How I Am

I often go to sleep sad.

How about that for an opening gambit. Sorry, but we won’t be visiting Giggletown today.

I’m not always sad. It’s just that moment, just before I drift off – when I’m alone with my thoughts – that’s when it hits me. And I fall asleep wondering if I’ll always be like this.

Why am I ruining your day with my emotions? Well, people often ask me how I am, and I thought that 12 months on since the death of my daughter, I should probably try and answer the question.

I would have always told you how I was before Dorothy was born. Even if (and usually if) you didn’t really want me to.

“How are you?” It’s a common enough greeting, usually following ‘Hello’ or ‘Hi’. And the response you might expect would be: “I’m fine, how are you?” Or some variation on that theme. I, on the other hand, actually answer that question. I might be stressed at work, frustrated with a friend, cross with the pet… whatever is going through my head at that moment will be shared.

I like to think it’s endearing. At worst, it’s annoying.

Now though, ask me how I am and the honest response would be: “Well, 12 months ago my wife and I had our first child. A little girl called Dorothy. But she was early and there were problems and she died a few hours later in our arms. I’ve been struggling to come to terms with that, whilst juggling a billion other life stresses/deaths/illnesses, and now I’m starting to wonder if this is what it’s always going to be like? But anyway, enough about me, how are you? How are the kids?”

I can’t respond with that. Nobody would ever talk to me again. So I’ve gone with the classic: “I’m alright, how are you?” (Unless I’ve had a few drinks at a Christmas dinner with my peers, then there’s a chance I’ll drop it causally into a conversation for reasons only known to the bottle of red I was drinking).

So I wanted to tell you, even if it makes tough reading, how I really am.

This is actually the sixth ‘thing’ I’ve written since we lost Dorothy. But it’s the first ‘thing’ I’ve actually made public. The problem I’ve had is that there’s nothing comforting to write. Everything I’ve put down is just so bleak. So I’ve waited for a story to tell, or a life lesson, or a positive message to send out into the world. But I can’t find any. There isn’t one. It’s all so bloody miserable.

I had this problem on New Year’s Eve. I saw all these social media posts from friends and colleagues about what a great/shit year they had – reminiscing about the people they’ve lost and found along the way, and hopeful for a brighter 2019. I wanted to tell the world about my little girl. I had a post all ready to go, but it was too depressing. So I changed it to something a bit more hopeful and romantic. But it wasn’t true to how I felt. So after three hours of agony, I posted nothing and spent the last night of 2018 crying on the floor of my spare room.

It’s these moments that catch me out. I expected Christmas to be tough, but it was ok. I anticipated a lot of sadness on Dorothy’s actual due date, but it was really just a bit wistful. Even the funeral was manageable.

It’s the hidden moments that get you. If grief was a video game character, it’d be Solid Snake – lurking in a box, waiting for you to lower your guard, and striking when you least expect it.

The most notable one recently was back in March. Mother’s Day was coming up and I had bought Carrie-Ann a card. I had planned to write this loving piece about what a wonderful person she is, but I barely finished the ’T’ in ‘To’ before I started sobbing. Turns out writing a card to your wife from your dead daughter is something you really shouldn’t do in a busy hotel lobby. Thankfully, my friend and colleague who was with me was busy on her phone and didn’t notice. Or at least she pretended to be. Which was nice of her.

So I’ve been struggling a little bit. There’s never a day where I don’t think about Dot. I never heard her cry, she never opened her eyes, and no matter how hard I tried, I never felt her heart beat. But despite that, I miss her. All the time.

And that day, every second of it, has never left me. I try not to, but there are times when I can’t help recalling every moment. They break into my thoughts like a fox in a chicken coup. The look of desperation in Carrie-Ann’s eyes, the devastation on the face of our parents, the medical staff trying to conceal their panic (they, of course, just had to carry on working afterwards. No idea how). I live with those images. My heart breaks with each recollection.

I know some people will probably frown at all this. I am told, repeatedly, that grief is a personal thing. It’s something to keep private. It seems like a particularly British way of dealing with it, because other cultures seem to go in for the whole wailing/screaming/gnashing of teeth approach. Not us. Oh no.

But it’s going to work its way out somehow. That moment I got angry because my place of work didn’t send any flowers? I didn’t really care about flowers. That time I got annoyed over a headline on the website I write for? It wasn’t a big deal. That time I shouted at my friends because we lost at that video game? It was a minor irritation at best. No, I’m angry, I’m annoyed, I’m shouting because my daughter died. I’m sad, I’m upset, I’m frustrated, because my daughter died. Any minor indiscretion was just the wafer thin grievance on top of a huge pile of fury and despair.

I’m sorry if I overreacted. I’d love to tell you what’s really wrong… but, you know, it’s a private thing. Apparently.

Of course, if I did open up like this in front of you, you wouldn’t know what to say. I certainly wouldn’t, and I do words for a living.

I feel for my friends and family, I do. They have to treat us exactly the same as they used to, whilst also avoiding all topics and actions that might cause us to run away. The rule is simple: Treat us exactly the same as you always did, but also don’t.

The love I feel for the ones who tried to walk that impossible tightrope cannot be overstated. The ones who gave up early doors, I do understand. I may have done the same thing. But I wish you were still around.

On the surface, I am still the same. I still love the same video games and music. I still laugh at the same jokes. I still dance and visit the pictures and watch Doctor Who. And work too much.

It’s underneath where things are different. I can’t really explain it. It’s like I’m a jigsaw, and although all the pieces are the same, they’ve become damp and nothing quite fits together like it used to.

So that’s me. That’s how I am. I’m sorry I hadn’t told you sooner.

Doctor Who review – The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Before reading on, make sure to watch the episode here. Spoilers ahead.

“Don’t be scared. All of this is new to you and new can be scary.”

What makes a good start to a new Doctor Who era?

I always find myself gravitating towards one of my favourite new Who episodes – The Eleventh Hour.

It didn’t have the most memorable monster, or the best special effects, but it set the tone perfectly for the Moffat era of Doctor Who. Funny, very funny. Clever, too, with an ending that didn’t rely on a magic button (or magic potion) to solve everything. It was also very Doctor-centric. He was the narrative driver. It was all about him.”

If you ask me now what single episode best summed up Smith’s era of Doctor Who, I’d point to that episode. It set the tone for everything that followed.

That’s actually true of pretty much all of these new-Doctor openers. And that’s exactly what The Woman Who Fell To Earth was.

“We don’t get aliens in Sheffield.”

This wasn’t the best Doctor Who story. A plot about an alien that’s come to Sheffield to hunt a nervous human – it was effectively the Yorkshire Predator, only with drunks throwing salad instead of soldiers throwing grenades. It was scary, though, certainly more so than expected. The episode’s antagonist is one that freezes people, breaks their jaws and steals their teeth to stick onto their face… so much for family-friendly.

But even with this, it felt relatable, in a way that perhaps more recent series had not. The episode’s working class characters and unromantic Sheffield setting made sure of that.

For all the pre-launch focus on the first female Doctor Who, Jodie Whittaker’s 13th Doctor was not really the centre of the action. She had her hero moments, but for most of the runtime she acted as the shepherd that ushered around the new characters from location to location.

She was exciting and promising and charming. A Doctor in the David Tennant mould – although we’ve yet to see any of the darkness or sadness that would come to define the tenth Doctor (at least not yet). And the humour (which didn’t always hit) was right out of the Matt Smith textbook of fast-talking comedy.

Thus far, she does seem to be the most polite Doctor we’ve had. No putdowns or mean nicknames, and constantly remembering to say please and thank you… the exact opposite to her grumpy predecessor.

But the big question was whether she felt like the Doctor? And the answer was a definite yes.

“Is it wrong to be enjoying this?”

But the focus of this episode was really on the four companions, which was a mild surprise. Perhaps the pre-launch emphasis on Jodie Whittaker had influenced my expectations… maybe even the episode’s title had led me to believe this would be a very Doctor-focused affair (as it turned out, ‘The Woman ’ in the title doesn’t necessarily refer to The Doctor).

