Weapons Grade Snake Oil

Weapons Grade Snake Oil

The book is out!

My first novel, Weapons Grade Snake Oil, is now available in paperback and ebook. You'll find it here, fresh from the publisher, Obverse Books.

The first review is in also in, courtesy of We Are Cult, and it's a very good one, which can be read here.

We Are Cult also did a Q&A with me, about the book and more besides, and that can be read here.

During the Q&A you may notice it dawn on me that 2017 is the 20th anniversary of the first appearance of Faction Paradox, in Lawrence Miles infamous Doctor Who book, Alien Bodies.

For those who are unfamiliar with the Faction; don't panic. You are safe to read Weapons Grade Snake Oil without any prior knowledge. The story within its pages is complete.

If you know Faction Paradox of old, or are at all intrigued as to their fictional history; here's a short film.

More updates soon, probably with an extract or two to whet your appetite.

The End

2015 is outta here.

Traditionally, at this point, I'd have look back at the last three hundred and sixty five days and have a bit an enthuse about all the culture I consumed.

But, 2015 is different because everything else that happened is eclipsed by one monumental event.

Leon died.

I first crossed paths with Leon Webster in 1991, when I'd just moved to Leicester and was searching all the comic shops for a copy of Prince: Alter Ego #1 (yes, they had more than one comic shop in Leicester in 1991! I know, right?)
I found him working in The Final Frontier on St Nicholas Place. During my Prince comic quest, he was the only person who seemed to know what I was talking about. He informed me that I had jumped the gun as the comic in question had not yet been published and I should call back in a week.

Leon was a seemingly unassuming schmindy-kid, with a ponytail and (most likely) a Ned's Atomic Dustbin T-shirt.
At the time, the encounter would have seemed pretty inconsequential. In hindsight, it's funny how this first meeting set the tone for our entire twenty-four year relationship; a music and comics crossover, with Leon already in the role of my cultural adviser.

Over time, I became a regular at The Final Frontier and also began to run into Leon at various bars and clubs around the city. I think we were initially wary of each other, as the insular world of comics and the social world of clubbing and gigs seemed far more separate back then. To find someone who existed happily in both worlds was slightly disconcerting.

In the early nineties, I was living, backwards and forwards, between London and Leicester, participating in various jobs and college courses. Eventually, I even ended up working alongside Leon at The Final Frontier for a time, and that was where our friendship was sealed.

The nineties hurtled on in an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of jobs, cities, homes, colleges and girlfriends. I found myself, at the start of the millennium, washed up on the shores of Leicester once more. I came across Leon in The Orange Tree. He immediately passed me his headphones and said, "Listen to this.You'll love it."

It was a tape he'd got free with the copy of Kerrang! he was sat reading. I had always been more of Mixmag type of geezer and Leon was well aware of this fact. But, he exactly knew what he was doing.

The tune was Out/Definition by The Mad Capsule Markets.



He was right. I adored it.
This small event really captures one of Leon's most important skills. His enthusiasms were very wide and extremely eclectic. He would think nothing of going to see The Saturdays in concert one night and Slipknot the next and be equally excited for both. This omni-enthusiasm enabled him to see the cultural blind-spots in those around him and point them towards things they may have otherwise missed.

These recommendations were bespoke. Made-to-measure for whomever he was speaking to at that given moment. Leon's circle of friends was as wide-ranging and eclectic as his taste in music and his ability to hook you up with something you might have missed even stretched to people.

During those Wilderness Years of the early noughties in the Orange Tree, Leon brought me and Anup together and what followed was to inspire the situation comedy the three of us never got around to writing. I have probably never before laughed so much than when in the company of Leon and Anup together. Our triumvirate had all the funny a boy could ever need; Anup's brutal nihilism, Leon's abstract scatology and my whatever the fuck I did.

The three of us moved in together and then it all went a bit like this;



A steady diet of alcohol and WWF Pay-Per-Views was enjoyed by us three housemates, alongside the many, many visitors who passed through our hedonistic abode. I even met Lauren, my future wife, during this time; Leon, once again, bringing people together (during the No Way Out PPV, 2003 fact fans!).

Fun? Yes. Sustainable? No. Eventually, I had to run away, back to London.

Through the remainder of the noughties, Leon and I were in different cities, but the era of social media had begun and we were never really of touch. Annual Glastonbury pilgrimages were planned, and ticket purchasing was executed with all the painstaking logistics associated with an extended military campaign.

