Hello Wordpretzels, sorry about the last couple of weeks, but things have been a bit deranged and my mojo was required elsewhere. Whatever that means.
Anyway, life has continued as usual at Randall Towers. I had a great story about attending an after drinks party with The Boomtown Rats. A week after seeing Johnny Rotten. But the moment has passed, just like the moment I had to speak to Sir ****ing Bob Geldof before he retired to his hotel room. No photo. No chat. No interesting blog.
I could go on about my training for The Brighton Marathon, but it’s not until April 2014 and I’d bore the tits off you if I started now. To be honest, I’ve nearly worn out my tits on long runs; more Vaseline. Or a bra. Something to stop my nipples withering up and dying.
Anyway, the boring running blogs will start in earnest nearer to Christmas time. Don’t worry, they’ll all start with the title ‘The Running Spaceman’, so you have chance to avoid them. However, I will try my best not to make them too nerdy and I’m sure you would all love to laugh at my expense. Or maybe yours, as I gradually crank up the pressure and guilt to make you contribute to Cancer Research, the charity I’m running for. Sorry? You want the link? Of course:
I’m not even going to go on about the (almost) voluntary work I do. It’s great fun. Where else would you find somebody asking you this question? :
” How do I stop my son from eating his own poo?”
Any answers are welcome in the comments section of my blog. I went for the safe option and said just tell him that it tastes like cabbage and is good for him.
Anyhow. The main point of this blog. Which has a title and everything. Wordpretzels, today is the 50th anniversary of the children’s science fiction programme Dr Who. Of course, these days, it’s not regarded as a children’s programme. The last 50 years has seen the evolution of the kidult. When my dad was my age, he spent Saturday nights in a shirt, tie and suit, or if going casual, shirt, tie and v neck pullover. I spend Saturday nights in a hoody, which I believe is an offence in the eyes of the fashion police.
So there’s a special programme tonight called ‘Day of the Doctor’ which is on at the same time as … X Factor. Well, comrades, tonight, X Factor can do one. I’m watching all the doctors together whilst Shouty Sideshow Bob and his mates prance about on the other side. (Channel, I mean. They’re not dead).
I can actually remember watching the first doctor, Wiilliam Hartnell. Yes, I’m that old. I remember the fuss when Patrick Troughton took over. Then Jon Pertwee made the doctor dashing and sexy. Then there was the sidekick (Jo?) who stripped off and posed with a dalek.
I never thought I was a Dr Who fan, but looking back, it obviously had a big effect on me. I fell in love with Leela (Louise Jameson), the cave woman side kick. I spent several months trying to find girls who looked like her. This must have been just before my ‘find a girl who looks like Kate Bush’ phase.
As time passed, Dr Who became less interesting. The bloke from ‘All Creatures Great and Small’ did it for a while. Eventually, Sylvester McCoy came along and completely destroyed it. He wasn’t funny. He wasn’t interesting. He just went through the motions of playing Dr Who without any real conviction or feeling. An X Factor Dr Who, I suppose.
But then, a whole generation of kidults brought it back. Russell T Davies reinvented him. Christopher Ecclestone. David Tennant. Matt Smith. Success.
So tonight, I’m having a pleasant steak dinner with the family and sitting back to watch ‘The Day of the Doctor.’ I can hear the creak of Darth Cowell’s leather gloves as he clenches his fist in frustration, circling the Earth in the Cowell Death Star.
Is this a good time to tell you I missed the entire last series of Dr Who with Matt Smith?