As Doctor Who moves towards its sixtieth anniversary trio of episodes, the usual, annual crap fandom rumours have been doing the rounds (notably on a particular Facebook Doctor Who fan page); these claimed that an 'official' BBC statement had been released which suggested that Doctor Who was ('officially') dumping the 'Timeless Child' storyline into the bin and, effectively, retconning the entire Jodie Whittaker/Chris Chinball era out of existence. Or, as they put it, 'SCRAPPED'. 'In a new statement, the BBC declared: "For some, the story starts with the Timeless Child, discovered all alone beneath a wormhole to a faraway place. Others talk of an old man with white hair who stole a miraculous ship that could travel through time and space, then headed off to see what was out there."' It was quickly pointed out that, quite apart from the fact this doesn't suggest that the Timeless Child conceit has been 'scrapped' or anything even remotely like it, this 'official BBC statement' was, in fact, nothing of the sort. Rather, as David Howe (someone who does, actually, know what he's talking about with regard to Doctor Who) pointed out, '[these] words are taken from the new Doctor Who annual so, presumably, [were] written by Paul Lang.' So, dear blog reader, how does Russell Davies feel about stories that he is, effectively, 'cancelling' (another very current Interweb buzz-word) Jodie Whittaker. It's fair to say that Big Rusty isn't taking such rumours very seriously. Writing in his regular column for the Doctor Who Magazine's October issue (the one with Bonnie Langford on the cover), Rusty cheekily touched upon the issue whilst talking about footage from the new series of the show, which will star Ncuti Gatwa as The Doctor (you knew that, right?) 'Oh my God, the TARDIS, the Jodie exterior, she has not been erased,' he said. 'And yet, by not erasing her, are we erasing the argument that she's been erased and therefore this is an act of erasure, is it?' Of course, that didn't stop either Radio Times (which used to be run by adults) or the Gizmodo website (no, me neither) reporting this shit like it was actual 'news'. November, frankly, can't come quick enough so that we have three new episodes to talk about and not a bunch of speculative nothing based on Big Rusty being wry and amusing when writing his Production Notes.
Screen Rant - another media outlet which could, frequently, do with a damned good hiding over the half-stories which they spread from speculation and misunderstood one-liners and/or jokes - reports (for once, entirely accurately) that Matt Smith and his former co-star Jenna Coleman reunited ten years after their 'team-up' on the BBC's popular long-running family SF drama. In images posted by the Daily Scum Mail (if not anyone slightly more reliable), the pair were seen posing for a picture together at the BGC partners' annual charity day. And, very sweet they look, too (admittedly, it would've looked even sweeter if that bloke glued to his mobile phone hadn't got his big head in the way of the person taking the shot).
Screen Rant, helpfully - and, seemingly, working on the assumption that those people reading their article watch Doctor Who and precisely nothing else either on TV or at the cinema, then give a two-paragraph update on exactly what Smudger and Jenna have been doing their their lives and careers post-Doctor Who.
Dear blog readers with, let's be honest, not that long a memory may recall that back in November 2022 this blog, along with large chunks of the UK media, reported the legend that is Miriam Margolyes would be part of the Doctor Who sixtieth anniversary celebrations. Chief amongst these reports, was a piece in the Sun (if not somewhere more reliable). Well, dear blog reader, earlier this week, the BBC press office finally got around to confirming this news, in a press release which stated that Miriam will be voicing the character of The Meep in the anniversary episodes (or, at least, in one of them). Of course, inevitably, despite this 'news' being over ten months old, just about every national newspaper and media outlet in the country dropped their shit at the chance to do another Doctor Who-related story and went for it. Take, for instance, the Gruniad Morning Star, the Independent, the Radio Times (which used to be run by adults), Empire, the Digital Spy website, the Daily Scum Mail, the Northern Echo, the Evening Standard, the Daily Scum Express and, of course, the good old Current Bun their very selves, the people who started off this story ten months ago. It's called 'space filling,' dear blog reader and, if you look it up on Google, the number one link will be to the Sun. They're past masters at it.
There's a very good interview with Bonnie Langford - Highway To Mel (you can tell they've been wanting to use that title for years! - in the latest issue of the Doctor Who Monthly (the one with her on the cover). Which Radio Times (it used to be run by adults) has taken a few selected quotes from an built a, not very good, article around. You can read it, if you have a higher tolerence for trivia, here.
Or alternatively, you could, actually, buy the magazine (issue five hundred and nine five) available from all good newsagents (and, some bad ones) for just seven of your English pounds and ninety nine of your English pence.
And now, the weather. The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House, dear blog reader. A visual representation from earlier this week.
