"Even if I got rid of all my problems, I'd just go out and get new ones..."

Doctor Who-ooo (oi!) Doctor Who
1:48 p.m. on 2005-03-26

So the new series of Doctor Who starts tonight.

I've never been a fan of Doctor Who. I've tried watching the occasional rerun on UKGold, on a Sunday morning when it's either that or David Frost, but I just can't get into it.

It's not the dated effects, otherwise how could I still enjoy Star Trek (or, more recently, Babylon 5). And it's not the atrocious acting, because if it were, I wouldn't own three seasons of Bugs on DVD. Neither is it the strange aliens, because a Dalek can only compare to Stargate's Asguard, or a Cyberman to a, um, Chobit.

After seeing the first episode of the new series, I'm tempted to put it down to the silliness. Watching shop dummies come alive and try to kill Billie Piper - somehow I can't involve myself in the drama. But I adore Popular, once described as the campest hour of television. And last time I checked, Stargate was hardly dripping with meaning and subtext and deep thoughts.

No, the truth is, the issue I have with Doctor Who is at a much deeper level. My problem with Doctor Who is blood.

My aunt's blood, in particular, and its genetic link to myself.

You know those shows on Channel Four or Sky One, where they pick on some really obsessed fan as an example of the whole of fandom, whilst the rest of the world cringes?

Yeah.

It was Doctor Who for my aunt and uncle, whilst I was growing up. They shared a bedroom with a number of full sized Cybermen and a Dalek. Another guarded the staircase. Their display cabinet was full of the rarest figures and the guest room was too full of latex masks to host any visitor. Most were genuine props from the show, and others were elaborate reconstructions my uncle had built.

Their house scared the beejeezus out of me when I was little.

So when I watch a Doctor Who episode, any Doctor Who episode, even one starring the delectable Christopher Eccleston, all I can think of is being nine or ten years old, sat inside a Dalek, and staring out through the grille to see the mottled seventies wallpaper of my aunt's bedroom.

This may explain a great deal.

Listening to: Polly Paulsama

Quote:
Weir: "The city can handle that?"
McKay: "Yes. Theoretically."
Sheppard: "Like dinosaurs turning into birds theoretically or theory of relativity theoretically?"
McKay: "What?"

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