Monday 29 March 2010

Alan Titchmarsh Vs The Games Industry



Hello. Long time no speak.

Anyway, I was on Twitter a couple of weeks ago, and saw this retweeted by somebody, from @GamesMaster:

It's true! Follow us for the first official facts and pics from the new TV show.


This short clip does more than video games ever could to promote violence. But what happens when the world of video games dares enter the closed-mindset of mid-afternoon ITV1 in all its Daily Mail-fueled hatred? Thanks to Gareth Donnell for this link, which highlights the ignorance the video games industry is up against. The part of Joseph McCarthy is played by Alan Titchmarsh:


Honestly, you'd think the games industry was an outlet for BNP propaganda or something. The public perception is that games are 'just for kids', and unfortunately, you're going to always get uninformed hypocrites like Julie Peasgood, cast member of 2000's survival horror game Martian Gothic: Unification, shouting down reason and fact to appease their baying crowd. Tim Ingham told GameSetWatch: "Hearing the floor manager tell the octagenarian crowd to 'really let your feelings be known if he says something you don't agree with' seconds before filming was pretty disconcerting. I hope you noted the targeted 'he' in that sentence. I certainly did." At retail level, I dealt with this ignorance for ten years, where parents would complain about a game they'd bought being violent, not understanding the BBFC-certificated number 18 in a big, big circle on the box. Oh, and that, apparently, was 'my' fault (or whoever they were speaking to at the time), not theirs, that they didn't see it. Also, it was also 'my' fault for not explaining to every single customer the fact that games are subject to the same certification as films. With people so narrow-minded, society's ills are always someone else's fault. Unfortunately, the games industry is the current scapegoat. Not even insipid ITV fodder such as Ant and Dec, or Whatshername and Whatshername, advertising Nintendo products is enough to stick a carjack into the narrowest of minds. All credit to Tim, he didn't rant in the clip, like I probably would have done in the same circumstance. His face said it all, which will be lost on the audience. The devil is in the detail, but to people who prefer broader strokes and sweeping generalisation, it's a blind spot.

BBC Four have had Gameswipe with Charlie Brooker, which is the closest TV has come to a decent video games show. For a change, you had someone who knew his subject, and the history thereof. The first few minutes of this clip will show you how poorly video games have been portrayed on TV over the decades:


Rather than being a reviews show, it's more a potted history of gaming and its portrayal in the media. Due to the lack of sensationalist tabloidesque fright in the title, non-gamers wouldn't have watched it, and so the ignorant remain uneducated. For those that love Brooker's output, like myself, it was an entertaining, balanced show. If this were a regular fixture, and in a Screenwipe style overview of the week in games, this would be a perfect show.

That's the weird thing. The games industry is huge. Huge. Games are released en masse on a weekly basis in an extremely fast-moving industry, yet there is no show on British TV that is aimed at games players. GameFace is aimed at 'casual' gamers, and therefore a waste of airspace; it's like having a show aimed at 'casual' football fans, with ill-informed commentary and smug posturing over fuzzy footage of matches. I'm not a football fan, so I can't imagine anything worse. Games have been demonised by the media, much the way that television was in decades past. Games shows have always been aimed at the very young, as there is still this perception that they are a child's plaything (just watch that Titchmarsh clip for proof), yet the demographic has changed imperceptibly to broadcasters. The average age of gamers is much higher than it used to be, and the style, content and classification thereof are vastly different too. However, for the type of programme that games players have to endure, you might as well show clips of Inglourious Basterds on Movies, Movies, Movies.

I asked Facebook and Twitter for their views.

@MozMoz3000: GameSwipe is alright but runs too quickly through things. Internet has helped more informed presenters do their own shows but there are still a lot of video game show productions out there which employ utterly clueless hosts to present them.

@steve_parkes: The best was GameSwipe nothing else has been any good ever (exceptions made for Violet Berlin shows because of two key points)

Gareth Donnell (about the Titchmarsh clip): Where do you start with it?! I'd have launched at Kelvin MacKenzie for the Bulger comment, I mean what fucking game could you possibly try to link to '92?

Phil South (former Your Sinclair journalist): Worst? Oh so many things, take your pick. Either the rabid Daily Mail readers ascribing to them the power to change a normal person into a murderous maniac or pedo, or the BIG MEDIA attempts to cash in on the online and gaming culture by producing shows that talk about "games" and "shootemups" like a 50 year old dad trying to sound hip. Best? uh, yeah still trying to think of something...

Mark Garforth:
I've watched the Alan Titchmarsh link, and, well...shit! Can't put my feelings into words; so I won't try. If we had these figures of moral superiority in charge of anything other than The Sun or Bird's Eye frozen peas adverts, we'd have Britain turn into something from 'V for Vendetta'.

That's it for now. I've managed to unconvince myself that games on TV are a good thing, as they'd just be shat over like they usually are. What format would your ideal games programme take? Is it worth bothering?

Friday 19 March 2010

Another Blog In The Wall

Quick update for those who pay attention (hello!).

I've managed to incorporate Highslide into Destinauts, and I've done it here too.

Example:



Click on one of the pics, then you should be able to cycle between them, enlarge them and so on.

See what I've got in mind for Destinauts: www.Destinauts.co.uk

So, what do you think?

That's all for now. I'm still looking at ways of streamlining this place, making the archive more easily accessible, categorised and so on. Have a lovely weekend.

Thursday 18 March 2010

We're a fackin' dot com, don't yer know.

I was designing a new logo to announce it, and I did finish it, but it was shit. It really was, which is a shame, because it's the one I had in mind ages ago and never had the proper time to do it properly. Now I have done it properly, it's a mess, so you'll never get to see it.

But I digress.

Anyway, as of today, this site is DystopianFuchsia.com. None of that Blogspot bobbins in the URL.

As of two days ago, Destinauts is at Destinauts.co.uk. Although some cheeky fucker has suddenly registered the .com, .org and .net domains for it, which will cost me at least £43 each to acquire myself. Ah well. I don't need 'em. Not yet, anyway.

I spent the last couple of nights beset with problems. I've been desperately trying to finish the colouring for the second page of Destinauts, and 5 times in the past week, it's crashed before I could save it, losing my work. I've just finished it at last, and am working away on page 3. It's bloody tiring work, not least for someone who's never been great at colouring. It's my least favourite arty thing to do. Drawings-wise, I've finished the first 7 pages, and have ordered some new special arty pens to finish the first issue. Hopefully they should turn up tomorrow. Sometime this month, most of, if not all of, the first issue will be online. I said March, I meant March. Fucking self-imposed deadlines.

Now, I've had a major problem. I want to embed Highslide on the Destinauts site so I can have a nice navigational thing, in order for readers to have a better reading experience, and so I don't have to have it hosted at a webcomic host where it'll get lost amongst everything else. The problem is that Blogger (Google) have recently disabled FTP functionality on their blogs, and so I can't see a way of uploading the template software and embedding it in the site code. I'm no programmer; I'm very much a novice with stuff like this, so I'm desperately trying to find a way around it. I don't want to have to export the blog elsewhere; I reckon it'll cause more problems than it'll solve. If anyone has any ideas, I'd be more than grateful for the input and help. I've devoted stupid amounts of time to this very subject today with no reasonable outcome. I know that the Doctor Who News Page has Highslide every now and again, and they're a Blogspot site. In fact, click here, then click Reveal, then click on the first picture to see an example of what I'm on about. I really want that for Destinauts. Please help if you can.

