Monday 25th November 1963
On train to Moscow via Frankfurt.
[Waris spent nearly two weeks in the USSR, including train journeys of two days and nights, while back in Britain Doctor Who was gradually captivating its first audiences.]
A couple of weeks suddenly loomed up, empty, before I can start doing anything with “Cathay” in the next Who epic. I decided I needed to go away and, on B’s suggestion [“That’s my mother. We called her B”], cabled Paul in Moscow to ask if I could come and stay with him. After that the next few days were bound up in rapid journeys to the Russian Consulate and Shepherd’s Bush.
Problems at the BBC. [Director] Chris Barry's first episode of The Dead Planet was completely ruined because of talkback right through. [Recorded on Friday 15th November, this was the start of the first Dalek serial.] The episode had to be done again and it set us back a week later. Verity sat at the phone and Mervyn smoked his pipe. We've been transferred to Threshold House and the traffic noise outside is ear-splitting. The atmosphere of the newly painted place is like entering a new school and the small-scale air of the trolley girls is provincial.
On Friday [22nd November] I dressed up in my Indian outfit and arrived at the Dorchester for the Guild of Television Directors and Producers Ball. Someone said in the foyer that Kennedy [the US President] had been shot. The cloakroom attendant took my coat and said, “Well, what d’you know!” The news was true. It was announced as we all sat down to dinner and the whole atmosphere was charged with disbelief. An extraordinary sensation passed through us sitting at the silver and wines. The full meaning of it didn't come yet. Instead the awards were given by Sybil Thorndike – Vivian Merchant, Harold Pinter (I met him – he is superficial now).
On Saturday everything was gloomy with the pall of Kennedy's assassination. All of us felt it as if he had been a personal friend. I think it is his youth and what he might have achieved that makes his death so horrifying. Special TV programmes were relayed about him throughout the day and ITV seemed to manage better in their programme content. The BBC just burbled on unsure and inconclusive with lengthy questions answered by all-knowing personages of one sort or another. No one really knows what Lyndon Johnson [JFK’s successor] will be like. Dr Who passed unnoticed. Presentation ran the tape too soon so that at least 10 seconds were lost in the opening titles. Bill rang to say the subject matter wasn't me. [“That’s my godfather, Bill.”] I prepared for the journey.
[Waris spent nearly two weeks in the USSR, including train journeys of two days and nights, while back in Britain Doctor Who was gradually captivating its first audiences.]
A couple of weeks suddenly loomed up, empty, before I can start doing anything with “Cathay” in the next Who epic. I decided I needed to go away and, on B’s suggestion [“That’s my mother. We called her B”], cabled Paul in Moscow to ask if I could come and stay with him. After that the next few days were bound up in rapid journeys to the Russian Consulate and Shepherd’s Bush.
Problems at the BBC. [Director] Chris Barry's first episode of The Dead Planet was completely ruined because of talkback right through. [Recorded on Friday 15th November, this was the start of the first Dalek serial.] The episode had to be done again and it set us back a week later. Verity sat at the phone and Mervyn smoked his pipe. We've been transferred to Threshold House and the traffic noise outside is ear-splitting. The atmosphere of the newly painted place is like entering a new school and the small-scale air of the trolley girls is provincial.
On Friday [22nd November] I dressed up in my Indian outfit and arrived at the Dorchester for the Guild of Television Directors and Producers Ball. Someone said in the foyer that Kennedy [the US President] had been shot. The cloakroom attendant took my coat and said, “Well, what d’you know!” The news was true. It was announced as we all sat down to dinner and the whole atmosphere was charged with disbelief. An extraordinary sensation passed through us sitting at the silver and wines. The full meaning of it didn't come yet. Instead the awards were given by Sybil Thorndike – Vivian Merchant, Harold Pinter (I met him – he is superficial now).
On Saturday everything was gloomy with the pall of Kennedy's assassination. All of us felt it as if he had been a personal friend. I think it is his youth and what he might have achieved that makes his death so horrifying. Special TV programmes were relayed about him throughout the day and ITV seemed to manage better in their programme content. The BBC just burbled on unsure and inconclusive with lengthy questions answered by all-knowing personages of one sort or another. No one really knows what Lyndon Johnson [JFK’s successor] will be like. Dr Who passed unnoticed. Presentation ran the tape too soon so that at least 10 seconds were lost in the opening titles. Bill rang to say the subject matter wasn't me. [“That’s my godfather, Bill.”] I prepared for the journey.
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