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.

The Lazarus Experiment

In which The Author gets a new lease of life

This blog is sad to report the untimely death of Good Old Steve O'Gorman.

Steve, an eccentric 50-year-old copy-editor, former bookseller, music lover, amateur writer and photographer, lifelong science fiction fan, Doctor Who wannabe, cinema-goer, pub regular and political animal, passed away at Cwmbach Railway Station, a few miles from his home in Aberdare, South Wales, just before 11 a.m. on 25 January 2017.

In recent weeks, Steve's blog had detailed how his mood was being adversely affected by his friendship with two fucked-up young girls. It appears that recent developments had disturbed the balance of his mind. Armed UNIT soldiers confronted him on the station approach and emptied several clips into his defenceless body.

However, eyewitnesses reported that within moments of his death, Steve got to his feet in true Time Lord style. He caught a bus to Aberdare and carried on if as nothing had happened.

Almost nothing …

Let's put this into some sort of context here.

On Friday evening, Clare asked me if I fancied going to the Bonki for Karaoke and Shots. I was in the mood for trying something new. I'd seen the terrific 'jukebox musical' Sunny Afternoon last Wednesday in Cardiff, so I agreed to join her. After all, when you've got so many of Sir Ray Davies's fine songs uppermost in your internal playlist, it would be rude not to attempt at least one of them yourself.

After being fucked around by Gareth for well over two months, Clare had decided to kick him into touch a few days before. She still wanted to go, though, purely so that she could give him the cold shoulder. When we arrived, we started chatting to Kylie by the bar. Clare announced that the reason she'd been missing for most of the week was because she'd been in Ebbw Vale, having 'got back together' with her ex-boyfriend.

That was news to me. I hadn't even had the chance to play my (admittedly weak) hand again. But fear not – it's nothing serious, apparently. It's obviously still more serious than it was with Gareth, because this bloke has been promoted from mere fuck buddy to friend with benefits. Because her phone had died, she spent most of the night using my free texts to chat to him while I sat around like a spare prick at an orgy. Again.

When we returned to town, I decided to return to the Cambrian, where the karaoke was winding down. I made a second attempt at 'Waterloo Sunset', following its debut at the Golden Cross last week. It needs work, but it was something I hadn't done in Aberdare before. Then I headed to Thereisnospoon for a last one, with a nagging feeling that I'd have been better off staying at home on Friday night – rather like the guy in the song, in fact.

On Sunday evening, the Incredible Vanishing Girl 2 made the transition from a disappointing remake of the 2009 original to an ill-judged weekly series.

I was in the house in the afternoon when Chazza texted me, asking me if I fancied going for a pint. I texted her back, saying that I had to go to Trecynon Hall at 4.30. I'd arranged to pick up some posters for the Colstars' forthcoming panto Aladdin, which I was planning to distribute around local businesses owned by friends of mine. It wouldn't take me long to get to the Welsh Harp, so I said I'd meet her there. I warned her to pace herself, because we'd be going on to the Cambrian, and said I'd see her whenever she was ready.

Remember, we're talking about a young girl here. 'Whenever she was ready' could involve anything from simply putting her shoes on right through to a full-blown makeover and shopping expedition in Oxford Street. I was prepared for the long haul.

Anyway, I got to the pub to find Gaz in conversation with Spike. He's an old pal of ours (his grandparents lived a few doors away when we were kids), and he still pays occasional visits to see his family. We had a good chat about our childhood memories of Aberdare, local history (Spike had come across my entry A Pub Crawl to Die For (Part 1)), public transport, the assorted frustrations of modern life, and various other topics. I popped back to the house and brought up the two volumes of Aberdare: Pictures From the Past, which the boys hadn't seen before.

In return, Spike showed me photos of bottles from the former local breweries and soft drinks manufacturers. He's been collecting them since he was very young, and had even unearthed a couple that afternoon while walking around the Country Park. Elfed has lent some of his own stash to Aberdare Library, but Spike's collection dwarfs Elfed's. Look at these lovely old artefacts of Elfed's and you'll see why they're so interesting.

Spike is extremely knowledgeable about the subject, so I tried to convince him to write an article for Old Cynon Valley (first volume in preparation). That led us to an idea Gaz had a few years earlier, about writing an article about the local football scene. (In an area known best for rugby, football seems to have had the lion's share of success in the Cynon and Merthyr Valleys.) I mentioned my two abortive projects for the Cynon Valley History Society as well. Will any of these ideas come to fruition? Watch this space …

'Watch this space' is also good advice when it comes to Chazza, it seems. At about 6.30 Clare rang me, because Chazza had messaged her to ask if anyone knew where I was. Needless to say, I was in the Welsh Harp. Spike had gone home to make tea for his mother, so Gaz and I were still chatting. There's no WiFi in the pub, so I was off-grid to all intents and purposes. According to Clare, Chazza had gone straight to the Cambrian. I said that seemed a bit daft, because she'd have had to pass the Welsh Harp on the way into town. Just after 7.00 Chazza herself rang me. She was walking through Trecynon and wondering where I was.

