just can't really think of anything else to say.

The Dr (my Dr) is out of plaster, but has her foot strapped up for at least a week, and could be on crutches for four. We dared to have lunch in Beckenham, just to get her out of the flat for a bit. That's worn her out for the day. Cheers for all the messages (and hello to everyone who's found this blog via the mail she sent round herself). Will keep yous posted.

Right, back to my Benny homework.

Proper doctors

"Ps please buy some ‘no more nails’ on the way home x"

Said M.’s txt yesterday afternoon. I was at work and there seemed to be no context, no sense and no relevance to it. M.’s message was a bit out of nowhere too. So I rang to let her know she’d sent someone else’s text to me, and generally just to holler “Hullo”.

“We’re still at the hospital,” says M. I explain I’ve not had whatever message she PS’d to, and why doesn’t she start at the beginning.

“Don’t laugh,” says M, “but the Dr has broken her foot.”

“What?”

“Well. She’s fractured a toe. Really don’t laugh. She was doing the hoovering and a Greek statue fell on her.”

The statue now looks even more authentic, which was why M. wanted the glue.

Ho hum. The hospital took down her title (as well as her name), and thereafter assumed she was medical. Poor girl had to explain that no, she’s only qualified in old bits of carved stone and how to manage them. Not sure they believed her.

She’s fine, but frustrated that she needs someone to run around after her. I had to cook the risotto for H. and P. – who came for dinner despite the injury, and helped with the medicinal wine.

The Dr has also had to miss the conference she was meant to be speaking at, and I won’t be out with boys this evening. Got plenty of work to do anyway.

Had her watch the first half of Dr Zhivago while I did the washing up, and she now needs me to flip the disc over for part two. And then tonight, Dr Who.

I asked Moffat on Thursday what to expect. “The Aztecs with fellatio,” he said. I’m assuming that was a joke. 

Isn't salacious...

...a great word? Things Stars Wars has taught me #87576.

(Delighted to discover they're releasing the original versions of the original Star Wars trilogy later this year, with Han shooting first and the Ewoks' better song.)

Anyway, am thinking of salacious in particular following Labour's shuffling about. It's something of a shock to realise just how few of the brass have escaped some kind of muck on 'em recently.

On Saturday, the Dr had tried to explain to an Italian how it's all a bit like the mid-nineties, when every other day some high-up Tory was discovered up to things that if not illegal were at least a bit unsavoury. The Italian bloke asked what our ministers had done and, when we told him, he laughed. Yes, it could be a lot worse.

Politicians - like police officers, teachers and doctors - are as fallible as any other human beings. Mistakes get made, and sometimes priorities are a bit odd. I'd rather they had lofty ideals they couldn't always meet than that they didn't aspire to anything for fear of hypocrisy.

Yet they're also meant to be exemplars for the rest of us rough-necks to look up to. I think if you want just to be treated like any other ordinary bloke then you shouldn't lord it over other people. Dump the chauffeur for a bus pass, that sort of thing. You can't have it both ways.

Will some late substitions really changes things for the Labourers? Any timely response the Government makes to anything is going to be called knee-jerk by someone. It's also easy to snipe at whoever's in charge, without making any effort to do better.

(Discussed something similar in the pub last night about critics of new Dr Who. Just you try making something nearly as good. That's not to say you shouldn't find fault, but it's not all you should be looking for, and something isn't wrong just cos you'd have done it differently.)

Which is a rather liberal (small l), hand-wringing way of saying that I'm not sure what good will come of any of this. The various ministerial scandals recently seem more about point-scoring than making things right. Yeah, the abominably smug cabinet got a bloody nose yesterday, and so have to have a re-think. And yet East London has doubled its number of BNP local councillors, and criminals from abroard will now be shipped home automatically, even if that's effectively a death sentence.

It salacious politics: making for a good story, but with little to be proud of.

I eagerly look forward to Millennium's analysis of this week's politics, having enjoyed his crossness at Prescott's snobbery. Think it would also do the Dr good to have someone to rail about governance to, someone who knows more about the subject than just what ex-Queen Amidala says. I wonder if Millennium's daddies like curry?

Schoolboy errors

Knowing that it was the first of a trilogy (about the hunt for Jean-Luc Picard), I read Tinker, Tailor looking for people we'd see again. What with the name of the next book in the series, I'd rather assumed that the schoolboy in question would be the, er, schoolboy. The one whose parents are divorcing, and who becomes a watcher for Jim Prideaux.

