Loving the Alien: Part Three

Episode Three of my Christmas Doctor Who story.

Part one is here.

Part two is here.

And now, part three.

 

Loving the Alien: A Christmas Story

 




CHAPTER EIGHT



The Chief Dalek observed the tall humanoid who had just entered the room. The humanoid was grey haired and wore a black coat, and carried with it an air of arrogance.


“IDENTIFY YOURSELF!” screamed the Chief. The other two Daleks repeated him. “IDENTIFY YOURSELF!” they squawked.


But the humanoid didn’t identify itself. Instead, it seemed to be talking to itself. “None of you are carrying flame units. Definitely not responsible for the fire. Imagine that – three Daleks and you’re not the worst thing to happen today.” 


The humanoid walked around the desk, moving towards the Chief Dalek. For some reason, the Chief found himself gliding back away from it. Which was ridiculous.


“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!!!” barked the Chief Dalek. The other Daleks chimed in, repeating the command. The Chief Dalek really wished they wouldn’t do that. It undermined his authority.


Not that it mattered. The tall humanoid continued to approach the Chief. “It’s alright – I’m not going to destroy you. I don’t need to. In ten minutes you go out into the street and UNIT blows you to pieces. Kate Stewart. Impressive woman. Anyway, if I could just get past…”









Now the Chief Dalek was really irritated. Well, he was always irritated – that’s how he started the day. But this was a whole new level of anger.


“EXTERMINATE!” he shrieked. “EXTERMINATE” chimed in the others, pointlessly. Seriously, why did they have to do that? After this was over, the Chief was going to have serious words about battle etiquette in front of alien life-forms.


The tall humanoid looked down at the Chief’s gun-stick. Its eyes widened and it dived out of the way, behind a hefty wooden desk. Excellent. The Chief liked shooting at things. He let forth a volley of energy blasts, strafing the room. Wood, paper and stone exploded as the Chief fired shot after shot at the fleeing humanoid.


“EXTERMINATE!!!” he shouted again. The other Daleks started firing too. “EXTERMINATE!!! EXTERMINATE!!!” they parroted. Now the Chief didn’t mind the repetition, caught up in the exhilaration of the shared moment.






The humanoid darted from cover to cover as the Dalek fire reduced everything in the room to splinters. Soon there was only one thing left in the room – a tall wooden apparatus bearing a large white canvas. On the canvas, in blue paint, someone had daubed the image of a tiny blobby creature, smiling and waving. The humanoid took the shelter behind the canvas.


The chief readied his weapon. This apparatus would offer no protection. His targeting scope centred on the crude painting of the blobby creature.


Suddenly something very odd happened. The image of the creature was replaced in his scope by the real thing: a white, lumpy creature with a tiny scowling face. It was right in front of his eye stalk!


“You leave Doctroo alone pleez!” shouted the tiny creature. It flicked something at the Chief’s eyestalk. Blue gunk coated his scope, obliterating his vision. The Chief span around, suddenly blind.






“My vision is impaired! I cannot see!” he screamed. He fired randomly, hoping to hit something. An electronic squawk from one of his companions told him that he had, indeed, hit something.


“SORRY!!!” he shouted. His audio receptors brought him the sound of more paint squelching and now, of course, his idiot soldiers were also shouting. “MY VISION IS IMPAIRED…” More firing of Dalek guns, and the patter of tiny feet running off into the distance.


His sensors were screaming, overloaded with information – the noise of the guns, the collapsing of the roof and, he noted, a sharp increase in the local temperature…


And then one of his companion’s blasts found its mark, and the Chief’s world exploded in light, and pain. And then darkness.





CHAPTER NINE


Flimbleby sat on the TARDIST console while Doctroo hit switches and pulled levers. The engines sang and the beautiful lights glowed. They were in flight. Doctroo stood back, cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck.


“Well, little Adipose. I think you just defeated a squad of Daleks. How do you feel about that?”


Flimbleby felt quite shaken. The big machines had scared him quite a bit, all shouty and full of fire. He had not liked that they didn’t have faces. Everything had a face – that was how you knew if people were happy or sad. Even adipose had faces, and they were just fat!


