Tuesday night he looked up from Facebook on his iPad. “Sarah something on Doctor Who has died?” he said. “What’s that about?”

I checked my own Facebook and twitter and just froze. “Oh Christ,” I said. “It’s Lis Sladen.”

He sat bolt upright, like a rabbit caught in headlights, and put his hand to his mouth. “No!”

We barely spoke for the next half hour. Such was the shock at hearing of Elisabeth’s death. It was, frankly unthinkable.

I am still stunned by the news even after all this time. And so it seems are much of the country, young and old. Her portrayal of Sarah Jane was a tour de force: it was warm, genuine, heartfelt; a mix of believable terror, bravery and humour.

And from what I saw of her in documentaries and commentaries, Elisabeth also shared those qualities. A view borne out by what I’ve heard from friends who met and worked with her.

Elisabeth Sladen was a true one-off who illuminated so many lives either through her performances or in person, and she will be missed by so many. My thoughts go out to her family and friends and colleagues. And to those children now struggling to understand that the star of their favourite show is no more. Even I, as immune to death as I seem to have become, can’t wrap my head around it.

Still so young, and with so much left to give. Rest in peace Elisabeth, and thank you so much.

Thus far 2011 has been something of a strain. I started a new job in January, somewhat recklessly heading back to a company that worked me into the ground last time I was there, but this time doing something rather different. I kind of felt I’d done “support” after 9.5 years, and the opportunity came back to become a trainer of software instead.

So yeah… me, in a room, with a captive audience, being paid to swan about and pretend I know about stuff.

It’s ideal isn’t it?

But it has thus far necessitated two trips out to Burlington in Massachusetts: 7 and a half weeks all told in an area which had, at the time, fairly dramatic weather. (We were snowed in to the hotel twice.)

Still, I appear now to have been “approved” by the company and have actually started training clients, which I have to say I do rather love.

Less good is the insane quantity of admin and uncertainty that goes with it, but the core part of the job is enjoyable. And my boss is fabulous so that’s good too. (We both started at the same time so are just guiding each other through the whirlwind, which is nice.)

And while I was out there last time, my remaining grandparent had a stroke, became gravely ill and died. His funeral last week was a rather affecting affair. On the plus side it was very well officiated by my dad, my brother did an excellent reading, and it was nice to meet members of the family who I haven’t seen in decades. Still a sad occasion, though.

In other news the flatmate and I are not extending our tenancy in Streatham. The boiler has finally driven us past the brink of insanity and when we were told we had to sign up for another year or go we started to look elsewhere.

Which of course has left us at the mercy of the general uselessness of letting agents. And trying to fit all this in amongst the work and travel and bank holidays and so on is proving a strain.

Today I had forty cardboard boxes delivered. At the rate Chris and I are going we may be fashioning them into a house until we find somewhere better. Oh well!

So in preparation for the first part of the two part finale The Coming of Arthur (to be followed next week by The Mopping Up of Merlin) I decided to see if I could put together a quick drinking game in its honour.

The rules so far are that you must down a drink for every one of the following:

• A drink for every evil smirk from Morgana
• A drink for every time Arthur is either looking the other way or ends up being unconscious when Merlin magics something
• Two drinks in celebration if Arthur gets his shirt off. You know… Just because
• A drink for every time Arthur and Merlin bicker like a couple who haven’t fucked in days.
• A drink for every time Tom Ellis appears on screen. You know… Just because
• A drink for every time Gwain grins like a loveable Irish rogue
• A drink for every allegedly abandoned place still well lit by candles
• A drink for every time Morgause acts like someone stole her eyeliner and shat in her handbag
• A drink for every time Merlin goes to Gaius for advice and ends up being told they can’t tell Uther or Arthur

I was totally twatted by eight o’clock last night.

It’s that first rule that was the killer: I saw three smirks. THREE! And one was in full view of Gwen. That’s how evil Morgana is now.

That said, even then, sometimes they veer into the so-bad-they’re at least entertaining, if not capable of actually attaining the level of good. (Yes, The Lair, I’m looking at you.)

