A Dalek With Indigestion: The Doctor Who Story You've Never Seen!

With the good Doctor back on TV (he fought nasty aliens alongside Vikings last night), now's as good a time as any to post this oddity.

Back in their Christmas issue for 1964, the Radio Times included an 8 page supplement called 'Barbara in Wonderland', with a story by Rowan Ayres, and some specially shot photos. The Alice stand-in was Barbara Lord, a dancer from the BBC 2's hip and happening live music show The Beat Room (she later became better known as Babs in Pan's People). 'Wonderland' was the BBC Television Centre in London, then only a few years old, and certainly an exciting place full of wonders as far as the readers of the Radio Times were concerned.

The full story is below, thanks to the Radio Times archive website, but it's one encounter that's of interest here...

"Never be a slave to time. And never waste it, either." That's rather good. I can imagine Peter Capaldi saying that. Anyway, William Hartnell and a couple of Daleks were corralled for a photoshoot: one of the rarer colour photos of the First Doctor in action...

... and here's the whole thing. You should be able to grab and zoom in enough to read the scans...

I Was in Doctor Who Once: The Thrilling Conclusion!

Not pictured: me. But I was nearby. Honest.

Last week, to kick off the 50th anniversary celebrations with some choice Whomobilia on eBay (and also to, well, show off a bit) I posted the first episode of my l e n g t h y account of being an extra for a day in Doctor Who. Part one is here. And now, the conclusion...

PART TWO

After mere hours of hanging about, suddenly, The Doctor walked in. “Hello,” he said, and disappeared into the green room. Mickey and Rose’s Mum soon followed. By this time, a few extras had begun to migrate into the green room as well, so I decided that now was definitely the moment to go in there too. Just to get some water, you understand. Tennant was now dressed in his brand new Doctor costume (pictures had been released to the press just a couple of days before): a baggy pinstripe suit, blue shirt and paisley tie, scuffed white trainers and a long, straight brown coat. He took off the coat, put it down on a table and began talking to the actress who plays Rose’s Mum (who evidently doesn’t actually do much acting when she’s onscreen).

“I’ve just read the script to episode two.”

“Oooh! What’s it like?”

“Brilliant. Though it would be better if you were in it, of course.”

“Oooh, stop it you!”

“It’s amazing. It just keeps getting bigger and bigger. It’s insanely ambitious. It’s got Queen Victoria, werewolves, ninja monks flying through the air…”

At that moment, just as I was hoovering up this solid gold spoiler material, the two mothers came over to ask for an autograph. This is very bad form if you are an extra, but this was special. This was The Doctor. And it was for their kids. Tennant didn’t mind in the slightest (though he had only been playing the part for two days, so hadn’t been asked much yet I suppose), and happily signed away with the usual “Oh, Emily’s my niece’s name,” et cetera. I was determined not to ask for one myself, but I couldn’t resist the chance to touch the hem of his garment, as it were.

So I went over, and actually did touch the hem of his garment.

“So this is the famous new coat,” I said, idiotically. “I just want to touch it.” [What? What did I say? Idiot!] I fingered the collar. “Oooh, is that suede?” By this time, Tennant was looking at me with an ever so slightly alarmed look on his face.

“It’s sort of nearly moleskin,” he said.

I very nearly replied that I’d read somewhere that, on being offered the role, he’d insisted that he simply had to have a long coat. But that ‘somewhere’, as he and I both would have known full well, was the last issue of Doctor Who Magazine, and I didn’t want to unsettle the poor man any further.

Actually, he probably didn’t think he was being stalked. David Tennant is, and always has been since he was a little kid, ‘one of us’ — a huge Doctor Who fan, who buys the magazine (well, gets it sent to him for free now, I imagine), and would be just as interested in the new Doctor’s costume even if he wasn’t wearing it himself.

Tennant and I exchanged final looks. Mine was trying to convey the relaxed insouciance of a professional who has just had a brief exchange with another in his field, whilst also making clear ‘I’m not a nutter, honest!’ His face was a rather charming mix of a professional being polite with a fan, whilst also admitting ‘Yes I know, I’m bloody Doctor Who! I can’t believe it myself!’

I’m going to like this one even better than Eccleston, I thought.

The actors were soon called away, and we settled down for our final bit of hanging around in the hot hallway. Finally, a 2nd AD appeared. (Or it might have been a 3rd. It’s hard to tell just by looking at them.) “Right, we’re nearly ready. It’s a Christmas scene. The director wants it to look like a Christmas card. It’s snowing, there’s a meteor storm in the sky, it’s Christmas day, it’s all a bit weird and you’re happy! It’s not real snow though. Well, obviously it’s not real snow, but it’s not real snow in the story either. But you don’t know that. OK. Does that make sense?” (Hey, I’ve been watching Doctor Who since I was four. No worries.)

