Catmachine

When I was a child I had an enduring fantasy that I was not in fact of this world but was an alien, sent to observe these strange ape-like beings and send reports back to my superiors on Antares.  The details weren't always the same of course and the science fictional colour and background grew ever more complex as I reached my teens. However, when this notion first started I am sure it was a lot simpler. I don't recall its beginning, it felt like something that was always part of me. However, my earliest clear memory of "being an alien" is from 1973 when I arrived at my new school in Muswell Hill.  This was the first time I had to play football and I loathed it. It wasn't just the game itself, it was the football teacher Mr Gibbins who was also my class teacher; a moron and a bully.  He was also obsessed with football.  I didn't like football so he instantly took against me. It was his exhortations to " Face me! " or " Face the goal! "...

Even before the car had pulled over I could see that Toyah had clocked me. She continued looking directly at me as it stopped, opened the door and marched directly towards me with single-minded intent. "I've just realised," she said "You're the same Chris Limb I used to write to YEARS ago!" It was the summer of 1983 so I suppose at a stretch it could have been described as years ago (two to be precise). She had written me a handful of letters (probably nothing compared to the reams of drivel I used to send her) but even so... Still, it sounded good. It sounded very good. Everyone else must have felt more than a little impressed and perhaps somewhat jealous. However, paranoid soul that I was my main thought was Oh no - I hope she doesn't remember those bits where I wrote that I loved her! Or still worse bring the letters along and read them out so everyone laughs at me! But how had I managed to reach the point where she not only knew me but was...

This is a piece of short Doctor Who fiction I submitted to Big Finish on two occasions for their Short Trips anthology range (collections of short stories in both audio and traditional format). Whilst it was not amongst the successful submissions, I think it is at least worth a little wider exposure, so am reproducing it here. The character of Wendi has gone on to a supporting role in my current work-in-progress novel. Doctor Who is © BBC This is the most important night of my life and I'm terrified. You probably think I'm exaggerating on both counts. True, my band's headlining the Camden Palace at the end of a successful major UK tour, but the most important night of my life ? Surely I have higher ambitions than that? Well maybe you're right, perhaps I do. The most important night of my life so far , happy now? And terrified ? Stage fright is one thing, but nerves are a healthy reaction. If I find performing so terrifying how come I've stuck it out for ...

A short metablogular interlude before resuming the tales of Toyah-fandom... Some people might think my blog entries are self-obsessed.  When I'm not recounting tales of my past obsessions, I'm mulling over what makes things tick from my point of view. How I see things. This may very well be a fault and probably is.  However, I don't feel it would be polite  for me to talk about other people all the time, and quite apart from the risk of offending them should they ever read it, I'm not sure I'm qualified.  I can only observe their behavior but have absolutely no idea what makes them tick. Of course anyone who has ever stumbled across my Twitter stream may be aware of my bite-sized ranting against sections of the populace, but as has been noted before I do try and restrict my vitriol to " ...when people do... " rather than " ...people who do... " I don't think the blogosphere needs another gossip column. Since last August the primary pu...

"I don't have a drinking problem. I drink. I get drunk. I pass out. NO PROBLEM!" Sigh... "Also available in sober." For fuck's sake... "If found, please return to the pub." OH SHUT UP. I mean really. What on earth must go through someone's head when they buy an article of clothing with such a slogan on it? The kind of slogan that is only vaguely funny the first time you ever hear it when you're fifteen years old but loses all comedic value mere nanoseconds later? Woah... That's freaky! You know I have trouble controlling my drinking and often lose all memory of the end of the evening. It's as if the author of that t-shirt somehow could see into my life... I've got to buy it. It's fate. It's not enough that I'm suffering from a crippling addiction, I want to shout it to the world! To be fair these t-shirts are usually only available in souvenir shops in city centres so it's a fair guess that most of the time...

