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!"
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.
1 comments:
I would Cornell.
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