Is it treasure?

Kids often aren't given enough credit for how well they can read a situation, or how gracious they can be. No, really! Sometimes, with almost no life experience, they are presented with a scenario, that they can't possibly comprehend, and they somehow instinctively know exactly the right thing to do. Something that an adult, with all their knowledge and experience, could have thought about in detail, but not come up with. 

My nan died recently. She was quite old. Nearly 98. I'm not going to go into detail, as this story isn't really a story about that, it's just around that. We held the funeral for my nan a few weeks ago and she was cremated. About a week before, my mum mentioned that they were arranging a small service, on her birthday (Sunday 24th June), at her local church to bury her ashes in a flower bed in the graveyard. Not a big event. Just a number of immediate family, the vicar and about 15 minutes of talking, praying, burying a small box, etc.  I have two sons. Ewan is 3, and Lucas is 1 this week. We hadn't taken the boys to the funeral, but figured this would be OK. During the service, Sharon was with Luke and the pram, as he was a little unsettled, and I had Ewan with me. Ewan is a three year old boy. He is rightly inquisitive. He wants to see everything and to understand what is going on in any given situation. Usually by repeating the word "Why?" In this instance, he had more direct questions. Questions I wasn't fully prepared for, or sure how to answer. After some words from the vicar and a short reading by some people in the family, the service went something like this...

The vicar placed a small wooden box, containing the ashes, in a pre-dug hole in the flowerbed. We were asked if we wanted to symbolically place some dirt on the box, with a trowel. Me and Ewan were towards the back, in case my usually rambunctious son disturbed proceedings. Ewan wanted to see what was going on and insisted on being put on my shoulders. I duly complied. Once he saw people were digging in the mud, he announced he also wanted a go. I said he could come and help me. On my turn, I put him down and he held my hand and accompanied me to the hole. We got the trowel together and placed/threw some on the box. Ewan wanted another go. So we did. Ewan wanted to fill the rest of the hole in. I quickly explained that we probably shouldn't do that, as there may be some other people who still wanted to go. We returned to the back of the pack, out of the way, and I held him while the vicar began speaking again. He had questions: 

Ewan,"What's in the box, is it treasure?" 

Me, "I guess it is a sort of treasure, yes."

Ewan, "But why are we burying it?"

Me, "Because we are saying goodbye to my nan."

Ewan, pauses a moment, "Why do we have to say goodbye?"

Me, pondering on what to tell him, and figuring you can't protect a child from life/death, "Because she died." Waits, in fear, for the inevitable question about what that means.

Ewan, "Oh", pauses for longer, "But why are Grandma and Bill (my mum's husband) here?"

Me, slightly thrown by the tangent, "Because my nan is Grandma's mum."

Ewan, another pause, "I want Grandma."

Me, looking at my mum stood, attempting to be stoic, next to the still talking vicar, in front of the small gathering, "Errr. OK."

I rather trustingly put him down. He walked through the gathering and without saying a word, stood next to her and took hold of her hand. That's the end of the story and the bit that makes me cry.

13th Doctor

My idea for who (Who?) should be the next Doctor...

Paul McGann.

Yes, yes. I know. It should go to a person of another race/colour/sexual preference/etc. I agree the world needs to change in it's attitudes, but personally I like Doctor Who the way it is. Now, back to Paul McGann. Go on. Give him his chance. He would be brilliant! He has demonstrated as much in The Night Of The Doctor and many, many Big Finish productions he has done. He has been hard done by. He is the best Doctor there never was... or almost was... or something.

But how can the 8th Doctor be the 13th Doctor?

I have ideas around that too. There are a number of occurrences that give precedence to a Timelord regenerating into whoever the Timelord wants:

• In War Games, the 2nd Doctor was allowed to choose the 3rd Doctor's face.
• In Destiny Of The Daleks, Romana tried on a number of appearances before settling on her regeneration.
• In The Night Of The Doctor, the 8th Doctor drinks a potion to regenerate into a warrior.
• In The Day Of The Doctor, The Curator (Tom Baker) implies he is the Doctor revisiting an old face. 
• In The Girl Who Died, it is revealed that the 12th Doctor chose the face of someone he previously saved, to remind him to save people.