"Sorry mate." I was talking to Grant on the phone. Apparently the photos hadn't come out, it had been too dark and he hadn't used a flash bulb. A shame, but never mind. I had discovered a new purpose. Meeting Toyah. After all, how difficult could it be? I just needed to keep my ear to the airwaves listening out for any TV or radio appearances, plus there were the summer gigs coming up... Back in 1982 no-one talked about "stalkers" but even if they had I'd have been shocked and insulted at any suggestion that I was turning into one. I was just going along to public places she'd be and saying hello. Maybe next time I'd actually remember to bring something along to be signed. I discovered that I wasn't alone. The next opportunities to present themselves were the four (count 'em) sell out shows at the Hammersmith Odeon which would be recorded and turned into Warrior Rock , one of the later - and one of the finest - examples of tha...

Thugg the Caveman and some of the other males from his tribe made their way across the tundra of Ice Age West Midlands.  It had been a hard winter and numbers had decreased significantly. Some had been lost to the cold, some to hunger and still others to the saber-toothed tigers that continued to plague this branch of infant humanity. It was a risky business, this hunter-gathering. If you didn't pay attention constantly it could spell doom for both you and your chances of passing on the genes for not paying attention constantly. Thugg clipped Foot-Watcher around the ear and by means of a series of complex grunts and gestures indicated to him that whilst staring at his own feet might one day become the de rigueur pose for indie musicians many millennia hence, right here and now it was about as much use as a chocolate teapot.  Foot-Watcher looked perplexed - as well he might seeing as neither chocolate nor teapots would be invented...

There was nothing for it really. In the end I had to admit to my immediate family that I had become a Toyah fan. I imagine it was almost like coming out - in some ways it was coming out. In admitting I liked Toyah I was admitting I liked girls and therefore wasn't the asexual child I had hitherto appeared to be. Still, without doing that it would have been difficult to get to the gigs, and attending gigs was the natural next step. The places in which I first saw Toyah play weren't exactly the ideal introduction to me of the world of gigging.   Hammersmith Odeon and Theatre Royal Drury Lane - great hulking cavernous buildings with nary a chance of an intimate show. At the time I didn't know any better though and any gripes I might have had at the choice of venue were totally eclipsed by one simple fact - for ninety minutes or so I was going to be in the same room as her . As well as 3000 other teenage boys. Not to mention the little girls and their pare...

It's probably a bit unexpected that I'm writing a blog entry with the same title as a Michael Jackson song, but in my defence I'd just like to point out that the late Mr Jackson doesn't hold a monopoly on the concept of mirrors, or the male inhabitants thereof. However, looking in the mirror these days I begin to understand his desire for plastic surgery. I have always had a curious relationship with mirrors. As a child and early teen I disliked them.  Firstly because they were frightening, especially at night. They reflected and doubled the scary luminous shapes that seemed to make their way into my bedroom no matter how thoroughly I closed the curtains. And what if I had to get up in the night?  In the small hours a mirror was an eerie portal into an unnatural perverse world where I could never be sure that the shape moving in there was only my reflection. And what would happen if I looked into it whilst I was asleep? Far better to cover it up with a blanket. ...

I was always a bit of a late developer. Whilst all the other boys at school were sneaking porn mags into class under their jumpers, I couldn't quite see the appeal of the airbrushed mannequins contained therein. I disliked the way they prised their nether regions open with gynecological expertise whilst wearing expressions that made them look simultaneously half-asleep and nauseous. My peers said this was because I was a "bender" or a "pervert". But it wasn't. As mentioned in an earlier entry, for some unknown reason I simply found a very different kind of woman attractive . Furthermore, for me it was about fancying the girl to start with.  It was about getting to know them, hanging out with them, talking to them. Maybe getting a snog. Then who knows?  The short cut to views of genitalia offered by these magazines seemed to miss the point completely. It was at the bitter end of the nineteen-seventies.  I'd admired these scary punk girls from afar...