We're All Stories In The End 21 - Dreamstone Moon

Oh dear...

Dreamstone Moon by Paul Leonard

Eighth Doctor Adventures number: 11

Originally published: May 1998

Companions: Sam

Sam is on her own, but her distance from the Doctor doesn't make for a trouble-free life. Rescued from an out-of-control spaceship, she finds herself on a tiny moon which is the only known source of dreamstone, a mysterious crystalline substance that can preserve your dreams — or give you nightmares.

Pitched into the middle of a conflict between the mining company extracting dreamstone and ecological protesters, Sam thinks it's easy to decide who the good guys are — until people start dying, and the killers seem to be the same species as some of her new friends.

Meanwhile, the Doctor has tracked Sam down, but before he can reach her he's co-opted by the Dreamstone Mining Company and their sinister military advisers. Suddenly, it's war — and the Doctor is forced to fight against what he believes in. He alone suspects that dreamstone isn't what it appears to be. But nobody's listening — and nobody could dream who the real enemy is...

So it was bound to happen sooner or later.

All these Doctor Who novels - all these stories and ideas of ways to expand the universe of our favourite Timelord. All these reviews. And I've finally come to a book that I found so dull, unengaging and even tedious - that I actually contemplated not finishing it.

Yes sorry Paul Leonard, but "Dreamstone Moon" is that book.

It didn't bode well when I realised that this was a novel that spent most of its time with Sam - the blandest of bland companions. Books revolving around the companions do work - after all Bernice Summerfield developed into a much loved character with novel and audio series in her own right. So maybe this would give Sam some much-needed character development then ? 

But no -  when the main focus becomes less interesting than the supporting cast, you know you're in trouble

And they genuinely are the most interesting thing in the whole novel - although that's not saying much.

Tentacled Krakenites, Spider-like Arachnons, wasp-striped Zmm-Zmms, Anton's cat girlfriend  - they're all fine examples of the kind of alien species we've come to expect in Doctor Who, even if they all only have a couple of character traits and none of them really do very much. Apart from Aloisse - who seems to constantly rescue Sam - the rest are mainly fodder for the monster, but hey, it's worldbuilding of a sort.

It's still better than the humans. Anton, Cleomides, whoever else there was (I can't even remember their names now) are just puppets for whichever way the plot decides to turn - their motivations wandering all over the place.

Oh yes - there is a plot. But its one we've seen a hundred times before. People going up against the evil corporations and sticking it to the man. Monsters in the tunnels. Creatures dying. Aliens are not to be trusted. Mining is bad. 

Nothing wrong with a message - but guess what - the planet being mined is alive ! Really ? That old chestnut ? And the dreamstones themselves could have been an interesting way to explore the characters minds - but no, they're actually part of a big space brain. 

There was potential, but it was just wasted.

Instead, it's endless scenes of Sam falling into one disaster after another. In quick succession she is nearly killed when an Earth ship tries to blow up the dreamstone cavern, but is rescued and taken to a hospital ship. This is then destroyed by marines, so she takes shelter in a medical pod, which is ejected from the ship when the hull is breached. And so on and so on...

All I wanted was for the Doctor to show up and save *me* from this tedium.

By the third or fourth  "Oh no, the Doctor's dead - he's definitely dead this time. I'm so sad, how can I go on - wait, no actually he's alive. I'm so happy" - I wanted to throw the book across the room. I think at one point his "death" and recovery even happen on the same page.

And the multiple times where Sam and the Doctor almost reunite, but just barely miss each other, was laughable - except that I don’t think it was intended as joke. 

Eventually, the Doctor is around enough to affect the outcome of the plot. But - twist - the planet isn’t intelligent at all, it's all Anton's fault for infecting it with his misery. So what does the Doctor do? He convinces the poor guy that the danger is past, and - Anton dreams himself to death ! Sorry - what? 

All that and Sam's still AWOL - after more whining about how she's embarrassed and ashamed.

Sigh.

Look, apologies for the grumpiness of this review. Maybe it was the wrong week for me to read this particular novel, although I'm not sure another time would have really improved my opinion of it.

I've not read any of Paul Leonard's other works as yet - so those might be amazing and up there with the best of the best - but based on the strength of this novel, I'm not in any rush to get there.

Verdict? Utterly forgettable.

Golden Sunsets Redux - 60 Years of Memories - Part 26 - 1992

 This year's top choice is actually something I wrote about previously for another format...

