ROY HATTERSLEY (1932 - 2026): AN OBITUARY

Roy Hattersley, that indomitable pillar of the Labour Party who spent decades polishing his credentials as the thinking man’s Yorkshireman, finally shuffled off this mortal coil at the age of 93, proving that even the most durable political lard can eventually melt. Born in Sheffield in 1932 into the sort of solid Labour household that regarded socialism as both birthright and hobby, young Roy ascended the greasy pole with the unhurried certainty of a man who had already composed his own footnotes. 

As MP for Birmingham Sparkbrook for more than three decades, Shadow Cabinet stalwart, and Deputy Leader under Neil Kinnock from 1983 to 1992, Hattersley embodied the respectable face of the soft left—or was it the hard centre? Even he seemed occasionally unsure. He railed against Militant with the righteous fury of a man who knew a good purge when he saw one, yet retained enough old-fashioned eloquence to make one wonder whether he secretly preferred the sound of his own voice to the prospect of electoral victory. In the great struggle to make Labour electable, he played the reliable second fiddle, sawing away gamely while the orchestra tuned up for Tony Blair’s more ambitious concerto. 

Television, that merciless leveller, granted him two immortal cameos. On Spitting Image, his puppet became a glorious fountain of expectoration, lisping and spraying with every sibilant in a performance so vivid that Hattersley himself graciously conceded it put the 'spit' into the programme. One almost felt the latex version had more expressive range. Then came the sublime Have I Got News for You moment in 1993 when, having cancelled for the third time, he was replaced by a tub of lard credited as The Rt Hon. Tubson of Lardon MP. It was, the producers noted with forensic deadpan, “liable to give much the same performance and imbued with many of the same qualities.” The lard, along with Paul Merton, won. Politics rarely produces so perfect an epitaph. 

Away from the Commons he churned out more than twenty books—biographies, histories, memoirs—like a one-man municipal library with opinions. A journalist, broadcaster, and Sheffield Wednesday loyalist to the end, he combined pomposity and self-deprecation in proportions that kept him just the right side of insufferable. In an age of slick soundbites, Hattersley remained defiantly prolix, a reminder that politics once rewarded men who could talk at length without quite saying very much. He is survived by his second wife and a legacy that, like the famous tub, sits there solidly: substantial, slightly ridiculous, and oddly impossible to ignore.

DAVID HOCKNEY (1937 - 2026): AN OBITUARY

David Hockney, who has finally downed his brushes at the age of 88, spent a long lifetime proving that provincial origins were no barrier to swimming in the shallow end of international glamour. Born in Bradford in 1937, he emerged from the woolly north like a splash of primary colour in a sepia photograph, destined to make the art world look at itself in the mirror and wonder why it had bothered getting dressed. 

Hockney’s early work announced him as one of the brighter sparks of British Pop Art, though he was always too interested in actual draughtsmanship to be mistaken for a mere ironist. While others were busy silkscreening soup cans, he painted boys, swimming pools, and the occasional double portrait that suggested domesticity might be tolerable if the lighting was right. A Bigger Splash (1967) captured the essence of Californian hedonism: all surface, no regret, the perfect metaphor for a man who understood that life, like acrylic paint, looks better when it dries quickly. He decamped to Los Angeles in the Sixties and stayed long enough to make the place seem almost cultured, commuting between palm trees and the damp moors of Yorkshire with the cheerful inconsistency of a man who refused to be pinned down by geography or critical theory. 

His portraits were mercilessly accurate without ever quite becoming cruel, a rare achievement in an age when most figurative painters were either sentimental or sneering. He drew his mother with the tender exasperation of a son who knows exactly how many times she has asked about the central heating. Later, he embraced technology with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a retiree discovering emojis, producing iPad drawings that somehow made the tablet look like a serious artistic tool rather than an expensive distraction. The art market, never slow to recognise a living legend with a decent PR sense, rewarded him handsomely: Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures) fetched $90 million in 2018, proving that even in late capitalism, a well-placed diving board retains its value. 

Hockney chain-smoked, wore loud jackets, and maintained the air of a mildly amused provincial who had somehow conquered the world without ever quite believing it mattered. He designed opera sets, argued about perspective with the ghosts of the Renaissance, and painted vast Yorkshire landscapes that made the English countryside look almost as vivid as his Californian fantasies. Through it all he retained the air of a man who had gate-crashed the party of modernism and decided to rearrange the furniture.

In an era of conceptual fog and performative despair, Hockney simply kept looking and kept painting. The results were frequently beautiful, occasionally repetitive, and never boring. He leaves behind a body of work that suggests pleasure is not the enemy of seriousness, and that even the most sophisticated eye might occasionally enjoy a decent view. The art world, which he both charmed and quietly mocked, will miss him more than it cares to admit.

THE DOCTOR WILL HEAR YOU NOW

Doctor Who has been vanishing and reappearing with the reliability of a cheap magic trick since 1963, usually just as the public has begun to forget why it ever cared. The latest pause—announced with all the solemnity of a BBC press release that promised a Christmas special in 2026 while the rest of the calendar yawns emptily—is merely the show doing what it does best: taking a breather so that someone, somewhere, can work out what on Earth it is supposed to be this time. In its absence, the heavy lifting will once again fall to the unsung heroes of the medium that dare not speak its full name on television: audio drama. Specifically, Big Finish Productions, that modest outfit which has been quietly producing more Doctor Who than the BBC itself for a quarter of a century. 

