Et In Arcadia Ego

I was bad. But I have excuses. Some mood music, I think:



I've been mean about vintage/charity before, and stand by what I said. When Hollywood and New Look borrow an older style, their replica with modern materials and slick lines will be superior to the drab drapes people actually wore. 50s dresses are a bit like Jack's London I keep talking about, the London of the mind with gaslights and sewers. It sort of existed. But the replica is based on the myth, not the reality. And replica 50s dresses and films are based on those perfect housewife pictures, the idealised mythic women from the past, not as they actually were. So I am bemused where those people who just pop into Oxfam and find intense bargains actually go, because looking at the vintage shops in Camden, I'm amazed how drab and nasty it all is. I suppose you need an eye for possibilities and experimentation, an eye that I, wearing my 6th generation plain-white-clingy-long-sleeved-top, just don't have. Calypso seems to have a talent for it, so it is possible. My thrift shop talents lie in other directions, being able to scan a booksection in under a minute for the "W" word.

So I was amazed to find a genine 50s dress in Camden which was very much of its era, while being nice enough to wear in ours. It's just lovely. It's a dream dress, in the same way my green prom dress was a dream dress. I'm still amazed that I managed to find something so in line with my ideal. But while the green thing appealed to my inner elf, there's a part of me which would prefer to sit by the jukebox in puppy love with Elvis and the Beach Boys. It's pink and silky (probably not real sink), fits perfectly, has a petticoat underneath, and bows up the back.

Last night, we went to a midnight showing of Blade Runner. At an IMAX.









>>It suprised me how violent it was. It always does. Particularly Tyrell's death, which is just unpleasant. I don't mind Pris' so much, because it really reenforces Deckard's response - his sickened "make it stop, make it stop", and he shoots her again and again, and she still won't stop moving. You have to experience the total horror of death with him. That's fine, but Tyrell's I can't watch. It's because I'm used to Director's Cut, which I've seen maybe three or four times, which is a lot tamer - doing some research, Final Cut, which I only saw for the second time tonight, replaces violence which was originally cut. This will explain why I was recently so amazed. I was very young when I first saw it, see, and had never thought of it as a vicious movie.

>>Movie censorship nerd that I am, I was unhappy to learn the MPAA are now treating cigarettes like any other drug. Context (i.e. is it set in the past, where smoking was universal?), message (good or bad?) and how it is presented (is it the villains smoking, or the glamorous heroes?) will be taken into account, and rated higher accordingly. I support this decision to an extent - I mean, Mr Blonde in Reservoir Dogs, Marla Singer in Fight Club, I can't deny they make smoking very damn cool. I think the distinction is that Mr Blonde also makes torture and murder look damn cool, that movies glamourise plenty of things that suck in real life. Even suffering. But audiences are stupid en masse and need to be helped, so I appreciate chopping it from films will reduce the number of smokers.

At the same time - what a loss! In this film, look at the gorgeousness all that smoke results in. This is exactly why it's being banned, because Rachel makes smoking look very sexy - but the plain fact stands, that it is nice to watch attractive things. And from an acting perspective! Do you smoke cigarettes, cigars, pipes, roll-your-owns? Do you crush it underfoot, or stub it nervously out? Smoke rings? In the Godfather, something terrifying happens. Michael's companion tries to light a cig but his hand is shaking too much for the lighter. Michael lights it for him, and then notes that his own hands are fine, that he's entirely calm. It's an important moment. What of lighting a cigarette in your mouth, then passing it to your object of desire?

Obviously, smoking is not so ubiquitous today as it was, so many of these are already falling out of the language of cinema. Still, all things should be within the artist's scope, and this new ruling will mean smoking is effectively banned in mainstream film. Socially, this is good. Artistically, it's appalling, and I'm ashamed to admit which of those two I rank higher.

>>Unfortunately, the audience had a really high bastard count. The guy with long legs who kept kicking Calypso's seat. The guy snoring next to Spirita. The group in front who were ten minutes late, and the usher who insisted they get exactly the seats they'd booked: sorry, but if you miss the start, the people who were there on time have the right to pinch your seats, and you should have the decency to sit wherever you can find as quietly as possible. Not disrupt everyone more than already.

Today, Rosencrantz and I walked home. From the Strand. To Hampstead.



It all started when we couldn't decide to take the bus or tube. Tube was fast, but underground and the day was gorgeous; and the bus was tiresomely slow. So armed with a map, we walked.

Brilliant! Took about an hour and a half, which is virtually the same length as the bus would have. It didn't feel like a long time, though, and I didn't feel even remotely tired at the end. We went up Holborn, crossed Russel Square, had a very tense trip through the UCL territory, and finally traversed Regents Park.





Luckily, we brave KCl students did not run into any members of the rival UCL gang

The weather is just exciting at the moment, as are the flowers. I'm a happy-hippy. But Regents Park is lame. Just tired, and fed up. As parks go, quite appalling, especially one as famous as Regents Park. We were particularly scornful of the lake, at which Rosencrantz provided some impromptu Seuss:

I do not like this lake at all
I do not like in spring or fall



I do not like the lake I view
I do not like this lake, do you?

I may try the walk more often, because it is no slower than taking the bus, it's healthier, it allows me to enjoy the sun and the city, and I'm starting to become more of a health freak anyway.

We're about to go off for tea in Ping Pong, then watch Blade Runner at the IMAX. I can't define, in parent-friendly words, how...how...it's going to be.

Finally, Percy Bysse Shelley stated his reasons for becoming a vegetarian was he never wanted to involve himself in anything he coulnd't write a beautiful poem about. It's positively the most inspiring motive for life I've heard in quite some time. Ignoring the fact I can't write a beautifuul poem about anything, I am going to adopt it.

26th February is a bad day.

I can't quite remember why. All I know is that Thursday, 26th February is a date fixed in my memory as bad.

Perhaps because it was 26th, perhaps because I knew it was, perhaps because it was a dark moon yesterday, or because I stayed up too late, perhaps for some completely disconnected reason, yesterday wasn't so good.

I'd been planning on attending feminist lectures in the evening, but decided I neither wanted to hang about on the Strand for several hours, feeling rougher and rougher, nor go home and come back, so I decided to take the entire afternoon off. I didn't have any lessons, but I decided not to do any work either, which was pleasantly liberating.