Somewhat to my surprise, it's some old boy hack at the heat of book 2. Jerry Westerby is one of the well-oiled fellows Smiley has tea with when trying to rat out his mole. (If that's an expression.) He talks to Smiley in Red Indian (lots of "How!" and "Big um Chief!" stuff), and has a drinking habit that's the pride of Fleet Street.

The wheeze of The Honourable Schoolboy is that George Smiley - having ratted said mole in the top secret service shambles called the Circus - now has to get the Circus back on its feet. It's not helped that the international spying community think the Circus a bit rubbish at the moment. But that's because it's what Smiley's been telling them...

A clue leads them to suspect that a Hong Kong millionairre, Drake Ko OBE, is up to naughties, so they send the pissed old hack Westerby out to interview him and scratch around for more clues. Trouble is, Drake Ko has a pretty young girlfriend, and Westerby is not immune...

The exotic Hong Kong (and wider Far Eastern) setting explains why this middle book didn't get adapted by the BBC. It's a very broad canvas - a movie, rather than six episodes of people having meals in service stations and bedsits. "Drake Ko" is a comedy name right out of James Bond (It sounds like "Draco"... do you see?) And there's heavy doses of the sex, cynicism and sadism you expect in spy stories.

It's also hard to like any of the brutal, cold fish working in the Circus, nor the oilly civil servants politicking around them, nor the rowdy ex-pats and their parties.

Yet the book is hugely absorbing as le Carre (and his agents) unpick the details of Drake Ko's life, and of the history of the region. Imperialism - British, American, Russian and Chinese - is as much a villain as D. Ko. At one point, Westerby's on a US military base just as the war in Vietnam is declared over.

"The windows overlooking the airfield were smoked and double glazed. On the runway, aircraft landed and took off without making a sound. This is how they tried to win, Jerry thought: from inside soundproof rooms, through smoked glass, using machines at arm's length. This is how they lost."

John le Carre, The Honourable Schoolboy, p. 437.

We're never in any doubt that Smiley detests what the job requires of him, and the terrible cost on all those involved, yet on he presses anyway.

Westerby, for all he's a bit of a pickle, cares enough about the people whose lives are being mucked about to do something about it. As a result, he has far more old-school nobility than anyone he's working for, and for all he's made a hash of his life, for all he's barrelling towards hashing it once and for all, he's a sympathetic and engaging character, and one we're rooting for all the way.

This old body of mine is wearing a bit thin

63. INT. SCHOOL ENTRANCE – DAY
MICKEY shakes off the broken glass and climbs out of the car. SPECCY KID laughs as MICKEY trips over K9, and falls flat on his face.

MICKEY: How did you get out the car, then?

K9: I was not wearing a seat-belt, Master. I fell out of the back.

MICKEY: Right. There’s a lesson there, you ram-raiding youngsters.

K9: Please replace my side panel. My parts are showing.

CUT TO:

So Dr Who grows up. All right, I cried. Twice. And couldn’t get the stuff about age and death and having to let go out of my head all night.

It’s funny, lots of people have said the bat-people plot was secondary to the stuff about companions, but I think they worked deftly hand-in-hand. The monsters offer Dr Who all he longs for, the chance of saving his friends. That’s why they’re scary.

More importantly, while the you-can’t-hold-back-death stuff is bothering to us wearing-out grown ups who remember Sarah from the first time round (or, at least, from the Five Drs Who and some novels), there’s plenty to freak out the children.

The stuff that used to scare me about Dr Who was not the stuff on screen but what my head then did with it. That’s how nightmares work – they’re a sign of your imagination engaging with the consequences.

Mawdryn Undead terrified (don’t laugh) because Dr Who had regenerated alone and by accident, and was sick and covered in blood in the TARDIS. My hero had been smacked down by something vicious and random, and no one had been there to help him.

In Vengeance on Varos, the Dr rescues Peri from being turned into a squawky bird, and though the (dodgy) make-up wears off, she’s still squawky bird in her head. He hadn’t saved her, and he didn’t even noticed she was still a monster.

(Years later, I got to tell Nabil Shaban he’d given me terrible nightmares. He considered this, and then just said, “Good.”)

School Reunion had archetypal stuff with benevolent teachers being evil and the monsters amid the familiar. (Very familiar if you know Rusty’s a big fan of Buffy: blowing up the school, a Scooby gang, vampires, the loneliness of immortality, and nasty Ripper…)

More than that, though, there’s the kid left out from what everyone else is doing, locked outside the classroom and locked inside the school. He’s the one who doesn’t understand the lessons everyone else finds so easy, and the one who glimpses a monster that no one else will believe.

