What a delightful dream I had last night. I met Spike Milligan and went to his house to discuss some of my research ideas. As dreams go it’s right up there with the ones I have in which I am Doctor Who. Yes, I am almost fifty- four years old, so what, I always have loved and always will love Doctor Who and continue to wait for it to be my turn to play the bonkers Timelord.
Milligan was perhaps an even more seminal influence on the young me because his brand of brilliant lunacy gave me permission to be somewhat strange myself. To be clear, Spike didn’t write me a permission slip, the mere fact that oddballs like him and the Pythons were creating mayhem and ridiculousness on my telly box was permission enough. If they can do it, so can I. Spike did write to me, for real, though. Well, he didn’t write more than his signature on a photograph after I’d requested one but it meant the world to me. Still would if I had not lost the photograph during one of countless house moves during my lifetime. I’ve only ever written to one other person to request a photo in my entire life and they didn’t respond so maybe that Michael Palin isn’t so nice after all, eh?
It occurred to me after I woke from my dream and smiled a lot that Spike might have made a good Doctor Who. Or a terrible one who threw rubber noses at the Daleks while creeping ever closer towards them muttering “What are we going to do now?” Spike’s Doctor would have dressed in that stupid Scout Master outfit with the giant hat and his companion would have been a talking Shih Tzu. Or Bob Todd with huge fake breasts.