That is, without question, positively the last time that this blogger ventures out into The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House gardens with his new weed trimmer whilst Captain Marvel is in the vicinity. Risky business.
It's jolly nice to see, dear blog reader, that Facebook appears know to Keith Telly Topping and his choice of fiends better than he knows his very self. And to have amended his page accordingly. Because, like the song said, you've got to have fiends.
So, dear blog reader, you've got your Afghan coat and your Moroccan hat and your purple suede zipper jacket and your Fair Isle jumper (see previous From The North bloggerisationism update). What else are you going to need for a night out at The Disco? Strides, obviously. Make this blogger's maroon, if you please.
And, you're probably doing to want a skinny tie to go with all that flash clobber (if it's not skinny enough don't worry, they can narrow it for you).
It took until the third series of The Professionals (circa 1979) before - perhaps inspired by the success of Eddie Shoestring's early Mod-revival look over on the BBC - William Bodie and Ray Doyle started wearing thin ties, jackets with narrow lapels and reasonably straight-legged trousers (which are so much easier to run in when you're chasing international terrorists around London than a massive pair of Dan Dares). This blogger mentions that because Stake Out - as previously discussed on this blog, one of the three worst episodes of The Professionals - was shown during ITV4's latest repeat run of the rather hysterically overblown Brian Clemens crime drama series earlier this week. However, at least, unlike When The Heat Cools Off and Look After Annie - both also shown this week - Stake Out almost makes it into the 'so bad it's brilliant' column. Almost, but not quite. Barry Jackson and David Collings are the foot soldiers in South African right-wing nut-job Jack Lynn's vastly over-complicated scheme to set off an atomic bomb at a London bowling alley (the very one that Bodie and Doyle happen to be staking out on a completely unrelated case). Pamela Stephenson plays the world's best dressed junkie waiting, if you will, for her man (and, is described on the end credits not as 'Junkie Woman' but rather as 'Attractive Blonde' in a wholly unpatronisingly non-sexist way. Oh no, very hot water). Best (actually, worst) of all Tony Osoba plays a character who may be part of the villainous shenanigans (but, actually, isn't and is a complete red-herring plot wise) and is referred to on the end credits as 'Handsome Negro'. Just a reminder, this was 1978, not 1938. God, it's bad. But, you know, quite funny because it's bad. The episode also includes one of the great ludicrous lines of dialogue in TV history. George Cowley bellowing into the phone: 'We'll need a chopper and the Nuclear Bomb Squad!' Hang on a minute, there's a Nuclear Bomb Squad separate from the normal, run-of-the-mill, Bomb Squad. They must be the least gainfully employed coppers in Britain.
As this blogger alluded to in that 2015 From The North bloggerisationisms update, when Keith Telly Topping interviewed Martin Shaw a few years prior to that - when he was filming George Gently in Durham - this blogger had been warned in advance by Martin's agent not to even mention The Professionals. 'It's not a job Martin looks back on fondly!' However, after twenty minutes or so when this blogger got to the last question he thought he'd risk it and said 'can I ask one, quick, question about The Professionals?' Martin sort of chuckled, rolled his eyes a bit and then said 'oh, go on then!' This blogger mentioned that he had recently been watching the latest run of repeats. This blogger noted that they had not aged at all well but that in just about every episode there would be something; a nicely-directed action sequence for example. Or a bit of amusing dialogue. Or, even just a scene of Martin and Lewis sitting in their Capri being all philosophical and arch about the job and its ramifications. Something just to remind the viewer that the people making the show weren't complete idiots (this blogger, he hastens to add, did phrase it a bit better than that). Martin actually got quite reminiscent; he said that he'd found most of the scripts to be a bit one-dimensional in terms of characterisation (that's not the actual word he used!) but that he'd enjoyed the one-to-one scenes with Lewis. Then he got very enthusiastic about some of the directors (Douggie Camfield in particular). He 'was brilliant,' Martin said. 'He knew how to film action better than just about anyone I've ever worked with.' So, this blogger got a couple of minutes out of Martin Shaw on The Professionals which was more than most other people have ever managed.
Shamefully, when alluding to the three worst episodes of The Professionals to fiends, this blogger completely forgot about Long Shot, another one shown this week on ITV4. In which a badly-dubbed Roger Lloyd Pack plays, essentially, Carlos The Jackal. Because, if you need a swarthy-looking assassin of no fixed accent to rub out British TV's only Arab Sheikh (Nadim, mate, they don't call it typecasting for nothing) then Trigger has simply got to be the man with his finger on the ... you get the general idea. Plus, Ed Bishop in one his finer 'just give me the money' performances as, obviously, British TV's stock loud-mouthed US politician.
