My Life as a Doctor Who Fan: Part 3 – 1982 to 1984

New broom John Nathan-Turner had made a fast and clean sweep by the start of Peter Davison’s first season in January 1982. I enjoyed the revival of Who’s fortunes and the freshness of Davison’s Doctor, even if he was too vanilla for my taste. His “cricket” costume made him look like an Italian ice-cream seller. Stories such as Kinda and Earthshock were outstanding, but 1980s Doctor Who is the period I’m now least likely to revisit.

I hadn’t lost my love of older episodes and throughout 1982 bootleg videotapes were flying thick and fast in fandom. One pen pal sent me a VHS of The Green Death, which I hadn’t seen since 1973, and to fill the cassette he bunged on a ropey copy of The Moonbase part 4, a Patrick Troughton/Cybermen episode from 1967. I wore that tape thin. I was still living at home and luckily my sisters Karen and Debra were a receptive audience for vintage Who. We sat through a diabolical copy of Inferno (1970), filmed off a TV screen in Canada to circumvent the different video standards, but were enthralled by its compelling storyline. Another night we were helpless with mirth watching the creaky second episode of The War Machines (1966).

DWAS held its “Inter-face II” convention on 13th November at the Central London Polytechnic, dedicated to Troughton. He was a reclusive figure, and Michael Craze, who’d played his dishy companion Ben, made for a warm and entertaining guest. This Inter-face was more of a face-to-face because, for the first time, I met in person some of my pen pals, including Derek Handley. He was 16 to my 17. A generous, good-humoured man, a maker of costumes and props, over the years he’s laboured on the telesnap reconstructions of missing episodes and produced photo galleries for DVDs and Blu-rays. Recently, Derek has been engaged in work for the Radio Times Archive. I’m pleased our friendship has lasted more than 40 years.

1983

It cannot be overstated how exciting the 20th anniversary was for fans in 1983. As I write this now during what is – extraordinarily – the 60th anniversary, with Doctor Who still running on BBC1, it’s amusing to look back and recall what a milestone the 20th seemed.

The current Season 20 with Davison was hit and miss, offering oblique links to the past in every story. Omega – who he? The Mara? OK, recent. The Brigadier in Mawdryn Undead? Lovely. The Black and White Guardians last seen briefly five years previously… whoopie-doo. This flirtation with the past was acceptable for a special birthday, even if it bemused the casual viewer. It was fan service, but then fans of different cloths were taking over the programme for first time. Uberfan Ian Levine operated as unofficial continuity adviser, while Davison, Matthew Waterhouse (Adric) and even JN-T had been childhood devotees.

Without JN-T’s drive, however, there would’ve been no celebratory special in November 1983. Rehiring many former stars, it would be called The Five Doctors, even though Tom Baker declined to appear (old footage was used instead) and, with Hartnell dead, Richard Hurndall was cast in his place.

On 17th March, a photocall was held at the Unit HQ location in Denham, with many of the cast and a waxwork of Baker. Photographer Steve Benbow captured the occasion for Radio Times.

November seemed way off. Looming on the horizon that Easter was a significant event at Longleat – “The Doctor Who Celebration: Twenty Years of a Time Lord”. It turned out to be the fans’ Woodstock, and staggeringly more popular than the organisers predicted. The stately home was mobbed by die-hards, the Who-curious and family day-trippers. The traffic brought Wiltshire to a standstill.

I was prepared. I had three tickets (£4 for adults, £2 for children) and guarded them like golden tickets to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. I was going with my dad and sister Karen. Aged 17, I planned it all myself. Before the internet age, you had to go to a library and hope they had telephone directories for the whole UK. I called all round Wiltshire to find accommodation and secured a family room at the Old Ship Hotel in Mere. £40 for three people. Steep but needs must.

We set off at 5.00am on Easter Sunday (3rd April) and when we arrived, a throng of ticketless hopefuls were already at the main gates. Driving across the grounds, we spotted the main house clustered with marquees, banners and gigantic effigies of monsters, and soldiers patrolling queue barriers.

One marquee housed studio sets including the TARDIS, and another served as a cinema. There were separate tents for costume and make-up, special effects and merchandise. We made a beeline for the Arena where the talent would go on show. And blimey, was there talent!

