Adventures with the Wife in Space

by Neil Perryman

  This memory is tinged with sadness, though. Not just because I lost touch with Candice and the last time I heard from her she was well on her way to becoming a multimil-lionaire. No, it was because when ‘Survival’, part 3 finished, and Sylvester McCoy’s Doctor walked off into the sunset with Ace, I knew they weren’t coming back.

  Sue: I know you are going to kill me for saying this, but the speech at the end sounded like it was cobbled together at the last minute. Sorry.

  Me: I really like it. It’s optimistic.

  Sue: I can see why you were upset about Doctor Who finishing at this point. Just when it was good again. It also explains why you were still banging on about it when I met you. I’ll never be a fan, but they shouldn’t have stopped it there.

  The BBC had really gone and done it. They had cancelled Doctor Who.

  And yet twenty-six years was a remarkable achievement. The show had left its mark on millions of young viewers and on the wider popular culture: the Daleks, the Cybermen, the TARDIS, long scarves and paper bags full of jelly babies, women running up and down corridors screaming, giant maggots, floppy green waddlefucks … and Drashigs. Who could possibly forget the Drashigs?

  Doctor Who was over. However, my life was just beginning. It was time to move on. I was twenty years old; perhaps the moment had at last come for me to put away childish things. So I did.

  But I put them somewhere I could find them.

  Part Two

  Fan love is not like real love. Fan love never dies.

  – TOM BAKER, THE FOURTH DOCTOR

  Sue’s Chapter

  The first time I met Neil Perry was when he accosted me in a corridor in 1993. He was looking for someone to interview for the university’s student radio station, and because someone had let him down at the last minute, he was desperate. ‘Do you know anything about road movies?’ he pleaded as I passed him on my way to a semiotics seminar. The panicked look on his face made me feel sorry for him – plus I didn’t really want to go to the semiotics seminar – so I pretended I was an expert, which is when he first told me that he wanted to kiss me.

  I accompanied him to a deserted classroom where he pointed a microphone at me and I told him everything I could about Thelma & Louise. He laughed in all the right places and he was overjoyed that he wouldn’t need to edit my interview that much. I don’t know why this made me feel special but it did. I was getting up to leave when he began bumping his gums about something else, but I wasn’t listening to what he was saying. I was much more struck by the tone of his voice, the way he laughed, and the passion he had for whatever it was he was banging on about; knowing Neil it was probably something pretentious. I tried to locate his accent. He didn’t seem to have an accent. That made him even more interesting.

  We got to know each other better over the next few weeks, mainly because we were both heavy smokers. Whenever we stepped out of the edit suites on the first floor of the media department for a cigarette, we seemed to bump into each other. I was finishing my final-year video project, while Neil, who had just been offered the position as a part-time lecturer in video production, was training himself to use the equipment in the room next door. He was very nervous about his new job; understandable really, because he didn’t know what he was doing. One day he couldn’t get his equipment to work and I had to tell him it was because he’d removed the tab from the VHS tape, which meant he couldn’t record over it any more. Seriously, who offered this numpty a job?

  We were puffing away one day when Neil proudly told me that he was a ‘new man’. That’s OK, I thought, I was starting a new life and a new man was just what I was looking for. He was a little younger than me, and a bit of a flirt, but we really hit it off, which is surprising because we had practically nothing in common. I told him that I wanted to make furniture for a living. He told me that he was the only boy at his school who studied Home Economics because the tools in the woodwork block intimidated him. I liked football and tennis; Neil liked to read and talk. I was good with my hands; Neil was good with his head. I was divorced; Neil swore to me that he would never get married. But we made each other laugh and we both knew how to use an edit suite. Well, I did.

  He didn’t even back off when I told him that I had a four-year-old daughter. I was one of the 1 per cent of single parents studying at a university, and Neil seemed genuinely interested in some of the challenges this posed – he could be a bit patronising with it but he meant well. Most people clammed up or didn’t know what to say.

