Hitlergate (aka The sordid confessions of Hitler Girl)

[ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR ARIEL AT THE BBC, THEN BBC NEWS, HOWEVER BBC NEWS COULDN'T RUN THIS DUE TO THE DEATH OF MARK SPEIGHT]

Tuesday night at the Doctor Who Christmas Special launch, I felt like Bridget Jones, and I fear that forevermore I shall always be known as Hitler Girl. Since I’m leaving the Corporation soon – and, perhaps to the relief of some people, the field of journalism entirely - here’s the whole story.

I had two missions: 1. Ask a question on behalf of the corporation staff to the Doctor Who crew, since let’s face it, everyone wants to feel a part of it, and 2. At least say hello to David Tennant. Unfortunately, I failed on the latter point, and even more unfortunately, succeeded at the first.

This was no normal press conference – I had to yell my question across hundreds of people – people such as Nick Cave, John Simm, Andrew Marr, and Richard Curtis. Not to mention David Tennant. Heart in my throat, I prepared to ask my question. (Thank you QUT drama, they actually heard me...for those who don't know that I'm a failed actress).

‘I’m from the corporation's staff magazine,’ I began – as I usually do. ‘Oh, what FUN,’ replied exec producer Russell T. Davies slightly disparagingly. To me, he might as well have groaned. Tennant, bless him, fixed his eyes on me, went completely expressionless and did not flinch. Wishing desperately that John Simm would punch me in the head and send me back to 1973, I uttered a rather pathetic, ‘No don’t, us staff really love Doctor Who,’ and then launched dutifully into the question that several staff had sent in from the far flung corners of Lancashire and uh, Victoria Road. ‘If you could cast anyone, living or dead, as the next Doctor, who would you choose?’

Downhill from here, I thought. I thought wrong. ‘I’d choose Hitler,’ said Davies. Oh God, I thought. Why couldn’t you just say Laurence Olivier? Michael J. Fox? Elvis? I saw David Tennant’s mouth drop open and hoped desperately that no-one from The Sun was in earshot. ‘He’d be a great Doctor,’ went on Davies. ‘Stern…sharp…’ My dreams of one day working on a Doctor Who website rapidly evaporated, I doubted I'd ever be working in this town - or Cardiff - again.

As I slunk off to the toilet, I swear I saw David Tennant staring at me in pity. Admittedly maybe he forgot his glasses and was merely watching the dejected blur sliding down the stairs, but I like to think he sympathised. Maybe, I muse hopefully, he was fighting the urge to drag me with him heroically – or at least punch me in the head and send me back to 1973. Sadly, I will never know, as by the time I had steeled myself to face the party, he had vanished like the medicinal glass of wine I proceeded to consume.

I went to tell John Simm how much I liked Life on Mars, but if the fear in his eyes as I approached him is any indication, he knew exactly who I was. ‘Oh my God it’s that Hitler Girl,’ I bet he was thinking. (He was very sweet though and talking to him for a whole 30 seconds was the high point of my night - and mum, he thought it was 'great news' that you loved Life on Mars in China).

I decided to stay and keep a brave face as planned, but had miscalculated my tendency for surreal adventures. Just as I was beginning to feel better, I met a friendly guy. ‘So, where are you from?’ I asked, noting his accent. ‘Germany,’ he replied. Yep, I should have left when Tennant did. The final cue to leave was when I got told off for trying to take a photograph of the exquisite setting for the after-show party. And this morning, after being reprimanded for various aspects of the resulting article, I almost wish I’d gone with the apparently less troublesome Sun’s angle (‘Doctor Grabs Kylie’s Bum’).

The whole night was quite gutting. On the upside, I got some sympathy from a journalist who said at least I’d stayed true to my mandate. I refrained from pointing out that Hitler could probably say the same.