'Exactly where I said I'd be,' I told her.

She came in a minute later, so I bought her a drink and introduced her to Gaz. The three of us chatted for a while before moving on. I dropped my books and the posters into the house, and Chazza and I walked into Aberdare. When we got to the Cambrian it was fairly quiet, so we grabbed a decent table and waited for the guest musician to arrive.

Dai C. Thomas (for it was he) is a very talented, charming and eccentric young fellow from Llandeilo, who's played here a few times as a solo artist and as one half of Nomadic Ways. After he'd set up his gear, he joined us for a pint and we chatted about his occasional extra background artist work in TV. He was going to a costume fitting in Bristol on Monday, before appearing as a Frenchman in Poldark. No disrespect to Chazza, who seems to have settled into her job after a shaky start, but doesn't that sound more fun than serving up fast food for minimum wage on a zero hours contract?

Dai played the first half of his set to a fairly small audience, and Chazza went for a smoke (she said). You'll be amazed, I'm sure, when I tell you that she didn't return. I texted her after a little while, to see if she was coming back, and she told me she was in the Prince. I thought maybe she'd gone to look for her uncle Ross, but when she didn't reappear I realised she'd conned me out of another couple of beers again.

Dai finished his second set, we had a brief chat as he was packing his stuff away, and I decided to head for the Prince myself. More than anything, I wanted to try and catch Chazza in mid-lie. When I got there, I asked around but nobody had seen her. I texted her and told her she could take her invisibility cloak off.

I had a last pint there, texted her to say I was giving up on her slowly, and went home.

Clare didn't show up for Manic Monday. She and her friend with benefits had been to the cinema in Merthyr. As I told you in Strange Little Girl, Clare tends to throw herself in at the deep end when it comes to boys, so I wasn't surprised when she told me she was thinking of moving to Ebbw Vale. (Remember last autumn's week-long engagement to the chav from Blackwood? Yeah – so do I!)

It would be the end of our singing partnership, and would also totally put the mockers on everyone who thinks we're an item. There suddenly doesn't seem to be a lot of point in going to look at second-hand guitars this Saturday, as we'd arranged over the weekend. I'd managed to rope in my mate Wayne B. ‒ who's in at least three bands at last count – to come and give them the once-over with us. I messaged him about an hour ago to tell him not to bother. Six-string instruments won't be able to compete with no-strings sex.

Even so, she managed to find time out from her precious bedtime schedule to meet me for lunch yesterday, before we went to Merthyr College for the open evening. (We were supposed to have met for breakfast, but she was running very late. As I said on Facebook, when you come in for breakfast and end up ordering from the lunch menu, you've either walked into a remake of Joel Schumacher's film Falling Down or you're meeting a girl. I didn't see any cameras.) I agreed to stand her lunch in return for her footing the bill today, when she gets her money. That's one offer Chazza has never made, in fairness to Clare.

We caught the train to Merthyr, had a glass of Coke in the Crown, and then walked over to the college. The open evening was getting under way, and one of student ambassadors directed us to one of the tutors. He took us upstairs, introduced us to his colleague, and they told us about the music options they've got on offer. There's the traditional A level, of course, very much focused on classical music and requiring a fair bit of theory, as well as at least Grade 3 proficiency on an instrument. (That rules both of us out. Clare used to play guitar, but I don't know what standard she reached. It was almost certainly higher than mine.)

Alternatively, there's the BTEC. It's far more hands-on and contemporary. The old town hall in Merthyr is now the Red House, a music venue with a growing reputation, and the college uses the basement for their practical tuition. They've got state-of-the-art equipment, more computers than the whole of RCTCBC Libraries, visiting tutors with huge amounts of experience, and a talent base that enables students to network across all aspects of the business. The course covers all aspects of popular music, from playing and singing through to songwriting, production, marketing … It's got to be way more constructive than singing 'Proud Mary' every Friday night to an audience of half a dozen Valleys pissheads, hasn't it? It sounded ideal for Clare, and the more the four of us talked, the more I could see the excitement growing in her eyes.

Clare and the tutor started filling in the application form while we chatted about the scene in general. I explained how we'd met, and how I was slowly weaning her off the backing tapes and onto solid instruments. The whole thing was going very well.

Then we hit the inevitable snag.

Clare doesn't have her certificates from school. She couldn't even remember exactly what exams she'd sat during her rather unpleasant time in the system. Without the paperwork, her application would fall at the first fence.

But (naturally) I know a man who works for the exam board. In fact, I'd had a couple of pints with him on Sunday afternoon. I said I'd ring Gaz in the evening and see how we'd go about getting copies. He'd done the same for me back in September 2009, when I fell back into university, so I knew it could be done.