We secured seats ten rows from the stage. A police box stood at the centre and before long Jon Pertwee burst through its doors, in full velvet finery, cloak flapping, arms outstretched, bellowing, “I AM THE DOCTOR!” Thrilling. There was my Doctor after nine years – and boy, did Pertwee know how to work the room. A true showman and polished raconteur, he soon had Dad snorting with laughter; it made his weekend sacrifice worthwhile.

Decidedly low-key was the arrival of Patrick Troughton. He’d been cajoled by JN-T into his first convention appearance and strolled on in spectacles with the bearing of a bank manager. He rambled and harrumphed and gazed into the crowd with astonishment, yet had dignity, a twinkle of magic, warming to the wave of enthusiasm. It was simply wonderful that Troughton had shown up.

Easter Monday was even more frenetic, the crowds ridiculous. I abandoned Dad and Karen to elbow into a second Pertwee talk, where he was reunited with his Unit buddies, Nicholas Courtney, John Levene and Richard Franklin, to riotous amusement. Hours later, I found myself stuck in a bottleneck behind Courtney’s tweedy blazer as he inched through the hordes. Davison and his fellow cast took the stage, including Valentine Dyall (the Black Guardian). The event concluded with Tom Baker – dowdy but effervescent and a master at hurling “benevolent alien” at his fans.

Wandering the grounds with a bag of fanzines, I saw Radio 2’s Stewpot (DJ Ed Stewart) broadcasting live to the nation. He cornered Lord Bath, who owned Longleat, adored Doctor Who and had established the exhibition in the 1970s. Snapping away at that moment was a photographer who I couldn’t have known then was RT’s Don Smith. Decades later, when I studied his Longleat photos, I was amazed to see he’d captured me in passing. I often teased Don that he must have photographed everybody and everything in his long career and his jaw dropped when I showed him he’d even caught me as a gawky teen. “Well, I’m blowed! Is that really you?” He was chuffed. I printed them out and Don autographed them.

Although it seems my whole life revolved around Doctor Who, and to an extent it did, there were other distractions. In spring 1983, I passed my driving test first time – to the astonishment of my instructor. I enjoyed going to horror movies with my cousin Sue. I loved synth pop and my head was full of Soft Cell, Yazoo, Eurythmics and Depeche Mode. I was facing my A-levels at Chesham High and itching to escape the education system altogether. Having had a taste of work in an adult environment, I knew there’d be no university for me. Aged 18, I started work full time as a clerk for Lance Kent solicitors in Chesham. I loved that job and all the people who nurtured me there but had my eye on television, so I secured a preliminary interview and typing test at BBC Appointments in Portland Place, opposite Broadcasting House.

I’d crashed one of my dad’s vans in a country lane but, undeterred and feeling quite grown up, I attempted my longest drive yet – to DWAS’s 20th Anniversary Party at the Grand Hotel in Birmingham. I checked in and with trepidation went up to my room, which I was sharing with a stranger. A bearded guy, a decade older and rather posh. Bruce Campbell was friendly but must have clocked me as wet behind the ears. After some break-the-ice chit-chat he announced grandly, “Of course you do realise that John Nathan-Turner, his people and most of the DWAS executive are homosexual.” He pronounced it “homma-sex-sewell” in that public-school fashion. Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather, but I continued unpacking my pyjamas. I was questioning my own sexuality at 18 so it took a while to process this revelation.

The Party, such as it was, started on Saturday 3rd September. It wasn’t thrilling. Guests included sound engineer Dick Mills and special effects man Mat Irvine, neither of whose field of expertise or stage presence floated my boat. The flopsy-daisy director Peter Moffatt was interviewed but obviously guarded about his upcoming special, The Five Doctors. And I took a pee at the urinal next to Mark Strickson, who played companion Turlough and was the starriest guest that weekend.

Derek, his mates and I had all decided to brave what nowadays is termed “cosplay”. Derek had a costume actually from The Horns of Nimon and Paul Lunn made a cracking Tom Baker. I came as Troughton’s Doctor, complete with tall hat and baggy check trousers that my mum had run up on her Singer sewing machine, rolling her eyes, and my old school recorder which I’d painted blue. Passing by, DWAS historian Jeremy Bentham said, “Very smart.” This was my first and last Who cosplay.