Stuff to lodge into your head then, whether it’s the speccy kid, Rose or Sarah you identify with. Which is a bit bloody clever, I thought.

But isn’t Speccy Kid going to be in big trouble for blowing up his own school? A speccy kid with an ASBO and a hoodie and…

More schoolboy errors tomorrow.

Easy

A long time ago, when I was feeling broken, I'd go and see a couple of chums in Bath who would make it all seem okay. There would be food, a lot of drink, and even more silly stories, and I'd head home again about three feet taller, knowing that whatever-it-was didn't really matter anyway.

I got to be Best Man to these chums, and also to kill one of them in a story. Bwa ha ha.

Bath has now been replaced by a late-Victorian farmhouse in the Marche (back of upper thigh on the Italian "leg"). I was there only last year being a farmhand, but this weekend we went for a surprise birthday.

I have met several very nice few people (including one who is, by a weird coincidence, a mate of a mate), and discussed all kinds of everything under the sun: the slow food movement; the winter procedure for lemon trees; recycled fuels in racing cars...

I also have some pretty good bruises from (not entirely soberly) helping push a Volkswagen Beetle whose battery had fallen asleep. And my shoes are muddy. BUt the Dr and I are both feeling a lot better about everything.

A ton of work sits quietly on my shoulders, and little of it got done this weekend. Also some exciting announcements very soon. And I still haven't seen K9 yet...

Bisy Backson

Off for the weekend - which means missing K9 & company tomorrow. Thanks to Nimbos, I also now have the do-do-do-dee-do theme tune in my head.

Received my copy of Big Finish Magazine #7 today, which has two bits of me on it (talking about the Great Plan for Benny, and also about the Settling). It may seem odd considering how much I write here (and rant in person), but I really don't like the sound of my own voice. And I also wish I could go back and edit the content of what's said.

Writing is much better. You can play with the words till you're happy with them. And then get someone with talent to read them out.

Oblong post

I think people should use the word "oblong" more often.

A clod … washed away by the sea

One of the Dr’s acolytes is heading back to America next week, having learnt valuable lessons as a serf. To complete her education, the Dr had her round for tea and exceedingly good cakes, and later I joined them for curry.

Currying with birds is good because you get to finish off all their food – and also, if you’re lucky, their beer. Mmm.

I asked what top facts about England the acolyte would be taking home with her, and then had to explain the whole difference between “Britain” and “England”. Someone I spoke to this morning who works for the British government admitted he wasn’t entirely sure of the difference himself.

(From the other end of London, I can hear Nimbos squawking in horror.)

“Britain” is a bit of a pickle of a term, because it can be used to mean slightly different things. It is often used to mean the same as the United Kingdom – the collective name for the gang of England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and the various isles and islands (not just those immediately nearby, but ones as far off as Gibraltar and the Falklands).

“Britain” is also sometimes used to mean the single island comprising England, Scotland and Wales – and so not include Northern Ireland or the Isle of Man. Little islands that are very close, like the Isle of Wight, get included in this Britain.

So it can mean the whole, or part of the whole. And since it’s about nationality, people can get a bit hot and bothered about how it’s used (see the comments at the end of this piece about Britain’s flag, with people all steamed up about what the thing’s called).

Some people prefer just to avoid all the hassle and not the name “Britain” at all. They use “Great Britain” to mean the island itself, and “British” to mean “of the United Kingdom”.

England is just one bit of Britain/Great Britain/the UK. The largest, mind, and the richest. And, history tends to show, the most vicious in the fighting.

The general trend to thinking of ourselves as being English rather than British is a reasonably recent thing (not as recent as the Dr would like, though. She thinks 1996 is “a couple of years ago”). It’s probably connected to Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland getting their own parliaments in the last decade (even if the latter is on hold). But people (well, pubs) seemed more keen to celebrate St George’s Day on Sunday than I’ve ever seen before.