  When he told me that his name was actually Neil Perryman, I just laughed. He explained to me that his ex-girlfriend had been a radical feminist and it had been her idea to ditch the patriarchal part of his surname. He also told me that he was a feminist sympathiser; I thought this meant that he felt sorry for feminists. But on the plus side, if a girl could convince him to change his surname, then asking him to leave the toilet seat down shouldn’t be a problem.

  The thing is, right, Neil was different from every man I’d met up to then. Most of the men in my life had been, let’s say, butcher than Neil, and that includes my gay brother, Gary. Neil was very earnest when it came to discussing gender politics, which he did a lot, but his heart seemed to be in the right place. Having said that, his hair was a mess. He had a tuft of fuzz poking out of his forehead that was one of the stupidest things I’d ever seen. He looked like a cross between a sex pest and a unicorn. I’d trained to be a professional hairdresser, so every time I spoke to him I wanted to rush at him with a pair of scissors. When I pressed him about it, he told me that he’d woken one day with some chewing gum stuck to his head. But rather than wash it out like any sane, rational, normal person, Neil had cut it out with a razor blade. Every time the hair grew back, he had to hack at it again, but sometimes he’d forget, and when he did forget I couldn’t look at him without staring at the ridiculous thing sprouting from the top of his head. It was especially noticeable when Neil tied his hair back in a ponytail – it was like he had one ponytail at the back and a second, rival one at the front. I know it sounds silly but I wanted to fix it for him.

  That Easter, we went to Whitby together. I was one of a number of students on a university field trip while Neil was there to look after us. This was ridiculous because Neil could barely look after himself. We had supposedly come to the seaside resort to visit some of the locations that featured in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, which we were studying in one of our classes, but everybody knew that these trips were just an excuse for a very competitive pool tournament in a pub on the quayside. Neil didn’t have a partner for the pool tournament, so I teamed up with him before he could find one. Sadly, he couldn’t play pool to save his life, but thanks to my misspent youth we still got to the final. I did everything I could to keep Neil away from the table as much as possible, but when it came to the deciding game it was his turn to pot the black. He was snookered behind the opponent’s yellow and he had given up the shot as a lost cause before he’d finished chalking his cue. I told him not to be so hasty as I pointed to the cushion at the far end of the table, which set him up for a spectacular trick shot. Not only did Neil hit the black ball, he potted it. Neil has subsequently told me that this was when he fell in love with me; I don’t blame him, that shot was sweet. Or maybe it was when I told him I’d been a contestant on Bullseye? I’ve asked him about it for this chapter and he says he can’t remember the precise moment because he was so drunk – but he does recall that we accidentally left two of his students behind in Whitby at the end of the night.

  So, a raving feminist who looked like Jesus, who couldn’t hold his drink, who was hopeless at pool, and who couldn’t count people back onto a bus. Yes, Neil was quite a catch. Even so, I still invited him back to my home in Hartlepool for a meal. I probably would have done it sooner but my parents had been living with me while they rented out their house to some lodgers. But this was the day they were finally moving out, and because my parents were also looking after Nicol that night, we would have the place to ours
elves. I definitely wasn’t going to introduce Neil to my family until I was sure about him. You know what they say. The gentle, funny, unicorn ones are always the worst.

  Christopher Street

  As we approached Hartlepool, I was expecting the worst. Sue was a single parent who lived in a council house in the north of England. I imagined burning cars on the pavement, damp on the walls and a kitchen infested with cockroaches. As Sue drove us down a small terraced street, with a beautiful wrought-iron lamppost, exquisitely arranged flowerboxes and neatly polished doors, I didn’t think we’d be stopping. Suddenly, Sue jammed on the brakes.

  Sue: Oh, no.

  Me: What’s wrong?

  Sue: My parents are here.

  I panicked. You met a girl’s parents after the fourth, fifth or six hundredth date. You definitely didn’t meet the parents if you hadn’t slept with their daughter yet. A woman was waving at us from the kerb. This must be Sue’s mum. I couldn’t put my finger on it but there was something oddly familiar about her. Sue was already out of the car before I could unbuckle my seatbelt.