We shook hands with the guys and went downstairs to the atrium. A young lad with a practice drumkit was demonstrating his skills, and another young lad was setting up a guitar. We chatted and listened to them for a while, then headed for The Works to see if they had any music tuition books. There was nothing at all on learning the guitar (although they had one on stripping down an electric guitar and rebuilding it from scratch). It seemed a bit odd, considering how many young people are into playing music these days. On the other hand, I did find a book of piano chords, so I treated myself to that. I've always fancied playing both instruments, and one of my New Year's Resolutions was to start some serious work on them both.

[A digression: This lunchtime, in their Aberdare branch, I found the companion book for guitar. While I was at the counter, I mentioned to Stacey that I'd found the piano book in Merthyr yesterday, but nothing for guitar. She agreed that the stock distribution across neighbouring shops seems to be haphazard at best. I jokingly commented on Facebook that the next Bill Evans could be in junior school in Aberdare right now, and the next John McLaughlin in junior school in Merthyr, but on the strength of the self-teaching materials on offer, we'll never know.]

Clare and I caught the 1708 train from Merthyr and arrived at Abercynon just in time to find that the Aberdare train had been cancelled. Southbound trains were falling off the board as well. According to Arriva Trains Fails, a passenger had been taken ill and had to be to taken off at Llandaff North. We parked ourselves in the shelter and I texted Gaz to explain Clare's situation, adding 'BTW trains are fucked up big time!' He replied a few minutes later to say he already knew – he'd been on his way home when the disruption started.

I sent a couple of sarcastic Tweets about the trains from the Plaid Cymru Cwm Cynon account to pass the time, and then started chatting to a bloke I know by sight. Clare, meanwhile, spent the hour happily texting her friend with benefits (from her new thickphone) until an Aberdare train finally pulled in. It was packed – unsurprisingly – and we got to Aberdare only about an hour and seven minutes late. On the way, I noticed on Facebook that Chazza had also fallen foul of the trains in Cardiff. It gave me a warm feeling inside, and Clare laughed when I showed it to her.

I commented, 'I told you the novelty of commuting would soon wear off, didn't I?'

As we were getting off I spotted Gaz, so we captured him and invited him to join us for a pint. He didn't take much persuading. On the way into town, he spotted a piece of paper lying at the roadside. It was a tenner.

'Might as well spend this in the pub,' he said, which seemed like a decent plan.

We hadn't even got to the pub before Chazza texted to ask if I fancied a pint. Luckily for me, I had a Plaid Cymru meeting in Mountain Ash last night.

In the Cambrian, we sat down and looked at the exam board website. It seemed as though Clare was going to have to jump through hoops again. She wasn't even sure if she'd sat WJEC papers or those set by one of the other boards. Gaz said he could check in the system today, so she wrote down her details and we carried on chatting.

Gaz left at about 8.00; Clare stuck around until about 8.45; I went home on the 9.30 bus. Before she left, I asked her what time she wanted to meet for breakfast today. She suggested Thereisnospoon at about 9.30. It seemed like a plan.

Just after 8.00 this morning, I texted her to say I'd be leaving the house in about an hour. She just replied, 'OK', so I assumed everything was on track. I had a bath, got some stuff together for her, and was on my way into Aberdare when she texted me again. Apparently she was feeling too ill to go out. She'd been complaining of earache yesterday, but it hadn't occurred to her to mention it an hour earlier. It must have been one of those very rapid escalations that get the doctors so worried in Holby City.

I had a flashback to our non-trip to Pontyclun before Xmas (see Just Another Weird Wednesday). That was also a day when she got her money and when she'd woken up feeling like shit. (She'd been all right to go to the Bonki in the evening, strangely enough.) I remembered our last trip to Cardiff a fortnight ago, when she'd baled out early because she'd been feeling like shit. That was a Wednesday, too.

I didn't say anything about that, but told her I hoped she felt better soon, and went for breakfast as planned. My food hadn't even arrived when she rang me to ask if I wanted to go to Cardiff with her and her parents. (Now you know why I've called this entry 'The Lazarus Experiment.' Not even Lazarus made that rapid a recovery.)

I said I was going to the Coliseum tonight – which is true – so Karaoke and Shots in the Golden Cross was out. However, Clare said they'd be coming back at about 5.00. I didn't get where I am today by catching rush hour trains home from Cardiff. (Actually, I kinda did, because I decided I just couldn't fucking do it any more.) It wasn't a nice idea from the start.

I asked her what time they were planning on going. She said they'd meet me in time for the 1052 train. I said OK, finished my breakfast, and headed to the library to chase up Plaid Cymru stuff yet again.