Here are some top facts for any aliens reading this:

• St George wasn’t English – and probably never even came to England. He was a soldier in the Roman army, and so (what with the killing) a favourite of the Crusaders. By the 14th century he was seen as an icon of chivalry – not shagging other people’s wives, and not killing anyone from church. That’s the sort of courtesy we English love, which is why we took him as our patron.
• The “Houses of Parliament” are not the name of the building, but of the two groups of people nattering inside – the Lords and the Commons. “House” means a family of people, like a “suit” in playing cards. The building is really called the Palace of Westminster.
• Big Ben is the name of the bell inside the Palace of Westminster’s clock tower, not the tower itself. (It’s also sometimes called St Stephen’s Tower, and that’s not right either. So there.)
• The bridge with the towers on it (next to the Tower of London) is called Tower Bridge. London Bridge is the boring-looking one next along westwards. (Acolyte knew this one, admittedly.)
• We don’t call them “Bobbies”; they’re “Coppers”

When we finally ambled home, I made the Dr watch the Venetian bit of Moonraker. Venice is also an island, and used to be its own empire with territories all over the place. Some people say that’s why it’s so popular with the British, but I think that’s a bit of a stretch. It's just a bit goth and pretty.

Another silly James Bond thing: while having a BIG FIGHT with a villain, Bond remembers he’s got a delicate glass vial of DEADLY POISONOUS WATER in his top pocket. Mid scuff, he checks it hasn’t broken. By quite a miracle considering how much he’s been knocked about and how much other glass has been broken, it hasn’t. Phew.

So what does he do next? Puts it back in his top pocket and carries on fighting. You numbskull, 007!

Oh, and Bond’s English despite his parents being Scottish and Swiss. And his being played in the films by chaps from Scotland, Australia, Ireland and Wales. And Stockwell.

Is it secret, is it safe?

"And his fancy that he was being followed? What of that? What of the shadow he never saw, only felt, till his back seemed to tingle with the intensity of his watcher's gaze; he saw nothing, heard nothing, only felt. He was too old not to heed the warning. The creak of a stair that had not creaked before; the rustle of a shutter when no wind was blowing; the car with a different number plate but the same scratch on the offside wing: the face on the underground that you know you have seen somewhere before: for years at a time these were signs he had lived by; any one of them was reason enough to move, change towns, identities. For in that profession there is no such thing as a coincidence."

John le Carre, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, p. 323.

I chose that bit not just for the alarming use of colons and semi-colons, but because of an alarming pair of incidents yesterday.

At a little after 9.20 yesterday morning, I poddled to the train station at the end of our road, for the purposes of getting to work. The chap in front of me at the coffee counter was gazing at the Dr Who headlines in the tabloids. It was my learned colleague M., who lives a couple of streets away.

We had a happy chat about Droo's conquest of all media, and either he was rivetted by what I had to say, or too squodged in by other passengers, because he forgot to get off at his stop. I bid him a hearty farewell as he went to look up a King Zog (I think that was his name), and stomped off through the park to my labours.

The station at the end of the road can be a bit infrequently trained in the evening, so I come back by one of two others, both involving a 15 minute walk. I'd got to the bit in Tinker, Tailor where Jim Prideaux is sure there's a busload of women after him, so was reading it as I strolled back home. This is not too easy to do without treading in what dogs have left or walking into trees, but Priddo was too exciting to leave. He has to be being tailed, you see, because the coincidence is too silly.

And then, walking towards me is M. Looking shifty. Just happened to finish with Zog and be coming back home aroundabout the same time as me... despite the different station involved, and no word on what time I'd get off work...

I am of course now checking out the window before going to the toilet. Just as a precaution.

M. did ask whether the book was any good, remembering the TV version as all a bit slow. It very much is - oddly for a book that is largely about a boring old duffer having drinks with old workmates he never really liked in the first place. I need hardly explain that George Smiley is looking for a mole among four of his top-tier colleagues in the secret service. And it's not easy because he's been booted out with a bunch of other losers, and it may all just be in his head because his wife's left him.

It is odd, though, reading it having seen the TV version because I know exactly who the baddie is. And so, it seems, does George Smiley right from the get-go. There's so much more about the villain than the other three possibles that it hardly seems a surprise.

I'll not reveal it anyway, just in case. And anyway, I'm sure it's a sign of a well-crafted mystery that it all seems inevitable once you know.

Another thing that's odd is how much everyone relies on their memories of tiny, incongruent details, and the ability to match these odd bits up with each other. Smiley's investigation means hours going through mountains of file, checking the tick-boxes against who did what when. It's a question of critiquing minutiae, of people paid for the ability to squirrel-away facts; a strange, alien existence from the time before computers.