Finally, this place. I feel that I devote too much time and effort on things here that people don't bother with. The Caption Competition, the Haunted Gallery... I think it's time I retired them. Seriously, they're just taking up room. I started both up as a way of getting more interaction from people here so it wasn't just 'my' site, but if it's not what people want, I can't force 'em, can I? I put the effort into making pics for the Caption Competition, and although they don't take much time to do, it's still wasted time. Soon, I'll be streamlining Dystopian Fuchsia, and getting rid of things that don't need to be there. I want an easier site to navigate around, which means completely altering the HTML for the site. I know very little about HTML, so it won't happen overnight, but it will be soon. In the meantime, those things are going. I just don't have the time to devote to them at the moment, and I don't want this place to stagnate with the same old tired content.

There we go, a blog about absolutely nothing. I haven't had any more people asking if they can submit a guest blog post since Tom Campbell's one, but I'm still hoping to post some more. If you're interested, let me know on Twitter or Facebook. Also, let me know here what you think of guest posts. Do they detract from everything else, or are they A Good Thing? All comments are welcome. Thank you. Now, on your way.


Monday 15 March 2010

John Sicolo, 1944-2010

The late John Peel with John Sicolo, two important figures of alternative music.


The owner of The Legendary TJ's nightclub in Newport, South Wales, John Sicolo, passed away yesterday. He was 66.

I first met him in 1995 when I first moved to the area. I soon came to realise what an important figure this man was, not just in terms of how important he was to the alternative music scene, but also in how greatly he was known and respected across all age groups.

I got to know him as I frequented TJ's, which was host to my first ever live gig where all of 15 people attended (Honeycrack, supported by Reverse, neither of whom exist any more; Honeycrack have been absorbed back into The Wildhearts, and Reverse... um... when I find out, I'll tell you. They were good, though) on October 15th 1995. He acted as door staff, bar staff, general host. On a normal TJ's night, he was ever-present, avuncular gentleman on one instant, no-nonsense business owner the next. He didn't put up with any trouble; he cut an imposing figure, as did his door staff. If they recognised you, you were okay.

As I was studying photography as part of my degree, I asked John if it would be okay to try out some band photography. He was more than willing to let me, allowing me to stand on stage with Therapy?, Snuff, Girls Against Boys, Brainiac, Voodoo Glowskulls and many more, as well as the chance to go backstage with each of them. This he did in exchange for putting my photos around TJ's, some of which are still there. He posed in photos for me with the bands. One of my favourites was with Brainiac. It was one of their final gigs before the untimely death of lead singer Timmy Tyler. Seeing John and the band all sticking their tongues out at the camera still makes me smile, and now holds a great relevance to me. I'll try to find the picture and attach it to this post if I manage to track it down this week.

Wherever you go, you'll find many stories attached to TJ's. You won't be able to avoid the oft-told tale of when Kurt Cobain proposed to Courtney Love there during a Hole gig. It was a story John told often, but he told it well.

On the night that Labour got into power in 1997, I was the victim of assault outside TJ's. I'll go into detail with this in another blog soon (it's one massive soap opera, you wouldn't believe the flow of events. It's like Diedrick Santer wrote it), and I vaguely remember John hoisting one of my attackers off of me. Later, my face streaming with blood, he told me that he knew who did it, and he would testify in court for me against him should it get that far. He was true to his word. Weeks later, he stood up for me, and helped me prosecute the person in question.

Since moving away from Newport and around the country, I've barely had a chance to visit TJ's. Last time I went there was about 3 years ago. I saw John, said hello, and he said, "Hiya, butt," patted me on the shoulder, and went on his way. I was one of thousands of people he would have dealt with, but he always remembered you. He was a thoroughly fantastic bloke, and the world is poorer for his loss.

The NME report on it here.
The BBC report it here with a small tribute from me.
The South Wales Argus report it here.

Wednesday 10 March 2010

Guest Post #3: Tom Campbell

Evening. Play this first:



Hulk Hogan and Ric Flair. Two of wrestling's biggest franchises. Two of the largest names in the sport. Two men who helped the profession to new heights and made millions of dollars in the process.

They are now wrestling's two saddest casualties.

Non wrestling fans will look at the photo above and remember both men and how they used to fight back "when I were a wee nipper" and would assume that this is a photograph from one of their colossal battles during wrestling's heyday. But you would be wrong. This photograph was taken March 8th, 2010...this past Monday. Hogan and Flair, 56 and 61 respectively, are still competing today. Many put this down to an undying love for the sport that made them, they simply cannot bring themselves to hang it up, kick back on the rocking chairs outside and bask in the peace of their twilight years. Whilst there is an inkling of that ideal about them, I believe that the story isn't just of two guys who simply cannot get rid of that itch to perform.

The past few years for both Hulk Hogan and Ric Flair have been marred with appalling personal problems that may have confined them to spend the rest of their days forcing their ageing bodies to keep on fighting because that's all they can do to make money. As somebody who is self-employed, the prospect of work drying up is one that hangs over my head constantly. With no contact and guaranteed wages it means that every day off I have is essentially a day of unemployment. I know however that I'm fortunate... sure, I have bills to pay, but my girlfriend and I make just enough money to keep a roof over our heads and live comfortably as well. For "The Hulkster" and "The Nature Boy" I don't think they have that peace of mind.

Hulk Hogan was a wrestling superstar in the 1990s. He was THE household name. His moniker summoned up images of a tall, muscle-bound man who could pick up and throw down men TWICE his size, and the best part of all was he was on our side. He was a "goody" so to speak and he was made into a millionaire over the two decades he dominated the wrestling world thanks to people like me who paid good money to wear T-shirts with his face on, go to sleep next to action figures bearing his likeness and - of course - buy tickets and pay-per-view events when he would show some evil-doer what for (truth be told, my mum and dad paid for all of these things...but I was ten years old, what can you do?) Hogan continued to make a shedload of money all the way up until 2006, amazingly! He found gainful employment in WCW in the mid 90s where he stayed until popping back to the WWE and doing a handful of matches for nice pots of money. Hulk Hogan could have retired in the late 90s and EASILY lived off the interest he made as the top superstar. But it was ego that kept him going and spending way beyond his means...and when his wife Linda filed for divorce all of that work seemed to come undone. Hogan is now paying a large amount of money per month to keep Linda Bollea in the means she wishes to be kept. After all those years being touted as wrestling's biggest star and the entertainment world's highest earner, "The Immortal" Hulk Hogan was skint.

