Posts Tagged With: jodie whittaker

Have I Got Whos For You (isolated bank holiday edition)

OK. You remember that boot thing that was doing the rounds this week? Well…

It was a silly thing that took me ten minutes and I’m not even the first to do it, but it sort of exploded. An awful lot of Rocky Horror memes, and quite a few Barrowman references. Which kind of fits, I suppose.

Elsewhere: it’s World Naked Gardening Day, although some people are keener on the idea than others.

Speaking of Mr Capaldi, here he is celebrating World Penguin Day.

Sometimes when you’re bereft of ideas, you just have to check the trending column. Every day is a celebration of some sort; even the most ridiculous, mundane things (National Beard Day? Really?) get their own hashtag, sparking all sorts of inane chatter and, if you’re me, some hasty Photoshopping to catch the traffic. I won’t pretend I’m proud of this, not least because all the time I’m doing that I’m not writing the book, but we’re on lockdown and I keep telling myself it’s a mindfulness activity.

For example, 26 April was Alien Day, named as it is for colony LV426. It’s a little flimsy, but so is Pi day (which doesn’t work, incidentally, if you’re British, any more than the “Hey, look at that van go!” ones do). Still, any excuse.

The Thirteenth Doctor’s been doing the rounds a bit this week. Here she is at a table tennis match.

“No, honestly, it’s me; I’ve just lost a bit of weight since then.”

I can’t work out whether the others have seen something off camera or are simply bored. Either way it looks like it’s all about to head south. Perhaps they’re better off staying closer to home.

“Yeah, you remember I mentioned the Woolly Rebellion…?”

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The Smallerpictures Video Dump (2020, part one)

Population 51,201. Possibly not for much longer.

One good thing about a lockdown: I’ve had a chance to amalagamate all the leftover copy I’d not got round to filing these last few months. Which means we’re in for a busy few weeks here at BoM, as we go through series retrospectives, how-to guides, and even a bit of myth debunking along with all the meme roundups and general idiocy. But we’ve also got a few videos to get through, so let’s rewind to the beginning of the year, when we were all still allowed out.

 

1. The Name of the Master (January 2020)

Don’t get me wrong. ‘Spyfall Part 2’ was quite fun, but this whole thing really was a bit dom / sub, wasn’t it? Never mind that the relationship between the Master and the Doctor is already tapping a wealth of unresolved sexual tension, long before either of them swapped genders: a scene like the Master’s ‘Kneel before Zodd’ moment took it to the next level, and it really is like handing a silver platter to the fan fiction writers along with a note reading “Go on then, you win”.

It was Pip Madeley who turned this into a Fifty Shades of Gallifrey type thing – he may even have called it that; the Tweet is proving elusive so we may never know. My own version is a good deal less suggestive and not terribly funny, relying as it does on the conceit of the Doctor forgetting (either deliberately or through sheer scattiness; you pick) exactly whom she’s supposed to be addressing. The tricky part was dropping in names that weren’t saturated in background noise (something I’m not particularly adept at removing), which meant several otherwise viable candidates had to be removed. Still, there were enough left, and the end result hangs together. Just.

 

2. Twice Upon A Time: The Deleted Scene (January 2020)

This seemed like an obvious joke, so I ran with it. It was a crazy week: everyone was busy arguing whether Jo Martin’s Doctor was pre-Hartnell or pre-Pertwee (the consensus: it had to be the latter, because she had a police box and otherwise EVERYTHING HARTNELL DID IS RUINED). Then ‘The Timeless Children’ came out and all hell broke loose, given that it essentially validated just about every tinpot headcanon theory in existence. In the meantime, I’d been making this: having promised the others he’ll be quite some time David Bradley takes a walk into the snow, and then pops back to his TARDIS, only it’s not his TARDIS. Nor is it Capaldi’s. You see where we’re going, don’t you?

 

3. The Angels Take Manhatten, Rescored (March 2020)

Wrestling. That was it. There was content to show and plot lines to advance (and, one suspects, a series of expensive contracts to fulfil) and so the WWE, in their infinite wisdom, elected to broadcast Wrestlemania 36 within the confines of a studio instead of an arena. There were no queues, no gigantic foam fingers or homemade banners, no jubilant teenagers fired up on coffee and Red Bull giving their predictions. Just a lot of thirty-year-old men, pumped with steroids and rehearsing their lines in a mirror. Yes, I know you could hear the trash talk. I don’t want to hear the trash talk; I just want them to work the crowd. If there’s no crowd, it’s all rather flat.