“I did not like the big Nerminates” he said. ”They were stupid and cross and they made everything blow right up.”


“That they did. Not any more though. And now we know that it isn’t the Daleks wrecking everything. I saw someone in the smoke – a human, I think. That’s who set the fire. That’s who we need to find.”


Doctroo walked over to one of his many bookshelves and tapped along the spines of the books, searching. Flimbleby hopped off the console and ran up to him, tugging on the leg of his trousers.


“Doctroo? I am quite hungry please.”


“Of course you are. Adipose. Greedy little things.” He flicked through the pages of the book, then a thought struck him. “Where are the other little Adipose? I’ve met your species before. You don’t travel alone, not at your size. You’re born in huge batches. So where is everyone else?”


Flimbleby was about to speak, but then he remembered. He was not meant to talk about this. It was a Big Secret. He would be in big trouble if he told. He had a think. What could he say? Doctroo noticed his silence and looked down at him.


“Flimbleby? Where are the other Adipose?”


Oh no!




CHAPTER TEN


The Doctor stood by the TARDIS bookshelf and looked down at Flimbleby, waiting for the Adipose to reply. Its tiny mouth was frowning and its beady eyes darted from side to side.


“Flimbleby?” repeated The Doctor. “Why are you alone? Where are the other Adipose?”


And then Flimbleby was off, scurrying off across the room on his tiny legs. The Doctor sprang after him, but the little creature was surprisingly fast for a waddling blob of fat. He disappeared into a dark corner of the room.


“What’s wrong, Flimbleby?” asked The Doctor. “Come back.”


“No!” Came Flimbleby’s squeaky voice from within the shadows. “You cannot even find me”


The Doctor sighed. “This is why no-one has ever had an Adipose for a companion.” He returned to the console. Back to business. His fingers danced across the controls, sending commands to the heart of his magnificent time machine. The central column rose and fell, casting light and shadows on The Doctor’s angular face.






“Let us assume that our art vandal will strike again.” He observed dials and pulled levers, thinking out loud. “Let us also assume that his or her targets will be remarkable in their nature. Great works by respected artists.”


He sprang back from the controls and the lights in the room steadied to a stop. The TARDIS had arrived. He moved towards the door, and then stopped.


“Flimbleby,” he said, loudly. There was no response. “Flimbleby, I’m going for tea with a very nice lady. Would you like to come?”


“You will ask me hard questions,” came a tiny voice from behind the bookshelves.


“Nooo… I promise not to ask questions. But I thought maybe you would like a little bit of tea? And cake?”


Flimbleby came scurrying out of the darkness towards the door. “Cake please!”




End of Part Three



Click here for part four

Loving the Alien: Part Two

Part one of my Doctor Who Christmas story can be found here.



Now for part two!




Loving the Alien: A Christmas Story.


Part Two







CHAPTER SIX



Flimbleby stared at the Old Man with the Crooked Face. He was amazed. No-one had ever understood him before. And Flimbleby had never been able to understand Big Humans talking before. Not even the Big Fat Lady With The Hat.


But he could understand the Old Man. He was called “The Doctroo Aryoo.” Which was a funny name and made Flimbleby snigger.


“What are you laughing at?” said Doctroo, his eyebrows curling up.


“Yor name is funny!” giggled Flimbleby. “Yoo arr called Doctroo! That is not even a name!”


“No – I’m the Doctor. Who are you?” repeated Doctroo. But it was too late. Flimbleby scuttled off across the Big Sparkly Room, giggling.


“Yor name is Doctroo. It is yor name! It is what yoo arr called!” Flimbleby ran around the room, gazing at all the lights and colours. It was like a room made of Christmas. Everything was glowing or twinkling and some of it was mysterious.


Suddenly he was being scooped up and lifted through the air. Two bony hands placed him on the console and then there was Doctroo’s face, right next to him.


“Now then, Flimbleby. You need to calm down. This is my TARDIS and there’s no giggling in my TARDIS.”