To the set. This was it! Or would be, after another half an hour of waiting about. The condom had been removed from the Tardis, and the precinct had been covered in fake snow. Paper pulp and soap, I’m told. It looked very convincing. Fairy lights twinkled in the windows of the flats above. I watched the cast rehearsing. This was going to be, as I’d thought, a complex boom/dolly shot, swooping down from on high as the Doctor, Rose, Mickey, Rose’s Mum and a young couple of guest stars walked out towards the Tardis, zooming in for quite a bit of dialogue, and then up and away as the Doctor and Rose gazed into the sky. This has got to be the last scene of the episode, where the new Doctor invites Rose to continue travelling with him, I thought. And did say, this time. It was midnight by now and I didn’t care. The geek was out of the closet!

I realised that the little tent over to one side behind the camera was where the director James Hawes and his monitors lived. (Earlier, I’d also recognised the producer, Phil Collinson, but Russell T. Davies didn’t seem to be about.) He’d obviously told the 1st AD (through the intercom that everyone was hooked up to) that he was now ready for a rehearsal including ‘Background’. Eleven hours after arriving, it was time to start work.

“You look like a nice couple,” the 1st AD said to me and Elaine. The very pretty Elaine was one of the aforementioned mothers, and I had earlier learned that her husband was currently in Malta, blowing up hotel rooms for Steven Spielberg (he’s a special effects technician).

“So, it’s Christmas. He’s just proposed,” the 1st said.

“Blimey, really? I know he kissed Rose in the last episode of season one, but that’s going a bit far isn’t it, I mean, the fans will be furious…”

“Not the Doctor you pillock, you!” said the 1st. “Your little character. You’ve just proposed to Elaine here and it’s all happy and fun. You can have a little cuddle and play in the snow.”

“Ah, right.” Time to put the geek back in the closet.

The other extras got their instructions. Pretty basic stuff — walk there, look up, then walk over there’ — but with ten of us wandering about, plus six cast members, it was going to be quite busy, and Mr Hawes obviously wanted it to look just right. It took a few rehearsals. The first time, we were all a bit enthusiastic, running up to each other and gesticulating in amazement at the sky. If it had been Doctor Who: The Musical and this was the climactic number ‘We’re Watching the Skies!’ this would have been fine. The intercom crackled. “David, Billie, that was good, but we’re going to go for another rehearsal. The background needs some work.” No gesticulating then. In fact, after a few more practice goes, Hawes decided that less was more, and a couple of the extras were told their services were no longer required. All that time (and money: about £140 each for a day that ends after midnight), for nothing, because the director thinks the shot looks a little full. But he’s the director, and he can do what he wants. I was beginning to see how everyone on set works together towards one goal: giving the director the elements he needs, from scenery (including us, the moving scenery) to lighting, from cameras in the right place, to lead actors who know their lines. Once he has those elements in place, the director can tweak them, change them around a bit, and finally… “OK, we’re going for a take.”

Up on the cherry-picker, the snow machine whirred into action. Elaine and I were still in the shot. By now we had decided that we were on our way home from a party, slightly drunk and very much in love, though I hadn’t necessarily just proposed.

We must have done ten or twelve takes over the next hour or so. First came the wide angle shot, with the camera and its plucky operator swinging up and down on the boom. Then two cameras were reset for two sets of close-ups, from slightly different angles. It was quite a long scene, about two minutes, and hearing the dialogue, I realised it was definitely the end of the episode.

Some takes were abandoned when the snow was blown away by the wind before it had a chance to fall prettily to the ground. Another was cut short when Tennant realised he had a big soapy ‘snow’ bubble on the end of his nose. Elaine and I had got our bit down pat though, and were quite happy to “go again” as many times as they needed.

We had a feeling it was going to be the final take. When it ended, James Hawes emerged from his tent and simply said “Wonderful.”

———

The Doctor and friends walk out of the flat, and across the precinct towards the Tardis. It’s Christmas day, the Doctor has just saved the world again, and it’s snowing. Plus, there’s an amazing looking meteor storm in the sky. Mickey, Rose and her Mum are excited. (So are a couple who walk past them. The man stops and gazes up at the sky, rubbing his chin in wonderment. But enough about them.)

The Doctor looks up. “Must be the ship breaking up in the atmosphere. This isn’t snow, it’s ash,” he says casually.

By now, the Doctor’s little group has reached the Tardis (and the happy couple have walked off, still gazing at the sky. No but really, enough about them). The Doctor is getting ready to say goodbye. Rose’s Mum is worried about her daughter leaving her yet again to gallivant around time and space.

“You go looking for trouble, you do,” she says.

“Trouble’s just the bits in between!” scoffs the Doctor. “There’s worlds, creatures all sorts that I haven’t seen yet. Not with these eyes.” He turns back to Rose, and holds out his hand. “You coming?” She looks unsure. He wiggles his fingers. Rose smiles and takes his hand.

“Where we going first then?”

