Metal City - Hai Ina Ia Mai Ana Ka Puana

The Moment Has Been Prepared For.

For those of you out there who spent your teenage years as quiet, shy, unassuming dorks, holed up in your bedrooms in the suburbs, there is a fairly good chance that at some point you found yourselves interested in science fiction. Science fiction is almost always the exclusive territory of the sloppily dressed and thickly bespectacled - a genre that promotes a closeness with your fellow outcasts that often manifests itself in the communal, participatory nature of fandom. After all, who else but sci-fi dorks gather together in dusty, dank scout halls, dressed as their favourite characters, chomping at the bit to discuss the properties of different coloured lightsabres, or whether Picard was the superior commander in comparison to Kirk? Rubber ears, home-made military garb, and copies of 'technical manuals' and 'episode guides' are the tools with which the die-hard acolytes of sci-fi ply their trade - and on Saturday night, during one of the coldest spells Melbourne has had in years, it was our turn to embrace a little piece of sci-fi fanboy glory. For at the Palais in St. Kilda, several hundred sets of chattering dork teeth clustered together to celebrate the glory, the power, and the unabashed joy that is Doctor Who.

My time in the TARDIS began, as with all things, when I was but a wee young boy from Greensborough. My best friend at the time showed up at school one day with a copy of 1981's 'Doctor Who Techincal Manual' - a guide to the inner workings of all things Whovian. I was entranced by the complexity of the drawings, and the seriousness of each backstory - a cross-section of a Dalek, showing exactly how the machine operated, why it operated, and how it was controlled by the Kaled mutant within. A description of how the time travel function of the TARDIS operated. The various configurations of Cybermen - from their first appearance in 1966's The Tenth Planet, through to their then-recent appearance in 1975's Revenge Of The Cybermen. It was all so gloriously earnest - designed to be taken as seriously as possible, and I memorised the entire book - after Mummy bought me a copy - before moving on to the innumerable novelisations of Doctor Who episodes that cluttered school libraries during the 1980's. So enamoured of The Doctor's adventures in time and space, and the ferocity of his enemies, that for a long time I'd read nothing but Doctor Who novelisations - causing a teacher to insist that I put them away, and went back to picture story books, after dragging me from our classroom to the library by an ear. But, despite what I was told, I simply couldn't resist the lure of The Doctor's epic confrontations, and I'd sneak the books into school, and would read them - alone - in the yard, where I couldn't be spotted. And, as time went on, and I devoured every Doctor Who novel I could lay my hands on, I discovered that I was developing a taste for two things that never quite left me - reading and writing.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, The Doctor 'regenerates' when he is - effectively - killed. He transforms into another Doctor, played by a different actor, and usually initiating a new phase in the programme's development. When it was announced that Doctors six and seven were coming to town, I jumped at the chance to attend. After all, these were the two Doctors that I watched during their original broadcasts - rather than on videotape. Colin Baker and Sylvester McCoy's eras present an era of change for the show, with the stories becoming darker, more grotesque, and infinitely more violent. These were stories that had the power to disturb dreams and create nightmares - Doctor Who had always straddled a rather thin line between science fiction and horror, but during the 1980's, the programme was capable of some truly vicious, unpleasant scenes - heavily reminiscent of film directors like Cronenberg, who were unleashing their 'body horror' upon the world. Doctor Who had entered the Cold War era, the era of AIDS, and the era of rampant materialism - and the show's vision of the world turned bleaker and colder, with heroes and villains that were no longer quite as black and white as they'd once been.

And then, it was over - the show's 28 year history was truncated, and it was left to the fans to keep a candle in the window, waiting for The Doctor's return.

Inside The TARDIS was to be held at the Palais in St. Kilda. It was to be a two hour trip through 30 years of the longest running sci-fi programme in history, with three of its most beloved participants. The Doctor was finally coming to Melbourne.

I hate St. Kilda. I hate the place for a truly amazing number of reasons. It's cold. It smells funny. It is populated by the absolute dregs of humanity - half-dead junkies and should-be-dead 'artists', both of whom see some mystical allure to living in an inner-city rathole. But, I faced my fears and drove - alone - onto the Esplanade, parking the car outside the Novotel, and immediately being greeted by a blast of icy wind in my face, which blistered my skin and destroyed the 'do that I spent many hours sculpting with hair mud.