Flimbleby gulped. Doctroo looked very serious. He stopped giggling and put on his most listening face.


“That’s better,” said Doctroo. His face was stern, but not angry or unkind. “Now I’m going to ask you some questions, alright?” Flimbleby nodded. He liked questions. Except ones about sums – they were stupid and made of poo.


“Question one – how did you get on my TARDIS?”


“Um, what is a TARDIST pleez?”


Doctroo waved his arm about. “This. This is my TARDIS. It’s a spaceship and you’ve got inside it. How?”


“Oh, Rite. Well, yoo no the place wherr therr was all the trifle and all the pikturs and they all got broke?”


“The art exhibition? You were at the exhibition?”


“Yess. I did a brilyatn drawing of a diningsor and I had a bit of a sosij. And then lots of Big Humans came and they were all like ‘Oh no! Someone has broken all the pikturs’ so I did a hide. And then yoo came and yoo looked at my drawing and yoo had an interesting face and a Big Bloo Box that made a noise like a monster singing. So I decided to come wif yoo.”


Doctroo blinked. He straightened up. Flimbleby shuffled about on the cold metal of the console. He hoped that the old man would let him stay. He was funny and had an exciting nose.


“Second question…” said Doctroo.


Suddenly, with a thump, the TARDIST stopped. The lights steadied their pulsing, the gentle hum of the engines ceased. Doctroo looked up. “Ah – we’re here. Come on Flimbleby.”


And Doctroo sprang towards the door to the outside. Flimbleby bounced off the console and scampered after him. “Wherr arr we going, pleez?”

Doctroo grabbed the door handle. “To meet the most evil creatures in the universe!”








CHAPTER SEVEN


The TARDIS stood on the roof, high above Glasgow. A beautiful old building of stone and glass, standing proud in the middle of the busy city.


The doors flung open and out strode The Doctor, with Flimbleby bobbing along at his feet. The Doctor looked around for an entrance, and spotted a door to the stairs.


“Where are we please?” wondered Flimbleby as they headed for the door. The Doctor whipped out his sonic screwdriver and zapped open the lock.


“This is the Glasgow School of Art. Some of the greatest artists of the future are students here, right now.” They entered the building and descended the staircase, Flimbleby hopping down a stair at a time. 


The Doctor banged through a set of double doors into a large open corridor, lined with half finished sculptures and paintings. “Tonight, this building catches fire, destroying work that would be invaluable to the history of art. Early works by artists that will change the way the human race sees the creative process.”


“Um, I do not really know what that means.”





The Doctor stopped by an open door, peering through. A vast hall, full of workbenches and easels stretched out before them. There was no sign of human life.


“It means that all the pictures made by these people will be gone forever.” He walked slowly, reverentially into the room, past tables piled with papers, brushes, masking tape and jars. 


“They will be all sad?” Flimbleby bounced along, looking about in wonder at all the beautiful things.



“They’ll be sad, yes. All these ideas – moments of inspiration and passion, gone.” He lifted a roll of canvas, showing Flimbleby. On it was a giant orange stegosaurus firing lasers at dozens of silvery robots.


“Dinosaur!” Flimbleby scampered up onto the table, touching the canvas gently. “Hello Dinosaur! I love you!”


“You should see the things he goes onto create. The most wonderful pictures of dinosaurs the galaxy will ever know. Right now, Flimbleby the Adipose, you are touching the first dinosaur he ever painted.” The Doctor lay the canvas down carefully.


“Why did they get burned?” asked Flimbleby, still gazing at the magnificent beast with its fiery eyes.


“Glasgow is about to be invaded by a small squad of Daleks – refugees from the Time War. They’re a ragtag bunch and they’ll be defeated, but this building gets caught in the crossfire. I always assumed it was an accident. But after seeing the destruction at the gallery, I’m wondering if this is part of the same thing.”


He looked around sadly. There was no way to save any of this. Too risky to mess with the time line. 


Then a clattering sound made him turn round. Flimbleby was haring across the hall, leaving little red paint feet marks behind him. The Doctor went back to the painting. A pot of paint was spilled over and the stegosaurus in the picture now had a large red heart painted around it.