That gives me 3 (yes, THREE) ideas of ways the Doctor could be Paul McGann in his next regeneration:

1. He simply chooses to regenerate into the form of the 8th Doctor again. Revisit the face, as it were.
2. The regeneration process goes screwy because it has been interfered with in the past. It goes back to when it was first interfered with and resets the regeneration back to that point. The Doctor who drank the potion to choose his regeneration was the 8th Doctor.
3. My favourite, as it could last a whole episode and has lots of nice fanboy geek moments. The regeneration process goes very screwy and he starts regenerating backwards. The 12th Doctor regenerates into the 11th Doctor. Oooo. Hello Matt Smith! The process is dangerous and so keeps nearly killing him, causing him to regenerate again. So before the 11th Doctor has worked out what is going on, he regenerates again into the 10th. Mr Tennant, I presume. And so on. It could get progressively worse and so the 9th and War Doctors could be done pretty quickly, requiring no intervention from the actors. Although if they could get Christopher Eccleston... FANTASTIC! John Hurt, as the War Doctor, not so much. So either the 10th or 9th (depending on the actor) would need to hit upon the solution and put it into effect. It would take place a regeneration or two down the line and.... BOOM... it settles when the Doctor reaches the 8th. Off we go with Paul McGann as the next doctor.

Of course, it won't be Paul McGann. You can never go back. But it would be cool.

Why Are There No Fucking Signs Anywhere?!

Hello. I haven't blogged in a fucking loooooong time. Not had anything to say in a public forum. This started out as a Facebook post that seemed a little long, so I made it into a blog instead. And then it grew from there. 

Still with me? 

Good. 

It's about running. 

Still there?

Then I shall begin. 

I'll start with a bit of backstory.  I used to run on and off, quite a bit. Then clicky knees; a son and, most significantly, laziness got in the way. A couple of years passed and I didn't really run for anything except the normal everyday things like buses and when your son shouts "One, two, three... GOOOOOOO!", whilst you are pushing him in his pushchair. Then, one day, I decided I wanted to give running a go again. But I needed an in. An edge. I find motivation a difficult thing to maintain, without some gimmick to keep me interested. Then an email went around at work. It was to invite people to take part in a "Bitesize Marathon". Basically, in the month of September, you had to run the equivalent distance of a marathon (26.2 miles) in as many runs as it took you to get to the cumulative total. So if you ran 2.62 miles for every run, you would have to go for 10 runs in that one month period.  You also got sponsorship for the said endeavour and the proceeds went to the British Heart Foundation. That was my in. I quite keenly got involved and managed to run 42.51 miles, in the month of September. I was running 3 times a week and I was enjoying it. I also got extra motivation by my cousin Dan offering to sponsor me £20, plus an extra pound for every mile I did beyond the 26.2 mile goal. That extra £16 was hard earned, but worth every step. Once the month was over, I needed an in to keep me interested. I decided to just continue as I was. Every month, I would run 26.2 miles. I would only run twice a week though (Wednesday and Friday... I'm a creature of habit... without routine, I also lose motivation). 3 times a week would burn me out pretty quickly. I found it was rather doable by running my optimum distance of 3-4 miles. We are now in January and I ran 30.25 miles in October; 26.91 miles in November and 27.66 miles in December. Four months and I was still interested. Great! We are now on month 5 and I show no signs of stopping. I've just ordered some new running shoes and, after a lot of research, I got a Garmin Vivosmart HR+ watch for Christmas. It's brilliant! It shows my running time; distance; heart rate; steps and all sorts of other bits. Including telling the time! It also has GPS built in and so it maps my runs out for me. Very handy if I decided to change my route, or go less/more distance. To be clear, it isn't a Sat Nav. It doesn't tell me where to go. It just tells me where I have been, when I sync it to my phone, after the event. As I said, I'm all about those 2 runs a week and hitting that arbitrary goal of 26.2 miles a month. I need to know my distance ran. I also like to monitor my minutes per mile. Historically, I've always ran a rubbish 9:30/10 minute miles. Consistently running for four months has got me to sub 8:30 minute miles and I'd like to maintain that average.

