Remember the Alamo. 4 reasons I loved Rik Mayall.

Rik Mayall died today. Which is ridiculous because he's brilliant and unkillable. A mad lion with a soft voice and crazy eyes. He simply can't be dead, because it is stupid and wrong.

I knew about it for an hour or so, and I thought, "Oh, that's sad - I liked him," and went for a walk and thought about other things. Then I got back in and it was on the news and there he was, in clips, still alive. Wonky moustached Flash-Heart. Shouting, bug eyed Richie. Self important people's poet Rik in the Young Ones. And I cried like I knew him.

It is no exaggeration to say that a huge part of who I am is down to Rik Mayall and the characters he played. Played? That doesn't seem enough of a word. The characters he was. Leering out of the cathode ray tube at my young, impressionable face, shaping my mind and my behaviours. Forming my growing, adolescent self in his image.

Certain things stand out.


1.

Seeing 'Bambi' for the first time, 13 years old. Astonished at what television could be. I watched forwards into series two of the Young Ones and backwards into repeats of series one, amazed at this weird, spotty young man. Rik, with a silent P. So awkward and so insignificant, yet so utterly possessed of his own worth.

I don't know if I thought, "That's me!", but I should have.

2.

Reciting Rik's monologue about killing himself, sitting on a wall with Lisa Rhodes at the skate park, hoping that if I was funny enough she would go out with me. "And punks and skins and rastas will gather round and all hold their hands in sorrow for their fallen leader!" She laughed. I was delighted. I didn't know what punks, or skins, or rastas were. But man, I was selling this. I did the whole speech again. She laughed again, but with less certainty.

She never went out with me.



3.

Performing the entire episode of 'Nasty' on the last day of Middle School. I played Ric. I wore my Harrington jacket, covered in badges, big anarchy sign chalked on the back. Stupid cap, spotty face. It was uncanny. It was quite the performance. One of the proudest achievement of my life is the wall we built. In the episode, Vyvyan can't get the plug for the video to reach the socket. So he goes outside, braces himself against the wall and pushed the entire side of the house towards the VCR. A lesser 13 year old would have thought, "That's probably one of those things you can only do on TV, and not on the stage of a Bradford Middle School." That man would have been a faint hearted loser. Using every piece of wood in Mr. Leech's craft room, I constructed the greatest wall in the history of amateur schoolchild anarchic theatrical comedy  adaptation.

On the night, the wall fell apart, no-one remembered their lines (except me - I was word perfect) and none of the audience seemed to really understand what was going on. We left the stage - and indeed the school - in something of a mess and ran off into the last Summer of childhood. It was one of the best days of my life.

4.

Lord Flash-Heart. It was only when re-watching Blackadder a number of years ago that I realised how much of my personality was owed to Rik's astonishing performance in 'Bells'. Bursting through the ceiling, staring straight into the camera and announcing, "It's me!" Like Rik the people's poet before him, Flash became the default setting for a certain part of my persona. We all like to think we break the rules. Generally, we don't. But there's a little bit of Flash-Heart in me that I enjoy. Disrupting what's going on, loudly proclaiming his own importance over everyone else's, breaking even the rules of the story he is in with his salute to the camera - he's the reason I occasionally burst into a room, shout my own name and try to steal somebody's wife.

There have been many other things that Rik Mayall did that brought me pleasure. His one off TV plays were beautiful. Alan B'Stard MP was fun. But it is Rik, the spotty, self important poet from The Young Ones, who matters most.

Lost, afraid and sensitive, Rik was a child who wasn't ready to be a man. Desperate to appear worldy wise and cynical - "Thatcher's bloody Britain!" -  yet overcome with innocence and childlike glee - "It's a telescope! WITH A MOUSE INSIDE!" Rik was reassurance to a boy on the verge of terrifying adolescence. Never cool, always cowardly. Unable to dress right, always on the outside of the joke. Yet brimming with unshakeable confidence that his was the voice that would be remembered.