Inside the Palais, the nerd fever was building. The dank whiff of marbled fat rolls grinding against each other, as bearded dorks shuffled through the halls, with ticket stubs grasped in their sweaty hands assaulted my nostrils, and I wiped the tears from my eyes, and swallowed reflexively. Paper-thin guys in Buffy shirts, with their arms draped around the shoulders of their morbidly obese girlfriends loitered excitedly against columns and pillars, as grown men in long scarves and overcoats grinned expectantly - the atmosphere literally ripping the cash from their wallets as they blew their wage as I.T slaves on a seemingly endless litany of merchandise. An occasional gnarly youth in a Tool shirt wiped a palm across his shaven head, and flipped casually through a copy of Starlog, while the inevitable Middle Aged People sauntered through the human zoo with a look of expectancy and derision on their lined, wrinkled faces, their thoughts drifting to babysitters, locked car doors, and the appropriate venue for a post-event cappucino.

And I? I felt nothing but hostility.

I want to tell you a little bit about what it's like to be a fanboy. I'm sure that everyone who is reading this has stuff they like. Why, my beloved Jazzy Kath has a curious obsession with Hole, and the noxious records they produced. The Train Man is more than au fait with the classical music he studied, all those years ago in a galaxy far, far away. And what of the very special Myrr? Her dedication to Marie Antoinette is internationally recognized - she is a woman with a reputation which will live on forever. None of these things, however, come close to the maddening, psycopathic levels of unhealthy obsession that befalls the fanboy of a science fiction T.V show. As I stood in the foyer of the Palais, and looked around at the clusters of chattering, gibbering mutants, all I could think about was how I was a bigger Doctor Who nerd than ANY of them, and that it was I, and I alone who had EARNED the right to be here. The rest of these worthless amateurs weren't fit to lick my boots, and I wanted nothing more than for them to part down the centre, allowing me to saunter towards my seat through a tunnel of whispered awe. That's right. I'm King Of The Nerds, you fuckers - show me some respect, or I'll bludgeon you to death with my copy of 'Doctor Who - The Key To Time'.

So, inflating my chest with a deep, confident breath, I stomped through the crowd of heretics, and found my seat at the front of the stage. Immediately, I crossed my arms over my chest and raised an eyebrow as the rest of the riff raff filed in.

"Hey, man.", a voice said behind me. "Wasn't Colin Baker in another story?"

The guy behind me was talking to his friend. I snorted. Amateur.

"Yeah, man. He was in something else as a guard."

"Was it The Three Doctors?"

"Naw, man. I think it was The Green Death."

I turned around and faced them.

"Actually," I said calmly, a smirk playing on my face, "It was 1983's Arc Of Infinity, starring Peter Davison. Colin Baker played Maxil, a Gallifreyan soldier."

I snapped my head back to the front and smiled darkly. That put them in their place.

They didn't respond. I sniffed, and decided to go and buy a t-shirt. Maybe if I wore attire more suited to an authority on the subject of Doctor Who, these maggots would show me some respect.

I approached the merchandise stand, and cut through the throng of giggling dorks who were busy shovelling cash at the bewildered attendants.

"Can I get a Davros shirt?", I asked the trendy young goatee-wearer who stared at me from behind the counter. I've always loved Davros, ever since I saw him in 1975's Genesis Of The Daleks - in which we get to see Davros creating The Doctor's most notorious enemies.

"What size do you want?", he replied with disinterest.

Looking around to make sure that I had an audience, I leaned over slightly and yelled:

"Oh, I don't know. DO THEY COME IN NERD?"

I thought I had just produced a piece of thigh-slapping comedy, but not only did the laffs not come from the geeks around me, the poor, suffering attendant simply shrugged.

"No. Only small, medium or large."

I sighed. "Large, thanks."

Tough room.

I returned to my seat and sat down. By now, the auditorium was full - and as the house lights dipped, my heart began to race. I was getting ready to lay eyes on two men - Colin Baker and Sylvester McCoy - who had meant everything to me as a young schoolboy. These were my heroes - in a very real sense - and the thought of being in the same room with them was almost too much to bear.

A spotlight turned on. The music dimmed. There was a hushed silence. And then - emerging from the side of the stage - was...