The Doctor points up at the starry sky. “That one - no, wait… that one.”

“That one,” says Rose softly.

“And you know what Rose? It’s going to be fantastic.”

———

I had to wait six months to see if I actually ended up on screen... but I did, for the aforementioned very nearly thirteen and a half seconds. I was right. It was the last scene of the episode. That's me top right... 

Thanks to Andy for the screengrabs, which are among my most treasured possessions...

Happy Birthday, Doctor

I can't remember Doctor Who not being in my life. I mean this quite literally: pretty much my earliest memory, and certainly my earliest TV-watching memory, is of being terrified by the Zygons. That was when I was 4 (just) in August 1975, and since then I have read, watched, discussed at length and collected all things Who. I was even in it once.

As a long term fan, who weathered the wilderness years of public indifference/ridicule when it was off the air (or worse, still on the air but frankly a bit rubbish), it's great to see younger visitors to Withnail Books immediately point out the shop's Tardis to their parents.

Below it there's a shelf of Who-related books, everything from old annuals to a copy of Tom Baker's poetry collection 'Never Wear Your Wellies in the House', but there's also a copy of this, the first Doctor Who book I ever read to myself:

It's no exaggeration to say that Terrance Dicks taught me to read as much as any teacher. I could write a long post just about the Doctor Who Target books of the 70s and 80s, but luckily this one by the estimable Nick Jones over at the excellent Existential Ennui has done it for me. What he said.

There's a lot of excitement surrounding the show's 50th anniversary, with a special episode on November 23rd (featuring multiple Doctors, plus, for the first time since 1975, the return of the Zygons!). A prelude to it, featuring the unexpected return of a certain actor, went live yesterday and melted the internet.

Withnail Books has listed some choice Whomobilia on eBay to celebrate, all with starting prices of £19.63. (See what I did there?)

And yes, I was in an episode once. I was onscreen for very nearly thirteen and a half seconds. As you can imagine, finding myself standing on set next to the Tardis was rather exciting. This rather long account, written the day after filming, has only been in 'private circulation' until now (and probably should have stayed that way), but in case anyone is interested, it begins below, with the final instalment next week. Well, you've got to have a cliffhanger....

Wednesday, 27th July 2005

My childhood hero spoke to me last night. “It’s sort of nearly moleskin,” he said. As he himself would say, I’ll explain later. To begin at the beginning. It’s a Thursday morning, and an iChat bubble appears on my computer screen with a friendly little pop. It’s Big Rob, a friend who works for an extras casting agency. Pop, went Big Rob. “Got something you might be interested in.” “What?” Pop. Pop. “Do you want to be an extra for a day?” “What is it?” Pop. The next pop was followed by possibly the most exciting sentence I have ever read. “Doctor Who Christmas Special: do you want to be an alien-possessed zombie, or a passer by?” As you can imagine, there was a brief pause, before my brain tried to do several things at once:
i) restrain the urge to gleefully shout ‘I’m going to be in Doctor Who!’ to my workmates
ii) make me sit down again 
iii) see i)
iv) type ‘alien-possessed zombie, definitely.’

After a flurry of activity — measurements, photographs, booking a day’s holiday — it was set: I was to report to the location in Camberwell at 1.30pm the following Wednesday, 27 July. I was officially Zombie no. 9. They wouldn’t be shooting scenes with The Doctor himself that day, sadly, but hey: it was still dream-come-true time. I was going to be a Doctor Who monster!

“Right. Who have we got who’s in pyjamas, but not a zombie?” asked the 2nd Assistant Director. No one laughed. On the set of Doctor Who, this is a perfectly reasonable question. I’d arrived at the unit base early (it was only a fifteen minute drive from home), to find the usual row of trailers, wires and converted double-decker busses for eating and generally hanging about in. The weather was rainy and miserable. Burly men in baseball caps were everywhere, lugging stuff about and calling each other ‘mate’. A catering van wafted bacon smells. I was quickly ushered through costume and make-up, which consisted of the 1st AD approving the dressing gown and slippers I’d brought from home as instructed, and a make-up lady saying I was OK without any make-up at all. I guess zombies don’t have to look good. Though to be fair, I wasn’t a back-from-the-dead zombie. I was apparently a normal bloke, who’d been possessed in the middle of the night (hence the slippers) by the evil alien Sycorax, who could control anyone with type A blood. Okaaay.

