In this month’s Doctor Who Magazine (on sale now - go buy!), Russell writes about his and Benjamin’s recent UK book tour. Ooh, it’s just like This is Spinal Tap…

RUSSELL T DAVIES:  I’m on tour! Yes, it’s me and Benjamin Cook from this very magazine, going round bookshops, signing The Writer’s Tale. (Later, we’re told that a blogger says we look like Bannakaffalatta and a Slitheen. Worse than that, it’s Margaret Slitheen! Hmph.) David Tennant sends a text: ‘Have you got a tour bus?’ Um. No. We’ve got a car. But it’s a very nice car, driven by the man who drives Alan Titchmarsh, so there. We’re on a three-day whistle-stop tour – London, Birmingham, Manchester, Bristol, Cardiff. “That’s funny,” I say, “every time we stay overnight, it’s in a city where I’ve got a home.” “Yes,“ says Ed the Book Man wearily. “You’d almost think it was planned.” Oh, right, sorry, thanks.

We’ve got no idea what to expect. Ten people, 35 maybe? What if no one turns up? I once saw Richard and Judy sitting in a shop with nobody. I ended up buying their book out of sympathy. But when we arrive in the first store, we’re told the queue is snaking out of the door! It turns out, that’s for Julie Walters, but never mind. I declare her our mortal enemy. In London, the staff say, “You’ve got more than Jamie Oliver and Alan Carr,” and I’m happy for the rest of my life. And when the Manchester shop says, “You’ve beaten Sir Bobby Charlton,” I decide to run for President.

It’s a bit like being a gangster. The car pulls up in a deserted loading bay; big burly men march you through concrete corridors; you’re taken to meet the boss in a subterranean office. Then she offers you apricot cake, and the analogy falls apart. But we’re actually a bit nervous and jittery, me clutching a Sharpie, Ben mainlining Red Bull, until we’re led through to the table, and then, all of a sudden - it’s brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. We end up having the time of our lives. Thing is, it’s so smiley. Everyone’s smiling! That’s the wonderful thing about Doctor Who, in the end: it just makes you smile. A hovering journalist asks a snidely, “Are you sick of pretending to smile?” Hey, back off, hack! The smile’s genuine. How could it not be?

People have been queuing for ages, so Ben and I are genuinely frantic to make it worth their while. If you’ve never been to a signing, this is what happens: you’re given a Post-it in the queue, to stick on the flyleaf and write down the dedication you want, and more importantly how to spell the name, otherwise it would take forever. Especially that woman called Anniina (“It’s from Finland”). Then it becomes a blur of names and smiles. Hello Angela, Michael, Freya, Jason, Rosalind, Team Lesbian, a man called Jesus (Ben writes ‘God bless’), women dressed as Captain Jack, teddies dressed as Captain Jack, and best of all, the kids. Little, round, giggling faces. I ask, “What’s your favourite episode?” A lad called Alyn says Rose, which I’ve never heard anyone say before. He’ll be the producer in 2028. But two little boys just stare solemnly. “Favourite episode?” Silence, stare. “Favourite companion?” Silence, stare. “Favourite monster?” Silence, stare. “I think you two are secret Primeval fans.” “Oooh yeah!” they chime, huge grins. Mum says sorry and takes them home to be beaten soundly.

Then it’s back to the autographs - and a signature under pressure becomes something very odd indeed. I find myself writing Result Davies. Peanut Davies. Runt Davros. One of them even looks like Pam Dance. Ben’s is morphing into some weird alien pictogram (much like the ones that the Doctor will discover in 4.15, funnily enough).

Our favourite story comes from Birmingham. The woman in charge, Angela – who should be in charge of the whole country, frankly – says that the manager of the Nationwide next door has asked for the queue to be removed. Why? “It looks like there’s a run on the bank!” So if the worldwide financial markets have collapsed by the time this is printed, and you’re reading it in the firelight of your own furniture while fighting off wild dogs, now you know why. Doctor Who brought down civilisation. But what a way to go.

And as the queues go on and on – the girls who bring birthday cake, little Emily who can’t stop laughing, Karen and her husband (”We got engaged at a convention, and our dog’s named after Katy Manning”), The Angels Have The Phone Box t-shirts, the sheer goodwill of it all - I can’t help thinking, this is fandom. At its best. I live in a very closed Doctor Who world, and the subject of fandom is usually brought up by provocative, negative journalists so that I often react in a provocative, negative way. As though the fans are a problem. But that means we’re restricting the discussion to the extremes, the couple of hundred angry, shrill voices who dominate the conversation. Now, these three days open my eyes. I’m an idiot! Because I can see so clearly, right in front of me, that the majority of fans are happy and fun and barmy, just like the show. And the most joyous thing of all is that every one of us – those in the queue, and us two signing away – have got a little blue box spinning somewhere in our heads. Spinning forever.

Then it’s back to the Post-its and the faces, hello Aaron, Giovanni, handsome Stefan, Matt from Aardman, Mikee with two Es, Susan, Nige, Ben, meet Ben!, Erica, Harriet, Paula, Connor, Hayz, Ramsey, Owen, Joshua, Jonathan, Johnny, John, Jon, Jo…

MEANWHILE…

Far away from the banter and name-dropping, in a cold and forgotten corner of Cardiff…

A small red light blinks in the dark. Systems wake. Printers sit poised. Computers count away the seconds in a dusty, abandoned room. A sign on the door bears the legend: Doctor Who Production Office.

Soon, so soon, the waiting will be over. And preproduction on the Specials will begin.

Monday 24 November.

Tick tock, tick tock…