Myspace begat Facebook begat Twitter and Leon extended his role of social conduit and cultural curator to the on-line community. The information age was the perfect platform for his mission to link people together. Leon's social circle increased exponentially.

The downside to his gregarious nature meant that, over time, Leon's drinking had gotten out of control and had began to effect his health. A few years ago, after a stint in hospital, he was informed that he needed to cease drinking alcohol completely. Much to everyone's relief, he not only stopped, but thrived.
He went through treatment for his alcoholism. He turned this negative into a positive, retraining to became a qualified health champion and securing a job with the probation service, where he helped others with their own drink and drug problems.

Now sober, Leon's culture intake exploded. He visited the cinema pretty much daily. His appetite for live music was insatiable. Around this time, he brought my attention to the British independent wrestling promotion, Progress Wrestling; and I accompanied with him to a show at the Electric Ballroom in Camden.

While we were there, this happened...



It was an epiphany.
From that moment on, we were regulars at every Camden Progress show. It seemed that Leon's new, clean-living lifestyle was working out. For a while, it was.

But then, Leon fell off the wagon. No one is quite sure exactly when it happened, but he was drinking heavily again at Glastonbury 2015. After the festival, he swore it was just a blip. He went back to his doctor for treatment and resumed his abstinence. We felt relived that disaster had, once more, been averted.

The last time I saw him to speak to was 18th October at the Electric Ballroom for the Progress Show. He had been admitted to the Leicester Royal Infirmary the previous week and we had been texting about the state of his health and the impending wresting show. He was playing down his hospital stay, insisting that I need not worry; he was fine and would be discharged in time to be at the Ballroom, as usual.

When the day came, it was suddenly all too clear just how ill he had become. I was shocked at the state of him.At the time, I couldn't understand why he had come when he was clearly in no fit state to do so. In hindsight, it is obvious that the reason he came was because he knew it would be for the last time.

He was readmitted to the Leicester Royal a week or so later. There was nothing further they could do for him. We rushed to Leicester to say goodbye. He was semi-conscious from intensity of his palliative care. The stream of visitors to his bedside was never-ending.

Leon died in the early hours of the 31st October, 2015, surrounded by friends.

It has taken me so long to write anything at all about this. At the time of his death, many people wrote the most beautiful, heartfelt things. Every time I've attempted to do the same, I couldn't find the right words. Even now, this ramble has taken me days to string together. I still don't have the words, but I felt I had to get down some words, right or wrong.

Leon was the patron saint of enthusiasm and I was incredibly lucky to have him as my friend. His continued absence is painful and disorientating.

Perhaps the best way to honour Leon's passing is to continue his work. To enthuse. To celebrate and share the things that inspire us or move us. The things that make us laugh. The things that help us to understand or just make a difficult day a little more bearable.

I will enthuse again. But, not just now.

b

x

Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is.

The Tories are lying, as usual.

But, never mind that; for the sake of argument, let's imagine it's all true.

The country is in loads of debt. So what?

As a fully functioning and useful member of society, a person is expected to saddle themselves with tens of thousands of pounds of student debt, on the gamble that, in the future; they will be earning enough to pay it all back.

After their (preposterously expensive) education, they'll probably need a car, so they take on more debt for this socially desirable item, that depreciates in value with every passing moment of its use.

After that, they might be lucky enough to be one of the tiny amount of people who can (sort of) afford to buy somewhere to live and therefore lock themselves into repaying hundreds of thousands of pounds, pretty much up until the point they keel over and die.

Done all that? Good. Well done. You made a 'success' of your life. Go you.

Every step of they way on this journey of 'achievement'; you were not only expected to get into debt; you were actively encouraged and celebrated for doing so.

You see; you were investing in yourself. You were making a pact with your future; that it would, one day, be 'better' than your present. You could afford to take on all this debt now, because then your investment would have paid off.

If an individual saddling themselves with all this (apparently) essential debt, is what is expected in order to be considered a 'success'; then why is the opposite true for the country?
Surely, we must be expecting our country's future to be better than our present?

If this is the case, then how is building hospitals, schools, houses and infrastructure in any way irresponsible? How is making sure that the most vulnerable in society are supported not an investment in that person's individual future, and so by extension, an investment in the country's future as a whole?

You've gotta speculate to accumulate, or is that only true of the spivs in the City? It's almost as though the Conservative party have no faith in the future of our country whatsoever.