Smiley's skill is not just his memory but his awful understanding of people. The book's full of brilliantly observed characters, all of them real and believable. More than that, they're memorable - their names and personalities sticking so firmly in the mind that when they're referred to in other le Carre books, they're instantly with us again.

Connie (played by Beryl Reid on the telly, and with much more finesse than when telling off Cybermen) is in just one scene, wintering with her cats and frustrations. I'd remembered her as a major character - and despite how little we see of her, she is.

It's been said elsewhere that Smiley's the nice guy in a shitty industry, knowing full well the misery involved in his work. It's said - even in the book itself - how ironic it is that he can't control his own wife Ann. She's unseen in the TV version and barely glimpsed here, but her presence - or the lack of it - is felt throughout.

But I think it's because Smiley really does understand what people are, is worn down to stooping by the weight of it, that he knows better than to attempt to stop her.

Now on to the next book in the sequence, The Honourable Schoolboy. Will report back soon. If I'm not compromised.

Grow up, 007

While looking for something else entirely, I discovered that there's going to be a snazzy new run of James Bond DVDs. And Sir Roj has done commentaries for all of his ones. Coo.

My top 10 favourite silly things James Bond does in the movies:

1. Woos a lady by cooking a quiche
2. Slags off the Beatles
3. Dresses up as a crocodile
4. Does a huge Tarzan yell, while trying to escape men with guns hunting him
5. Dresses up as a fish
6. Does a Barbara Woodhouse impression
7. Dresses up as a clown
8. Knows the "James Bond theme" when he hears it
9. Dresses up as a duck
10. Is best mates with Osama Bin Laden

This is obviously not including all the silly stuff in the one with Woody Allen or the one with Mr Bean (where Bond plays bagpipes in Heaven, and fails to notice he's already done his mission years before). And five of the above are from the same film.

More spies tomorrow, if you're lucky.

OMITTED

89 EXT. TORCHWOOD HOUSE - NIGHT
NINJA MONKS watch in awe as the wolf-ghost rises through the roof of the building, one last howl as it evaporates into the night sky.

Then, darkness. Quiet. It's over.

The NINJA MONKS exchange glances, shrugs. Some kick their feet as they sod off home.

CUT TO:

But we only have 14 hours to save the Earth

You know that poor Greek fella doomed to spend eternity pushing some great bouler up a hill, only to have it roll back down to the bottom again just as he's nearly done? He does not even know the meaning of frustration. I could also teach him one or two good swears.

Technically, I'm a writer and animator. It says so on my tax things, so it really ought to be true.

And yes, I have been known to en-soul the inanimate. As well as silly Dr Who cartoons, I used to make banners and buttons for websites and whizzy-looking emails for people on a professional basis. But it has been rather a while...

What I thought would be a quick assignment has taken me most of today. I'd forgotten how simple you have to make things if you want to keep the filesize down. I'd also forgotten that cutting a cartoon down actually makes it bigger - you're better starting from scratch. And I'd forgotten all my Actionscript, even when Flash tries valiantly to write it all for you.

Flash is about planning and preparation, and lots of it. Care and discipline are also involved, and - a bit like in The Invaders - there just aren't the shortcuts you think. Which is largely why the second half of that Droo cartoon is only at the storyboard stage, and why I think of myself as just a writer these days.

Though there's nothing just about being a writer, arf arf. (That's a clue to what I've been up to, by the way.)

Anyway. We got somewhere in the end, and if my masters like the pretty pictures I made, you may even get a look at 'em and all. How extremely exciting for you.

Proportionality...

... gets spoken of lots at one of my works. It means "a sense of proportion" - that is, knowing what are the important, big things, and what are less-important, small things. And planning and responding accordingly.

Today, the Queen noses ahead to be 51 years older than me. She enjoys this privilege for two months and three days each year, and we both try to keep it low-key. Happy birthday, dear.

I wonder if it's a coincidence that the Queen's great-grandmother meets Dr Who this week of all weeks. And I hope that the fan-girl got one of these new remote-control K9s from someone. Saw one last night and they move like buttered lightening. At £16.99, they've got to be the best Droo merchandise I've ever seen. Yes, even better than the whoopee cushion and Sarah Jane with a Dalek up her bum.

Now those who really, really, really love the Windsors (like Nimbos) may think I'm being a bit irreverent. For a change.