1992:

The trivia:

• Around seventy members of the French scouting group 'Éclaireuses et Éclaireurs de France ' descended on the Upper Mayriere Cave at the Bruniquel archaeological site with the best of intentions. Their plan was to remove the modern graffiti defacing the cave walls. Armed with wire brushes and enthusiasm, they set to work. Unfortunately, somewhere between scrubbing off the spray‑painted initials and feeling proud of their civic duty, the group got a little carried away. In the process of cleaning the walls, they managed to at least partially remove two prehistoric bison paintings - artworks that had survived for roughly 15,000 years before meeting their match in a troop of over‑zealous scouts. It was only after the damage was done that someone realised the “stubborn marks” weren’t modern vandalism at all, but priceless Palaeolithic art.

• In 1633, under threat of torture, the Roman Catholic Inquisition forced Galileo Galilei - one of the founders of modern science - to recant his belief that the Earth revolved around the Sun. Legend has it that after signing his recantation, Galileo muttered “E pur si muove” (“And yet it moves”). Fast‑forward 359 years. In 1992, Pope John Paul II finally declared that Galileo had been right all along. A satisfying conclusion, perhaps - except for the fact that it took the committee responsible more than a decade of research, meetings and theological chin‑stroking to reach this blindingly obvious verdict. You can almost picture them, poring over centuries‑old documents, weighing philosophical implications, and slowly, painstakingly arriving at the revolutionary conclusion that the Earth does indeed orbit the Sun. Still, better late than never. Even if “late” in this case means almost four centuries.

• When the container ship "Ever Laurel" hit a storm in the North Pacific in January of 1992, several large cargo containers were washed overboard. One of them burst open, releasing a consignment of 28,800 plastic bath toys — the now‑legendary “Friendly Floatees,” a cheerful menagerie of yellow ducks, red beavers, blue turtles and green frogs. Made of durable plastic and sealed watertight, they were never meant to survive the open ocean. And yet they did.. The Floatees drifted across the world’s currents like tiny, brightly coloured message bottles. Some travelled more than 17,000 miles. Others became trapped in Arctic ice for years before thawing out and continuing their journey. They washed up in Hawaii, Australia, Alaska, South America, and even as far afield as Ireland and the west coast of Scotland. A few were still being found more than a decade later, bleached by sun and salt but otherwise intact. These little toys became unintentional scientific instruments, helping researchers map the behaviour of ocean currents, gyres and long‑distance drift patterns. Somewhere out there, perhaps even now, a lone yellow duck may still be bobbing along, following the currents to its next unexpected shore...

The memory:

Virtual Murder

Back at the end of 2015, I wrote this post about the interesting journey which lead to me finally become a published writer -  through an essay about the short-lived BBC series "Virtual Murder" appearing in the "You And Who Else" charity anthology about 50 years of British telefantasy. Now years later, I have reached the point in this series of look-back posts where the TV show was first transmitted, so it seems right that I should reproduce that essay here.

What you will read below is exactly the essay as it was published in "You And Who Else". I've made no attempt to improve or update things - just added a few pictures to break up the text.

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Footfalls Echo In The Memory

Memory is what defines us. It makes us who we are as human beings. The man I am today has been shaped by the last 48 years of experiences. As much as I recall the morals and virtues instilled in me by my parents and the fun times I had as a child, I also recollect the harsh words from bullies at school or the rows with my ex-wife. They are all part of me.

Who I am now has also been heavily influenced by the television I watched. I have this reputation at work (from my participation in numerous pub quizzes) for being a repository for minor trivia about TV. It’s not really justified – it’s just that I can name all of the 'Fingerbobs' and sing the theme song to "Fraggle Rock" and tell you who played Will Scarlett in "Robin of Sherwood" – which my colleagues can’t. I think it’s because I have always tended to associate the different periods in my life with the SF and fantasy TV series of the times. A kind of tele-visual shorthand if you will – one informs the other and vice versa. As much as music or smells can be a mnemonic spark, fantastical TV (the odder the better) has been a trigger for me.

Ask me about being four or five years old and it will be as much about "Catweazle" or "Crystal Tipps and Alistair" as the birthday party I had or the holiday to the Isle of Wight. At ten my year was defined by "King of the Castle" and" Children of the Stones" – and something about a fancy dress street party for the Silver Jubilee. When I reflect on turning twenty in 1987, it’s "Star Cops" and "Max Headroom" that I think of. And through it all like a seam of gold in a layer of quartz is "Doctor Who". 

In 1992 I was 25 years old, had been at work in a steady job for several years and lived in a shared house with two friends (although that was about to come to a messy end – we had bought the place together, what were we thinking?). The following year I would meet the woman who would become my first wife. But right then, I was still (marginally) more interested in fiction than reality.

