I Have A Dream

Two score years ago, a great Canadian, in whose symbolic shadow we stand created the BBC show Doctor Who. This momentous idea came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of viewers who had been seared in the flames of withering televisual viewing such as Coronation Street and Blue Peter. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity by watching Doctor Who. But now it comes to the new series, we must face the tragic fact that the true potential of Doctor Who is still not recognised.
A few years after the EDAs, the NAs, Faction Paradox, the comics and assorted audios, the true potential of the series of Doctor Who is now sadly crippled by the manacles of sci-fi segregation and the chains of discrimination (against sci-fi fans). Forty years later, the Whovian now lives on a lonely island of fanwank in the midst of a vast ocean of potentially good stories. Forty years later, the Whovian is now languishing in the influence of American society and finds himself in exile from his favourite show.
So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition. In a sense we have come to the BBC Headquarters to cash a check. When the writers of the William Hartnell series wrote the magnificent words of The Daleks and The Edge of Destruction, they were writing a television serial to which every British person was to fall heir.
This television serial in 1963 was a promise that all people would be guaranteed the viewing pleasure of The Doctor, lan and Barbara, and as a result, the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that Britain has defaulted on this television series insofar as its writers are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred television serial, the BBC has given the Whovians a bad check which has come back marked "Russell T Davies." But we refuse to believe that the bank of fresh, original ideas is bankrupt. We openly believe that there are incapable writers in the writing process of the new series of Doctor Who.
So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of ingenuity and the satisfaction of finally seeing a Doctor Who series on TV as good as the spinoff media. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind the BBC of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of getting off over Rose or Martha or to take the rapturous drug of Bliss in the new series episode 'Gridlock', which was stolen from a Red Dwarf book. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of sci-fi segregation to the sunlit path of originality. Now is the time to open the doors of fantastically elaborate and genius concepts to all of Sydney Newman's children. Now is the time to lift Doctor Who from the quicksands of Russell T Davies to the whirlwind brain of Lawrence Miles.
It would be fatal for the BBC to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Whovian. This sweltering summer of the Whovian's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of creative freedom and quality. 2008 is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Whovian needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the BBC returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in Britain until Catherine Tate chokes to death on her own fetid red mane. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of the BBC until the bright day where spinoff media is announced as being canonical. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful stories we must not be guilty of wanting to slap Gary Russell around the frontal lobes, or even the gonads. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for brilliant, inspiring episodes by drinking from the cup of Stephen Greenhorn. We mustn't conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must definitely allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force (BBC bodyguards) with pickaxes and flaming torches. So we can torch their wood, so to speak.
The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Whovian community must not lead us to distrust of all new series writers, for a few of them, as evidenced by Stephen Moffat, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.We cannot walk alone. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those from the BBC Head Office who are asking us, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as Alien Bodies, heavy with the fatigue of being a hugely underrated novel, cannot gain popularity on the shelves of creepily geeky back-door alley sci-fi shops and public libraries. We cannot be satisfied as long as the BBC Eighth Doctor range of book's basic mobility is from a smaller bookshop to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Whovian in Mississippi cannot find Big Finish audios or BBC Books or Panini Comics in stores and a Whovian in Britain believes he has nothing for which to watch. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until Lawrence Miles becomes lead writer/editor of the new Doctor Who alongside Rob Shearman, Lance Parkin, Mags L Halliday, Lloyd Rose, Mark Platt, Stephen Moffat, Justin Richards, Ben Aaronovitch, Kate Orman + Jonathan Blum, Joe Lidster, David Bishop, Martin Day, Jonathan Morris, Steve Lyons and the guy that does the Eighth Doctor comics!
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials of time lords and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from your bedrooms due to your embarrassing obsessions. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for originality left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of BBC brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unintelligent episodes are replaceable. Go back to Mondas, go back to Alabama, go back to Gallifrey, go back to Louisiana, go back to the sci-fi bookstores and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the Liam O'Brien dream.
I have a dream that one day the head office of Doctor Who, whose lead writer's lips are presently dripping with the satirical words of pop culture and gratuitous gay jokes, will not be transformed into a situation where little Whovian boys and Whovian girls will be able to join hands with little Trekkie boys and Trekkie girls and walk together as sisters and brothers, because I abhor Star Trek and it makes me want to puke brains. Instead I hope that he gets replaced or something. I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valeyard shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the Crooked World will be made straight (to RTD's annoyance), and the glory of the Time Lords shall be revealed, and The Way of All Flesh shall see it together. This is our Hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair an Eighth Doctor book called Hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of the BBC into a beautiful symphony that isn't conducted by Murray Gold. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
This will be the day when all of Sydney Newman's children will hopefully not sing, "Zagreus sits inside your head, Zagreus lives among the dead, Zagreus sees you in your bed and eats you when you're sleeping." And if Doctor Who is to be a great television show, this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious minds of Miles and Parkin. Let freedom ring from the mighty headquarters of the Beeb. Let freedom ring from the BBC's distributors! Let freedom ring from the ABC and similar television stations that air episodes of it! Let freedom ring from the curvaceous throat of Russell T Davies, as he resigns! But not only that; let freedom ring from Gallifrey! Let freedom ring from every sheet of metal and every steel girder of Mondas. From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every radio station and every commerical television station, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of Sydney's children, men and women, Kaleds and Thals, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Whovian spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank the Doctor, we are free at last!"