Ric Flair was always wrestling "baddy". He boasted about spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on suits, personal limousines, personal jets and big houses. This was hyperbole either...Flair conducted an inteview where he talked about how much money he blew during his payday. But that was why people hated him, because he was all about money and expensive things, boasting about how he's the richest and the best wrestler in the world. Flair earned money in the binary opposite way to Hulk Hogan...people paid not to watch him win the day, but to get his comeuppance. Ric Flair made people hate him so much that fans would spend their hard-earned dollar to watch "the goody" give him a shoeing. And that's how Flair rolled, and that's how Flair became another massive earner in the wrestling world. In his prime, Flair was the best. But sadly, he never went away.

Between 2002 and 2008 Ric Flair was back in the WWE as an active wrestler and despite the occasional flash of brilliance, it was a sad sight to see. An old, balding, uncomfortable looking Ric Flair bounced around the wrestling ring on a weekly basis and generally sullied his reputation to new wrestling fans. But WWE sensed that his time was coming and because they respected Flair so much they were ready to help him kick back and enjoy a lengthy retirement. WWE signed Ric Flair to a Legends contract (basically, Ric would get paid a guaranteed monthly downside and do additional work for the company - make guest appearances on TV shows, do autograph signings, help promote the company but outside of the ring) and had him bow out at Wrestlemania in one last, graceful burst of glory. It was the perfect way to end the man's storied career.

But Ric Flair wanted to wrestle. Despite the fact that he simply couldn't work that well in the ring anymore, he wanted to put his tights back on and get into action. He tried to get back into wrestling, but the WWE office denied it, saying as long as he was under contract he would not be wrestling anymore. Ric Flair was on guaranteed money, which was timed perfectly as he was facing his second divorce (and consequently, his second Direct Debit if you know what I mean) so at least he would be settled for life. But Flair, making - what I believe - a horrible business decision, severed his contract with WWE and announced he was taking independent bookings.

Flair, hitting his 60s when regular people start to contemplate retirement, was self-employed once more and really needed the money! He had another brief marriage between leaving WWE and today which has once again gone the way of divorce. Another Direct Debit on the list for Flair. With no guaranteed money and his little remaining funds from his short-lived WWE contract dwindling, Ric Flair was staring down the barrel of bankruptcy.

Enter Total Nonstop Action Wrestling, a sports-entertainment company based out of Orlando, Florida. Since the demise of World Championship Wrestling TNA is considered the "number two" wrestling company in the world and despite the fact the company had never turned a profit they
extended an offer to Ric Flair and Hulk Hogan to come and work for them at the end of 2009. This week, during their big TV debut at the same timeslot as WWE, they got back into the ring to face one another.

And that's where we are today.

I watched the match in which the two biggest stars of wrestling's glory days locked horns once again. It made me really really sad. To know the path that both these men have taken in their lives to this point, and to watch how timid and slow they are as they fight, it was actually so distressing I couldn't watch it all. Hulk Hogan's body is so bashed up that he can no longer perform his signature Legdrop Of Doom, that should give you an indication as to how sorry this state of affairs is.

These are two greats who should currently be sat on a patio somewhere with a case of beers talking up a storm about the days of yore. Ric Flair and Hulk Hogan, with a combined age of 117, should have saved up, slowed down and chilled out by the time we reached the 21st Century so not only THEY, but WE can look back and smile at all they brought this wacky sport of ours.

They shouldn't be doing this.

--
The More Music Drive Home. Weekdays from 4pm on...
North Worcestershire's 107.2 The Wyre (http://www.thewyre.com)
Telford and Wrekin's 107.4 Telford FM (http://www.telfordfm.co.uk)
Shrewsbury's 106.5 The Severn (http://www.1065.thesevern.co.uk)
Oswestry and North Shropshire's 107.1 The Severn


If you would like to write a guest post, contact me on Twitter. Though I am on a leave of absence from Twitter for a couple of weeks, I will get notifications outside of it so will get your message. See you soon!

Monday 8 March 2010

Guest post #2: Stu Hall

Morning. Play this first:


Here's the second guest blog post from Stu Hall. Enjoy.

Hello Dears.

It is a pleasure to write a guest spot on Ian's blog, Dystopian Fuchsia. I've been an avid reader of the site for literally hundreds and hundreds of years. And by writing that, what I actually mean is, I recently stumbled across it when Ian and I began following one another on Twitter. Still, I'm here now, and I feel compelled to write something.

STOP STARING AT ME.

Like Ian, I have spent part of my career working in the retail sector. While Ian worked in a record store, I worked in a book store. Because of the wonderful way of the world, I actually ended up selling a few CDs and I imagine that Ian probably sold a few books. That's what happens when you let monster big-box stores take over the world. See what you've done? It's all YOUR fault.

Although the wage is generally poor, “working retail” inside one of these many evil corporate concrete blocks helps you to develop some important personal skills. First of all, it makes you a better listener. It also gives you a bit of humility, something that everyone except for me lacks. On the other hand, you really need to enjoy the job. If you don't, it becomes easy to turn into a twisted, vengeful ball of hate who views anyone daring to enter the shop, with disgust.

The best way to prevent yourself from hating everyone in the universe, even kittens, is to spot annoying, troublesome customers before they spot you. The second best way is to write about it, detailing..... the common habits of annoying customers in a book store.

The Common Habits of Annoying Customers in a Book Store: Their questions and the answers I wish I could give

Q. I saw a book here 52 years ago, it had a red cover.

A. Have you tried the Red Cover section? We don't have one. We tend to classify our books by title, author or ISBN code. Try it.

Q. Do you have Oprah's pick?

A. I realise that she is the female Jesus, but I have no idea which of The Chosen One's particular favourites you are talking about. And before you ask, no. No, we do not have an “Oprah Section”.

Q. Do you sell Turtles/Hedge Strimmers/Rucksacks filled with real beating hearts?

A. Just because Tesco sell books does not mean that we sell rolls of toilet paper, bulk packages of nappies or Rock Band 2 for the X-Box 360.

Q. Do you sell the 1897 limited release classic “Oh Yoreth, how my blue balls ache

A. It is a book store, not the inside of The Tardis. We can only hold a certain number of books, as governed by the walls that surround the building. We could hold more, but then there would be no room for customers. Sounds wonderful, I know, but it isn't really pursuant to a successful business.

Q. Can you order “Classic Moments of Coronation Street In Painstakingly Verbose, Mundane, Suicide-Inducing Paragraphs: 1978-1979” by tomorrow? I need it for a wank, I mean, exam.

A. A lack of organisation on your part does not constitute and emergency on my part. Stop pretending I am evil because I cannot make the book materialise before your stupid, pouchy, screwed up, vile face. Several years ago, everyone was stuck with mail order. Now you can get a book, usually, within 2-3 days. Go home.

Q. What do you mean, 'out of print'?

A. Thousands of people, who are more organised than you, have already bought it. It is not my fault that the publisher decided to not take fuckwits into account. Stop acting as though all the world's books are printed in our back room.

Q. Will you ask Janet Evanovich/Dean Koontz/Nora Roberts/Maeve Binchy/Some Other Dull, Boring, Formulaic Writer to hurry up and finish their next book?

A. Whatever answer I give is not as funny as the fact that you are genuinely asking this question. I appreciate people sometimes ask this as a joke, but I have had customers who are genuinely asking me to chase up their favourite writer. Please... EXCUSE ME, for I must FLY to New York on behalf of CENTRE OF THE UNIVERSE BOOKSTORE LTD for my publishing BRUNCH with Sue 'F is for Fucking' Grafton.