For the love of anything sane, don't vote for the Tories.

And if they don't want to go quietly, we might need to see them off the premises.

Fuzzy Fiction On The Mail Rail

I was late.

By the time I had arrived at the British Postal Museum Archive, last Wednesday night, the inaugural event of Cityread 2015  had already begun.

This year's book is Ben Aaronovitch's Rivers of London, which is the first in his series of novels, dealing with the unusual investigations of magic cop, PC Peter Grant. The event was an exclusive reading of a brand new Peter Grant short story, written by the series creator and performed in the Mail Rail tunnels, beneath Mount Pleasant.

Yes, that is a thing.

Being a fan of the books, I was very excited to have nabbed a seat for the reading. Unfortunately, the fates conspired to delay me (although, it may well have been irate river goddesses rather than fates on this occasion) and I was really very late indeed.

Thankfully, not too late.

I'd missed the drinks, but I was directed to the tunnels by a very nice lady, who eventually found the right door to the secret railway.

Inside, I attempted to descend the clangy, metal staircase as inconspicuously as possible (ie. not very inconspicuously).

Looking down, I saw a small cluster of seated people, facing a lectern.

Behind the lectern was Peter Grant.

It is quite a disconcerting thing to arrive, harassed and embarrassed, in the middle of someone's performance. It's quite another thing when that person is a fictional character, whose adventures in the tunnels beneath London, you were three quarters of the way through reading.

"Come down, we're just setting the scene," said PC Grant.

I swiftly clunked down the steps and found an empty seat.

It turned out that the walls between fiction and reality had not begun to blur and the Peter Grant-a-like was, in fact, the actor and MC, Doc Brown. He is the spit of Grant, though. Which is odd, as Grant is made of words on a page.

Doc Brown returned to his recitation.

Peter Grant (Doc Brown) makes his statement

In keeping with this unreal mood, the new story possessed a fuzzy resemblance to reality, being set in the location where we were all sat at that very moment.
There were added river spirits and rat-people to differentiate it from what was actually happening in front of us, but having said that, the tunnels were long, so you never know.

It was a great story, brilliantly performed. There were plenty of laugh out loud moments and ended with a wish that it could have gone on even longer.

After the reading, Ben Aaronovitch hosted a short Q and A, where he talked about his process and his plans for the future of the series. He was charming and funny and open to discuss anything anyone asked, for as long as the time allowed.

Explaining how he had deliberately created Grant to be much younger than himself, he thus ensured that there would never be any danger of him having to write about the character's retirement. The stories could keep on going for as long as Aaronovitch himself did the same.

The author will be visiting libraries in all the 33 London boroughs throughout April and you should really take the time to catch him if you can. Also, don't forget to get hold of a copy of Rivers of London and join in the Cityread mega-book group this April.

I'm fighting the urge to pile straight into Broken Homes, right now. It seems especially appealing as the story is set south of the river (my ends) this time.

Instead, I'm going to rewind and reread the first book, along with the rest of the population. Maybe I'll tease out some things I missed first time around, hidden within the twists of the city.

London is a real place, made of fiction.

Occasionally, if you're lucky, you get lost between the lines.

UPDATE - (17/04/15)

Cityread have uploaded a re-recording of the short story, King of the Rats to Soundcloud and can be heard below;

An Open Letter To Neil Lonsdale

Neil,

You're doing it wrong.

You've misunderstood the situation.

OK, you don't like Kanye West. That's is, of course, an entirely acceptable position to take. I can see why this might be.
West does seem to possess some sort of crippling inferiority complex that causes him behave badly in social situations.
There are some who have diagnosed this condition as that of 'being a dick.'

Now, I don't know him personally, but there would appear to be a fair amount of evidence to support this thesis.

However, in his capacity as headline act on the Pyramid Stage, Saturday night at Glastonbury, 2015; we should be less concerned about his questionable social skills, than about his ability as a performer of music.
You don't have to enjoy his particular sort of music (I can take it or leave it personally), but you would have to been living under a stone, or perhaps even King's Lynn, to be ignorant of Mr West's significance within the field of his chosen discipline.

So, why don't we examine the sort of thing we might get on the night...

That wasn't so bad, was it? There was even ballet dancers and shit.

I'll tell you what it really reminded me of; it's exactly like the sort of thing you would expect to see... on the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury during some headliner slot or other!