Actually, I did have a dream not long ago. Quite a nightmare, too. I'm going to be all David Lynch-esque and give you a bunch of mysterious, seemingly incoherent images for your delectation. Gaze your eyes upon the following pictures:

Now I'm going to take the David Lynch cap off and tell you what the dream was about. I dreamed that Lawrence Miles (the creator of Faction Paradox) terminated his contract with Random Static and started collaborating with Rev. W. V. Awdry, to the surprise of everyone. After many intense brainstorming sessions they came up with an idea; Traction Paradox, a mish-mash of their two brainchilds. The first episode aired (yes, this was a television show, with Pierce Brosnan narrating), which was just the Thomas the Tank Engine theme using the same synths as the BBV theme. The Traction replaced the 'naughty trucks' that were previously in the series, Russell T Davies took on the role of the Fat Controller (which is actually quite appropriate, no matter what way you take it), Gary Russell made a cameo as Thomas, and Cornell became 'Percy Cornell'. As you can see, Percy turned out to be very popular with the women, the first photoshop was a picture taken at one of the fan conventions. Anyway, the trucks attempted to take the life of Gary Russell, knocking him off the tracks and smashing into the Big Finish headquarters. The Fat Controller was absolutely abhorred by this, but Godfather Gridlock (last one pictured) looked at the camera and whispered, 'Such are the ways of Traction Paradox'. The end, credits roll. Abject failure. Rev. W. V. Awdry had a heart attack from the bad reviews, and Lawrence went back to his apartment to write some more Faction Paradox. The end.

Oh, and to end this blog post, here's a song I wrote about Paul McGann when I was 16:

http://ugmoinc.gavinowers.com/ugmorecords/Robert%20Mrambi%20-%20I%20am%20not%20a%20Butt!.rar

Comments would be much appreciated.

Naff! Armpit! Hello!

Good evening, fellow nerdsnotters, and welcome to Doctorin' the Naff Armpit Terrence Dicks.
The name is Naff Armpit Terrence Dicks, as you are all well aware. Hopefully. I am infamously known as the 'least controversial' controversial Doctor Who fan in... Newcastle, and I don't actually live there anymore. I was banned from the official site in a record 5 seconds, don't you know. I like to call myself controversial, gives me a feeling of self-importance. Smugness. Sexiness. Instead of staring rapturously at my autographed VHS of The War Machines, living my uninspiring life in abject loneliness.
Why did I get banned? Well, I wanted to unleash myself onto the Who forum with a post that would really break the ice, an entrance that would be remembered. Infamy or fame, I was willing to take either one. Basically, as a joke (I stress that it was a joke, and I'm sure those I named would've found it amusing), I put on the average Whovian persona and requested slash material. Here is the post:

Subject: Let's face it, we need some Jon Blum/Kate Orman slash

I got banned from Outpost for suggesting this, but let's be realistic, Outpost dudes are too conservative when it comes to EDA fetish. Considering the rampantly sexual minds of fan fiction writers, I can't believe that no-one has considered writing a saucy scene between two of Who's most delicious authors. I'm beside myself with disbelief.