The best thing that weekend happened at Sunday breakfast. I filled my tray with the barely edibles on offer and dithered about the dining room which was heaving with the great unwashed. One seat was free at a table for two, with a man sitting alone. He wore an orange roll-neck sweater, looked aloof under his dark floppy hair, but greeted me in a friendly manner. We made small-talk and got on well. He told me his name was Ian or something, and I thought nothing of it. I must have been one of the few people in that room who didn’t know who he was (more of which later). But this was an important encounter. And we’re still friends 40 years later.

The next 20th anniversary celebration was at the National Film Theatre in London on 29th/30th October. I needed to join the British Film Institute to book tickets – a decision I’ve never regretted because I remain a member to this day, and the NFT (or BFI Southbank as it’s been rebranded) quickly became a cathedral of enlightenment. Over the years, I’ve been to hundreds of screenings and schooled myself in the history of cinema.

The NFT weekend was called “Doctor Who: the Developing Art”. Episodes from all eras were screened across their two cinemas, necessitating much organisation and hurrying for Who-types unaccustomed to haste. There were also symposiums with the illustrious. JN-T, Anthony Ainley and Heather Hartnell were all great value, and gasps went up as the elusive Troughton entered the building and proved far more ebullient than he’d been at Longleat. People were also excited because two episodes from The Daleks’ Master Plan had just been recovered and programmed at the last minute.

In the NFT lobby, I bumped into my friend “Ian” from Birmingham who suggested, “You should come to the Tun.” “The what?” “The One Tun. A little pub in Farringdon. We have a sci-fi gathering there on the first Thursday of every month. It can get very busy… The next one is this Thursday.” So off I went again, a shy lad venturing into the unknown.

It was a tiny grotty pub in Saffron Hill and, yes, it was heaving. But within moments I found my new friend, I had a drink in my hand, and he was introducing me to his circle of chums. Steve Payne. Gordon Blows. Jeremy Bentham. David Saunders. Huge figures in DWAS. Names I’d read in fanzines for years, all much older than me, and here I was gassing with them. It was only at the end of the evening when “Ian” wrote his details on a piece of paper that I realised he was Jan Vincent-Rudzki, founding president of the Society. Ohhh! He had a formidable reputation so perhaps that was why he’d been sitting undisturbed in that hotel canteen. Jan worked for the Beeb and asked, “Would you like to come to the Doctor Who studio next Thursday?” Let’s just say I didn’t need to check my diary.

I showed up pronto at the gates of TV Centre that dark night (10th November 1983) and within minutes Jan was giving me a tour of Studio 6 (TC6), where Planet of Fire was in production. Crammed into the space were: a greenish, box-like set (the Master’s laboratory); the twisted formation of a crashed spaceship; a colonnaded temple ruin with the police box; and – holy of holies – the TARDIS control room. A surprisingly small, splayed-open set, it was battered around the edges, but at its heart, like some hi-tech altar, stood the six-sided console. The sleek redesign yet to debut on screen in The Five Doctors. With some ceremony, I stroked and twiddled its knobs and levers…

Up on the second floor, we entered the public gallery with a bird’s-eye view of TC6. A privileged cabal (BBC employees and associates) had gathered to observe the recording; I recognised David Howe, Gary Russell and Stephen James Walker. It was all rather masonic. Just below the gallery windows we watched the “miniaturised” Master going through his scenes, and through the forest of lights festooning the ceiling we could see across, live, to various takes of crucial moments in the Doctor Who mythology: Peri joining the TARDIS, Turlough’s farewell, and the moment when he finally revealed his origins. Don Smith was on set, capturing scenes exactly as I remember them from my studio baptism.

After the lights went up around 10pm, Jan and Steve invited me to the BBC Club bar where we had a jolly old time. Roughly ten years older, they were so kind, drawing me out of my shyness, and afterwards bombed along the A40(M) flyover to drop me at Baker Street in time for my last train.

That November the Radio Times 20th Anniversary Special hit the high streets. It wasn’t a patch on RT’s special for the tenth but was nevertheless beautifully assembled, with lustrous photos and a potted history by Ian Levine. The regular weekly magazine had cover artwork by Andrew Skilleter but was hit by what RT described as “unofficial action by print union Sogat 82”. Thus, in large parts of the UK, the must-have issue wasn’t available. It was DWAS to the rescue!

