Doctor … Who?

It’s impossible to be British and have no idea what Doctor Who is. Even if you don’t watch it, you’re aware of it and know that exists and has done so for as long as anyone remembers. Everyone is born with innate knowledge of the programme. Without doubt, it is one of the greatest shows ever made, which can be proven simply by how long it has been running. Alright, there have been breaks, but I think they were probably necessary. Now a new generation can love it.

When Elisabeth Sladen died this week, I sort of went into shock and refused to believe it. The outpouring of grief on Twitter and Tumblr for one person was astonishing. She trended across the world and everyone had something to say about it. I’ve never seen such love for one person shared across the Internet. Even when, say, Michael Jackson died. We cared, but not like this.

This shows how much the show has touched the lives of people of all ages and backgrounds, that glamorous lady who travelled with the Doctor for many years, aiding and abetting him in his adventures, and not just standing around shrieking. She was a heroine and laid the foundations for the sort of companions the Doctor has had recently – Rose, Martha, Donna, Amy. These are women who will put their life on the line to save the Doctor rather than standing about helplessly waiting to be rescued.

All this brings me to last night’s beautifully shot, beautifully written and beautifully performed episode The Impossible Astronaut. Current show runner Steven Moffat has proved himself time and time again as being a writer of incredible ability. The fact that we know his name says enough – how many screenwriters can you name? Not many, I’d wager.

His special talent seems to be taking very common, trivial fears and bumping them up to eleven, or even providing a scary twist on something completely mundane. So, thanks to him, the population is now scared of gas masks, ticking clocks, statues, blinking, the dark and shadows, as well as making us wary to look behind ourselves or even out of the corner of our eyes.

The man is a genius of his time, and the job is helped wonderfully by the excellent cast currently in play. Arthur Darvill is the sweet, vulnerable, put-upon Rory who makes your heart melt whenever he ends up doing something he doesn’t want to do. Alex Kingston is the indomitable River Song, a mysterious woman who keeps escaping from prison (although we don’t know why she’s there) and later becomes a professor. Her storyline is amazing as it runs backwards from the Doctor’s – we know how her story ends before she does, giving every meeting with her a hint of sadness.

Then there’s Karen Gillan, the beautiful, stubborn Amy Pond, a creature so beautiful and … OK, OK, I’ll stop. Amy is a wonderful creation for the series, a headstrong young woman who knows the meaning of patience and longed for adventure from her sleepy duck-free English village.

And finally Matt Smith, the Doctor himself and, quite probably, the greatest Doctor ever. Maybe that’s too much of an overstatement, I’ve not seen much of the original series but of the three we’ve had since the reboot, he might just be my favourite. That’s not to say I didn’t love Eccleston or Tennant, I did, but I just feel Smith’s Doctor is a more … Doctor-y Doctor.

Eccleston’s Doctor was born in war; he was a veteran of a great war and suffering with guilt at what he had done to end it. He blustered around the universe like a soldier, and picked up Rose like he was trying to learn to love again. Tennant’s Doctor was cheeky and clever and handsome, and smacked of being the hero of a romantic comedy. He was the Casanova of the cosmos, brave and fearsome, but chipper and looking for fun … perhaps a little arrogant, as well as tired and beginning to suffer from the effects of loneliness and losing Rose, his true love.

But then Smith’s Doctor – that’s what the Doctor should be. The youngest and the oldest Doctor at the same time, a scatter-brained professor flying through the universe with little concept of how to deal with women and genius overlaid with insanity. A man who enjoys tweed and bow ties, but also fezzes and climbing down chimneys.

The show is not just for children, it is a masterpiece of modern broadcasting and always has been. Sure, the costumes, locations and special effects have improved no end, the stories remain compelling, gripping, exciting, scary and fantastic.

Long live the Doctor, and long live Doctor Who!

Three Short Stories

1. Grapevine

You’ll never guess what I heard! No, wait, I mean it! I shouldn’t even really be gossiping about it but I had to tell someone. Do you remember Pete? You know, Pete thingy? The one who was going out with Tina but they broke up when she slept with his brother? You must remember! Think back, it was huge news like, last month. No, two months ago. I don’t know. Yeah?

No, well anyway, you remember his mate Duncan? Oh you must know! You’d know him if you saw him – he’s the one who got really wasted at Anne’s eighteenth? Jumped on the table and declared himself King of the Lesbians? Long hair? Anyway, never mind him, it’s his brother, Josh. You have to remember Josh! That’s right, the one who spent last Hallowe’en making eyes at you and your pumpkin costume. Totally hot.

Anyway, yeah, you’ll never guess what happened! He was out driving with his girlfriend Becky – you must know Becky – and anyway, what they’re saying is that he swerved to avoid a deer and crashed and he’s dead. At least, I think he’s dead. He might just be in a coma. Either way, not good news. I mean, can you imagine if he was dead?

Who did I hear this from? Well, you know Barry’s dad’s a policeman? Yes you do, remember, he was the one who arrested your sister that time for pissing up against the clock tower! PC Rogers, that’s the one. Yeah, I know he’s an arse, but he told Barry who told Katie who told Emily who told me that he’d had to go to the scene of an accident and see if it was actually an accident or something. But it must’ve been because it’s not like anyone wanted Josh dead.

No, wait, he can’t be dead because Georgina said her mum said she was looking after some guy from our year on her ward. Obviously she can’t reveal who it is, but it’s obvious isn’t it? It’s obviously Josh. Becky? Nah, Becky’s OK. She’s back home or in hospital or something. I think she’s getting therapy.