In addition, I took out time to visit Swiss Cottage Library. Here are the spoils:

• London: A Biography - because I'm turning into an avowed London nerd. The best thing I've ever learnt from Doctor Who was that there used to be a menagerie in the Exchange building on the Strand. I remember it every time I bus down there. I'd like to learn more, and this book runs like chatting with the most well informed gossip in the city. It's larger than Gormenghast, and plays out in short three-page chapters, excellent for dipping in. So there'll be one about examples of graffiti. One about those-eccentric-people-you-see-every-day-until-one-day-they-just-vanish. Funny that's a phenomenon not only shared by other people now, but other people throughout time. As if to confirm the anecdotal nature of the book, in this chapter P.A. lists his own eccentrics he regularly saw in the 80s as the modern example. In a book this chatty, it even seems fitting - his perceptions are as valid as anyone else.



• The London Underworld - nope, not out of my Jack the Ripper phase yet. But officially, I'm facthunting to make Lord M.'s novel more accurate. Did you know that Newgate Gaol was burnt down in 1780? Which is funny, because we're sure that we burnt it down in my unresearched fiction. The years don't quite tally up, it's true - I think we torched the place in about 1800 - but the coincidence is still creepy.



• Road to Perdition - the graphic novel, greedily devoured in an hour and a half, and quite splendid. It was a really nice readable size - A5 - and the art was lovely. Even if you couldn't always tell who was shooting who in the vicious bits. Although you can usually work it out - was Mike Sullivan as much of a one-man-massacre in the film? In which I adored Paul Newman, Jude Law, Stanley Tucci, Daniel Craig - the extras, and crime-epic trappings which fill in the corners of the story. But couldn't care about the father-son story at the centre. In the graphic novel, I heartily enjoyed both, and their story moved me far more than in the film. Where my tears were mostly for the great Newman. He just soars.


• Doctor Who: The Eyeless - the 90s book range had several total darlings, whose feet are still regularly kissed wherever you go. Lance Parkin is among them, and he's certainly my favourite author of the lot - having written Cold Fusion, Dying Days and Just War. Books which, frankly, just show you how it's done. Naturally everyone's been anticipating his Tenth Doctor novel with baited breath, and even snob-fans who criticise the new series books for being aimed at children (What, for a children's show?! Call the mayor!) despite never having read one, have been descending in their droves to read it. It's also interesting because he's companion-free, on his own, and also because Mr. Parkin has been keeping a great blog about the writing process. Am I excited? Well, I did go to the library soley to find this book, although I'm having difficulty getting past the first page. The TARDIS lands. I've read some 30 Doctor Who novels now, and I am seriously bored of the wheezings, groanings, ancient-light, rip-in-spacetime, blue-box descriptions of the damn thing landing. Every author tries to do it in an exciting, arty fashion, and none succeed save in Matrix last week. They successfully wrote it from the point of an innocent onlooker, and actually managed to make the experience terrifying for the reader. Genius! Do it well, or just typed "The TARDIS landed" please.


• Velvet Goldmine soundtrack - because it is awesomes.


Smoothies and Shakes and Power Juices - last night, Calypso and I almost made a great smoothie. It was good enough to sell, certainly. But it was the sort you'd buy and think "OK, but disappointing". Two oranges, two strawberries, half a lime, lemonade, ginger wine, mulled wine spices and ice cream if you want to recreate it. Frustratingly, neither book has instructions for what to do with my remaning two oranges. But I expect my smoothie making may improve from now on. Power Juices is the inferior work, evidently aimed at sporty schoolkids, with pages of trash about which juices to drink for which sports. Smoothies and Shakes is a little more fun, and I'm dying to reproduce the chocolate and cherries one.

• Prisoner File 1 - soundtrack for the first three episodes. It's only 40p taking things out at the library, and the music is kitchily fun. It just makes me want to cook, clean and do all those other things perfect housewyfs do. *pauses for riotous guffawing at the image of Unmutual: the perfect housewyf*.

I was disappointed to find no good books on vegitarianism - only four cookbooks of tasty meals sans meat. I'd never cook a meal that pretentious, under any circumstances - I can just about handle pasta with sausage and cheese on top. What I really wanted was a book of sensible alternate-choices, packed with protein. I've started to worry about my health, as I've really very little idea of adequate protein substitute. I never really paid attention to it before, and everything seemed to work OK - but actively cutting meat out of my diet may produce strange results.

In addition, everyone is lending me books this week:

• I've got On Liberty by John Stewart Mills, from . He's won't stop praising this philosopher, and he seems to have interesting things to say.


• Neverwhere from Vapilla. Neil Gaiman is a minor deity. It's great stuff - everyone always suggests there might be lions and clowns at Oxford Circus, either when young and uninformed, or smart and sarky. He's taken the concept, applied it to the whole city (Shepherds at Shepherd's Bush! An Earl's Court! An Angel called Islington etc), and created London Below - inhabited by people and things who have fallen through the cracks, inhabited by Dickensian weirdos and brilliant concepts. This surely is going to exacerbate my getting-randomly-excited-about-London-architecture. Pity, then, that he's a decent author not a worthless hack, because the idea's such a good one you could have extended it to nine books without it getting tired. And I'd have been there to read every one.


• Battle Royale from Rosencrantz. I really wanted to read it at the start of last term. Now I'm not so sure, as now it depresses me. But I'm making a board game based on it, so that can only help.


• Kissing the Witch and The Bloody Chamber, from Calypso. One is the source material for the divine Company of Wolves, the other a book along the same lines by a different author, but still worth reading.

The Virginia Companion - and this was the other reason I took the afternoon off. Locking myself in the music room with this Dresden Dolls songbook and having a bash.

Despite a bit of trouble in said fast part, my Modern Moonlight sounds brilliant; I'm working on Backstabber, My Alcoholic Friends and Me and the Minibar. I can play Lonesome Organist, but it sounds totally wrong. And not entirely because I can't sing it either - something sounds too heavy and thick in my piano part. Listening to the song again, it's definitely a piano. But the Music Room piano has a very muzzy feel, one I rather like for other songs. But I might have to give Lonesome Organist up for now, or try it on a keyboard for that harsh mechanical feel.

Anyone who’s been on my blog Cinecism before, anyone who’s actually had to go through watching it with me before, will know loathe the Oscars. Yet being a fan of movies, I can’t get away from them – and so I’m not going to be a grown up about this thing I hate, and ignore it. I’m going to be childish and bitch, at some length, at why it is the most trivial, smug and meaningless night of the year.

Fans of the concept, with happy naïve ideas that the winner is always the most deserving, should look away now.