Comics and "Doctor Who" have always been my twin passions, but the Timelord had been off of the TV screens for three years and I’d sadly drifted away from being a fan – even disposing of all my Target novelisations (what a terrible mistake that turned out to be). Apart from the sublime "Twin Peaks" a year earlier, there was a not a whole lot of genre TV out there at this time - this was pre the "X-File"s / "Babylon 5" explosion. I’d gravitated towards "Star Trek: The Next Generation" and "Quantum Leap" – transmitted in that famous BBC2 6.00pm slot – but although both were great programmes, they just weren’t “special” to me in the way that "Doctor Who" had been. Something was about to come along to change all that…

In a TV landscape somewhat dominated by fly-on-the-wall documentaries, "Virtual Murder" was an attempt by the BBC to break the pattern and go back to what it has always done best – original drama, this time with a SF / fantasy leaning. It was also to be for adults – transmitted at 9.30pm in the evening. So what would this new series be like? Take the 60’s camp oddness of "The Avengers" or "Department S". Add in a dash of Holmesian detective skills and genius intellect. Toss in a soupcon of the eccentricities of "Doctor Who". Stir well with a pinch of modern technological innovations. Voila! A recipe for success? Maybe.

The show concerned the adventures of the square jawed Dr John Cornelius (JC), a psychology lecturer, played by the late Nicholas Clay. Assisted by glamorous girlfriend Samantha Valentine (Kim Thompson), he helped the police in tracking down macabre criminals.

In my personal world, bereft of my favourite kind of quirky escapist drama, I seized it with both hands. This was the kind of thing I wanted to watch – not endless episodes of police on the beat or conference meetings on starships in a supposedly perfect future society! The cases the eccentric Doctor Cornelius investigated were as equally bizarre as the criminals. Paintings suddenly melting, a trail of bodies linked by strange knot clues, the brother of Santa Claus in a tale of two skeletons, a modern-day vampire, and deadly corporate espionage in a virtual environment. "Next Gen" couldn’t offer that kind of uniquely British nuttiness. The series had a knowing awareness of its own overblown unreality - and I loved it. It was the little show that tried to be something different. 

I think I saw Cornelius as a kind of a proto-Timelord. Perhaps my Who fandom was trying to reassert itself? I could almost imagine a future incarnation of the Doctor being exiled to Earth like his predecessor and setting up in a university as a consultant psychologist / detective. Except this regeneration had a full romantic relationship with his “assistant”! There were already hints of both Baker’s in Nicholas Clay’s performance, so it wasn’t too much of a stretch. I’d always identified with the Doctor as the odd-one-out (which was exactly how I had felt during my formative years). With Who off the air, perhaps I latched onto JC as a role model. Being intelligent and well read *could* get you the girl. I’m not ashamed to say that I was still trying to “find” myself, even at 25.

Whatever the underlying reasons, every Friday night I would be sitting there watching - enjoying the banter between JC and Samantha, the skulduggery of the villains and the sheer style, fun and inventiveness on display. I tried talking about it with friends and family and work colleagues, but while those that weren’t down the pub on a Friday night enjoyed it well enough, they just didn’t seem to “get” it to quite the extent I did. In a way I liked that. "Virtual Murder" had become “my” show. Arguments had started between my friends and I, and despite living in the same house we weren’t socialising together anymore. I really felt quite unhappy and trapped in a situation of my own making, so I retreated into the things that gave me the most pleasure. Comic books and this strange serial had become my escape.

Even with all the Doctor-ish qualities I was probably projecting onto the programme, it was genuinely a who's-who of Who both in front of and behind the camera. Bernard Bresslaw, Philip Martin, Richard Todd, Bernard Horsfall, Peggy Mount - the list went on. Best of all, episode four had Jon Pertwee as Luis Silverado, a retired brothel keeper (and chef). Pertwee quite obviously had a ball in the role – dodgy Spanish accent, twirling Mario-like grey moustache and pyromaniacal tendencies. It was "Doctor Who" seen through Star Trek's mirror universe. His character died all too soon, and the episode is the poorer for it, but his brief appearance was fantastic.

There were a plethora of other well known guest artistes too. Hywel Bennett was cast against type for the first time as a villain. Plus Ronald Fraser, Tessa Wyatt, Sean Pertwee, Tony Robinson, Jill Gascoine – Julian Clary as an undertaker even – bulked out an impressive cast list for a serial lasting only a few short weeks. The BBC had put a lot of effort into this.

Looking back now, "Virtual Murder" might also have contained the seed of a lot of elements in popular BBC detective series to come. Is there the kernel of the central relationship between Jonathan Creek and Maddie Magellan in the sparky rapport between JC and Samantha? Maybe a glint of the modern day Sherlock, twenty years before Steven Moffat’s triumphant reboot? Yes, I think about the show that much, even all this time later.

