Well, just a quickie. I’ve been pretty busy doing a couple of things I can’t talk about yet (a DVD commentary or two plus an episode of a TV series – but no, not Doctor Who or any of its spin-offs). I’ve already written about them for this blog though, so when the time is right I’ll cut and paste and hopefully there’ll be something of interest for anyone really desperate to find something to distract them from work.
It’s been my absolute pleasure over the past few weeks to pop into BBC 7 and record the links for their fantastic 7th Dimension* sci-fi hour, introducing such eclectic delights as Mark Gatiss reading The Devil In Amber, plenty of spooky tales heralded by the gloriously arch tones of Edward De Souza’s Man In Black on Fear In Four, and of course, Journey Into Space. Oh, how I thought that would be clunky, slow, frightfully poised and naive, and how wrong I was – it’s brilliant. The characters are all great, there are no easy solutions to the jeopardy (each problem is solved with practicality and invention), it has an extraordinarily bold imagination and there are some genuinely creepy moments. I’ve become thoroughly hooked. Thanks to Nick Briggs for vacating the seat for a couple of months whilst he excels in Doctor Who Live**, and for recommending me to his producer, the most amiable and accommodating man in the media, Martin Dempsey. With Martin’s encouragement, I’ve thrown in the odd obscure reference for aficionados of sci-fi, but hopefully not so as to (excuse the pun) alienate passing listeners. Like Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf, I want to spread the joy equally to lovers of the genre and those who may have only the most superficial interest. So if you spot that lyric from the theme to Star Cops, enjoy the occasional Quatermass reference or smirk on Speak Like Pip And Jane Baker Day, all well and good; but if you don’t notice them and they don’t mar your enjoyment as I bounce through the hour, that’s fine too.
I’ve even been asked to host the whole of an extended shift over Halloween, which has a fantastic and eclectic line up of spookiness. Loitering in Broadcasting House has its advantages too: I’ve already spotted David Starkey and Ian Botham, and finally met David Tennant face-to-face, and was able to thank him for lending his support and vocal talents to Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf. What a thoroughly nice man he is.
So listen out for the 7th Dimension, from either 6pm or midnight, every day, for the next couple of months. I’m rather enjoying it, and getting better as the weeks go by I think.
* Beware, the picture on the website makes me look like I have a stupidly shaped head.
**And before accusations of jobs for the boys, I think I’ve met Mr Briggs twice, maybe three times.
OK, Edinburgh is done and dusted, so here’s what’s going on for the rest of the year.
It’s a little quiet from October onwards as frankly I’ve been away too much this year so I’m doing a lot of work that keeps me at home (especially as Now I Know My BBC will begin touring in 2011 – the first date is booked in already!).
I’m doing a couple of jobs in the next month that will take up most of my time, but I can’t talk about them yet. They’re exciting though, good work that I will relish. I’m also going through the edits of Running Through Corridors which is taking shape nicely (if I’m found murdered in the next few months, patient and thorough Mad Norwegian Press editor-in-chief Lars Pearson must be considered prime suspect, as I’m sure I’ve stretched his good nature to snapping point with my pernickety notes and feedback).
I am allowed to talk about one thing – during October (from the second week) and November, I shall be the temporary replacement for the Voice Of The Daleks himself, Nick Briggs (who is taking to the stage in Doctor Who Live!), as the Voice Of The 7th Dimension for the wonderful BBC 7. The team there, especially my producer Martin Dempsey, have made me feel very welcome. Have a listen, I will say the odd amusing thing and sneak in the occasional Quatermass reference.
Here is my gig list – there are more events at XS Malarkey than merely the ones I MC, so check out the website:
Tuesday 21st Sept XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, with Ivor Dembina)
Thur 23rd – Sat 25th Sept Frog and Bucket, Manchester (MC)
Sun 26th September Comedy Store, Manchester (New Stuff, MC)
Tues 28th September XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, Super Special Birthday bash – 3 headliners and lots of fun!)