The fans seemed to know this as well, which is why a Twitter user who goes by the name of SideEye elected to overdub a heartfelt confrontation between Brad Wyatt and John Cena with, of all things, the Laura Palmer theme from Twin Peaks. It was mad, but it worked (and it was, as you’ll see in the article I’ve referenced, not the first time someone had paired professional wrestling with Angelo Badalamenti). There is something about that music that is both emotionally overwrought and just a little bit artificial, which is the entire point of Twin Peaks and one reason why it’s so brilliantly unsettling. And while I concede they’re very different shows, it really ought to work with Doctor Who as well, surely?

It does. If you can time it so that final, climactic change from minor to major happens at the precise moment Amy vanishes, everything else just sort of slots into place. Who knew?

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Have I Got Whos For You (Easter Bank Holiday Edition)

“Huh.”

River wasn’t expecting this.

“I’m sorry sir, but I’m afraid I will have to ask you to move on.”

“Order 66.”

“…son?”

And in a back garden somewhere in Oxfordshire…

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Thursday

“I suppose at some point,” says Graham, “you’re gonna tell us how you did it.”

Around them, the TARDIS hums. It is the ambient hum it makes when the machinery is at rest and waiting for someone to do something. He has learned to pick apart these hums, to differentiate them by mood and to know when a change in pitch or a sudden pulsing means a thing is about to happen. It occurs to Graham, right now, in the casual laziness of an uneventful spring morning, that he has assimilated this knowledge without even realising it; that the process of time and space travel has altered him in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. It is the sort of realisation that only springs to mind during the quiet moments, such as this one, a matter of days after that unexpected phone call and then the Vworp, vworp of a materialising police box, and the resumption of his old life, or, depending on how you looked at it, his new one.

From the black wooden box she is in the process of rewiring, the Doctor looks up. “The prison break?” she says. “Not much to tell. Truth be told I can barely remember.”

Graham scratches his head. “Seriously?”

“Trust me, when you’ve broken out of as many prisons as I have, they all sort of blend into one. You know. Like Nordic dramas, only without the scenery. Occasionally you get a fun one, but for the most part they’re all fairly generic.” The Doctor picks up a magnifying glass: tongue extended, seemingly in concentration, she fiddles with a screw the size of a lentil. “This was one of those.”

“So you just got out and came back?”

“Yep. Nothing remotely interesting. Well, apart from the orangutan. And the laughing gas. And the army of sentient vending machines that wanted to make me their ruler.” She gives an apologetic smile. “Just another Thursday, really.”

Graham realises that this is probably all the explanation he’s likely to get, and goes back to his newspaper. He is mocked for having it. Ryan makes jokes about living in the stone age. Even Yas has pointed out that it’s already largely obsolete by the time he reads it, and that digital media is the only way to get up-to-date information. Graham is having none of this. He likes the feel of the thing as he holds it, a small and transient concoction, the world reduced to black and white with splashings of colour, meticulously produced (despite the mistakes), the cheap roughness of the paper, the ink bleeding onto his ageing fingers. He likes having something tangible, this global outlook distilled and framed in a few sheets of grey-white A3. He’s got the whole world in his hands…

Graham gives a start. He hasn’t thought of that in years, and instantly memories of school assemblies soar unceremoniously to the surface, like a diver about to catch the bends. Log tables and playground skirmishes and sneaky fags behind the bike sheds. A caretaker’s bearded threats and scraping nails on a blackboard. Rosie Billington and the way she giggled. The smell of chalk.

“You’re quiet,” says the Doctor, looking up.

“I was just thinking.”

“We don’t have to do this,” she says. “You know, if you’d rather not. I mean there’s no hurry.”

He thinks: there is, really. The ship is a precision engine, built for the most extraordinary of manoeuvres, leaping galaxies and centuries like a child vaulting a gym horse, but its captain has less control over her vessel than she’s prepared to admit, even to herself. You simply never know where you’re going to land – it is the opposite of a bus, and it has been this aspect, now that he comes to hold it in mind, which has probably been the most difficult to grasp in all the time they have been travelling. He tells the Doctor none of this, because she usually nods in an unsuccessful attempt at empathy, the eyes shy and withdrawn, the jaw uncomfortably clenched.

But downtime is rare and you never know when the klaxon will wail signalling another emergency – to which the Doctor responds like Pavlov’s dog chasing its next meal – and right now he is as resolved as he likely to be, and so after a moment he says “No. Let’s get it done.”

“But Ryan – ”

“Yeah, well, we couldn’t agree. Different locations, y’see. He wanted the woods at Ecclesall, because she used to love walking there. I wanted Scarborough, because that’s where I proposed.”

“So what are we doing here?”

“It’s a compromise. I found a bit of map that was more or less between the two and stuck a pin in it.”

“Old school!” The Doctor nods, quietly impressed. “I love a bit of old school.”

