DOCTOR WHO; in an Exciting Adventure with the Fanwankers!!


Two episodes in, and I’m loving the new ‘Capaldi-era’ DOCTOR WHO. Whiplash smart dialogue, storylines that confront the darker character elements of ‘The Oncoming Storm’, and a lead actor with a face like Scottish granite and a line delivery like a Glasgow Kiss.

However, I see that the anti-Moffat brigade is still in fine voice, crying in the wilderness for DOCTOR WHO’s showrunner to be struck down and afflicted with boils for ruining ‘their’ show. Has it truly never occurred to these people that instead of writing interminable Facebook screeds against Stephen Moffat, their bile might be better directed into, say, joining Westboro Baptist Church, or putting out poisoned cat food, or trolling the families of murder victims?

Or (a more radical proposal) perhaps they’d be better off WATCHING SOMETHING ELSE INSTEAD?

I mean, you’ve made your point, folks (Christ, how you’ve made your point), you don’t like the show under Moffat’s direction; fine, so sorry to see you go, don’t slam the door on the way out.

But no, you hang on in here, because you think we desperately need to be schooled in How Doctor Who Should Be Done, so you assail us with your every opinion, your every criticism, no matter how nitpicking or ill-informed or just plain fucking stupid it might be, because the Moffat creature is PISSING ON YOUR CHILDHOOD!!

Terry Pratchett once wrote of DOCTOR WHO fans (in the 1980s) that they could “walk under a snake’s belly with a top hat on”. A trifle harsh, I thought at the time; but now, I’m starting to see what he meant. Not all fans, of course; but there are a substantial minority who have such an astonishing (and deluded) belief in their own entitlement that they feel able, with total impunity, to level insults of a staggeringly personal nature at anyone involved with the current show, and speak of those who fail to share their disdain as if they were involved in some sort of conspiracy to cover up the crimes of the Arch-Devil Moffat (one particularly charming piece of work, on a Facebook thread I once saw, dismissed his opponents as “paid Moffat shills”; nice to see that Steve is using licence fee money for a worthwhile cause, I suppose).

It’s not that I think DOCTOR WHO should be exempt from criticism, of course; there are a fair few episodes since 2005 that you couldn’t pay me to watch again (for instance, I would seriously doubt the sanity of anyone who said that ‘Fear Her’ or ‘Curse of the Black Spot’ was their favourite episode). But what sort of mouth-breathing, kitten-molesting cockroach-dick will watch a TV programme that they hate solely in order to screech, on Facebook and other public forums week after week after sodding week, about how bad it is, and how bad a writer Moffat is, and why DOCTOR WHO was so much better when it was “just me and my friend Nigel (you remember, he had asthma and was always eating Quavers) who were ‘proper’ fans and we got together once a week to watch dodgy VHS copies of ‘The Sea Devils’ and no girls were allowed and I had Richard Franklin’s phone number and…” (I exaggerate, perhaps, but not, I think, too much).

And if you should answer “someone who loves the show and cares about its future”, I thank you for your kind attention and invite you (in the words of Peter Capaldi’s other legendary TV character, Malcolm Tucker) to “fuck the fuck off”.

I’m looking forward to seeing the coming Saturday’s episode (Mark Gatiss’ ‘Robots of Sherwood’). Looks like an amusing, camp ‘romp’. But if it turns out to be a pile of fetid excrement, don’t expect to see me on Facebook wailing about my besmirched childhood like a Yewtree witness or calling for Moffat and Capaldi to be deported to any prospective independent Scotland.

I’m really not that kind of ‘fan’.


That awkward first blog post…


Well, I’ve only gone and done it, haven’t I?
I’ve been telling myself for too long that I’m going to start up one of these ‘blog’ thingies, about a century and a half after every other bugger on the planet (along with his/her pets and most of the household appliances) has got one. Once again, the race is run and done while I’m still trying to figure out how you use the starting blocks. Just call me ‘Cutting-Edge’ Willis.
And yet, to put a positive spin on my tardiness (and anyone who knows me knows that I’m the King of the Glass-Half-Full People, oh yeah), there are certain advantages to be had by coming so late to the game. For one thing, I’ve read a substantial amount of bloggage, of various kinds (some of which seemed to be written in a language almost like English) by now; enough to know that Sturgeon’s Law (“Ninety percent of everything is crap”) holds as true for the ‘blogosphere’ as it does for everything else.
And for another, there’s the matter of my age. By the time that the vast majority of human beings who have ever walked upon the Earth got to my age, they’d been dead for about thirty years, which, if the museum reconstructions of our ancestors is anything to go by, is a blessing because even at twenty-something they had faces that only a coroner or a rugby coach could love. Many were in their graves before they were out of their teens (a piece of information that gives hope to those of us familiar with the life and works of Justin Bieber).
I have accumulated wisdom, is my point. Experience. A certain world-weary resignation in the face of the vagaries of modern existence, and the disappointment many of us feel when we realise we’re in the second decade of the 21st century and we’re still not living in domes on the moon and wearing one-piece Spandex jump-suits. It is a wisdom that I happily, yet humbly, lay at the feet of my fellow creatures, to take what sustenance and succour they will from its store of elegant truths, pithy epithets and knob gags.
So it is that, fully cognisant of the fact that the foregoing has much the same information-to-noise ratio as a moose’s fart, I stand with you, breathless in anticipation at the very brink, nay the cusp, of this new era of electronickal irrelevance and drive-by whimsy. I hope you find the journey diverting, and no more than slightly uncomfortable (sorry about the smell).
Now go away. Your teeth are far too close together, and that cardigan does my cowing head in.