Firstly – I don’t believe in it in principle, that you can judge five different films and pick a winner. Between five horror films, you can at least pick the best horror film – but between a romance, historical, drama, comedy and horror, how can you even begin? Out of Africa is a better romance than Saw was. Is it a better film? Not remotely! In this contest, Out of Africa is the best film involving lions, Africa and Meryl Streep, and Saw is the best movie about a leg on the floor. Sure, you can prefer one over the other – but I thought the Oscars were about the “best” movie, not a mere popularity contest? Which it blatantly is – how can it not be? – yet it keeps up this façade of rewarding merit. Your vote is almost certainly going to go to the genre you prefer. I love buddy movies, and so I’d naturally enjoy a buddy movie more than a horror movie. Sit me down in front of The Sting and the Exorcist, and I’ll always pick the former, regardless of quality. Same goes for performances, same for music, for costumes.

An enterprise which involves this sort of arbritary voting is always going to be a bit crooked, but the Oscars almost turn it into a sport. Isn’t it funny how all five Best Picture nominees are English or American? Now, of course, this might just be because us superior Westerners make better films than anywhere else in the world – but any sane human can tell you that’s balls. A serious line up for this years best movie might involve one or two English language movies, but would also encompass the variety world cinema has to offer.

As soon as you notice there’s rarely a foreign film up for awards, except in a token way, you wonder who the show is for. It’s not like the Korean audience are going to go “ooooh, American films are better than Korean films because they win more Oscars”. No – the institution is designed by Hollywood as an exercise in back-patting and marketing, for the English-speaking audience. To the rest of the world, they’re meaningless. So why should it matter to us?

And the Oscar voters love sentiment. Real people. Real lives. Drama, angst – weighty topics. It’s favouritism, not merit. Is a story intrinsically better because it is deep and meaningful than fantastical and frothy? Not a jot! Yet as a body, their votes always reflect a love for Americana, social commentary and above all, a healthy dose of slush.

An example. Did Al Pacino win an Oscar for The Godfather, for the widely acknowledged best performance of all time? No. Except if you count the Oscar they gave him for the Godfather in 1993. He received it, supposedly, for Scent of a Woman – but it was Michael Corleone who went on stage to pick it up. Same thing happened with Martin Scorcese and his Oscar for Goodfellas, which he won a few years ago for Gangs of New York. Of course, Al was good in Scent, and the direction was good in Gangs. But that's not what it was about. It was about the sentiment. A friend blog, Hilarity Ensues, suggests Meryl Streep and Sean Penn get more nominations for being Streep and Penn than because they actually deserve it.

I admit, there's a personal vendetta here too - Titanic won because of the noise it made. Everyone was mad for it! Screaming, crying, fangirls. Again, it won because it was Titanic, for being groundbreaking, for causing such hysteria. Not because it was the best film of that year. Even among epic-tragic-romances-in-pretty-dresses, it's not well regarded. The punchline is the moment it beats L.A. Confidential, one of the most stunningly impressive films I've ever seen, to the best Oscar gong.

Now bear with me. One of these films had classy direction, four great central performances, a plot so gorgeously complex that even after five viewings I can't appreciate the detail, and a fantastic, subtle script, which only becomes more impressive when you see the laberynthine source material from which it was adapted. The other one...well, the other one's Titanic.

Certainly Titanic is very enjoyable, and if you're a fan of period slush you'll obviously love it more than my precious crime epic. You can't deny it does what it does - ludicrously romantic melodrama - very well, and I'm pretty fond of it in my own way. But on any just system you've got to admit that L.A. Confidential is a better crime epic than Titanic is a romance.

And that was the moment I lost faith in the Oscars. 7/10 movie critics will tell you I'm right. Empire and Total Film both think I'm right. The Imdb list things I'm right.And Oscar history is packed with this - A Beautiful Mind beat Fellowship of the Ring, Chicago beat Two Towers. Look at the above lists. It's not just the Oscars, either - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead beat Goodfellas at Cannes, and see how many film buffs you can find who think that's fair! Here's a whole list: http://www.filmsite.org/worstoscars.html

The point of all this is, people rarely if ever win Oscars because they deserve it. If they do, well, that's nice as well. And if Greatest Director Of All Time Alfred Hitchcock lost all 5 of his nominations, then how can the list mean anything at all?

Which brings us around to Mr Ledger, the cause of the rant. You might recall me saying words to the effect of "the Joker was a fantastic role, certainly deserving the Oscar - but if he wins, he'll have won for being dead." And I stand by that.

You can say there's never been a superhero film like Dark Knight before (there hasn't, but wait until next week...); you can even say there's never been a peformance like that in a fantasy movie before. But the rule still stands - you don't get actors in fantasy! Actors make films, not movies! It's why Johnny Depp didn't win an Oscar for Pirates of the Carribean: World's End, Ian McKellen didn't get one for Fellowship of the Ring, though both were nominated. "But Johnny Depp and Ian McKellen weren't very good...", to which I say come off it. They never had a chance. Neither were playing schitzophrenic black lesbian single mothers in wheelchairs.

Fantasy movies - by which I mean dungeons, dragons, sci fi, superheroes et al - get Oscars for sound design* and special effects. Period. Sometimes costume, music if they're lucky, maybe editing.

*and just so you don't think I'm kidding, it's the only other Oscar that Dark Knight won.

Return of the King, of course, won everything (see: sentimental voting, Al Pacino winning an Oscar on behalf of earlier achievements - the King Oscars were actually for the whole trilogy). It's the only Fantasy film to ever win a best film Oscar, unless you extend the definition to include Around the World in 80 Days or Wings. Same goes for directors - Return of the King is the only one. What about Blade Runner, I ask? What about 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's not like great fantasy films haven't been made.

A 1931 Best Actor Oscar was won for Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, although that technically comes under mental illness. Someone managed to get Best Supporting Actor and Actress for Cocoon and Fisher King respectively, though both do have strong elements of real life in them. And without meticulously researching the content of every film I've never heard of, that's it for Oscars. Heath Ledger's achievement is even more impressive than previously thought.

I, then, was surprised to find myself giving a spontaneous cry of joy at hearing he’d got it, and bouncing happily down the street without the cinecism instantly kicking in - instead of rolling my eyes as you might have expected from the rant above. Which just proves that we all get pretty sentimental at times, and I find myself wishing, if only for a moment, that the whole system was fair....

I'm a big fan of the Big Issue.