... Tim Ferguson.

I blinked. What the hell was this cretin doing here? Had I come to the wrong theatre? Perhaps there was a convention for washed-up 80's comedians on, and I'd already missed the Doctor Who gig.

"Hey, hey!", Ferguson yelled, doing his best Tony Barber impression, "I hear there's some Doctor Who fans here, tonight!"

Oh, god. No.

"Say! It's GREAT being a Doctor Who fan, isn't it? Everyone - repeat after me - I'm a Doctor Who fan and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

Sounding more like a chorus of re-animated corpses than an audience, a choir of voices repeated the line. Except me.

And then, he sank into a long, laugh-free series of jokes about the show - mostly centered around the usual subjects: Wobbly sets, rubber masks, eerie music. All of which was punctuated with factual inaccuracies, which I was most offended by.

"Anyone here know what the TARDIS stands for?", Ferguson bellowed.

I smirked. Time And Relative Dimensions In Space.

"That's right.", he howled, grinning. "Time And Relative Dimension In Space. Some say it's 'dimensions', but they're wrong."

He hee'd and haww'ed at that, and I felt my fists balling tightly. Wrong, am I? Dimensions, is it? Hey, Tim - check the Technical Manual on page fucking FIVE. It's DIMENSIONS, you fudge packer.

Snarling under my breath, I sank my head into my hands. This was turning into some ghastly nightmare.

"Hey, anyone remember that episode where giant plants took over the earth, and there were giant maggots? Anyone remember that one?", he beamed.

I punched the air with a fist and spat a thick glob of spit towards the stage.

That wasn't 'a story'. It was two stories. The Green Death, and The Seeds Of Doom. I was becoming more and more incensed and enraged with every passing moment.

Eventually, Tim hauled out his first guest for the evening - the third Doctor's beloved companion, Katy Manning.

I have had a crush on Katy Manning for most of my life - she is the plucky, zesty, pert girl friday that we all only wish we had. But, as she bounded out onto the stage, I noticed that something was oddly wrong.

Was this Katy Manning or Loretta Swit?

Several thousand excursions into the farthest realms of plastic surgery had taken their toll on Manning's once beautiful, elfin face - which now resembled nothing more than The Joker. Her plump, overstuffed lips were yanked back to the sides of her head in a brutal rictus, framed by straightened, dyed blonde hair, and a pair of eyes that no longer seemed capable of a relaxed expression; instead, Manning looked as though she was permanently trapped in a wind tunnel.

She's always been an effervescent speaker, and Saturday night was no different - as she fired off volleys of anecdotes and memories, each one gorgeously detailed and fondly textured. She giggled, and she told jokes, and she put on silly voices, and despite the fact that the effects of the surgeon's carving knife had rendered her the occupant of some strange, twisted space between rotting cadaver and Batman villain, I couldn't help but fall in love with the old girl all over again.

Colin Baker was introduced next - the sixth doctor himself - and his entrance made me swoon. He's a little larger, and a little balder - but he is still unmistakably The Doctor, and as he sat down with professional twat Tim Ferguson, I found myself falling under a spell of complete and total awe. Baker was a riot - a huffy, pompous British actor, with a deep, booming voice which has taken on a wonderful richness and resonance as he enters his old age. He discussed the issue of violence during his tenure as The Doctor - and I couldn't help but laugh when he assured us that 'if I had my way, I'd have carried a chainsaw around with me. I wanted MORE violence - I wanted to attack and kill.' The amazing thing about it was that after all those years watching all those episodes - and I have seen them all - it is hard to believe until you see it that these men aren't simply playing the part, they ARE The Doctor. Colin Baker's natural speech patterns, his phrasing, and his sense of humour belonged exclusively to The Doctor - and as I sat in the audience, the very idea of 'Colin Baker' melted away, and it was as though I was watching the character onstage. And that, my friends, was something that honestly warmed my heart.