This was an episode all about the new police officer Yasmin, who is eager to take on more interesting cases. It was about Ryan, the warehouse worker with the wayward father who wants to overcome his dyspraxia to become a mechanic. It was about Graham the cancer survivor trying to connect with his step grandson.

It was about real people with normal names facing everyday problems.

Even the support cast were made real, whether it was the doomed security guard happy to speak to his granddaughter, or the brother desperately seeking answers around his missing sister. This was an episode about human beings, and that really shouldn’t have been a surprise. This is by Chris Chibnall, after all, whose Broadchurch series was a traditional detective drama made brilliant by its focus on the people touched by the crime.

Were there too many characters? Perhaps in the context of a single episode… but over the course of a whole series, I somewhat doubt it. Because this is just the opening episode, after all. It’s not supposed to be the best Doctor Who ever. It is the prologue for things to come.

The scene has now been set. Let the adventure begin.

Doctor Who Twice Upon A Time – Disappointing finale for the show’s finest leader

Warning: You’ll want to watch the episode first. Spoilers ahead.

 

I say this with confidence: time will be kind to Steven Moffat.

A small sub-section of ‘fans’ hate the Doctor Who showrunner, for some reason or another (over-exposure, perhaps).

But in the future – in the pages of Doctor Who Magazine, probably – we’ll be saying: “Do you remember the writer who created the Weeping Angels?” “What about that guy who wrote Blink, Empty Child, A Christmas Carol, Time of the Doctor, Heaven Sent, World Enough and Time, Listen, Deep Breath and The Eleventh Hour?” “Let’s never forget the person who cast Matt Smith, Peter Capaldi and John Hurt as The Doctor.” “Or the showrunner that led the brilliant 50th Anniversary celebrations.” “Hey, do you remember when he fired the Doctor into an insane asylum full of deranged Daleks?”

What we probably won’t here, sadly, is: “Do you remember when he ended his reign with a bombastic, silly, wonderful Christmas special that ushered in an entirely new era for the show?”

We won’t hear that. Because that didn’t happen.

Twice Upon A Time was set-up as a typically ambitious ending to Steven Moffat’s era of Doctor Who. The Doctor is refusing to regenerate for some reason, and he runs into his past self, who is also refusing to regenerate for some reason. It stretches a bit of credibility, although I did find the concept appealing. It’s scary to move on and become someone new, it’s something we can all relate to.

Clearly, Moffat felt if he put David Bradley (who has been cast as the first Doctor) and Peter Capaldi in a room together, then he didn’t need to do much else. The interplay between the two was ok, but complicated. On the one hand the first Doctor behaves a bit like 12th’s grandfather; grumpy, confused by his fashion choices, and woefully out-of-touch with the way the world works. Yet, in actual terms, he’s more like a teenage Doctor… either way, the 12th’s obvious embarrassment is entertaining to see.

Yet for more seasoned fans, the first Doctor was never really like this. Sure, the show adhered to racial and gender stereotypes of the age – The Doctor would often send Barbara out for the tea, for example. But he was never a misogynist. I didn’t buy into this extended joke.

There were a few decent moments of humour, but overall, this wasn’t Moffat’s finest comic effort on the show so far.

As for the adventure itself, there was no real adventure. The Doctor meets someone that looks like a Moffat bad guy (complete with blank facial expressions – see Weeping Angels, Snowmen, Whisper Men, gas mask kids, clockwork droids…), but turns out not to be. Our hero even ultimately admits that there was no evil plan after all, and the episode runs out of steam. Our ‘villains’ were extracting people from timelines just as they were about to die, so that they can upload their memories to a database and they can live on. They then return their physical bodies back to the point of death.

A WW1 Pilot was extracted from his timeline, and because The Doctor was moping around about regenerating, he ended up being returned to the wrong place (the exact explanation for this is… timey wimey). The Doctor has to take the WW1 captain back to the point of his death, but saves him by returning him to a few hours later, when the Germans and English celebrated Christmas together during the famous 1914 truce. It was a nice scene, if a little overdone. By this point, we’d gone through so many scenes of people standing around chatting, I was beginning to feel a little bit bored.

I’ve left out the bit where the Doctor goes to see that ‘good’ Dalek from an episode that aired over 4 years ago. But he does that as well.

I obviously anticipated a level of self-indulgence in Moffat’s final episode. After 12 years on the show, 7 as the showrunner, he was saying goodbye. Capaldi was saying goodbye. Pearl Mackie, returning as Bill, was saying goodbye. Mark Gatiss, another long-serving writer who plays the WW1 captain, is saying goodbye. Toby Whithouse, who plays the German soldier and who wrote numerous Doctor Who episodes, was saying goodbye.

This was the long goodbye. And that is fair enough. But it did go on. Capaldi got to deliver one of his trademark speeches at the end, which largely involved him telling his future self to be kind over and over again. And his final line said it all: “Doctor, I let you go”… a line not remotely relevant to the audience (who really isn’t letting anyone go). But only really applicable to the writer and actor.

But then… then… Jodie appeared. “Oh Brilliant,” she says, and I grin at the Yorkshire accent and that smile (after 25 years as a fan, do I suddenly fancy The Doctor?). And then the TARDIS blows up and chucks her out.

After 60 minutes on Christmas Day, of watching old quotes respoken, friends saying goodbye and an adventure that wasn’t really an adventure at all, I am suddenly intrigued and excited again.

And I realise that although time will be kind to Steven Moffat, and he will be seen as one of the great Doctor Who leaders (if not the great), it really was time for him and his team to step aside.

Just 9 months to wait now.

Linkin Park and Me

Until last night, I never quite understood the personal loss people feel when a celebrity dies.

I get that it’s sad. It’s sad you won’t see them or hear them again. It’s very sad for their family, their friends… death is sad. It’s always sad.

But the outpouring of grief for someone you never knew… I didn’t quite get it.

Now I do.

I first discovered Linkin Park through my friend Ben. I was quite late to discovering music. Of course I liked a good tune, but it was mostly bands my parents listened to (Meat Loaf) or whatever pop compilation they bought me at Christmas (I did, once, buy the Bewitched album). But I discovered my own music, the songs that would define me, when I was around 16. Kerrang introduced me to these new, angry, emotional, funny little musicians. So I spent the summer of 2001 listening to Sum 41 (All Killer No Filler), Blink-182 (Take Off Your Pants And Jacket) and Limp Bizkit (Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavoured Water). Those albums were on repeat endlessly.

I was standing outside our form room in May of that year. My friend Ben was the musician. He had a guitar and wore hoodies. He was fast becoming too cool to hang out with the class weirdo… so I was glad school was coming to an end. One of the girls in the class, Fliss, started talking to him. I remember being surprised by this. Fliss was cool, what is she doing talking to my nerdy mate Ben? So I hung back to listen. She liked his Linkin Park hoody. So, intrigued and trying to look a little cooler myself, I bought myself Hybrid Theory.

My word. 30 minutes that album lasted, and it was the greatest 30 minutes I had ever listened to. Angry, sorrowful… this was teen angst, but with a sound far more mature than the Limp Bizkit nonsense (which I love, by the way). I must have listened to that album 1,000 times on repeat. I would play Age of Empires on PC with the album in the disc tray, listening to it over and over, throughout that entire summer. Test me. I know it all.

Chester Bennington was the lead singer. I liked him, but he wasn’t my favourite. He was cool. He had good hair, and amazing tattoos, and an incredible singing voice. He had a ripped body and wore sunglasses. He was awesome, but let’s be honest, I was never going to be Chester Bennington. It was Mike Shinoda, the rapper, the one who wrote the songs and experimented with the sounds… the band’s creative nerd… that’s who I  wanted to be. I could be a creative nerd, I thought.

I downloaded all of Linkin Park’s B-sides. I even lapped up their Reanimation remix album, even though most of it was a bit naff.

It was two years until Linkin Park came back again with Meteora. I remember buying that album so vividly because I was so damn excited. I rode my bike into town in March 2003. I went into our local independent record shop (remember those?) and bought a CD (remember those?) with a DVD included that I never watched. I plugged the album into my portable CD player (remember those?) and I listened all the way home. I had already heard their first single, Somewhere I Belong, and it was ok. It sounded a little like In The End, but not quite as good. But the album was really great. Still just 30 minutes, but with Faint, Numb, Breaking The Habit and From The Inside, it was another wonderful half hour.