Q. Why are books so expensive?

A. They're not, you tight arsed, shit-eating-grin wearing bastard. Why is it that the people who ask why books are expensive are the same people who fold open their bulging wallets so that they can gently tease out a crisp £20 note with the kind of precision that is normally reserved for gatherings around the dining room table to play the classic electronic board game 'Operation'?

Here's an idea: Why don't you make a book that's cheaper, piss-pants?

GO ON. DO IT NOW.

Say for example you had been working on a beautiful masterpiece, which you had provisionally entitled “The Hen That Repeatedly Stabbed My Face”. You could get it self-published through a company such as lulu.com, who wouldn't give a shit how awful it is. Lulu would charge you about £12 for a 400 page hardcover. You might be thinking “wow, that's a decent price”. You might also be thinking, “wow, that's so cheap that this mysterious Lulu must be a whore”. Well it would be a decent price....

Except you need to add shipping. I can't be fucked to look it up, but however much it is, it's another cost.

WAIT! Don't forget that you want to sell it in a shop. Because you are not a major publishing house, most book stores will either refuse to sell it at all, or they will want about 50% of your profit. Unless you know an indie-shop that will sell your book, suddenly you have to set your price at over £24.

Ok, let's say I'm wrong and you do get it in a shop. Congratulations, you contrary monkey faced idiot. Someone is willing to display your tat. Sadly, you do not see any money from this transaction until the book actually sells. In the meantime, if the book is stolen, you don't get anything at all. Same goes for if the book becomes damaged by a customer (or member of staff). You'd better factor that into the price of your “book”. By now you'll be needing to sell it for silly money. Thanks Lulu, you cock tease.

Still think books are expensive? You make me sick. Physically, violently sick. I'm dry retching now, just thinking about you.

Q. I can get it for 50pence on Amazon!!!!!!

A. Stop wasting your time, and more importantly, my time... and the time of genuine customers who are waiting behind you. The ones who are drilling masonry sized holes into the back of your skull using their eyes. Log on to Amazon, buy the book, and don't forget to choose “Free super-saver delivery”.

What's that? You want it NOW? Then it's four times the price, dick face. Amazon is a fancy schmancy distributor with a website, not a traditional book store.

Q. I can get it for £2 at Tesco.

A. Tesco also illegally break into farm yards and literally strangle the money from farmers pockets in exchange for milk, beat Chinese children close to death in exchange for jumpers and probably punch horses in the face and steal their eyes for marbles. They can afford to sell books at close to loss.

Q. Will you sell my book here?

A. No, it's shit. Really, really awful. Terrible. Get out of here.

@StuHall contributes to comedy website http://www.teamfishcake.co.uk and has a semi-regularly updated blog at http://www.anythingbutthepoutine.com


(PS No, that wasn't my voice in the clip. Thanks for asking though.)

Friday 5 March 2010

First D.F. Guest Post: @Scriblit

Hello. I recently asked if anybody would like to write guest blogs here so a) I could keep this place ticking over while I work on getting Destinauts finished, and b) I could see if it worked as an experiment, judge the reaction and hopefully take the site in a slightly different direction if it works. I had a great response. Literally some of you have expressed an interest in contributing, and here I present the first of the guest blogs, a fantastic piece from @Scriblit. She's one of the wittiest people on Twitter, and if you're not following her, you really bloody should (oh, and check this site out). Enjoy (and please leave feedback!).


Like any mildly sarcastic, vaguely-disenfranchised-with-the-world-in-general, left wing, middle class, thirty year old Briton, I am one of the many thousands of sheeple who generally believes that Charlie Brooker is right about pretty much everything. I have two exceptions to this blanket agreement with each and every one of the square-faced lovegod’s dictats:

1, He seems to genuinely enjoy The Apprentice, whereas I’d rather set myself on fire than watch a bunch of knobs act knobbishly in order to impress another knob.

2, A few months back, he wrote an article in which he claimed that women should run the world, since us laydeez would, in his opinion, do it much better than the men. Which is a terribly sweet sentiment, bless his cottons, but wrong, wrong, so very wrong. Gordon Brown in a Mankini Wrong.

Let’s not even start on the ‘women are less likely to start needless wars’ element to that proposal. There’s many a dead Argentinian sailor who would laugh heartily at that one, were they not, y’know, dead, and we’ve all seen Sarah ‘I use antlers in all of my deeeecorating’ Palin giving funny looks to any country that ends in ‘-an’. It’ll be fun if she ever gets within spitting distance of The Big Red Button. Fun in an ‘Oh God, Oh God, we’re all going to die’ sort of a way. Face it. Women get into stupid fights. Anyone who’s ever seen Jeremy Kyle would be able to tell you that. Let’s pretend that war doesn’t even factor into the equation. I still don’t believe that my fellow women would do a better job at running the world than men do.

I’m not going to start spouting bollocks about how women just aren’t cut out to run things because our fluffy brains are too full of lovely thoughts about rainbows and babies to do anything proper but are capable of ironing your pants and cooking your tea at the same time and my, isn’t that clever. If you’d ever seen my pathetic attempts at multi tasking (or, for that matter, ironing) you’d know why I scoff in the face of such cobblers. But, as annoying as I find the sweeping statement that all women Lack The Will Of The Warrior on a genetic level, the opposing sweeping statement irritates me just as much – the one that states that women are naturally more sensible, more understanding, more mature than men – that we are true grown-ups, rolling our eyes in fond despair as those silly manboys of ours goon childishly around us, messing stuff up for us to patiently fix later. I’m not sure what sort of world that gender divide exists in, because it’s certainly not one where nigh-on every electronic gadget has the option of coming in hot pink. It’s not one where ‘Supernatural Romance’ warrants an entire black-and-red corner of Waterstones. And it definitely isn’t one where grown women can pay $50 to get themselves Vajazzled.

Vajazzling is something I found out about this week, and really wish I hadn’t. The latest trend in absolutely bloody pointless and ridiculous cosmetic procedures. Apparently, these days, getting your entire body from the eyebrows down waxed bald is not enough for some of us. When you are Vajazzled, you celebrate your Love Glove’s new Kojak Hairdo by gluing fucking rhinestones to it. Yes. We have started to stick sequins onto our fannies. Because that’s what sensible and mature people do. It’s harmless at least, and women, of course, have the right to adorn their genitals however they wish. I could draw a crude portrait of Compo from Last of the Summer Wine in magic marker on mine if I really wanted. Women can make their Ladygardens look like Disco Stu’s jacket if they please, and I’m sure they will. Because women, like men, are perfectly capable of being absolutely idiotic overgrown children, pretty much all of the time.

