Thursday, July 16, 2015

Doctor Who Stole My Trousers


    For a Time Lord who can have anything in the Universe, the Doctor spends an uncanny amount of time rummaging around in my wardrobe.

    I’ve yet to wake up at dead of night to discover him in mid-rummage, but every clothes rail tells a story, and some mornings I’ve risen to the equivalent of a line of mathematical code hidden away in the subtle angling and spacing of my hangers.

    The rascal wants my trousers — and I know it!


    It’s my own fault, I suppose, for having the Grandad I had.

    He was the one who bought me the 2nd Will Hartnell annual for Christmas when I was 3 because he thought I was a child prodigy — and, fool that I was, I read it.

    (Note to self: write to Moffat and enquire after the Fishmen of Kandalinga.)

    There’s never been a time in my life when Doctor Who hasn’t been poncing around somewhere in the background, and though I know this is true for anyone unable to recall a world before student maintenance grants and Russia’s failed attempt at a global product pitch for throat linctus c/o that guy they blasted into space — and everything prior to these two historical cusps du yesterjour — it has been my privilege to hit the ground running on the Who deal.

    (A few years later, and I’d have been lumbered with ABBA.)

    (A few decades later: WHAM!)

    (*shudders*)


    Troughton and Pertwee fed my emerging brain in the years that followed my prodigeridooery of playful innocence.

    With no Grandad around any more to make me feel smart, I had to rely on another deluded old weirdo.

    Call me an optimist, but I’d like to think that when the terrorist hordes come crawling out of the woodwork, along with the racist thugs, unforgiving AI cyborgs, and faux-bearded Steve Jobs iFactotums, the settee stealth skills I picked up during those early years of Yeti, Sea Devil and Draconian will keep me safe from harm.

    (Worst case scenario: I’m beheaded while iJobs issues my daily motivational via a talking enema funnel, but I find a 50p coin under a cushion.)

    What’s important for me right now is how Tom Baker arrived on the scene around the same time I became interested in personal grooming.

    (I will say no more for now about my teen fashion and hairdo exploits other than THANK FUCK FACEBOOK NEVER EXISTED BACK IN THE 70s.)

    Since then, my wardrobe has danced a pas de d’oh with its counterpart on the Tardis, sometimes mirroring what’s on the honeycomb catwalk, sometimes foreshadowing the next look by dint of the Unimmaculate Dress Sense Gene shared by all who have far more important things to be doing than worrying about nails and lashes — with the exception of Ecclestone’s leather jacket and John Hurt’s nasal tuskery, because they were just stupid.

    For posterity’s sake (and also as a permanent sticky note WARNING, crossbow bolted to cranium), most of my Colin Baker era apparel is locked away in a trunk in the attic, never to be seen again (unless the racist thugs and AI cyborgs prove sufficiently determined to render the settee plan a no-hoper), so my wardrobe has a less eccentric feel than it's had in the past.

    But I’m still no Gap or Nike guy.

    I eschew such vile abundance of trash, and will not walk amongst men as an advertisment for the clothes I don.

    And now that the Beeb has released the trailer for Who Series 9, and I’ve beheld with my own first hand eyes the vision of Peter Capaldi bounding his 6' 5" deliciousness of Scot through the anticipatoscape in a pair of quasi-tartan spectaculars, I realise it’s time to chain my new trousers down and crack out the ethereal Ray Winstone border patrol before Who whisks over to the upstairs bedroom of Whirl Towers and rustles the fuckers like a space cowboy making off with a zillion carat space mule d’Or.

    I have Royal Blue pinstripes — velvety — with neat turn-ups complementing an overall ramshackleness blending the flappiest best of Monty Don’s gardening trews with Dr Seuss’ most animated pantsywhimsy.

    Working their magic in conjunction with my Whirl socks and my Docs, my miracle trousers more than make up for Son of Whirl LOSING my writing cape, and will forevermore serve to anaesthetise my desire to spend thousands on Billabong kaboodle, or some other pile of crap.

    So — hands off, Capaldi.

    These are mine



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