But it's not just me, honest. Take this morning's press briefing with our Prime Minister's spokes-dude. What did our clever newspeople ask? Well let's see:

• Woman has birthday
  Did Tony get the Queen a nice present, and did everyone chip in?
• Woman has haircut
  Does Tony like his wife's new do, and isn't it funny what birds will spend on a blow-dry?
• Other news
  Not-a-one difficult question about looming fisticuffs over gas and oil, or how all Iraq has gone a bit wrong (not that it has anything to do with the looming fisticuffs over gas and oil, of course). We now return you to pictures of the Queen thumbing through her post and/or meeting disc jockeys.

Yes, I know it's easy to have a pop at the papers, but I thought you put the daft and heartwarming "And finally..." at the end. It's not quite what CJ fends off on the West Wing, is it? (Yes, I know she's not Press Lady any more, but she was the last time I was watching.)

I also appreciate that both the birthday and haircut stories are getting at much the same thing: our beloved Government and its handling of cash. Detectives apparently unpick murder investigations by following the money. The press seems to be doing something similar, but so as to commit the killing themselves.

Still, that makes them sound like they're cunningly hounding the villain, like they're Columbo or Carole Smiley's dad. But actually it comes across like they're just not bothered about the serious stuff, because that involves more work - thinking and researching and explaining. And anyway, most newspapers just want to while away the time while you're on the way to work or a poo-poo.

But maybe our beloved Government would be less tempted to piss about like no one cares were investigative journalists not to do likewise. You won't get intelligent answers without asking intelligent stuff first.

Or does that just come across like a narky teenager?

Millennium Elephant also has some concerns about the "News", delivered with his customary wit and insight. I wish my brains were full of fluff and not of orange goo.

Don't be hasty

Who knew that the police were like photocopiers, then?

Having done a fair load of temping in my youth, I know my way round photocopiers like a surgeon knows his way round a wine shop. Temping is a lot like freelancing, in that you're given the jobs people think too tedious to do themselves and are useful to blame when things snafu - but at least freelancers get asked their names.

My temping CV had two things going for it: that I knew how to work Lotus Amipro as well as Word, and that I could unjam paper in a flash. I owe this great skill from months of photocopying IT training manuals for Hampshire's social workers, and from having long spindly fingers that can reach.

Just as wild animals (and pretty women) can smell fear, photocopiers and their printer brethren know a rush when they sniff one. Want to copy some high-larious fax that some wag in accounts just sent over? No problemo. Got a Dead Important Presentation to put together in no minutes, on pain of immediate loss-of-job? That's something different.

"Ah..." says the little help screen by the button for "Get on with it", as the machine notes the sweat on your brow.

"Ah?" you smile, all ingratiatingly.

"Ah," says the little help screen. "This will be a Problem Number 06."

"Oh right," you say. "And what the blithering jibbert might that be?"

"Problem #06," explains the very-little-help screen: "On the natural philosophy of toner..."

Today and on Tuesday I am working at somewhere of heightened security. I'd left myself ample time to get into the place this morning, but passing through the security gates my pass got a red light, not a green. This sometimes happens, so I tried it a few more times. Nada. Then I noticed the burly policeman with the machine gun coming over.

It eventually turns out that the nice people who gave me my shiny new pass on Tuesday hadn't done the thing to turn it on.

"This won't take a moment," said the policeman all obligingly, as I followed him into a small room.

"Can I just let my boss know where I am?" I said. You try to be courteous when the man's got a big gun.

"This won't take a moment," he said.

"I'm needed for 11, you see." It was now creeping towards quarter to.

"This won't take a moment," he said. But it did.

Obscurum per obscurius

Projects of various flavours proceed gradually onward. (You can't really proceed any other way, can you?) This is then an aide-memoire sort of post (rather than an oubliette), for me to look back on in future days and recall all that I was about.

• I've had a bit of a rethink about a script after chums got to see the first third.
• Am pretty much there on the extended synopsis for something else (the only one of five pitches that they wanted to see more of), and now need to throw together sample prose.
• Got some wind in the sails of an on-spec thing which has stalled since last autumn
• Also come up with a wheeze for a completely new project which would involve a fair bit of researching, and be something of a departure from whatever else I've ever done.
• Have two shortish stories to write too, and a whopper of something else to pull together, but they're all rather dependent on other people sending me stuff so I can't really start work on 'em yet.

At the same time, my myriad bitches have been in touch to ask questions and suggest cleverness for the things that they're writing me. Somewhere in the murk damn cool stuff is forming limbs... Had to check whether one thing was all right by it's creator, and have just been told:

"That's absolutely wonderful. You go ahead!"