Us twenty or so lowly extras grabbed some ‘breakfast’ (this was to be a night shoot, with ‘lunch’ at 7.30pm) and immediately got down to some serious hanging about. This lasted about four hours, enough time for me to get to know a few of them. Several evidently knew each other well from previous jobs, and there was incessant talk of past glories, from ‘Potter’ and Batman Begins to Holby City and EastEnders. A recent incident on the set of Basic Instinct 2 was discussed at length, in which two extras apparently got into a physical fight when one accused the other of insulting Sharon Stone by not handing the star some loo paper when she had requested it from an adjacent stall. Or something. My fellow extras included a man in a dapper silk dressing gown who said he had played several monsters in Doctor Who back in the 1970s (I was keeping my Who geek credentials very much undercover, so I managed to not ask him which ones. It was bloody hard, but I did it). Then there was a woman who looked and sounded exactly like Dawn French in those French and Saunders extras sketches. A sample quote from her: “I hope they don’t have custard at lunch. I can’t eat other people’s custard. Only my own custard.” I also met Sergio. He seemed very popular with the female extras: I was told he gave excellent neck massages. Anything to pass the time I suppose…

Eventually we were minibussed a few minutes away to the location proper, a housing estate which I recognised from the first season as being where Rose’s Mum lived. Stepping out of the bus in my dressing gown, I realised I was grinning like a twat. I had just caught a glimpse of the Tardis, the actual Tardis, sitting quietly in a corner of the pedestrian precinct. It was surrounded by bustling gaffers, grips and Best Boys (or is there only one Best Boy?) who were fiddling with lights and cables, but I didn’t notice them. I was six and half again, and I was looking at the Tardis. Brilliant. And if the Tardis was here, a certain Time Lord was probably not too far away… Maybe they were filming with him today after all!

We were led into a very warm community centre and told to sit in the hallway. I heard a familiar voice coming from a nearby room. Billie Piper (for it was she) soon emerged, in conversation with a tall, good looking young man (he’s almost exactly my age): David Tennant. The tenth Doctor had arrived. Oh look, I thought (as he walked outside saying “I’ve met her, yes. She’s lovely,” to Billie), he’s still wearing Eccleston’s leather jacket. They must be filming a scene early in the episode, just after he’s regenerated, before he has a chance to put on his new outfit. Unfortunately, I did actually say this as well as think it. Fellow extras eyed me suspiciously. “Um,” I added, “I watched a few episodes of the last series, you know. It was quite good, I thought.” Luckily for my ‘cover’, a discussion of past Doctors ensued, which concluded, as all such discussions amongst the ‘general public’ do, that the bloke with the scarf was good, but those later ones were a bit crap. Especially that little bloke, whasisname.

The hallway was stifling, so I wandered outside into the drizzle (still in my dressing gown) to watch the scene being shot. Being an official Supporting Artiste (we’re SA’s don’t you know. Never ‘extras’. That’s common), I was allowed to stand on the right side of the tape that was holding back the assembled crowd. There were some locals, and there were quite a few Doctor Who fans. It was very easy to tell the difference between the two groups. The locals were unfazed. The show had shot here last year after all. Kids were running about excitedly though. One rushed up to me. “You famous, Doctor Who man? Can I get your autograph?” Feeling a fraud, I politely declined to sign the proffered paper. Other extras milling about were happy to scribble their name, but they had been in Harry Potter and EastEnders, and therefore were actually famous as far as the kids were concerned. Meanwhile, the Who fans were watching the action intently, filling the breaks between takes with earnest conversation about ‘writing it up for Gallifrey One’ and the rumour that ‘Tennant will do Tenth Planet signings’. One intense, red-haired woman had made a stuffed toy version of the squid-like innards of a Dalek, and tied it to her backpack. I overheard her saying that she “couldn’t wait to show it to David.” She cast envious glances at me, on the other side of the tape.

The scene seemed to consist of the Doctor emerging from the Tardis into the arms of Rose’s Mum and Mickey, shouting “Merry Christmas!” and promptly collapsing, as Billie appeared in the Tardis doorway, looking concerned. Definitely from the start of the episode, possibly even the last shot of the pre-credits teaser, I thought (but thankfully didn’t say). One take was aborted when the Doctor’s appearance from the Tardis was greeted by a “Whoo!” from the balcony of a nearby flat. Then a car alarm went off. Then a plane flew overhead. Then it really started raining. Slow business, filming. I went back to the hot hallway. Sergio was busy massaging the most attractive female extra in our group. A less attractive extra said, “I’m next Sergio. You never give me a massage…” Sergio grinned. Not a bad job really, being paid to hang around, rubbing attractive women. To give him his due though, he did appear to know his stuff. “Ooh, I’m all gooey inside Sergio,” gasped the attractive extra as he finished with a flourish. It was now 6.30pm, and none of us had been used.

The first AD appeared, and selected four pyjamaed extras, two male, two female, but I wasn’t included. “We need two couples,” he said. “In each couple, one of you is a zombie, and the other is trying to stop their partner from wandering off.” The selected ones nodded seriously, and were led away. (We saw them again later, but they hadn’t ended up filming anything.)