I was by the cashpoint at about 1040 when I spotted Clare heading into Whitcombe Street, away from the station. I called across the road, she shouted something and pointed vaguely along the street, and then I lost sight of her behind a lorry. Because of the traffic noise I didn't know if she was heading to the post office or the pharmacy. There's fuck all else in Whitcombe Street except a dental surgery, a tattoo studio and a plethora of hair salons. None of those are 'in and out in two minutes' jobs. It was too early for fish and chips, even by Clare's standards; neither of the pubs would have been open. I grabbed my money and headed for the other side to wait for her.

After a few minutes I decided she might have gone around the block and towards the station that way. There was no sign of her in the pharmacy or the post office when I looked through the windows. I headed to the station to see if I could spot them on the train. Unfortunately, the hanging around meant that I had only a few seconds to dive through the open doors. Within nanoseconds of the train leaving the platform, Clare texted to ask where I was.

Do you remember when the Tenth Doctor regenerated in 'The End of Time'? Even before he could say his goodbyes to everyone, the energy was already forming a halo around his hand. He turned to Wilf and said, 'It's started.'

Well, I think my recent unexpected regeneration must have started in a similar low-key fashion. I sat in the seat nearest the driver's cab (in other words, furthest from the guard) and sent this reply:

On the fucking train as agreed earlier. Getting off at Cwmbach without buying a ticket and coming back to town.

Which was exactly what I did. Having been shot down by the combined forces of UNIT and Torchwood, I underwent full regeneration in time to reach the bus top at Tre Telynog.

The new Steve looks exactly the same as the old one, I'm sad to say, but (rather like the Master's successive incarnations) his personality has become much darker and far less predictable. And, as usually happens when Time Lords regenerate, his companions are often shocked or even frightened by the sudden transformation.

Clare texted back to ask why I was swearing, and to tell me they'd be on the 1122 from Aberdare instead. The ensuing exchange went like this (bear in mind that she's using a thickphone):

Not in the mood for fucking around today, so I'll see you when I see you.

As in be on 11,22 train

I spent enough time freezing on Goddessforsaken stations yesterday. Nice and warm in library.

Wel [sic] my dad said 11 train but waiting on my step mum x

Yeah, well I'm waiting on the bus back to town.

OK

Good thing I went looking for you in Whitcombe St. At least I didn't have time to buy my train ticket before it left. Never arrange to do anything with me on a Wednesday morning again, because you always cry off sick.

Before I had time to send that last one, my phone rang in my hand. It was Clare. I killed the call, finished composing the text, and sent it before catching the bus into Aberdare. Good Old Steve could quite easily have walked back to the station and met them on the next train.

But Good Old Steve isn't around any more.

This new regeneration is calculated to piss off young people who like the trendy, ironic, eccentric but lovable character, while appealing to hardcore older fans who recognise elements of themselves in his irascibility, cynicism, and unwillingness to suffer fools gladly.

I killed at least three more calls from Clare between getting on the bus and finishing this entry off using proper WiFi. Normally the Doctor carries a companion over into a new regeneration, to give old and new viewers a sense of continuity. The Tenth Doctor didn't, though. Funny how I keep referring back to that one, isn't it, boys and girls?

I'm kinda wondering how the Plaid Cymru Muggles (to mix cult SF/fantasy sagas slightly) will respond to Evil New Steve at the next (actual) branch meeting. After all, it'll have been a month since I asked them all to give me some content for our election campaign website. My inbox remains barren. At least one of the candidates knows what happened to the online presence I established for the Cynon Valley Quiz League back in the autumn. Project No More Nice Guy hadn't even got as far as the drawing board. Good Old Steve was alive and well.

But, as the Doctor's pal Captain Jack Harkness famously said, 'The twenty-first century is when everything changes, and you gotta be ready.'

Are you ready?

The Doctor Won't See You Now

In which The Author has a surprise tour

If you've read Trains and Boats and Planes, you'll remember my last excursion in search of the Last of the Time Lords. That impromptu day trip to Barry came about because a friend gave me a tip-off ('on very good authority') that the BBC would be filming Doctor Who that morning. In the event, I failed to find Peter Capaldi or Jenna Coleman, but I made the most of a sunny day and went exploring instead.

This morning I had an email from Geoff E. – oddly enough, the father of my previous 'snout'. He'd heard on the grapevine that the BBC had set up a temporary base at Penderyn, and that the little car park and lay-by were full of location crew. Unfortunately I only picked the email about thirty seconds before the (hourly) bus to the village left Aberdare. I emailed him back, wondering if it was worth making a special trip for what might conceivably be nothing.

He emailed me back, suggesting that they might be filming at St Cynog's Church. After all, they filmed a story ('The Hungry Earth' / 'Cold Blood') at St Gwynno's Church in Llanwynno a few years ago (see Frustrations of a Solitary Walker). The medieval limestone church at Penderyn, high on a hillside above the village and with superb views across the dramatic Brecon Beacons, would indeed be an exciting location. If nothing else, there's a memorial in the graveyard that you definitely don't want to blink near.