Friday 1st October Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf – Cranleigh, Surrey
Sunday 10th October Comedy Store, Manchester (New Stuff, MC)
Tuesday 12th October XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, Kent Valentine headlining)
Thursday 14th – Saturday 16th October Baby Blue, Liverpool (MC)
Tuesday 19th October XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, with Noel James and Hils Barker)
Friday 22nd October Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf, Leamington
Saturday 23rd October Downstairs At The King’s Head, Crouch End (MC)
Tuesday 26th October XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, Nige headlining)
Tuesday 2nd November XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, Tanya Lee Davies headlining)
Tuesday 9th November XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, The Boy With Tape On His Face headlining)
Tuesday 16th November XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, Sally-Anne Hayward headlining)
Friday 19th November Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf, Cirencester
Monday 22nd November Mirth On Monday, Manchester (Headlining)
Tuesday 23rd November XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, Miles Jupp headlining, and probably lots of jokes celebrating Doctor Who’s birthday)
Friday 26th – Saturday 28th November Chicago TARDIS, Chicago, USA (including a performance of Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf)
Tuesday 30th November XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC, Elis James headlining)
Friday 3rd – Saturday 4th December Frog and Bucket, Manchester (MC)
Tuesday 7th December XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC)
Saturday 11th December Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf, Tonbridge, Kent
Sunday 12th December Comedy Store, Manchester (MC)
Tuesday 14th December XS Malarkey, Manchester (MC)
Thursday 16th – Saturday 18th December Opus, Manchester (MC)
A day off, in which my body decides to deflate and throw up all the fatigue, aches and pains it has been suppressing for the past fortnight. Fortunately, I have in my inbox a first draft of the first quarter of Running Through Corridors, which to my excitement has been typset and redrafted. It’s a mighty task we have set Mad Nowegian Press editor Lars Pearson, but by golly he’s more than up to it. Oh yes, there’s the odd idiomatic misunderstanding, and some of my jokes were originally so sloppily phrased and robbed of meaning by my cack-handedness that he’s had his hands full and we still need to tweak here and there, but I’m enjoying the process and am beside myself with excitement about having a book on the shelf.
Much of the day was spent indoors modifying sentences and noting with guilt that Lars has made me look like a better writer than I actually am, until it was time to guest again on Hardeep Singh Kohli’s Chat Masala. I’d been on good form last time I did it, early on in the Fringe. This time, I was a bit hesitant and hardly the sharp joke-merchant or witty raconteur the audience would have needed me to be were they to leave with any desire to grab flyers for Moths. Excellent, ebullient Kiwi Jarred Christmas was far more at ease and a breath of energetic and comedic fresh air. Then the legendary Tony Tanner came on for anecdotes and plugging, though having said he loved curry, didn’t want to try Hardeep’s Haggis & Pea Vindaloo, which looked delicious (I demurred because I don’t eat meat, so Jarred had two portions). Good show, but I didn’t shine. The next day, I checked to see how many new tickets had been sold for either of my shows as a result of my travails.
Great show today – I’d thought the day off might throw me off my game, but no: really enjoyable. Afterwards, met Dave Owen – a reviewer for Doctor Who Magazine whose work I have greatly enjoyed over the years. He has a gift for apt observations and witty remarks without the humour or reviewing being self aggrandising or tricksy. We’d never met before and had a right old time, before deciding far too late to grab something to eat. And so we had a lovely Italian that we had to rather wolf down so he could make the show he was going to see, and I could head off for FFF. I was pleased that the waitress complimented me on correctly pronouncing the name of my dish – Spaghetti Siciliana. Obviously my heart, stomach and mouth are in Italy with my lovely wife even if my brain is filled with tartan and greasepaint.