Of course, there's the philanthropic element - no one buys it soley for the content. You buy it to help, and at £1.50 it's exactly the same amount as a Battles in Time pack. I tend to pick one of those up every week, except when I've bought a Big Issue. It's also far cheaper than Total Film, Empire, SFX, Death Ray, Doctor Who Magazine, even Doctor Who Adventures. But I do enjoy reading it a lot as well - it's tailored to an audience of people who enjoy helping people, which means it's packed with handy articles on alternate, cheap and ethical living and other worthy causes, interspersed with solid cultural content as well, plays and books and the like. Plus, the crossword is just hard enough to feel rewarding, while remaning unchallenging.

But the main reason I do it is for the people. I loathe the homeless. It's not just the fact that it depressess me to see them making the streets untidy. It's the complete lack of spirit, exactly the same one you see in stray dogs - expecting to be kicked, sitting down and waiting to die. I understand it's hard, and I know I'm pretty lazy at times, but I just want to scream at them "go and DO something with your life! Make something of yourself! Get out of the gutter!"

Which is why I love the Big Issue, because I have never bought an copy but that the vendors have been genuienly cheerful, friendly and optimistic people. You might point out they're being nice because you're paying them, but it's more than that. They have hope which the regular homeless don't, and it always cheers me to see people in bad situations who refuse to be bowed down by it.

Some of them also have great conversation. Today I bumped into one on a stool going down Long Acre - an old guy with terrific silver whiskers, who reminded me a little of Derek Jacobi, and decided I'd buy one for the tube home. He immediately complimented my TARDIS pendant - I think he mistook it for a religious symbol, comparing it first to a cross, then an anchor. Both were very interesting associations, when you think about the TARDIS.

Anyway, I thanked him and explained that actually, it was Doctor Who related. I asked him if he was able to change a £5, and as he did so he came out with the best anecdote I'd heard all week about a certain well dressed Lady M. P. who had attempted to buy two Big Issues off him at 8.30 in the morning, with a £50 note.

I already had some sympathy with this - the Folk Museum where I work is always a tad short on change, and you can actually tell if your customer is English or European by the way they pay. Because you tell French, German, Dutch tourists the total ticket price is £4.50, and they'll get out a coinpurse and give you it exactly. An English tourist will whip out a £20 and expect to get change. We've had people try to pay with £50 notes before, and you always want to give them a slap.

The story didn't end there, however. I can't remember all the details, but apparently she got quite snooty at the idea a seller of magazines without sufficient change. He suggested that a coffee at a nearby Cafe Nero would give her some change, but she didn't like that idea either. Anyway, she left in something of a huff - but returned later in the day, with change, to buy them. She made threats to report him(?!) for rudeness when he asked how many copies she wanted, and after buying two she let him keep the change from the fiver (at this point he rolled his eyes). She walks to the end of the road and then, he sees her looking between the magazine and over her shoulder, turns around and comes back to complain that the magazines were "drivel". When he offered to refund her, she claimed "I don't accept money off your sort!" He pointed out it was her money, at which point she left both the magazines and the cash!

Even though it's a totally ridiculous story, it's one of those so crazy it's believeable. We've all met people like this, people who can't grasp how other people work and are critical of the tiniest thing. The vendor said he'd talked to others who'd had problems with her too - which is how he learnt her name (I'm filing it away for future reference...). He said he was actually worried for her, because obviously you can't treat people like that - even if you are a lady- and there were plenty of vendors with short fuses who wouldn't take it. It is a class thing, surely, to get that disassociated from reality?

At this point he shook my hand and wished me a good day, complimented my TARDIS key again and suggested maybe Doctor Who would be a good religion. I most wholeheartedly agree.

I regenerated last week.


Perhaps an inappropriate term, but it stems from a conversation on the Gallifrey forums, where the bizzare question was asked - "Which regeneration are you on?"


Timelords have 12 regenerations, leading to 13 lives. One gets the impression a proper upstanding Gallifreyan spends his time in contemplation, then when the time comes, meditates for a bit and surrenders one life to start another. The Doctor never gets the chance to do this as he tends to die violently and out of the blue. It also explains why his personality flails about so much between actors. You couldn't establish stable government or friendships if you knew your President could, at any point, regenerate into a loony. Yet the character of Borusa is seen four times in the show, every time played by someone new, but always holding a high government position. This suggests that controlled, premeditated regenerations, aided by fellow Timelords in a relaxed enviroment, are far more stable, and result in similar incarnations. Whereas the Doctor's new form is determined by chaotic factors such as location, nearby companions and recent history, and there's evidence that the nastier and complicated the regeneration, the nuttier the next incarnation (in particular, a slightly batty 4, totally unstable 6 and perpetually amnesiac 8 being the direct results of the show's three nastiest deaths)


It's not death so much as rejuvination, and you get a strong suggestion that regenerations are really reactions. Pacifistic 5 turns into hardline 6. Dark, willing to compromise 7 turns into candyfloss and kittens 8. And so on. 9, who was willing to blow up any number of planets to defeat the Daleks, turns into 10 within moments of coming to terms with that decision and then deciding not to commit the same crime a second time.



Hence the question - which regeneration are you on? A few months back I thought, "eeek - the first", because even though I'd been overdue one for a while, I was clinging on Master-like to my first form for all it was worth. But time was finally up this week, so off I went and here I am, all fresh and spangly. And not a moment too soon.

So yes, it's another case of me mixing my realities up - but it's one I choose to believe, literally as well as figuratively, and it feels great.

So what's changed? It's more a process of codifying. Vague ideas about religion have just come together into genuine spirituality. All my concepts of gender, race, age, family, relationships have coaleced into (at last!) a strong sense of individual identity. All my ideals and years of liberal leanings have exploded into a genuine attempt to live a truly ethical life. And all this within the last few days, which is why it feels like a shot in the gut then a burst of life, instead of a sensible slow progression. I don't really intend to talk about this in detail, as almost every facet of Unmutual II would offend some different sensibilities, and I like you all to much to risk offending or upsetting any of you. One curious byproduct of all this is that suddenly, and I have no idea why, I feel totally at home in the Maughan and can navagate it perfectly and without difficulty. Perhaps that, too, is the equivalent of the Doctor sitting up and suddenly being able to play the recorder?

But the newest revelation is that I really have no choice but to become an at-home vegitarian.

I admit, this is partly Calypso's fault, who is as we speak attempting it with far more success than me. You can tell her off for being an appalling influence later. With her attempting it for a week, and actually sincerely succeeding for a whole nine days, it suddenly occurred to me that for all my ethical fretting this was an angle I'd never considered.

It's ironic, really, because until last month Friend 1 was a vegitarian, and had been for some five years. After years of attempting to persuade me, she gave up citing bad health and a loss of conviction. She's right. And I still hold by the key arguments against vegitarianism which I've been pestering her with for those five years: I believe it is unhealthy, denying yourself a burger will never defeat the industry and that the human race has evolved to eat meat.