David Saunders was now running the Society as its “co-ordinator” and asked various associates, including me, to snap up 25 copies each to mail out to members. It was one of my earliest tasks as I joined his team of acolytes, typing address labels for renewals and licking stamps. Nauseating after the first dozen. But I earned my stripes as “admin assistant” and gained free membership. In one massive mailing session, a group of us sat stuffing the Celestial Toyroom newsletter into envelopes – nice young guys such as Bill Baggs, Dominic May and Robbie Moubert. Dom later edited CT, had regular columns in DWM and RT, and became a dear friend.

David was quite an eccentric, only in his mid 30s but a man from another time. He lived in a terraced house in Harlesden where he’d grown up with his parents (recently deceased). It had a 1950s vibe and was still cluttered with their possessions. My abiding memory is that the bathroom always had a choice of three types of toilet paper, from puppy soft to shiny municipal rough. He enjoyed telling me about his chequered friendship with JN-T and naming all the actors in recent episodes who were “friends of Dorothy”. (He needed to explain that one.)

The Five Doctors itself passed in a flash, really. It accomplished much, but British fans were left fuming that it premiered in America on the actual anniversary (23rd November), while we had to wait until Friday 25th where it was shoehorned untidily into a Children in Need fundraiser.

Jan invited me to TV Centre again – two nights running – in mid-December to watch The Caves of Androzani in production. Davison’s finale became a fan favourite but, me being me, I was awfully blasé. By now, I was being royally spoilt. Unimpressed, I walked around the villain Morgus’s beige plywood office in TC6, spotted plastic drainpipes around his doorways, the shoddy daub that represented a city skyline beyond his windows. It all looked a bit Blake’s 7. In the viewing gallery we overlooked John Normington (Morgus) directly below as he chuntered through multiple takes with his secretary; we sniggered at how silly his lift-shaft-plunge murder of the President looked from above.

The cave system, however, was convincingly cavernous and disappeared into the darkness. I’m delighted that I got to walk through those “narrows” where gun battles between androids, military and mercenaries unfolded. I saw Salateen’s perfunctory but oh-so-effective death scene in real time, several times over, and spotted an excitable bearded figure dashing about. Director Graeme Harper liked to call the shots on the studio floor.

Also on 15th December I spied down below in TC6 all of Davison’s former companions (Matthew Waterhouse, Sarah Sutton, Janet Fielding and Mark Strickson) standing about, idly bantering. (Shame no one thought to photograph the cast together on the night.) Stifling giggles, each actor hit their mark and banged out a farewell line to the dying Doctor. Then Anthony Ainley strode into view, eyes gleaming, ready for his close-up and… Clunk! Flash! The studio lights came up. It was 10pm and everyone downed tools. The Master would have to tape his “Die, Doctor!” line the next day.

1984

To many who grew up in the 1970s – and had studied Orwell’s novel at school – 1984 had long loomed ahead with a degree of dread. Then, suddenly, it was upon us. The world didn’t end, the West hadn’t become a totalitarian Oceania, but the news was doom-laden. With the Falklands War in the recent past, 1984 brought with it the year-long miners’ strike, the Brighton bombing by the IRA, the spread of Aids, the Bhopal chemical leak and the famine in Ethiopia. The threat of nuclear armageddon hadn’t gone away, and for good reason Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Two Tribes became the soundtrack of the year (nine weeks at number one in the UK charts).

1984 was a turbulent epoch in which to be turning 19, emerging into adulthood, and trying to find a path in life and a positive outlook. But by the end of that year several cornerstones were in place that have sustained my adult life ever since. It was my fortune to have fallen into a friendship circle, a disparate group ranging from late teens to late 20s, whose initial bond was their love of a daft telly programme called Doctor Who.

Jan and Steve had founded DWAS in 1976 but since freed themselves of their responsibilities. They became nurturing friends and I was a frequent visitor to Jan’s house in south London, where we probably watched as much classic comedy as old sci-fi. We had cosy suppers in and memorable dinners out – one to celebrate Steve’s 29th at Tootsies in Wimbledon village. I got to know John Ainsworth who was part of their set. We’re very close in age so shared a joint 19th birthday at Jan’s that summer. (These days John works for Big Finish.) Steve drove us to Wiltshire to see the Avebury stone circle and visit Aldbourne, where The Daemons had been filmed 13 years earlier. John took a photo of Steve and me that I’ve always loved.