I did some work on yet another project to kill time, and jumped on the 1330 bus. I got to Penderyn just after 2.00, jumped off outside the Lamb Hotel, and made a beeline for the church. On the way through the village, I'd seen a host of trucks and vans near the community centre. Since Church Road is quite narrow (single track, pretty much) and there's nowhere else to park up, it seemed likely that they'd had to haul their gear up from there.

It didn't take me long to walk up the hill from the pub. I was expecting to see the entire area taped off, and security people patrolling the perimeter. (Maybe even my old pal Jimmy N., who does some security contracts for BBC Wales.) Instead, the whole place looked like the buffet at the Dippy Bint's wedding reception: not a sausage. I can't say I was particularly surprised, but I was a bit disappointed.

I was, however, pleasantly surprised to find the door of the Red Lion wide open. It's one of those country pubs that keeps odd hours; I can't remember the last time they coincided with a visit to the village. I went in and was greeted by a very pleasant young barbint. I told her I was quite surprised to find the place open, and she told me that they closed at 3.00. I also told why I was there. It was news to her, so I guessed then that the BBC hadn't been anywhere near the top of the hill. I had time for a can of Pepsi, so I warmed myself by the wood-burning stove and admired the work that's been done on the interior.

As well as retaining its traditional layout and cosy atmospheres, the extension to the side and back now contains sizeable dining areas. I didn't look at the menu, but I'm sure that the prospect of a good meal will make the pub even more of a magnet for tourists exploring the southern edge of the national park. If it wasn't so far off the beaten track – and totally inaccessible by public transport in the Twilight Zone – I'd suggest it to friends for a pre-Xmas treat. Never mind, that's South Wales in 2016 for you.

It had started to drizzle when I left the pub, so I headed down Church Road and emerged just above the community centre. There were more trucks in the packed car park, one of which bore the logo of a location catering company. Further along were at least three from a film & tv rigging company, two from a special effects company, and one specialist scaffolding rigging firm. Say what you like about the BBC, but they certainly don't travel light.

I wondered if by any chance they were filming on the old mineral line, so I crossed the road and had a little peek down there. Nothing. I made my way back to the community centre, and spotted my friends Gwyn and Joyce converging on the line of vehicles. It turned out that we had the same idea. They'd decided to go in search of the action, in the hope of including something in Clochdar, our local Welsh language newsletter. We spotted a crew member leaving one of the vehicles, so Joyce buttonholed him and explained why were we lurking around with a camera (in my case) and a tablet (in Gwyn's). He was very cagey about the exact site where they were working, understandably. If word had got out, the valley's schools would have been empty within minutes and the next bus to Penderyn would have looked like an Indian railway carriage. All he said was that were 'on the mountain up on the right' – which didn't give us a lot to go on. Apparently, they'd had use 4 × 4s to get their gear up. That didn't sound very promising.

Gwyn and Joyce decided to stroll back down the mineral line. I offered to send them some photos if I did come across the film crew, and headed towards Cwm Cadlan. I think I've only ever been across Cwm Cadlan at night (see Night Terrors), but I knew it was a bloody long way from the upper Cynon Valley to the reservoir on the Taff. I decided to walk for a mile or so, and if I didn't spot any sign of activity I'd turn back and grab a pint in the Lamb. I set off along the single track road between the fields, aware that I was heading towards grey clouds. A few minutes later it started to rain. I was debating whether or not to press on when I heard a car approaching from behind. I stepped onto the narrow verge to let it pass, and then heard a familiar voice.

'Where are you off, then?'

I looked in through the open window and laughed. It was none other than Huw F.

We'd had a similar idea, to make the most of the weather before winter really sets in. Like me, Huw has exhausted pretty much all the local walks, but he's started exploring further afield. He was just out for a drive; he knew nothing of the BBC presence in the village. When I told him why I was there, he offered to drive around so we could search for the elusive Time Lord. It seemed like a half-decent plan, so I jumped in and we carried on eastwards.

Cwm Cadlan winds through farmland and then climbs towards open moorland, where pylons, flocks of sheep and thick stands of pine trees provide the only signs of contemporary human activity. In spite of this, Huw told me that he'd recently found the remains of some prehistoric roundhouses. I knew they were marked on the OS map, but I'd never been far enough along the road to search for them. You need a car to go exploring off the beaten track, unfortunately, or else you're in for the long haul.

We drove the length of Cwm Cadlan without spotting any sign of extraterrestrial activity, though. Huw suggested that they might be filming on the dam on the reservoir, so we decided to check it out. There was no sign of life there either, so we headed north on to the A470 and then took the A4059 back towards Penderyn. It was still fairly cloudy and grey, but the sun was breaking through to the west and the south. I'd forgotten just what spectacular views you get when you're on that road, so it was a very pleasant change to go across the top for once.