But like Friend 1 recently found fault with her reasoning, so I have with mine. To be a healthy vegitarian, you have to make your cooking far more creative - what better excuse to do something other than rely on pasta? Eating meat is the lazy option. By forcing myself to find alternate protein, perhaps I'll become healthier overall?

I've never believed the industry can be defeated, whether by my refusing to drive and only using public transport, using recyclable milk bags or boycotting Nestle and Proctor & Gamble. In reality, all that will happen is I'll miss out on Kit Kats and Pringles. The companies won't fold and be ethical - I actually think ethical big business is an impossibility. But that doesn't stop me doing my bit for carbon pollution and animal testing. With my acnowledgement that these actions are useless, yet still worth doing, it's hypocritical to continue eating meat on the basis that we'll never be more than a minority. Not a single less cow will die. Like not shopping at Primark, this is more a move for my personal peace of mind. Unless I was on the point of starvation, I would find it very difficult to actually kill an animal for food. On this basis, I do not believe I have the right to let someone else do the dirty work, nor to disassociate a bunny in a field with the pie on my plate. In all this, I admit, there is probably some longterm Doctor Who related reasoning.

And finally, that humanity has evolved to eat meat. Humanity has also evolved to wear clothes, to regulate sex through marriage, to help those less fortunate than us and to not stone to death anyone who covets his neighbour's donkey. My father's argument falls down here - his claim that we are at the top of the food chain, and it's how nature works. Wrong. As an advanced species, we have a responsibility. We don't shit behind trees any more - we've removed almost every natural, animal instinct we ever had. All primal logic decrees that if someone sins against you, you bash his brains out with an ox jawbone, yet we try to rehabilitate and forgive. Animals abandon deformed, lame and old members of their community. We try and help them, celebrate our differences, invent wheelchairs. Animal society is regulated by the survival of the strongest, with the alpha lion electing himself head of the pack. We have developed democracy, so that (in theory at least) the lion most suited to the job, in the opinion of the pack, is given control. In other words, we have distanced ourselves so far from primal existance that our animal nature is no longer an adequate excuse. Is it not the duty of a self-professed "advanced species", one that can invent the limerick, the spice rack and the bassoon, to better ourselves?

My father and I discussed all this yesterday, and he pointed out that if not for its usefulness to humanity, the cow would have long since gone the way of the wild boar and English wolf. Like cats and dogs, the cow has found a way to almost become a parasite on humanity, making itself useful in order to survive. But maybe it's time to get rid of it? The enviromental impact of the cow is crippling - bigger than airplanes. And now I'm going to pinch Calypso's link: http://www.flex.com/~jai/articles/101.html


Its not the biggest sacrifice in the world - I was never a massive eater of meat to begin with. It's the little things I'll miss, hot dogs, sausage rolls, hoisin duck wraps and in particular, sweets. Those sticky things made of e-numbers, sugar and animal fat - how I'm going to miss them! I always thought the Percy Pigs were foul, though, for containing real pig...



Panic attack over. Maybe I won't give up marshmallows - they may have to be the exception.

The biggest problem with ethics is how it steamrollers out of control. I've already had it pointed out to me that the milk industry facilitates the death of hundreds of bull calves in a year, and there's not the slightest way I could ever give up milk. Should I now reject leather as well? What about eggs? The instant you start boycotting one or two clothing chains, you realise that they're all as crooked as one another. Looking around my surroundings, I wonder exactly how much exploitation has gone on in the artificially-lit room around me - from my leather shoes and watchstrap and cheaply produced clothes, to my plastic packaged lunch. I wonder if you could ever define it in terms of blood?

So I'm laying down rules. Above, I stated I am an "at home" vegitarian, which is a cunning way of cheating. I exculde occasions when others are cooking for me unless it is easy to do so - partly because I don't want to irritate or inconvenience my meat-eating friends, mostly because my dad has an intolerance to gluten so mum already has to cook wheat-free dinners. Demanding that she somehow finds a meal free from both wheat and meat is very unfair indeed. Even though this is in part an attempt to broaden my culinary horizons, I'm still a very fussy eater, and the vegitarian options at restaurants are still appalling. So while I will attempt to avoid them, I don't want to rule out meat dishes in restaurants entirely. Nor do I want to be obsessive about it - it's not like accidentally eating a bit of fish...



...it's not like accidentally eating a bit of fish is going to cause me a violent allergic reaction, nor totally invalidate my own brand of lazy veggie. So I won't need to pester waiters to ensure my chips have been fried in naturally occuring plant fats.

So if that's proved anything, it means I'm going to be a pretty appalling vegitarian. But it's a start, and I have no good reason not to. To be honest, I don't want to wholly remove meat from my diet because coeliac disease is hereditry, and if I get myself to the same point as Friend 1 - where the very idea of meat is disgusting - then discover I have to go wheat free, I'll be down to soup and noodles for the rest of my existance.

It’s hard to deny that the alarmingly young cast had buckets of energy. I loved the music, the singing was wonderful – lots of complex harmonies, lots of swooping violin). I loved the staging too, and the comedy when it was there. The main cast of 10 bounced off each other wonderfully – everyone had their moment, everyone had some lines.



I just objected to the storyline in the strongest terms, and while I could cope with the first half, the second really made me sick.



Firstly, the period peeved me off. In the Q&A afterwards they claimed it had been deliberately modernised to be more relevant, as if we couldn’t handle it as a period piece. If the plot is relevant, it remains relevant. End of. And allow the audiences to draw their own inferences. I’m actually quite curious to read the original 1880s play now.



But most importantly, I didn’t sympathise with the characters. I just took exception to the misery. Why put yourself through it? I’m easily upset, and so sitting through two hours and twenty of death and despair – guess what – upsets me! Which is what it’s supposed to do, but I could have told you in advance that sad things were sad. I don’t feel I’ve learnt anything from the musical. Of course, you can say “but Unmutual, you hate happy endings too!” Which is true. I suppose I like surprising yet appropriate endings, and this musical just felt manipulative. Life is wonderful, and so is love, and so I almost find this wallowing in misery almost offensive. You’ve got a job convincing me that (fictional) suicides are sad, for example, instead of just stupid. Lord Henry puts it better than me:

"I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores, the better."