“But Ryan, see, he didn’t really want to be involved. He just said ‘Do what you like’. So I thought I’d take him at his word for once.”

Her face darkens a little. “I don’t want to drive a wedge between you two.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. He had a bit of a sulk, but he got over it. Said it wasn’t really her anyway, and that he’d mark it in his own way.”

“Is that why he’s gone off with Yas?”

“They’re out somewhere. They said to pick ’em up when we’re done.”

“Couldn’t you…?” the Doctor eyes the urn, balanced delicately on the console. “I mean, couldn’t you take half each?”

Graham shakes his head. “You know, you’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met,” he says. “But you really haven’t got a clue how these things work, have you?”

The Doctor shoots a doleful smile. “Apparently not.”

* * * * *

There are no police boxes left in Ilkley. There is a pub, which used to do a decent roast; it sits opposite the church, suited locals spilling into the lounge on a Sunday: hymns and jukeboxes and collection plates and fruit machines. The sacred and the profane. Draperies and perfumeries jostle for space with the art galleries and gift shops; now and then a break will appear as the cobbles disappear into a dead end, someone’s trade entrance. The houses sit on well-kept streets, unimposing and unassuming piles of Yorkshire stone.

As they walk, Graham is doing mental gymnastics. He can’t quite fathom out why it is that Grace’s ashes shouldn’t be split into equal piles. There’s nothing illegal about the idea. He knows people who’ve done it, and he does not judge them. Grace exists as an idea, as a memory, but her corporeal self has been reduced to a collection of ceremonial atoms, carried like playground sand. Still. The idea doesn’t sit well with him, although he can’t express it in words. It is not a religious thing, merely a matter of principle. It exasperates him, in a way, that he cannot adequately explain this to the Doctor and that even if he could, she would be unable to understand.

Instead he says “Quiet. And why’s the pub closed?”

The Doctor is peering into the contents of a public bin: lager bottles, chip wrappings and yesterday’s paper telling yesterday’s news. Her brow furrows like an allotment trench. She looks left and right, frowning.

Graham sees her anxiety, although he does not see the bin. “What is it?”

“Should have checked the scanner. The TARDIS really doesn’t do short hops.”

“Yeah, but we’re still here, aren’t we? This is definitely the right place.”

She nods, although her eye is still on the newspaper. “We’ve jumped forward a little further than I’d have liked.”

“I get the feeling there’s a second half to that thought and you don’t wanna tell me.”

“Got it in one.” The Doctor takes him by the arm. “Come on. We’ve a hill to climb.”

* * * * *

Head southeast out of Ilkley and the landscape shifts. The trees are older; colossal firs and elms bordered by white slatted fences; schools and bungalows and the squat signs of estate agents. Then the houses become fewer, further apart and bigger, and the trees line the roads. The moor bursts forth to the right, while hills and valleys spill out to your left, unannounced.

“I could have sworn there was a song about this place,” says the Doctor as they walk. “Remember something, anyway.”

“It’s called On Ilkley Moor Baht ‘at.”

“Bar tap?”

“Bar tat. Means going out without your hat on.”

“I don’t wear a hat. Not these days anyway.” The Doctor clasps at her hair, as if to check this is still the case. “Used to have loads. Funny how things change when you get older.” She stops to catch her breath, hand on hip, taking in the increasingly impressive views. “Or younger.”

“Well, anyway,” says Graham, his hand still clutched tight to the shopping bag housing Grace’s urn, “This bloke didn’t have his hat, and then he dies. And his body gets eaten by worms, which get eaten by ducks, which then get eaten by the bloke singing the song. So it’s basically a song about cannibalism.”

The Doctor concentrates, apparently processing. “What happens if you’re a vegetarian?”

* * * * *

The Cow and Calf sounds like it ought to be a pub. It is actually a rock formation, a lengthy outcrop of millstone, sitting atop Hangingstone Road and overlooking the moor. For some pilgrims it is their destination; for others a starting point. One formation stretches across the apex of the hill in a long misshapen spillage of stone and grass, a pasty that has crumbled in the oven. Nearby, squat by comparison – although still impressive – is the calf, perched almost precariously, like a cartoon boulder, waiting to tip agonisingly forwards onto an unsuspecting coyote.

The Cow and Calf is also a pub, although this is further up the road, and it is shut.

Now there are sprinklings of rock amongst the grass, flat stone walls and clumps of weed. Doves keeping a chattering vigil over unhatched eggs, hidden from the absent hikers. Clefts and crevices and piles of shingle.

“Oh, look,” says the Doctor, trying not to look pained. “A quarry.”

“It’s supposed to look like a calf sitting with her mother,” says Graham. “We did it at primary school. According to local legend there was a giant who had a barney with his wife and then split the rock in half as he was running away from her.”