Sadly it wasn’t to last. Six weeks of madness and magic and then it was gone. John Cornelius disappeared off into the sunset, never to be seen by anyone ever again. You see, the real crime JC and Samantha should investigate is why "Virtual Murder" wasn’t an instant gigantic success – and more importantly why is it that this wonderful offbeat set of six episodes has never been repeated on TV or released on any version of home media. The only reason I still have copies to watch now is because I luckily captured them on VHS at the time. The tapes are long gone (victim of a move to a smaller house) but I still have the digital copies I made. Okay, by today’s standards it’s moderately dated in that 1990’s ‘over the top staging / everything’s on videotape / someone’s discovered the funky scene transition effects button’ kind of way, but I didn’t care then and I don’t care now.

What is even worse though is that as marvellous as it was, it seems I’m one of only a handful of people who even remember it existed at all. Go on - do an internet search for Virtual Murder. I’ll wait here for you…

See? Excluding the obvious sites like Wikipedia and IMDB, there are less than half a dozen entries. Even something as obscure as 1977’s American SF sitcom “Quark” has more pages devoted to it and a DVD release. Virtual Murder has been consigned to oblivion – and that’s a damn shame. * 

I mentioned earlier that I link TV shows with memories of specific times in my life. Virtual Murder is lodged in there deep and will always bring to mind a transitional and rather difficult period – after becoming independent from my parents, but before the highs (and lows) of what was to become a serious long term relationship. Maybe the rest of the world has forgotten about this odd and unique drama, but me? - I will continue to remember it with great affection.

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* Obviously the internet has moved on in the years since I originally wrote this, and many more people have written nostalgia-tinged pieces about the show. You can even find the whole series on You Tube !

Honourable mentions:

• The Muppet Christmas Carol - For my money, the best version of the Dickens’ classic ever put on screen - and I say that as someone who loves almost every adaptation out there. It was the first Muppet movie made after the death of  legendary creator Jim Henson, and there’s something deeply moving about how beautifully it carries his spirit forward. The masterstroke, of course, was casting Michael Caine as Scrooge and having him play it completely straight. No winks, no mugging -  just a full‑blooded dramatic performance dropped into a world of felt and fur. It grounds the entire film. Around him, the Muppets are perfectly chosen for their roles - Kermit as Bob Cratchit, Gonzo as Dickens himself, even Statler and Waldorf heckling from beyond the grave as Marley and Marley. It all fits with such effortless precision that you can’t imagine it any other way. And then there are Paul Williams’ songs - incredibly catchy, heartfelt, and perfectly tuned to the story. Watching this movie has become a Christmas tradition in our household. My kids grew up with it as their favourite film. It’s funny, it’s tender, it’s beautifully made, and it captures the heart of Dickens’ story with more sincerity than most “serious” adaptations ever manage. A perfect Christmas film - and a perfect Muppet film.

• Savage Dragon - Created by Erik Larsen, one of the original Image Comics founders, this is one of only two titles that has been in continuous publication since the company started. Larsen has written, drawn (and in many cases coloured and lettered) the main strip for every single issue over a period of more than thirty years. In an industry built on rotating creative teams and constant relaunches, that level of commitment borders on the insane. But the achievement isn’t just the longevity - it’s the way Larsen uses it. "Savage Dragon" unfolds in real time. Characters grow up, age, change careers, fall in love, have children, die, and get replaced by the next generation. The book’s world evolves with the same messy unpredictability as real life, which gives it a weight and emotional continuity that most superhero comics never even attempt. The original Dragon was a green skinned fin-headed powerhouse with vast strength and a remarkable healing factor - a classic Kirby‑esque character. He anchored the series for the first 192 issues. And then, in a move almost unthinkable for a mainstream superhero book, Dragon died and the series passed to his son, Malcolm. He has slightly different powers including the ability to generate electrical charges.  And now *he* has kids and the book is shifting towards adventures with a whole family of Dragons. What keeps me reading, long after I’ve dropped every other monthly title, is Larsen’s willingness to experiment. He’ll try anything - wild tonal shifts (like turning the book into an adult sex comedy), huge cast shake‑ups, bizarre new villains, sudden deaths, unexpected romances - all with his trademark kinetic artwork that feels like it’s constantly trying to burst off the page. A one‑man epic that has grown and changed alongside its creator - and in a landscape of endless reboots and safe bets, that makes it something genuinely special.