“Flimbleby – have you just defaced this painting?”


Flimbleby’s voice came out from behind one of the tables. “It was not even me. You don’t know.”


The Doctor allowed himself a little smile. But then the smile froze. He could smell…


“Smoke. But the Daleks aren’t due yet!” He spun around and broke into a sprint, running down the hall towards the source of the smell. Through an archway, down a corridor, through a pair of double doors…





Smoke billowed out from behind the doors, causing The Doctor to reel back, coughing. He peered through the doors. Sure enough, the fire had started. Paper fluttered through the smoke, crimson edged as it blackened and disintegrated. Flames glowed through the smoke and the crackle of destruction filled the air.


“Too early…” frowned The Doctor. “So this wasn’t the Daleks. Then who…” 


Just for a moment, he thought he saw something through the smoke. A human shape, standing among the flames. Not running away. Just… watching everything burn. Then it turned and disappeared into the inferno. 


There was nothing to be done here. The Doctor turned back the way he had come. Back down the corridor, into that first hall. 


“Flimbleby, we need to go. I was wrong...”


As he entered the hall he stopped in his tracks. There in the hall, among the tables and easels, were three Daleks.







End of Episode Two




Click here for part three





Loving the Alien: Part One

A departure from my usual ramblings. Here is a story I wrote a few years ago.


It's a Doctor Who story, written when Peter Capaldi was new in the role. I wanted to let a few more people see it, before his time is done.


It is a few 'episodes' long, so I'll be posting it in instalments. Here's part one. Hope you like it.



 Loving the Alien: A Christmas Story.






CHAPTER ONE


Christmas was ruined.


Jerome Temberley looked sadly across the exhibition hall, tears in his eyes. All around him was… debris. Broken furniture. Splattered food. Spilled wine and broken bottles. A Christmas buffet for a hundred people, devoured as if by locusts. But that wasn’t the worst part.


The exhibits had been destroyed too.


Tapestries torn in half. Statues smashed. Priceless antiques hurled at walls. Someone had drawn all over the paintings, adding their own creative ideas, many of which were obscene.


Jerome walked up to look at one particular painting. It was from Earth – from the old days. A man in a bowler hat, with an apple for a face. Except now the hat had horns and there was a felt-pen dinosaur in the background. And the apple had a little smiley face.


“Who would do such a thing?” said Jerome. And what would the guests think? They were due any minute now.



CHAPTER TWO


“Any minute now!” said the Doctor, snapping on a thin black glove. He stood, alone, by the TARDIS console, a look of feverish excitement on his face. Around him the twinkling lights of the futuristic machine pulsed and glistened.


He picked up a second glove from the console, regarding it with glee. “Any minute now you will be among the most privileged gloves in the universe. You will touch art works that no gloves have touched before.”


He snapped on the second glove and flexed his long fingers. He paused for a second, staring into space, breathing in the moment.

“And the buffet is to die for.”








CHAPTER THREE


The little monster was scared.


There were people everywhere. Many people. Certainly more than two. How many more was hard to say. Counting was never his strong point. But there were many, many legs and an awful lot of voices. They sounded like angry voices.


Then there was another noise. A strange grinding sound, like the wind but more beautiful. Some of the legs moved out of the way and cleared a space. Then, standing alone, was a new pair of legs. A long, spindly pair of legs in black trousers.


The little monster moved closer, hiding behind an overturned table to see that the New Legs were doing. Talking. Not a cross voice this time. An asking voice. Probably wondering why everyone was so cross.


New Legs walked over to the wall where all the pictures were. The little monster followed, through the sea of Other Legs, around the broken bottles and smashed statues. He nearly stepped in a puddle of trifle. For a moment, he thought about eating the trifle, but decided it was more important to see what the New Legs were doing.


The little monster ran right up to the wall and looked up, as high as he could. Towering above him, the New Legs turned into an Old Man with a crooked, exciting face. He was peering at one of the pictures, jabbing at it with Long Fingers in Big Gloves.