“A Geryon, actually, from the Mylanx cluster. And it was more than an argument. She was trying to kill him!”

“And you know this how?”

A sheepish look. “I was their marriage counsellor.”

He feels a hunch building. “Grace once told me there was a UFO sighting here. 1980s. Anything to do with you?”

“No comment.”

* * * * *

The two of them climb to the summit and the world is spread like a ruffled blanket: in front, Ilkley nestles in the valley like a crab in a rockpool; to their left, West View Park and, somewhere beyond, the canals of Silsden; facing due east, the lights of Otley and the rim of the hills at its borders. The National Park draws the tourists like flies to an abandoned picnic, but even the clicks of a thousand smartphones have their benefits, and the land is still unspoilt and undeveloped. Graham never tires of vistas like these, even when he has seen a dozen offworld mountains and baked in the heat of vast purple alien suns. Essex was his childhood, but Yorkshire has become his home, something no amount of glacial palaces or endless tropical beaches will ever be able to quench.

Later, he will wonder why it was so quiet.

The Doctor is standing on the Calf, hands on hips. “Will this do?”

“Yeah, it’s as good a place as any.” Graham looks behind him; the top of the Cow is tempting but he can feel the creak in his joints and doubts he can climb any higher. The wind whips in from the north-east, reddening faces and billowing the tales of coats, bringing with it the tales of old fishermen from Staithes, the clacking claws in the dripping lobster pots, and the scent of freshly-plundered haddock.

He reaches into the bag, pulling out the urn. He will have to face the right way, or risk a re-enactment of The Big Lebowski. It is a favourite film, but there are some truths better confined to fiction.

“So what now?” asks the Doctor. She is seated a couple of yards away, boots dangling over the edge. “Are you supposed to say something?”

“Yeah.” Graham regards the blackness of the urn, glinting in the sunlight of early April. It is the colour of grease, intricately crafted, he suspects, for ergonomic consideration as well as aesthetics. It feels comfortable, weighted but not excessively heavy, solid but movable. He begins, carefully, to twist the lid, screwing counter-clockwise, feeling the scrape of ceramics. Besides the wind, it is the only sound he can hear.

The lid removed. Graham hands it to the Doctor, who has joined him: she turns it over in her hand, admiring the workmanship but also testing, he suspects, for flaws or archaeological interest. Ever the scientist. He is almost amused. She becomes suddenly aware of him staring at her, and stops, almost-but-not-quite-embarrassed, pocketing the lid in her raincoat. “Sorry. Miles away. Go on.”

Graham looks at the open urn, and then at the hills. He remembers coming up here as a younger man, that breathless climb with old friends. Kendal mint cake and hot coffee. He remembers other climbs with the Doctor: the hot sands of Desolation filling his boots; the hills of eastern Pakistan; the cliffs down at Penzance. Was there a conscious moment when he decided that the journey was more fun than the destination; when travel became the point? Was it after he’d left? Or before?

His mind, he realises, is not on the job, and desperately, he tries to think about his wife.

“Grace – ” he begins.

The Doctor stands, patient. Graham tries to read her and cannot.

“Did you ever lose someone?” he says after a moment. “I mean I know you said you did, back when we first met. But I never pressed you for the details, ‘cos I never felt like I should.”

She waits, allowing the silence so that he may fill it.

“No, what I mean is – ” Graham fumbles his words like a toddler with a football. “Did you ever lose someone the way I did? You know. Prematurely?”

“More than I can count,” she replies, and Graham nods; it is the answer he expected. “Well. Not really. I never stop counting.”

“How many?”

She gives him a look, which Graham interprets – correctly, as it turns out – as I’m not answering that one.

“Some young, some old,” the Doctor continues with a sigh, by way of deflection. “Some you’d call worthy sacrifices, if there is such a thing. People giving themselves to save the universe, or just to save my life. Others…” She breaks off in mid flow, looks out at the landscape. “Others were just needless.”

“And Grace? Where would you file that?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer.

“It’s no fun,” says Graham finally. “Being the one who carries on. Because every planet we land on, every new sky we get to see, all I can think of is how she might react. Which ones she’d like or which ones she’d hate. What she’d think of the locals; whether I’d act differently or do something differently, because of something she said. She loved it when it rained; I ever tell you that? So that time we were on the planet of the rain gods – what was it called?”

“The Planet of the Rain Gods,” she replies, matter-of-factly. “They don’t have much imagination.”

“Yeah, there – well, she’d have loved that. And then I get to thinking that maybe she wouldn’t, because of all the other stuff that was going on. And I realise that maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought. And it…”

He breaks off.