It was 7pm, and us remaining extras were bussed back to base. Lunch wouldn’t be until 7.30, but even though the catering van was wafting all sorts of enticing smells, SAs weren’t allowed near it until all the rest of the cast and crew had come back and got their food. This is standard practice on sets (for the very good reason that the cast and crew need to get back to work as quickly as possible, and can’t afford to queue up behind a bunch of extras who only have some waiting about to get on with). Nevertheless, it seems to be a constant source of friction. When it came to it, by the time we got our lunch, two of the seven (!) different choices of meal had run out, and they didn’t have any bread. Sergio was not amused. “Where is the bread?” he asked the man behind the counter. “We put out what we had mate. When it’s gone, it’s gone.” Sergio waved his hand dismissively as he walked off. “I will ask the person in charge what is going on,” he said. “You can ask me, ‘cos I’m in charge of catering,” the chef replied, but Sergio had gone. “Right, he’s a marked man, that ****,” said the chef to his colleague. “What a total ****. I ought to **** in his ****ing ******, the ****. Yes mate?”

I asked for the pasta, and said thank you. Very politely.

Back in the double decker, there was more sitting about. Then a shock. The 2nd AD appeared, to announce that half of us were to be ‘wrapped’ for the day, and sent home, unused. That’s not at all unusual apparently, and of course you still get paid, so the majority on the list were neither surprised nor annoyed. Two of the women were aghast though. “We have children!” one said. “My son rang all his mates telling them his Mum is going to be in Doctor Who!” said the other. “He’s more impressed by this than when I was in Harry Potter!” It’s nice to know that the show has become that popular with kids again so quickly, I thought. In the end, the ladies swapped with people who were on the list to stay, but weren’t bothered either way. Luckily, I was on the list to stay already. And I was not going to swap with anyone.

“Change of plan. Zombies are out the window,” said the 1st AD. “ We just need passers by. Those that are staying, change into your civvies and go to make-up.” I’d been told to bring an overcoat, hat and scarf (I was going to wear a scarf, in Doctor Who!) as well as my bedclothes, so I went to change. Make-up consisted once again of me being told I looked fine as is. I wasn’t sure how to take this. Back to the location. The Tardis was by now covered in a condom-like cover, to protect it from the rain, which was still drizzling down. It looked like a pretty major shot was being set up. A cherry-picker had appeared, and the camera was being put on a big boom, which was itself on tracks. We waited for another few hours in the hot hallway. By now, a guard had been put on the door of the community centre, to stop kids wandering in and out, looking for famous people, as they had done during the afternoon.

Two old ladies appeared, and the guard immediately tensed, all but doffing his cap (even though he wasn’t wearing one) as he let them in. The old ladies began a long conversation about a local shop owner, and how he was “out of order, and just wants to make a nuisance of himself. He just wants the attention, really.” I noticed that they both had name badges: ‘Dot. Doctor Who’ read one. ‘Gwen. Doctor Who’ the other. “Come on love, let’s get our chairs,” said Dot, who reappeared from then-empty actors’ green room next to the hall with a plastic chair. Gwen seemed to be taking some time. “What you doing in there?” shouted Dot, who turned to us. “She’d take a bloody comfy chair if she could.” “I would an’ all,” said Gwen, finally emerging with another plastic one. They tottered outside again.

“Who on earth were those ladies?” I asked the 1st AD, who’d just come in. “Residents’ Association,” he said. “You always have to pay someone off to get location filming done without any hassle, and round here, it’s those two. You don’t mess with them.” Fair enough. Later, I noticed that Dot and Gwen (and their chairs) had been given a prime position to watch the filming.

After mere hours of hanging about, suddenly, The Doctor walked in. “Hello,” he said.

END OF PART ONE...

PART TWO: THE THRILLING CONCLUSION! is HERE

Sutekh of the RAF: Obscure Books With Tenuous Connections to Doctor Who No. 1

To kick off what might (or might not) become an irregular series in this month of the 50th anniversary, here's an obscure book with a tenuous connection to Doctor Who, said link being the only reason I originally picked it up when I found it in another secondhand bookshop many years ago.

The copy at Withnail Books does not have a dusjacket, but here's a photo of one that does.

Called Up appeared in 1955, proudly introduced by Chambers and Landreth as "the first report on National Service, based on personal experiences, to be published in this country." They stressed that their 16 young men had written "quite candidly and without fear of censorship." This is certainly the case, from the couple of chapters I've dipped into. 

The reason I acquired the book is simple: flicking to the contents page, I saw that one of the writers was a young actor called Gabriel Woolf. To a Whovian of my age, that name instantly beings to mind just one thing. This:

That's Mr. Woolf giving a superb performance as Sutekh the Destroyer, one of the great Doctor Who villains, from one of the very best Doctor Who stories, 1975's 'Pyramids of Mars' (aka 'the one with Tom Baker and the Mummies').