On a side note, we may (rather patronisingly) pity Nadim Sawalha for always getting cast as British telly's stock Arabic character but, we really shouldn't; the chaps was, after all, in regular paid employment during those hugely important years when Nadia and Julia were growing up and needed pocket money. And, he was great in the vast majority of the (often rather substandard) dramas and comedies that he was in. Especially that episode of The Sweeney (Visiting Fireman). Albeit, playing a Turk on that particular occasion.
Finally, in relation to that 2015 blog post which we've mentioned twice already - this one - re-reading the final item of it reminded this blogger of an incident which he had completely forgotten about; the night that he opened his bedroom curtains having heard a noise from outside to be confronted by the remarkable sight of a chap with his strides down around his ankles, strumming his banjo during the hours of darkness up against the wall outside the manicured lawns of The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House. Quite how this happenstance had slipped from this blogger's memory is unclear (early on-set dementia, possibly) since, to be honest, in and of itself it is the sort of thing that one should never forget. It was the look on the chaps face - a mixture of self-loathing, arousal and hoping that he was, shall we say, 'bashing the right chord' that made it art. Ahem. Next ...
All of which jiggery pokery and banjo strumming nonsense, bring us to Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Forty Eight: The Hand Of Night. Diane Clare: 'Did you kill them?' William Sylvester: 'That's a pretty brutal question to ask, don't you think?' Diane Clare: 'Life's a brutal business. Belsen, Hiroshima. They say the good's getting better, but that could mean the bad is getting worse, too.'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Forty Nine: The Skull. Patrick Magee: 'His throat was torn exactly like the Marco case.' Nigel Green: 'What's the connection?' Patrick Magee: 'What connection could there be? Witchcraft?' Nigel Green: 'Hardly. Not in this day and age.'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty: The Hound Of The Baskervilles. Peter Cushing: 'The dagger is gone! Don't you realise what that means? Sir Henry is to die. Tonight!'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty One: The Tomb Of Ligeia. Vincent Price: 'The eyes, they confound me! There is a blankness, a mindless sort of malice in some Egyptian eyes. They do not readily yield up the mystery they hold.'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty Two: Fiend Without A Face. Kim Parker: 'Laboratory? I didn't know you had a laboratory?" Kynaston Reeves: 'There are many things about me that you do not know, my dear. Or you would have never come to work for me!'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty Three: The Projected Man. Tracey Crisp: 'I'm sure I'll never get it right, professor.' Bryant Halliday: 'Don't be frightened Sheila. When I raise my hand, press this. When all these lights are on, press this. The sound will then die down and rebuild. I've programmed the entire second stage. All you have to remember is when all these lights are burning, press this. When this is all over you can tell your boyfriend you helped in an experiment that made scientific history!'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty Four: The Face of Fu Manchu. James Robertson Justice: 'Oh, by the way, what was the name of that Chinese man you were talking about?' Nigel Green: 'Fu Manchu!' James Robertson Justice: 'Never heard of him!'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty Five: The Haunted Strangler. Anthony Dawson: 'I don't know why you social reformers always want to play detective to prove your theories.' Boris Karloff: 'Because you detectives always leave such gaps on your investigations.'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty Six: The Earth Dies Screaming. Virginia Field: 'Do you know what's happened?' William Packer: 'No I don't. I took a plane up this morning for a shakedown flight and when I went up everything was normal. When I came down, everyone was dead. I drove all day. You're the first folks I've seen alive.'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty Seven: Island Of Terror. Peter Cushing: 'What the devil did Napoleon do on that island of his to keep himself busy?' Edward Judd: 'He invented solitaire?' Carole Gray: 'I've a much better game in mind.' Peter Cushing: 'Can three play?'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty Eight: Taste The Blood Of Dracula. Michael Ripper: 'Son hates his father, he's hot-blooded, they quarrel and the son loses his temper. Anyway we've got him all locked up now, safe and sound.' Anthony Higgins: 'But Jeremy did not hate his father. He was the most even-tempered ...' Michael Ripper: 'If you came here to obstruct justice ...' Anthony Higgins: 'I came here because you sent for me!'
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Fifty Nine: Circus Of Horrors. Anton Diffring: 'Quick, get her to a doctor. And send the clowns in!'
There's a song in there, somewhere. Probably.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror & SF Movies Of The 1950s and 1960s. Number Sixty: Quatermass 2. Brian Donlevy: 'They tell me you have no police here?' Charles Lloyd Pack: 'Police? We don't need them - we are a law-abiding community, aren't we?'