Without him - without the brilliant comedian who made him - I would not be who I am.

You may thank or blame him for this.

I thank him.

Easter, and a young man's thoughts turn to atheism

I've been calling myself a Christian for about 25 years now. On and off. It's a strange thing to call oneself and I find it increasingly difficult to do without some form of qualification. Such are the complicated meanings of the word, I feel compelled to develop some form of pre-emptive argument.

"I'm a Christian, but not one of those raging homophobic evil right wing ones."

"I'm a Christian, but I'm utterly rubbish at it and don't really understand what it means."

"I'm a Christian, but yes I will have some of your alcohol, debauchery and crime."

Most of all, I'm a Christian, but please don't ask me why. The original answer - "so Sarah Fenchurch would go out with me" - quickly became redundant, especially when she got married to that other guy and changed her name to Sarah Mibblethrop or something.

The reasons I would have given you in the early, zealous years - carefully ordered biblical phrases that formed a kind of logical equation about avoiding Hell - now seem naïve and self serving.

And the reasons I would give in more recent years don't seem to be exclusively 'Christian'. Standing up for what is right, arguing for the weak instead of defending the strong, seeing through external appearances  - these seem to be values that simply define basic human decency.

And the reasons not to go by the name 'Christian' are manifold. Barely a day goes by without news of some hideous act of small minded selfishness committed by a "Christian". Someone who wears the name with pride, but appears to think that Jesus's main message was "Go into the world and fuck over everyone who doesn't agree with you about absolutely everything."

Occasionally I see Christians standing up for their beliefs and I think, "Man, standing up for *my* beliefs means opposing everything you say, and possibly hitting you over the head with a rake." Like recently, with the Christian campaign against World Vision.

World Vision is a charity, a big one, stopping hungry children from starving to death. A couple of weeks ago they decided to extend employment rights to homosexual couples. So that's two good things, in my mind - looking after the weak and supporting a marginalised part of society. My definition of Christianity sits pretty comfortably with that.

My definition is apparently not that common.

Several Christian leaders opposed the recognition of gay marriage, and decided to register their dissent by withdrawing their support from the charity and urging others to do so, until World Vision changed their minds. So, to clarify, that's church leaders using their influence to persuade massive groups of Christians to use starving children as hostages in a game of ideological warfare.

Now. I'm never going to say whether someone is 'a Christian' or not. As we've seen, I have enough trouble working the definitions out for myself, so trying to define someone else's spirituality is probably beyond my remit. But, if I had my way, these people - these people in positions of power, responsibility and influence, these people who would rather risk a child's hunger than a challenge to their way of thinking - if I had my way, these people would not be called Christians. They would be called fuckers, and that would be that. It would be tattooed on their heads and written on the labels of their coats. There would be a box on every form they filled in that said 'fucker' and they would have to tick it. If someone in the street shouted, "Hey - fucker", they would be duty bound to turn round and say, "How can I help?" And on the signs outside their churches, it would say, in massive letters, "Church of Fuckers". And if you supported their policies, that's the church you would have to go to.

I am not in charge. They will stay 'Christian' and calling them fuckers will earn me no points whatsoever. Leaving me wondering, what do I do? Do I do what a lot of others are trying to do and reclaim the name of my faith? Make noise in the name of Christianity that is, in my terms, 'good'? There's something to be said for that. There are some really smart, compassionate thinkers out there who are doing their best to remind the world that Christianity should be about tolerance, love, respect and support for those who find themselves persecuted.

Sometimes, though, I just want another word. Let the idiots have the word 'Christian'. To a lot of people, it pretty much means 'fucker' anyway. Let them practise their panicky, inflexible, prejudicial nonsense in their massive buildings with their massive incomes. Let them continue to rejoice in the incredible coincidence that the most powerful being in creation happens to share the values of middle class, right wing, conservative, consumerist Western society. Let them have it.