So how did Gabriel Woolf get on with his National Service? He had a terrible time, it turns out. A cultured young man, he wanted quietly to get on and do cultured things, like learn Italian ("My aim was to read Dante"). Alas, he had to put up with his fellow servicemen locking his door and removing the handle, not to mention stuffing his trousers down the toilet. Food was no comfort either: "I have known Service cooks do such things to eggs that they would make a hen wish she were a spinster."

The whole experience left him "deeply bitter over some things... My natural delight in beautiful women has been degraded to violent lust by this unnatural life. 'The expense of spirit in a waste of shame, is lust in action' says Shakespeare. I thank God that an inherent shyness in my nature counteracted the 'action'. But 'the expense of spirit'... that's the thing... and it applies just as well to the idle contemplation of lust, lying in one's narrow military bed."

Hmm. Is he saying what I think he's saying?

Woolf's chapter is hilarious. I can't quite work out if the whole thing is tongue in cheek (there are a few asides which suggest it's not to be taken 100% seriously) or the no doubt heartfelt work of a young man so insufferably snobbish that you, well, would instinctively want to stuff his trousers down the toilet. He's still going at 81, so, if you're a silver surfer and happen to see this Mr. Woolf, perhaps you could let us know?

Back in 1955, he signs off, triumphantly: "I shall never see another man in uniform. I shall train my eyes not to register the impression. For now I am free. Now, I hope, I can learn to love human beings again."

A Hammer horror collectable, and remembering Anton Diffring's final performance

The Man Who Could Cheat Death, John Sansom, Ace Books, 1959

"What happens when he cannot obtain the necessary gland in time ends in a shocking climax of horror and bestiality."

Blimey.

I've not seen Hammer's The Man Who Cheated Death, but it looks like a cracker (though I assume the film is not as hilariously out of sync as this trailer):

Up this week is a copy of the tie-in novelisation, which is in pretty good nick, with cover art adapted from — it actually looks like it's been repainted, rather than just lifted — the UK quad poster for the film:

It would appear to be a fairly rare book, with just one copy currently on ABE, at £28, and the odd copy turning up on eBay now and again. I'd imagine it's of appeal to Hammer collectors only these days, and to be fair even they do not revere it as a lost classic. (The film many Hammer fans do regard as the best of the studio's vast output is The Brides of Dracula, which does not even star the iconic Christopher Lee. Interestingly, Bond fans have long held On Her Majesty's Secret Service to be the best of the series, even though it features a far from iconic Australian ex chocolate carrier as 007. This is an example of something, I expect.)

The titular death-cheater is played by Anton Diffring, who worked a few times for Hammer, including in this busted TV pilot for a series to be called Tales of Frankenstein, but he's best remembered for playing Nazi officers in countless films — this one being probably the best loved ("Broadsword calling Danny Boy" etc).

Diffring's final role was playing an old Nazi (natch) in the 1988 Sylvester McCoy Doctor Who adventure 'Silver Nemesis'. The story, which mixed neo-Nazis with Cybermen, dark Time Lord secrets and, um, jazz saxophonist Courtney Pine, was a lot of fun, but utterly incomprehensible, and has latterly become known amongst Whovians as 'Silly Nemesis'.

Diffring reportedly had no idea what was going on in the plot, or what his character was supposed to be trying to do (but then, frankly, neither did the scriptwriter). Apparently he only took the role because it would bring him to the UK from his home on the continent just in time for Wimbledon, which he then proceeded to watch on the telly any spare moment he got. Bless.

Doctor Who: Pop group manager and Muff snatcher

TV Comic Annual 1969

This week's book is a copy of the TV Comic Annual 1969, which was published, as is the way with annuals, in time for Christmas 1968. It's in pretty good nick, not price clipped, with an ink name and address inside, but no other pen mark. I found this in the flea market in Crystal Palace, and it hasn't come far in 43 years: the original owner was a Nicholas Masterson of 44 Denmark Hill, just up the road. Master Masterson was careful enough to only do the quizzes and puzzles in the book in pencil, which is easily removable (though I like to leave such scribblings as they are).

TV Comic, as its name suggests, featured various tie-in strips and stories every week, and this annual, containing a previously unpublished selection, includes favourites such as Popeye, Basil Brush, Skippy and Ken Dodd's Diddymen, but my potential eBay purchasers will I think be interested in only one of them: Doctor Who.

The Doctor's comic strip adventures began in TV Comic in 1964, and in what has to be a tie-in strip record, they're still running today, albeit in a different title: Doctor Who Magazine. Over the years, many artists and writers have come and gone, and in the late 70s/early 80s several of the people who would go on to define the modern comics era did some of their earliest work on the strip or its spin-offs, including both the creators of this rather well known graphic novel.

The history of the strip has inevitably been extensively written up by fans, both online and in print, but the TV Comic stories themselves, aside from the ones that made it into a short lived magazine series several years ago called Classic Comics, have never been properly collected and reprinted. 