Steve was a sensible, compassionate man – qualities that must have made him a great teacher. Which he was when I met him. I was amazed in 1985 when he announced he was sidestepping into publishing, having bought the famous sci-fi title Starburst. Eventually, Steve ran his own mini-empire, Visual Imagination. Gordon Blows was also a close chum at that time, as were Derek Handley and Dominic May. These were formative friendships and over time they’ve waxed and waned, some coming to a natural conclusion. I’m comforted that my bonds with Jan and Derek remain strong four decades later, while I miss Dom and Steve, who both died in recent years. In their 60s but far too young.

Early in 1984, one of my most important friendships was about to begin. On Saturday 18th February I met Richard Marson. I picture the two of us gassing in a banquette in a crowded bar at the Bloomsbury Crest Hotel, London in the aftermath of the latest convention, Inter-Face III. This was our first meeting, though Richard asserts we’d met earlier. It’s one of many disagreements that form the foundation of our love for each other. He was 17 and I was 18. On that we can agree. We immediately hit it off. He was garrulous, scurrilous, highly amusing, confident, empathic… and for some reason he liked me. Inter-Face III was a Pertwee-centric event, with the man himself in full pomp, abetted by former co-stars Courtney and Levene, his producer Barry Letts and script editor Terrance Dicks. The forces behind the era that we’d grown up with and most adored. All we needed was Katy Manning…!

Richard has been my male best friend ever since; we’ve supported each other through happy and hideous times, romantic developments and winding career paths (his from schoolboy DWM writer to Blue Peter editor and beyond). We’ve always been able to tell each other anything and everything, at length, in the plainest terms, often hooting with mirth. We’ve never fallen out. His older sister Deborah, who I met around the same time, has been a valued pal all these years. I am very fond of his wife Mandy, and his (late) mum Norma who decades later conferred upon me the status of “honorary Marson”. All these Marson women kept our lunacy in check.

As the bar chatter after Inter-Face III disintegrated, Ian Levine weighed in and invited a dozen of my chums (Londoners and a contingent from the North) to party on in clubland. Embracing the wintry air, we traipsed along the Strand to a tunnel under Charing Cross, where a neon light announced we were about to enter, not a rat-infested Hell’s antechamber as I suspected, but in fact Heaven. This was the UK’s premier gay club, exclusively men-only (a stricture I abhorred), where Ian was resident DJ. It was a multi-level cavern, a vast dancefloor pumping Hi-NRG music and dry ice against a dazzling laser show, while hundreds of guys cavorted about in a uniform of leather, denim and moustaches. “They’re clones,” I was told.

In the quieter Middle Bar, Ian greeted our posse with largesse. “My round!” He eyeballed me. It was the first time we’d met. “And whaddyou want?” I shrugged and said the first thing that popped into my head. “A port and lemon.” The Levine gob gaped. “You what!?” I said it again. “I’m not ordering a f****** port and lemon in Heaven!” he bawled. “You’ll have a proper man’s drink like everyone else.” Seconds later a pint of what looked and smelt like the dregs of the urinal was thrust into my hand. But I was taken with Ian’s brusqueness. Such a character. That was my Heavenly baptism and I returned a hundred times over the decades.

In the more prosaic world of Doctor Who on BBC1, Davison’s final season was proceeding with Planet of Fire and The Caves of Androzani, which I’d watched in production. I hadn’t, though, seen his regeneration into Colin Baker. Quite rightly, JN-T was wary of what he called “spies” and had requested that the viewing gallery be closed. It was the same for all of Colin’s debut, The Twin Dilemma. However, I had walked round the Dilemma sets with Jan, then up in the BBC canteen we spotted Baker and his co-stars Nicola Bryant and Maurice Denham. In any case, we had a far better evening planned. I had tickets to The Young Ones, being recorded in another studio. The Bambi/University Challenge episode, no less. Proper, classic TV comedy. That was also the night I learnt that the last episode of Hartnell classic The Celestial Toymaker had miraculously been found. So a decent night.