It is a situation rich in irony, the sort that would have delighted the more melancholy sort of Time Lord. While the Corporation frets over ratings, Disney partnerships, showrunners, and the eternal question of whether the sonic screwdriver has become too silly, a company operating out of a few rooms in Hampshire has been getting on with the job of telling proper stories. They have done so with the full participation of almost every actor who has ever worn the scarf, the question mark jumper, or the leather jacket. Tom Baker, still sounding as if he has just swallowed a particularly mischievous planet, continues to record. Peter Davison, Colin Baker, Sylvester McCoy, and Paul McGann have all kept the flame alive with a diligence that borders on the heroic. Even the newer incarnations such as Tennant, Whittaker and Eccleston have dipped in, proving that the call of the TARDIS is stronger than any television contract. 

The sardonic observer might note that this is precisely what one should have expected. Television Doctor Who has always been at its most fragile when it tries to be important. Big Finish, by contrast, has the luxury of not mattering in the eyes of the wider world. No focus groups, no international co-production notes, no anxious executives wondering if the latest monster will play in Peoria. Just writers, actors, and a sound booth. The result is often gloriously free. You can have a four-hour epic about the consequences of a single temporal paradox without worrying about the budget for exploding spaceships. You can explore the moral ambiguities of the Doctor’s lifestyle in ways that would make a family audience shift uncomfortably on the sofa. And, crucially, you can let the performers act.

There is something almost indecent about how good some of these audio performances are. Listen to McGann’s Eighth Doctor, that beautiful, doomed romantic, and you realise what a waste it was that his television movie never quite worked. Or hear Nicola Bryant’s Peri finally given material worthy of her considerable gifts rather than the shrieking that television occasionally reduced her to. The chemistry between old companions and new threats crackles in the dark in a way that no amount of CGI can replicate. Your imagination, that cheapest and most powerful of special effects departments, does the rest. One begins to suspect that the best Doctor Who has always been the one that leaves room for the listener to fill in the gaps. 

This is not to say that Big Finish is flawless. Like any long-running series, it has its share of duds—stories that sound as if they were written during a particularly slow afternoon on the bus. But even the weaker entries possess a certain honest charm. They are not pretending to be the Next Big Cultural Event. They are simply getting on with it, month after month, year after year, like a reliable provincial repertory company that somehow keeps attracting the best talent. Compare this to the television version’s periodic nervous breakdowns, when it tries to reinvent itself with the desperation of a fading celebrity. 

The revival has had its moments, to be sure, but one senses the strain: the need to be diverse, relevant, mythic, funny, scary, and emotionally devastating, often in the same forty-five minutes. Big Finish can do all those things too, but it spreads them out. It has the luxury of time. A box set can build a world over several hours. A single story can afford to be quiet. The best of them—The Chimes of Midnight, Spare Parts, The Natural History of Fear, to name a few classics—achieve a depth that television, with its terror of losing the remote-control surfer, rarely risks. And then there is the sheer volume. Guinness World Records has already acknowledged the achievement: the longest-running science fiction audio drama series, with hundreds upon hundreds of stories. While the BBC debates whether to make another series or simply show old episodes with new introductions, Big Finish keeps producing. The First Doctor rubs shoulders with the Eighth. The Sixth gets redemption arcs that television never quite managed. New companions arrive, old ones return, and the universe keeps expanding in your headphones. It is less a cottage industry than a quiet empire.

Here is where the sardonic humour meets cold practicality. If you have not yet begun collecting Big Finish, the time has come to develop a mild but manageable addiction. Not because it is your cultural duty—perish the thought—but because the alternative is to sit around waiting for television to remember what it is for. Life is short, and the gaps between Doctor Who seasons have a habit of stretching like a particularly vindictive time corridor. Start with the obvious: the Eighth Doctor adventures if you loved McGann’s brief flicker on screen. Move on to the Fourth Doctor box sets, where Tom Baker’s voice alone is worth the price of admission; it is like having a favourite eccentric uncle tell you bedtime stories about cosmic horror. Sample the lost adventures of the earlier Doctors, lovingly reconstructed with the original actors where possible. And do not neglect the Companions series, which often give the supporting players their best material in decades.

The beauty of it is that these stories improve with repetition. Unlike a television episode you can binge in a weekend and forget by Monday, a good Big Finish audio rewards careful listening. You notice the layering of sound design, the precision of the performances, the way a seemingly throwaway line in Part One pays off devastatingly in Part Four. They are, in the best sense, literature for the ears. One should, of course, approach the enterprise with a certain wry detachment. Collecting audio dramas in the twenty-first century has the faint air of eccentricity, like maintaining a collection of wax cylinders or insisting on listening to the wireless. But that is rather the point. In an age when everything screams for your visual attention, there is something quietly rebellious about closing your eyes and letting the mind’s eye do the work. The Doctor, after all, has always been at his best when slightly out of step with the prevailing fashions.

So stock up. Assemble your range as one might a collection of single malt whisky: not for immediate consumption, but for the long, cold nights when the BBC has once again misplaced its sense of wonder. Let the shelves groan under the weight of those distinctive covers. When the next television revival arrives—trumpeted with all the usual fanfare and inevitable slight disappointment—you will be able to greet it with the calm superiority of one who has not been idle in the interim. You will have been travelling, you see. While others waited, you were already out there in the vortex, having adventures. Big Finish will keep the TARDIS flying through the long nights. 

The least we can do is go along for the ride. After all, in the words of a wiser head than most television executives, the universe is a big place. Best not to explore it empty-handed. Or, in this case, empty-eared.