I’m starting to get properly excited about the new Doctor Who on Saturday. I’m attempting to damp down this enthusiasm so I go in with low expectations. So, with that in mind, I’ll consider the miserable tone of this letter to the Guardian – that a tweedy, comfortably middle class Doctor, is a herald of dark times and a government of old Etonians.
But, I think that ignores the slightly Bowie-esque weirdness that 11 promises. He may dress like a geography teacher, but he also has a tinge of 60s acid casualty, running through the universe to escape spiders from Mars. He’s far from establishment.
I say this having seen the end of the last special plus a few trailers. But that’s how the geeks inherit the earth… by deconstructing each tiny twist of a thing’s DNA even before it’s born. Lives may go unexamined, but every nuance of a single line of dialogue must be given a going-over as thorough as a dog licking a salty hand.
That reminds me… Buffy (our dog) has taken to licking people’s hands. Apparently this is a sign of dominance, so it must be nipped in the bud. Should we lick her back?