And what a night was had at FFF – terrific fun. A relatively sparse audience who nonetheless moved forward when told. The rather nice couple I chatted with at the front turned out to be opening act Sam Gore’s parents, which added spice to the evening. Watching him wrangle with his wanton misanthropy and filthy tongue in front of the terribly nice couple who bore and nurtured him was brilliant. Credit to both parties for doing so well! The Boy With Tape On His Face did a lovely gig, and when closing the section I got the crowd to give him a round of applause and uttered the words “Notorious gag thief” which was a piece of improvisation I was very pleased with that nevertheless got a bigger laugh than I’d imagined it would. I guess because it works in a number of ways. He doesn’t speak, so doesn’t do gags, so couldn’t be accused of that crime which many a comic levels at many another comic. He also does his whole gig with gaffer tape over his mouth: a gag he’s stolen? A pithy, three word joke with a number of meanings.
I think I may have peaked and should retire.
It made Chortle’s Quote Of The Day the next afternoon which made me chuffed. An excellent FFF, with Nik Coppin and Elis James doing the second half and also on great form. I hadn’t particularly wanted to do the gig, but was very pleased I had as I wandered home, having spent the evening both sober and funny.
Chalk Thursday up as a win.
Early morning – thank God for Damian, my tech, who’d texted the night before asking if I was looking forward to my 8.30am tech. What??!! I’d though it was 8.30pm. Groo! Anyway, off I went that morning, vexed and grumpy and tired. But what a venue, populated by charming and helpful staff, and with a sound system to die for. Suddenly, the enormity of what I was about to do hit me, and I had to buy an Innocent Smoothie just to calm myself down (Apple, Kiwi, and Lime since you ask).
Back home for an an epic snooze to prepare me for the big day. I’d been slotted in for a gig at the Jazz Bar, but the lovely organisers had one act too many and I was happy to duck out as by now I was finding everything a bit overwhelming. A chance to catch up with Mick Ferry first though, who is having a good time, but once again is being written up all too predictably – damned with faint praise by being described as a “good club comic”. Yes he is. He’s a brilliant club comic, one of the best. But he’s also a more interesting act than the first impressions made by some from his Northern, bluff, blokeyness. Too often I see Mick and Justin Moorhouse – both superb performers and deeply intelligent men – underestimated because of how they look and sound. It must be deeply frustrating. I understand, as often people write me off as mere eye candy because of my good looks and sexual magnetism, but it’s a cross I have to bear.
Sometimes, you know from the off that the audience are with you – they help you ride the waves of laugher, time the jokes, dictate the rhythm, and invent little magical asides in the moment. Sometimes, the audience seem like they’re going to need you to dig deep to keep them. Not necessarily hostile, but not big laughers, and certainly not people who’ll go with a little comedic segue or whimsical tangent. You need to keep it tight, tight, tight, nail every punchline, make every set-up lean and free of fat, and be sharp and energetic in performance. And just sometimes, they start off well and you lose them. Quiet inexplicably, the laughter ebbs away, and reaching the finishing line is a chore. That was the BBC show today. No explanation – but I can’t blame them as they’d started off loving it and lively. Curious. It was just the cosmic equilibrium ensuring I can never be allowed an entirely happy day –the lovely and talented poet and writer Kate Fox had kindly given me a Pick Of The Fringe and a nice notice in The Telelgraph, which was heartily received at my end. So I had to do penance somewhere, it’s expected.
Then to the EICC for Moths. Oof – an enormous prospect. I had a curious hour long hiatus beforehand where I just wandered about rather aimlessly. Then to the show – nicely busy (target reached!) and full of love. A warm, supportive audience, and thanks to the acoustics I could lower some moments to a whisper that hung in the air. I really enjoyed the actual mechanics of the performing of it and filling the space. Of course, it went so well and without hiccoughs that I had to get the ending completely the wrong way around. Of course I did. It’s the sort of thing I do. I very nearly forgot the most important, touching and pivotal bit of the whole show. I have never done that before, in the many hundreds of times I’ve done the bloody thing. Bonkers. Nobody else noticed apparently, but I did. Mum was in, plus many pals, and it was all a bit heady. Good though, even if my friend Martin rather drunkenly navigated us home with a needless mile long diversion. I was unnecessarily grumpy about this.