Everything has to be shiny and sparkly for us these days, you see – our skin, our hair, our clothes, our fannies, even our vampires. I bet you any money that if a tablet were formulated that could make your shit look like a Christmas tree decoration, women would start taking it – even if it caused violent stomach cramps and had a 90% chance of causing arse cancer within three years. I’d still give it only a matter of months before Grazia had a list of the best places to get your sparkly poo pills and The Guardian would have a piece in their Saturday magazine agonising over whether glitter shit was actually the last word in emancipation. We’re like cats. Show us a piece of tin foil on the end of a bit of wool & it will apparently keep us happy for fucking hours. That may seem like an unfair exaggeration, but look at the media that’s produced for women – that we consume in depressingly vast amounts. Gossip mags and their low-rent, exploitative, ghoulish ‘Real Life’ cousins, anything with Jennifer Aniston in, Loose Women, Twilight, the “Femail” supplement – the last three in that list distressingly popular despite being about as Feminist as Jack the Ripper… I may be missing some complex subtleties in these things, but they have to me as much substance as a shiny thing dancing on the end of a ribbon.

And then there’s Mamma Mia. The highest grossing UK film of all time. As a female cinephile who knows what a tough industry film is for anyone to break into, let alone women, I’d like to say I’m very proud that the highest grossing UK film of all time is a low budget, feel-good yarn made by women, about women, for women. I’d like to, but I can’t, and I can’t because Mamma Mia is one of the worst films I’ve ever seen. It has no plot, no conflict, no characterisation, not a single original thought seems to have gone into making it. It’s poorly shot, poorly directed, poorly scripted and poorly acted. It is, essentially, an ABBA Karaoke video where somebody’s already taken the trouble to sing all the songs out of tune so you don’t have to. And then the rest of us ladies had to go out and buy the bloody thing in phenomenal numbers, sending it whizzing up the Highest Grossing Hit Parade and leading the makers to crow about how the fact that millions of women apparently want to watch Meryl Streep bouncing on a bed singing into her hairbrush like a cartoon 8-year-old makes their cinematic face-fuck some sort of triumph for Feminism. Somehow, I don’t think that’s the sort of thing Mrs Pankhurst was fighting for. Mamma Mia is just another Shiny Thing for us ridiculous, idiot child-women.

Sometimes I wish that things like Twilight and Mamma Mia are popular due to some never-seen throng of titted morons who slink into shops and cinemas, buy all the brainless tat they can get their claws on and then scuttle back to their caves, never to be heard of again. But that’s not the case. The people consuming Sparkly Things for overgrown children are my friends, my family – perfectly normal, smart women who I love and admire. And I’m no different. Don’t let my distaste for sequinned bajing-jings and horrible, derivative musicals fool you. I’m one of the idiot children myself. The way that I play video games is shamefully revealing of my reluctance to ever grow out of playing with dollies. I am addicted to The Sims – a game which is just cyber-dollies, pure and simple. I am capable of spending hours of my precious little free time creating them, dressing them, doing their hair, building houses for them, then making sexy boyfriends for them. Hee hee! I’m making them kiss! Now they’re going to get married! Now they have a pool house! Hee hee hee! – And I’m just as bad with other games. I’m far more likely to bother with a video game if it has pretty graphics and a girl character I can play as. I have all the Lara Croft games, regardless of their patchy quality throughout the series – as far as I’m concerned, Lara is my Action Barbie. Same goes for Taki from Soul Calibur. Oooh, the excitement when I was able to change her costume and create new characters to fight each other! My Original Characters folder is packed with mermaids, witches, princesses and a rather badass looking Snow White. When I’m not playing with virtual dolls, I’m excitedly discussing favourite programmes of my childhood. I have written Dungeons & Dragons Cartoon Erotica. My main reason for joining Twitter in the first place was that some of the actors who had played my childhood heroes in Star Trek TNG were on there. I am thirty years old.

Yes, men can be utterly ridiculous, gormless oversized children en-masse. But so can women, just as regularly. Please, guys. Never assume that women are going to be capable of being any more grown up than you. Think of us as blokes with tits – haplessly stumbling through life from one distraction to the other. We can’t really trust ourselves to go into HMV without coming out with a DVD about a sassy chihuahua and Il Divo Sing The Bee Gees on a double CD – how do you expect to trust us with running the planet?

Actually, I have lots more to say on the subject, just as long as I don’t get distrac…SQUIRREL!

If you want to write a guest blog, contact me on Twitter and we'll take it from there. :)

Thursday 4 March 2010

Happy World Book Day, One And All!

Hello again. Since it's World Book Day, I thought it was about time I posted my Doctor Who short story, The Endless Chain. It was never going to be published, as I don't know the right people (and it's a first draft) (and it's probably not very good), so here it is. I wrote it in an afternoon (specifically October 19th 2009), just to see if I could write a Doctor Who story. If you're not a sci-fi fan, or a Doctor Who fan, don't worry, you don't really need to know anything about Doctor Who except the absolute basics, the sci-fi is minimal, and there's barely any technobabble. Hardly at all. Sorry about any formatting issues; Blogger seems to undo your layout. Hmph. If you have any questions or criticism, don't be afraid to post. Enjoy (I hope):

