For Doctor Who Day

When I was a kid in the Seventies, Who was a little thing. It was scary music and hide-behind-the-sofa. I have faint memories of my father wanting to watch it (I must’ve been very small) and my Mother sitting in the kitchen with me, peering through the hatch at the television and getting steadier angrier and angrier.

My first clear recollection is watching Three turn into Four, and then growing up with Tom Baker as ‘my’ Doctor, the man who brought Who to full life and magic. When Four became Five, I was old enough to have a bit of a crush of Davison, but then fell away during the wilderness years, brought back to it only by my Who-loving friends – Ken, Val, John, Nick – and by Nick’s books, including the wonderful Reckless Engineering (that I was very strongly reminded of when I went to BristolCon last month).

I missed Six, Seven and Eight, other than a scatter of pieces (the floating Dalek in Remembrance always sticks with me), but when Eccleston returned as Nine, a whole new (re)generation was born. Since then, my son has grown up with Doctor Who, with Ten as ‘his’ Doctor, though we both agree that Capaldi as Twelve was probably our favourite (shame a lot of his scripts were so poor, but Heaven Sent is one of the all-time best). When Isaac was little, we used to go round London finding ‘Who’ locations – Shad Thames, the steps of St. Paul’s – and yesterday, he did the same thing with his mates, going to Covent Garden to see the Daleks.

How many television programmes span generations, like that? Sixty years? Have a fanbase that’s remained faithful for that long, even when there was nothing on the box (thank you, Big Finish)? And have been reborn, in that wonderful orange glow, so many times?

In my time at FP, I’ve run events for many of my Who heroes (some with Isaac there as well). Not only for Steven Moffatt and Russell T, but for Davison and both Bakers, for Sophie Aldred and Elisabeth Sladen, for so many of its iconic writers and artists and creators… I count myself extraordinarily fortunate.

Now, though: whither the Doctor?

Well, the funny thing about being older is how much everything is torn to pieces on the internet. In this post-Geek culture, where we’ve long-since inherited the thing, there’s now so much noise. I just want to make up my own mind, y’know? Not have it trailered and leaked and assessed, and people flipping their wigs about a Doctor of colour (loved Ncuti Gatwa in Sex Education and think he’s going to be amazing), or about Davros no longer being in his chair (less said about that business the better).

As we face the New Whoniverse (with its Marvel intro), I do have some nervousness about the usual fate of a classic British institution being Americanised (look at War of the Worlds, what a mess that was), but with Russell T at the helm, I’m really hoping it will still be Doctor Who.

Bigger and better and wonderful, but holding to those youthful ‘wobbly-set’ memories and to the magic it has always had.

Reading: Travis Baldree’s newest title, Bookshops and Bonedust, which seems to be a direct repeat of Legends and Lattes, same lead character type, same concept, same narrative. The name and type of the shop are different, but the tasty pastries are likewise exactly the same. Bit disappointed, tbh, as I could have just read the first one again.

Watching: Rewatching Genesis of the Daleks and the Donna Noble story, both ready for today, and (without getting involved in the whole mess) realising how incredibly powerful Davros is/was, and how well he was portrayed.

Playing: my sojourn in Baldur’s Gate reaches the third act, and the buildings (slightly frustrating, as they’re on some many levels and where the fuck are the doors?) and streets of the Lower City. There’s been a VERY naked Daddy Halsin (yoinks), and the rescue of an old friend, complete with small and squeaky sidekick.

Reckon Boo can take on the Big Nasty by himself, frankly, though he may struggle to go for its eyes…