Recently, though, I was trawling through the darkest reaches of the Sky+ channels when I stumbled across two hot guys about to make out. My interest, naturally, was piqued, and I then found myself staying put as the show in question unravelled before me with a script that actually amused for the right reasons, and managed to stay just the right side of insanity to be compelling and not laughable.

This, as you may have guessed, was Sordid Lives: the Series, a more-or-less prequel to a 2000 film (“a black comedy about white trash”), that somehow has found itself on the ailing Film 24 channel in heavy rotation.

And I can’t recommend it highly enough. Olivia Newton-John and Rue McClanahan are the big names in a uniformly great cast and amazingly the whole thing even manages to bear repeated viewing with various subtleties revealing themselves with each visit.

The budget is clearly low (although this is not apparent from the design or the acting, more from some slightly flabby editing early on) but as a whole it really is a genuinely funny and engaging show with real warmth and wit.

There’s arguably a slightly slow start in the first couple of episodes, but the fourth (“Call Waiting”) is probably one of my favourite episodes of television ever – it’s the sort of phone-led story that was Steven Moffat’s stock in trade, pre Doctor Who – and the subsequent episodes fair rattle along from there on in.

Sadly there’s only one series, funding having been pulled after, as it would have been great to see the events of the film brought into and rationalised properly in the series (the continuity of the story in the film doesn’t totally match up).

I genuinely hope they somehow get the chance to do more. It deserves it.

It’d also be nice if the DVDs finally came out on Region 2, because I doubt Film 24 will be with us much longer…

The interest a few years ago in reviving K-9 for a new audience was sudden and short-lived. Within a few brief months the stories had come and gone, and it was assumed that the project had never got off the ground.

These assumptions, however, are wrong; some time had in fact been spent developing the new series and it may come as a surprise to learn that it was the intention of the producers to go back and fully revive the series K-9 and Company, even going so far as to return Elisabeth “Stepping Stones” Sladen to the role of Sarah-Jane Smith.

Aside from updating K-9, the format was to remain essentially the same; although the content of the series was to be more gritty and adult, it would still be set in the same rural middle England as the original. It was intended that a feature length pilot episode, essentially the same as A Girl’s Best Friend (“the script was up for grabs” – Jeremiah Chechnik, producer), would have been followed by a six-part series for the British home market.

Following extensive access to the producer’s archive – two cardboard boxes containing burnt roaches, scribbled notes and some pornography – we can now present the exclusive episode plan to a series that almost was.

Episode 1: A Nasty Habit.

Gradually getting pissed on cheap chardonnay in a bus shelter, Sarah-Jane is surprised to discover a coach-load of old men in suspicious brown robes and tonsured hair-do’s. Her investigations take her to the set of a medieval drama, but when she overhears the ritual chanting “Equity, Equity” she knows it isn’t water and food colouring in the Abbot’s bedpan.

Meanwhile, who is the mysterious stranger determined to turn K-9 into a novelty barbecue? What is the phenomenon having such an adhesive effect on Brendan’s fitness magazines? And why is Aunt Lavinia so obsessed with fish?

Episode 2: Eau de Humanity.

Whilst helping Aunt Lavinia shop for dungarees and comfortable shoes, Sarah-Jane decides to help her writer friend Terrance Dudley by popping into the library for “The Junior Book of Covens and Sects”.

But whom is that raven-haired librarian taking an unhealthy interest in Aunt Lavinia? Who are those hooded men lurking between “Weather” and “Wombles”? And who is that strange man Brendan discovers lurking around the public convenience? Sarah-Jane smells a rat, and it isn’t Brendan’s new perfume…

Episode 3: A Man’s Best Friend.

Running down the road in a pink tracksuit and leg warmers, Brendan is surprised by a group of men who force him to take part in rituals hailing from Ancient Greece. Meanwhile, K-9 looks to be in danger as a tall man with ginger hair and a C5 tries tracking him down.

