She's Out of My Life

In which The Author surveys the extent of the damage

It always takes a little while for a regeneration to settle down, as all Doctor Who fans know.

The Ninth's Doctor's unexpected change (at least, new viewers wouldn't have expected it) was the first of the new-style transformations. Having told Rose that Time Lords have 'a way of cheating death', Christopher Eccleston's transition to David Tennant was a spectacular piece of television. Gone were the lo-fi morphings of the Classic Series; in came the explosive process which epitomises the current high production values.

The Tenth Doctor spent most of 'The Christmas Invasion' in bed, before recovering to defeat the Sycorax champion in single combat, still wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown.

I've already written at length about the Tenth Doctor's regeneration in New Year, New Start, so I won't discuss it here. It was a tremendous climax to Russell T. Davies's time at the helm, and the production team pulled out all the stops to make it a fittingly epic couple of minutes.

The first Eleventh Doctor episode, 'Zero Hour', saw Matt Smith clowning around with young Amelia Pond, rejecting all her offers of food before settling for a tasty bowl of fish fingers and custard. It didn't take the Doctor long to gather his wits and drive away the alien threat, in a clever sequence which saw all his previous faces (except one) flash up on screen. It was clear from that brief scene that the new showrunner, the mischievous lifelong fan Steven Moffat, was going to draw on the programme's history as never before.

The last episode of Matt Smith's time in the role, 'The Time of the Doctor', saw the character do something he's never had to do before ‒ grow old. He's exhausted his regeneration cycle; he knows it's the end of the road. Hiding on Trenzalore, the ageing Doctor divides his time between mending children's toys and fending off the alien armies which are warring over the planet.

It's a messy, frustrating Xmas special, filled with new characters whose roles aren't clearly explained, rapid-fire dialogue delivered too quickly to be intelligible, silly enemies (a wooden Cyberman? I mean, come on!), and rather unnecessary rudeness for prime-time family viewing.

But it does feature one of the most satisfying plot developments for a long time. Clara, the Impossible Girl, (Jenna Coleman) discovers that the Time Lords are in a pocket universe connected to the real universe through the crack in reality which has haunted the Doctor since his first meeting with Amelia Pond. She asks the Time Lords to help him, because he'd saved them (even though he wasn't sure it would work) at the end of the Time War. And then we get the most spectacular display of regeneration energy in the new series, followed shortly afterwards by the most low-key ‒ but heartbreaking ‒ regeneration ever.

In 'Deep Breath', Peter Capaldi's first adventure in the part, we saw the most troublesome post-regeneration ordeal since the Classic Series. Stranded in Victorian London, his memories fuzzy and incomplete, the Twelfth Doctor is rescued by the Paternoster Gang. For the first half of the episode, he struggles to come to terms with his new body before embarking on a mission to rescue Clara from the self-repairing robots we first met in 'The Girl in the Fireplace', back in Season 2.

The end of the episode takes the Doctor and Clara back to the present day, where there's an unexpected twist in the tale. Standing outside the TARDIS, Clara gets a phone call from a familiar-sounding voice.

And that's the episode that I was thinking about on Wednesday last week, when I wrote the previous entry. In particular, I remembered the line about Clara not being able to see the Doctor, because she's still hung up on the young, trendy, good-looking guy she's been having adventures with. And I remembered another brief exchange, which occurred slightly earlier in the same episode.

The Doctor: I'm not your boyfriend, Clara.

Clara: I never thought you were.

The Doctor: I never said it was your mistake.

It may be just a coincidence that Clara differs from Clare by only one letter. What isn't a coincidence is the fact that Clara can't see the tall, serious, intelligent, not conventionally handsome middle-aged bloke standing in front of her, because her attention is totally focused on the young, trendy, good-looking guy she's been talking to on the phone.

On Thursday, having had a good twenty-four hours to settle in, my new regeneration went for a little walk around town. As it was Thursday, it was karaoke evening, of course. I wasn't expecting to see Clare, but as I'd heard back from Gaz about her exam results earlier in the day, I headed for the Lighthouse anyway.