Of course, he’s talking in the context of poor people in Whitechapel – and life’s genuine sores are obviously important and shouldn’t be ignored. Yet they should be avoided in fiction unless you’re going to do something truly interesting with it. Finally, I’m sure the moral is that “sexual repression is bad” – although there’s an intriguing alternate moral in there about chastity being by far the best policy.



Overall analysis? It’s RENT – with plaits and homework. But the music is quite lovely, so if you can handle the misery (you might even enjoy it). And there’s a real sense of being at the centre of something exciting – this is The Big Musical right now, and with its transfer to the West End its sights are only rising.

Today has been appalling.

Things started off bad when I spent the entire night running around on Androzani Minor. This didn't upset me so much as you'd expect, so much as just make me cross. It's just such an obviously cruel subject for a dream. If I keep having distressing, first-person dreams as the Doctor, I'll go insane within a few months. Especially if I don't get out of season 21 soon (I did Planet of Fire a couple of days ago...)

I woke up at 8, for my annoying film studies lecture at 10 - why they can't arrange the early ones for Stamford Street sods with a 10 minute commute I don't know. Went down for breakfast, already feeling pretty rough. Had cereal. Warned Actimel that I was about to hurl up said cereal, then proceeded to do so. Off milk, early wakeup, lactose intolerance and morning sickness have all been suggested.

Still, I hauled myself off to my lecture, and felt guilty for the entire tube ride in the knowledge that I was a ticking time bomb of spew. All was well. I started reading Grave Matter - Six and Peri - under some duress. It's setting up to be an average, ordinary work of Doctor Who literature. I feel I should read it, but it's not going anywhere exciting. It's so far been defiantly average. The Sixth Doctor is quite nicely captured, however.

Film Studies was quite fun, because I got into an argument about whether or not "realism" is a genre. The argument was that realism is anti-genre, because of it's unconvential characters and plot structures. I was arguing (and I was right...) that unconventional characters become a cliche in themselves - the alcholic father, single mother, unemployed layabout are as much predictable archetypes as the Sherrif, Bandit and Hooker with the Heart of Gold. And films are marketed as realism too - so why is it not a genre?

This was followed by Myths, which remains fascinating if unengaging. I had a careful lunch of ciabatta and cheese, and thence locked myself in the Maughan intent on doing work. I hate the 10 o'clock wake up because it leaves me tired for the rest of the day. I managed a very small amount of Latin, but gave up and had a nap instead. I deliberately leave my mobile on in the Maughan Library, just because of the sheer hating joy it gives me when my obnoxious Doctor Who ringtones go off in there. Calypso more or less woke me up, with the blessedly LOUD strains of the Trial of a Timelord theme tune.

We hung around in Chapters cafe for a bit, and arrived five minutes past closing at So-High Soho, a shop we'd discovered earlier in the week where Calypso had spotted something nice. She also managed to get me into a corset, which I can report is a painful but also bizzarely comfortable experience. It certainly does wonders for your posture - you have to move gracefully, there's no other way to do it. I'm thinking of one for Speech Day.

We then set off to see Lysisisisisisisisistrata, the Kings Greek play, and turned up 10 minutes too late. At which point, going back to a cashpoint to pay for tickets was superfluous as then we'd be 20 minutes late, et al.

I'd already gone off on yet another Ripper-inspired rumble about how wonderful London architecture was, because that particular area is packed with Victorian brickwork and stab-bety dark alleyways, which have aesthetic merit if nothing else. It's a gorgeous place, and I'd already rhapsodised at some length about the joys of Butler's Wharf, which was very nearby.

Butler's Wharf is a set of old, turn of the century warehouses which have recently been renovated quite classily. Yes, I first went there because they filmed Resurrection of the Daleks there, but I like it on its own merits too. Very atmospheric, and I'd always wanted to visit it in twilight or after dark. I suppose I'm obsessing about Jack the Ripper at the moment. This probably stems from an unsubstatiated rumour involving the Valeyard, which in turn probably inspired me to pick up From Hell, the Alan Moore Ripper masterpiece, and there's a great scene in that where a character takes another on a coach tour of London pointing out the layers. Ever since I can't help but think as I walk around "this is the London of Jack, and Mortimer, and Oscar Wilde, and King Charles I, all the way back to the Romans". There's history all over the place. Even the fact they filmed Doctor Who there is another layer of meaning.

There's a word Calypso uses about London, which I can't remember, which begins with p, and means "a text which has been overwritten by lots of other texts". She's right.*

*My father reminds me the word is "palimpsest", and that "this reminds me of Jack the Ripper" isn't necessarily a great reason to walk down a dark alley...

So we set off to walk to it, and never more has the principle been better demonstrated. We passed through massive, iron arches covering fruit markets which must have been there as long as they had been built. We passed a church chiming, surrounded by offices. We saw the Golden Hind and the HMS Britannia. We found a fake-tree, glowing neon beside real trees. We found some crazy modern architecture which Calypso determined was actually meant to represent a pot of bubble tea, pearl of tapioca and curly straw. This place never ceases to be beautiful.

Butlers Wharf was less exciting by night than I had anticipated, but I always love being there. It's a long, windy street with bridges joining the high windows, where dockworkers used to transport merchandise inland. We found a fountain entitled "Waterfall", which we decided was an blank excuse for seven, sculpted, naked women, with no nobler artistic merit. The whole experience was decidedly steampunk.

(PS, when I said the Doctor rugby tackles a Dalek out of the window...it's too late for me to actually post a photo, but this website has lots of screencaps including one of him after giving it a good shove.)

I had forgotten Tower Bridge was in this area, but the instant I saw it I had a mad crazy desire to walk across it - just to see what would happen. Because it was dark, because I had never done it before. Because it was there. I felt a little guilty about dragging Calypso across, with my ulterior motive already firmly in mind, as no one really deserves to have to deal with my curious neuroses - and as it turns out, I was as subtle as bagpipes, as she evidently worked it out within minutes, which made a lack of honesty from the start even worse. Yes, it's the site of one of Lord M's disasters. Perhaps, ultimately, his most defining disaster. One day I'll tell the story in full. Today, however, I'll leave it as "something bad".

I've spent about three years obsessively attempting to capture it all on paper, and then a few months ago I evidently succeeded. I haven't felt tempted to draw the scene again since: I consider the matter closed. So this was a final piece of catharsis. And it didn't matter that it wasn't built even remotely at the right time isn't the point, nor that the east footpath was closed and we could only approach from the west, nor that the sun was still going to rise in the wrong direction contrary to what I had written. Standing there did feel weird - as weird as Butler's Wharf. You've got a twin impression of alienation and familiarity - you've never been there before yet you recognise it so well. And then the weirdest things are different - things are out of proportion in the weirdest ways. But the blackness of the water was just right, as was the approach through the abandoned warehouses and dockland. Especially considering that during the regency, all that ambient London light would have been absent. We stayed a long time there, as the whole experience was quite moving - even discounting the fictional angst angle.