After two pints of vodka, Sarah-Jane, fresh from taking Aunt Lavinia to her annual Bra-burning, realises this “Sir Clive” is an impostor. How will she break his sinister hold over the home computer market? Why is K-9 rubbing himself against the furniture? And why is Sarah-Jane unable to see straight?

Episode 4: Summer Solstice of Love.

A night spent formation-vomiting in the local Student Union catches up with Sarah-Jane who determines to find out just what happened after the bar had closed. Meanwhile Brendan joins an all-male wrestling group and comes under the influence of a charismatic figure known only as “Julian”.

What is the supernatural force that has turned Brendan’s hair so white? Who were those suspicious figures dancing at the union chanting “Advocat, Advocat”? And why did Sarah-Jane wake up wearing nothing but a fur coat and no knickers?

Episode 5: Not on the Begonias!

As Sarah-Jane recovers from her latest breakdown, she discovers it’s summer fair time in the village of Little Chomping. The weather is unseasonably warm and as flowers start to wilt and tempers fray, Sarah-Jane thinks that someone is using witchcraft to increase their chances of cleaning up at the produce competition. Just as she is getting close to the truth, Brendan is kidnapped by ruthless group of cultists who take him to Manchester – for the weekend of the summer fair!

If nothing is going on then why is Lily Gregson so interested in the size of Aunt Lavinia’s courgettes? What is the medication Sarah-Jane’s doctor prescribed really for? And why does Brendan still have that sacrificial stole from the pilot episode?

Episode 6: Murder, She Hoped.

It’s a particularly slack time for witchcraft so Sarah-Jane is splitting her time between perfecting her Angela Lansbury impression and setting fire to her neighbours’ curtains. When Aunt Lavinia calls from her “conference” in Brighton with tales of strange people entering her bedroom and emptying the mini-bar, Brendan encourages her to investigate. A night-time escapade ensues, and Sarah-Jane discovers Brendan wandering the streets in a seriously dishevelled state.

What is the meaning of his mysterious chant “big fish, little fish, cardboard box”? Why does he profess to love everybody? And why is Aunt Lavinia so keen to visit Allied Carpets?

Now, given my status as a massive Who-er it’s probably not a surprise that some elements of the Time Lord’s adventures would creep in and so that’s what I’m putting down my battles with the forces of evil down to.

Well, that and drinking less. I’m sure avoiding nightly coma is probably helping my unconscious work through a few things.

Now, one such episode involved me battling giant mutant bees invading a country hospital. I was vaguely amused by this one, not only because the rather attractive male nurse who helped me managed to destroy them with a scream through various amplifiers (a la Bonnie Langford) but also because it means that like early Who even my dreams weren’t straying much beyond the home counties.

It was terribly exciting though. Would make a great story.

Another recent one involved me trying to foil the evil machinations of my arch enemy, Anne Diamond.

This, I must admit, puzzled me. To this day I have had no other negative thoughts about the lady whatsoever. But there she was, trying to take over the world and looking fabulous in a power suit.

I even complimented her on her appearance and she thanked me profusely – before going on to chase me through a forest in her high heels whilst trying to blast the crap out of me with a laser gun.

All I’ll say is my nocturnal life is much more interesting (and gayer) than my waking one.

But I recognise this, and I chastise myself for it frequently, generally allowing myself to spiral as a result into a cycle of self-irritation and loathing that is so typical of my particular brand of inexplicable fuck-wittery.

Now my routine of a morning usually consists of rising, wondering if the cat wants feeding yet, realising we don’t have a cat, getting dressed, cleaning teeth, checking emails/Facebook and then reluctantly sloping off for the bus.

Friday I must have done all of this as usual, but since I rose late and hadn’t really woken up my reluctant sloping for the bus took on a more urgent pace when I saw the 133 waiting at the bus stop and decided to go for it, power-mincing my way with extreme haste towards the hated omnibus.

So quite how I ended up on the 159 I really have no idea.