Today I went for a run that ended up a little different than planned. Not exciting different. If you're hoping for wild adventures; car chases; kissing girls and light-sabres, you'd better stop reading now. You will be disappointed. Although, if you got through the backstory, you are pretty oblivious to disappointment. It was my first run at work with my new watch (I did a couple at home over Christmas). I'm not overly familiar with the area I work in (even though I've worked there for 8 and a half years!), beyond knowing the best routes to my office from the motorway and the location of the shops. My familiarity has grown over the past 4 months, as I have used my Wednesday dinner to go for a run and explore the area. My routine is to plan a route on Map My Run and then follow it, as best I can. The past few weeks I have settled into a run, that I can tweak slightly, depending on whether I want to run 3 or 4 miles. Today I had a top goal of running 4 miles, with an option to drop it to less (I'm full of a cold), but decided to modify the run slightly.

This is my usual 4 mile run (I know the pictures hang out of the frames, but it means you can see what is going on):

This is the tweak I made. It's simpler. Run further up the A5145 and turn right, at about 1.25 miles (my watch shows how far I have currently run), to make it one long run through Heaton (GRRRR.... we'll come back to that) Moor. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Could it?

I passed a mile and kept an eye on my watch. 1.25 miles passed. I didn't turn. I didn't see the turn. I was expecting a major junction. I don't like turning around when running. That's no fun. Finding the way yourself is fun. Kind of. Sometimes. I blindly ran on, in the hope some right turn would leap out at me, as the best way to go. Nothing did. My watch signalled I had run 2 miles. In a fairly straight line from work. I only wanted to run a maximum of 4 miles. Shit!

So I just turned around.

Nope!

That is what I should have done, but I don't like turning around. I took a random right turn. I was in very uncharted territory now. I was further afield than I had been on any of my previous runs and was just running in what I hoped was vaguely the right direction to take me round back towards work. Unfortunately my blind right-turn had taken me onto a housing estate and I got turned around pretty quickly. Unwilling to give up, I ploughed on, in the hope something would look familiar, or a sign would point me towards somewhere familiar. My watch signalled 3 miles. I started to worry. Shops and things started indicating I was in, or near, Burnage. Where the fuck is Burnage in relation to work?! All I know of Burnage is that it is where the Gallagher brothers are from, so was probably a bit dodge. That meant I was definitely going to die!

So I turned around.

NOPE!

I ran on in the hope of seeing a sign for Heaton Moor or the A6. From my previous runs, I can easily find my way from either of those two places. 2 things became apparent. Every fucking place in the area is called Heaton something! And there are no fucking road signs on any of the roundabouts or junctions in that area! I saw a sign that said "Welcome to Stockport" (or something like that) down a right-hand turn and figured that was a good turning to take. Burnage seemed straight on, and sounded very wrong. I work in Stockport. You don't need to be an expert in navigation to realise it was my best call to head towards the sign welcoming me to Stockport. My watch indicated 4 miles (my maximum target distance). I still had no clue where I was, but hoped I was heading in the right direction now. I reached a junction. No road signs. I think it was then I shouted, "Why are there no fucking signs anywhere?!". I continued straight on and reached another junction.

A sign.

A FUCKING SIGN!

Stretford was right. Stockport was left. I turned left. Again, no expert navigation required there. The normal people amongst you will be thinking, "Were the streets deserted? Why not just ask for directions?" Hello?! There were loads of people, but do you not know me at all?! 

