The Return of Galaxy Log!

Scanning through the myriad emails and messages, I notice one from Peter Nayland-Goathe, a old and wily man and dare I say, a friend. Although he has not been in touch recently, not since the end of Galactic Log, he brought glad tidyings. Apparently they are thinking of bringing back GL for  whole new generation.

For those who don't know Galactic Log was one of the most innovative Sci Fi shows ever made. It had a cult following in the 1980s, and to enhance it's exclusive and on the edge style, it has never featured in any sci-fi convention, and wouldn't do even if we were invited. The reviews were mixed for it, it seems the critics just 'didn't get it'. One that stands out in my mind was 'Galactic Log should be renamed "there's nothing on BBC2 either"'. A trifle unkind.

In the series I played Vorbilon, a Spand from the planet Squirb, who had been recruited into the United Kingdom of Planets partly because his own planet and star system was burnt up in a supernova and partly because of the luncheon vouchers.

Sadly Vorbilon was struck dumb by an alien crumb ray in the second episode, so I had to convey the angst, loneliness and desperation of my character using only my physical perspicacity and rubber tendrils.

I am to meet Nayland-Goathe tomorrow - the 15th. I shall keep you informed.

Return to Reality

The last week of March I spent at the Foreign Office, being quizzed on the performance and how it went and what it involved. There was certainly a lot of interest! People would come in and go out and then another set of people would come in and go out. There was talk of a diplomatic incident, although I can’t really take the credit for how the populous of that nation reacted to our departure home. It was a team effort, although if pushed, I would have to say my puppetry during Mid Summer Nights’ Dream was something I would be proud to have on my CV, and any future employer can explore at length my Bottom.

The problem which also dogged me was Melvyn Hayes, who was under instruction from a Columbian Cuddley Toy Cartel to smuggle in as many toy penguins as he could. Imagine my surprise when his body scan revealed over fifty eight of these items hidden in his rectal passage. The image of poor Hayes being led away by guard to literally have the stuffing taken out of him is something which will live with me for a long time, as is the imaginary image of him placing them there in the first place.

I returned to my flat to find absolutely no trace that Dick Van Dyke had been there and set an elaborate trap to force me to meet my maker. This was a tremendous relief to me; as readers know I have had a rather heated dispute over a set of pajamas which went missing in Greenwich dry cleaners and which subsequently I saw on an episode of Diagnosis Murder; it seems Van Dyke is biding his time.

London is something of a bump to reality when returning from a foreign tour. No one here comes up to me, let alone chases me, and to some extent I feel lonely, unappreciated and neglected.

I must ring Nicholas Parsons today.

Back from the Brink. Or Africa, as some call it.

It’s been a while so let me fill you in on what I have been up to. I have spent much of the tail end of March in Malawi, with the RSSPC. Not a charity, although if you want to donate some funds to them I am sure they will be gratefully received. Neither is it anything to do with the RSC, as the injunction clearly states. The Royal Shakespeare Shadow Puppet Collective performs the Bards’ plays via a complex set up of a wall and a table lamp. Oh, the deep feeling of doing something new! The raw emotion of being the first to explore this medium with the greatest playwright the world has ever seen. The embarrassment of Two Gentlemen of Verona where I made a rather convincing but unscripted mallard.

I have to say at this point we were in no way responsible for the civil unrest which seemed to dog our performances; we put this down to a sweeping desire for political change, and nothing to do our actual shows, which were dogged by technical, performance and rioting issues.

The endless chanting of “pothawira iye” and “McPhereson! Duka chotsa mavalo a chimuna” I took to be especially heartening. To think my name is now part of the language in Malawi. I am reliably informed it means “We must give him what he deserves” and many of our security personnel and latterly the army certainly seemed to concur.

My journey to the airport was eventful, as faithful audience members rocked the vehicle, perhaps hoping for one last performance of our epics, although we lacked a suitable torch, and Enrico (head of security)  said it was unwise to go out in case they got over excited, and with each wanting to savour a part of me pull me limb from limb.