EDITORIAL: Yes, I'm a Whovian

Image (c) Jon Stout http://brasswatchman.livejournal.com/

Yes, I’m a Whovian.

I guess I’ve known this for a long time, but I’ve only recently begun to apply a label to it. I am a Doctor Who fan – and it’s incurable.

I was given my first dose while very young, by my parents. I distinctly remember sitting on my mum’s lap and watching a blond man in cricketing attire get zapped and fall on the ground.

“He’s dead,” I said. I was very quick for a three year old.

“Ah, but watch,” said Mum.

I concentrated on the screen and watched as the man glowed with light. His face transformed before me into a round face man with curly hair.

“But he died!” I said, amazed.

“Then he changed into someone else.” His face transformed

“Oh. Okay.”

Which is how I came to understand the concept of death, and was mightily confused when my goldfish didn’t morph into a hamster when it passed away.

The man on the screen was of course The Doctor, Peter Davidson and Colin Baker respectively, and I watched the show avidly from then on. After a short stint, the madman in a box became Sylvester McCoy, a delightfully silly Doctor which my nine year old self could enjoy. So much so that when we put together the school play that year, I managed to suggest the role of the Doctor and cast myself in it. Photos exist. No, you’re not going to see them.

Then the wilderness years. I was heartbroken when the final ever episode aired, and had to content myself with the Terrance Dicks books, but I missed the old man and his impossible wanderings.

Until the fella from Withnail & I gave it a go. I loved it, and was similarly miffed when the BBC/North American reboot failed to materialise. But I only had 7 or so years to wait until they decided to bring it back for good.

But it had changed. What I had remembered as an exciting, dark show had turned light, and had a northerner in a leather jacket running about with that ex-popstar. I watched the first two episodes, and turned away from it, disappointed.

But it couldn’t keep me away for long. The guy from Shallow Grave turned into the guy from Taking Over the Asylum, and I decided to take a peek. He was good. He was really good.

And I was a Whovian again. I stuck with the series, loving series 3 the most with his intelligent, sparky Martha, and instantly warmed to the completely unknown Matt Smith, even when my mum, a life-long whovian and my first supplier of the drug, turned away from the series, citing irreconcilable differences.

And now the man with the bow tie will fade away, leaving the Angel Islington in his place, about which I am delighted, and sad, and angry, and excited.

But these are the seemingly conflicting emotions you get used to as a fan of DW. You begin to crave them like a cigarette, or a damaged relationship you just can’t give up. So here’s to the next fifty years, and a sincere hope that I’ll be around for the hundredth, boring the grandkids with tales of bow ties, River Song, and how the Daleks were better in my day.

Editorial is a series of posts from StoryWorld Editors, containing random thoughts and musings. All views are our own, and please leave a comment below.