It's not like Jesus called himself a Christian. In fact, it was only after he'd gone, and things started to become an organisation, that labels started to matter. Wherever I am in my confusion, I find nothing problematic about the way Christ lived. I feel challenged by it, and inadequate in my response, but that's OK. That's a tension I'm happy to live in. He seemed to be all about not settling for the obvious answers, not holding onto things too tight, not resting on a set of ideas and saying, "This is it!" He seemed to be about a living, changing response to the needs of others and the truth of individual situations.

I'm not sure what to call myself. Except, 'idiot', mostly. I'll probably stick with Christian for now. After all, there are plenty of good people who are fine with the term. People I respect, people I am proud to know. But I must hold it lightly. Because I am also, always, on the edge of being a fucker too.

Happy Easter

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

My life is unbearably easy. You know that thing you were just doing, before you got distracted and started reading this? Whatever it was, it was harder than my day. Even if you were laying down, stroking your elbows, sipping Lilt through a straw, my day is more relaxed.

You see that paragraph above? I stopped after I typed the word 'my', to put on some music. Because I realised that my day was not quite as pleasurable and decadent as it could be. And then, after the word 'easy', I stopped to have a massive bite out of a sausage sandwich. Thankfully, the person at the shop has correctly put red sauce on it. The other week, someone erroneously put brown sauce on my sandwich. Brown! Ruined my day. And, by consequence, the day of everyone I met.

In the absence of actual, real difficulty in my life, my brain is forced to invent pretend problems. Bored of having no actual issues to unravel, my brain works very hard to come up with reasons why my life is not, as it appears, a constant stream of uninterrupted joy but is, rather, a terrible struggle against incredible opposition.

I'm going to share one of these with you today, that you might empathise with my plight, feel my pain and, maybe, engage in some kind of fundraising effort on my behalf.



Look at this.

You see? you see how intolerable my life is?

Seasons one to four of fun serial-killer show Dexter, all lined up nicely on my shelf. Fitted, as they should be, between 'Deep Space Nine' and 'Dogtanian and the Three Muskehounds'. Alphabetical by series, chronological within series, obviously. Nice and neat. A universe of order and calm.

But am I happy? You'd think so, wouldn't you? You'd think I'd be content, sitting in my leather armchair with a glass of port, thinking, "Hurrah! Should I decide to watch the episode of Dexter where Jimmy Smits goes nuts during a game of golf, I know exactly where it is, on my shelf of wonderful things!"

But I'm not. Can you tell why?

That's right. Look at those bloody DVD spines. Look at them! Not one of them is the same as the other. Not one!!! How can I sleep, how can I eat, how can I envisage happiness when these maverick, mismatched, irritating bastards sit on my shelf, mocking me with their crazy, haphazard design?

It looks like they were planning great things with the first one. There's a red band, consistent with the imagery of the show, that is clearly meant to develop over future box sets to create a pleasing, if gruesome, ribbon of blood. But by the time series two comes out, some gibbon has decided, screw that. Let's keep the ribbon but change its size, shape, colour and position. And while we're here, let's change the position of everything else! Let's make sure that it in no way matches the last box set. Screw you, Rob. Screw your attempts to be happy and calm forever.

Series 3 tries a little bit to match 2, but still gets it wrong. And changes the logo. By series four they even change the font saying 'season four', except it's now 'The Fourth Season'. Well, that's not the same at all. Why? What's wrong with you people? Why do you hate me so much?


How difficult can it be to create a uniform, consistent design for the merchandising of a TV show? Here's my Babylon 5 DVDs.

Now, obviously I'm already slightly unhappy that the boxes don't all fit on one bit of shelf. Don't think I haven't tried. While some people spend their days working hard to save lives, put out fires and carry water to their family from a hole in the ground, I stand by an Ikea shelving unit, fretting about the spacing of DVD box sets. Should I just start 'Babylon 5' on a new section? What will I do with the space after 'Angel'? And what if the knock-on re-spacing culminates in there being no space for 'The West Wing' on the bottom shelf? Fuck this! Why was I even born?

