Sladen, Elisabeth - Elisabeth Sladen - The Autobiography

Signings are the lifeblood of conventions – fans will queue for hours to get a signature. If Sadie ever came along she’d be asked for her autograph, too. And if Jon was around he always made sure she was spoiled by fans. Usually the organisers massively underestimate how long these things take, so I’m forever saying, ‘I’ll sit here signing until I’ve seen everyone,’ which can throw the running order out completely. Sometimes you do get dragged away, because you’re booked for something else but it’s never my choice, I promise!

Signings at Longleat took place in a massive hall called the Orangery. The organisers had a nightmare funnelling the fans into the area but we felt quite safe cocooned in our booths as the most patient people in the world snaked slowly past. Who fans are always so charming and polite and interesting. Sometimes you feel as if your wrist will snap if you sign another photograph but then you see the next smiling face coming towards you and the pain vanishes.

They organised the signings in shifts so I sat down at my place next to Carole Ann Ford and before you knew it, we were engrossed in a mammoth catch-up. Then a BBC chap arrived with a huge stack of pictures for us to sign. Carole spotted them first.

‘Oh my God, I never thought they’d use them!’

‘What’s wrong?’ I said and grabbed a copy.

It was only the publicity shot we’d done at the hotel for The Five Doctors ! And yes, we still looked as hideous as before.

‘I’m not having this,’ I said. Carole’s husband and Brian were nattering away in the corner – ‘Over here, boys – we’ve got a job for you!’ Five minutes later every single photo had been submerged in one of the fire buckets of water hidden at the back.

Most fans bring their own things to be signed so it didn’t matter, but every so often I’m sitting at a convention or a book signing and someone will say, ‘Could you sign this, please?’ and it’s one of those bloody photos. God knows how they get hold of them!

It was great seeing Tom and Jon together. Funnily enough, for all Jon’s waspishness, the more time they spent together at functions over the years, the more the two warmed to each other. Pat was there too, and Peter, and I met Louise Jameson again for the first time since our encounter in Richmond all those years ago. It was such fun for everyone. I remember the BBC man steering us all into the exhibition to have our photos taken with the monsters. I’ve got a picture of us all – Louise, Peter, Janet, Sarah, her boyfriend and me all in a line, kicking our legs up.

* * *

Longleat was incredible, and if I’m honest, it would have made a neat ending to my association with Who . If I had to pick a lasting memory, the sight of all those faces would be a pretty satisfying one.

The UK, however, wasn’t the only place desperate to celebrate the programme’s twentieth anniversary. Jon and I were booked for a summer tour of the East Coast of America, although, I confess, when the invite arrived neither of us exactly leapt for joy. Travelling for fun is one thing, but being ferried around on a tight schedule sounded distinctly unappealing. But then the organisers said that Brian and Ingeborg, Jon’s wife, could come.

‘ Now they’re talking!’ said Jon. ‘The four of us are on an all-expenses paid trip around the States.’

Suddenly we couldn’t wait. If there’s one thing I’d learned during those fabulous conventions in California, Chicago and Miami – the Americans really know how to spoil you.

We met Jon and Ingeborg at Heathrow. As far as I was concerned we were four friends going on holiday. A lot of our fellow passengers, however, only saw the Doctor and his companion checking in their luggage! I lost count of the number of times we were asked, ‘Where’s your TARDIS?’, but Jon always responded as if it was the first time he’d heard it. Such an ambassador for the show – the BBC really didn’t know what they’d lost in him.

The cabin crew weren’t slow with the in-flight drinks and by the time we landed in Tampa, Florida the four of us were buzzing about the four weeks ahead.

‘We’re all in for quite an experience,’ Jon observed.

And, boy, was he right.

You can never fault the passion of US Who fans but the word ‘disorganised’ doesn’t really begin to cover it. Ron Katz was the President of the Doctor Who Fan Club of America and one of the most enthusiastic people you could ever wish to meet – but, as we soon found out, not everyone shared his zeal for the programme.

My mouth literally fell open when Ron handed over the long list of not just theatres, but agents and TV shows we were scheduled to visit in Manhattan, Chicago, Philadelphia and all points in between. Even in four weeks it looked a struggle to fit it all in. Thank God Brian was there.

Our first couple of nights were very pleasant. There was a party atmosphere as we all got to know Tampa and delivered our first talk at the town’s university to hundreds of fans. Jon was in full evangelical mode, ready to spread the gospel according to Who . I liked that – I could hide behind his coattails, as I had for that original photo session. We weren’t exactly living in the lap of luxury but, as Jon pointed out, ‘It will be different when we get to Manhattan.’

And it certainly was.

After a series of bus trips we finally arrived at our hotel at three in the morning. Most places are dead at that time of night. This one was alive – and not with the type of clientele with whom you really want to share accommodation.

‘Christ, it’s a hooker’s hotel!’ said Jon.

I couldn’t disagree, but all I wanted to do was eat. ‘Do you think their restaurant’s still open?’ I asked.

Jon looked mortified. ‘No, no, darling! We’re not eating in this place.’ And he marched us straight out and into a cab.

Where we ended up wasn’t much better. Honestly, it was as if we were staying in Stalag Five. The receptionist wore all the room keys on his belt, like a jailer. It was the only place he could trust them not to be stolen. Anti-theft measures seemed to be the hotel’s priority. Our pillows and all our bedding were stitched with the hotel’s name in bright colours. Very chic! It really was like being in prison.

At least there was air conditioning. You were in no doubt about that because each room had a giant, noisy box above the bed.

The next morning Jon and I were being taken to record a TV programme. I opened our door just in time to see Ingeborg and Jon march past. I couldn’t help noticing he had a big plaster on his nose.

‘What’s …? I began to say but Ingeborg pulled a face and mouthed, ‘Don’t ask.’

I got the story eventually. ‘Oh, darling,’ she said, ‘poor Jon was so tired last night and the air conditioning was so noisy. I reached up to switch it off – and it fell on his head!’

We both burst out laughing but it must have hurt, especially with that nose.

Jon’s day didn’t get much better. We were taken in a car to what we thought would be a large Manhattan TV studio. The truth was some way short – quite an ugly building in a rather grubby area. Jon took one look and said, ‘I’m not going in there.’

Ron Katz looked horrified. His big idol was upset!

‘Come on, Jon,’ I said. ‘It will be fine, the three of us together.’

The inside, it turned out, was even worse than the exterior. Ron led us nervously to an office door and knocked. The guy inside looked like a Coen Brothers’ send-up of a typical TV producer – bald, big cigar and loud. His office was tiny and crammed with scripts. Ron ushered us in. Jon shook his head, upturned a wastepaper basket, and sat indignantly on that in the hallway.