• Tori Amos - Little Earthquakes - In a year that (unfortunately) gave us Right Said Fred and Billy Ray Cyrus, the real standout was the debut album from Tori Amos. It arrived like a lightning bolt - intimate, poetic and challenging - shades of the quirky, experimental spirit I loved in Kate Bush, but filtered through a distinctly American sensibility. The first time I heard it, I knew this wasn’t just another singer‑songwriter. The lyrics were raw, confessional, sometimes painfully direct, sometimes dreamlike and oblique. I was instantly smitten. I played the whole record constantly, letting it seep into my bones, and found myself completely immersed in Tori’s strange, beautiful world - one I’ve never tired of, even after multiple albums and decades of listening. There are so many standout tracks. "Me and a Gun" remains one of the most raw pieces of music ever recorded - a stark, unaccompanied account of trauma that still stops me in my tracks. "China" is a quiet lament for a love slipping away, full of tenderness and regret. But if I have to choose a favourite, it’s "Winter", Tori’s song about her relationship with her minister father. It’s gentle, aching, and even now, it hits with the same emotional force it had the first time I heard it. "Little Earthquakes" was the beginning of a lifelong connection with a wonderful artist - one who still continues to surprise and move me right up to the present day.

• Toys - One of those films that instantly divides a room. Ambitious, surreal, visually extravagant and utterly uninterested in behaving like a normal studio movie, it’s the very definition of “love it or loathe it” - and I’m sure you can guess which side of the fence I fall on. The story begins with the death of toymaker Kenneth Zevo, whose company is unexpectedly left not to his whimsical children Leslie and Alsatia (Robin Williams and Joan Cusack), but to his war‑obsessed brother Leland, played with icy precision by Michael Gambon. Almost overnight, the factory transforms from a pastel‑coloured wonderland into a militarised complex churning out war toys, drones and weaponised playthings. Leslie, who has spent his life drifting through the company’s dreamlike corridors, suddenly finds himself fighting for his family’s legacy. Beneath all the surrealism lies a surprisingly serious message about the militarisation of entertainment and the erosion of innocence. It’s a cautionary fable wrapped in bright paper, which is probably why so many people didn’t know what to make of it. What makes "Toys" so special though is the sheer amount of visual imagination on display. Barry Levinson directs it like a pop‑art fever dream - vast toy‑box sets, impossible architecture, candy‑coloured landscapes and camera work that feels slightly off‑kilter in the best possible way. The performances match the tone perfectly, leaning into the film's heightened reality. It also helps that the soundtrack is fantastic - Grace Jones, Thomas Dolby, and even a contribution from a certain Tori Amos. It isn’t perfect, but it’s bold, imaginative and utterly unique. And honestly, that’s far more interesting

Golden Sunsets Redux - 60 Years of Memories - Part 25 - 1991

 This time two comedy legends create the funniest sitcom ever made...

1991:

The trivia:

• When robbers broke into the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam with the inside help of a security guard, it should have been the perfect art heist. They’d selected twenty paintings with care - works worth an eye‑watering fortune - and slipped out into the night with the kind of precision that usually only exists in films starring George Clooney. Unfortunately, their meticulous planning didn’t extend to basic car maintenance. Their main getaway vehicle had a flat tyre, forcing them to flee on foot, leaving all twenty paintings neatly inside. The police recovered everything just thirty‑five minutes after the initial theft, making it one of the shortest‑lived “masterplans” in criminal history.

• The record for the most people ever carried on a single aircraft was set in 1991, when an El Al Boeing 747 took part in 'Operation Solomon' - an airlift that evacuated Ethiopian Jews from Addis Ababa to Israel. Designed to hold a few hundred passengers at most, the aircraft somehow packed in an astonishing 1,086 people, with every inch of space used. That number became 1,088 by the time it landed, thanks to two babies being born mid‑flight. 

• When “Kentucky Fried Chicken” officially shortened its name to “KFC” , it should have been the most mundane corporate rebrand imaginable. Instead, it somehow sparked one of the strangest conspiracy theories of the decade. According to the rumour mill, the company had dropped the word “chicken” because they weren’t selling actual chickens at all, but cloned, headless, lab‑grown 'bird‑blobs' that couldn’t legally be called poultry. It was the kind of story that spread effortlessly in the pre‑internet era - half urban legend, half schoolyard whisper, and entirely ridiculous. In reality, the name change was simply about modernising the brand and avoiding the word “fried” at a time when fast food was under nutritional scrutiny. But the rumour persisted for years, proving once again that people will believe almost anything - especially if it involves secret laboratories and mutant livestock.