That was the picture the little monster had drawn on! He had stood on a chair, before everyone else had come, and used a pen and drawn a dinosaur and a brilliant face. The Crooked Man was looking at his picture!




  


CHAPTER FOUR


The tall, dark suited man continued to examine the vandalised picture, with its dinosaur and its smiling apple. Jerome Temberley hovered nervously at his shoulder.


“I’ve no idea how this happened,” stammered Jerome. “I set everything up this morning and popped out for lunch. Every alarm system was on when I got back – no-one could possibly have got in.”


The tall man turned his head, slowly, like an owl, to face him. “Someone did get in, Mr. Temberley. Someone got into one of the finest art exhibitions in the entire galaxy, destroyed every single piece of art, ate every single sandwich and then left. All without setting off a single alarm.”


“How could this have happened?” sniffed Jerome. The tall man surveyed the crowd of angry art-lovers, all milling about the hall and complaining to each other.


“The question is not how,” said the tall man. “The question is… why? Why sneak into an exhibition full of priceless art but take nothing? Why stop to eat all the food?”


“It’s a very good buffet,” suggested Jerome. “Some of the finest food and wine available to humanity.”


The tall man stared, wide eyed at the debris around him. “The best art and the best food. All… consumed,” he said. “Thank you, Mr Temberley. You’ve been very helpful.”

And with that the tall man was off, stalking through the crowd of disgruntled art lovers, disappearing into the mass of pretentious suits and hats.





CHAPTER FIVE



The Doctor slammed the TARDIS door behind him and strode up to the control console. He tore off the black gloves and hurled them onto the controls. With the dextrous fingers of one hand he tapped out a sequence of numbers onto the keys.


“Someone who likes the best art in the universe but only wants to destroy it. Someone who appreciates fine food and wine, but eats so much they must surely be sick as a result...”


The Doctor stalked around the console, flicking switches without looking, his eyes staring into space.


“If I was that person… where would I go next?”






 “MEEP.”


The Doctor stopped. Looked round. He was alone among the girders and bookcases of the control room. He looked down at the console.


“Did you do that? Do you go meep now?”


Silence.


The Doctor stared at the console for a second, shrugged and continued to pace.


“Who hates beauty? Who wants to destroy wonderful things..?”


His eyes lit up. He punches in a combination of commands on the console. “Of course…”


“MEEP.”


He stopped. Narrowed his eyes and peered into the darkness at the edges of the room. Was there something in the shadows..?


“Hello,” he said gently, crouching down and reaching for his sonic screwdriver. “It’s alright, you can come out.”


Something moved in the darkness. Something small. Something white. The Doctor moved forwards, very slowly.


“Are you trying to talk to me?”


“MEEP!”


“Yes, yes you are. Try again. This machine,” he gestured around him to indicate the TARDIS, “…will help me understand you.”


The little white shape in the darkness came a little closer. It was small – not much bigger than the apple in the painting. And like the apple, it had a little, smiling face. Its mouth opened.


“HELLO!” it squeaked.


A cracked smile broke across The Doctor’s face. “That’s it! Yes, hello. Hello. I’m the Doctor. Who are you?”


“HELLO!” squeaked the shape, waddling forward out of the darkness. It was a small, white blob of fat, with tiny legs and tiny arms sprouting from its sides. Its face was in the centre of its body – just two big black eyes and a wonky little mouth.


“An Adipose!” exclaimed the Doctor. “An Adipose on my TARDIS!”


“HELLO!” said the Adipose, hopping up to the Doctor and staring into his eyes. “I AM FLIMBLEBY!”


 


 END OF EPISODE ONE






Click here for Episode Two

Time is Relative - Season 8, part three.

Felicitations! It's your favourite time of the week - the time when you get to read my vague and mostly misremembered accounts of what it's like to watch old Doctor Who.

But! There are photographs. So at least you can enjoy the haircuts.

In previous blogs I have detailed Doctor Who's struggle against guys made of plastic, a machine that made 'Evil' happen and an unsettling orange space penis.

Now it's time for the last story of season 8. It's a good one.