I. Don't. Do. Social. Interaction.

Especially with strangers!

If my only option is asking a stranger for directions, I will blindly run until I reach the coast, then (AND ONLY THEN) turn around and run the other way, like Forrest Gump, if it means I don't have to have a conversation with another human being!

I reached another junction. And you guessed it...No fucking signage. I turned right, it felt wrong, but I thought I could see a sign a couple of hundred yards ahead. I can't remember what the sign said, but it was useless as far as I was concerned. I instinctively turned around and ran the other way. That doesn't count! I had just run up the road a few hundreds yards, with the intention of running back after I checked the sign. I thought this an excellent piece of navigational instinct. Little did I know it was something different. But what was it? I carried on and 2 things happened. One: I clocked up 5 bastard miles and still didn't know how much further I had to go. Two: I crested a hill and saw the Stockport viaduct AND my office building on the horizon! Out of nowhere, there they were! I carried on heading towards them and then I realised something. Turns out that something different to excellent navigational instinct was something I believe scientists call "memory". I was back on the bloody bastard road that I'd started on when I'd originally missed my twatting turning! I suddenly knew how to get back and it was less than a mile. It was also the bit of road I originally shunned turning around on, because I don't like turning around. I was now running back along it, as if I'd turned around. Except I'd run 4 fucking miles in the process! Yeah, yeah. Fuck off! As I approached work I looked at my watch. I'd done 5.8 miles. In 50ish minutes. I. Was. Knackered!

But, you know what?

5.8 miles...

That's nearly 6 miles.

And 6 miles is nearly 6.2 miles...

Which is 10K!

I. Ran. Past. Work...

...to the park next to the office and ran a lap around the field. I ran back to the office to clock up a total distance of 6.21 miles! It took me 53 minutes and 48 seconds. A time I am extremely happy with. I got back in the office and drank 2 pints of water; had a shower and inhaled my butty and cup-a-soup. I hadn't even eaten! Here is the route I ran. All in all, it's not terrible. I instinctively/through pure luck ran a fairly consistent circle... on the end of my running up and down the same road. That thing I went out of my way to avoid doing.

I Once Watched Captain Picard Make A Sandwich

"What the hell are you talking about?", you are obviously thinking. "Do you break into sci-fi star's homes, and hide in their kitchen, to watch them assemble snacks?!" I fucking wish!!! The reality of this tale is slightly less crimey/stalkery and slightly more theatrey.

"Do you want to come down to London and watch Macbeth?". My cousin, Dan, speaking. Me, "Errrrmmmm....".

"Patrick Stewart is Macbeth!"

"I am fucking there!"

So it was that me, Sharon and Auntie Kath (Dan's mum) caught a train to that there London to watch Captain Picard do some Shakespeare. We met in a pub near the theatre and had a pint, then went to the performance. 

I don't read (or watch) a lot of Shakespeare, but I had read Macbeth at school. Although I didn't really get it at the time, I remember it being quite actiony and murdery. (I've done a lot of putting a Y on the end of words now. I'll stop.) To me most Shakespeare seems to be a good story, with quite inaccessible language. But the good story carries you through and you get the gist. When it is well acted, it is very entertaining. Apart from Romeo and Juliet, of course. I have tried and tried to get that. I don't. It's a shit story. A couple of kids fall in love and get married in a few days and then kill themselves, rather than just running away. Don't buy it. Don't get into it. Don't like it. Even when it's well acted I have no emotional investment whatsoever. Enough of my highbrow Shakespeare analysis, back to THE SANDWICH!