The memory:

Bottom

So at last we come to my favourite comedy TV show of all time - the one that stands head and shoulders above all others. It's the culmination of all the work that Rik Mayall and Ade Edmondson had done in years past. The manic stunts of  "The Dangerous Brothers". The punk energy of "The Young Ones". The showbiz sleaze of  "Filthy, Rich & Catflap". All the chaos, all the anarchy, all the gleeful slapstick - it all funnels into "Bottom". It's bleak, violent, chaotic and incredibly silly. It's their masterpiece and I just bloody well love it.

Richard "Richie" Richard (Mayall) and Edward Elisabeth "Eddie" Hitler (Edmondson) are two crude, layabout, perverted nutters who live in a grim little flat in Hammersmith. Eddie mostly thinks about drinking. Richie mostly thinks about sex, despite having absolutely no idea what to do with a woman if he ever got the chance. They hate each other but seem to be stuck together, two hopeless men doomed to dream of better things and never get anywhere near them. As many have observed, it's Samuel Beckett's "Waiting For Godot" with added extreme "Tom and Jerry" style violence  Usually a frying pan in the face.

Each week would see the pair of losers make some pathetic attempt to improve their lot or fill the void of their meaningless lives - and fail spectacularly. Trying to attract "birds" down the "Lamb & Flag" with a pheromone sex spray. Stealing the gas supply from next door just as the gasman arrives to read the meter. Playing chess using some frozen prawns, a potted cactus, a bottle of ketchup and a large Spider-Man figurine. Richie deciding that he is the reincarnation of the Virgin Mary due to some dodgy Christmas gifts. It was gloriously stupid and side-splittingly funny.

It was all carefully crafted chaos though. Rik and Ade worked on the scripts themselves, writing each others lines and trying to make the other laugh. You can feel that energy in every episode. The pair did most of the physical stuff too - the falls, the slaps, the chair‑smashing - and you can see them really getting into it. There's not a line or a look to camera wasted. The joy is in the delivery, the timing, the way Rik’s face crumples up  into that wounded‑puppy expression, or the way Ade would make a single raised eyebrow funnier than most sitcom punchlines. Ade has said more than once that Rik would go “full kamikaze” if he thought it would get a bigger reaction.

There were also some memorable guest stars. Brian Glover was suitably menacing (yet oddly tender) as next-door neighbour Mr. Rottweiler. Helen Lederer swanned in as rich aristocrat Lady Natasha Letitia Sarah Jane Wellesley Obstromsky Ponsonsky Smythe Smythe Smythe Smythe Smythe Oblomov Boblomov Dob, third Viscountess of Moldavia. And of course Stephen O'Donnell and Chris Ryan popped up repeatedly as Eddie's best mates Spudgun and Dave Hedgehog. But many of the best episodes were just Rik and Ade for the full half hour doing what they do best - insulting each other, and committing the most appalling acts of violence.

As the series went on, watching "Bottom" became something I looked forward to all week. The theme tune would kick in, the camera would pan across that filthy flat, and I’d settle in, knowing full well I was about to see something utterly crazy and utterly brilliant. There was a rhythm to it - the bickering, the delusions, the petty one‑upmanship, the inevitable explosion of violence - and I loved every second. 

I was also lucky enough to see three of the live stage shows. I recall the first tour being an unbelievably hot evening in the theatre, with Rik and Ade constantly wiping themselves down (ooo-err). Between the ruder‑than‑TV script, the ad‑libs, the mucking about and the attempts to make each other corpse, I think I nearly passed out from laughing. The live shows were like a parallel universe where Richie and Eddie somehow had even fewer boundaries. The first two are the best in my opinion, but honestly, any chance to see the pair of them live was worth grabbing.

After the third of the live shows, development started on a feature film spin-off', but was stalled when Rik had his near-fatal quad bike accident. Filmed while he was still recovering, "Guest House Paradiso" was eventually released in 1999 and featured Mayall as Richard Twat (pronounced "Thwaite" apparently) and Edmonson as Eddie Elizabeth Ndingobamba, with the latter serving as director. The film sees the pair operating a grotty remote guesthouse next to a nuclear power plant and feeding their guests radioactive fish, causing violence, mayhem and massive amounts of vomiting. Despite the characters and humour being in the same vein as "Bottom", it's really not in the same league. An interesting diversion perhaps. 

After two more live tours, Edmondson felt that it was time to stop the mindless violence, even though his co-star was still keen. There was an idea for a sitcom set 30 years later in an old people's home, but it didn't come to anything. Then in 2012, the BBC announced that it had commissioned a series based on the "Hooligan's Island" stage show, where Eddie and Richie cause havoc on a deserted tropical island. Edmondson later revealed that Mayall (possibly due to his quad bike injuries) struggled to accept that he wanted to move on and pursue other projects - and that he only wrote the initial scripts in the hope that the BBC would reject them, putting Mayall's aspirations to rest - but it got greenlit!. Two months later Edmondson put his foot down and the idea was scrapped. Of course Mayall then tragically died on 9th June 2014, putting an end to any plans.

