Who's Who?

It's the same old story. You let someone have a sabbatical and instead of coming back to work with renewed commitment, they hand in their notice. I blame the critics. If they'd panned David Tennant's stage performances, perhaps he would have decided to stick to gurning his way through another season of Doctor Who.

The selection of a new Who is a cultural event that, in Britain at least, far eclipses the election of a new Pope. The choice is nearly always surprising, but usually makes sense once the actor has settled into the role.


Who, in a million years, would have picked leather-jacketed Mancunian Christopher Ecclestone? He didn't even lose his accent. But somehow he carried it off, and as for the contemporary dress, I like to think that I was the original inspiration for this, following my little-known period as John Pertwee's assistant during the 1990s:


(This photo was the result of one of those serendipitous moments when you happen to be in the right place at the right time. In this instance I was walking through Hammersmith on a Sunday morning, feeling slightly the worse for wear, when I passed a hotel that was staging a Doctor Who convention. I sneaked in and ended up having a photo taken with the charming John Pertwee!)

I have no idea when the successor will be announced (and frankly, I can wait), but several names have been bandied around. A strong favourite is Patterson Joseph, who appears as Johnson in Peep Show. There has never been a black Doctor before and he would be an excellent choice. Another name mentioned is Julian Rhind-Tutt, who would also fit into the role nicely.

It is also traditional for completely inappropriate actors to be suggested as possible relacements. The wild card this time is James Nesbitt, who surely lacks the necessary otherwordly qualities. A few years ago there was talk of giving the role to the estuary-accented, floppy-haired biter of homeless people's ears, Alan Davies, which would have been a disaster.

But perhaps the most controversial suggestion of all is the possibility that Doctor Who could be played by a...woman!

I actively embrace equality of the sexes in all fields, but I must draw the line at Doctor Who. He might have two hearts, but in every other respect he is a bloke. He likes gadgets, is emotionally stunted, keeps getting lost because he won't ask for directions and seems to wear the same clothes for several days at a time. I would only approve of a female Doctor if the BBC promised to cast a butch lesbian in the role.

But not Pat from Eastenders.

The latest news from Waterstone's

Last week I had a drink with former colleague from Waterstone's. I had been looking forward to hearing the latest gossip, but it turned out to be a rather depressing experience and after half an hour I was desperate to change the subject.

Apparently the management have now introduced bag searches for members of staff. This comes on top of a compulsory uniform (sorry, dress code - the word uniform is apparently frowned on in Waterstone's), mystery shoppers, restricted access to proof copies and the introduction of a course called Get Selling (because those airy-fairy booksellers don't know how to sell books).

My ex-colleague added that they'd read on book on Nazi Germany a few weeks ago, and were struck by the parallels with Waterstone's. It was a slightly melodramatic comparison. As far as I know, Waterstone's haven't started exterminating Ottakar's booksellers yet, but I could see that the combination of inefficiency, obsession with efficiency and intolerance of dissent all sounded horribly familiar.

I used to want to hear what was going on in Waterstone's and bookselling in general, but this time something had changed. I no longer felt any connection to the book trade and I was reluctant to open up an old wound. I listened patiently until there was a slight lull in the conversation, then decided to change the subject:

'Have you heard of an author called David Karp?'

Fire!

I've loved fire ever since I was a child. Tank battles between toy soldiers weren't quite the same unless some lighter fuel was involved, and I particularly enjoyed turning Jiff lemons into mini flame-throwers. So what better place for a pyromaniac to live than Lewes? Every year the town stages a spectacular procession, in which hundreds of people from different bonfire societies march through the town in bizarre costumes, wielding flaming torches.

It's a wonderful evening, but the Lewes Bonfire Night procession draws too many visitors for the town to cope with and many find it a rather claustrophobic experience. However, two weeks earlier there is another parade, which is a sort of dress rehearsal for the main event. It is not on the same scale as November 5th, but in many ways it's far more enjoyable and is, as the League of Gentlemen would say, a local procession for local people:





There are so many things I enjoy about the Lewes bonfire processions: the noise of the drums, the heat of the flaming torches as they go past, the cavalier attitude towards health and safety, the feeling of anarchy the grips the town, the sound of burning wheelbarrows as they rattle down the hill, the eclectic mixture of costumes and the unpredictable choice of music.

Is it any surprise that the God of Hellfire himself - Arthur Brown - lives in Lewes? Only last year, he managed to set fire to his hair (again) at a local concert. Ideally, I would like to see every procession end with a performance of Fire:

Rye

One of the great pleasures in life is sitting in a pub, enjoying a pint with someone you've known for years. When I lived in Twickenham, I took it for granted that I would see a particular friend at least once a week and without fail, we'd go through the same routine of drinking five pints of Guinness, followed by minor acts of vandalism towards the unsightly cluster of estate agents' signs that littered the communal garden outside my flat.

(Once I was caught by a policeman, halfway through the act of pulling up a 'For Sale' sign. He beckoned me over and said 'Now sir, we all know that estate agents are the lowest form of life, but I'd still like you to put that sign back.' What a gent)

I assumed that our weekly drink would continue until one of us died, but one day my friend decided to quit his job in the City and move to Kent. Apart from a couple of meetings in London, we saw little of each other and I wondered if we would eventually lose touch.

Then, a couple of years after moving to Lewes, I discovered that if we both left our houses at a similar time and caught trains to Rye, we'd arrive within minutes of each other. Several years on, Rye is now home to our new 'local' and we meet several times a year. I was there yesterday and, several pints later, came perilously close to buying a ukulele in a charity shop.

However, to get to the point...

If you haven't visited Rye, it's worth making a special journey. It is a beautiful, medieval town that is almost completely unspoilt and also has strong literary connections. Henry James spent the last 18 years of his life at Lamb House which, annoyingly, is only open on Thursday and Saturday afternoons. As writers' houses go, it's a little disappointing as so much of the property is off limits, but it is still worth a visit.

However, Lamb House also has other literary associations. EF Benson and his brother lived there in the 1920s and it became Mallards in the Mapp and Lucia novels. I am ashamed to say that I've never read Benson's books, but I watched the brilliant Channel Four adaptation and loved it.


Rumer Godden also lived at Lamb House for a few years, before moving to another part of Rye and set In This House of Brede in the local area. Once again, I haven't read the book, but the film's great. Any movie with the beautiful Judi Bowker and Diana Rigg dressed up as nuns can't be bad.

Rye has also been home to Joan Aiken, Dr Syn author Russel Thorndyke, Radcliffe Hall, Spike Milligan, Macolm Saville ( author of The Gay Dolphin Adventure - now sadly out of print) and Conrad Aiken, father of Joan.

Today, Rye's literary tradition is alive and well. John Ryan, author of the Captain Pugwash books lives and works in Rye. This is apt, as Rye is one of the Cinque Ports and has a strong nautical tradition, even if the town is now several miles from the sea.


However, the greatest writer living in Rye today must be Samuel Youd, aka John Christopher, the author of The Death of Grass (which is being reissued by Penguin next year). He is now 86 and I hope that he will live long enough to witness the resurgence of interest in his novels.


So that's the end of my pitch for Rye. If the local tourist board would like to send me a small token of their appreciation, I am open to offers as long as it doesn't involve those other famous residents of Rye, the Cheeky Girls.