The Endless Chain


By Ian Hewett


“Can you hear me, young man? Hmm?”
Groggily, he half opened his eyes. He knew his Ma was there, but could make out the unfamiliar silhouettes of three... no, four others, stood at the foot of his bed. Two men, two women. He could feel his throat contracting, his lungs filled with lead. It took him a minute or two to muster the strength to open his eyes fully, but to those around him, it took a visible toll.
“Tad?” His mother... his precious mother. Just hearing her voice soothed him. He had so little left now, he clung onto her love with every ounce of strength he had left in his failing body. “Tad, sweetheart, this man has come to help you.” Her voice wavered; she knew it was a lost cause, but would take any help at all were it to save her boy.
“Did you say 'Tad'?” began the older of the two strange women. “You don't mean...”
“Yes, yes, yes,” interrupted the elderly man, his silver hair catching the small amounts of sunlight that wisped through the heavy drapes. “Time for that later. Now, young man,” he continued, grasping his clammy hand, “I am the Doctor, and these are my friends Ian and Barbara, and my granddaughter, Susan.”
“English?” asked Tad, his voice a weak, raspy quiver. His mind began to drift back to a memory, his brief time the previous year in England.
“That's right,” said the other man with a smile, the one called Ian, his soothing tones a stark contrast to the Doctor's. He noticed him looking to Barbara inquisitively, as her expression of remorse was barely veiled. She seemed to know something, and was reluctant to let it go. Susan... the Doctor's granddaughter. She was about his age, it seemed, and appeared to be on the verge of tears. She had a nice face, from what he could tell, but it was hidden behind her grief. Why did they care so?
“Don't fret, young man, I will do what I can for you.” He harrumphed. His sternness reminded him of his Pa, which relaxed him no end. “I shall need to assess your symptoms. I realise, my boy, that it will be difficult for you to speak, so nod as best you can, hmm?”
Behind the Doctor, Barbara was whispering to Ian and Susan as they huddled. This unnerved him no end, a fact not lost on the old man, who started raising his voice to distract from it. “Headaches? Nausea? Sore throat? Hmm? Hot and cold flushes? Difficulty breathing? Loss of appetite?” Tad punctuated each symptom with a token nod, as instructed. “I see, I see. Well...”
“Oh, grandfather!” cried Susan, accidentally knocking a small vase of red flowers to the floor. “But he's so young!”
“What have you been telling her?” barked the Doctor to an indignant Barbara. “Can't you see what you've done? You've upset Susan, you stupid woman!” Tad coughed, a painful, needling spasm that sent shockwaves through his body. “And the boy! Take her back to the ship at once, and wait until we return.”
Barbara glared at the Doctor, then Tad, then his mother. Remorse flooded across her face. “I'm so sorry,” she said, and guided Susan out of the door, which she closed gently behind her.
“I do apologise, Madam,” offered the Doctor. “She does get a little emotional at times. Now,” he said, pulling a small, leather-bound box from within his jacket, “we shall need to take some samples. Chesterton, if you please.” He pressed a catch on the box, which flipped open, and handed it to Ian, who emptied the contents into his palm. Neither Tad nor his mother recognised what he held, and Ian tried to hide his own bemusement, but he guessed correctly that they were futuristic in origin. One of the slender objects appeared to be a variation on a syringe, but without a needle. It had small, glowing red and green lights, which he tried to conceal, and what appeared to be a miniature digital readout. He rolled another of the items around in his hand; a thin, white plastic rod, with two small flick switches. A third item was far less mysterious in its origins; a clear pill box, containing several small tablets. He didn't know what they were, but guessed that they weren't aspirin. The Doctor took the syringe, and held it briefly to Tad's arm.
Ian held the thin rod-like device up, which the Doctor identified as a sort of swab. “If you could take care of that, Chesterton. That's it, flick the lower of the switches, then take a swab inside his cheek.” He did as instructed, and what appeared to be a cotton bud emerged from the tip. Well, it certainly resembled a swab now. Sort of. Tad opened his mouth, and let Ian complete his task. “Now, the other switch, Chesterton, the other switch!” He did as he was instructed, and a small plastic bubble enveloped the swab, sealing it from the world outside.
“Oh, very clever.”
The Doctor was holding the syringe device aloft, and shaking it slightly. “Most perplexing. Most perplexing indeed.” He looked perturbed. Turning to Tad's mother, he said, “Madam, if I could have a word .” Ian was left alone with Tad in the room for several minutes. He couldn't help but feel sorry for the bedridden youth before him, not much older than the children he taught back at Coal Hill School in his own time. The Doctor had encouraged Barbara and himself to be detached from events as possible, but it was a tall order on occasion.
After what seemed an eternity, they returned, Tad's mother looking shellshocked. The Doctor's own face bore the ambivalence of a man defeated and a man determined. “I have explained everything to Mary, Mrs Lincoln,” he said solemnly, “and we must now depart.”
“That's it?” coughed Ian. “We can't just...”
“I'm afraid we must. There is nothing more we can do here today. But I have made it clear that everything possible will be done for young Thomas's sake. And, though she may not fully understand, I have also told her that... associates of mine will be along shortly. Which reminds me,” he continued, “please make a note of the exact time, Chesterton.”
“Why, it's ten past eight,” he said, spying a grandmother clock in the corner. “Doctor, which associates?”
“All in good time, my boy. Good day, Mrs Lincoln. Goodbye, young man.” He smiled a genuinely warm smile at Tad, as he led Ian through the door, and back to their travels.
The room seemed empty now. Their strange clothes, the accents, the funny little devices... surely it had been some fevered dream? Within moments, there was a knock at the door. Mary edged forward, her hands shaking, and the door was opened.
“Mrs Lincoln! How good to see you.”
Tad craned his head around to see another set of new people. He didn't feel like more visitors. He just wanted to die.
“Doctor?” she said, and he nodded. His whole demeanour was different, but something in his eyes confirmed it. “He... I mean, you... said you'd look different. I don't understand it, but my husband mentioned a man calling himself the Doctor, years ago. Said he met him a couple times, and he looked different both times... sorry, I'm rambling.”
The Doctor smiled a charismatic smile. “I don't think that's happened yet, but not to worry. As promised, here I am!” Mary glanced around at the two young people behind him. “Oh, sorry, yes, the young lady is known as Zoe, and the lad in the pretty skirt is Jamie.”
Zoe giggled, and Jamie took the joke well. The Doctor had briefed them both on the situation, and they knew they had to keep the mood light, for the boy's sake.
“More English?” rasped Tad. “We being invaded?”
“Hoi! I'll have you know I'm Scottish!” Jamie shouted.
“Hence the skirt. Anyway, this is just a quick follow-up visit to see how the lad's doing, and a couple more tests, I'm afraid.” He produced a small circular metallic device from his jacket pocket, and placed it on Tad's forehead. “I've spent some considerable time analysing the last blood sample, and it's quite baffling. Still, I'll get there... in the end.” He took another sample of blood, and removed the metallic disc from Tad's forehead.
“Doctor, how is my boy? Is he going to be okay?”
“It's too early to tell, I'm afraid. Here,” he said, “take one of these.” He produced the pill box he had seen earlier, and removed one of the tablets. “Let it dissolve on your tongue. It should ease the pain a little.” Tad did so, relieved that he didn't have to swallow. His throat still felt engorged. “Sorry it was so brief, but we do have to go now. This may take quite some time to get to the bottom of it, but hardly any time in your case.” He ushered his companions towards the door. “Oh, Zoe, make a note of the time. It's quite important.”
“Half past eight, Doctor.”
As they were halfway out of the door, the Doctor shouted back. “She's ever so good with numbers. I'll be back shortly! Goodbye!”
Mary paced the room, her hand fixed to her mouth. Her husband had let slip a small number of official secrets to her in his time, most related to national security, but some were of a more... colourful nature. He had told her of this Doctor, a man who travels through time; that on the occasions he had met him, he had a completely different appearance, but nevertheless, was absolutely the same man. Different apparel, different persona, same man. It was difficult to believe, but on having just met two of him, she had no reason to doubt it. She looked at her boy, his eyes closed, as he drifted into a restful sleep, the first he'd had in days.