As much as I miss Rik Mayall - and I think about him a lot - in a strange way, I’m glad "Bottom" didn’t limp on forever. The show remains this perfect, self‑contained burst of anarchic energy.

On a happier note, the really important thing about the series is what it meant to me at home. If  the mutual enjoyment of "Mr Jolly Lives Next Door" had brought my younger sister and I closer together, then "Bottom" was the thing that really cemented how much we had exactly the the same sense of humour. Our parents didn't get it and our brother could take it or leave it., so this was *our* show and we were utterly fanatical about it. I bought all the VHS videos and the "Bottom Fluffs" out take compilations. Episodes such as "Smells", "Gas", "Apocalypse", "Digger" and "Terror" were watched over and over again and the lines quoted endlessly between us.

Even now, birthday or Christmas cards between us always end with "Love from all the lads on the Ark Royal". A compliment sometimes gets an added "..and may I just say what a smashing blouse you have on?". Sometimes we just shout "Gasman!!" at each other. We spent one memorable New Years Eve texting each other trying to see who could recall the most quotes (it was a draw). I even have a mug which proclaims I am a "Sad old git". Our shared love of a daft TV programme has endured.

This show isn't just something I enjoyed watching. It hasn't just seeped into my consciousness. It's welded itself inextricably to my DNA.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Honourary mentions:

• G.B.H. - Alan Bleasdale's savage and satirical drama about the rise and fall of a militant left Labour city councillor arrived like a political hand‑grenade. It managed to balance pitch‑black humour, farcical behaviour and genuine rage at an elitist, class‑ridden society - while still giving every character enough depth that you felt for them, even at their worst. Robert Lindsay is a revelation as the angry, womanising Michael Murray, waging a war against an unlikely nemesis in Michael Palin's special needs teacher - each of them on the verge of a nervous breakdown. As revelations about his childhood are constantly on the verge of being revealed, Murray descends into an accumulation of  tics, jerks and involuntary Hitler-like salutes at the oddest moments. The political edge may feel blunted somewhat to modern audiences, but at the time it was electrifying. I remember being gripped by all seven episodes, week after week, as the story veered from farce to tragedy. And then, just when you thought you had the measure of it, Bleasdale would throw in something completely unexpected - like part of an episode set at a Doctor Who convention, complete with fans in costume milling around while the plot spiralled into paranoia. It was that mix of  the mundane and the surreal that made "G.B.H." so unforgettable - a drama that dared to be angry, absurd and compassionate all at once.

• The death of Freddie Mercury - The sad demise of the "Queen" front man was the first celebrity passing that genuinely affected me - the only other one that hit as hard was Rik Mayall, as I mentioned above. I didn’t know Freddie, of course, but his voice had been part of the soundtrack of my life for so long that losing him felt strangely personal, as if a light had gone out in a room I’d always taken for granted. Even now, decades later, I still think about the music we never got to hear, the songs that remained unwritten because... time simply ran out. When the announcement came that Freddie had died, the TV channels immediately began showing the stark black‑and‑white video for "These Are The Days Of Our Lives". I remember sitting there with tears streaming down my face. The vibrant, theatrical frontman I’d grown up with looked so frail, so diminished, and yet so determined to give one last performance. He must have known it would be one of his final appearances, and that knowledge hangs over every frame. There’s a moment at the end - just a small look to camera as he quietly says, “I still love you.” It’s simple, unadorned, and devastating. In that brief glance he seemed to acknowledge everything - the illness, the secrecy, the fans, the legacy, and the sheer joy he’d poured into his music. It gets me every single time. Freddie Mercury didn’t just sing songs; he inhabited them. And when he left, it felt like the world lost not just a performer, but a kind of electricity. The fact that his music still fills stadiums, still lifts people up, still matters - that’s the closest thing we have to proof that he never really went anywhere at all.