Is her name even Becky? It’s something with B… I don’t know, I’ve never spoken to her. Wasn’t she that weird one who always used to sniff loudly during Psychology classes? God, she was so annoying! Wish she’d copped it, eh? No, sorry, that’s bad taste isn’t it? I didn’t mean it.

Actually, come to think of it I think Josh must’ve died because I heard Hannah talking about someone’s funeral and saying he was so young. She must’ve been talking about Josh. What do you mean you don’t know Hannah? She’s the one with the dirty blonde hair, always smells of dog? I guess maybe she was talking about a dog. If one of them had died young she might’ve been upset. People do have funerals for their pets now don’t they? Anyway, yeah, so maybe Josh is alive then. Or maybe he never had the crash, you know how these rumours get around. I don’t know why people enjoy them so much – they’re hurtful you know.

Come on, let’s get some lunch and I’ll tell you what I heard about Francesca. Oh, you must know her…

2. Painter

With Josh gone, I don’t know what to do anymore. I know we were together for just eleven months, but it felt so right. I guess it always feels right at the beginning – if it didn’t, you wouldn’t press on. Art is my final class of the day but I’m not really with it. We’re supposed to be painting the still life in front of us – a mish-mash of fabrics, fruit, stuffed birds and the top half of a mannequin – but my mind isn’t on it. Everyone has made some progress but I still have a pure white canvas staring back at me.

I pick up a paintbrush and continue to think about Josh. It’s been a week now. I had a few days off school for it but because I’m not family or anything, I can’t get compassionate leave or anything. I’ve just got to press on. It’s hard to think of him laughing and joking now I’ve seen him with his blood and brains smeared across the front of his car. My leg still twinges a bit from where it was caught under the dashboard, but it’s not severely damaged.

Then, an image flashes into my head. I picture Josh as he was when he turned up for our first date, dressed in a blue cashmere sweater, clutching a large sunflower, his soft fringe falling sexily over his right eye. That’s the image I want to keep of him. I pick up a pencil and begin to sketch it onto the canvas.

The bright colours sum Josh up. I don’t think I ever saw him wear plain black, or just a white t-shirt. There was always a pattern or a splash of colour. I sketch in his hair as Samantha, our well-meaning but dotty teacher, walks past.

“That’s not exactly what’s in front of you, Becky,” she says. But I don’t care. I pretend not to hear her and she seems to understand. Everyone knows the story, of course. I get the impression that other people are trying to look at what I’m drawing now, guessing that it’s Josh. I dip my paintbrush in the blue and begin colouring in his jumper.

Fifteen minutes later, the bell rings and everyone scuffles for the exit. I don’t get up and simply continue to paint. He’s beginning to take shape. Samantha and I are the only ones left in the classroom. I can see that she wants to leave.

“You can go,” I say, our roles momentarily reversed. “I’ll lock up and take the keys to reception when I leave.” Samantha looks worried but her features soften and she nods gently, placing the keys on her desk.

“It’ll be OK, Becky,” she says quietly. “Take your time, and I’m always here if you need someone to talk to.”

“Thank you,” I say, but I don’t look up or stop painting. I’m in the zone and I want to focus. She leaves and the door clicks quietly behind her. I decide I will stay until I have completely finished. I don’t leave things half done, the way Josh left our relationship, even though it wasn’t his fault. I feel my stomach twinge. I hate it when she kicks.

3. Deceased

Dying hurts, and don’t let anyone tell you any different. People bang on about how, “Oh, he died peacefully in his sleep” and shit like that but don’t believe a word of it. OK, my death was violent anyway – nothing prepares you for being catapulted through a windscreen – but I’ve spoken to people up here who’ve died in their sleep and apparently it’s no less painful. It’s something to do with the soul having to be ripped from the body – “ripped” being the key word here.

On the whole though, once you’ve gone through that, it’s actually quite peaceful. I thought I’d be worrying non-stop about the people I’ve left behind but as it turns out, I’m not. That’s not to sound selfish, it’s just that once I’m up here, there’s nothing I can do about them. Well, OK, so I can help one person, but you don’t get any choice in the matter.

Everyone’s a guardian angel up here, see. You die, you cover someone’s back until the time they’re destined to die, making sure they don’t pop it first. Every time you’ve stuck a fork in a toaster or stepped out in front of a car or choked on a Quality Street, it’s been your guardian angel whose made sure it didn’t kill you. You have a date of death stamped on you from birth and you can’t change it, save for bargaining with the Grim Reaper, who I’ve met and is actually a top guy with a keen interest in botany and chess.

However, because of all the latest advances in technology, you don’t need to watch over your assignment constantly. The computer just beeps when danger is approaching and you swoop in and sort it out. The rest of the time you can spend watching what’s going on in the world. You can even see things from the past – I’ve watched George Bush have a shoe thrown at him nearly seventeen hundred times now. It never gets old – it’s like a great big heavenly YouTube.

I’ve also been keeping a close eye on my family and the things going on in my old school. There’s the usual gossip bandying about the common room and corridors. Someone has hung black paper chains up through common room. It’s all for me. It’s enough to give a guy an ego.

I’ve also been watching Becky. It’s her I feel the most sorry for – she had to see my dead body and I hate that I’ve caused her years of untold pain and horror because of it. It’s not something you can ever get over. I remember seeing my granddad’s body after he died – there’s something so unnatural about that. But I’ve seen him since I died – he was part of my welcoming committee – and it turns out he’s happy here. He’s taken up judo.

All in all, death isn’t as bad as they make out. The pain is momentary and worth it for what comes after. I know I will be united with everyone else very soon. It’s worth noting too that revenge is sweet even after death, and I happen to know that that gossipy cow who was spreading all the rumours about Becky and me will be dead before the year is out. Long live death!