“It frustrates me that we had so little time together,” Graham says when he has gathered his thoughts. “Because then I could have got to learn all this stuff.”

“I know.” The Doctor is nodding. “Really, I do. But sometimes second-guessing is all you have. That’s the way the universe works. It’s not charted or pre-ordained. It’s this great big ball of cosmic fluff; there’s no plan. There are some things you can change, some you can’t. But when it comes to life and death…no one gets to decide that. Not even I can. All we have to decide,” she concludes, “is what to do with the time that is given us.”

That final sentence rings like a bell in Graham’s pop culture repository. “Tolkien?”

“Me, actually,” she says, slightly abashed. “He was blocked. That was a fun afternoon. We made scones.”

Something else has just occurred to Graham, something he feels he ought to address. “Thing is, though, you’re a time traveller. I know that people die, and you can’t necessarily change that, but can’t you…you know, can’t you cheat? Pop back and have extra days when they were still around?”

“I could. But I don’t. I mean if nothing else it’s dishonest; it’s like cheating on the lottery.” The Doctor looks momentarily distracted; Graham files this part of the exchange for future reference. “It’s also incredibly dangerous, because then you’re crossing timelines and that’s where the web of time is at its thinnest.”

She pauses as if for dramatic effect. “You have to be really careful then. You never know what you’ll unleash.”

“So you never did it?”

“Once or twice. And even then I kept my distance. Or tried to. Not always successfu- anyway, doesn’t matter. Death is closure, Graham. However it comes, it’s a door you don’t want to open again.” The Doctor’s face is a mask. “I learned that the hard way.”

Graham nods, and the Doctor turns to him, sharply. “Please don’t ask me to do it. Ever.”

“I won’t,” says Graham.

“Good.” The two of them stand there, Graham helpless. What left now for his eulogy? What could he say that he hadn’t said at the funeral, the chapel bustling with friends and relatives, his grandson brooding and sombre? Had he hoped for some new insight, some growth of character, some unearthed perspective that came from travelling? Certainly he feels different, more whole somehow. So why can’t he find the words?

“That’s typical of you, love,” he can hear Grace chuckling. “Always worrying too much.”

Graham turns his head; she is not standing on the Calf, any more than she haunts a Norwegian cabin or the house they shared on Shrewsbury Road. There is a soundtrack of quotes that plays constantly in his head; it’s simply a question of turning off the mute button.

“I feel like Ryan should be here for this,” he says eventually.

“I was wondering when you’d get there,” says the Doctor, with a smile.

* * * * *

They go down. The early afternoon sun warms the pavements, and their footsteps echo with clatters on the cobbled stone. The larks are making song in the beeches and oaks, while cats prowl along crumbling walls like skulking prison guards. The urn jostles back and forth in Graham’s bag, the ashes of his late wife still tossing back and forth inside it. It has been agreed that they will do this another day,

“Shame the pub’s closed,” Graham mutters as they round the corner of Church Street and into Bridge Lane, where the TARDIS is parked. “I could murder a pint.”

“Come on. We’ll pick up the others and then I’ll take you for lunch. Somewhere that does pizza. I love pizza.”

“By take you for lunch, you mean one of us is buying, right?”

“Graham!” The Doctor pretends to be affronted; he sees through her like a layer of clingfilm. “What do you take me for?”

“Someone who never pays. But listen, thanks for today. Even though we didn’t do anything, at least…” He lets the sentence trail.

“Well, I’m always up for a stroll,” says the Doctor, who is not keen to get personal, at least not just now. “And hey, if you’re still stuck for a location you can always stick another pin in the map.”

“Nah. I think I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Suit yourself.” She takes out her screwdriver and does an atmospheric reading. A warning light pings. “Dang it! Left the oven on. We’ll probably have to fumigate the kitchen, again.”

“Doc – ” He stops, and looks her in the eye. “Seriously, why’s it so quiet?”

“Another time,” she says, meaning it.

He thinks once more about Grace: the ceramic nonsense of the urn, carrying something which is both his and wife and not his wife. Decades reduced, quite literally, to a cinder. The strangeness of carrying her in a shopping bag, the way he still carries her in his heart and his head. How much of memory, he wonders, is rooted in things like this? Where does the soul live, after the body has gone? Is that why old possessions take on so much meaning? Do we use them as houses, real estate for the dead?

The Doctor lingers at the door of the TARDIS; Graham thinks she looks sad. The mouth droops a little, the eyes a locked window onto some ill-remembered misdeed, or something else entirely.

“Anything you wanna get off your chest?”

There is a small, almost indiscernible intake of breath: body languge for pull yourself together, Doctor. “Come on. Pizza. And then….yeah. Somewhere else.”