On Tuesday 20th March various DWAS executives and assistants were invited onto the Russell Harty programme – his live or “as live” chat show on BBC1. We trotted down to the Greenwood Theatre in the back end of London Bridge, grotty in those days. BBC viewers had seen Davison regenerate into Baker the previous Friday and both actors were being convivial on Harty’s couch.

I was sitting on the second row next to John Ainsworth, while in the front were various fans including Paul Lunn and Patricia Merrick (a couple then and dressed as Tom Baker’s Doctor and Lalla Ward’s Romana). No rehearsal and they were shy, so they came over hesitantly on air. Harty, who fancied himself as a humourist, was mildly sarcastic. Afterwards Peter and Colin, both personable and handsome in their own ways, came over to chat with us all and charm their fans.

The group in this photo, which I think was taken by Davison on Dominic’s camera (I may be wrong), are: me, Dom, Andrew Zeus, Patricia Merrick, Paul Lunn, David Saunders, Robbie Moubert and Paul Zeus. Front row: Ian Bresman, John Ainsworth, Alec Charles, Gordon Roxburgh, David and Rosemary Howe. Of course none of us was bold enough to photograph the two Doctors together!

By now, I’d met JN-T several times in the BBC bar. I was bashful and, unless someone drew me out, I clammed up. John eyed me warily, whereas his partner Gary Downie was a more gregarious South African. “Where are you from?” “Chesham.” “Where’s that?!” “On the end of the Metropolitan line.” “Christ! Past Watford?” “Yes.” Ever after he’d throw his arms wide and greet me with, “Oh, it’s the boy from the Watford Gap!” Much has been written about their predatory nature but both twigged they’d get no change out of me. Because they nearly always saw me with older fans such as Jan and Steve, whom they disliked, and with David, whom they disrespected, they referred to me as “that doxy boy”. Or at least that’s what David once told me. Hardly flattering. I observed John and Gary. They were creative, driven, flawed, given to drink and very much of that time.

The Doctor Who world offered many diversions in the 80s. There were annual pilgrimages to Blackpool. I first went in May 1984 with all my chums: Jan, Steve, John, David, Richard, Gary Russell… We had a riot at the Pleasure Beach funfair, venturing into clubland and yes, going to the Who Exhibition just off the Golden Mile.

I started my own DWAS “local group” in which members from your area would hook up and watch old episodes. That lasted a year or two. Many chums and fans came through our door in Chesham – and my mum once remarked, “All your Doctor Who friends have very limp handshakes.”

I also revived Experiential Grid after several years. I’d lost touch with Ian Collins who’d produced it first. I reformatted it, Jan kindly gave me the cover photo of Liz Shaw and the Brigadier by the Thames, and my grandfather Pampa funded its reproduction. He was unimpressed with the result: “It’s so bloody puerile.” He wasn’t wrong. But then we were all so young.

Richard was already making hay at Doctor Who Magazine, aged only 17. Few people realised he was so youthful and the editor Alan McKenzie was staggered when he first met his new star reporter. Keen to extend DWM’s behind-the-scenes coverage, Richard had heard that Colin’s new story Attack of the Cybermen was filming at a quarry near Gerrards Cross. On 31st May, under a gorgeous blue sky, we drove up a gravel track off the A40, and in the sandy furrows watched energetic battles between slave workers and Cybermen, arms and heads being lopped off. The action was pacily directed by Matthew Robinson. JN-T was there, too, in a pink Hawaiian shirt, bemused but not annoyed to spot these two intruders.

Richard and I retreated for lunch at the Bull Inn, where six years earlier I’d met Tom Baker. As I drove through the countryside, Richard, who was a little tipsy, regaled me with his repertoire of monster impersonations. I was assailed by his Silurian, freaked by his Ogron, unnerved by his Primord, and unmanned by his Alpha Centauri. I declenched at his Aggedor and, most unpleasantly of all, was spittle-sprayed by his Ice Lord.

Just two days later on Saturday 2nd June, there was a Comic Mart at Westminster Central Hall. I’d been to many of these but this one staged a special Marvel Comics meet-and-greet with DWM writers Richard and Gary Russell doing a signing. As was JN-T. I went outside for fresh air and saw him just arriving, flustered in a blue Hawaiian chemise. John was relieved to see me, shook my hand, and I led him through the crowded hall to the function room at the back where the signing was set up. He was unusually warm towards me but then suddenly fixed me with narrowed eyes: “How did you get to my location shoot?”