I'd written her a note explaining the situation (which is more complicated than we thought). I knew I could pass it on to Phillip, along with the college paperwork she'd forgotten to take home on Tuesday evening. To tell the truth, I didn't even want to see Clare after the events of the previous morning. But when I walked into the pub, she was sitting at our usual table with a pint in front of her.

'Ah, I'm glad you're here,' I said, lying convincingly as always. I told her what Gaz had come up with, and made a couple of suggestions as to how she could proceed next. Then I told her that Saturday's guitar browsing expedition was off because I had 'a Plaid Cymru thing in Pontypridd' in the morning. (That's another good reason for being a grassroots activist in an election year ‒ there's always 'a Plaid Cymru thing' going on somewhere when you need an excuse for blowing someone out.)

She told me that she wouldn't be around on Saturday either. Presumably the friend with benefits had the day off.

Instead of sticking around for karaoke, Clare couldn't wait to leave the pub. Even Phillip thought it was odd when she ran off to catch the 7.00 bus home. I told him we'd fallen out and it was a bit of an awkward situation all round. I didn't go into details, because he wouldn't really have understood anyway (no offence to him), but I told him that I'd be avoiding her from now on.

About half an hour later, I glanced at the big TV set on the wall opposite the bar and saw the back of someone else I was anxious to avoid. There are about six CCTV cameras in the pub, and on busy evenings the TV displays the live feed in a series of small boxes. It allows the staff to monitor the place without leaving the bar, which is a good idea. It also lets customers see who's just walked in without turning around and making it obvious.

Chazza was standing at the bar.

She'd texted me a little while earlier, presumably asking if I was going to be out that night. I deleted the message without reading the whole thing. I'd already deleted her number, so I couldn't have second thoughts and reply to her. About ten minutes later she texted me again, but I deleted that unread as well.

She'd obviously come straight from work, as she still had her uniform shirt on, but she didn't approach me and I didn't acknowledge her. I finished my pint a couple of minutes later and headed outside. I told Phillip I was going to get some cash out, and went straight to the Prince for a pint.

While I was there, I unfriended both girls on Facebook, just to be on the safe side. I also took the opportunity to change my profile picture. Since our last trip to Cardiff, I'd been using a photo of Clare and me in front of the alien-looking beach. Well, that wouldn't do, would it? I changed it to this one, which I took in Salford when I was there in 2012.

Then I updated my status as well:

If anyone is wondering about the new profile pic, let me explain. Daleks don't eat, drink, borrow train fares (because they can fly) or get into bizarre sex-based relationships with other Daleks simply because one of them says 'Fornicate?' They may be genetically modified psychopaths designed to wipe out all other life forms, but at least you know where you are with a fucking Dalek. We're getting engaged this weekend.

I went back to the Lighthouse about an hour later. Phillip was still there, of course, sitting with Chazza and two blokes I know by sight on the Singers' Table. He was surprised to see me come back in, so I just said hello and staked out a place by the end of the bar. Chazza looked in my direction a couple of times, but I didn't pay her any attention. I didn't even join in the applause after she'd sung her song. I wasn't surprised when she left soon afterwards. There are young lads in the Bush on a Thursday night, after all, and no doubt she could blag a drink or two down there instead.

I sang one song ('Ziggy Stardust'), refused to move when Tara called me up a second time, had an argument with Huntley when he tried fucking with my phone in mid-text, and went home early. 'Ziggy Stardust' was a good song to end my karaoke time in Aberdare with – especially as it includes the lines 'When the kids had killed the man, I had to break up the band.' Since I won't be involved in any of the music projects I discussed with Clare and Chazza, it seemed rather apt.

Clare rang me a couple of times on Friday, presumably to ask if I was planning on going out. I didn't answer. I deleted her texts unread as well. I knew I was fairly safe otherwise, because her thickphone doesn't do social media. Anyway, since she was off my Friends List, she wouldn't have been able to message me. I thought …

I was in the Cambrian when Phillip walked in. He told me Clare wasn't coming down, and I said I didn't care anyway. Then I argued with the third woman that week. This one had been brewing for a while anyway, so it was only a matter of time.