We went down off the bridge and had a look from lower down - the north end of the bridge has a series of steps and slopes beneath it. We attempted to find a way down, to no luck - which was a shame because there was something very atmospheric and creepy with this area in particular, in what I can only describe again as "Jack the Ripperly" - all alleyways, angles and gaslight. I've never felt comfortable with dark, inland water - though I'm not sure whether it's something I've always had, or just more recently. There was something tragic, sinister and very quiet in those massive iron girders, just the sense of something hidden beneath the bridge itself. And on coming back up, we discovered via a handy sign that this particularly emotive piece of architecture was where bodies fallen from the bridge would be fished out, and be stored in a morgue on that very site.

I slumped on the grate. It didn't suprise me - I'd already been struck standing under there by the image of a body washing up on the slope, and I suddenly realised that I'd never established whether this fictional corpse was found or not. "I bet Lord M's reeling", Calypso commented - to which my only response was "I'm reeling"!

Just as we were leaving, I took one last look over the edge, and to be honest, felt a bit sick - although whether that was concience, vertigo or just the cereal resurfacing, I couldn't say. A man passed on a bicycle and told me not to jump. In jest, I'm sure, but under the circumstances it was an interesting comment to make. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to kiss him or slap him.

So as evenings went, totally magical. Having not known what to expect, I took the bridge experience better than expected - the sense of walking across a place with such history, albeit a totally fictional one, was invigorating and I feel better for having done it. So the end of the day circles around to Androzani Minor again, because I walking across that bridge was something I didn't really think I'd ever do and emerge sane, and I felt extatic on reaching the other side. I am going to have to do it again, in appalling and dangerous weather, to get a proper feel for it. I'd also like to sit there and watch the sun rise. Just to establish, once and for all, which direction...

I enjoy sleeping a lot, it's one of my favourite things, so it's natural that dreams mean a lot to me. I'm actually quite a bad dreamer - I never have the classic ones. Never lucid dream, fly, get chased, see the future or have recurring ones as much as I'd like. To be honest, it's rare that I don't dream about Doctor Who these days, which is always an enjoyable experience.

Music is the strangest of the arts.


In this modern age, far too many people dismiss books out of hand - "they're boring, I don't like reading". As many don't like films. But was there ever a man born who doesn't like music?
More than this: above any other art, music appeals to something intangible. We can say "Jane Austen writes great books, but they don't appeal to me"; we can appreciate the talent of Da Vinci even if looking at a blue Madonna isn't your idea of art. Why do you like music? I've only ever found one band which has replicated this experience of appreciating critically that it is great music, while not really enjoying it much either. I won't say who it is, only that the answer is somewhat embarrassing.

I have a confession to make: I love lists. True, I'm scatty, disorganised, catastrophic. But when it comes to my hobbies, I like nothing better than neat names in columns. My first stab at cinema involved printing out and carefully highlighting a copy of the imdb top 250. This was followed by an account at several websites, which allowed me to track lists online, and the purchase of two "top 100" books which I have also carefully highlighted. Doctor Who got the same treatment - I have a much loved episode list, covered in an arcane system of highlighters, lines and symbols, half of which I can no longer remember. And that's before you count the several versions of my Doctor Who merchandise list. I suppose it's my obsessive temperament, but what I lack in general organisation, I make up for in this area.



So where best to start my toying with new music than the formidable "1001 albums to hear before you die"? Yes, a lovely long list. People always point out when I tell them I'm following a list that "lists are inaccurate" - which is true. But starting with someone else's map of good music does make sense, surely. Even if you hate it, you've learnt something.

To start with, which of the albums are in the house? Bold indicated I haven't really listend to it.

o King Crimson – In the Court of the Crimson King
o Barrett, Syd – Madcap Laughs
o McLean, Don – American Pie
o Led Zeppelin – IV [aka Untitled / aka Four Symbols]
o Yes – Close to the Edge
o Genesis – Selling England by the Pound
o Oldfield, Mike – Tubular Bells
o Pink Floyd – Dark Side of the Moon
o Genesis – Lamb Lies Down on Broadway
o Kraftwerk – Autobahn
o Springsteen, Bruce – Born to Run
o Pink Floyd – Wish You Were Here
o Electric Light Orchestra – Out of the Blue
o Fleetwood Mac – Rumours
o Gabriel, Peter – Peter Gabriel (I)
o Blondie – Parallel Lines
o Dire Straits – Dire Straits (1st Album)
o Pink Floyd – Wall, the
o Gabriel, Peter – Peter Gabriel (III)
o Springsteen, Bruce – Born in the USA
o Dire Straits – Brothers in Arms
o Gabriel, Peter – So
o Suede – Suede (1st Album)
o Suede – Dog Man Star
o Oasis – (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?
o Morissette, Alanis – Jagged Little Pill
o Radiohead – OK Computer
o Spears, Britney – Baby One More Time
o Scissor Sisters – Scissor Sisters (1st Album)
o Franz Ferdinand – Franz Ferdinand (1st Album)

30. Hmmm. The first thing that is obvious: my parents buy a lot of best ofs. I'm familiar with many more of the artists, but none of the albums. You can also tell there's a prog rock fanbase in Spaceport 7 - I guess, like all kids, I assumed that every house was like my house, and that all record collections consisted of men who should know better solemnly intoning about sea snakes and firewitches.


What are my favourite albums? Favourite album of all time is WARRIORS AT THE END OF TIME by Hawkwind. I'm not sure why - I don't like any other Hawkwind that I've heard. I guess the prog-rocker in me loves the coherency within the album, the solos are fantastic, the use of weird sounds atmospheric and daft as it is, I always find them declaiming "we are the warrriors at the end of tiiiiiiime!" and "we are the betraaaaaaayed!!!" sinister and moving.


Other contenders are Kate Bush' AERIAL, Scissor Sisters TA-DAH and Genesis - well, whatever I feel like at the time, but that tends to be TRESPASS more often than not. The art of good album is different from just a great collection of music. In this iPod world, people like to define themselves by how they listen to their music - by genre? artist? on shuffle or personal playlist? For me, it's usually albums or my meticulously arranged genres.


I think this is also the time to state none of those four albums are in the book. Tut, tut.