This version of Macbeth was set in the Russian Revolution and was very good. Patrick Stewart was brilliant in the lead and you couldn't take your eyes off him. Unless you were Sharon. Sharon fell asleep. She is obviously spoilt by her much better crafted Australian soaps. Patrick Stewart's most amazing moment in the play is during a big speech in the second half. The acting was great and the delivery perfect, but what mesmerised me was his prop work. Whilst speaking he gets a loaf of bread out and starts cutting it. He applies a liberal amount of butter, followed by a good dollop of mustard. I couldn't stop watching his hands. "He's actually making a sandwich!" Next came some ham and pickle. "That looks like a good sandwich." He takes a knife and cuts it. "Surely he's not going to eat it?!" He then takes the most enormous bite of the sandwich! "HE IS! HE'S EATING THE FUCKER!!!" 

It stands as the most amazing piece of theatre I have ever seen! It was 6 years ago and EVERY time I see Dan, we tell the story of "Captain Picard's Sandwich" in minute detail. Sharon (who was there) and Laura (Dan's girlfriend) can recount every word and are thoroughly SICK of the story. Me and Dan will NEVER tire of the most defining moment in Shakespearean history!

Here is a video of the film version of that glorious moment. Watch it. Savour it... Pretend it's as good as the theatre version of it.

Macbeth, and the Business of Business from Thomas Kaufman on Vimeo.

Genetic Hybrids

I recently put a tweet on The Twitter. It went like this: 

I was pretty sure no one would reply. Or if they did it would be impossible subjects to blog about. I wasn't wrong. I received a few replies (*shocked face*), but they were all of the ilk that they would be impossible to blog about. I mean, look at this one from @randomshenans.

That is never going to be possible to write a blog about. I told him as much. I then pointed out the only things you COULD say about that nonsense. He said:

Oh, I guess we were. It wasn't much. BELIEVE ME, it wasn't much, but it was a start. So here it is. A blog about the quite RIDICULOUS subject of "What would happen if you mated a horse fly with a llama?" I took the liberty of adding the question mark. It is, after all, a question. I removed the "Discuss" because that's what I'm doing.

So then, what WOULD happen if you mated a horse fly with a llama? Firstly, we have to research our subjects. 

Horse Fly

Wikipedia says, of the Horse Fly:

'Horse-fly is the most widely-used English common name for members of the family Tabanidae. Apart from the common name "horse-flies", broad categories of biting, bloodsucking Tabanidae are variously known as breeze flies,^[2] clegs or clags,deer flies, gadflies, or zimbs. In some areas of Canada, they also are known as Bull Dog Flies. In Australia some species are known as "March flies", a name that in other English-speaking countries refers to a very different Dipteran family, the non-bloodsucking Bibionidae.'

Well then; that means cock all to me! And I really can't be arsed clicking on all those words to see what they all mean. What we do need to know is how big they are and how they mate.

From my extensive (2 minutes on Google) research, it appears that the male and female Horse Fly GET IT ON, then the female lays a whole fuck load of eggs; which then hatch in to larvae. Larvae which, fucking get this, are capable of eating FROGS AND FISH!!! WTF?! They then grow into flies and the whole disgusting process starts again. Speaking of growing; they can reach up to an inch in size. That's pretty big for a fly. Probably not so much for a llama, but we will come to that when we do LLAMA SCIENCE!

Turns out they don't sting you either, like I thought they did. I thought they were like a bee or a wasp. They BITE YOUR ASS, like a mosquito or something. Like mosquitoes, they can carry and spread diseases with their bite.

Llama

Llamas are a mammal (FUCK, this doesn't sound promising), that do the whole shag then pregnancy (for ELEVEN AND A HALF MONTHS) thing. They do not gestate outside their body then. This is already sounding vastly incompatible. 

They grow up to 6ft tall and can weigh about 450lbs. That's quite a bit bigger than an inch.

I have found no mention of laying eggs or larvae in my 17 SECONDS on the Wikipedia page for Llamas.

Conclusion

What would happen if you mated a horse fly with a llama? The most probable answer is that the llama would sit on the horse fly and crush it to death. It would probably get bitten on the arse by the horse fly in the process. Horse Flies can carry a disease called Surra. This disease can be FATAL to llamas. So the llama would drop down dead too. You would have two dead subjects!