Ian Levine had been partially responsible for writing Colin Baker’s second story, Attack of the Cybermen, and around this time I went to his home in Acton for the first time. His lounge was piled high with VCRs and TV sets, and an adjoining room had what I can only describe as “towers” of vinyl records, presumably for his DJing. Ian had few social graces but still managed to be kind-hearted; dogmatic but strangely innocent. He gave me pristine VHS copies of The Aztecs and The Daemons, then both rare and highly prized, and undertook to transfer some film clips from The War Machines (1966). These had surfaced from a boy in my local group called Harvey, whose parents knew the film editor Eric Mival. He’d kept a few snippets of 35mm film from episode three of The War Machines (then missing from the archive). To this day, these clips are among the earliest outtakes from the series.

That June I watched the TARDIS and sewer scenes for Attack of the Cybermen being recorded at TV Centre, then moved on to Vengeance on Varos. Richard was wary of meeting its director Ron Jones for a DWM interview. He adhered to the aforementioned “clone” look of the gay world that we found forbidding. Indeed, Ron turned up to our meeting at the Centre on 19th June with thick moustache, leather trousers and jacket. But, of course, he was a pussycat, delighted to discuss his work on Varos. It proved to be one of the more polished productions of his career – cut short when he died young (49) in 1995. One of several 1980s Who directors who succumbed during the Aids crisis.

On Richard’s 18th birthday, Gary Russell let us into the Beeb and we watched key moments from Varos being taped. Down below, we saw the notorious acid bath scenes and sweaty, shirtless pretty boy Jason Connery tied up and being tortured by laser beams. A make-up woman applied fresh “sweat” to his buff torso with the sort of big yellow sponge you’d clean the car with. She had a look of immense job satisfaction. Quite a few people in the gallery were steamed up too.

An interview appointment that Richard and I both definitely wanted to keep was the extremely rare opportunity to meet Patrick Troughton. He and Frazer Hines were returning to Who in The Two Doctors and agreed to talk to DWM, ie Richard, who asked me to come and hold his handbag. It was 3rd September 1984. Gary Downie (then the production manager) greeted us at the Acton “Hilton”, the BBC’s rehearsal block in west London, and sat us in a green room where we waited nervously.

It was lunchtime. Hines came in first and was affable and funny, and then handed over to Troughton. It was quite strange when this legend walked in, looking casual in a short-sleeved shirt, clearly reluctant and wishing he’d been left to enjoy his lunch. A private man, he loathed being interviewed, was startled to be facing two teenagers and squirmed and rambled in response to Richard’s questions about his 1960s episodes. “I can’t remember. How can you remember any of this? You’re so young!” he bellyached. “The future is in the past!” he ejaculated, unhelpfully.

During our hour together he thawed. I didn’t say much because it was Richard’s interview, but Troughton beamed when I interjected with praise for his ITV series, The Feathered Serpent. I must emphasise it was a huge pleasure and privilege for us to meet an actor we so admired. It was like pulling teeth and when it was all over, Troughton relaxed like a child finished at the dentist. He hugged us and posed for photos that we will always treasure.

Many will know of the significance of the Fitzroy Tavern. For decades, fans have gathered at this Charlotte Street pub on the first Thursday of each month, but until now I’ve only mentioned the One Tun in Farringdon. The latter had been a fixture since the early days of DWAS in 1976 when members Sue Moore, Gordon Blows and Jeremy Bentham started meeting there, gradually enticing Jan, Steve and convention organiser Keith Barnfather. It even attracted people who worked on Who. Douglas Adams braved the crowd in 1979, as did JN-T in 1981.

I did “the Tun” for a year and it was huge fun, but in 1984 we realised we’d outgrown the venue. The pub quickly became overcrowded. A trip to the bar could mean a 20-minute round trip. The staff were bad-tempered; instead of welcoming the business, they resented the invasion. One of our friends was barred on the flimsiest pretext. And they were very rude to Steve. We talked about migrating to somewhere larger and more central. Jan suggested the Fitzroy Tavern, which he’d visited with Keith a few weeks before. No one else could be bothered to orchestrate a move, so I – the pushy upstart – took charge.