There's a jukebox in the Cambrian which is connected to the Internet. It means that – if you know what you're doing – you can access a vast database of music which most people couldn't even begin to imagine. Some young lads were playing pool when Phillip came in, and they'd stacked up a load of shitty dance/rap records before leaving and inflicting their crap on everyone else. I'd already suggested that there should be an immutable rule of jukebox use: You leave, your songs get bounced, and you lose your money. No ifs, no buts.

When I say 'bounced', the remote control allows the bar staff to reject the current selection. It's only really useful at the end of the night, or when the quiz is starting, or when the live musician is setting up on Sunday evenings.

Most of the time the jukebox pumps out the same tedious round of 1960s and 1970s easy listening pap (Ian the guvnor's choice), Thrash Metal and/or Dance music (fuck knows who puts that crap on), the entire Oasis and Phonics back catalogue (the favoured music of the 'trendy' weekend boys who think that what happened two decades ago is at the cutting edge), or current chart stuff (the default setting when nobody wants to pay for it).

But I know how to 'open the Rift' (as Karen and I call it) and access the hidden tracks. So that's what I did on Friday night. I put two quid in, called up a couple of early Soft Machine tracks ('10.30 Returns to the Bedroom' and 'A Certain Kind'), and then chose three Kevin Ayers tracks. At least, I tried to choose three Kevin Ayers tracks. The problem is that Mr Ayers recorded several takes of some songs; they were released as LP tracks, live sessions at the BBC, and so forth, and not all of the takes are great. If the screen showed the cover artwork, as it does with non-Rift stuff, I'd have had no problem finding the versions I wanted. Instead, I was flying blind.

I found 'Stranger in Blue Suede Shoes' without a hitch, because it showed me the LP cover. I thought I'd selected the enigmatic and haunting early release of 'Lady Rachel'. I took a chance on 'Two Goes into Four', because the live version at the Rainbow Theatre on 1 June 1974 is pretty much the definitive recording. I gave the next five songs to Phillip, knowing full well that he'd choose Elvis all the way.

Jenny the barbint's face was already like thunder when the first Soft Machine track crashed in. She didn't look any more impressed when the second one got going. Then the machine did one of its mysterious things, and pulled up an Elvis track first. Normally, it plays the songs in the order they've been selected, but this time they came out randomly.

After another Elvis song, we had some more dance crap, then another Elvis tune, and finally 'Stranger in Blue Suede Shoes' came on. It's a fairly up-tempo little tune with a nice beat and a cool melody line, and even if people have no idea of who Kevin Ayers was, nobody's ever objected to it before.

The recording of 'Lady Rachel', by contrast, wasn't the one I'd expected. I hadn't heard it before – it was a lot slower and less powerful than the version on Joy of a Toy – and Jenny shouted across to me, asking if I'd put it on.

I said, 'If the machine made it clear which version you were choosing, it wouldn't have been this one.'

'It's rubbish,' she said.

I wouldn't have gone that far, but it certainly wouldn't make it on to my Desert Island Discs.

Then it ended prematurely. I saw Jenny put the remote control down, and that was where I ran out of patience. After all, nobody's appointed her to the position of Chief DJ and Official Arbiter of Public Taste, as far as I know.

'Bounce my fucking records again, and you'll be giving me my fucking money back!' I shouted, loudly enough for the entire pub to hear.

Jenny tried laughing it off.

'I'm not fucking joking, Jenny!' I shouted again. 'If we put money into the machine, it's because we want to hear our music. We have to put up with everyone else's shit – you never bounce fucking Oasis or Rammstein, do you?'

I turned to Phillip and told him I'd be leaving after I finished my pint. We chatted for a couple of minutes while the rest of his Elvis songs played, and then I decided to stick around anyway. Charlie had come in to work by then, so I got another pint from her. I wasn't going to go anywhere near Jenny. Given the mood I was in, things could have escalated pretty quickly.