The stage lit up with kinetic electricity when the short, jerky form of Sylvester McCoy emerged from behind the fan of green laser lights. McCoy is a surprisingly short fellow, and was wearing pinstripe pants, a tweed overcoat, and a brown scarf. The one thing I immediately noticed was that McCoy is incredibly funny - a crackling lightning bolt of unpredictable electricity, McCoy seemed determined to put on a show for the people of Melbourne - and so, he told jokes, rambled through unpredictable tangents of conversation, took a suction plunger from Tim Ferguson and proceeded to use it as a make-believe telescope to stare through while speaking - he was a whirlwind of activity, and seemed genuinely unpredictable and dangerous as a performer. I gained a new respect for McCoy - I think it would be remarkable to see him in a non-Doctor Who role. By this time, I was thoroughly engaged in The Moment - my jaws pumping with excitement, and my salivary glands punched into overdrive, covering my lips in a thick bath of white foam as I howled and jostled with glee.

And then, McCoy took a thoroughly unexpected turn. He started talking about the violence of Doctor Who in the 1980's as a reflection of the political and economic climate of the time. If the show became extreme in depicting carnage and death, it was doing it to illustrate the horror of the Falklands, the original Iraq war, the dark side of excessive monetarism, and Thatcher's rampage across Britain. Ferguson, in one of his more astute moments, asked McCoy what he felt the show would be lensing today - and, quietly, he replied:

"Probably the effects of an illegal war, in which thousands of innocent civilians are killed. And the terrorism that results."

The auditorium went quiet - but, more than at any point, I wanted to applaud.

After all, McCoy's understated elegance had expressed - for many - the very reason that we all fell in love with the show in the first place. Doctor Who was a programme that despite the massive body count, the violence, the gore, and the seemingly endless parade of brutal murders that played across our screens every week - was unabashedly in love with humanity, and promoted an agenda of acceptance, peace, and non-violent resolution. It is very easy to be disappointed by your heroes - but sometimes, it is nice when they live up to your loft moral expectations. And, when Sylvester McCoy proved that he actually lived the politics of the show, and believed in them, all those years of fandom seemed somehow validated.

Sadly, all things had to end - but not until Ferguson sent a jolt through my entire system that I'm still recovering from.

"If you want to stick around, The Doctors and Katy will be signing stuff in the foyer."

Holy shit. Was he serious?

As soon as the house lights went up, I leapt to my feet. Fortunately, I had copies of Baker's The Two Doctors and McCoy's Remembrance Of The Daleks with me - just in case this happened - and I sped out to the foyer, cutting through the waves of dork with superhuman agility, and managed to camp out a spot that was relatively close to the front of the line.

In front of me, a group of bogans were cracking wise about the nerd contingent of the evening. I scrunched up my nose. The typical bogan funk invaded my sinuses - you know the stench I'm talking about. An uncomfortable blend of Dencorub, Brut 33, crushed Rohypnol, beer, and an especially noxious breed of underarm and crotch sweat. God only knows what it must be like when those boys remove their pants - I imagine the heat haze alone would kill anything within a five metre radius of their genitals. I knew I was going to get no interesting conversation out of them, so I turned around and almost immediately butted double-chins with another nerd.

This one was a little more typical - a large, ginger beard, a black overcoat, a protruding, veiny gut, and a pair of oversized, sweaty hands - palms resembling a bucket of shattered crockery due to excessive adolescent masturbation.

"Hey, dude.", I said cheerfully.

"Hey."

"Great show, eh?"

He nodded. We began trading off our favourite episodes - and that's when the fanboys began to butt heads.

"I really like the one where Davros creates the Daleks. Resurrection Of The Daleks.", he announced proudly.

"That was Genesis Of The Daleks.", I said, smirking.

"Oh. Yeah - I know. I just got mixed up.", he stammered, his jowls quivering.

"Sure."

"I really like that other one. Planet Of Evil, where Tom Baker has to fight the red stuff..."

I turned to face him.

"The antimatter?", I asked, sinking a hand into my pocket.

"I know what it is.", he spat.

He was beaten, and he knew it. His skin, once a beery crimson had become pale and waxy. His eyes were slightly yellow, with elongated sacks of greying flesh hanging limply beneath. He had broken a sweat - dark patches were smearing themselves outward from his armpits, chest, and crotch - and his breath came in heated, staccato sobs.

I smiled and turned away. Sure, loser. You knew what it was. So, why didn't you SAY WHAT IT WAS? I squeezed my DVD's a little tighter in my hand, and as I turned, a flap of my long, black overcoat waved out from behind me like a cape. I was Super Nerd - God Of The Nerds, and I had just disciplined one of my acolytes. The best part was that he knew it, and so rather than continue talking to him, I figured I'd let him stew in his own juices for a while, contemplating his failure.