On 26th September, I met Gordon for lunch to scout out the Fitzroy – and we decided this was the place. On a pleasant corner down Charlotte Street, it was spacious, had a fast central bar, a function room downstairs and seats outside. It was close to Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. Ideal. Thursday 4th October 1984 was to be the last Tun. I designed and distributed loads of flyers, urging everyone to switch to the Tavern. Amazingly they did. The very first “Tavern” took place on Thursday 1st November 1984. I made a note of many who were there: Jan, Steve, John, Jeremy, Gordon, Dominic, David Saunders, David and Rosemary Howe, Paul and Patricia but no Derek, Deb Marson came but no Richard (who must have been in his first term at Durham), Andrews Evans, Sewell and Zeus. The monthly meet-up became more popular than ever. In time it lured the next generation of fans who took over the running of DWAS, edited DWM and started making Doctor Who itself.

All this time I was still plugging away at getting a job at the BBC, and one lunchtime Gordon and I popped into BBC Appointments on Portland Place to check the job ads on a board in the lobby. A fortuitous, life-changing decision. I spotted an ad for the post of “Clerk (TV), Radio Times programme section”. I’d always loved the magazine but it seemed a little removed from the world of television I wanted to get into. Gordon advised, as had others, “It’s better to get any clerical job at the BBC, then work your way up.” This had paid off for so many people.

On 15th October I was called for an interview at Marylebone High Street with appointments officer Deborah Langston and Jean Hall, who ran RT’s programmes desk. I had to sit typing and dictation tests; I’d never heard of the term “sub-editing” before, but they looked upon me kindly and said they were seeing nine other candidates. As I was leaving, I produced a copy of my fanzine. Just as I’d left home, Mum urged me to take it with me. I was reluctant, already picturing my embarrassment, but Jean eyed my product with interest. “May I keep it?” Luckily it was well reproduced and reflected a key BBC property. Later, she told me that Experiential Grid had tipped me above strong competition, and I was overjoyed when the letter arrived confirming I was joining the British Broadcasting Corporation.

My employment began on Monday 19th November with a day-long induction course at the Langham, learning how to use the internal phone and postal systems – vital for all BBC clerks. That week, the current issue of Radio Times depicted a young chap staring into “The Box of Delights”. How apt was that! And the first issue we were working on when I joined had a gorgeous shot of Sting on the cover.

We were racing towards Christmas, with deadlines to be strictly adhered to, so I had my first full blast of Radio Times in action. A chaotic ramshackle open-plan office, maybe 50 staff, predominantly women, friendly but under the cosh with a press day looming, a jungle of wires, wobbly desks, phones trilling, typewriters clattering, the air thick with cigarette smoke and fumes from pots of cow gum. In those days cutting, copying and pasting were literal acts done to pieces of paper. I was amazed by it all.

After day one at RT, where did I head? TV Centre of course. The first time I was able to flash my new staff card and enter the premises unaided. What a buzz! It was the final production evening for The Mark of the Rani and I saw guest star Kate O’Mara in the canteen. Or rather she saw me. In her full garb as the villainous Rani she sat several tables away and fixed me in her gaze, as she munched through a plate of beans on toast. Every time I looked her way, she was staring. Even in that plain make-up and with her hair slicked back, she was an extremely beautiful woman.

On 19th December, I was thrilled to take my sisters to TV Centre for the first time. Timelash, a largely unloved Colin Baker story, was mid-production. It was just before Christmas 1984, and I noted in my diary that, despite the fact we were clearly watching a turkey being trussed, we enjoyed “the best night in the viewing gallery ever”. Many chums were present (Richard and Gary) jollying things along, while down in the studio the cast were rattling through screeds of arch dialogue and poorly choreographed tussles. We were in fits as Colin and others clambered up and down a preposterous precipice covered in tinsel. They acted as though their lives were in peril, but it looked more like the poor loves’ careers had nosedived with the world’s worst panto.

Next: Doctor Who is axed…

My Life as a Doctor Who Fan in full:

• Part 1 – the 1960s to 1974
• Part 2 – 1974 to 1981
• Part 4 – 1985 to 1989
• Part 5 – 1990 to 2012
• Part 6 – 2013 to now

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