As Mum disappeared off on the train, millions of people descended upon the city. And seemingly, all of them people who, despite it being the 21st century, have not yet mastered the art of walking on a pavement in an untwatty way. This lot knew all the tricks – meandering, suddenly stopping, not even vaguely turning their body when the person they are about to bump into has pressed themselves far into the wall and arched back as much as possible. Then there are those who, when you’ve twisted and indicted that you’re letting the person opposite you through, cuts in front of you, blocks everyone’s way and creates gridlock. As if they’d thought that instead of being an exhibition of common courtesy, your movement had been an indication of a sudden desire to deport yourself like a crab for a few minutes. Had I been armed, I may have indulged in some kind of spree. I was necessarily grumpy about this.
And so to Adam Riches Rides, which continues to sell a hefty number of tickets and never fails to entertain. Adam had had an annoying punter in the show yesterday, and was regretting not kicking him out. Who has the audacity to go to a show and be silenced by someone as witty and affable as Adam and still insist on chipping in, in a way that is less funny than the stuff, you know, written, honed and rehearsed by someone clearly skilled at what he’s doing? I think as part of our deal for doing the fringe, each performer should be allowed to cull irritating audience members. It would help maintain universal balance.
Anyway, Tigering up left me in a good place to do Nicholas Parsons’ Happy Hour. What a joy. Jo Caulfield was there, and took it well when I told her that she’s been in my dream the night before. In the land of Morpheus, she and Kevin Hayes (who had both been on at The Frog and Bucket on my first weekend gig there as an open spot thirteen-or-so years ago, and had chosen to reunite in my nocturnal imaginings) had been talking to me: Kevin was saying I was a good comic and Jo was arguing that I was crap and I knew it. This is what’s called “an Edinburgh dream” and is nothing to be alarmed about, apparently. And actually, Happy Hour was an Edinburgh Dream too – Adam Hills on first; his easy wit and charm a great fit with the audience. He’s skilled and funny but clearly also an unassuming and decent human being. I am astonished at Nicholas Parsons – he’s in his 80s yet gamely interacts and ad libs with the audience for half an hour. Astonishing. He’d worked hard to make sure he pronounced my name right, but of course made a total hash of it. He was contrite, but it stood me in good stead as I have loads of amusing things to say about it, so got off to a flying start. I was pleased, as Adam was a hard act to follow and I hadn’t exactly shone at Hardeep’s show on Wednesday. I did a good gag about Nicholas’s death scene as Rev Wainwright in The Curse Of Fenric (in which he shouts “No … no … nooooo,” – which I pointed out was hesitation and repetition, to the delight of the audience) and he recounted with touching modesty how Nick Mallet had selected him for the part because of the way he’d been reassuring to some children when they joined him onstage as Window Twanky in a panto. A canny piece of insight from the director, and one which paid off, as it is a wonderful performance. Anyway – I’d been nervous, but a lovely host, friendly fellow comics who in no way expressed surprise that lowly old me was sharing the bill with them on such an illustrious outing, and a game audience, made for a definite highlight of the fringe.
A wave of heat greeted me at the Underbelly. Those delightful The Roaring Boys – always ready with a smile and an encouraging word as the hand the venue over to me – had sold out. They’ve had a raft of excellent reviews now, and look like one of the success stories this year. Couldn’t happen to two nicer fellows. The crowd at Now I Know My BBC was a pretty big one too, but they made me work for it. I don’t have a problem with this, but it still takes me by surprise (and it really shouldn’t, I’ve been doing it long enough) when a small midweek audience can really buoy you along, whereas a much bigger Saturday night crowd can be harder to get swept up by. I guess maybe there are more “casual” punters at the weekend, as opposed to many of the people who come because they already know and like my work and are sympathetic to the subject matter.
All good stuff for keeping one sharp though, so not a problem.