Hold that thought, here are a few ideas that spring to mind:

Moffat does Miles - Moffat proves why he's Who's token straight, and Miles proves why he's better. What an odd Coupling! Perhaps it should be called 'Faggot Paradox'.

Paul Cornell and his Raging Libido - Paul Cornell bonks every woman involved in Who, including Gary Russell.

It's only a thought, but one that has much potential. I expect to come back in a few days to find a goldmine of adolescent squee ripe for the picking.

Some of the Faction Paradox forum users (lovely people, I posted the thread there soon after being banned) contributed the following fantasies:

"Now, I'm not really up on Evil Renegade fandom, but aren't Blum and Orman actually a couple, and if so, where would the fun of slash be? But yeah: Miles/Moffat would have, as the young people say, teh hottz0rs, but not nearly as much as Miles/Gatiss. Real love-hate relationship going on there."

"The thought of Faction Pornadox is ... intriguing. Justine/Eliza seems the most plausible avenue for it to me.""Godfather Morlock/Chris Cwej fiction would be interesting..."

And towards the end of the fanatical steampile I replied:

"Here's a thought: Yrcanos (from Trial of a Time Lord) slashing it out verbally with Colin Baker, with some additional orgasmic shouting from Mel. Also, I agree about the Cwejen slash, that's quite an innovative and original idea. I heard that Lars Pearson was once planning to make a fan-written Book of the War, it'd be great if instead he published a volume of Faction Paradox/EDA/NA erotica."

The ban reason was 'BEYOND OFFENSIVE'. Is it really that offensive? I reckon the authors I named would've laughed, I didn't write it with the intention of offending people. Speaking of which, Kate Orman of Seeing I fame left me a lovely message on my old blog, I only found it today (I might add that my old blog is rubbish, bar maybe the Aphex Twin as the Doctor post. I'll repost that soon) concerning a post I made, a Who themed parody of Martin Luther King's 'I Had a Dream' speech. A reworked version will be posted here later, I'm sure. Anyway, in response to your comment (which I appreciated, it was quite an honour), I'd fuck Billie Piper too.

Anyway, being as I opened my short lived doctorwhoforum.com account with an ice-breaking post, I figured I'd do the same here. Here goes.

Something extremely odd happened to me recently. A few weeks ago. There was a university party going on as per usual. I haven't been going to that many due to the amount of assignment work I've had, but since most of my friends were heading out I thought I'd tag along. The majority of students went to the uni bar, the main source of the shindig (the hub of the hump, if you will), but I was invited to attend a more reclusive, private party a few kilometres away from my house. Located in a dingy, seemingly abandoned lot of apartments. The street lights flickered eerily as I walked down the street with a group of friends, avoiding the drug-addled yells from occupied flats and steering clear of the gangs lurking in the shadows, iron bars in hand.

It was a fancy dress party. The theme? Horror films! As I suspected, I saw numerous attempts at Freddy Kruger and Alex DeLarge. As a fan of The Exorcist I intended on going as Regan McNeil, but I realised how cliched an idea it was. So I ended up going to the party as Regan McNeil's shaking mattress. Lugging a gigantic mattress strapped to my body, I shook it accordingly as I passed the gangs and drunkards. Shaking my booty, as it were. Frightening stuff. It was either going to be the shaking mattress or Rosemary's newly born baby, complete with upside-down cross, pram and Mia Farrow. Couldn't find the Mia Farrow.