  Sue’s mam: Hiya, chuck. The lodgers have decided to stay at ours for a few more weeks so we’ll have to move back in again. You don’t mind, do you? I told your father that you wouldn’t mind. Who’s this?

  Sue tapped on the passenger window so I reluctantly stepped out of the car. I couldn’t believe it. Sue’s mother was the spitting double of Jon Pertwee. All she needed was a crushed velvet cape.

  Sue: This is Neil. He’s a friend from university.

  Sue’s mam: That’s nice. Anyway, you’re just in time. I’m off to the bingo with your father. Give us a fiver and I’ll go halves if we win.

  We were now joined outside the house by the snooker player Dennis Taylor. This was Sue’s dad.

  Sue’s mam: Nicol’s inside and she hasn’t had her tea yet. It looks like you could do with some scran inside you as well, young man.

  Sue’s mother poked my ribcage with her finger. I half-expected her to cry ‘HAI!’

  Sue’s mam: There’s nowt on him.

  And with that, Jon Pertwee and Dennis Taylor walked arm in arm towards the Mecca.

  *

  Sue likes to say that I only agreed to go back to her place that first time because she had cable television. I admit that when I realised the channel UK Gold was broadcasting late-night repeats of Doctor Who – episodes I’d never seen before – Hartlepool suddenly seemed as exciting as New Zealand. And I also admit that I placed a blank VHS tape in the pocket of my donkey jacket, just in case, during my stay, the opportunity arose to record an episode or two. But Sue fascinated me. She was unlike any woman I’d ever met. She drank pints for a start – not because she was a feminist, she just drank pints. And yes, I fancied her. I fancied her like mad. It didn’t bother me that she was older than me, or that she was a single parent. I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship; besides, knowing my luck, I’d almost certainly mess things up long before I met her daughter.

  But it turned out Sue’s daughter was waiting for us in the living room.

  Nicol: Do you want a sweet?

  This was the first thing that Nicol Malapert Thompson ever said to me.

  Me: No, thank you.

  Nicol: Do you want a sweet?

  It was also the second, third, fourth and fifth thing she ever said to me.

  Nicol: Do you want a sweet?

  Me: No, I’m fine. Really.

  Nicol: Do you want a sweet?

  Sue: Just tell her that you want a sweet. It’s her new joke. Humour her.

  Nicol: Do you want a sweet?

  Me: Yes, Nicol. I would love a sweet. Thank you very much.

  Nicol: Then suck your feet!

  Sue’s daughter roared with laughter. I wanted to join in but how could I? Her so-called joke didn’t make any sense. What did the sucking of feet have to do with sweets? It wasn’t even remotely funny.

  Sue: She’s four, Neil. This is Monty Python to a four-year-old.

  Nicol clambered onto the sofa, paused for effect, and then yelled at the top of her lungs:

  Nicol: DO YOU WANT A SWEET?

  Every time Sue led Nicol up the wooden hill to bed, the little comedienne would creep down again a few minutes later; we could hear her giggling as she tiptoed towards the living-room door, preparing to deliver her killer punchline for the umpteenth time. This went on for about an hour, until Sue gave in and Nicol was allowed to sit with us while we watched the Nine O’Clock News.

  Sue: If you ignore her, she’ll fall asleep eventually.

  Nicol: What’s a Bosnian Muslim, Mam?

  Me: I know, why don’t we watch a video instead? That might be fun.

  Nicol: Yes! The Little Mermaid!

  Sue: We can’t, chick. The video recorder’s still broken.

  I glanced at the rectangular bulge in my donkey jacket and sighed.

  Sue decided to stay with Nicol in her bedroom until she fell asleep. She told me that she’d come back downstairs again later – if she could stay awake. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was 11.20 p.m.; Doctor Who was due to start in ten minutes. I told her not to worry about me and to get some sleep.