The door latches shut. Then there is the sound of keys on piano wire, and the blue box fades and vanishes, and soon it is as if it had never been there.

 

Photos by Dave Noonan and Kreuzschnabel.

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Have I Got Whos For You (series 12 edition, part five)

I’m on a clock this morning, so there will be as little text as possible. But we start with a deleted scene from ‘The War Games’.

Because of her narcolepsy, the Doctor’s career as a hula hoop artiste was unfortunately rather brief.

Goblet of Fire, revisited.

Unused publicity still for ‘The Timeless Children’.

“Yas! I can’t get this hat off!”

“That one. No wait, that one. No, not that one. Look, it was definitely a tree.”

“What the hell is she doing here?”

“RUN AWAY!”

It’s fine, Rose; he’ll catch you.

Enjoy being at home, if that’s where you are. It won’t be forever.

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Have I Got Whos For You (Coronavirus edition, part 2)

It’s all go in the Whoniverse this week – although not for the Sixth Doctor and Mel, who are regretting their decision to tune into one of Joe Wicks’ P.E. sessions.

Not everyone’s feeling quite so lethargic. Millions have marked their appreciation for the NHS in a heartfelt display of public support, which reminds us that it’s been a good long time since we were all out in the streets clapping a doctor.

TV news: In the wake of fan theory surrounding Graham’s apparent slip of the tongue in ‘Ascension of the Cybermen’, a deleted scene from ‘The Timeless Children’ suggests they may have been onto something.

And as the UK Prime Minister is diagnosed with COVID19, a plan is concocted to take him to a safe place and pick him up in a day or two.

Elsewhere, as the Thirteenth Doctor broadcasts a heartfelt message of hope and encouragement whilst evading a Sontaran army, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it screen grab from ‘The Poison Sky’ reveals exactly where she was hiding.

And as British Summertime begins, the Doctor’s attempt at shifting every clock in the world forward by an hour goes hideously wrong.

In the depths of an alien planet, a self-isolating Amy Pond reflects that at least she’ll have some company during her thirty-six years in quarantine.

And the Doctor leaps for joy when she receives a long-overdue package from the Kerblam! man.

<coughs, ignores dirty looks>

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The Smallerpictures video dump (2019, part eight)

Hello, folks. Anyone got cabin fever yet? I’ve heard there’s an app for that…

We’re still ploughing through the videos, folks, but – joy of joys! – we’ve finally reached the very last of the 2019 content. So while you’re all under house arrest you can listen to a bit of incoherent rambling about political smear campaigns and school sickness policies. Oh, and there are quite a few Daleks. Don’t worry, you can thank me later.

 

1. The Doctor Has No Plan (November 2019)

We’re not going to talk about the election, because it’s four months on and it still depresses me. But we are going to talk about something that happened in the buildup: notably when the Conservative Party’s media crew released a doctored clip of Keir Starmer appearing to experience a rabbit-in-headlights moment during an interview on Good Morning Britain, captioning it with the words ‘Labour has no plan for Brexit’. Sharp-eyed viewers – or rather those who were actually watching the thing when it was aired – were quick to point out that during the live session Starmer had answered the question without pause or hesitation and that this was nothing but a dirty tricks campaign. It was, of course, but they still won, because people didn’t care, and everyone knew that on a different day Labour would have done the same thing.

In any case, it set me thinking: what defining moment of decision and assertion could I rejig in order to suggest that the Doctor was clueless? In other words, how could I seize on something topical and give it a vaguely Doctor Who-related flavour so I could share it in the few groups that allow political content? There was an obvious answer, and it was this one. I do think it more or less works, although I’m not about to start editing political press footage for a living. Even I have some integrity.

 

2. A-NI-MATE! (November 2019)

I can still remember the conversation: the deputy headteacher at Edward’s school, insistent that we should keep him off for forty-eight hours despite the fact that he wasn’t actually ill. It’s a district guideline, he said. I explained that he’d been sick at his birthday party and that we didn’t want to send him on a trip the next morning but that it wasn’t an infection, just a bit of over-tiredness. It’s just what they’re told to do, he said. No it isn’t, I said, because it’s inconsistently applied. He’ll look into that, he said. Why doesn’t it apply with colds? I said. He doesn’t know, he’s not a doctor, he said. I can see that, I said.

Anyway: after I’d ranted about over-caution and general managerial incompetence, Edward and I spent the day together, and I suggested we have a bit of fun with the Doctor Who figures, going so far as to create a rudimentary animation, in which…well, watch and you’ll see what happens. Then he helped me pick music and effects and we strung the whole thing together and uploaded it. It performed unexpectedly well on Tumblr (26,000 reactions, which is something of a record for me) although I can’t help thinking some people thought Edward did this single handed, thus giving it more credit than it’s actually due. Perhaps I should tell them. Either way we had fun, which is the only thing that actually counts.