And then there's the spines themselves. Full marks for at least using the same logo each time. But why are they all different sizes? And why can't you make up your mind where to stick the BBFC rating? Idiot! Who even gave you a job? Was the only other candidate at the interview a bowl of soup?

Anyway. As you can see, my life is quite the conundrum. There is some small solace, though. Deep down on the shelves, hidden between 'Party Animals' and 'The Prisoner' are some beautifully designed, perfectly matching spines. Their uniformity gives me hope that, despite the apparent meaninglessness of existence, there is - somewhere - someone who gives a toss. Thanks, whoever designed these. They make me happy. For now, at least, I will not kill again.

Hang on. Those BBFC ratings aren't quite the right size...








...the voices...













...the voices are back...

Doctor Who versus The Daily Mirror

Hello. Quick request for you this week. You know how I love Doctor Who? And how I hate the way tabloids misrepresent the truth? Well, look how angry I get to be when the two collide!

In the last week of March, the Daily Mirror ran this story:

Not the one about Carol Vorderman's nose. The Doctor Who one.

That last word is 'Scandal'

That text reads 'Two gay Doctor Who executives sexually abused young fans visiting the BBC studios...'

That's Colin Baker, in the dreadful coat that looks like he was vomited on by the cast of Yellow Submarine. He was Doctor Who for a bit, in the 1980s. A casual glance at the paper makes it look pretty likely that, as well as wearing the worst coat on television, Baker was also guilty of some pretty horrible sex offences. You know, like Jimmy Saville. Nudge nudge.

Pretty disturbing stuff.

Can you spot the bit where it says Colin Baker was not involved?

It's there, in really tiny print, just over John Nathan Turner's groin. Dangerous place to hover, if you believe the article. Certainly not the first place you are going to look.

And of course that's how these papers work. They plaster something massively misleading in huge, screaming letters on their front pages, desperate for the attention of the public, like hyperactive children hoping to be noticed. Further into the article they'll calm down, and make some tiny, lawyer appeasing qualification that stops them being sued into infinity. Maybe, if really pressed, they'll publish an apology later on, buried somewhere deep inside the paper.

But the damage is done. The clear implication of a glance at this front page - and a glance will constitute most people's engagement with the story - is that the two men here are guilty of abusing young boys. It will join the mix of misinformation and hysteria about the Saville case and the tabloid lead attack on the BBC. Colin Baker is clearly one of the gay executives. Just look at his coat! He's clearly up to no good.

Colin himself is very upset. I'll admit, I'm no huge fan of his time as Doctor Who (except Mindwarp, which is great and features a brain stealing slug), but I have a great deal of affection for the man. In fact, everything I've gathered about Colin Baker indicates that he is a kind, intelligent, good humoured man. He is the father to four daughters, a witty writer and a tireless worker for charity.

I don't think he should have to put up with this crap. Already he has been abused in the street by people who don't bother to read the fine print. He must live in terror of the kind of villification which tabloid hysteria can lead to. A misleading headline like this is all the excuse some people need to take matters into their own hands. And that's the really horrible thing here - the utter lack of responsibility papers like The Mirror accept for their misleading and deceitful actions. For the sake of sales, these papers turn people into nasty, vicious morons. They normalise unthinking hatred and self righteous bigotry in the name of attention grabbing headlines.

There's no easy way to stop these callous pricks. We can refuse to read their trashy papers, or to click on their links to add to their advertising revenue (which is why there's no link to the Mirror here). And we can protest.


There is a petition to get the Daily Mirror to apologise to Colin. I've signed it. If you could too, that'd be great.

sign the petition

If you want to know more about the case, you can read Colin's article here. Or you can follow the man on twitter here. He's very entertaining.

I love Doctor Who. I hate the tabloids. I'm beginning to think that's a very sound basis for morality.

Ignore The Voice, play on the swings

What's the most exciting thing that ever happens ever?