What would never happen, in a BILLION FUCKING YEARS, is that they would successfully mate and produce a llama/horse fly hybrid. No GIANT, FLYING LLAMA WITH SIX LEGS! I mean, COME ON, FOR FUCK'S SAKE! It's an insect and a mammal! You wouldn't even be able to mate a llama with a horse, let alone a fucking horse fly! And no, you wouldn't be able to mate a horse fly with a horse either, DESPITE the name!

I am quite willing to hand over my research to Walter Bishop to see if he can make any further progress, but I'm guessing he would be flogging a dead... errrr.... llama.

Una Cerveza, Por Favor

I recently went on holiday to Mexico. Is this a blog about that? No. Well, yes. Well, no. Not really. But, kind of. Put it this way; if you're expecting a "Rough Guide To Mexico" type blog, you're in the wrong place. Try someone who embraces world travel and is happy to share their insights. If you're after me talking about something random, then read on.

Recent understanding is that, when travelling from England to Mexico, you go by aeroplane. The best place to get on an aeroplane is an airport. So it was, on Thursday 13th June, I found myself, with my wife, at Manchester Airport. Whilst doing the usual things you do at an airport (the boring official things like finding your check-in desk and handing over your bag, whilst panicking that you have put too much stuff in it and will be charged; rather than having a sausage muffin that costs the price of a family car) we saw a family excitedly running around; presumably also going on holiday. The reason this family caught our attention was that they had 2 children. Now, I know you are now thinking why 2 children would catch our attention. Lots of families have 2 children. What was attention catching was that one of the children had 2 red arms. No, not sunburn. Plaster casts. Yes, he had broken both of his arms. He was in plaster up to the elbow on both, so could bend his arms. He wasn't full on zombie or aeroplane impression, but still, how annoying. It was actually Sharon that spotted him and she pointed him out. We awwed and I said I hoped they weren't going to Florida. Imagine going to Orlando and not being able to go on any of the rides or water slides because of a last minute injury. Gutting! Poor guy. The moment quickly passed and we thought little more about it. We instead busied ourselves with the financial planning involved in buying a sausage butty and a cup of tea at an airport.

Later, we got on an AEROPLANE! This was to be our home for the next 10 hours. Whilst on there, we saw a boy with 2 broken arms. Don't worry, we weren't on some sort of hospital plane from an airport for accident prone children; it was the same lad. Stands to reason that he would be on our flight. We'd originally seen him around the area we'd checked in. Poor guy. Going on a beach holiday, where the main things to do for a child will be play in the sea or in a pool, but with 2 broken arms. Again we awwed and then thought no more about it. We busied ourselves with squinting to watch poor quality A Good Day To Die Hard and Rise Of The Guardians. We tried to watch the poor quality The Last Stand, but the quality was so poor that it was impossible to actually see or hear the film, so we gave up.

Once we landed and progressed through the usual arriving at an airport stuff, the next leg of our journey involved sitting on a coach for an hour and a half whilst people were dropped off at hotels. "Oh look. There's the broken arm kid again. Poor guy." We sat back and waited for our hotel. We got there and checked in. Whilst checking in, "Is this kid following us? He's staying at our hotel too. Poor guy. This place is right on the beach and has 3 swimming pools and a kid's paddling pool. All useless to him. He'll have to sit and watch all the other kids having fun."

Again we tried to think no more about it and proceeded in trying to stay awake until at least 10pm (which would be 4am for us, after a 5am start) to try and get a hold on the jet-lag from the off. We walked on the beach; had a beer and explored the resort.

A couple of days later we were lazing by the pool watching a group of people in their 20s throw a ball about and saw the broken-arms kid family roll up. "Awwww. A day of watching his brother play in the pool. Poor guy". His brother threw himself in and started swimming about with a snorkel and mask. Poor guy. 