Curious, how your eye always gets drawn to the most immobile face in the crowd. Tonight there was a fella who sat stony faced (not grumpy, not hate filled, just blank) throughout. And of course, in the middle of the front row. I could have put it down to a naturally stern demeanour, except he let out a huge guffaw at a joke I do referencing Anthea Turner and the Ku Klux Klan. And then returned to his inscrutable state for the rest of the show. Very odd. And I wonder why it was the crap-DJ/white supremacist interface that particularly tickled him. Do I need material involving Bruno Brookes and Combat 18 to win more vocal approval from Mr Granite-Chops? I mean, I call it a joke, but it’s not really, it’s reportage of an incident on Top Of The Pops from my youth. A fact. Perhaps he doesn’t like jokes, he just likes facts. Oh I dunno, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the bugger. The same happened with Moths four years ago. Can I remember any of the smiling faces, of which there were plenty? Can I bugger. But the fella who came one Thursday and whose physiognomy was a permanent study of ennui? I’d recognise him tomorrow.
Other than that…
Wibbly wobble day. Brick wall day. Self doubt day. Suffice to say, three minutes into the show I just didn’t want to be there. Not because of anything that had happened, and certainly not because of the audience (who were fine and laughed in the right places, Anthea man aside). I just found it a real struggle. But I pretended to be nice and happy and funny and think I got away with. That’s my job.
Went home, got drunk, took it out on my wife (who had been hitherto having a nice time on holiday, thankyou very much).
Edinburgh does this to everyone at some stage.
For universal balance, here’s a lovely review (though ironically, as I hit the edfringe website to find the link, I was confronted by a somewhat indifferent one from an audience member. So much for universal balance. It was from Sunday actually … Anthea Turner man, surely not …?)
I was rather saddened to recently learn of the death of the actor Richard Shaw. When I first saw the brilliant Quatermass and the Pit many years ago, I was captivated by it, and thrilled at what a complex and sumptuous production it was. I was also taken by many of the performances, but one that really stuck out was that of Richard Shaw as the beleaguered workman Sladden. Initially brought in to do a hush-hush drilling job to get into the hull of the mysterious object buried in Hobbs Lane, he is initially a typical, chirpy, working class character. As the story unfolds, however, he becomes pivotal, being the first to completely succumb to the baleful influence of the Martian inheritance dormant within us all. In a sequence even my Mum remembered from watching all those years ago, he assumes the gait and posture of one of the creatures, as all about him the pit goes haywire. Eventually seeking solace in a churchyard, he collapses to the ground and the gravel beneath him begins to move. Later, under cross examination by Quatermass, he has a vision of life on Mars five million years previously. So many aspects of Shaw’s performance could well have been hokey, and yet he pulled off every one brilliantly. Actors now are well versed in the tropes of science fiction, not so then. It is a performance well ahead of its time, by a largely jobbing character actor who merrily filled the screen both big and small, in roles which similarly filled the spectrum (he has one line in A Night To Remember, and none in The Dirty Dozen, but bigger roles in 633 Squadron and the Doctor Who story The Space Museum in which he was the lead villain). I enjoyed his performance in Quatermass so much that I entered into a correspondence with him. He was the first actor to whom I had plucked up the courage to do this, and the fact that he replied encouraged me to contact more people, and so a teenage pastime was born, which has of course, been greatly useful to me in later life.
As none of my Quatermass archive has been published (bar the use of my photographic collection on the BBC DVD release – in the gallery and booklet), it seems fitting that the original contribution to it should be the first to hit the public domain.
Richard was deeply flattered to have been contacted about his role in the show – “you bring back long lost memories, where have all the years gone?” he asked. Rudolph Cartier had seen him in a play called The Schirmer Inheritance and offered Richard the role of Sladden. “When I read the script I realised it was a very important part and I quote, said thank you, and took the part.” He had fond memories of the cast, and as for producer Rudolph Cartier: “He was the finest director at the BBC, a very hard task master who was a joy to work for and in fact I did eight other plays for him.”