But then, I noticed that something alien and unfamiliar was happening inside me. My heart was pounding, and I felt dizzy and nauseous. I raised a pudgy hand to my face, and ran the tip of a finger through a bead of sweat that was sliding down one of my temples. What was this? What was happening to me?

I could see the signing table, with the three guests sat behind it. And I was moving closer - shuffling a centimetre a minute towards my goal. And the closer I came, the more anxious I became. I was afraid. For some reason, I didn't want to do this.

The inside of my head came crashing down, and I was assaulted by a kaleidoscopic array of images - the first books I'd ever read, the first television I'd ever seen, the first things I'd ever been truly passionate about, the endless procession of essays and book reports and stories and drawings and computer games, a lifetime spent following a television show, which had somehow insinuated itself into every fibre of who I was, and where I'd come from. And here, sitting in front of me, were the people who created it - in some ways, people who created me, although they'd never know it.

"SUPERMAN!", Colin Baker boomed at me as I approached the table. "How are you?"

I looked at him. Then I looked down. Dammit. I was wearing my stupid Superman t-shirt. I really have to stop wearing it in public. For some reason, if you wear a blue shirt with the Superman logo on it, everyone feels a deep desire to refer to you as 'Superman'. I should wear a t-shirt with John Holmes's face on it instead.

"Hi, Doctor!", I screamed nervously, fumbling with my DVD's. Eventually, I yanked the paper insert from The Two Doctors out of the clamshell case and shoved it at him.

He took it from my shaking hands, and looked up at me.

"And, who am I signing this to?"

"Uh, David, Doctor."

"To David...", he muttered, signing the cover, "From Colin Baker."

He handed it up to me, and I gibbered something about him being wonderful. Then, I shook his hand, and shuffled to the right.

Sylvester McCoy stared up at me and nodded.

"Hi, Doctor!", I yelled.

"Hello.", he said, quietly.

I hauled out the Remembrance Of The Daleks cover and he grabbed it from me.

"Who is this for?", he hissed.

"Uh. It's for David, Doctor. For, uh - for David."

There was a brief silence.

"Hey!", I shouted, "You were great! I mean - out there. Wonderful! What a great show! You were, uh. You were great. Great, I mean. Um. You were really -"

His head snapped upward.

"You liked that?", he snarled.

I nodded violently and grinned.

"Oh, yes.", I gushed. "Oh, you were wonderful."

"Thank you. Thank you, David.", he said.

And there, at the end of the table, was little Katy Manning. My boyhood crush. My little pixie. My plastic surgery disaster. She looked up at me and grinned.

I didn't know what to do - I didn't have a copy of any of her stories with me, but I figured that I'd never have the chance to talk to her again, so I knelt down next to her at the side of the table.

"Um, Miss Manning?", I breathed, staring up at her with big, wet eyes.

She smiled down at me.

"I just wanted to, you know. To thank you. For, uh. For everything."

Her face melted, and her eyes become soft and gentle. She reached out and took a hold of my hand, and pulled it across the table.

"Oh, Darling.", she said softly.

"It's just that, you know. When I was a kid - I used to watch you for hours and hours, and I really loved you so much. You were just wonderful as Jo. And I guess I just wanted to say thank you for that. Without you, being a kid would have been a lot different."

She looked at me for a second, and then reached over with her free hand and stroked my skin. Then she squeezed my fingers.

"Oh, Darling.", she said sadly. She looked geninely touched.

And then, she said one of the greatest things anyone has ever said to me.

Katy Manning held my hand, and I looked up at her amongst the noise and chatter of the foyer, and I felt her fingertips moving, and all I could see was Jo Grant, The Doctor's companion.

And she leant over to me, and softly whispered in my ear:

"I hope I wasn't a disappointment."

I shook my head and lingered on her for a second, and then I started to walk away.

"Darling?", she called after me.

I turned around. She was still smiling.

"What's your name?"

"I'm, uh. I'm David."

She brushed a lock of hair of her eyes and waved at me.

"Nice to meet you, David."

Posted by David at July 18, 2005 02:37 PM | TrackBack