The Daemons

This week, The Master is pretending to be a Vicar. He thinks it's going to be a lot of fun, but he's wrong - it's tedious, and he's already regretting it. This mad woman is wittering on at him about demons.

If he was just being The Master, he could shoot her with his space gun. But because he's pretending to be a Vicar, he's meant to listen and look like he cares.

He is not really doing this either, granted.

This is the bit he really wants to do. Dressing up in a mad red frock and hanging about in the cellar, under the church, where there are stone monsters to play with. He's looking at the stone monster, thinking, "I might play with it right now. I can do what I want."

The stone monster comes to life, and his eyes go all red! This is excellent fun. Say what you like about The Master, he knows how to choose cool and interesting friends.

Soon, Doctor Who turns up to ruin everything, shouting and acting like he's the boss. Stone monster looks unsure what to do about this. Most people just run away, shouting, "Oh no! The stone monster is moving and it's eyes have gone all red!" Doctor Who just tells the stone monster to get lost, and waves some metal at it. The stone monster is wondering if it's too late to just pretend to be stone again, and has gone all still.

It is too late. He moved and everything.

Doctor Who goes to the pub and tells everyone that there's some evil happening, and they should probably do everything he tells them. Many of these things will be irrelevant and nothing to do with evil, but they will make Doctor Who happy.

You can tell by the looks on everyone else's faces that they want to keep him happy, as they know what a massive pain he will be if he becomes sad.

I like how everyone in this shot has a different colour jacket on. It's a bit like Star Trek.

Surprise! Stone monster has gone outside, and now he's terrorising everyone in town. Mainly by popping up and startling them. Though I think he does make someone explode at one point.

The Brigadier, meanwhile, has got stuck outside the village, and is having to rely on this science guy to sort things out. He is pulling a face that suggests he is in a sitcom called, "Well, Crikey!"

The stone monster is telling The Master about Doctor Who being mean to him. The Master is trying to be sympathetic, and not just say, "Well, wait until it's happened about a million times, like it has to me, and then tell me about it."

It is unusual for The Master to hold a monster's hand to make it feel better. I suppose the stone monster does look extra sad.

Doctor Who and Jo go to try find the Brigadier. It's good when they go driving about outside. I think this is the bit where they get attacked by a helicopter. Jo looks vaguely bothered, while Doctor Who just looks irritated.

Come on Doctor Who! You're having an excellent adventure, with a stone monster and a helicopter in it! Smell the flowers.

The Master, meanwhile, is back under the church, doing some Spells. Except he's pretending it's Science, because Spells aren't meant to exist in Doctor Who. But they totally do. He even says Spell words.

Doctor Who finds The Brigadier. It turns out there's a big invisible barrier that means The Brigadier can't join in the adventure. If you try to walk into the barrier, you catch on fire straight away and go completely dead. This is because of the Spells that The Master was doing, you see.

I mean the Science.

Delighted by his barrier, The Master does this. Which I think is meant to be spell-stuff, but does look rather like he has got into Iron Maiden too late in life, and is overcompensating.

Jo and Mike Yates have found The Master, and are excited to observe his new obsession with Spells/Science/Iron Maiden. This is a nicely composed shot, I think.

This is my favourite character in the story. I can't remember who he is or what he does, but just look at his face! He's like the distillation of '1970s British bit part actor'. He's cross, I think, but also sneering, and disbelieving, and superior, and possibly also hungry.

I'm not sure I could make my face do that, no matter how angry/sceptical/peckish I was.

Sneery face guy gangs up on Doctor Who along with this man, who is dressed in torn up newspaper. No-one comments on any of this, so we can assume that this kind of thing happened all the time in the 1970s. They tie Doctor Who up and point guns at him. Doctor Who is furious, though knowing him, it might be that he's just not had a drink in a while.

The Master does an extra big Spell, which makes a massive monster appear. He looks great, like this, doesn't he? He's loads more fun than Doctor Who. I wish he'd win.

Raar! Look at the monster! You can't tell from this, but he's very big indeed. It's a good thing he's a monster - he's have trouble getting a job as a supply teacher, for instance.

