So, I just finished watching this week’s Doctor Who. I hadn’t expected to like the return of the Doctor, but I’ve liked the series so far. Today, the Doctor took Rose back to the day her father died. I won’t go into details, but suffice to say it involved near-apocalypse, even the brief demise of the Doctor and the most tragic resolution of the whole thing you can think of. I don’t think it’s spoilery, given that it’s blindingly obvious from the beginning.
But I’m not enough of a Who fan to get emotional (unless you talking Who fan in terms of Daltrey, Moon etc)… but somehow I’ve been left a weeping, quivering wreck by the last forty-five minutes of my life. And clever ones amongst you might realise why.
There is a tiny (not so tiny) part of my soul kept alive by the idea that one day, I might just be able to go back in time. It’s a ludicrous idea, I know, which is why I either don’t talk about it or make it a joke. Which it is, really.
But you see, at the core, it’s not a joke as far as I’m concerned. My entire being cries out to go back sometimes. It’s no secret that I love the past, practically live in it, but I think this is less well-known. Even Emony trying to convince me that time travel doesn’t work like it does in Back to the Future hasn’t stopped me.
It was about this time last year that I had some beautiful, terrible dreams of going back to Philip Lynott early enough to keep him away from the narcotics that became his downfall. Problem is, I wish I could.
And I just got a 45-minute long reminder why it would be a terrible idea. Not only terrible, apocalyptic. For me to do the things I so dearly want to do would turn the world upside down, turn it inside out, solarise it and fuck it up beyond recognition. It’s my personal opinion that it would probably end up better, but not if it really happens like in Doctor Who.
In Back to the Future, everything works out OK until Marty gets a little greedy, right? When it’s nice and sweet, everything turns out lovely. Marty’s white-trash existence gets transformed into a happy middle-class life by the end of the whole shebang and he even gets his nice jeep thing and doesn’t get into a race with a Red Hot Chili Pepper.
I don’t think it would work out that way for me. I don’t want to make my parents happy (although that would be nice). I want to save a Beatle, a Door and an Irishman, which sounds a bit like the start of a joke.
And so I am once more reduced to a quivering wreck as I realise that I cannot have these things. I wouldn’t have to save them, really. I would be more than happy to spend a minute in the sober company of Jim Morrison, more than happy to stand backstage while Lizzy rocked out. And fine, I’d steer clear of December 1980 to stop myself.
But you see, I won’t get those things, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to trust myself to not let slip with a quick “You’ll die if you go to Paris, James” or “Please Philip, just say no.”
The tragedy within my soul is that it was Jim Morrison’s destiny to die, and my destiny to live without him.
As Little Roger Daltrey once sang: She knew from the start deep down in her heart, she and Tommy were worlds apart.”