I can only assume I was more tired than I thought. It was only two stops down – I think between Hazell Dean and Boy Krazy – that I heard the words “Marble Arch” announced and found myself wondering why my bus thought it was headed in that direction.

Three stops later it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I was wrong and the bus was right.

A slight blip of irritation tried to attract my attention but I think I was too tired even for that and it drowned, unloved, in a sea of high-camp nonsense. Instead I just thought “meh”, settled down, and decided to enjoy the change of scenery.

Oddly, not only was the central line practically deserted when I joined to correct my course, but having gone so far out of my way I still somehow managed to arrive at work earlier than normal. And I felt oddly invigorated by seeing a different set of buildings glide past for a change.

So there we are. Clearly I’m mellowing in my old age.

This Friday I’m going to see if I can get to work via Porthmadoc. Wish me luck!

Truth is I managed, during a state of mild inebriation, to sprain my ankle rather unpleasantly way back in August. This was following a terribly entertaining afternoon spent at the Ben and Jerry’s festival on Clapham Common – an event which was officially about seeing the Human League (aka the Holy Trinity) but ended up being more about the Merry-Go-Round.

But anyway, after a few jars at the Two Brewers I headed off home thinking “it’s a Sunday, school night, best get a good night’s sleep in”. I then proceeded to bolt across the road, trip over a crossing-slab, vault into the oncoming traffic and then out of it again, crunching things unpleasantly as I went.

Seriously I was like an action-hero.

A drunk and slightly crap action hero.

But after a couple of days of no-movement, the doctor still refused me Physio and so I had to get better slowly under my own steam. And it’s been mostly fine since then; a bit throbby once the sadist has had his wicked way at the gym, mind, but otherwise fine.

Until the current cold snap. And by God it’s irksome at the moment. It starts to ache on exposure to the cold and barely lets up for ages. I’ve gone from being an action hero to the sort of ancient army sort who copped a bullet in the Crimean war and finds it always flares up in the cold and damp.

Someone fetch me some tweed. And a walking stick.

And a comedy moustache…

And that usually includes me and I – like 99.9% of humans – am a selfish bastard.

So my initial reaction to the current postal strikes was one of “oh for the love of Camelot, do you have to? Can’t you just go into arbitration and sort it out between you?”

I have, however, rather come round to the CWU’s way of thinking. Not least because it’s the Royal Mail management and Lord “of Darkness” Mandelson who are refusing to go to ACAS so I can see why the balance has tipped.

Plus, the Conservatives have pledged to privatise the Royal Mail should they come into power and since everything they are I am not, I can’t support the changes suggested in that area. And more to the point I believe Royal Management are manipulating the figures and are, essentially, a bunch of lying bastards. This article here rather illustrates why.

So no, I think the Royal Mail management should be sacked and replaced and the system left in public hands with workers treated fairly. The Royal Mail is too important to be fucked up like this, and there’s never been a single public-turned-private institution that I’ve ever had satisfactory dealings with. Private companies don’t really understand public services.

Now by an astonishing coincidence I am reading Terry Pratchett’s “Going Postal” at the moment, and it’s proving to have some remarkable parallels – not least of which is Lord Vetinari’s comment about the service which has become a joke.

“Unfortunately the Post Office came to be seen not as a system for moving the mail efficiently, to the benefit and profit of all, but as a money box. And so it collapsed, losing both mail and money. A lesson for all of us perhaps.”

Echoes a bit doesn’t it?

Jan Moir has come up trumps really, even by the Mail’s usual standards. Her article here is an astonishingly vicious, ill-informed and gossipy slab of outright prejudice. She’s really raised the bar for them – how they’ll keep it up is beyond me.

I dunno… it never ceases to amaze me how much gossip, speculation and innuendo pass off as fodder for newspapers these days. Amazes and saddens.

Still, at least the ever-reliable Enemies of Reason and The Daily Quail (worth bookmarking, btw) have risen to the occasion and exposed the writer for the tatty little spite-vendor she really is.

If only we had ducking stools instead of blogs, eh?