Amy at Leeds Festival 2003

I saw Linkin Park for the first time that August. My then girlfriend (Amy) drove me and my brother to Leeds Festival. Despite only having an hour’s worth of material, they were headlining the festival, while my other favourite band, Blink-182, were supporting. Staind were there, and InMe and Bowling For Soup and Finch. Amy wasn’t completely happy on the day. She was tired having driven all the way and I wasn’t especially thankful. Linkin Park were damn impressive with their big stage show and their album-like sound quality. On the way home I fell asleep, much to Amy’s annoyance, and she almost nodded off at the wheel, and was woken up by my brother opening a bottle of coke.

Less than a year later, I saw Linkin Park again, this time at Download Festival with my friend Neal. On the way there, Neal was swerving across the lanes on the deserted A1 to the Linkin Park song ‘One Step Closer’. He was ‘car dancing’. Unfortunately, a police car showed up at just the worst moment and  pulled him over. It wouldn’t be the last time we got in trouble with the police.

Neal before the ‘car dancing’

Before the best acts came on, Neal and I watched the skaters on the ramps and talked about girls. During the gig, I got so squashed I started to feel panicked and Neal, seeing I was in distress, grabbed my hand and shouted ‘coming through’ and pulled me out of the pit and to safety. I watched the end of that gig from the hill besides the stage, and I was in awe of seeing both the stage and all those thousands of fans together. It was a different gig experience. 12 months later and my friendship with Neal would be torn to pieces. That’s a different story.

Three years later, and I was back at Download. Linkin Park was now the biggest rock band in the world, courtesy of those first two albums and a mash-up record with JayZ. This fame seemed to define the band’s more mainstream third album, Minutes to Midnight, which I’ve never been in love with despite being home to some undeniable classics like Hands Held High, Bleed It Out, What I’ve Done, Shadow of the Day and Leave Out All The Rest.

They were headlining Download again and this time I had bought tickets for the full weekend. I went with my friends Andrew and Kieran, with another mate of mine, Jason, coming along with some of his other friends. He was staying in a hotel, which I mocked at the time, but he had the right idea.

I had just finished uni and trying to work out what to do next. I had done a few jobs and I was considering going into teaching, although it would prove challenging for many reasons. It was an uncertain time. My dream was to be a journalist, so I was writing a lot, but I doubted it would amount to anything.

I remember this weekend in particular for having my wallet stolen within the first 15 minutes of getting to the festival. I was gutted and felt my recent run of back luck was never going to end. But my friends, oh my friends, were wonderful. They kept me going with food and drink, and they all clubbed together to buy me a Linkin Park t-shirt as a ‘birthday present’. I loved them for that.

Andrew, Kieran and Jason (not pictured) saved Download Festival 2007 for me

That would be the first of three Linkin Park gigs I would go to over the next 13 months. I saw the band again in January the following year (2008). I remember that gig better than most because you could buy a recording of it, so I have it on my iPhone. It was fantastic. You could tell they had been touring for a while and had fine tuned the show to perfection. But oddly, that’s not what I’ll remember this night for.

Despite my doubts six months earlier, I had managed to become a journalist. I had applied for a job on MCV, one of the most influential magazines in video games, but I didn’t get it.

Andrew before he ‘lost his ticket’ and Jason at the O2 in January 2008

It turned out there wasn’t a job on that title after all, but they had one on their tech publication. So I started writing for that in November. But by January things had changed, and on the walk up to the O2 Arena (where the gig took place), my boss Lisa called me and asked me if I wanted to join MCV. It was the flagship title. I was both terrified and overjoyed. I said yes.

I went to the gig with Andrew and Jason again, only this time Andrew got all the way to the O2, decided he didn’t want to see the band, pretended he lost his ticket, and went home. We still laugh about that.

I wasn’t planning on seeing Linkin Park again, but they announced they were bringing their Project Revolution touring festival to the UK at the Milton Keynes Bowl that very summer. It was to be a star-studded line-up of hip-hop and rock, and just 30 minutes drive away. There was The Bravery, InnerPartySystem, Enter Shikari, N.E.R.D and JayZ. I wasn’t going to go but I had just got in touch with an old school friend called Adele, and she was thinking about going. So I thought why not. I went with Andrew again (he turned up this time) and it was probably the greatest rock gig I’ve ever experienced.

It was such a hot summer day. We lay on the mound during most of it, letting the music wash over us and drinking Pimms and messing around. Adele and her sister Alex joined us. It was great. But then came Linkin Park and it was a mesmerising gig. The full stage show was in flow, I remember a superb rendition of Shadow of the Day just as the sun had almost set, with bright orange light streaming from the stage. After they’d finished What I’ve Done, the last song on their first encore, we were getting ready to leave. But the lights hadn’t come back on the stage.

“Two encores?” said Adele with a smile. “How pretentious.”

A few moments later Chester Bennington came back on stage.

“Do you want some more?”

The crowd roared.

“I don’t believe you, I said do you want some fucking more?”

The crowd roared louder.

“What do you want?” asked Mike Shinoda.

Chester takes back over. “Do you want some more LP?”

A roar.

“Or do you want some more JayZ?”

A bigger roar. We all knew what was about to happen.

“Well how about a bit of fucking both.”

And out comes the rap legend and they launch into their 2006 hit Numb/Encore. The crowd erupted. What an end to a gig. They did another song together, before the band closed the night out on Bleed It Out. We were stuck in traffic a bit on the way home. But it was worth it. One of my favourite ever days, and they even released a DVD of the concert, so I can relive it. And I do.

One of my favourite ever days with Adele, Andrew and Alex

Linkin Park did one gig the year after, but I decided to miss it. They hadn’t released any new material and I had seen them tour their last album three times. In 2010, I did go and see Chester Bennington’s side project Dead by Sunrise with Ben, who I had reconnected with in a big way and we had become very close friends once again. I wasn’t in love with Chester’s side project, they were ok, but it was amazing seeing this rock legend at a venue as intimate as the HMV Apollo.

Shortly after that, Linkin Park announced a new album, A Thousand Suns, and a new UK tour. I hadn’t heard the album yet and I still felt I had seen them enough, so I decided to not go to the gig. What a mistake that was.

2010 was a happy year for me. I had become MCV’s deputy editor and I just started seeing someone new. Her name was Carrie-Ann and this one felt special.

A Thousand Suns came out in September that year and it was superb. Not all the fans loved it, but the critics did and the critics were right. The way I had listened to music had changed. iPods were the music device of choice and I would listen to an album, pick my favourite songs, put them in a playlist, and discard the rest. The days of listening to an album like Hybrid Theory over and over and over until I knew ever single word, was at an end. But A Thousand Suns demanded that you listened to all of it. It was almost like one, long, beautifully crafted song. It may well be my favourite Linkin Park album.

Yet I didn’t buy tickets to the tour. Shit. I rushed online, but they had sold out long ago. I had missed the gig. I was kicking myself. I hoped they’d do a festival the next year, and they did… Download again. But this time I was out of the country on work. I was mortified.

And then they announced one final UK date for that tour… at the iTunes Festival. This was a free festival that took place at a tiny venue, the Camden Roundhouse. I had applied to see bands here before, but I always missed out. But in 2011 I had a chance… my friend Mary worked at the Roundhouse. And because she is amazing, she got me a ticket.

This didn’t go entirely smoothly. I was supposed to go away with Carrie-Ann on holiday on the same day of the gig, so I postponed the holiday by a day. Carrie-Ann was upset with me and a few others agreed with her. “You’re going to see a gig, with another girl, when you’re supposed to be going on holiday with your girlfriend? What the devil are you playing at?” But in my head, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I’d never see Linkin Park in a venue this small and playing these songs. I’d regret it if I didn’t.