Many would argue that's no great loss, as the strip was often very silly, and had little in common with the 'proper' Doctor on the telly. While this is undoubtedly true, the art was often rather lovely. Here's the first page of the first of the two 4-page stories in the annual, 'The Time Museum', drawn by longtime Who strip artist John Canning.

The scripts rarely got sillier than the second Who story in this annual. I'll let the chaps at the fansite Altered Vistas summarise it: 

When the TARDIS materialises beside a road in the year 2208 it causes pop group The Electrodes to crash their tour bus. The Doctor, John and Gillian rush to help them and find none of them seriously hurt, but how can they get to their gig to perform for thousands of their fans in just an hour’s time? The Doctor has the answer and equips them all with rocket packs. They are so impressed they hire him as their manager. They make the gig in time.

Between shows the Doctor learns that they did have a manager before, but he tried to trick them out of their money and threatened their lives when they sacked him. The Doctor, John and Gillian observe the crowd at the final gig and, when the Doctor sees an extra wire leading into the group’s speakers, he realises their ex-manager plans to blow them up on stage. He, John and Gillian swoop down using the rocket packs and lift the band to safety just as their evil ex-manager detonates the speakers. The Doctor then apprehends the villain. After seeing the Electrodes successfully complete a planet-wide tour, the Doctor and his companions depart in the TARDIS. The Electrodes are capable of managing themselves.

Wouldn't you just love to see a TV episode with the same plot? I really would, actually.

One of the panels in this story contains one of the Doctor's best-ever lines, in any medium:

Muff, Fuzz and Snatch? Can the writer of this story, one Roger Noel Cook, really have been utterly oblivious? I think not.

Any upper echelon Whovians reading this post will undoubtedly have a remaining, nagging question. Why is it that Patrick Troughton's Second Doctor is seen fighting a William Hartnell, Tenth Planet-era Cyberman, instead of the sleek new versions he had already encountered on TV?

We'll never know, though it's probably just because John Canning only had photo reference from The Tenth Planet. Regardless, it gives me an excuse to run this, a recent piece by the best artist ever to draw a Tenth Planet style Cyberman, the great Mick McMahon.

Essays on Various Subjects by Hannah More (1824)

Sir Samuel Morton Peto's copy

I love the internet. It's amazing what you can learn, and how fast you can learn it. Strap in, this is quite a long post, but it will take you on a journey from a little book on my shelves via a social reformer, a forgotten giant, Mick Jagger and violent mummies, to underwear in South London.

This week's eBay listing is a small leatherbound volume I picked up at a bookfair earlier this year because I simply liked the feel of it. It's not in tip-top condition; the boards are a bit worn and there's a bit of foxing, but the binding is pretty tight, it's got lovely marbled endpapers, and it's old: 1824. Plus, it smells nice. 

It's not a first. By 1824 Hannah More's Essays on Various Subjects was already over 40 years old and had evidently been through many editions. Subtitled Principally Designed for Young Ladies, the book argues that women are "one of the principal hinges on which the great machine of human society turns" and points out that the education of girls should go bit further than music and dancing. There's also an essay 'On Sentimental Connexions' which basically warns that you should ignore men who flatter you in conversation and agree with your ideas, as they're all only after one thing. (Hannah More never married.) Here's the frontispiece, featuring some Young Ladies.

As this biography shows, Hannah More was a fascinating character, who mixed with the likes of Samuel Johnson, David Garrick, Edmund Burke, Joshua Reynolds and William Wilberforce during her long life as a writer, and campaigner for reform in both the rights of women and the poor. Some of her ideas have dated a bit though: she was a strong supporter of teaching the poor to read, but drew the line at teaching them to write as well, lest they have designs above their station in life, and grow dissatisfied. When she died aged 88 in 1833, a few years after this edition was published, she left £30,000, a huge amount of money. As historian Linda Colley has pointed out: "More had become the first British woman ever to make a fortune with her pen."

This post is not (just) about Hannah More though. It's about who owned this particular copy of the book. The inside front board has a book plate pasted to it:

'Ad Fidem Fidelis' (Faithful to the end) is easy enough to read, but the name took a couple of goes. But then I typed 'S Morton Peto' into Google. It would appear that this book comes from the library of a very eminent Victorian indeed...

Sir Samuel Morton Peto (1809 - 1889) has been described as the Victorian equivalent of Richard Branson. I'll let the blurb for this recent biography by Adrian Vaughn give the outline of his life:

