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Mar. 20th, 2009 03:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trace_of_scarletSo.
I met the Doctor and Captain Jack yesterday.
This was Captain Jack:
...And this was the Doctor.
:D! Sylvester McCoy for the win. He was fantastically lovely.
It's Becca's twenty-first birthday today and we hadn't seen each other in a while, so yesterday we met up for me to give her her present and go down the bay. We met at the Torchwood filming where I got the hug and photo with John Barrowman, so that last was only apt, really. Anyway, we're wandering around in the sunshine and there's some guy wandering about the quay dressed as Jack Sparrow. We called down to him and he has the talk, the mannerisms, even the voice: he's fantastic. Seriously, this is how awesome his costume was. Apparently he's waiting for his ship, but it got stolen -- well, this is Cardiff. He should've had a crooklock on it or something. Later on we go back and he's still there, so we go down and chat to him this time. Still no idea why he's really there, but who cares? He's AWESOME! I warn him about the craken in the bay, since he's got a bad track record with such things, and Becca and I get photos with him. Ah, Cardiff.
Then in the evening Becca goes home to Llanelli for her birthday, and I head into town to meet up with Teaboy, Michelle and Gareth to see Little Shop of Horrors at the New Theatre. The performance was great, even if they cut 'Mean Green Mother'. *sad* I'd never before realised just how creepy that show is. Fun, though. Afterwards we head to the Stage Door with our programmes, getting autographs and chat from quite a few of the cast including Trevor from Eastenders (he who was nearly ded by iron) and Clive Rowe, who was in the Doctor Who Christmas Special with Kylie and was Audrey II's voice in the show. And, finally, the completely dotty and wonderful Sylvester McCoy, aka the Seventh Doctor.
Before he came out, he was peeping through the glass of the stage door and pulling faces to make those of us who noticed him giggle. Then he did appear, leaning a bit on his stick... and bothering far more with the fans than anyone else did. Admittedly everyone was waiting for him (I grinned when someone in their thirties explained to a kid in her early teens that he'd been the Doctor, and she was delightedly fangirly), but you know. All the younger, fitter people just signed their names and chatted a little before leaving - and some of them didn't even do that: Clare Buckfield didn't stop at all - but this little, wonderfully dotty old man with a walking stick did personalised autographs (including an extra one wishing Becca a happy birthday) and posed for photos with everyone who wanted one and chatted happily. He even did the eyebrow wiggle, laughing, for a boy who wanted to get a video of it on his mobile, and checked he hadn't missed anyone out before leaving. He was completely mad and completely wonderful, and I approved.
I love my city. It's grimy and grotty and mad and beautiful; it has some of the people I love best in the world, and a lot of the people I think are the best. It fights off floods and alien invasions and delights in its own geekishness; it's clouded with people but there's always someone who wants to know your name. It has its own language and its own song: I see the stained-glass archaic grace of St John's, the alien ship lighting up the smoky sky, the white points of the stadium and the canopy of lights along St Mary's, and I know I'm home.
But it's when I walk across the Bay at night, glowing with velvet dark and misty-bright colours and in these stones horizons sing and laughing people in the laughing air, that I know I'm in love.
It's the Rift City. It's my city.
And I fucking love the stupid place.
I met the Doctor and Captain Jack yesterday.
This was Captain Jack:
...And this was the Doctor.
:D! Sylvester McCoy for the win. He was fantastically lovely.
It's Becca's twenty-first birthday today and we hadn't seen each other in a while, so yesterday we met up for me to give her her present and go down the bay. We met at the Torchwood filming where I got the hug and photo with John Barrowman, so that last was only apt, really. Anyway, we're wandering around in the sunshine and there's some guy wandering about the quay dressed as Jack Sparrow. We called down to him and he has the talk, the mannerisms, even the voice: he's fantastic. Seriously, this is how awesome his costume was. Apparently he's waiting for his ship, but it got stolen -- well, this is Cardiff. He should've had a crooklock on it or something. Later on we go back and he's still there, so we go down and chat to him this time. Still no idea why he's really there, but who cares? He's AWESOME! I warn him about the craken in the bay, since he's got a bad track record with such things, and Becca and I get photos with him. Ah, Cardiff.
Then in the evening Becca goes home to Llanelli for her birthday, and I head into town to meet up with Teaboy, Michelle and Gareth to see Little Shop of Horrors at the New Theatre. The performance was great, even if they cut 'Mean Green Mother'. *sad* I'd never before realised just how creepy that show is. Fun, though. Afterwards we head to the Stage Door with our programmes, getting autographs and chat from quite a few of the cast including Trevor from Eastenders (he who was nearly ded by iron) and Clive Rowe, who was in the Doctor Who Christmas Special with Kylie and was Audrey II's voice in the show. And, finally, the completely dotty and wonderful Sylvester McCoy, aka the Seventh Doctor.
Before he came out, he was peeping through the glass of the stage door and pulling faces to make those of us who noticed him giggle. Then he did appear, leaning a bit on his stick... and bothering far more with the fans than anyone else did. Admittedly everyone was waiting for him (I grinned when someone in their thirties explained to a kid in her early teens that he'd been the Doctor, and she was delightedly fangirly), but you know. All the younger, fitter people just signed their names and chatted a little before leaving - and some of them didn't even do that: Clare Buckfield didn't stop at all - but this little, wonderfully dotty old man with a walking stick did personalised autographs (including an extra one wishing Becca a happy birthday) and posed for photos with everyone who wanted one and chatted happily. He even did the eyebrow wiggle, laughing, for a boy who wanted to get a video of it on his mobile, and checked he hadn't missed anyone out before leaving. He was completely mad and completely wonderful, and I approved.
I love my city. It's grimy and grotty and mad and beautiful; it has some of the people I love best in the world, and a lot of the people I think are the best. It fights off floods and alien invasions and delights in its own geekishness; it's clouded with people but there's always someone who wants to know your name. It has its own language and its own song: I see the stained-glass archaic grace of St John's, the alien ship lighting up the smoky sky, the white points of the stadium and the canopy of lights along St Mary's, and I know I'm home.
But it's when I walk across the Bay at night, glowing with velvet dark and misty-bright colours and in these stones horizons sing and laughing people in the laughing air, that I know I'm in love.
It's the Rift City. It's my city.
And I fucking love the stupid place.