Huw suggested that the BBC might have packed up early because of the weather, which seemed quite plausible. However, when we reached the minor road leading to Ystradfellte, there were a number of vehicles in the lay-by and parked up on the verge. Huw decided to explore that option, in case they were around the village. It was just possible that the heavy presence in Penderyn was just a red herring, after all. He swung the car around in the entrance to a farm, and we hit the minor road.

We hadn't gone far when a car coming uphill blocked our progress along the single track. Huw had to reverse for a couple of hundred metres to a small passing place; meanwhile, another car had come along, so we had to sit tight while they both passed us. A few minutes later, we had to pull in to allow a tractor to pass us. It's actually no wonder Ystradfellte doesn't have a bus service, when you consider what the access roads are like. (See Further Up the River.)

We swung past the church and the New Inn (which took about ten seconds) and took the road towards Pontneddfechan. On the way, I told Huw about Helen from Servini's, and her attempt to set up a dating agency a couple of weeks ago (see A Quick Single). He could fully understand why I never go to the New Inn; if you don't have a car, it makes the Red Lion look like it's in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.

From there we drove to Pontneddfechan. It's only now I've done that journey in a car that I can appreciate the distance I walked on my previous couple of explorations. If nothing else, our outdoor hiking trips keep us fit. We drove through Glynneath to get some petrol, and looped back to Aberdare.

I may have drawn another blank on my quest to find the TARDIS and its crew, but I had some welcome fresh air before the weather breaks, caught up with some old friends, found some possible walks for the spring, and established a new watering hole for a future date. It was much more fun than sitting in the library and listening to the Debating Society, that's for sure.

Be Careful What You Wish For

In which The Author's prayers are answered – sort of …

As I've mentioned several times in the course of my blogging, I was the victim of horrific and merciless bullying when I was in school. I'm not the only one, as it turns out. Quite a few people I know have talked to me about the abuse they experienced as kids. Maybe it's like being a member of a Westminster club – we somehow recognise each other, but we're not sure how.

Anyway, when I was about thirteen or fourteen I had a dream. At the time, I thought it was a Night Terror masquerading as a sexual fantasy. This very tall, statuesque, extremely beautiful, young red-haired woman, wearing nothing but her most seductive smile, appeared in the bedroom early one morning and sat on the end of my bed. I couldn't move a muscle – and she noticed that straight away.

'You seem rather pleased to see me,' she said with a wink. I was quite embarrassed, but she just laughed. 'I've come to you for a reason. I know exactly what you've been going through, Steve. I've been keeping an eye on you for years. I know you've turned your back on Christianity, and I can totally understand why. So, in the words of the song, I've come to talk to you instead.'

'Are you the Devil?' I asked, rather nervously. I might have been a lapsed Catholic, but I knew all about Temptation and stuff. I didn't really fancy jumping out of the frying pan and into the Inferno.

'Oh, no!' she said, sounding rather hurt. 'I'm not the Devil.' She laughed. 'I'm way more fun than he is. And I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse.' She leaned in close and purred in my ear. 'Listen. I don't want sacrifices or tributes or any of that ritualistic shit. If you want to worship me, go ahead – it's water off a duck's back to the likes of me. You just need to tell the world about me and my powers, at every opportunity you get, and in whatever form you think is appropriate.'

She spent the next ten minutes or so telling me all about herself, and providing documentary evidence to support her argument. In fairness, she made a good case. Then she reached the end of the sales pitch – and it was worth waiting for.

'I'll give humankind all manner of signs and wonders to behold, and you just need to give me the credit,' she said. 'If you pledge to do that, I'll continue to watch over you and ensure your safety. I'll even tell you the exact date, time and circumstances of your death – on one condition. You know those guys who've been making your life a waking fucking nightmare? You have to promise to take all those cunts out beforehand.'

Well, how could I possibly turn down an invitation like that?

'Where do I sign?' I asked.

'No, there's nothing like that,' she said. 'No oaths sworn in blood or anything. I hate the sight of blood.' She took my hand. 'I'm a fairly laid-back goddess, really. Just don't piss me off, or I'll unleash my awesome and terrifying powers upon the world.'

'OK,' I said, 'you've got a deal.'

And she kissed me, stood up, and vanished.

Well, that all happened over thirty-five years ago. At the time I didn't know what to think. As I said, I thought it was just a particularly vivid wet dream, and tried to put it out of my mind.

But I was imprinting the Fourth Neural Circuit. My hormones were shot to hell. An experience like that was bound to make an impression. My fetish for tall, beautiful and mostly fucked-up redheads dates from that exact moment. After all, you never know which of them is going to turn out to be Her, do you? It's best to be on the safe side.