Which is especially gratifying 'cos it's not my idea at all.

Also had some beer with someone last night who I spent years desperately trying to work for (and who, technically and a bit weirdly, I've since employed). Much discussion of the strange places writing can get you to. What dark, damaged recess of my mind, for example, could come up with old men having their feet cut off?

Probably best you don't answer.

Rotters

For heinous crimes committed in former lives, I studied the Reform Acts for A-level, and manage to keep unmuddled the names, arguments and outcomes of the debates in '32, '67 and '84 long enough to sit my exams. Now it's all something of a hodge-podge in my mind.

For about a year, Edward Pearce's "Reform! - the fight for the 1832 Reform Act" has been sat by the computer where it has been of some use to the Dr. (It gets a mention on page 138 of History of Christmas, on the basis of being at hand.) I've started it a couple of times, and yesterday got to page 156 before deciding to read something else.

For one thing, as my History A-level showed, the British nineteenth century is not nearly so exciting as Europe's. There were no revolutions, just lots of serious talking in the Houses of Parliament.

Secondly, the book mostly paraphrases Hansard, so there's a lot on how many columns each MP spoke for, and how the interruptions were transcribed. Pearce does throw in some good anecdotes and insight from other sources, but often he's repeating stuff we've already heard before (that Spencer Perceval's killing was not politically motivated, or how Mrs Arbuthnot fitted in).

While there are some fun characters and nice gags, the book runs the danger of being as longwinded and pompous as its subjects, and the last straw was losing an entire thread of argument by not understanding a cricketing metaphor. For a book about the opening up of the franchise, it's a pretty unaccessible text. Anyway, what's said in the House always requires some judicious pruning, as any Hansard hack will tell you.

It is, though, full of lovely details about the thoroughly rotten system of government developed from Magna Carta:

"In corrupt Cornwall [...], grotesquely overrepresented and blissfully rotten, largely because medieval kings, owning tracts of Cornwall personally by way of the Duchy, took care to enfranchise pelting villages of few fish and fewer people because they would readily comply. In consequence, Cornwall acquired early most of its forty-eight seats in Parliament, eighteen of them within 'a stretch 28 miles long by twelve miles deep around Liskeard'."

Edward Pearce, "Reform! - the fight for the 1832 Reform Act", pp. 32-3.

Centuries of tyrant-bolstering over-representation at the expense of the rest of the nation, I feel, should be remembered when considering the case for rydhsys rag Kernow lemmyn. (Hee hee.)

O brother, where art thou?

Just heard from my wee brother, a month in to his five-month trek across northern Australia, riding wild horses that his stars trained themselves.

While still solely directing/producing on the road and making a bit over 40km a day, he's been able to edit together the first trailer, and get a couple of pics up on to the Croc John site. He's a bit bloody clever, our kid.

New new new new new new etc.

The Dr and I are in sunny Winchester, stuffing our faces with my dad's rather marvellous home-made croissants, and gearing up for the traditional Easter Egg hunt round the garden.

Yesterday, for the first time in 16-and-a-bit years, I watched Dr Who with my folks. Also watching was a cousin from South Africa who is 16-and-a-bit, and so had no idea what was going on. "He's not like Jon Pertwee," explained by auntie, helpfully.

Well, that was all a bit wild and exciting, wasn't it? May speak of it more when I've had a chance to watch it again and calm down somewhat.

Afterwards, we joined some chums in the pub where I may have been quite full of beer. Saw my sister for the first time in two years (she is over from Oz), and nattered about houses and writing with chums. One of them is struggling through Time Travellers, looking for the bit where he's killed. At least he bought a copy, I guess.

The Dr had to take me for a walk yesterday afternoon because I was just too exciteable. I showed her the bits of river we used to dare each other to jump across, and the bit of nature reserve round the art college where the bodies were always found in Inspector Wexford. She was, of course, fascinated.

Faithless

My father-in-law sent me a copy of last week’s Church Times, with Droo on the cover in his jim-jams and a two-page feature on how the Doctor’s just like Jesus. The feature, “Time Lord or Messiah?”, is written by Steve Couch, one of the authors of Back in time: a thinking fan’s guide to Doctor Who, and I have one or two objections.

As my friend Phil did in his (very interesting) Greenbelt lecture, “The Spirituality of Doctor Who” last year, Couch tries to reconcile Christianity with the avowedly atheist credentials of New Show’s chief writer, and what I’d call the humanist bent to the actual episodes.