It was worth the grumpiness, though. Because this gig was another very special one – just like the one in 2008 but in the opposite way. Rather than epic, this was intimate. The most famous moment was when Mike and Chester came out on stage, Mike on the piano and Chester singing, and the two of them covered Rolling In the Deep by Adele (the other Adele). But my personal favourite moment came at the end, when the band played Bleed It Out – a song that often closed their set – and half way through Mike said: “I’m going to take you back ten years, alright?” And then he turned the song, masterfully, into A Place For Your Head. It worked so well. And they played most of my favourite A Thousand Suns tracks. Another brilliant night.

I vowed never to miss a Linkin Park gig again but the band didn’t tour their next album (well, not in the UK). Living Things was a good record, but not quite up there with the classics. I did see the band, oddly, during this period… on stage at a press event talking about a video game.

The next time I saw them was, I’m pleased to say, another special gig. It was Download again in 2014. The band was just about to release their next album, the hard-as-nails The Hunting Party, which is a great heavy rock record – although it got a bit too heavy in places for me. But their Download headline set wasn’t to do with this new release. It would be a special gig dedicated to Hybrid Theory, that original nu-metal classic. Linkin Park vowed to play the whole album (all 30 minutes of it) front to back, without interruption and for each song to be the original version and none of the remixed versions (which they were prone to do).

I went with Adele. This was another exciting period for me, although things were getting more serious and more grown up. I was planning to propose to Carrie-Ann (I would do it six months later), and I had become editor of MCV. I was a boss and, hopefully, a husband. Things were changing.

Adele and I at Download 2014

It was a nice day. Adele was in fine spirits, and the first band I ran into – on the smallest stage – was an interesting little act called 21 Pilots. I bought their album after that. They’re now an international sensation.

Mike, the rapper, couldn’t help but say a few words mid-way through their Hybrid Theory set, and of course they played a load of newer songs once that was done, too. But for 30 minutes I could pretend to be that 16 year-old boy once again, one without the pressures of responsibility, who could spend all day playing Age of Empires and listening to his favourite band, without a care in the world.

I saw Linkin Park another time that very same year, again with Adele, only this time it was The Hunting Party tour. It was a really odd gig. My proposal was imminent and my job was hard. I was feeling stressed. This album was heavy, and the start of the gig was relentless. For the first 45 minutes I let out all my frustration by jumping and screaming the words. But then… then the gig turned into some form of rave. I wanted to get the glow sticks out. I was expecting foam to suddenly spray out from the stage. I realised then that I’d never been to one Linkin Park gig that had felt like another. And I left that night feeling more relaxed than I had done in quite some time.

Linkin Park’s next album arrived just a few months ago. It is the polar opposite to The Hunting Party. It’s a pop record. I’m not sure I like it, although I may change my mind with repeat listens. However, I promised myself I wouldn’t miss another LP tour, and so I didn’t. I went to see them two weeks ago with my friends Jason and Paul Fisher. The pop stuff didn’t go down great, although their collaboration with Stormzy was popular when the UK artist actually joined them on stage. It was the first time that had happened, apparently. Another historic Linkin Park moment.

We went hard at the Linkin Park gig at the O2 two weeks ago

Life is changing again. Everyone is having babies. I am a married man now, perhaps we’ll start a family soon, and I had become a publisher. The days of spending £70 on a Linkin Park gig, one of four gigs I went to that week, was probably coming to an end – even if I refuse to admit it. I even caught myself commenting on how the price of this gig was more than the price of that festival I went to with Amy 14 years ago. I was using phrases like “in my day”… a sure sign of age.

So my friends and I got into the mosh pit. We jumped around, we sung the words to all the songs, we got sweaty and arrived home way past our bedtimes. These moments may not come around all that often in the future, so we’re making them count.

Two weeks later, Chester Bennington is gone, and I start to understand why people feel so heartbroken at the loss of a celebrity.

I didn’t know Chester. But he’d always been there, in the background, singing me some songs. He’d been there when I was the 16 year-old boy that just wanted the cool girl to think he wasn’t a complete nerd. He’d been there on those glorious, sunny festival days when I could just let loose and jump about. He’d been there during the harder times, too, and eased my anxiety as life’s pressures began to pile up.

In Chester, I have not lost someone the same way that his family or friends have. It’s not that kind of grief. Rather, it’s a sadness. That sense of melancholy you get when you remember the times you once had, and realise that you’ll never have them again.

I will miss him.

 

 

 

 

It’s a woman Doctor Who. Someone call the police.

So here we go again. The three stages of a new Doctor Who.

There’s stage 1. The ‘Oh no, no way, that’s not the right person. I’m never watching it again’ stage. It can happen either at the reveal of the new Doctor or, for those more reasonable out there, once the first episode has actually gone out.

Then comes stage 2. Sometimes within the first series, or perhaps series 2, when people realise that the highly experienced BBC creative team may have made a smart choice after all. “I quite like this Doctor,” they’ll say. They’ll pretend it’s because ‘the stories got better’ but they do still miss the old Doctor.

Then, finally, stage 3. The actor has announced he is stepping down. The grief is unmanageable. “But he was the best,” they’ll cry. “Nobody can possible follow him.”

And the cycle repeats.

This time it’s more acute, more pronounced, because this time the next Doctor will be a woman, the brilliant Jodie Whittaker, and Twitter is abuzz with fury and joy.

There are those who have condemned the move as the BBC pandering to the PC brigade. And then there’s those praising the network for doing its bit for diversity (because heaven forbid it was done for creative reasons).

Of course, you can’t escape the inevitable politics that surrounds this, even if we wanted to. And it is a positive message to send out into the world. There are young girls growing up today and seeing women in power, women patrolling the streets, women as doctors and now women as The Doctor. That’s how it should be (only, you know, with fair pay).

“Will I start fancying the character I’ve spent 25 years wanting to be? What does that even say about me? Does anyone have a number for a good psychologist?”

But simultaneously, I can empathise with those on the other side of the fence. Not the sexists, of course, but the traditionalists. In her first interview as the Time Lord(Lady?), Jodie Whittaker told the fans “not to be scared by my gender”, and that’s absolutely the right word: scared. Us hardcore Whovians have a certain connection with The Doctor. Some of us want to be The Doctor (that’s me), some of us want to travel with The Doctor… one of my friends wants to do unspeakable things with The Doctor (she pretty much ranks her Doctors on a hotness scale).

A female Doctor (potentially) changes and challenges that existing relationship. I have no idea how I will feel when Doctor 13 comes stumbling out of the TARDIS. Will I start fancying the character I’ve spent the past 25 years wanting to become? What does that even say about me? Does anyone have a number for a good psychologist?

People, generally, are resistant to change. Change is scary, even for those that seem to embrace it. And for hardcore fans of Doctor Who, a female Doctor is a little bit terrifying.

That’s cool. I understand. But let me try and explain why Jodie Whittaker might actually prove to be the best thing the show has done since it came back in 2005. And why we shouldn’t be scared at all.

For a second, try and leave the gender politics at the door (if you can). Doctor Who is a show about change. Its 54-year existence is entirely down to its ability to evolve and adapt. It changes its writers, its directors, its producers, and even its characters. And next year will be its biggest change in 12 years. Not just in the appointment of Jodie, but also in the arrival of Chris Chibnall.

Chibnall is a different writer to out-going show runner Steven Moffat. Moffat likes his sci-fi, his comedy and his mysteries, and you can see that in his 41 Doctor Who scripts.

Chris has elements of that in his work, too. But he’s heavily into his human drama. I’m not just basing that on his work on the award-winning Broadchurch, but even the Doctor Who he has penned (well, maybe not Dinosaurs on a Spaceship), typically went a little deeper with the characters. Just watch his work on the mini Pond Life episodes, or the heartbreaking P.S. storyboard he wrote (a scene that was intended to air after Amy and Rory ‘die’ in Angels Take Manhattan).

We might expect a bit of that in Doctor Who Series 11, and Whittaker is a great choice if that’s the case. Not just for her beautiful performance as Beth Latimer, the mother of the murdered boy from Broadchurch, but in a lot of her work (watch Adult Life Skills). She can do funny, sad, angry and charming often within the same piece of dialogue, which is a rare skill that has united every actor that has played The Doctor.