Now, with one or two notable exceptions, I pretty much never go to see the headliners at the Pyramid, mainly because there's an almost infinite number of much better stuff happening elsewhere, on the really-quite-colossal site. I suspect this year will be much the same.
For example, Foo Fighters are that sort of magnolia, Fearne Cotton-friendly rock band that doesn't really do very much for me (Although Dave Grohl always seems like a really nice guy in interviews. Yep, I'll admit, he certainly seems nicer than Kanye West. I've never met either of them, so I don't really know)

But, rather than focus on my mild disinterest on that particular booking, I focused on the fact that it didn't matter one iota because there's an almost infinite number of much better stuff happening elsewhere on the really-quite-colossal site.

What you have seen on the telly, Neil? That stuff? It's largely irrelevant to the experience of being there. Forget what you think you know.

I have a very eclectic group of friends, all with an equally eclectic group of tastes and our beginnings at the festival are a little like this;

Friend 1: "I am going to see the Jangles in the John Peel tent in a bit"
Friend 2: "I was going to check out the Latvian Nose Flute Ensemble at Jazz World (I refuse to call it 'West Holts')"
Friend 3: "I'm going to head towards that 'Doof! Doof! Doof!" sound that's coming from over there"
Friend 4: "I'm going to have my chakras buffed in the Green fields and maybe buy a guinea pig and tahini baguette, if I can avoid all the Greenpeace chuggers pretending to be my best mate."
Friend 5: "I'm going for a pint."
Friend 6: "Et cetera..."
Me: "OK, shall we all meet at the Pyramid for about two, when Elaine Paige is on?"
Everyone: "Yes, fam! The Paige is sick! Love the Paige! See ya down there! Whoooo! We rule! Yaayy!"

And then we all leave.

And then, not one of those things actually happens.

But everyone still has a lovely time.

So, you see, you've piled in too soon, with your sense of entitlement and your petition. You don't need to go and watch Kanye West or Foo Fighters or anything you don't want to! There are going to be too many options available! None of what you think matters matters!

I am sure you are a nice guy, but you starting this petition has you coming across as a tad... I dunno...

It reminds me of someone...




I'm certain you will have a pleasant time at the festival, if you just allow yourself.

All the best,

b

x

Grumpy Auld Men

A blast of Yuletide turbo fiction!

Here's a little festive interlude for Theo Possible.

Grumpy Auld Men 

The village hall finally felt toasty. 

It had taken a while, but the four portable gas heaters on full blast had beaten back the bitter cold from the creaky wooden interior. Not very eco-friendly, thought Vera, but preferable to one of the senior citizens pegging it at the card table. One day, they would raise enough money and build a proper village hall, with bricks and double glazing and everything. 

Vera Mallard sighed wistfully at the dusty 'new village hall fund' totaliser which was hung on the wall.  They'd been raising money for as long as she could remember and they still barely had a tenth of what was needed. She was sure that they would get there eventually. She just doubted that she would be around to see it, what with her already two years shy of the allotted threescore years and ten. 

The hall was gradually filling with people. Shivering, snow-sprinkled folk queued at the door, wishing each other a Merry Christmas and handing over their entry fee to Jackie, the treasurer, sat at a rickety trestle table. Jackie dropped the money in the cash box and handed back their strip of complementary raffle tickets.

Vera took off her glasses and wiped the condensation from the lenses with her woolly-gloved hands. The new prescription was like the bottom of a milk bottle, but she was now blind as a bat without them.  She pushed the glasses back on her nose and blinked. 

Then she spotted him. 

"Coo-ee!" Vera called, waving to the tall, hooded figure in the white parka, waiting patiently in the queue. Mrs Reeder was in front, slowly counting out her coppers into Jackie's outstretched hand.  

"Theo!" yelled Vera. 

Theo Possible snapped out of his penny-watching trance, spotted Vera waving at him and beamed. 

Vera scuttled forward and looped her arm around Theo's. "Jack!" she bellowed at the treasurer, "This one's with me, alright?" Jackie nodded and waved them through. 

"Vera," muttered Theo, "It's only a couple of quid. I can pay, you know." 

"Oh, we'll sort it out later," Vera blustered. "I haven't seen you in ages!" 

"I know, I know," said Theo apologetically. "I've had a lot on." 

"You never made it to the summer fete or bonfire night," Vera scolded him.  

"But, you know I'd never miss the Christmas whist drive in a million years," said Theo, holding up the white plastic carrier bag in his hand. "I got a couple of bottles of that sherry you like. I thought you could maybe put one in the raffle?" 