THEN.... something unexpected happened. Broken-arms kid's mum pulled some strange blue things out of her bag. They looked like... could then be?... YES. They were GIANT RUBBER GLOVES! They looked like they were designed entirely for this purpose. His mum wrestled them on over his plasters; whilst he impatiently wriggled and watched his brother already in the pool. When she had finally got them on him, he LAUNCHED himself into the pool. I swear it happened in slow-motion, but that may just be the romantic in me. As he jumped in, me and Sharon CHEERED!...... Then embarrassedly looked away when his family looked round. It was a beautiful moment watching him snorkel round happily. Especially when the people throwing the ball decided it would be funny to try and "get the kid with the broken arms" and 'accidentally' bounced it off his head a couple of times whilst he snorkeled. Moving.

EDIT: Here is the website for the big rubber glove thingys http://www.protectacast.com/

My Christopher Eccleston Story

Let's begin this blog by saying that I seem to struggle typing Eccleston. If, in the process of this blog, I spell it Ecclseton, Eccleton, Ecclestone or any other variations and I don't notice to correct it, please feel free to not tell me. I do know how to spell it. I just type it wrong more often than not.

The year was 2007. The month was April. The location was The Bridgewater Hall in Manchester. Our hero was me. I was 27 years old. 

I quite like going to music gigs. I used to average at least one a month. I mostly went to them with my mate Rick. I had just started seeing Sharon and was starting to go to gigs with her too. Occasionally, if no one else fancied the gig, I would go on my own. I like my own company and have no problem going to see something I want to see on my own. I have seen Paul McCartney, U2 and Eric Clapton on my own. They were all awesome. In April 2007 Sharon was in stupid, rubbish Australia. Van Morrison was playing The Bridgewater Hall in Manchester and I bought a ticket for myself. It turned out my Mum and Bill (her boyfriend) also had tickets for that gig. As it was seated I would not be with them, but I could have a drink with them before and after. Not quite such a lonesome gig after all.

I met my Mum and Bill in the bar of The Bridgewater Hall and had a beer. Then we went to find our seats. I was in the middle of the row, in the middle of the stalls. A good view; I was happy. There were 2 empty seats to my right. The lights went down and there were still 2 empty seats to my right. A couple of minutes in and someone excused himself down the row to get to one of those empty seats. I stood and let him pass. He sat down next to me and I sat down again. My brain told me something I hadn't realised, "You know him. Look at him again." I did; It was Christopher Eccleston. "Oh. That cool actor who was great in Shallow Grave; 28 Days Later and has just been Doctor Who is sat next to me." I texted my Mum and then carried on watching Van Morrison. He was, after all, the person we were all here to see. The gig finished and Van was very good. I had left Christopher Eccleston alone. He was at a gig. Plus he's just a bloke who happens to be famous; that's still just a bloke. I noticed him hold his phone up when a song came on, but apart from that thought no more about him. As the gig finished I figured I should say something. I am a fan. But I don't want to be one of those excitable fan people. As I said, he's just a bloke. So I made no mention as to who he was and asked him if he enjoyed the gig. He said he did and that Van Morrison has mellowed a lot over the years. We exchanged a couple more thoughts on the gig and then went about our day. I spotted my Mum making her way over as we shuffled out. She got to me and said, "WHERE IS HE?!" I sheepishly pointed to the man still right in front of me. My Mum tapped him on the shoulder and said, "I want to shake your hand. You were Doctor Who. My son is a fan of yours". I was a 27 year-old MAN. I had been a COOL 27 year-old MAN! In 5 seconds my mother stripped away all those years and I said, "MUUUUMM! I'd played it cool and not mentioned Doctor Who or anything! (to him) I'm very sorry." He said, "It's ok; I have a Mum too. Pleased to meet you both." He shook both our hands and then was gone into the TARDIS... errr, night.