But beyond all this speculation, what excites me the most is that I have no idea what the next Doctor Who will be like. Not a clue.  I’m going to get a Doctor that perhaps (by virtue of being a woman) won’t be inspired by one we’ve seen before (Tennant was influenced by Peter Davison, Smith liked Patrick Troughton, while Capaldi is a self-confessed Jon Pertwee fan). And we’re going to get a writer that has the ability to take the show in a completely different direction to his predecessor.

And that’s exciting. Doctor Who remains a brilliant, silly, camp, scary and surprising show. Yet the character is starting to feel a little… familiar. Ideas and tropes are being reused and recycled. Perhaps that’s why the show’s ratings have been taking a slide, maybe we’re all getting just a little bit tired with it all.

“The only thing worse than being shouted at, is not being shouted at”

Yet look a Twitter right now. Look at all that hope and all that anger. A few years ago, I found myself on the receiving end of a social media backlash. A wise journalist friend of mine (who is now a very senior editor at a major entertainment website) told me to embrace it and, paraphrasing Oscar Wilde’s famous line,  “The only thing worse than being shouted at, is not being shouted at”.

In signing Jodie Whittaker, Doctor Who has got people talking about it. Some are excited, some are scared, some are just being unnecessary. Every major news network is covering the story, social media is on fire, nobody can keep up with the comments threads and every journalist is banging on the BBC’s door for that interview.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that the last series didn’t see its ratings fall to their lowest numbers since the reboot.

Doctor Who hasn’t been this interesting in a long time.

I can’t wait to see what happens next.

This series of Doctor Who is proper good

We are almost half-way through the current run of Doctor Who episodes, and I’m enjoying it more than I have since Matt Smith first awkwardly stumbled his way into our hearts (way back in 2010).

That’s not to discredit the efforts of the more recent Doctor Who series. Far from it, the last two Capaldi-led seasons were superb and challenging. They were just also dark, bleak and, at times, even nasty. Let’s not forget, the last series had a companion brutally killed by a raven and then the Doctor spend an entire episode working through his grief (the excellent Heaven’s Sent). The series before that saw Clara’s boyfriend mowed down by a car and the idea that, once you die, you remain conscious and you feel everything – including your cremation.

No wonder it was being aired after the watershed.

What made it harder to watch was The Doctor himself. Capaldi’s Doctor is an angry, uncaring Time Lord. He is no hero (as he was at pains to tell us repeatedly) and he seemed to have more in common with more sociopathic protagonists such as Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock Holmes or Hugh Laurie’s Dr Gregory House.

That characterisation has almost entirely gone for series 10. This year’s Doctor is kindly, thoughtful, heroic… in the last episode, he sacrificed his eyesight to save Bill, and let us never forget the moment he punched that racist in the face. Of course he’s been on a journey over the last two series, but even so, the Doctor we first saw in Deep Breath and the one we have now couldn’t be any different. As a nice illustration of this, in the second 12th Doctor adventure – Into The Dalek (August 2014) – our Time Lord describes Clara as his carer: “she cares so I don’t have to”. In the first episode of this series, The Pilot, The Doctor discovers his new student doesn’t have any pictures of her deceased mum because she didn’t like her picture being taken, so The Doctor pops back in time and takes some photos.

Capaldi’s Doctor is the kindly grandfather, the popular university lecturer that we all wished we had. Even when the show flirts with his darker side – as it did when Bill challenges him over all the deaths he has caused (Thin Ice) – the show quickly positions him back in that hero role.

“Time doesn’t pass. Time is an illusion. And Life is the magician.”

This changes the tone significantly. Make no mistake, this series of Doctor Who is still tragic and scary and dark. We’ve had a child fall through the ice and drown, we’ve had a young lad desperately search for his mum, unaware she had been murdered, and the last episode had a higher body count than the new Alien movie.

But there’s a lightness to it now, a sense of optimism and excitement that was missing from some of the darker series.

This year’s episodes are simpler, too, which helps. I’ve personally enjoyed the convoluted arcs, but they have proven difficult to navigate for some. A few critics have complained that the show had become confusing (which can happen with sci-fi), but it’s also emotionally overwhelming at times. Rewatch Time of the Doctor or Hell’s Bent or Death in Heaven, and you’ll see moments of humour, violence, tragedy and drama play out within minutes of each other. It can be hard to process.

Five episodes in, and that’s not been the case with Doctor Who series 10. The stories have been easy to follow, and often borrow ideas from previous episodes to good effect (the episode ‘Thin Ice’ was pretty much a retread of 2010’s The Beast Below). This series’ episodes have been typical Doctor Who – take something basic and everyday (like a puddle, an emoji, a creaking floor board, a space suit or the river Thames), make it dangerous and then add a dash of The Doctor and a dollop of the companion.

And what a companion. Bill is a triumph, both in performance and writing – and she brilliantly conjures memories of Ace, who was by far the best companion to come out of the 1980s. The fact she’s not white or heterosexual has become an element in this series, and it’s been well handled – a reminder that for all the talk of a female Doctor (which would be awesome), there’s plenty of diversity and equality to discuss within the current run of episodes.

“I know you know lots of stuff about… well, basically everything, but… do you know any sci-fi?”

Yet what I love most about this series’ Doctor Who, is that it’s hopeful. It’s happy. Of course there’s sadness and scares and death – it wouldn’t be Doctor Who without those. But there’s a real sense of adventure, a traditional hero, a relatable companion, comic relief and some mean old enemies that will inevitably get their comeuppance.

Think about it too hard, and you might spot some questionable elements. For instance, the first episode featured sentient fuel that could travel through time and space… what sort of impossible enemy is that? Who programmed the Smile robots to have murderous faces? And shouldn’t we be concerned that Bristol is now full carnivorous cockroaches from space?

Yet those are minor quibbles (and I actually enjoy coming up with the answers myself). Overall, this series has been a beacon of optimism in a TV landscape riddled with misery  (I’m looking at you Game of Thrones and Walking Dead). It’s also become a happy piece of escapism from the reality we find ourselves in today.

“Hunger looks very much like evil from the other end of the cutlery. Do you think your bacon sandwich loves you back?”

As the Doctor avenges the death of a little boy, it shows me that perhaps not everyone is as heartless as our leaders who shut the borders to desperate Syrian children.

As Brexit emboldens the racists in society, I found myself whopping that a prime time TV show had one knocked unconscious.

And in a month where Iain Duncan Smith describes some immigrants (human beings) as ‘low value’, I take real pleasure in hearing these words from our titular Time Lord: “Human progress isn’t measured by industry. It’s measured by the value you place on a life. An unimportant life. A life without privilege. The boy who died on the river, that boy’s value is your value. That’s what defines an age, that’s what defines a species.”

For 45 minutes each week, Doctor Who is giving me hope.

Doctor Who and the recurring storyline

This was a really strong episode of Doctor Who. But hang on… haven’t I seen you before?

WARNING. SPOILERS.

A sequel to Genesis of the Daleks – of sorts. From the moment the child at the start said ‘My name is Davros’ I clapped my hands together in glee. It’s that speech. The one Tom Baker’s fourth Doctor delivers when he asks:

“If someone who knew the future pointed out a child to you and told you that that child would grow up totally evil, to be a ruthless dictator who would destroy millions of lives, could you then kill that child?” We are about to find out what the Doctor would do in that situation (although, surely we know the Doctor would save him… right? Of course he would. I think we’ve worked this character out by now).

It was a barnstorming, relentless, dialogue-driven episode of ideas. There was the Shadow Proclamation. A pub filled with random monsters (because that’s where the Doctor would be if he was hiding, right? In a pub). Mines that are hands with eyes on them. Planes stopped in the sky. Skaro. A bad guy made of snakes. A medieval axe fight with the Doctor playing an electric guitar. On a tank. The Master. The Daleks. All sorts of Daleks. Davros. UNIT.

It was exciting and I was left feeling like I had just witnessed an episode of Game of Thrones, such was my shock and immediate desire to watch the very next episode.

But there were a few things that didn’t sit with me. And maybe you’ll agree.

The first is The Master – or Missy if you’d prefer. I really hate her. Not Michelle Gomez, oh no, she’s scene stealing. But the character. I’ve always wanted The Doctor to beat the baddies, but I’ve never wanted him to maliciously bludgeon one to death with his History of the Time War book.

