Doctor No-Show

My brother and I watched Doctor Who religiously in the 1980s. The old BBC show carried with it more than a whiff of exoticism; British landscapes, British accents, and British terms (like "jelly babies") had not featured prominently in my childhood TV viewing. Moreover, it was pretty much the only contemporary sci-fi series on American television between the cancellation of Battlestar Galactica and the premiere of Star Trek: The Next Generation. The program's tedious longeurs, its cryptic references to old villains and story lines (some dating back to the dim dark 1960s), and the ridicule Pat and I endured from my mother and sister* only added to the program's mystique and our own devotion. What good is a religious exercise unaccompanied by bewilderment, frequent boredom, or persecution?

Dr. Who Fan Club logo, via reddit.com

Given the opportunity to make a pilgrimage on behalf of our fandom, to attend an actual Doctor Who convention, Patrick and I seized it. In October 1985 we and our friend Andrew Sewell attended a Whovian festival in Fairfield, Connecticut. The con featured the Sixth Doctor, Colin Baker, as Guest of Honor. Along with the other attendees (almost all young, white, and male), we shopped for souvenirs/relics in the vendors' room, and watched two episodes rarely or never seen in the United States, "An Unearthly Child" (the first William Hartnell episode, aired in 1963) and "Revelation of the Daleks," which had aired in Britain quite recently. We enjoyed watching Baker caper on stage, and introduce himself with characteristic bombast and arrogance: "William Hartnell was the Doctor. Patrick Troughton was the Doctor. Jon Pertwee, Tom Baker, Peter Davison - they were the Doctor too. I am the Doctor!" (Applause.) His powers had their limits. One very self-assured fanboy - about 40 years old, bearded, corpulent, well-dressed - mounted the stage during Q&A to present Baker with a Dr. Who episode script he wanted made. Dr. Number Six returned it with a pained expression, saying he couldn't make production decisions. No-one in the audience, with the possible exception of Mr. Bearded Fanboy, held it against him.

The faithful must also grow used to disappointment. The Fairfield Whovian festival was technically our second Doctor Who convention; Patrick and I had traveled to New York City for an earlier con in July of 1983. Upon our arrival we found the building locked and a sign posted announcing the convention had been cancelled. We had received no advance notice and were of course quite disappointed. Our father gamely took us to lunch and to do some shopping at the old Compleat Strategist, but his comment on the cancellation proved so apt that I recall it every time I now hear of the program: "Doctor No-Show."**



* They particularly enjoyed sneering at Peter Davison's invocation of the TARDIS's cloister bell. "Oh, the TARDIS Cloister Bell is ringing!" they would cry in exaggerated British accents. In fairness, Davison himself deserved some of this abuse. 

** Patrick had, as I recall, spent his own allowance money on the tickets, and did not get a refund for several months. The guest of honor, Jon Pertwee, did send him a generic signed photo as well. I guess that's the best we could expect from Doctor Number Three.