"Another beer, sir?" the Dalek asked, the red lights on its head flashing obsequiously.
I peered blearily at the glass. And then back at the inexpensive BBC special effect standing hopefully being the bar. Do Daleks stand, or do they merely 'be'?
"I think I've had enough." I replied, getting to my feet rather unsteadily.
Of course, this wasn't an alcohol fuelled hallucination. No, the landlord of my local had acquired one of the terrors of my youth as a prop for a party at the weekend.
I love Daleks. I love the way that while America devised ever more unpleasant and horrific creatures to terrify its television watching public, the cash-strapped BBC stuck doggedly to the formula of a dustbin with flashing lights on its head and a sink plunger as its major weapon.
And its testimony to the inherent silliness of the British (me included) that we regularly found ourselves watching the screen though hands over our eyes as the wheeled absurdities lurched around the screen; miraculously climbing stairs and negotiating rocky terrain, bellowing 'Exterminate' and knocking chunks of polystyrene off the scenery. Not noted for their stealth were the Daleks.
Alas, I didn't watch the new series of Doctor Who. But I am pleased to have made the acquaintance of a Dalek and, as gratitude for al the entertainment its brethren gave me during the 70s and early 80s, bought it a beer.
I hope it doesn't rust.