* * * *

“Tad?”
He opened his eyes. For the first time in weeks, it did not hurt to do so. The light did not burn. He sat upright, and realised there was a man sat on his bed. Curly, silver hair sat immaculately atop his head, detracting from his distinguished nose. He clearly had a flair for the sartorial, elegantly dressed in a pristine velvet jacket, frilly shirt and bow tie. “Doctor?”
“That's right. Hello, Tad.” He had a warm quality about him, similar to the last Doctor but... different. “You've been asleep for an hour or two.” He had a slight speech impediment, and Tad could identify with that. His own lisp, though now suppressed, had plagued him for years.
“More tests?” Tad realised that the raspiness had faded from his voice, and his airpipe had cleared somewhat. It must have been that tablet the Doctor had given him.
The Doctor smiled. “No, old chap. I took the liberty of doing that when you were asleep. I actually wanted to have a chat with you.” Tad noticed his Ma in the corner of the room, with a short blonde woman. “Jo,” began the Doctor, “could you take Mrs Lincoln outside for a minute?” Jo nodded and smiled, leading her through the door.
“I'm not stupid, Doctor,” mumbled Tad. “I know about you. People talk around me as though I'm not here, or just a kid, but I've heard everything.”
“I know,” he replied. “It's time people started treating you like the man you are. And I'm not going to sugar-coat the truth about your illness.”
“They say it's tuberculosis, Doctor. I'm going to die.”
“Well, it's not tuberculosis, I can tell you that much, though some of the symptoms are the same.”
“But I am gonna die.”
“I'm going to do my best to make sure that doesn't happen.” He smiled, but Tad couldn't help feeling that the Doctor was trying to convince himself.
“Well, if it isn't what they think it is... what is it?”
The Doctor sighed. “I believe it's a virus of alien origin. I'm not sure where you contracted it, or how, but possibly when you were sailing back to America a couple of months ago.”
“Alien?”
“Not from Earth. From another world.”
Tad held back the tears. This was beyond belief. “I... don't quite understand. But, you're working on a cure, right?”
“That's right. I'm trying to find out its origin, to begin with. Some of its chemical compounds have a habit of shifting around, which is why I, and my predecessors, have taken blood samples each time we visit. I've needed to see how it maintains itself in your system, and... Well, suffice to say, it's a long process.”
Tad didn't understand his words. All he knew was that he was going to die, but this Doctor was doing his best. “Y'know, I wish I'd been better in school. If I understood this stuff more, I'd be less afraid. I'm just one big disappointment.”
The Doctor shifted, and rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke. “I wouldn't worry. It's never too late, you know. I was a late starter. Don't tell anyone I said that,” he grinned. “And I know it's a burden being the son of such a famous man, but it's time you stepped out of his shadow, be your own man. You're only 18 years of age. Make the rest of your life your own.”
Tad nodded, and felt slightly better. The pep-talk had made him feel positive for the first time in years. “You're right. I'm gonna try.”
“That's the spirit, old chap. Now, I really must be going. Take care.” The Doctor viewed the clock, and left the room. Shortly after, Tad's mother returned, noticing her son's posture was different, improved. He had a spark of life in his eyes, absent for so many weeks now. And was that a smile? The pair sat and waited for the next encounter. Minutes passed, until they heard booted footsteps approach.
The entire visit was a whirlwind, and over almost as soon as it had started. A tall man in a long brown coat, and even longer scarf, burst in to an accompanying loud “hello!”. His wild, wide eyes scoured the room. “My apologies for the rude entrance,” he said in rich, silky tones, “but I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a hurry. I'm right in the middle of a spot of bother with... ah!” He pulled a device from his coat, held it at arm's length, and rotated in a full circle on the spot. “Just have to check some of the atmospheric variables, make sure that it isn't airborne.” Returning the device to his coat, he pulled out another, and without warning, shone it directly into Tad's eyes. “Again, I do apologise, I had so looked forward to catching up with you both.” Checking the clock on his way to the door, he exited, poking his head back around the doorframe once more. “Oh,” he said, with the most charismatic toothy grin either of his speechless hosts had ever seen, “goodbye!” And he was gone.
How many of him were there? He was in the room for less than a minute, always looking like he wanted to be in three different places at once, carried out his research, and was out of their lives once more.
The next visit was a little more muted. A polite knock was followed by a tall, sandy-haired man, noticably younger than any of the previous Doctors. A warm smile, a firm handshake, and an introduction to Tegan and Nyssa.
“Why have you brought us here, Doctor?” Tegan whispered a little too loudly through gritted teeth. “We've just lost Adric. I don't want to see another kid die.”The Doctor pretended not to hear her, and hoped that his hosts hadn't heard her either.
The Doctor's smile was broad, but not enough to cover what they had just heard. “I do have some good news,” he said. “The virus isn't yet at the airborne stage of its development, so we do have some time to contain it.” He stood upright, hands in his pockets. “I also believe I've narrowed down the source of the virus to five potentials. Fingers crossed, we'll formulate a solution soon, and I'll be out of your life at last.”
“One way or another,” said Tegan under her breath, as the Doctor, stony-faced, completed his tests, “at least you can regenerate.” Nyssa hushed her friend. There was a shroud of sadness enveloping them. Having lost someone beloved of her own, Mary recognised grief wherever she saw it, but decided not to question it. Everybody has to deal with it in their own way, she thought, not noticing the Doctor holding a stick of celery under Tad's nostrils.
“Right, we'll be off. I shall be back shortly, either way,” said the Doctor.
“Take care,” answered Mary, holding his hand, a sympathetic smile at the corner of her mouth. The Doctor smiled thinly and nodded, noting the time, and led his friends from the room, thinking that his timing could have been better.
Mary and Tad both felt awkward. They had, so far, taken it for granted that the Doctor was there purely for their benefit. He was such a magnificent man, in his many forms, they had never thought he would be subject to grief and loss. But what of all those people he brings with him, different every time? How long had the Doctor been working on a solution for them exactly? They could not get their heads around the concept of moving to and fro throughout time, but there must have been years between visits from his perspective. What had happened to all of his friends? What sort of existence must it be, to outlive every single person you know, over and over?
Within minutes, a knock at the door, and another Doctor. Mary was ready to offer more sympathy, but it proved unfounded, as this new Doctor had an air of arrogance around him. Not in an overly unpleasant kind of a way; it was actually reassuring after the awkwardness of the previous visit. However, this Doctor seemed extremely self-assured.
“Hello, Mrs Lincoln. Hello, Tad. Time for another visit?” He was certainly something to behold; tight blond curls, a multi-coloured patchwork coat, and some kind of metallic pin on his lapel... it distracted from what she knew was a mammoth intellect. “This is my companion, Miss Perpugillium Brown, known as Peri.”
“Hi,” she said, “h-how're you doing?”
“An American at last,” said Tad, the raspiness creeping into the outskirts of his voice.
Peri smiled nervously. Though not famous like his father, she knew very well who Tad was from history classes. She didn't know much about him, presumably because there wasn't much to know, historically speaking, but it was an aweing experience being in the presence of a direct descendent of one of the greatest men her country had ever produced. She continued smiling, backed off slightly, and decided it would be best all around if she didn't speak.
“How are you feeling, Tad?” asked the Doctor, getting straight on with business.
“Fine, I guess,” came the reply, as the Doctor pulled a syringe device from his coat pocket. “My eyes are starting to hurt a bit,” he said, squinting at the Doctor's coat. “Throat's a little sore.”
“Yes, well, the tablet you took earlier would only have been a mild analgesic, not a cure,” said the Doctor with a knowing smile. “I believe that is exactly what I have here, though,” and without warning, injected Tad in the arm.
There was a warm, tingling sensation, followed by a prickly heat. He felt flushed, nervous. “Will this cure me, Doctor?”
“Hopefully,” he said, “providing your virus remains stable for a minute or two. It should be a very expeditious compound.” His face bore an expression of triumph.
“Doctor,” uttered Mary, “I... we just want to say thank you for all you've done. I don't know how long you've been working on this, but we both appreciate it so much.”
The Doctor waved dismissively. “Thanks aren't necessary, Madam. It's been quite an interesting little project for me. If successful,” he said, producing another device from his pocket, “I shall write a paper on it. It should make for fascinating reading.” He held the device to Tad's arm, and his expression dropped. “It's changed,” he said smally, his tone taking on a different form. “It anticipated my solution, and altered itself to fight. Clever little virus.”
“Doctor, don't you think you could be a little more... sympathetic?” said Peri from the background.
The Doctor paused. “Yes, you're right. My apologies to both of you. It does seem I was uncharacteristically rash.” He took another blood sample. “We should learn enough about the effects of what has just happened, though.” He grasped Tad's hand firmly. “I shall return. Come along, Peri!”
Peri waved nervously, a little starstruck still, as she followed the Doctor out of the room, leaving the Lincolns a little shaken. He had been so sure of himself this time around, and could barely contain his self-belief. However, he had been unsuccessful. Close, but unsuccessful. What now?
A cacophonous din permeated the wood panelling of the small room, as Mary opened the door to locate its source, and saw a short man with a young woman at his side, cradling a large rectangular box to her ear.
“Turn that off, Ace! There's a time and a place, and here and now is neither.”
“Killjoy,” she said. “Remind me why we're here again, Professor?”
“Professor?” asked Mary. “I was waiting for the Doctor...”
“Ah, yes, just my friend's little joke,” he replied. “Fear not, I am the Doctor,” he said, raising his hat. Mary smiled, and led them into the room.
“Afternoon, Tad. How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” he replied. “Starting to feel a little worse. But at least you're dressed a little better now.”
The Doctor offered a smile. “Tad, this is Ace.”
“Ace? Funny name,” he scoffed.
“Look who's talking, big mouth!”
“Settle down, Ace. Our young friend here has gone through quite a traumatic experience.” Mary considered this new Doctor. He appeared to have calmed down with the braggard persona, and was clearly more aloof. That fierce intelligence still burned in his eyes, masked by an affected bumbling. However, he sat on the bed with a stony countenance. “I have managed to track down those responsible for the virus, Tad. A nasty group of beings called the K'zek from the Draklin Expanse. Quite how they got the virus to Earth, or why, I'm not sure, but it would appear to be at the experimental stage.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Most likely, the staging ground for an invasion.”
Tad forced a shocked expression. He was clearly weakening, and the Doctor knew it. “They're... using me to invade?”
“In a way. Infecting people from afar, turning them into a bio-weapon, wiping out the population and leaving the planet clear to inhabit. A plan that would take hundreds of years to manifest.” Tad was on the verge of tears, and the Doctor was about to push him over. “We're in a unique position to put a stop to their plans. You could save the human race, Tad, and this world.”
Tad wept. He had never had such a burden of responsibility before.
Ace shifted uncomfortably on the spot. “But he's just a kid.”
“No, Ace. He's a hero.” The Doctor produced a vial from within his jacket, and clicked it into a syringe. “I've had time to make this little concoction from analysing all of your blood samples. This should have a devastating effect on their plans.” He leant forward. “You don't have to do this if you don't want to.”
“No... I think I need to. I've done nothing good in my life. I wanna make my Pa proud. And my Ma,” he said, holding her hand.
“I'm already proud of you. I always have been. You and your brothers. I...” Mary wept.
“Two of her other sons have already died,” whispered the Doctor to Ace. “Only Tad and Robert are left.” Ace nodded, in tears herself.
“Do it,” said Tad. The Doctor held the syringe to his arm. There was that familiar tingling feeling, elevating to a stabbing sensation. It was more intense this time. Blood pounded around his ears, and the sweat flooded his brow. Shutting his eyes tight, he felt a strange sensation, as though he was being lifted from the bed. He could still feel it underneath him, the sheets drenched. He lurched forward, embracing the Doctor. “Am I...”
“Yes.”
Tad flopped backwards onto the bed, his breath shallow, and the Doctor took one last blood sample.
“Come, Ace,” he said in a solemn voice, “we've done all we can for now.” He tipped his hat, kissed Mary's hand, and silently left the room.