I know I’m supposed to hate her, she’s a baddie. But I feel she’s unnecessarily nasty for what is, really, a kids TV show. There is an entire essay to write on death in Doctor Who, and the role it plays and how it is presented. I am not going to write it here. But that scene where Missy destroys those guards and gloats about how one of them was married and had a new born child was vindictive, sadistic and unlike any other villain in the show. Missy’s murder of Osgood remains the most horrible thing from the previous series. Not because it was the death of a beloved character, but because there was no reason for it, and it was followed by: “Aww, she was so scared, it was classic!”

This was the same. Missy randomly killing people just to prove to Clara that she’s still a twat. And then a few minutes later she’s partnering with the Doctor, dancing with him, and I think, I think, we were supposed to be upset by her extermination. Really? Because quite frankly, it was just too clean for my liking. I’d rather she was left alone in a field full of hand mines, who are prepared to drag her underground so she can suffocate.

The other issue, and this is the biggest one, is that I’ve seen this episode before. Well no, I haven’t. But what’s this? Daleks from all eras of Doctor Who? It’s Asylum! The Doctor has a Last Will and Testament disc thingy, another secret to go alongside that other secret he had (you know, the one that featured a Doctor that looked distinctly like John Hurt). He’s going to die, preparing for his death, and there’s nothing you can do. Just like in Series 6. or Name of the Doctor or Time of the Doctor. In fact, I think this is the third or fourth time Clara has witnessed the Doctor go to his ‘certain death’. If I was her I’d just go: “Blah, blah blah, get on with it, and I’ll see you back at mine for tea.”

Oh and Clara the know-it-all is finally starting to irritate me. Perhaps the end of last series should have been it for her.

I did absolutely love The Magician’s Apprentice. I just felt I had been here before. And in a show which can go anywhere and do anything, I’m not sure we should be retreading previous ground quite so much.

Upon saying that, this is a two-parter. That Last Will and Testament will probably turn out to be some MacGuffin that saves the day, rectifies whatever it is the Doctor did, makes Davros shake his metal fit screaming ‘DOCTOR’, all while Missy twirls her umbrella and disappears into the night’s sky, accutely aware she had failed once again.

Or something.

Chapter 9

My legs don’t do mornings. My eyes would be wide open, staring at the spider webs that appeared on my ceiling overnight, my mind was almost always filled with hope and anticipation for the new day and my ears would be listening intently for anyone who may have got up before me. But my legs… my legs won’t move an inch. I can appreciate their defiance in some respects, after all the daily ritual of standing in a shower and cycling to the bus for university requires very little from my eyes, ears or brain. My legs, however, know that those two miles will have to be cycled by them and so it’s understandable that they would resist at least a little.

Today was a proving a little worse than usual. For starters it was six thirty two on a Sunday morning and not even my eyes were convinced that this was a good time to be awake. It was also very cold and very dark, and my legs were using those factors to their advantage. But no lazy limb was going to prevent me getting out of bed, because today was the day I start my community service, and I was not going to be late.

Well, it’s actually not called community service anymore. Official government guidelines stated it would now be referred to as ‘unpaid work’, but I couldn’t see that catching on.

I had very little notion of what to expect from today. I didn’t look like your typical criminal and I imagined that I would appear distinctly out-of-place amongst my fellow unpaid workers. I would be the nerd in the group, what with my spectacles and my love of using the English language correctly. I feared I wouldn’t get on with my colleagues (I guess that’s what I should call them. Either that or ‘criminals’). I hoped I wouldn’t get picked on. It felt like I was going back to secondary school.

Although this was my first official day of unpaid work, I had actually already knocked a few hours off my punishment by attending a ‘health and safety’ video briefing in Cambridge one evening the week prior.

The appointment was scheduled for 6pm in this small building behind the Cambridge Police Station. It looked more like a house than a place of work, and I had walked past it twice before I realized what it was. Not that it mattered, I had given myself well over an hour to find it.

We were well into October now and the first signs of winter were beginning to show. The trees looked bare, the days had grown shorter and the air was chill. The light from the property was welcoming, and when I opened the outer-door I could already feel the warmth emanating from within.

Once inside I was greeted by a small, cosy reception area, complete with waiting room and a variety of literature that was designed to encourage the various delinquents that must sit here to learn key skills and get themselves out of crime. There were leaflets on drugs and knives and all sorts of things that had very little to do with me.

The room was entirely empty and I stood in the middle, staring at the various police posters that lined the walls. The reception desk was hidden behind a perspex window in the wall, with a small grate so that visitors could speak to whoever was beyond it. It looked more like something you’d see in a bank, but I guess it was a vital security measure to protect staff from an unruly transgressor. I approached the window and waited a few moments before a disgruntled woman appeared, who must have been in her early 30s.

“Hello, what can I do for you?” she said surprised to find someone.

“Hi,” I said with a friendly smile. She seemed cross to see me, and I had long since discovered the best (and most amusing) way to deal with unhappy people is to be overly friendly. They really don’t like it. “I am here for a health and safety briefing.”

“You’re early.”

“I am.”

“It’s not scheduled to take place for another 25 minutes.”

“I know. I must be eager.” I said, my grin never leaving my face.

“Ok,” she sighed. “What’s your name.”

I gave her all my details and she checked her list.

“Right. I guess you can take a seat. I will call you when we’re ready to go through. It’s a long wait though.”

“That’s fine,” I responded. “I am pretty sure I spotted a potentially riveting leaflet on cocaine, so there’s plenty to keep my occupied.”

She looked at me blankly for a few seconds and then walked off..

She was right, I was unnecessarily early, but I’d much rather this than be late. I sat down and continued to scan the room, which didn’t offer much inspiration. I checked my phone before contemplating which leaflet to read, before someone else entered the room from the cold world outside.

This guy looked in his early 20s or late teens, but his appearance and demeanor was the polar opposite to me. Where I was wearing a blazer and a shirt, he had jogging bottoms, a dark blue hoody and a baseball cap set slightly askew on his head. He walked with a distinct lollop. My girl friends would describe such a gentleman as a ‘chav’, although I never really understood what that meant.

“Hello,” he said loudly at the window. The glum receptionist soon returned, although this time I wouldn’t blame her for having an attitude problem.

“Here for anger management,” he said.

“Ok, what’s your name.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Are you Paul?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. It was like watching an Harry Enfield caricature of a teenage boy.

“Ok. We’ll be with you in just a moment.”

The receptionist left and Paul’s mobile phone rang.

“What?” he said to the person on the other end of the line.

He listened for a few moments.

“She’s done what?”

Another pause.

“You tell her… not, actually, don’t say anything. I am going to kill her. And fuck him up. Seriously, what a total twat.” He was getting progressively louder. “She thinks she can get away with this shit… that’s it. I am going to smash them up.”

He was pacing by the door to the outside world and slammed his hands against the frame. I stared down at a leaflet about abuse, hoping not to catch his eye.

“Right, when I’m done here, she’s for it, and he is. Seriously, and you better not be bullshitting me.” He hung up the phone. The receptionist had returned to her desk a few moments earlier and nervously said: “If you’d like to go through the door there and down the corridor, it’s the second door on the left.”

He didn’t say anything, he just flung open the door she had pointed to and left. I looked at the receptionist: “Think he might need more than one appointment.”

She cracked a smile. Success.

20 minutes later and I was seated in a small room with an old CRT TV and a VHS player. I was placed in front of a stern middle-aged man in a suit, who looked exactly like someone who would be involved with health and safety. I was in the meeting alongside two other troublesome sorts, one lad who belligerently spent his entire time on his mobile and a girl that kept asking pointless questions such as: “Why do I need to be here?” Which succeeded in nothing more than lengthening our time in the room. A fourth criminal was either late or had just not turned up and was instantly put on report. One more failure and he would be back in front of a judge. This was why I was early.

After an introduction as to why we were there, our teacher – if that’s what he was – put in a video, pressed play and then stood at the back of the room. Just like a real teacher.

I am sure there was a time when health and safety videos were actually useful, and not just a string of useless advice designed primarily to protect the employer/Government from any legal action.