"Oh, bless you, Theo," said Vera. "You're so thoughtful." 

Theo pulled back his hood and unzipped his parka. "I like what you've done to your hair, Vee," he said. "Very swish." 

Vera blushed, gently titivating her new do. Her hairdresser, Tracy had talked her into this new colour and bob. Theo was the first to comment on it, as Vera had only just removed her head scarf. "You don't think it’s a bit..?" she whispered. 

"Oh, it really suits you," remarked Theo. "The cut shows off your bone structure and colour complements your eyes perfectly." 

"Charmer," Vera chuckled. She looked into Theo's sparkling eyes. Despite the crow's feet, his chestnut skin glowed with vitality and his silver-white goatee beard framed a warm, sincere smile. Time was being much kinder to him than her, she thought. 

"I've got a surprise for you," said Vera with a conspiratorial, sing-song lilt. Theo raised an intrigued eyebrow. She ushered him towards their usual card table, in the far corner of the hall. "Burt's not here, I'm afraid," she explained. "His grandson is getting married in Australia. They paid for his flights over there, hotels and everything."  

"Lucky Burt," Theo remarked. "So, we're short of a player?" 

"That's the surprise!" Vera announced.  

They arrived at their table. Maude was sat in her usual seat, in a tartan cardigan and matching bobble-hat. She was chatting to a man, perched opposite, in the place Burt usually occupied. 

"Surprise!" whooped Vera. "Look who it is, Theo!" 

The man with Maude looked up with sharp, predatory eyes.  

He was dressed in smart black jacket and a white shirt. His hair was pale grey and his skin was blanched. All the lines on his face seemed to converge to a furious point in the space between his dagger-like eyebrows. 

"Theo Possible," the man proclaimed in a Scottish brogue. An ironic smirk dented his thin lips. "Long time no see, Theo! Merry Christmas!" 

"Long time no see, Theo! Merry Christmas!"

Possible cleared his throat. 

"Indeed," he said, flatly. "Merry Christmas. You were the very last person I expected to see here. How are you, Maude?" 

"As well as can be expected, Theo," mumbled Maude. "I was just telling your friend..." 

"Yes!" the man cut in, "Maude was just explaining about all her many ailments. Maude has so many, many ailments. People do tend tell you all about their aches and pains when you mention that you're a doctor! I should keep my mouth shut, shouldn't I? Poor old Maude! I was about to suggest that I put her out of her misery, just as you two walked up!" 

He laughed, a short, theatrical cackle and Vera and Maude joined in. Theo smiled politely. 

"Well, aren't you going to sit down?" asked the Doctor. 

"Theo, I'm going to hang up my coat, do you want me to take yours?" asked Vera 

Theo thanked her, slipped out of his parka and handed it over. Vera sent Maude to fetch some sherry glasses and mince pies. Theo took a seat. 

"How did you know I was here?" asked Possible. 

"I didn't," said the Doctor. "I detected a temporal disturbance and popped in here to see if anyone had noticed anything. I got chatting to Vera, she mentioned your name and here we are. What are you doing here anyway?" 

Theo shrugged, "I'm a regular." 

"Doesn't seem like your sort of place," the Doctor sneered.  

"You don't know anything about me," Theo replied. 

"I know enough," warned the Doctor, an accusatory glint to his eye. "You're a sort of cheap, tribute act, aren't you? A flash wannabe dabbling in things he barely understands." 

"Don't worry, Doctor," Theo reassured him. "I represent no threat to your brand whatsoever. I'd find it all bit too... restrictive for me, if I'm honest." 

The Doctor snorted, "And what's that supposed to mean?" 

"Don't get me wrong, I can see how you might get a little envious," Theo went on, "But, I'm on a completely different sort of tip from you. I mean, you go looking for trouble, don't you? You 'detected a temporal disturbance' and you went to see who needed to be slapped down." 

"I went to check if there was any danger!" the Doctor snapped. 

"And you were disappointed to find it was only some friends meeting for a game of cards and a sherry," Theo added. "Now, because you deem me to be in the 'wrong' section of space and time, you're trying to provoke me." 

"I don't need to provoke you," the Doctor murmured. "I can shut you down anytime I like." 

Maude returned carrying a tray with a plate of mince pies and four mismatched glasses. "Here we are," she trilled. "Theo, would you take this from me? I need both hands free to sit down!" 