  With Sue gone, I urgently flicked through the channels on her cable box – past the German quiz shows and the racy Italian movies – until I found UK Gold. As I waited for part 2 of ‘The Curse of Peladon’ (Jon Pertwee, season 9, 1972) to begin I could feel butterflies in the pit of my stomach. This was partly because upstairs were two people I instinctively knew were going to become the most important of my adult life, but mostly it was because I’d never seen ‘The Curse of Peladon’ before.

  The Doctor assumes that the Ice Warriors must be the bad guys, and when it turns out that they aren’t, Sue isn’t very happy, to put it mildly.

  Sue: That makes the Doctor a little bit racist, doesn’t it? I expect a lot more from him. It should be him convincing everyone else that they are prejudiced, not the other way round. That’s not good at all.

  Me: I don’t care what you say, this episode is still very important to me. This is the episode that was playing on UK Gold the first night you brought me home to meet Nicol. It was Tuesday 13 April 1993.

  Sue: What was she wearing?

  Me: I beg your pardon?

  Sue: You can remember which episode of Doctor Who was on telly that night, but you can’t remember what Nicol was wearing. Why am I not surprised?

  It was 11.28 p.m. when the living room door opened again.

  Sue: It’s only me.

  Me: I thought you’d gone to bed.

  Sue: Nicol is fast asleep. I’ve come to keep you company. What are you doing?

  Me: Oh, nothing. Just watching TV.

  Sue knelt on the floor in front of the sofa, obstructing my view of the television.

  Announcer: And now on UK Gold, it’s time for the Doctor to continue his adventure on the planet Peladon …

  Sue moved closer. As the theme music swelled to its familiar crescendo, she prised the remote from my hand.

  Sue: Give that to me. I’ve just thought of something else we could do.

  And without breaking eye contact, she aimed it behind her back and switched off the television.

  Then Sue is introduced to Alpha Centauri.

  Sue: Oh, purlease! What’s that supposed to be?

  Sue is struck dumb while her mind attempts to process the image. But she gets there in the end.

  Sue: It’s a giant penis. (Pause) It’s a giant green penis in a shower curtain.

  Me: Just be thankful Alpha Centauri wasn’t pink.

  The Collector Gene

  In 1975, when Weetabix’s Doctor Who promotion was over and you couldn’t buy the special packets in the shops any more, I threw my Weetabix cards away. I find this thoughtless act quite difficult to write about. My collector gene hadn’t been activated yet. However, shortly after this, I found myself strangely drawn to the checklist I’d found on the first page of the Target novelisation of The Three Do
ctors. As I scanned this list of the other titles in the series, something inside me clicked – or cracked. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that I would have to possess every single last one of these books, and if I didn’t, I would never be whole again.

  As I’ve said elsewhere in this book, there wasn’t that much Doctor Who stuff around to collect when I was growing up in the 1970s. I now realise that this was probably for the best. If the same amount of merchandise that’s available today had been around when I was a boy, I would have bankrupted my parents. Thirty years later, I’ve almost bankrupted myself.

  I suspect that this gene may be hereditary. My mum had a thing for Lladró porcelain and my sister owned one of the biggest collections of Sindy dolls West Coventry has ever seen. In the late 1980s, when Doctor Who was coming to an end, I mostly collected records by Tangerine Dream; but I also steadfastly acquired each new Target novelisation – there were now over a hundred – and, of course, old episodes of Doctor Who on videocassette. As many fans of a certain age will tell you, Doctor Who VHS tapes never lined up on the shelf properly. The diamond-shaped logo would move up and down willy-nilly on the spine of the box. Sometimes it was vertical, other times it was horizontal. And for the show’s thirtieth anniversary in 1993, the logo changed completely, which only made things worse. Doctor Who fans would be entitled to launch a legal claim for compensation against BBC Enterprises for knowingly encouraging chronic hoarding for financial gain, leading in turn to the mental anguish of rampant obsessive-compulsive disorder.