Recently I’ve been thinking about my relationship with the fictional character Sherlock Holmes.

Like many people, my first experience of  Sherlock Holmes was through Basil Rathbone who played the great detective in those 1940s wartime propaganda films.  More often than not his cases involved the destruction of a Nazi spy ring or the thwarting of plans to sink an allied submarine. Rathbone was dashing and heroic and for many years was the definitive Sherlock Holmes. Sadly Watson was played as a bumbling idiot by Nigel Bruce which I’m sure was not by choice. No doubt the studio felt that they needed some comic relief in those films and Bruce provided that in droves.

However as I grew older I began reading Conan- Doyle’s original stories and rejected Rathbone’s Holmes. He looked and sounded the part but had none of the intelligence of the Holmes I was reading about. It was incredibly exciting discovering the stories by myself and quickly Holmes became mine. The kids at school had pop music and masturbation I had Sherlock Holmes and masturbation (not at the same time). However while they danced and attempted to finger Stacy from the year above, I was working my way slowly towards heartbreak.

When I was a kid I went on holiday with my Mum, Dad, Sister and Grandma to Corfu- which back then was a rather lovely Greek island. At the airport I bought The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes and started reading it on the plane, and I was totally enthralled. For the first part of the holiday the book never left my hand as I ploughed through Silver Blaze, The yellow face, The Stock-broker’s Clerk, The “Gloria Scott”, The Musgrave Ritual, The Reigate Puzzle, The Crooked Man, The Resident Patient, The Greek Interpreter and The Naval Treaty. Until one hot Mediteranean afternoon while sitting by a swimming pool I settled down to devour the final story in the book. This story was called The Final Problem and read it incredibly quickly, it very exciting and when I’d finished, I put the book down, walked to a seclude spot and burst into tears. My hero was dead.

Thankfully before the holiday was over somebody suggested to me that I should buy The Return of Sherlock Holmes as soon as I got back to England. Which I dutifully did and after reading ‘The Empty House’ I danced around like a twat.

Of course I didn’t just read Holmes stories, I watched every film and television adaptation I could find on VHS, but they never really lived up to the joy of the books. Although, oddly, one of my favourite Holmes was Ian Richardson who did a few U.S TV movies.

Then ITV announced they were going to do a new series of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes which would stick to Conan-Doyle’s stories and Holmes would be played by and actor called Jeremy Brett. Who I had never heard of, surely Holmes should be played by Tom Baker or some other well known actor. I was a little disappointed but never the lesson the 24th April 1984 I sat down and watched the first episode.  I was was astonished, it was only fucking Sherlock Holmes walking and talking and being brilliant. Jeremy Brett got it! He knew who Holmes was and played him perfectly. He is, for me, the definitive Holmes.

Now don’t get me wrong, I haven’t rejected all future adaptation of the stories in fact I enjoy them more because now the best version has been made, so I no longer feel protective of the great detective.

Now we have a new Sherlock Holmes and he is young, sexy and like Rathbone, his Holmes is set in the modern world.

Now some of you might think that I hate it. You may imagine that I have dismissed it out of hand and turned to my pile of books but you would be quite wrong. I love the new Sherlock, it is a triumph. We have three more to come next autumn and I can’t wait.

Happily until then, I have the last series on DVD and Jeremy Brett to keep me company.

OK, yes, you got me.

When I asked you to vote for me to keep or lose the beard I fully expected a unanimous call to shave it off. In fact I was counting on it.

So what do you lot do? You vote for me to keep it!

Well thanks a lot, I will never have sex again! Nobody wants to kiss a man with a beard, nobody. In fact people will cut their own lips off rather than lay them upon my hairy gob.  Eventually I will resort to being bummed by redneck American’s, who will ask me to squeal, while deformed children play the banjo.

So here is my look for the foreseeable future, I hope you approve:

Some people gave reasons why I should keep the beard and I include them here for your edification:

Keep the beard, you are a frightening man so you may as well wear the uniform.

Simon

I say keep it. You look ever so slightly like a manly lesbian without it or Tim Key.
I can’t decide which.

Misha

Crumbcatchings

Becky

You’re hideous without the beard. Keep the damned thing on!!

Richard

Keep it, or I’ll punch your chin off.

Craig

Before I go, let me make a confession: I didn’t actually mind being called a beardy one, in Andrew Collins’ blog. In fact I was utterly delighted to have even got a mention. It was just an excuse to run a random beard poll. So I would like to thank Andrew for being so nice about it. You are a a true gentleman sir.