Jo freaks right out, and starts shouting at the monster. She doesn't want to be sacrificed, which I think is what is meant to be happening. Although quite soon after, she decides she does want to be sacrificed after all, just to be contrary.

Little stone monster seems very bored, now. I don't think he likes the grown up conversation as much as he liked jumping about killing people.

For some reason, Jo's freakout drives the monster mad. He gets all confused, and decides he doesn't want to be a monster any more, and explodes.

Doctor Who stares imperiously at the monster, and pretends he is responsible for its destruction, even though the monster exploded all by itself. "I have won!" he seems to be saying.

The guy next to Jo is thinking, "I'm pretty sure Doctor Who didn't win. It was the lady, surely?" But he doesn't say, because he's dressed in a hood that clearly suggests, "I have been doing mischief," and he thinks it might count against him in an argument.



The little stone monster goes outside and jumps about for a bit, looking cool. Then the Brigadier finally turns up and blows it to pieces with guns. Or maybe that happens earlier. I don't care - I just like pictures of him. He's brill.

Then they arrest The Master, and everyone goes home. It's been a great story, and everyone is very pleased with themselves.




That's the end of season 8. Hope you enjoyed it.



Season 9 starts here.


Season 8 part two is here

A lack of grace

It is unlikely I will ever become famous.

I used to think it was my destiny, in that arrogant, dickheaded way that friends of mine know and love. Surely I would be a well known writer or performer of some kind, and share my wonderful personality with the world. People would delight in the many exciting things that came out of my astonishing brain. I would bring them pleasure and, crucially, they would give me enough money to avoid having to do anything particularly difficult with my life.

 

Young me, quite convinced that he should be in charge of the world.

It has not turned out that way. I remain very unfamous. Less famous, even, than loads of other Rob Reeds, as a series of narcissistic self-Googles has taught me. Even that motorcycle trainer from Tiverton gets more hits than me. And so I must live a relatively normal life, with only a handful of friends having to put up with my artistic endeavours and world changing ideas - bearing the brunt of my enthusiasms as if they were Jesus and I were the sins of the world.

And thank God, it turns out, for that lack of fame. My younger self might be disappointed that we're not a regular guest on Would I Lie To You, but my older self is extremely grateful. Being famous looks bloody awful. For lots of reasons. But the one that's on my mind recently is this: you have to live in the increasingly judgemental, knee jerk, self righteous world of public opinion.

As I write, a series of accusations are being made about famous guys who are meant to have done a whole bunch of sexually horrible things. Harvey Weinstein was the big one - accused by dozens of people of incredibly abusive behaviour, particularly towards women. Kevin Spacey followed. Now Louis CK. I'm sure that by the time I've finished writing this, there'll be more.

Louis CK: A villain

To be clear, it's not the fact of these accusations that bothers me. If these guys have been abusive - and it looks like they have - then there should be a reckoning. Obviously. There should be accusations and consequences and questions about how it happened in the first place.

What's bothering me is the public reaction to all this. These guys are famous, so the accusations are public. The apologies are public. And the commentary is public. The whole thing is taking place in the public court of the internet, and it is revealing some very unpleasant things about who we all are as people.

Take Louis CK's apology. It is, to my mind, pretty comprehensive:


"These stories are true. At the time, I said to myself that what I did was okay because I never showed a woman my dick without asking first, which is also true. But what I learned later in life, too late, is that when you have power over another person, asking them to look at your dick isn't a question. It's a predicament for them. The power I had over these women is that they admired me. And I wielded that power irresponsibly."


That looks, to me, like someone owning their actions. He doesn't pretend they didn't happen. He gives some context to his thinking at the time, but makes it clear that he considers that thinking to be wrong. He addresses the real issue - that this is as much about power as it is about sex.

The internet does not, for the most part, agree with me. It is full of criticism for this 'non-apology' and snarky comments about what he should have done, and about what this says about him as a person. They make much of his use of the word 'admire', as if it is designed to make us think he's great. They say he should have come clean about this earlier. They say he doesn't mean it and he's only apologising because he got caught.