“Be careful not to fall over uneven ground.”

“Try not chop your leg off with an axe.”

“Do not start a fire near flammable material.”

Actually that last one would have been quite useful.

That was it. A video and then home. That had been my community service experience to-date. So as I got out of bed a few days later, quietly so not to wake my parents, I couldn’t help but feel anxious about my first full day giving back to society.

It was a crisp, cold morning and I cycled the 15 minutes from my home to the Market Square in St Neots. There was a smattering of cars around the square, a couple of people heading to work, and one mini-bus parked bang in the middle of the square That must be it, I thought, and I approached cautiously to see two men standing outside the bus smoking. I wasn’t sure how to introduce myself but I didn’t need to.

“Are you here for community service?” asked a man who I would later discover was the leader, Paul. He was of average build, about mid-40s, and with thinning blonde hair. He wore a paint stained blue jumper and torn jeans. He also always called it community service, despite the official guidelines.

“Yes,” I said, trying not to seem out-of-place. I was wearing my old Green Day hoodie, which was just black with a white logo, and grey jogging bottoms that I borrowed off my Dad. I didn’t think my typical suit jacket, shirt and jeans combo was sensible attire for manual labour. I also didn’t think my ‘geek chic’ efforts would go down particularly well with the sort of people I was expecting to work with.

“Great. Hop on. We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes.”

The other gentleman – a thin man of indiscernible age who wore a fishing hat and a green anorak – simply nodded at me as I walked on. I would later discover his name was Tom, and would become the teller of the most bullshit stories I’ve ever heard. Which were nevertheless always entertaining.

That was ok, I thought. I had tried to read their reactions to me, but they didn’t seem that fussed. I was just another guy to them. I walked onto the mini-bus. There was only one other on it at this point, a young guy with short dark hair, dressed all in black. He was listening to music on his iPod and didn’t acknowledge me, or anyone else for that matter. I didn’t take it personally.

I sat on the backseat and in the corner. I wanted to go unnoticed and for it to stay that way until I was dropped off again. Could I blend into the background and be left entirely alone for six months? I hoped so.

More people piled on the bus over the course of the next ten minutes, and it soon filled up. There was a young blonde woman who kept telling the leader that she ‘can’t be doing any physical labour because of her condition’… whatever that was. Then there was a short, elderly man who looked at least 65. There was another chap who I instantly recognised from my local pub, and who was known for being a bit lecherous. I wasn’t surprised to see him sit next to the young lady. Then a bald, well-built man who was covered in piercings got on. He barely said a word and had the look of someone who could kill a man just by staring at him.

His name was Lloyd. I found this out because of the next person who got on the bus.

“Oi, Lloyd you bald bastard. Cheer up. Are you hungover or something?” yelled the young man, followed by a distinctive cackle. The question was a rhetorical one because clearly he already knew the answer.

“Two pints and a few shots of JD is all it takes to bring this one down. Don’t let the piercings fool you,” he told the rest of the bus.

The boy was named Ricky. He looked younger that Lloyd but they were clearly close friends. It was an odd partnership, because Ricky was the opposite to the big guy in almost every way. He had a head full of hair, he was scrawny and, most significantly, he was loud.

“You do like to talk don’t you Ricky,” said Tom, who was seated in the passenger seat of the bus.

“You love me Tom. I know it. I saw you looking at me as I got on with your filthy fisherman eyes. You want me.”

Ricky was clearly the class clown who liked to draw attention to himself and others. He was the last thing I needed. I kept my head low, hoping he wouldn’t notice me.

“Hey we have a new one.”

Balls, I thought. Ricky jumped into the seat in front of me and got a little too close to my face for comfort. He then looked to my left to see the lad listening to his iPod.

“Actually we have two new ones. But he’s being anti-social. What are you here for?”

I hesitated for a moment, which gave Ricky a good chance to keep talking.

“No, let me guess. I love to guess. You look like you have at least a couple of brain cells. I can tell because of the glasses. Hmmm. Tax dodging? Nah, that’s too serious for community work. Computer hacking. Did you hack some bird’s webcam and watch her get undressed? You filthy bastard.”

I laughed. Well, I didn’t really laugh, I pretended to. I felt that is what he wanted.

“No come on spectacles. Tell me. What did you do? What brings you to our little family?”

“Erm… Arson,” I replied.

Ricky slumped back in his chair and fell silent for a moment. A few others on the bus were listening in and seemed equally surprised by my answer.

“Fucking hell mate. I’m not messing with you. What’s your name?”

“Chris.”

“Nah, Chris is too boring. For now on I’m going to call you Arson. Ha, I can’t believe we have an arsonist on our team. How cool is that?” He then slumped back on his seat.

I smiled. This time it was genuine. The next six months might not be so bad after all.

REVIEW: Doctor Who: Last Christmas – a story built on a lie

If you’ve not watched the Christmas Doctor Who, do so right this bloody minute.

I wasn’t completely infatuated with this Christmas’ Doctor Who, at least not as much as other critics.

Its monster was both a rip-off of the Facehugger from Alien (which it gamely acknowledges) and the headcrab from Half-Life (which it doesn’t). The story was pretty much Inception, but with Father Christmas. There were a few big emotional moments and a lot of talking. In fact, the episode primarily consisted of the Doctor standing around, realising he was dreaming, and waking up.

Upon saying that, it was entertaining. It had the happy ending I was so craving after the end of series 8. The episode didn’t seem to have any real holes in it (Moffat actually explained things this time around. Repeatedly). It saw The Doctor finally at ease in himself and comfortable with his love for Clara. It was a genuine Christmas special that the whole family could enjoy, and it was proper scary in places, too. Oh and Nick Frost was great, wasn’t he great?

But that’s not what I want to talk about. It was a decent sci-fi festive thriller with a smattering of comedy that worked well as an epilogue to series 8. I get that. Let’s talk about the ending. Because that was far more interesting.

THERE’S A HORROR MOVIE NAMED ALIEN?
THAT’S REALLY OFFENSIVE.

The conclusion to Last Christmas was built on a lie.

Allow me to behave like that smarmy ‘told you so’ git for a moment, but I knew Jenna Coleman was going to stick around. The whole thing felt orchestrated. From The Mirror’s original story about  her leaving, to the dodged questions at Q/A briefings… to the latest Doctor Who magazine, which advertises its January issue as featuring Jenna Coleman reflecting ‘on her time as Clara Oswald’… which sounds an awful lot like a final interview, without explicitly saying it. Oh, and the Christmas episode was called Last Christmas, how clear does Moffat need to be? We were all being told what to expect from this episode. The clues were all there.

But I still didn’t believe it. Moffat has made a bit of a big deal about trying to mislead fans in recent months. He told people The Master would not be returning earlier this year, only to bring him/her back. He got Michelle Gomez to mouth ‘Rani’ in one of her takes to trick fans into thinking that she was playing that villain. The BBC announced Doctor Who was filming in Lanzarote to make people think he was doing a sequel to Planet of Fire – he wasn’t. So when The Mirror ran a story about Coleman leaving my instinct was to disbelieve it, it seemed like one of those other leaks. A trick.

Also, the BBC tends to announce when people are leaving. It generates excitement for the episode. That’s what the firm did for Amy/Rory and Matt Smith and David Tennant… why not Coleman? In fact, the BBC announced who would be returning, and left Coleman out of it. Neither confirming or denying that Christmas would be her final episode.

Finally, the series arc about Clara understanding and accepting The Doctor, while The Doctor discovers who he is with her by his side… was that really going to come to an abrupt end in one Christmas special? It didn’t seem right. And as it turns out, it wasn’t.

Yet even though I didn’t believe this was going to be Clara’s swan song, quite a few others did. What’s more significant is that the episode played on this. When Clara emerged as an 88 year-old woman, there was the rumour confirmed. She was leaving. She was going to die. She got old. We even had a reverse of that tragic cracker-pulling scene from last year’s Time of the Doctor. It was all very sad.

And then oh, no, it was another Dream Crab scene. You all thought Clara was leaving but she isn’t. And then came the ending. The Doctor and Clara will return. Yay.