“Sladden was very difficult to play, trying to sustain the level of being twisted and torn by the Martians was very wearing – in those days everything we did was live, though we did do a little on film. During one of my runs through the flying objects I did break my toe. To say it was painful is putting in mildly but I had to keep shooting.” Original Quatermass monster actor Duncan Lamont played Richard’s role in the subsequent feature film, because “I was asked to play it originally but was already committed to another film with Ray Milland so had to say ‘Sorry, I can’t do it’”.
Richard, a humble, charming man, was not one to overplay his importance in the show, and was very happy to be reminded of his work on it, and proud of the serial itself. “I am very aware that I seem to be remembered for my performance in Quatermass, people still come up to me and I am very touched by it. It is gratifying to know my work is appreciated.”
After Quatermass, Richard continued to work over the next few decades, notching up three performances in Doctor Who. His biggest role was in The Space Museum. “Bill Hartnell was a long standing friend and we had worked together many times. When I played Lobos I sustained a severe blow to my left eye which caused some problems for the first episodes but we had to carry on.”
The late Bernard Wilkie recalled that Richard had been extremely co-operative and a joy to work with on his difficult, effects heavy scenes. Patrick Connor (also no longer with us, alas), who played a policeman in the series, also remembered Richard; “He was, to my knowledge, the only actor in the cast to have had only TV and film experience (i.e. none on the live stage). The number of actors without theatre experience had started to grow, and to some degree they were slightly looked down upon by theatre actors. Most of them were a bit aggressive and had a bit of a chip on their shoulder – but I got on with Richard fine”.
Very much one of those “I know the face but…” actors, despite a five decade career in some major productions, it is unlikely that Richard’s passing in April, aged 90, will get the acknowledgement it deserves, so I hope this little corner of the internet serves as some sort of tribute to the man and his work.
A brief insight into how my mind works. I have done five previews on the trot for my new show, Now I Know My BBC. They’ve generally gone well, but there’s still a long way to go. Plenty of funnies, and the beginnings of a decent story, but it really needs hacking about and bashing into shape. Which is what I should be doing now. So I’m writing this instead. Part of my brain is kidding me that this will “get me in the mood” for writing and I will thus be industrious later and really lick the new hour into shape. The other part of my brain will convince me that in doing this, I have done some work, so can have a cup of tea instead of doing anything else for now. Quite why my personality forces me into putting everything off until the last minute is anyone’s guess. It’s hardly a great advert for evolution. Anyway, Hartlepool was the first of the previews – hot, sweaty, and an hour and a half, but a great audience who allowed me to veer from subject to subject. Constructive advice and support from my friends at Tachyon TV was much appreciated. Harlow the next day, a lovely, proper comedy club run by the estimable John Mann, which ran to time and helped shape the story. The beginning needed excessive pruning, so that I did for the next day’s gig at XS Malarkey. It ran to an hour and forty minutes! I’d expected a handful of faithful supporters at this gig, but no more (after all, they can see me every week). And over one hundred and fifty came – so thank you so much Malarkey massive. Even if the show was a bit wayward. Chris Brooker’s Keighley gig was packed to the rafters, and they were a terrific bunch who helped me and Matt Green deliver our previews and really test the material. Chris is obviously a well loved and expert host. Holmfirth was a sell out, and a beautiful town with a fantastic audience. A proper arts festival well run and well attended. Then Anthony Brown’s wonderful Chesterfield gig brought me down to Earth – a great, supportive and joyous audience, who listened well and smiled, but were a clear sign that I need to get more laugh-out-loud moments and to sell certain bits better.
As mentioned in my previous blog, Moths came to beautiful Pitlochry, where the audience eased me through effortlessly, and boasted a pleasingly eclectic age range. Kudos to the group of Canadian ladies who had never seen Doctor Who in their lives but went with it, and to the two lads (Darren and Kieron) whose lovely Mum had driven them for two hours to make the gig. I also returned to Bath with the show, to the fantastic Ustinov theatre, where I once again sold out (it’s my third visit to that venue – and last time they added a matinee too, and I’ve also done it at the Rondo up the road: so thank you Bath!). Witty sci-fi writer and loveable reprobate Steve O’Brien was my host – it’s always a joy to see him and his lovely fiancée Britt.