 

3. Spyfall: Alternate Ending (January 2020)

“I’m thinking,” I told a particular Doctor Who group, way back in January, “of mashing up the ending of [Spyfall Part 2] so that when the Doctor exits her TARDIS, she’s not looking out at you-know-where, she’s somewhere else. I just need something that’ll fit. Any advance on Teletubbyland?”

It was Richey who suggested it. He initially thought about the binary sunset on Tattooine, before having a rather better idea. I won’t spoilt it for you. Perhaps the best thing about this is the lighting, which – just for a change – matched almost scene for scene. “And I don’t believe in miracles…”

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Have I Got Whos For You (Coronavirus edition)

Yes, well, I think two weeks of radio silence is long enough. I spent quite a lot of it building a TARDIS-themed virtual art gallery (coming soon to a WordPress feed near you!) and rolling my eyes at people on Facebook who still have no idea who Brendan actually was, or are convinced that Chibnall’s shat all over the legacy of Doctor Who, or who think the Master is lying, or any combination of the above. That’s until we all started talking about getting coughs instead; I’m frightened for my elderly father and the schools are about to shut, but at least the moral outrage over Series 12 is dying down.

Anyway: there are quite a few unrealised blog posts lying around in my drafts folder, and seeing as we’re all going to be stuck at home for the forseeable future you might as well have something to read. But before we get to any of them, we really ought to do a news update.

First, there’s the fallout from Rishi Sunak’s publicity phot, as a certain other high-ranking politician with dodgy scruples asks if you would like the good tea or the bad tea.

Over on the Naismith Estate, Max Von Sydow is upset that he and Timothy Dalton have both turned up at the Time Lords’ New Year’s Eve party wearing the same dress.

And it turns out some members of the public have an unorthodox approach towards celebrating No Smoking day.

Secret recordings reveal the real culprit behind Prince Harry’s prank call from Greta Thunberg.

At the BBC, there are internal complaints that the new sanitisation procedure is borderline excessive.

Donna Noble regrets not packing her own bog roll.

Sometimes washing your hands isn’t quite enough.

And on the streets of Cardiff it seems that not everyone is taking government guidelines seriously.

“Jesus. Clara. SOCIAL DISTANCING.”

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Review: The Timeless Children

The worst thing you can do when you’re composing any sort of review – the cardinal sin all writers are in danger of committing if they’re not careful – is to make it all about you. It’s such an easy thing. An anecdote here, a bit of fan snobbery there and before you know it you’ve got a sixteen hundred word vanity puff piece which says nothing at all. I have done this, on more than one occasion, and I have paid the price, usually in the comments box. Hell hath no fury like the fan who has had to wade through the ramblings of an unchecked ego.

But what choice do we have, sometimes? What other resort, what alternative route out of the quandary when there is so much subjectivity? Because Doctor Who inhabits a vacuum. It has done ever since Twitter arrived. Here, for the first time, we were able to see what people thought, in graphic, extraneous detail, in a real-time sense, and the mirror that we held up showed nothing but ugliness. Twitter amplifies. Facebook is no better. I’ve already been driven to despair this evening by some of the comments – about Chibnall’s abysmal writing, the needless retcon, the realisation that the show has gone well and truly down the toilet. And these were the people who hadn’t even seen it yet, and who were refusing to watch it out of principle. When friends sign up for Twitter and ask me for advice about how to survive on it, my response is invariably the same: “Delete your account now, and walk away, before you get sucked in to all the idiocy.”

You are reading this, I hope, after you have seen the story. And if you have seen the story you already have your own opinion and you do not need mine. I typically provide it for the sake of completion – I’ve reviewed everything on TV since ‘The Snowmen’, even when said review takes the form of a recipe or a laundry list of tropes. (Seriously, don’t read the ‘Akhaten’ one. It’s not one of my better efforts, as Jim took great pains to tell me eighteen months after I wrote it.) I wish I could say my aspirations are noble. I would like to hope that I can write reasonably coherently and fluidly, with the insight of a fan but the clinical detachment of a journalist, even though sometimes I feed the wrong wolf. You need people who can keep things balanced, at least some of the time. That middle ground – the barren, endlessly parched terrain between the two extremes of sycophancy and hatred is such a cold and lonely place but I walk it because I must, because it is the only place that feels comfortable.