It was a good many years until I finally discovered exactly who she was. I was reading Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson's psychedelic cult SF Illuminatus! trilogy and damn me if she wasn't there, in the book: Eris, also known as Discordia. The sister of Ares. The Goddess of Chaos. The prime mover behind the Trojan War, and general Olympian troublemaker par excellence.

And it turned out that I wasn't the only person to whom she'd vouchsafed her revelations. There was a Discordian Church, and a sacred text called Principia Discordia, and all manner of other things connected to her.

Robert Anton Wilson's books finally enabled me to put the pieces of the jigsaw together. His Cosmic Trigger trilogy not only opened my eyes to the divine beauty of the Discordian faith, it brought me together with my crazy Goddess-fearing pal Vicki F. We wrote large chunks of Dodge This (the wittiest, wackiest, weirdest Western on the World Wide Web) with Eris in mind. Her mischievous influence pervades our writing then and now. At long last, some two decades after my mysterious religious experience, everything started to make (non)sense. I even had her tattooed on my back, just to be on the safe side.

I've never really had occasion to call on Eris until last night. I've invoked her name on many occasions, of course – writing for Goddess's sake, for example – but on the whole our relationship has been at arm's length. Last night, however, the karaoke evening drove me to call on her directly, via the medium of Facebook. (She's a switched-on kinda deity.)

Karaoke Update: 'Sex on bloody Fire.' Sweet Goddess of Chaos, I beseech thee to intercede now and smite these fuckers from the firmament before they start on the Phonics backlist. Come on, be nice to me. I've worshipped you unconditionally for years, and spread the one true religion widely and enthusiastically. Time you returned the favour.

A few minutes later Lucy G. (musician, artist, pagan, former lesbian) added a comment:

I could throw a curse their way if you like?

Nice offer, but I was looking for something more substantial.

However, the problem with Eris is that she doesn't do things by conventional means. The Old Testament God would have unleashed one of his popular plagues, or caused Aberdare to be razed to the ground by an earthquake, or sent a meteorite crashing through the roof of the pub and straight into the middle of the stage. You know the sort of thing he does: an according-to-Hoyle miracle.

The Egyptian pantheon could also have had a whale of a time, stealing the souls of these cretins and feeding them to Ammit, the Great Devourer, while Isis and Osiris looked on and laughed.

The old gods of Mesoamerica also went in for blood sacrifice in a big way. But I had to think about the poor girls who'd be cleaning up afterwards. Fair's fair, and all that.

Eris, on the other hand, has decided to torment the sceptics and the unbelievers by robbing them all of any sense of direction and/or spatial awareness.

I first noticed it at 9 a.m today, on the way to Spar to buy a paper. Mill Street lived up to its name for the first time in about two centuries, because everyone was milling around aimlessly outside the shops. They were even milling around outside the post office – and Martin retired about four months ago. Inside Spar was even worse, because everyone except me seemed to have forgotten how to form a queue. Inside the doors was a mass of people, wandering around blindly like the poor bastards in The Day of the Triffids. I bought my paper and legged it before they turned on me – either through sheer desperate panic, or because they needed someone with all their faculties to help them cope.

I walked to the bus stop, half-expecting the bugger from Merthyr to shoot out of the junction as soon as I got to the main road. But Eris is looking after me, remember. I'd only been waiting a minute or so when one came down from Hirwaun. I jumped on, found a seat about halfway down, and then tried not to laugh when we got to Tesco and a load of people boarded.

Bear in mind that the destination indicator read Glynhafod. This is the end of the road as far as buses are concerned – the very top of the blind valley where the aforementioned Stereophonics grew up. You don't want to go there without a valid reason. But that's where the buses go. Before they go there, of course, they have to go into Aberdare. That's a topographical necessity, in fact. So why the actual fuck did about five people seem shocked to learn that the bus was going to Aberdare? They wanted to catch the northbound bus, apparently – and they'd somehow managed to board the southbound one. My pal Jeff was on the bus, and I told him that today is International Celebrate Your Lack of Spatial Awareness Day. At the time I thought I was joking.

I called into Thereisnospoon for breakfast and to update my system. (I know I could have done it in the library, but with some eighty megabytes to download, I might well have used their entire data allowance for the month.)

While I was waiting to order my food, an elderly guy managed to completely miscalculate the capacity of his mug and pour coffee all over the place. Less than a minute later two of the barbints narrowly avoiding colliding when they were coming through the hatchway.

It dawned on me, reading the paper, that it's 23 September. Pace William Burroughs, Robert Anton Wilson was a huge fan of the number twenty-three. It turns up everywhere in Illuminatus! and Cosmic Trigger. I turned Paul E. onto the significance of the number some years ago, as a sort of introduction to Discordianism in general, and since then we've seen it everywhere. It assumed wider public significance in a terrifying film starring Jim Carrey, of course. The writers of Doctor Who and Torchwood also infiltrated it into the shows as often as they could. Russell T. Davies claimed that it was just an in-joke on set. Personally, I think Mr Davies might also have had a visit from a certain leggy redhead at some point in his life. Naturally she won't have had the same effect on him as she did on me, but we can't rule anything out at this stage.