'Samuel Morton Peto was one of the giants of Victorian Britain who left behind an impressive legacy, evidence of which can still be seen today. Born in 1809, he was an inspired entrepreneur who was, perhaps more than any other individual, responsible for establishing Britain's path to industrial capitalism. An active Member of Parliament, he was one of the most energetic pioneers of Free Trade and a new industrial, social order. To achieve this avant-garde vision, he borrowed and built everything from railways, docks, and harbours to factory towns, dormitory towns, Baptist chapels, dance halls and holiday resorts. Amongst his many famous projects were the Lyceum theatre, Hungerford Market, and Nelson's Column in London, along with several sections of the Great Western Railway, Curzon Street station in Birmingham, and the London, Chatham & Dover Railway. He was also involved in the creation of the Grand Trunk Railway of Canada, railways in Algeria and the Crimean peninsula during the war, and he financed the Great Exhibition of 1851, backing Joseph Paxton's Crystal Palace. Peto's ambition crossed national borders and encompassed European co-operation and Anglo-French finance. In 1857, he was made a baronet of Somerleyton Hall in the County of Suffolk for his services, but ultimately financial crisis caught up with him and he and his family were ruined. He was declared bankrupt in 1868 and exiled himself to Budapest, before returning to England and dying in obscurity in 1889.'

Quite a story, eh? Peto's Wikipedia entry has a few extra details – his involvement with the building of the Houses of Parliament at Westminster made him a millionaire, and he attended the opening of the Algerian railway with Napoleon III – and a post on his biographer Adrian Vaughn's website adds: 

'The story of Morton Peto really is a wonderful series of paradoxes. One could say that he robbed the rich to feed the poor, certainly his ordinary shareholders frequently ‘lost their shirts’ but his navvies were employed well for 30 years. Peto eventually went bankrupt and brought down Overend Gurney, the people who had been lending him injudiciously large sums of money. The failure of Overend Gurney brought about the total collapse of the British banking system on 10 May 1866.

Peto’s bust at the exit doors of Norwich Station has an inscription which states that he was a ‘Baptist, Philanthropist and Entrepreneur’  that is true, but he was also a ‘Liar, a Cheat and a Fraud’. BUT – there is always a ‘BUT’ with Peto, he didn’t make shady deals for his own sake, although of course, he took his profit, he used ‘iffy’ money to create better housing, vast new industries, giving tens of thousands employment until recent times. He died on 13 November 1889 without a will, he had very little to bequeath. His wife died leaving £500 to the Baptist Missionary Society. Peto left behind him, a whole new holiday town and fishing port of Lowestoft, the Victoria Docks in London, railways all over the world. Employment, food and housing for the masses.'

Adrian Vaughn's admirable efforts aside, it's fair to say that S. Morton Peto is a mostly forgotten figure now, even though in his day he was up there with, and as well known as, Brunel (who he employed on several occasions) and Stephenson.

But what was he doing with this book, full of advice for 'Young Ladies'? In 1824, the year this copy was published, Peto was only 15. Perhaps he was looking for the inside track when it came to his own wooing efforts? It's perhaps more likely that this book was acquired years later, bought by or given to one of Peto's eight (count 'em!) daughters, and put in the family library, complete with Father's book plate. We'll never know...

One of the houses this book would once have been shelved in has a special place in my heart though. According to this article on the Peto family, in 1875 they lived temporarily in Stargroves, near Newbury. Later owned by Mick Jagger, Stargroves earned its true place in history as the main outdoor location for this:

Yes, everything leads back to Doctor Who in the end.

But that's not all. The same article reveals that  one of Samuel's seven sons, Basil, and Basil's son Christopher, were both MP for Barnstaple (my local constituency when I was growing up).

Another grandson, Sir James Michael Peto, was a Lt-Colonel in the Coldstream Guards. He was also a poet. He published the requisite slim volume in 1947 (Accidental poems of occidental Britain, and other occasional verse). Here's one of his poems. It's about knickers. I love the internet.

Weybridge to Waterloo
as told to Lt Col Sir Michael Peto Bt by a Lady in 1949

You've heard the tale of how I got
My dressing gown with stripe and spot;
Well, now I'll risk being rather bory
And tell you yet another story.
            *       *       *      *
One day I went to town by train -
(My home's at Weybridge on the Main
Line of the Southern Railway)- when
I cursed the cross-word, dropped my pen
(My Biro pen!) in the pocket
Of my handbag, where my locket,
Lipstick, rouge, and my mascara
Lie side by side with something rarer . . .
Where was I? Oh, I know, please listen;
I looked outside and saw them glisten,
As we were going fast through Clapham -
(A most peculiar thing to happen); -
Glanced through the window, quite by chance,
And saw a pair of nylon pants,
Glinting glossy, sheer and gleaming,
Just my cup of tea, and seeming
What I'd sought in shops and stores
Bargain-basement and first-floors.
There they were, hung out to dry,
I yelped with envy, gave a cry
Of greed surcharged with thisty longing.
At Waterloo I joined the thronging
Crowds milling for the only cab,
My conscience never gave one stab.
You know my methods; off we went
In search of Clapham knickers bent.
We found them, and I did persuade
Their owner, a girl both prim and staid,
To part with them for two pound ten.
            *        *        *        *
They fit divinely. Do say when
You'd like to see them? Darling now? . . .
There, how d'you like them? . . Oh, and how! . .
                                          Michael Peto