• Imajica by Clive Barker - The fantasy / horror maestro's largest book, and in my opinion his best. A vast, intoxicating blend of fantasy, horror, theology and metaphysics. The premise alone is staggering - the Earth is one of five Dominions, collectively known as the 'Imajica', overseen by the Unbeheld  god Hapexamendios.  However our sphere has been cut off from the other four for thousands of years by the 'In Ovo'  - a void that only the most powerful practitioners of magic, the Maestros, have ever attempted to cross. The last reconciliation attempt, two centuries earlier, ended in catastrophe, killing everyone involved and prompting the creation of the Tabula Rasa, a secret society dedicated to stamping out magic altogether. Into this already enormous cosmology Barker drops a seemingly ordinary man, his ex‑wife, her poet lover, and a mysterious assassin - and that’s just the surface layer of an iceberg so huge it feels like it has its own gravitational pull. Calling the novel “epic” doesn’t come close. Barker uses every one of its thousand‑plus pages (later split into two volumes because it simply wouldn’t fit between normal covers) to explore a story that moves between worlds, identities, genders, gods, lovers, betrayals and revelations that feel genuinely mind‑warping. He writes with such conviction that even the wildest concepts feel grounded, emotional, and strangely intimate. It’s a novel that doesn’t just tell a story - it builds a universe, tears it apart, and then invites you to step through the cracks. Truly brilliant.

• Defending Your Life - Albert Brooks plays Daniel Miller, an advertising executive who dies in a car accident and finds himself in the serene, modern surroundings of  'Judgement City' - a kind of cosmic waiting room where the recently departed must stand trial to see if they have matured enough to pass to the next phase of existence, or whether they need to return to Earth for another try. During his hearings Daniel meets and falls in love with Julia, played with charismatic warmth by Meryl Streep. She has led a life of generosity and courage, while Daniel's actions have always been ruled by his own insecurities. Their romance is gentle, funny and unexpectedly touching - two souls trying to connect while the universe itself is judging them. The whole film is full of wonderful understated performances , including great support from veteran Rip Torn as Miller's defence lawyer. You wouldn't think that a young man in his twenties would like an American romantic comedy built around musings on fear, regret and the nature of existence - but something in this whimsical fantasy drama touched me.  Maybe it was the idea that our lives are shaped far more by what we’re afraid to do than by what we actually accomplish - or maybe it makes the afterlife feel less like a threat and more like a second chance. I know that at that point in my life I had a terrible fear of death. Whatever the reason, it’s remained a pleasant, oddly comforting movie ever since I first saw it.

• Hudson Hawk - I don't care that almost no-one else seems to like this film. I love it. It's surreal, crazy, over-the-top, inventive, outlandish - and frequently makes no sense whatsoever. And that's all part of its charm. The problem was never the film - it was the marketing. People went in expecting another "Die Hard", when what they actually got was a 1990s crime‑caper cum spy‑spoof in the spirit of the 1960s "Our Man Flint" movies. It even has James Coburn in a supporting role, complete with that unmistakable telephone ringtone, as if the film is winking at you from across the room. Richard E. Grant meanwhile is chewing the scenery with such unrestrained joy that you can practically see the teeth‑marks. By all accounts the production was hellish, but the pain was worth it, because the finished film has a kind of unhinged, anything‑goes energy that you simply don’t get from carefully managed studio projects. Instead of the tough‑as‑nails John McClane persona everyone expected, Bruce Willis is far closer to the charming, wisecracking detective from "Moonlighting" - loose, playful, and clearly having the time of his life. For me, that’s all the better. The film’s musical timing‑based heists, its cartoonish villains, its sheer refusal to behave like a normal action movie. It all adds up to something delightful.

• Toxic! - Conceived by Pat Mills, Kevin O’Neill, Mike McMahon, John Wagner and Alan Grant, the whole point of this new British weekly was to give creators ownership and control of their work - a direct contrast to the rights‑stripping model of the comics establishment at the time. From the very first issue, Mills set the tone - louder, bloodier, ruder and more anarchic than anything else on the stands. "Marshal Law" was the flagship strip with O’Neill’s jagged, lurid artwork. Alongside it came "Accident Man", "Muto‑Maniac", and a rotating cast of strips that felt like they’d been smuggled out of someone’s nightmares. The second issue introduced Wagner and Grant’s "The Bogie Man", while the notorious strip "The Driver" caused such offence that the police actually visited the offices after a reader complaint. The comic’s ambition was enormous, but so were its problems. "Marshal Law" began missing issues, and behind the scenes the publisher struggled to pay creators. Sales dropped, deadlines slipped, and by issue 31 the whole enterprise collapsed. Many creators were never paid, and some never worked in comics again. And yet… "Toxic!" mattered. It forced 2000 AD to up its game. It gave early breaks to new creators, and several of its strips lived on. "Toxic!" didn’t just push boundaries - it gleefully trampled them, set them on fire, and then cracked a joke about the ashes. Short‑lived? Absolutely. A failure? Maybe on paper. But for a brief, brilliant moment, it made me feel like 1977 all over again...