Theo sprung to his feet and set down the tray, then helped Maude back to her seat. Then, he retrieved one of the bottles of sherry from his carrier bag and began to pour a measure into each glass. 

"Not for me," said the Doctor, "I'm not staying." 

"That's a shame," Theo lied. 

"What was that?" asked Vera, returning from the cloakroom. "You're not leaving, are you?" 

"He's a doctor, Vee," Theo reminded her. "He's always on call. Bye, then..." 

"But, we need four for whist," Vera insisted. 

The Doctor mused. A mischievous twitch danced across his face.  

Theo Possible ground his teeth imperceptivity. 

"Oh, what the hell!" the Doctor exclaimed at last. "What's a gory night shift at A&E at its busiest time of year when weighed against a couple of hands of whist, eh? Make my sherry a large one, Theo, me old mate. It is Christmas, after all!" 

Theo Possible poured a sherry large enough to choke a Time Lord. 

Vera sat and shuffled the cards as Maude munched a mince pie. "So, how do you two know each other?" Vera asked her gentlemen guests and she dealt out the cards. 

"We... studied together," said Theo. 

"You studied medicine, Theo?" said Vera, surprised. 

"No, no, no... Martial Arts," Theo explained. The Doctor shot Theo a dangerous glance as he picked up his cards and began sorting them into suits. 

"Oh, like an evening class?" asked Vera. 

"Sort of," said Theo. 

"We started doing Tai Chi, didn't we Maude?" said Vera. "They did classes here, in the hall, during the summer. They stopped when it got too cold. Might start again when the weather picks up." 

Maude nodded, "They said it would help my arthritis. I suppose it did a bit." 

"Last time I saw your name," said the Doctor to Theo, "Was on an flyposter on a wall in a pub on Hitchemus. I would have dropped in to see you then, but the date had already come and gone." 

"That doesn't usually prevent you, surely?" said Theo. 

"That was how we first met Theo," said Vera. "He played the records at our silver wedding anniversary. Me and my Reg. He was brilliant! He knew exactly the right records to play. All the songs you knew, even ones you'd completely forgotten about, songs you'd never heard before but were perfect for the mood." 

"I've retired now, Doctor," Theo emphasised. "All that travelling, keeping all those platter's spinning. It was getting too much like hard work." 

The Doctor pursed his lips. Vera turned the last card. Clubs were trumps. 

Hands were played. Tricks were won. Sherry was drunk. 

Eventually, Maude called for a short interlude whilst she went outside for a cigarette. The players agreed and Theo topped up their glasses while they waited. 

"Are you alright, Theo?" asked Vera. "You seem out of sorts this evening." 

"Me?" said Theo. "No, I'm fine." 

"I suspect that might be due to my presence, Vera," the Doctor admitted.  

"I suspect that you might be over-estimating your significance, Doctor," Theo chided. "That's not like you at all, is it? Oh, wait..." 

"Theo thinks he has the monopoly when it comes to gate-crashing," the Doctor added. 

"Where as you, Doctor, think you have the monopoly on everything," snapped Possible. 

"Now, boys!" Vera admonished them. "We've all had a sherry. Let's not fall out. Whatever this is about, now is not the time. It's Christmas!" 

Theo took and deep breath and nodded. The Doctor looked unrepentant. He finished his sherry and stood up to leave. 

"Oh, don't go! Not like this!" Vera pleaded. 

"I think It's for the best, Vera," said the Doctor. "It was very nice meeting you. Theo, stay out of trouble, won't you?" 

Possible furrowed his brow, "Take care, Doctor," he advised. "Try not to wipe out any civilizations on you way out, won't you?" 

The Doctor departed, leaving a withering look so profound that his eyebrows seemed to remain, Cheshire catlike, long after he left the hall. 

After a moment, Theo apologised. "I'm really sorry, Vera," he said, scratching his head sheepishly. "That bloke always brings out the worst in me." 

Vera laughed, "I've seen a whole other side of you this evening, Theo. What on earth did you two fall out about?" 

"It's a long story," Theo sighed. "He's from a very privileged background and I was very... militant in my youth." 

"So, you've mellowed with age, have you?" Vera wondered. 

Possible quietly pondered this as he held up his glass for a toast.  

"Merry Christmas, Vera," he said. Vera lifted her glass and clinked it with his. 

"And goodwill to all men?" she added. 

"I suppose," chuckled Possible, taking a rueful sip of his sherry.