Jocelyn came in and started setting the karaoke up. Phillip sang one of his usual songs; she asked me if I was singing, and I said no. Then one of the town's many fuckwits came in and crashed our table. I made my excuses and left.

On Saturday I went to Cardiff to watch the Trainspotting sequel T2. Before I set off I had to call into the post office in town. As I was taking some cash out, James P. came in and asked if I was going to the Cambrian for the live music (last night, in other words). I told him I wasn't a fan of Seasick Steve anyway, so going to see a tribute act would be pointless. I also added that I wouldn't be going anywhere near the pub if Jenny was working. That rules out quiz nights, karaoke, live music, and just about every Saturday during the 6 Nations. (I've yet to explain the situation to Ian, but I'll make it clear that it's nothing at all to do with him or any of the other regulars.) Who cares? There are plenty of other pubs in Aberdare.

While I was on the train my phone rang. Even though she's not in my contacts any more, I recognised the tail end of Clare's number. I rejected the call and switched my phone off. The battery was running low anyway, and I'd need to keep an eye on the time for the return journey.

I called into Waterstones, and was pleased to find Jeff working for the first time for ages. He told me he was spending a lot of time covering in other branches – Newport and Abergavenny, mainly – and if he could, he'd leave tomorrow. I felt a bit sorry for him, really. He's older than me, and has spent his entire life in retail. No employer will look at him now, given his age and relative lack of 'up-to-date' qualifications. The poor bugger's going to be stuck there for ever, I think. I gave him my number and we're going to meet up for a pint when the weather improves.

The film was excellent – every bit as good as the first one, I thought – and afterwards I needed a pint to settle myself down. I headed for the Golden Cross, where it's disco night on Saturdays. I hadn't been in there long when I spotted Lee coming from the bar. We'd met through Adam L. at the end of Just Another Weird Wednesday, and we had a good chat about all sorts of things over a couple of pints. He asked me when I was bringing my singer friend down for karaoke, and I said, 'Not going to happen, mate.' I told him about the non-situation with my former companions; while we were talking, Clare texted me at least twice and rang once. As before, I ignored the call and deleted the texts without even reading them, so Lee could see I was serious.

The final episode of this saga came last night. I was having a pint with my good pal Ceri H., talking about a project which he and Adrian T. are putting together for St David's Day. Ceri was trying to get me on board, but I didn't think it was my kind of thing. Even while we were talking, I was rejecting calls and deleting texts from Clare.

Then I had a ping via Messenger. Apparently you can still send messages to someone who's unfriended you on Facebook. Well, that was news to me.

'Are you talking to me?' it said.

I'd never seen Clare as Travis Bickle, but you never know what Performing Arts students will get up to next.

I didn't reply, but simply opened up the menu and blocked her. About twenty minutes later I had a Friend Request. I wasn't particularly surprised to find that it was from her other brother, who's never shown any interest in me or my Facebook before. It would be a good way for her to eavesdrop on me, though. I couldn't find any great moral reason against rejecting it. To be on the safe side, I unfriended and blocked her stepmother as well.

I was in the Prince later on when Ross W. asked me if I'd seen his niece.

'No, mate,' I said, 'and I'm not going to see her again, either.'

'Why's that?'

'It's her own fault,' I told him. 'We all know that superpowers can go wrong if you're not careful. Well, she disappeared once too many times, and now she's permanently invisible.'

Well, it's now Monday afternoon. Performance and Cock-ups will be starting in about an hour or so. Phillip will be there, naturally. So will Keith, Danelle, Carl, Spanish Steve, Sheila, and the rest of the daytime singers. It's a matter for conjecture whether Clare will turn up. It all depends on whether she gets a better offer from the Friend with Benefits.

(After I typed that, she texted me again. I'm guessing she's around, then. I didn't reply to it,needless to say. She's just rung me, too, and there are no prizes for guessing what happened next.)

I won't be in the Lighthouse, whatever else happens this afternoon. Or on Thursday. Or in the Cambrian or the Bonki on Friday night. I might make a monthly trip to the Golden Cross just to keep my hand in, but I won't be taking any proper singers with me. This new Doctor travels alone.