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...