Hah! Wrong! It's not "When the new issue of Doctor Who Magazine comes out," at all. That's second.

The most exciting thing that ever happens ever is when Doctor Who is back on TV, as it is next Saturday. Unless you are reading this in the future, in which case, it was on in the past, and you missed it. Also, are there robot butlers yet?

Anyway. The BBC have released a lovely 'prequel' for the story, and you can find it here. It's not really a prequel, of course, because it was released before the story. It's more a kind of prologue. But it is, nevertheless, lovely.




Nice, eh? Well written, charmingly played and full of promise for the new series.

Now, here's something less nice. You may want to get off here, as the happy enthusiasm of the first section gives way to the dark, opinionated material about social panic and the darker impulses of the human soul.

Still here? OK.

Much as I loved this Doctor Who 'prequel', this little piece of whimsy, there was a tiny part of my brain that was unhappy. Only a tiny part, but significant. A little Voice inside was worrying about The Doctor sitting on swings, in a playground, talking to a child. "Isn't that a bit... creepy?" said the Voice.

It's the same Voice that tells me to watch out whenever I smile at a child. Quite often in a queue, like at the supermarket, the person in front will have a tiny child thing slumped over their shoulder, staring around in idiot wonder at the world of commerce. If I catch its eye, I often pull a face, or smile - you know, because that's fun. And then the Voice says "Whoah there Rob! That's the kind of thing that those there paedos do!"

Oh no! It's right. What if the Daily Mail are watching? What if they think my face pulling is the first stage of a long and complex plan to win the child's confidence? Then I can steal it and... I don't know... eat it? Force it to watch Babylon 5, from the beginning?

They'll hound me to the ends of the earth. I must not smile at the child! maybe I should punch it? Show them how much I hate kids?

Maybe you get that Voice too. It wouldn't surprise me. I've just been on Gallfrey Base - an excellent if rather excitable Doctor Who fan site - where an awful lot of people are uncomfortable about the implications of this scene. Is it appropriate for The Doctor - an adult - to be playing on swings and talking to a child? This weirdly dressed, lonely eccentric, acting like a kid even though he's not?

They hear the Voice too.

Here's the thing. The Voice is real. But the Voice is an idiot.

The Voice is not natural. It is not your conscience. (Oh, unless you are a paedophile, in which case yes, don't go to the park and talk to kids. Go read a book. Not Lolita.)

But no, it's not natural. It's not even your Voice. It's the internalised attitudes of tabloid hysteria; stuff you've absorbed from years of living with the daily bile of The Sun, The Mail, The Express and all the idiot, panicky nonsense they spout. We've lived with these cretins for so long that we've started to think they matter.

The attitude theVoice has towards paedos is exactly this: There are monsters, who we can spot, whom we must destroy. We can tell them by what they look like, and by how they act from day to day. We can make educated guesses about them based on sexuality, marital status and social class. We are the champions of justice, and anyone who challenges the broad brushstrokes of our position is either a) a nonce or b) someone who thinks nonces are ace and, therefore, basically a nonce as well.

I don't need to tell you, gentle reader, intelligent and compassionate as you are, that this is not the case. A more subtle, nuanced attitude to this problem is undoubtedly better, and not at all nonce like. Not only is it more human, and more intelligent, it probably has the virtue of being more likely to actually deal with the issues at hand.

I'm not saying I know much about this. I don't. And I don't have kids, so you'd be within your rights to tell me I don't really understand how this hits at an emotional level. But I do know that there's something wrong with a culture which considers an adult talking to a child to be instrinically 'creepy', or defines adulthood as a state utterly lacking in the desire to act like a child.

The Doctor, sitting on a swing, takling to a little girl, is not being childish.  Rather, he is being more adult than most of us.  He is comfortable enough to know that adults can play on the swings without sacrificing their maturity. They can talk to children without having to fear the idiot opinions of others. They do not listen to The Voice.

I love Doctor Who.

And adult women.

And swings. I'd forgotten how much I like swings.