I'm wondering how long this particular curse will afflict the people of Aberdare. It might just be a One Day's Wonder. Then again, given Eris's track record, this one could run and run …

A Few Weeks in the Matrix

In which The Author goes back to the Source

I recently landed the biggest proofreading job so far. Gollancz are reissuing William Gibson's 'Sprawl' novels – Neuromancer, Count Zero and Mona Lisa Overdrive – together with his collection of short stories Burning Chrome. Guess who got the gig to do all four?

It's been exciting for me, because they want these to be the definitive editions, and so I've been entrusted to bash a degree of consistency into the books. It's understandable, I suppose, because they came out at different times, and were presumably copy-edited by different people. I've been making long lists of charactes, product manufacturers (real and fictional), locations (real and fictional), and futuristic slang words, technical terms and foreign words, in order to apply the changes across the board.

It's been a fairly long time since I read Neuromancer, and I've never tackled the sequels before. As a result, I hadn't noticed just what a heavy influence Mr Gibson has been on the mainstream of science fiction over the past twenty years or so. I suppose the most obvious nod to his books was one of my favourite films of all times, The Matrix.

While the idea of plugging into a 'virtual reality' system anticipates Neuromancer by a few years – I've traced it back as far as Christopher Priest's novel A Dream of Wessex – it was the Wachowski Brothers who really brought the idea to a mass audience. While Mr Gibson uses the term 'the matrix' (with a lower case m) to describe the cyberspace world his characters explore, I think his vision of the internet owes more to the embarrassing graphics of Lawnmower Man than to our everyday experiences of surfing the Net. However, the character of the Finn, an AI construct who acts as an intermediary between the human protagonists and the sentient programs inhabiting the matrix, was a direct steal as the Oracle. (In Mona Lisa Overdrive the Finn even refers to himself as 'an oracle.') While the films owe a conceptual debt to Mr Gibson's books, the two media are worlds apart.

No, what I've got in mind is the subtle way in which Mr Gibson's ideas have spread into popular SF films and TV programmes over the years. Take Minority Report, for example. That's another great film based on a very short story by one of the Grand Masters of the genre, Philip K. Dick. You might not have noticed it unless you were looking, but the rundown areas of Washington DC are referred to at one point as 'the sprawl'. That's straight out of Neuromancer – as are the little mechanical spiders which the police use to search the building in which John Anderton is hiding.

Those same little spiders turned up again in the second episode of the revived Doctor Who, of all places. And it's though Doctor Who, perhaps surprisingly, that many of Mr Gibson's ideas have made it onto the small screen. In the two-parter 'Silence in the Library'/Forests of the Dead', Steven Moffat introduced the idea of an electronic interface which could record a person's consciousness for a short time. At the end of the second episode, all the characters who've been killed by the Vashta Nerada, and River Song, who sacrifices herself to save the Doctor, are reunited in a virtual world. That's a nod to Neuromancer, where the stored consciousness of a dead hacker known as the Dixie Flatline helps our hero crack the biggest encryption job of all time. In 'Time Heist', in the most recent series, one of the characters is an augmented human, who can plug hardware into a socket behind his ear. That's straight out of the Sprawl books as well.

Although they're some three decades old, and Mr Gibson has left the Sprawl behind to write more complex but less technologically biased books, his legacy in modern SF is huge and widespread. Read the books for yourself when they're reissued, and see how many winks to his ideas you can spot next time you're watching a film or enjoying the Doctor's latest adventures.

Several years ago, I became famous in the pub for remembering huge amounts of trivia which I could recall at a moment's notice. I used to tease my pals that I was going to start charging them for storing facts in my brain. That, of course, is the basic plot of 'Johnny Mnemonic' – later made into a rather disappointing but very stylish film with Keanu Reeves. And that's the reason I'm writing this today. The first story in Burning Chrome is, of course, 'Johnny Mnemonic'. Even though I had the book in front of me when I was working on the proof, the Voyager edition isn't without its production errors.

So, like Neo in The Matrix: Reloaded, I had to go back to the Source. If you've read my blog 'OmniScience' from a few years ago, you'll know that I was regularly reading this cutting-edge magazine of science fact, fiction and fantasy around the time that I was studying for my O levels, back in the very early 1980s.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I can now reveal the Source, as it was was revealed to me when I was about fifteen, and didn't have a fucking clue what was going on in the story at the time. Thirty-five years on, I still can't quite believe that I'm working on the reissue. When I wrote to Gollancz and told them I'd been a SF fan for most of my life, I don't think they believed me. Well, here's the proof (no pun intended!)