Well, maybe. Maybe it is a cynical, calculated attempt to dodge blame, and I'm just falling for it because I like his comedy. I can't deny that as a possibility. However careful I think I'm being to apply critical thinking to the situation, the fact remains that I want to like Louis CK, so I'm probably predisposed to find his words favourable.

But, maybe he's being sincere. I think that's possible. I think we don't know who he is, or what's in his mind, or how he feels. We can parse his words all we like, but when it comes down to it, none of us are free from our subjective position in the wider narrative of this week's events. We all carry the influence of our experiences and attitudes, and bring them to bear on situations like this, where we have incomplete knowledge. It might do us some credit to remember the limitations of our objectivity, when we are flinging accusations around.

We all think our world is the right way up, depending on where we are.



None of this excuses or absolves Louis CK. What it does do is ask that we take responsibility for our response to him, and not make that response an exercise in black and white thoughtlessness - a response designed to make us feel better about ourselves by attacking someone else.

I think it's quite likely that yes, CK is only admitting this because it's been made public. Because that's what I would do. Actually, never mind would do. It's what I do. Don't worry - I don't recall ever doing any of the horrible things Weinstein, Spacey or CK are accused of. But I've done plenty of other things that have upset plenty of people over the years. And you can bet I don't relish the idea of discussing them with the world.

I've behaved selfishly and stupidly and in ways that have abused the trust of those who loved me. Sometimes it was deliberate, sometimes it was weakness. Sometimes I made myself think I wasn't doing anything wrong, and pushed down any internal voices that told me otherwise.

How could this vain prick have ever possibly been considered selfish?

If I was famous, these behaviours would likely come back to haunt me. And I bet that's true of most of us. Who here could stand the glare of public scrutiny without worrying that some past misdemeanour was about to bubble up? And who would gladly embrace the exposure of those behaviours - those stories about which we are rightly ashamed?

You might say, well, these accusations against CK and the like are much worse. There's no comparison to the things we've done. To which I can only think... would that matter? We're already in a world where mere allegations can end careers. Where people are suggesting half-jokingly that we should sack men the second an allegation is made, just to be on the safe side. Where the public court of opinion has no time for nuance, thoughtfulness or giving the benefit of the doubt.

I'd be terrified to be famous now. I'd worry constantly about the horrible pressures I put on poor Sarah Fenchurch when I was 17, to go just that little bit further than kissing and cuddling. Bad behaviour for sure. Imagine that, under the magnifying lens of public opinion. Of a Twitter mob who feel they know every situation inside out. Who feel that their rage gives them licence to act as judge, jury and executioner. Of a media industry built on a broad brushstroke idea of morality, that has no time for subtlety or forgiveness.

I've seen a lot of that this last week. "Louis CK joked about the 9/11 terror attacks," said as if it has any relevance whatsoever. There was that Tory MP who might have looked at porn, finding himself spuriously lumped in with the abusers. As if there's just a big pit of 'bad things' that we can throw everything into. It's an idea of morality that's easy to practice, because it requires no actual thought, while allowing us an unearned, self righteous rush of pleasure.

What I'd like to see is just a little grace. Some sense that the rights and wrongs of a situation are not instantly obvious. That even if someone has done something wrong, that doesn't necessarily give us licence to crow loudly about how superior we are to them, and demand their head on a spike.

Because yes, people like Louis CK might be trying to fool the world with a false apology. But on the other hand, they might just be flawed, rubbish human beings like the rest of us. They might have made mistakes which they'd like to correct. They might have been struggling for years to deal with their demons, and kept failing, and been ashamed of that failure.

The selfishness and stupidity of famous people does not give us the excuse to forget our responsibilities. We should be careful how we judge. Ready to listen. Prepared for people who've got it wrong to want to change.

If we don't, we're just making the world worse. Telling people with weaknesses that there's no place for them to admit their failures. Making it imperative that everyone keeps their demons locked up tight, where they'll always be a danger. Reducing everything to an child's idea of 'good and bad'.

Making a world where, one day, we might find ourselves wishing for a little grace, and wishing we hadn't shouted it out of existence.