Palavas in Pyjamas

When I was a child, all I wanted was action figures and Doctor Who books. Not much has changed. I have a memory that I suspect is stolen: being upset because some generous relative or other had obviously asked my mum what I needed and rather than saying 'some of the rarer Ewoks' or 'Philip Hinchcliffe's novelisation of The Keys of Marinus' she'd said 'pyjamas'.

It might have been my cousin who was upset, in which case it would have been my mum telling me about my cousin to teach me a vital lesson about being grateful for what we receive. That's how one uncle escaped seeing my tears of disappointment as he presented me with a game of Subbuteo for Christmas while every other member of my large extended family knew just how much I hated football. I invited my younger cousin John to join me on the other room to play it, then took forever to set it up so that I was saved from having to show that I didn't have a clue how the game worked when Aunty Betty told me to put it away because they were about to dish out the Christmas dinner.

(I've just had to look up how to spell 'Subbuteo' and was surprised that I'd got it right first time. Actually, 'surprised' is putting too much emphasis on it.)

It's possibly because David Tennant sported a lovely pair in last year's Doctor Who Christmas special, but this year I was dropping hints in various directions that pyjamas would be a good choice for me this Christmas. But Christmas Day came and went, and the ungrateful child who'd turned his nose up at World Cup Subbuteo was treated to a metaphorical lump of coal.

Last night, my trustworthy flatmate and loyalest friend returned from a shopping trip. He'd bought himself a pair of slippers in an 'after-the-horse-has-bolted reaction to stubbing his toe the day before. He'd also bought something for me.

They're navy-blue with light-blue-and-red dots. They're made of cotton. They have button flies so your knob doesn't flop out. They're the most perfect present ever, and I'm one very happy 35-year-old manchild.

See, Uncle Lenny? The big, flashy box isn't always appropriate. Sometimes, pyjamas are exactly what you need.

With Thanks

I'm dotting about a bit, but I've just remembered that I forwarded this email to myself the week I left Sony. I sent this email to a few sympathetic workfriends around the 9th or 10th of May 1997.

Subject: Observation on the death of Terry Nation

When I was about four, I met this lad called John. He watched Doctor Who and we used to play "Time Lords" all the time. When we were fourteen we went to our first convention together and subsequently joined a "local group" in Liverpool. While I was there, I met a few more fans who I kept in touch with for a few years until me and John [actually a different John, I was obviously simplifying matters for the tale.] decided to run our own group with a wider remit (Gerry Anderson, Blake's 7 etc). During that time I got to know a few people in a group in Blackpool. Then I started work and John started his resits for his A-levels and we both left the groups and the fans behind.

John introduced me to a lad off his course who later became my best friend. Passionate about films and cinema history. He also liked Doctor Who. He gave me a miuch wider social group and led me into loads of adventures, going to parties full of people I didn't know where we pretended to be off-duty policemen. Haha!

I started University and met [my pal] Russell who was/is a fan and who organised the college sci-fi society. When he left college, he handed it over to me and we kept in touch. I, meanwhile, got back in touch with the group I first went to all those years ago. Some of the faces were the same, many were different, and I ended up becoming involved in what would become the biggest, most successful charity Doctor Who convention team IN THE WORLD!

Russell Coburn got me the job at Sony QA. He was also the one who told me that [SCEE copywriter] Martin Pond was leaving and that I should go for his job. I now live in a house where one of the other four people is someone I knew when I first joined the Liverpool Local group. Another writes Doctor Who novels and works at Coronation Street. Another is the ex-girlfriend of another Who novelist mate of ours. The other one's learning slowly ...

It was a cheaply-made, on the whole badly-acted and scripted embarassment for the BBC who resented spending "Drama" budgets on what they saw to be a children's programme. But it's something that has affected my life to such an extent that I can't help but feel slightly saddened at the death of an old, greedy hack writer who, in desperation for work, came up with an idea that saved the show that made the way I enjoy my life possible.

Now, I wrote that back in 1997, when Paul McGann's TV movie was a year old and had failed to resurrect Doctor Who into a new series. It was dead then, but I was still very much a fan. Now, in 2005, it's back, one of the BBC's biggest drama productions of the year and the second-most-watched TV show in Christmas Day (it beat Coronation Street of all things!). Now, everyone's a fan!

Yesterday, I received a Christmas card from an old mate from secondary school. We were friends mainly because he was the only person at the school that I'd met before (he'd been in the Cubs at the same place I was in Scouts, for a very short time when I was 10). But we stayed friends because we both liked Doctor Who. It's his birthday on Monday, so I hope I can remember to give him a call then.

Doctor Who's no longer a thrown-together TV show, but I still like it - and in fact I'm watching the old stuff a lot more now and learning more about it all the time. It's still big in my life. It's still important.

Tonight, I'm spending New Year's Eve with a few friends who are witty, generous and incredibly good company. That they might have become like this as a consequence of watching Warriors of the Deep or Paradise Towers, I can't say. But I won't discount the possibility. Just in case...