Of course, as Phil says, “science fiction, like any text, can be read in ways which the authors didn’t intend the readers to read it.” I certainly don’t object to anyone finding something in New Show just for them.

• Hooray for New Show being loved by young girls with their own plaster dragons (like on this afternoon’s Totally Droo)!
• Hooray for grumpy old birds getting in a twist about what grumpy old birds might like about New Show!
  (And then admitting they got it a bit wrong.)
• Hooray for the kids down the road comparing versions of the Howell theme tune on their phones!

You Jonny-come-latelys are most welcome to join in the fun…

What rather bothers me is the idea that the show sports specifically Christian virtues, as if the argument boils down to something like:

"Because Dr Who is not an arsehole, therefore he must be a sort of Christian."

The church doesn’t have a monopoly on what’s right and wrong, those are just virtues.

Couch’s argument rests on Dr Who being a “drama of reassurance”, and our being taken on “a journey of horror, fear and successful resolution”.

“The universe of Doctor Who, where evil exists, but where good ultimately triumphs, alludes to a world-view Christians would have no difficulty in embracing. Paradoxically, a scientific rationalist would be unable to offer any such guarantee…”

Steve Couch, “Time Lord or Messiah?”, Church Times #7465 (7 April 2006), p. 18.

Of course, there are many who’d argue that a belief in God is not necessarily incompatible with a belief in rational science. I also don’t agree that the Doctor always wins - and he certainly never wins easily.

People die around him all the time, which you could put rather brutally as the terrible cost of his doing what’s right. Rose is constantly in danger, and the Doctor’s adventures are littered with the corpses of surrogate Roses – Jabe, Gwyneth and Lynda-with-a-Y. That’s not reassuring, that’s actually a bit twisted for a kids’ show.

We see Rose’s relationships suffer – with her mum, with her boyfriend – because she even travels with the Doctor, and that makes ideas about “good” and “evil” complicated. Is how she treats Mickey “good”?

Dr Who, by confronting the strange and the scary, lets us take nothing for granted. It’s precisely the opposite of reassuring. Ethical values – in the case of the “good” Dalek, or the companion, Adam, who was “bad” – are complex and need thinking about.

The Doctor’s at his most angry when people act blindly from fear or from selfishness, not seeing (or caring about) the consequences of their actions. That’s not just true of the villains, it’s true of Rose saving her dad’s life, or Harriet Jones blowing up the aliens who killed people in front of her. We can understand why both women acted as they did, but it’s still not right.

As Couch says, the Doctor sees the good and the bad in humanity – snapping at Harriet that he should have warned the rest of the galaxy about “the monsters”, yet taking delight in a Christmas dinner with crackers.

But I’d argue that it’s not about “sin” – temptation to do witting wrong – but about knowledge and empathy. The Doctor encourages people to face facts, to confront difficult, brutal truths. There’s the teenage mother in 1941 having to face up to her son, and the journalist who comes to realise that her own news organisation needs investigating… In both cases, he's challenging the social norms of the time.

It’s been said that there’s a spiritualist slant when he meets Dickens, whose closed, scientific mind can’t see the ghosts right in front of him. But the Doctor’s beef is that Dickens won’t believe the evidence of his own eyes. By the end of the story, and with the Doctor’s help, Dickens’s rational science – an understanding of the properties of gas – defeats the lying spirits.

The Doctor, then, is an essentially humanist hero. He wants humanity to achieve its best, and celebrates the achievements that survive mortal men. Dickens’s books will live on forever, though the man himself has less than a year. And when the Earth explodes, the Doctor’s there to see it, dancing to (the surviving) Soft Cell and Britney.

I agree that the stories act as an ethical framework, challenging us to think about what we believe and how we act. That’s nothing new – in his very first story back in 63, the Dr has to learn to help a wounded enemy rather than just run away. His new human travelling companions teach him what’s right, and when his own people catch up with him six years later, he argues in the Time Lord courtroom that it’s wrong not to help. And they begrudgingly concede the point.

So was it right that the Doctor destroyed his own people?

It’s important that he’s now the last of the Time Lords. It undoes the determinism of time, the reassuring safeguards that prevent damage being done even to history. The Doctor makes his stand against the monsters, and encourages those he meets to help him, because no one else will. Like the killing of God at the end of Second Coming (written and performed by the same men, of course), it means we mere mortals must now fend for ourselves.

There is no higher authority out there to save us. It’s a bleak and brutal fact, but it needs to be confronted.