Speaking of The Exorcist, I can do a gobsmacking impression of Captain Howdy:


In fact, I'm also convincing as the album cover for Mogwai's Come on Die Young:



Err, back on track. We arrived at the party a few minutes after. Proverbial fratters sat in the corner, drinking, discussing football and making fart jokes. The Krugers of the party. Fratty Kruger, one could say, complete with the backwards cap and the Wu Tang Clan oversized shirt. Scantily-clad girls stumbled around drunkenly, all wearing Scream masks. I'm not a fan of Kruger at all, so naturally I shook my way over to the Screamers in the next room. Eventually after a bit of chinwagging, they did something that surprised me. They lifted a box off one of the shelves and plonked it onto the table, knocking over a can of Jim Beam onto the carpet. Opening the box, I stared inside. A dusty, battered ouija board lay there. The girls set up the board, sitting me down in front of it gracefully. It was such a creepy situation, the Scream girls were extremely robotic in their speech and movement, often doing things in perfect synchronisation (drunk? you decide).

'This is the ouija,' a girl hissed. 'His name is Lucius. Treat him with respect.'
'Hi, Lucius!' I exclaimed jovially. I received a hard slap on the hand for my insolence.
'Pay your respects! He has granted you an audience. You must speak with him now, he wishes to know what you want.'
'Err, okay. What do I do?'
'Place your hands on the board, and speak to him. Do not ask your question aloud.'
I did so, closing my eyes. The candles flickered. 'Dear Lucius,' I began, 'Who are you?'
The slider vibrated a bit, but did nothing more. It was a stupid question anyway. I put more pressure on the board and started again.
'Dear Lucius...' I paused, feeling the alcohol kick in, flicking the misogyny switch (I call this behaviour the misogyny switch, where you relentlessly hit on the opposite sex without any intention of offending them. That momentary lapse of self confidence, y'know). 'Lucius, we're at a uni party. I'm 18. Bit lacking in the GF department, so to speak. Needing to get busy with the fizzy? In out? Anyway Lucius, I am expressing my desire to seduce, to claw. Mingle more than regulations allow. You get my drift?'
The slider vibrated.
'Right. In that case Lucius, I would like you to pair me up with someone tonight. Not to be picky, but it'd be nice if this person had similar interests. What do you say?'
Lucius vibrated, and slowly creaked along the board. My grip grew tighter.
'S... J... S...'
It stopped. 'Sjjjss?' I spat out, trying to pronounce the word. 'Sounds like gibberish,' one of the Scream girls said, seemingly normal now (sobriety? you decide). 'Maybe SJS stands for something?' another offered.
Feeling bitterly disappointed, I shoved Lucius aside and grabbed the nearest drink, downing it in an instant. Cracking my neck, I decided to prowl by myself. Who needs the help of an ouija board? Certainly not I.
Anyway a few drinks later I was sloshed and bladdered, meandering about in a semi-conscious state. I met a girl in another room, equally as blotto as I. Another Screamer. After a few minutes of discussion she randomly threw herself onto my lap and began kissing me hard. It wasn't even kissing, it felt like she was banging her face against mine. But yeah, I was really bit panicked at first, it looked as if she was yanked over against her will by an invisible force. But I soon ignored this and reciprocated, tongue-in-cheek and also quite firmly in tonsil. After this vicious bout of smooching she calmed down and collapsed back on the couch. I was wide eyed and panting hard, my face stained red (lipstick? you decide). It was a bit like Frank from Blue Velvet, I didn't look at her for fear of being punched in the face. She began laughing. 'I'm sorry, I didn't get your name.'
'Oh, I'm Liam. It was rude of me not to introduce myself. And what is your name?'
'I'm Sarah Jane.'
My eyes nearly bulged out of my geeky sockets. 'I beg your pardon?'
'Sarah Jane.'
'Hoo boy, alright. I don't suppose your surname is Smith?'
'How did you know?'
Sarah Jane Smith. As you'd know, a companion from Doctor Who, one of my favourite things ever. Well, there's the similar interest. But what spooked me out and sent me running into the cold night were her initials: S... J... S.
Looks like someone down there likes me.
G'nite, all. Hope you enjoyed the first post, here's to many more. Have a naffing armpitting night.