Oh well. Coming up first, when I can be bothered, is OK Computer by Radiohead, because Friend 4 gifted me a spare copy before coming to uni on the basis that liking Radiohead was an important part of my education, or something. I took it with me too, thoroughly intending to listen to it... but you know what time is like...

I had to do this daft thing for Facebook, otherwise the Toasty Demon of Chain Letters would have fried my ears with eggs for his breakfast. And very much enjoyed it, because talking about myself is what I do best. But somewhat sheepish about other people actually having to read it.


1 - I'm an obsessive collector. You'd never guess by the state of my room, but when it comes to books/films/trading cards I love nothing better than a neatly ordered, colour-coded list.

2 - my new years resolution was to stop letting people give me carrier bags in shops. I'm kinda sticking to it.

3 - Milk is my favourite foodstuff in the world. I go to sleep, looking forward to my milky cereal in the morning, it's the only reason I get out of bed and I can get through a litre very, very quickly.

4 - I like to claim that I don't have a favourite Doctor, and while I do love all ten more or less equally...the truth is I probably do. I'm not saying more than that.

5 - I can't listen to the song "Nights in White Satin", because no matter when or where I hear it, I burst into tears. I'm still not sure why.

6 - Where am I? In the Village. What do you want? Information. Whose side are you on? That would be telling. We want information...information...information... You won't get it! By hook or by crook, we will. Who are you? The new Number Two. Who is Number One? You are Number Six. I AM NOT A NUMBER! I AM A FREE MAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

7 - I still haven't seen Citizen Kane, don't like Hitchcock and am bored by Spielburg

8 - I currently own 37 copies of the Picture of Dorian Gray. Most wanted list: an original, preferably signed; a copy of the Lippincots magazine in which it was originally printed; one in a non-Roman writing system; a children's edition with all the nasty bits taken out. If Disney can sanify Hunchback of Notre Dame...!

9 - If my campus were to catch on fire right now, I would rescue: Aurinko, my copies of Planet of Fire, Just War and Sands of Time; my stack of five Dorian Grays I've bought since being here; my TARDIS carry case with my entire figure collection; my notebooks and laptop and The Game. Possibly my scarves too, and particular pieces of jewellry with strong sentimental value if I could spot them. If I could only grab three things, then it would be my Dorians, Aurinko and diaries/notebooks.

10 - Worst places in the world? Ellis Island Immigration Centre, Bodmin Gaol and the Maughan Library.

11 - I love bad taste, kitchy, retro rubbish. Alarmist movies about the terror of drugs, or Russians. Cold War stuff full stop. Posters which should know better: I'd love a "my doctor smokes Camels", or something with a glamorous happy housewife smiling about her new plastic toaster. I already collect religious rubbish - "Now and the Near Future Prophecised", an alarmist cult book aboiut how the world will end in 1977, complete with diagrams of the apocalypse, is the prize of my collection.

11b When I write or type the word doctor, even in an innocent context, I always find myself accidentally capitalising it.

12 - If I thought I could get away with it, I'd like to collect innocently racist memrobilia of the 30s-60s - not hardcore tasteless genuinely BNP stuff, you understand. Orignal non-clean Enid Blighton books, black-and-white minstrel show LPs, gollywog dolls. But I'd be too worried about offending someone or having them misunderstand my motives. I like these things because it's only in the past decade we as a society have genuinely agreed this is an unacceptable way to view any group. Yet in the 40s and 50s, it was taken for granted that it was OK. There's an early Doctor Who episode which actually uses that firebrand n-word as part of a children's rhyme. I'm pretty sure my mum still has a gollywog somewhere in the attic: this wasn't very long ago.

I think this is a very powerful thing that the world needs to remember - like not giving women votes or locking up gays in the 1800s, or keeping slaves in the 1700s, or abusing your peasants in the 1200s, every society has it's own 100% accepted values which with hindsight, are completely shocking. I wonder what the future will think when they look back at our time; I wonder what facet of modern society they will bash their heads at, and wonder "...but how could anyone ever believe that...?" in the same way we regard past practices. And that's why I want to collect.

13 - I can't be concice about anything.

14 - my favourite swear word is "barstool". It comes from the contractully-obliged version of Hot Fuzz where all the swearing is overdubbbed - "funking", "peas and rice" (for "Jesus Christ") - and my favourite, "cut it out you silly barstool!" to overdub "bastard".

15 - Roger Delgado was, is and always will be the hottest man in sci fi. So say we all!

16 - I'm not about to convert, so don't get alarmed; but I think the Wiccan rule "Do what you like as long as it harms none" is very powerful and one I want to live by. "none", in my book, includes yourself and the natural world.

17 - Pianists: either I fall in love with them, or I want to rip their ears off. Depends. I have been known to get jealous of automatic keyboards.

18 - Calypso, who lives in Reading, has offered to take me to see its famous prison, made legendary in a poem by it's most famous inmate. I don't know if I should go. I've a feeling I would overreact. I would visit his grave in Paris, if I thought I could do it without the services of Kleenex.

19 - Oasis by Amanda Palmer. PLAY IT ON THE RADIO! BOYCOTT THE COMPANIES! And down with Prop 8 too.

20 - I'm unhappy that I can no longer buy taramasolata. It's fish based, so goes off within two days - there's no way I can eat that much on my own. And because it contains wheat, dad can no longer help me eat it at home. I am living a cod-free existance...

21 - I can't stand Monopoly or card games. A good game, in my book, should provoke conversation not competition - the aim should be not to win, but to have a good time playing. My favourite game is my own Doctor Who board game, not just because it's mine and I'm proud, but because it's tailored to avoid the elements of other games that bore me.

22 - if you want a reaction, use the words "Michael Grade" or "palantir" in my presence.

23 - If you want to hear something weird, engage me on the topic of fiction. It's my genuine belief that Frodo is twice as real as Britney Spears, Gallifrey more real than Paraguy and that all things imagined take on physical existance. Ask me why if you fancy a laugh sometime.

24 - I think the Doctor is well dressed. I have, in the past, happily incorporated celery into my look (not a good idea, reeks something rotten - see below), have my own Season 18 scarf and most recently purchased a fab pair of replica Colin Baker trousers. Top of my "wants" list is a ? Umbrella, a proper cricketing jumper and/or jacket (but only if it swishes when I dash down corridors in it) and Jon Pertwee's entire ruffleful wardrobe.

25 - I have no sense of smell. Not sure why, perhaps it's just lazy. I can smell banana and rotting celery, and after a little prompting I can always smell smoke. But most of the time, nothing.