* * * *

There was a timid knock at the door, and Mary reached for the handle, her hand shaking. It creaked open, revealing another Doctor, syringe in hand. He wore a short green coat, and had long, tousled brown hair, framing a face bearing a tired expression.
“Doctor,” she said, tears streaming down either cheek. “I'm afraid you're too late.” She pointed at the bed, sodden sheets covering a lifeless human form, and she broke down.
He edged forwards, and embraced her. “He was a brave young man,” he said soothingly, “and I feel honoured to have known him over so many centuries, over so many lives.”
“It's been one morning, Doctor. July fifteen, 1871.”
“It's all relative,” he offered. “I worked with him for hundreds of years, in my own timeline, returning back here at specific times based on that clock over there, once my research had progressed enough to warrant it.” He sighed. “I'm only sorry that I couldn't save him.”
Mary strolled to the window, her grief a trailing spectre, as the morning light peeled through, highlighting the dust in the air. “But, if you knew he couldn't be saved, why've you got that... thing?”
“This?” asked the Doctor, holding the syringe aloft. “This wasn't for Tad. It's a cure. For you.”
“For me?” asked a stunned Mary. “But I'm not ill...”
“For now. But you've been in direct contact with Tad for so long, I believe you've contracted the virus in its early stages. Please..?” She rolled up her sleeve, and the Doctor injected her, pocketing the empty vial.
“Hang on... did you say 'cure'? So you can go back and...”
“Save Tad? I'm sorry, but it doesn't work that way, and Tad knew it.” The Doctor looked in the direction of the bed. “In order to formulate a cure, I needed Tad's blood as the virus tried to assert itself after my last injection. Tad realised he was going to die, and he made a noble sacrifice.”
Mary didn't know what to think. “Well, what good is it now? All that work you did, all those hours at his bedside, all for nothing! All for some monsters neither of us ever saw!”
“You should be consoled to know that Tad's sacrifice, three hundred years from now, halts a K'zek invasion of Earth dead in its tracks, and prevents the extinction of all human life on the planet. The human race is readied against all further attacks from them, and the K'zek race never leaves the Draklin Expanse with expansionist plans again.” He smiled. “Your boy is a hero.”
“But nobody knows what Tad did! Nobody can ever know what he did for the world!”
“I will know.”
“What about you, Doctor? You always had so many people around you, and now you're alone?” He nodded wanly.
“I just thought I'd spend a little time alone,” he said, but something caught his eye on the floor by the bed. He stooped to pick up a single red petal, still on the floorboards from when the vase had been knocked over. He smiled. “I suppose there's something to be said from having loved ones and close friends around.” He pocketed the petal, deep in thought.
Mary hugged him. “You're a good man, Doctor. Thank you for everything.”
“No, thank you. You have welcomed me into your home eight times without question. And you have reminded me of the value of company.” He lay one more petal on the bed. “Goodbye, Tad.”
He left the room, his head hung low, becoming a silhouette at the end of the corridor. And then he was gone. Mary closed the door, and planned to get a message to Robert, her only surviving son, bristling with pride and love for those that had gone, and who she had left.

“There are no accidents in my philosophy. Every effect must have its cause. The past is the cause of the present, and the present will be the cause of the future. All these are links in the endless chain stretching from the finite to the infinite.”
Abraham Lincoln