This blogger made some pasta to go with the leftovers of the beef tikka masala that he mentioned in the last From The North bloggerisationisms update a couple of weeks ago. Which made for a unique taste combination even for the world-famous gourmet kitchens of The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House. Sadly, it also ended in complete and utter bloody disaster as this blogger - like the total raas clot he can be at times - left the masala sauce, accidentally, on a cooker ring which he thought he'd turned off but, you know, hasn't, whilst he went into the front room and scoffed his grub. Early on-set dementia again, dear blog reader, it's the only answer. All of this, of course, only went and utterly ruined the best stainless steel pan in the entire gaff. We've had some good time, that pan and this blogger. But now, it's gone to that great scouring pad and dishwasher in the sky. Rest in pieces, faithful and trusty pan. You made great curries, boiled good rice, heated up soup a treat and you catered to this blogger's occasional craving for some Heinz spaghetti on toast. You will be missed.
Luckily for this very blogger, all of this malarkey occurred during the very fortnight that Wilko's was going into administration. So, this week, Keith Telly Topping went into the Shields Road shop and bought himself a more-than-decent replacement (and a tasty little frying pan to go with it for whenever he fancies whipping up a mushroom omelette). Top (if exhausting) work, even if this blogger does say so his very self.
There really is nothing on Earth, dear blog reader, quite like a 'twenty per cent off everything cos we've gone bust' sale at Wilko's to bring out the very worst in people's manners. Watching two large middle-aged women quite literally about to come to blows over which of them was getting the last Glade Plug-In air-freshener was, trust this blogger, quite a sight. Even for Byker.
This blogger always enjoys having a quick shufty around his local Morrisons' clothing department on the off-chance of picking up a bargain. This week was just such an instance, with this blogger finding a pair of normally-eight-quid-but-now-retailing-at-but-two-smackers boxer shorts. This was the second occasion that this blogger had happened on just such a bargain and the reason for the reduction in price, in both cases, was exactly the same. They were underwear of a Christmas design (one with a sort of Christmas Trees motif, this latest one featuring reindeer in party hats). Keith Telly Topping bought them working on the assumption that he doesn't particularly care what they look like per se (so long as they're not covered in shit, obviously) since he will be the only one to actually see them when he puts them on as, the rest of they time, they will be covered by this blogger's trousers. Unless, in a one-in-a-million chance, this blogger happens to have a consenting partner of his choice in The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House whilst he is in a state of some undress. And, even then, this blogger has a response worked out in case surprise is expressed at him wearing what appear to be Santa's keks. To wit: 'Every day's Christmas in this bedroom, baby!' It could work.
Also, a quick note that Q Branch now appear to be moving into the retail sector just as Wilko are moving out of it. 'Have 'em in the shops by Christmas, Q.'
In other news, as usual after coming out of the pool and standing under the hairdryer for five minutes, this blogger's riah resembles Barry Gibb at his most blow-waved. Tragedy.
We, therefore, come to the part of From The North dedicated to this blogger's medical malarkey. Or, strictly speaking, malarkeys as there are several of them. For those dear blog readers who haven't been following this on-going fiasco which appears to have been on-going longer than the universe pst-Big Bang, it goes like this: Keith Telly Topping spent some weeks around Christmas 2021 into the New Year feeling rotten; experienced five day in hospital; was discharged; received B12 injections; then more of them; somewhat recovered his missing appetite; got an initial diagnosis; had a consultant's meeting; continued to suffer from fatigue and insomnia; endured a second endoscopy; had another consultation; got (unrelated) toothache; had an extraction; which took ages to heal; had another consultation; spent a week where nothing remotely health-related occurred; received further B-12 injections; had an echocardiogram; was subject to more blood extractions; made another hospital visit; saw the unwelcome insomnia and torpor continue; received yet more blood tests; had a rearranged appointment; suffered his worst period yet with the fatigue. Until the following week. And, then the week after that. Oh, the fatigue, dear blog reader. The depressing, ceaseless fatigue. He had a go on the Blood-Letting Machine; got another sick note; had an assessment; was given his fourth COVID jab; got some surprising but welcome news about his assessment; had the results of his annual diabetes check-up; had another really bad week with the fatigue; followed by one with the sciatica; then one with the chronic insomnia; and, one with a plethora of general cold-related grottiness. Which continued over the Christmas period and into 2023. There was that whole 'slipping in The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House bath and putting his knee through the side' thing; the painful night-time leg cramps; getting some new spectacles; returning to the East End pool. Only to discover that he remains as weak of a kitten in the water. Or, indeed, out of it. Feeling genuinely wretched. Experiencing a nasty bout of gastroenteritis. Had a visit from an occupational therapist. Did the 'accidentally going out in my slippers' malarkey. The return of the dreaded insomnia and the dreaded return of the fatigue. The latest tri-monthly prickage; plus, yet more sleep disturbances and another bout of retinology.