But think about that for a moment. The entire ‘twist’ was not built-up within the series. It was built up outside of it. The whole shock wasn’t created by clever writing, but from lies. We had been misled and, quite frankly, that’s cheating.

THESE ARE CHRISTMAS HATS. I’VE SEEN
PEOPLE USE THEM. YOU PUT THEM ON AND
ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING SEEMS FUNNY.

Or was it. I once interviewed a marketing man who works in games. He was in charge of promoting titles like Skyrim and Dishonored and he told me he always got the development team to help him make the campaign.

He explained to me that the reason for this is because the marketing is the first time a gamer will experience the game. He says when they watch that trailer, see that screenshot, look at the box art… that’s when they first experience the game. Not when they start playing it. And therefore the creators have to be involved in making sure the marketing fits in with what they’re trying to do.

The same is fundamentally true of Last Christmas. We first experienced Last Christmas not yesterday, or at the end of series 8 when Father Christmas turned up. But when The Mirror ran in August that: ‘Doctor Who’s Jenna-Louise Coleman quits role as Time Lord’s assistant and will leave at Christmas’.

Whether or not Coleman’s reported departure was a deliberate leak from the BBC, or something that genuinely might of happened, or a mis-informed source.. it doesn’t matter. The papers will have you believe that secondary ending was added on last minute because Jenna ‘changed her mind’. I don’t believe that, but regardless, it doesn’t matter. We were given our first glimpse into December 25th’s Doctor Who on August 16th in the national press. And that was played upon by the BBC and by Moffat and by Coleman.

Could this be the future of TV? Back when The Matrix sequels came out, we were treated to a ‘transmedia strategy’ where there were Matrix video games and anime that all tied-in with the films. It was designed to build The Matrix up via different entertainment mediums to create a bigger world. The Matrix didn’t really succeed in this, and you’ll discover more transmedia failures that successes. But there’s been a few that have worked. Star Wars and Alien are notable ones, but for us, Doctor Who has been a phenomenal success. Video games aside (they’ve mostly been awful), Doctor Who has successfully transitioned into books, online side-stories, cartoons, comics and audio plays. Where else is there for it to go? Is it in the newspapers with misleading stories that will influence the television we end up watching? Is it via clever tweets that are designed to trick us or lead us down a certain road?

I don’t know. But the ‘lie’ of Last Christmas was in my mind the most interesting thing about the episode.

What did you think?

Doctor Who: The Caretaker – Low-key mid-season adventure delivers laughs and shouting

It could so easily have been Waterloo Who or Grange Hill with Robots. Instead, The Caretaker was a well-written character piece that really pushed the series forward, albeit with a forgettable villain.

Before reading on, make sure to watch the episode here.

I quite like Doctor Who scribe Gareth Roberts. Not for his middling Closing Time episode from series 6, nor for the frankly terrible Planet of the Dead. But for The Lodger, one of my all-time favourite Matt Smith episodes that took The Doctor out of the TARDIS and placed him undercover as a real human in a flat.

So the fact that this episode, The Caretaker, places our time-travelling hero in a similar situation (in the role of the titular caretaker) was enough to get me salivating. Yet for the central similarity, this episode was a very different experience to The Lodger.

Let’s get the big criticism out of the way – the alien threat. It was always secondary to the main thrust of this episode (The Doctor/Danny/Clara triangle that we will come onto in a moment), much in the same way that the mystery in The Lodger was also secondary to the main arc of that story. But here there’s little mystery, no intrigue. The alien robot thing was nothing but your basic bad guy that looked as if it had been pulled from any generic sci-fi video game.

The ending was also somewhat of an anticlimax. After all the build up to Danny somehow saving the day, what that amounted to was the former soldier jumping over the robot. Surely the writers (and Moffat was involved in this, too) could have come up with something a little more dramatic. But if they did want to go down the simplistic route, why not have Danny simply walk up behind the robot (or the Skovox Blitzer, to give it its real name, which is actually quite a cool name) and pull out a wire to turn it off. It would have both been more amusing and would also gloriously undermine The Doctor’s unnecessarily complex plan.

Anyway. Those are my grumbles. Because this was actually a decent mid-season adventure, that sets up what we can expect from the remaining six episodes. Not just from Clara, Danny and The Doctor, but there was also a lovely sinister reminder of Missy and her Nethersphere (featuring a surprising and entertaining turn from Chris Addison).

“Why do I keep you around?”
“Because the alternative would be developing a conscience of your own.”

My early concern about this series of Doctor Who is that The Doctor is being kept from us. His true nature and character is a bit unsteady and we’re not quite sure what to make of him. In contrast, we knew exactly what sort of Doctor we had with Matt Smith from the moment he started eating fish fingers and custard.

But I no-longer have these concerns. I find myself eagerly tuning in to each week to see what valuable insight I will get into Capaldi’s Doctor. I can’t keep my eyes off him. I do not know what he will do next.

He’s also funny. In exactly the opposite way Matt Smith was funny. He’s funny in a – and oh god I’m going to actually say it – Malcolm Tucker sort-of-way. He’s an arse, an absolutely brilliant, funny arse.

“Clara, you look lovely today.  Have you had a wash?” said The Doctor in a moment of sort-of niceness. “Why are you being nice?” says a skeptical Clara. “Because it works on you.”

Once Danny is revealed to The Doctor as a soldier, The Doctor continually, and belligerently, refers to him as a PE Teacher. “I’m not a PE teacher, I’m a maths teacher,” protests Danny. The Doctor responds, “Nope, sorry.  No, I can’t retain that.  I’ve tried, it’s just not going in.”

Upon The Doctor meeting Courtney, Danny and Clara’s disruptive pupil, the young student calls The Doctor ‘weird’.  “What about you?” responds The Doctor “I’m a disruptive influence,” she quips. The Doctor gets temporarily enthusiastic: “Good to meet you. Now get lost.”

There are countless moments like this. All of them brilliant (except maybe the bit where he climbs up the ladder and corrects Clara in front of her class) and genuinely funny.

Of course, that was before he turned into a full-on arse.

“But he’s a PE teacher.  You wouldn’t go out with a PE teacher.  It’s a mistake.  You’ve made a boyfriend error.”

The Doctor’s prejudice against soldiers rears its head again and sees young Danny Pink come under his judgmental gaze.

It is quite a brave move by the writers to present our hero in such a way. There were times when Moffat tried to portray The Eleventh Doctor in a negative light, but he usually failed because Smith was awkward and lovely. You couldn’t help by root for him.

Capaldi is a stern figure, and when he turns into the fierce patriarch during his discover of Clara and Danny’s relationship, you can’t help by feel for our two humans. “Well, you’ve explained me to him. You haven’t explained him to me,” he says in a ‘Just you wait until you get home’ sort-of-way.

It’s a brave move because you suddenly find yourself rooting for Danny, not The Doctor. In the scene in the TARDIS, when Danny takes off his invisibility watch and confronts our Time Lord, I found myself enjoying the maths teacher’s intelligent comebacks. The Doctor doesn’t like soldiers, but Danny doesn’t like officers, and that’s exactly how Danny views him.

“Never lose your temper in the middle of a door sign.”

Of course the Doctor/Danny showdown would be nothing without the person they’re fighting over, and once again Clara was brilliant. She is ultimately caught between two stubborn fools, and she struggles with playing mediator. Clara indulges The Doctor’s disagreeable behavior, aware that fighting against it would be a fruitless task, while Danny stands for none of it. And the looks of exasperation and disappointment on her face are wonderful. Jenna Coleman is more than Capaldi’s equal in the acting stakes once again.

We can expect to see more Doctor/Danny sparring in the future, of course. And it’ll be fascinating to watch the dynamic between these two develop. Because come the closing credits, I found myself cross with The Doctor AND Danny. Clara admits her love for her new boyfriend, only for him to ignore it. And the last scene sees Danny force Clara to promise him to confide in him about The Doctor’s behaviour: “If you break that promise, Clara, we’re finished,” he says, justifying his threat by saying he only wants to help her.

What delightful misogyny. I think you’ll find, young Daniel, that Clara is more than capable of helping herself.