I watched this story with my children. I can hear them, now, in the bath, exploring the possibilities Chibnall offered this evening. I can hear them ruminating about where Jo Martin sits in the order (they do not and hopefully never will refer to it as a canon). There’s not a word about series 6b. They’re just saying “Well, we don’t know, and that’s kind of a good thing because we can make it up.” There is a sense of acceptance there – not blind acceptance, as you would have seen if you’d witnessed them scoffing at the end of ‘Orphan 55’ – but there is a realisation that this is a television show and that it doesn’t really matter if it’s good or bad, as long as you try and enjoy it. I don’t think you have to have children to have this worldview; I’m not even sure it helps. But it’s something they’ve grasped, with no help from me. If they can get it, why can’t the fans?

So you know what? I’m not doing this. Because it doesn’t matter what I think. Honestly, it doesn’t. I could talk about the inconsistencies in the structure, the slow, laboured beginning. The relief I felt when the supporting characters were thinned, allowing us to concentrate on the leads. The slight sense of frustration that the Doctor spent most of the episode WiFied to the Matrix, tempered by an appreciation of the visual flair. The annoyance I felt when the Doctor wouldn’t press that switch – now that would have been a way to finish an episode. How the predictable eleventh hour sacrifice of Ko Sharmus was alleviated by Ian McElhinney’s impeccable acting. The elegant silliness of hiding inside suits of armour coupled with a chilling near miss with Ashad, in a sequence that effectively fuses Scooby Doo with Alien. The conspiracy theories that are bound to erupt from Yas’s description of Graham as a ‘human’. The ongoing speculation that Graham is still the Doctor, thanks to the can of worms that Chibnall has ring-pulled open. The sense that he has changed everything but also changed nothing, and that we are, perhaps, in a better and stronger position than we have been in years – the past, like the future, having become an open book. The delight in the disguised TARDIS that pops up on the housing estate like so many newly erected houses on empty plots in my neighbourhood. The moment Whittaker stepped out into a quarry.

It wouldn’t sway you. As it shouldn’t. Reviews like this are at best an echo chamber and at worst a stick for the hornet’s nest. There is nothing that people like less (and nothing which is more likely to make them hit the share button) than telling them what they do not want to hear. You will have your own highlights and lowlights and I welcome them with open arms, but you will not cause me to re-evaluate, and I hope the reverse applies in equal measure.

Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to tell you what the boys think. Because I wonder, perhaps, whether their opinions count the most – more than yours, and certainly more than mine. Perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps this ridiculous war of words over a computer screen, this mess of unkind people saying unkind things, and who have more love for the show than they seemingly do for humanity, has gone far enough. Perhaps it is time we drew it to a close, at least until the current crisis has passed. And thus I hand you over to my children, who do not yet inhabit the bubble. I pray they never will. I pray there is a better path for them.

We’ll start with Daniel. “It was good,” he says. “I thought there would be more surprises. I didn’t get many mind-blowing things. I think the episode with the Judoon had a bit more in the way of surprise. But I liked it. I liked that you could see inside the Matrix and see what was going on. And I like the Master and how he’s always one step ahead of the Doctor.”

What’ll happen next? “All the Doctor’s companions will go back to their normal lives. They won’t forget about the Doctor but they’ll all move on. Then someone will take over the world and the Doctor will come back and save the day.”

Josh is next. “I liked it, personally. I thought that the Cyber Time Lords looked ridiculous. But I thought it was interesting how the people from the very distant future went back to the twenty-first century. Presumably the Cyber War is still going to happen, so they have to go through life knowing it’s inevitable and there’s no way to stop it. The Master was really good. The bit where he absorbed the Cyberium was strange.”

Anything else? “I thought it was weird how when we saw the traveller experimenting on the Doctor the children seemed to be getting older each time but the Doctor just goes through random ages. I don’t think it means anything. It’s just how they show time passing.”

Finally, Thomas – wonderful, brilliant, baffling Thomas, who bore out an obsession when he was in year one and who gradually learned to love story as much as he loves details; who can solve a Rubik’s cube in a few seconds flat; who is battling his own personal demons that are far more important to me than this tinpot science fiction kid’s show.

“Flash Gordon is better than Star Wars,” he says.

Right, but…

“It brings a whole new meaning to Doctor Who,” he says. “It gives us a new history that changes the way we see it. And I liked Graham and the hat.”

So did I, Thomas. So did I.

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Have I Got Whos For You (series 12 edition, part four)

“I should say a reassuring thing now, shouldn’t I?”

(Sorry.)

In Whoville this week, a familiar blue hedgehog gets upset that he can’t share the Doctor’s toys.

The Twelfth Doctor celebrates World Radio Day by dragging out his clockwork squirrel.

 

Elsewhere, the Thirteenth Doctor hangs about, waiting for Christian Grey.

Here’s an early concept still for ‘Ascension of the Cybermen’.

And over at Hogwarts:

And the Doctor is embarrassed when she runs into an old friend.

“Seriously, you had one job.”

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