It’s been pretty busy – I’m midway through two DVD documentaries, which I have alluded to before. I will of course, publish accounts of those once the titles are in the shops. I hope people enjoy them. I’ve also done a couple more commentaries, which are always a pleasure if not a little nerve racking.
A few more previews have been announced for Now I Know My BBC, as has some very exciting news. Doctor Who writer Robert Shearman (the brains behind the classic Christopher Eccleston episode Dalek) and I have written a three volume tome entitled Running Through Corridors. We spent last year watching Doctor Who in chronological order, two episodes a day, and sent each other mini essays of our thoughts. The intention being to rediscover our love for the show during Doctor Who’s gap year: and our principle remit being to accentuate the positive as much as possible. Published by Mad Nowegian Press, Volume One will cover the 1960s. It’s only available to order on Amazon US at the moment, but I’m sure that will change soon. It is published in December, although advance copies will be available at Chicago TARDIS this Thanksgiving.
XS Malarkey has had some terrific Edinburgh previews – Paul Sinha exuding his sharp intellect and deep humanity in a brilliantly wrought hour that is certain to garner plaudits. The following week we had a secret special guest, and hopefully the audience were delighted when the majestic John Bishop took to the stage from a brilliant set that displayed his usual apparently effortless hold over an audience. Not bad for £3! Our next one is on a Monday to avoid the date that was England’s potential semi-final at the World Cup (don’t laugh, that seemed like a distinct possibility three weeks ago). Rob Rouse is at that one, with the likes of Brendon Burns, Jason Cook, Seymour Mace, Gary Delaney and Alun Cochrane to follow. Flattering to get such extraordinary talents at our little club.
And I note that English tennis hope Andy Murray is now Scottish tennis also-ran Andy Murray. What a fickle world we live in.
OK, it’s official, tickets are available for my two fringe shows.
Now I Know My BBC is a brand new hour which will be performed between 5th-29th August, at 6.55pm at Belly Laugh at The Underbelly. It should contain the same mix of personal, satirical and heartfelt humour as my last show, and it’s been shaping up quite nicely in the previews (of which there are many more to come). It has a much broader scope than Moths, but I’m sure the Doctor will get a mention. Quatermass certainly does, and I can confidently claim I’m the only comic who’ll be doing that this year! Tickets are available from the venue or from the Edinburgh Fringe site.
Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf is definitely winding down, so we’re doing one final Edinburgh performance at the massive Edinburgh International Conference Centre. It should be a huge event, and a final opportunity for many of you to see it live. Tickets are available for the August 20th show from the Edinburgh Fringe site or from the venue.
I haven’t been blogging because, frankly, my writing time has been spent on the forthcoming show, but I have been keeping a diary of the various things I’ve been up to for the Doctor Who DVDs I’ve been working on this month. I will upload the memories from those experiences when the specific releases are announced, but there are some fun tales to tell and I’m really looking forward to them hitting the shops. I’ve been working with two wonderful programme makers, Ed Stradling and Steve Broster, on a documentary feature which is right up my street, and the work progresses well. We have one more shooting day in a week or so, and the boys have been good company as we’ve schlepped up and down the country interviewing people. I have done a commentary for another story (with producer John Kelly, who always gets a good line up) in the past week or so, and am doing another (for one of my favourite stories) with Steve in a week or so.
Also, exciting news about a book I have co-written with Doctor Who writer Rob Shearman will be announced shortly.
I promise to blog with more than pluggage soon, but frankly, I’m knackered.
So I’ll leave you with a fascinating fact – like Leo McKern and Elton John, Mervyn Pinfield, Doctor Who’s mysterious original Associate Producer, was actually called Reginald.