Twice this last fortnight, dear blog reader, yer actual Keith Telly Topping has done the whole Bus-Pool-Bank-Post Office-Bus-Wilko's-Morrisons Café-Morrisons-Greggs-Bus-The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House thing. And, twice, he has ended up pure dead exhausted and ready for his bed in the middle of the afternoon. Which, according to both the Gruniad Morning Star and the Huffington Post is supposed to be rather good for you. And, according to The Times and the Daily Mirra, really isn't. If possible, could you guys get your heads together and sort this issue out one way or the other, please? Because, you know, some of us would rather like to know whether it's helping or hindering.
Meanwhile, a recent Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House post delivery brought Keith Telly Topping an application form to claim his Civil Service pension. Reminding this blogger (because, obviously, he'd completely forgotten otherwise) that he was, at that time, a mere but six weeks away from his sixtieth birthday. Don't all look quite so shocked, will you? Time flies ... when you throw your clocks out of the window, apparently.
BBC News reports that India has successfully launched its first mission of the Sun. One trusts they're going at night, otherwise it might be a bit hot when they get there.
Mind you, the same website (which, like Radio Times, used to be run by adults) also reports that Japan has 'joined [the] race to Moon with a successful rocket launch.' The 'race to the Moon', eh? Hang on, what's that sound this blogger hears in the far distance? Why, it's NASA doing a rather decent cover of The Stooges '1969'.
There are people that will try to convince you, dear blog fiends, that the concept of nominative determinism simply doesn't exist. This blogger begs to differ. And, he cites the story that the soon-to-be-former Tory MP Chris Pincher has quit parliament after extremely losing a 'groping appeal' as exhibit number one for the defence.
It's a sad indication of this blogger age, he believes, but every time Keith Telly Topping hears the phrase 'now is the time' beginning a sentence, in any context (as this blogger did one day last week when listening to the news), this blogger's mind immediately goes to two separate places at once; Neil The Hippy saying 'Now is the time for me to finish painting my astrological chart' in the Oil episode of The Young Ones. And, simultaneously, to a band that John Peel used to have on his show quite a bit circa 1982 called Now Is The Time To Forget The Whimpering Child, Become The Warrior. This blogger struggled to remember what they even sounded like, but they couldn't have been any worse than the brilliantly-named-but musically-somewhat-limited The Night The Goldfish Died from around the same era, a band so obscure that this blogger can only find but one reference to them on the entire Interweb (concerning them having, seemingly, inspired the name of another outfit, The Dead Goldfish Ensemble).
Music frequently reminds this blogger of the utterly daft questions that his mother often used to ask him about the records he was listening to at any given moment. Example number one: Hearing 'Tighten Up (Part 1)' on The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House random playlist this week. Once, many years ago, Keith Telly Topping was listening to that very song when his mother suddenly asked, 'who's this?' 'It's Archie Bell & The Drells, mam' this blogger replied. 'Whom?' This blogger repeated their name, more slowing this time. 'Why are they called that?' she asked. 'I dunno, maybe because it rhymes?' this blogger replied. She pondered this answer for moment then said 'Well, it's a silly name, anyway.' This blogger merely added that, since they were on Atlantic Records, she might want to write to them, care of the address on the label, as this blogger was sure Archie his very self would be really interested in hearing her views on his backing band naming policy.
Or, there was a time (example number two), when this blogger was listening to Cockney Rebel and my mother suddenly became very interested to know exactly why Judy Teen 'got sick of the scene'. This blogger said that he had no earthly idea why this had occurred but, he was sure that he could find a phone number for Steve Harley so she could quiz him on what the lyrics were all about and leave this blogger alone to finish listening to the song in a bit of peace and quiet.
This blogger's father, on the other hand, always found Edwyn Collins's 'woah-oh-oooh' bits at the start of Orange Juice's 'Felicity' extremely irksome. So, this blogger used to play that one a lot. It was, after all, the sound of happiness.
This blogger has only ever seen the Northern Lights about four times in his entire life (and three of those have been within the last decade when, apparently, due to certain atmospheric malarkey of which this blogger knows little the appearance of the borealis has become a much more regular happenstance than normal). Sadly, living in a city full of light pollution, they never - and this blogger means, never - look anything like this. (That's Sycamore Gap, near Housesteads, incidentally.)
And, finally dear blog reader, this. Which, of course, wins the Internet.
