Doctor Who Watch #16

The Beast Below by Steven Moffat

"I'm the bloody queen, mate"

Another work of genius from The Moff. To be honest, it's probably a bit too busy for a second episode; bit too much going on. A lot to take in, on top of trying to get used to the new Doctor, new TARDIS, new sonic, new POND... Bit early in the run to start bombarding me with musings on Democracy and Cruelty and Queen-related Timey-wimey stuff.

But that's a minor quibble.

Actually, here's another: Sophie Okinikinoinoikioiokio's comedy Dick Van Dyke impression as Liz Ten. What the frig was that all about?!

And what in the name of all that is holy are you doing employing the Demon Headmaster - the man responsible for 99% of all children's nightmares and bed-wettings in the early 90's - and then NOT using him as a baddie?! Worse than that, barely having him on screen in the first place! Shame on you, The Moff. Mr Demon Headmaster is a leg-end, and should be treated as such.

All that aside, I really enjoyed this episode. The Starwhale - surely the only name WORSE than that for a Doctor Who alien would be Clive?! - saving the UK because it couldn't bear to hear the children cry was a nice touch, and weaved in beautifully with the whole point of the Doctor. As Amy POND cleverly deduces.

The Smilers were a creepy and effective foe. But with so much else going on, they took a bit of a backseat. If only there had just been less ideas fighting for screen time. I hope (somehow) we get to see them again, because the revived Doctor Who has been lacking in truly memorable ORIGINAL baddies - save for the Ood - and these just look SO horrible that it would be a shame not to see them a bit more. Such a startling creation.

Matt Smith still continues to impress. And the scene where he and POND are in Clive's mouth. Sorry, the Starwhale's mouth, is probably one of my favourite sequences of all time. "On the plus side: Roomy!" Complete and utter genius.

A lot of things happened - including another appearance from Amy's CRACK - and there was much to praise about this episode. But because it was such a busy one, and because I'm due Covent Garden in a minute, I can't talk about all of it. Plus, the episode speaks for itself, really. And once I've mocked Liz Ten's ridiculous dialect, what else is there for me to say?! Another thumbs up for The Moff.

Total Score: EIGHT out of TEN

(Would have got a TEN if Sir Terrance of Hardiman had featured a bit more!)

Victory Of The Daleks by Mark Gatiss

"Keep buggering on!"

The problem with Dalek episodes is that they never seem as scary or potent as they did in their first 2005 appearance, in the appropriately named Dalek. The law of diminishing returns. And they're back again to prove that point rather successfully.

You can imagine the story meeting:

"What's new that can be done with the Daleks?"
"Erm... Well... Erm... We could stick 'em in World War Two, with Winston Churchill, fighting the Nazis?"

It was an inspired idea, and the World War Two elements were great. Apart from a dull subplot about some bint losing her man in battle, it was all brilliant. Bracewell turning out to be a creation of the 'Ironsides' rather than the other way round was a neat twist. Matt Smith going proper mental in a way that only Chris Eccleston has really done when faced with a Dalek was gripping. And this version of the Doctor had a SPANNER!

Sadly not dribbling as much as he did in the Doctor Who Confidential interview shown afterwards, Ian McNice-Nice-Bum-Bum (That's his ACTUAL name) put in a great performance as Winnie.

Churchill, not Mandela.

Although I'd pay good money to see that!

And for the first time since 2005, I actually found the Daleks frightening. Their toadying manner; their tea-making and folder-carrying... It was completely unnerving. The calm before the storm. You were just waiting for them to snap and revert to type. It really built up the tension in a way that no other Dalek tale had done since the Utah-based epic featuring sexy Bruno Langely and sexy Bruno Langley's bot-bot.

Shame, then, that once the Dalek's DO realise that they are mad-alien-killer-types, the episode loses its fear factor and turns into yet another farcical attempt to prolong their existence. Now in technicolour.

(Yes... The multi-coloured Daleks. Did someone say "blatent merchandising opportunity" at the back there?! No? Just me hearing things again then!)

Bracewell turning out to be a walking, talking bomb, gave the episode a nice bit of danger towards the end. It was nice to see The Doctor unable to convince Bracewell that he's human. Let's not forget, the Doctor himself isn't particularly au fait with the human emotions, what with being a Time Lord an' all.

It's left to the POND to swoop in and save the day by talking about love. Love. What could be more human than that?

It had a few good jokes - I particularly loved the Dorabella gag - and it was very atmospheric to start with, but the moment we found ourselves in the Dalek Spaceship opposite the new Duplo Daleks, I just lost all interest. A great disappointment, really.

Although I did chuckle when I misheard what the White Dalek was saying, mistaking it for: "We will shat on the planet below"

Now THAT's something new that can be done with the Daleks!

Total Score: FIVE out of TEN


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Doctor Who Watch #15

Best laid plans, and all that jazz...

I've been so busy working, sleeping, eating, working, sleeping, eating, spending money on Peppa Pig and her various chums, watching sexiful people with secrets in Desperate Housewives, writing up scripts, going on holidays to Germany, losing at Monopoly Deal, calling people Shirley as they bring me over my next curry, poncing around in Swanley and touching my cock and balls that I completely forgot I was supposed to be reviewing the new series of Doctor Who.

I can't imagine I'll get told off. Does anyone care enough to chastise? I highly doubt it. But I'm metaphorically self-flagellating at my inexcusable lack of episode evaluation. How could I forget something that brings me such joy and pleasure and a bit of a semi?

Although truth be told, I'm only writing this now because I've been stood up. By a non-entity with a surprisingly unflattering winkle and a bizarre eyelid twitch. And he smells of Scotch Eggs.

Bitter, moi? No. See if I care. I've got a picture of Luke Pasqualino naked saved to my 'Folder Of Much Naughty Prettiness' so I'm sorted for tonight. Didn't like him anyway. Cunt...

But stood up I have indeed been (Can't think why - I'm a lovely) so with no back-up plans, I'm resorting to this... Writing shit about Doctor Who.



The Eleventh Hour by Steven Moffat

"You're Scottish - Fry something!"

I was nervous. I admit to feeling nervous. Which is stupid, given that this is just a TV show. But it's a TV show that has meant a lot to me since it returned in 2005 - the year of which we shall not speak - and, as a result, it will always have a special place in my heart.

I was nervous that I wouldn't like the 'NEW WHO'. A new Doctor I could cope with - I'd already fallen in love with Matt Smith after seeing Party Animals - but EVERYTHING seemed to be new. From the Head Honcho - now Mr Moffat Esq - to the choice of directors (Where be Euros Lyn? Come back, Euros Lyn. How I loved your name!)

There was even a bizarre new sticker on the door of the TARDIS and the pointlessly new sonic. EVERYTHING was changing.

I'm scared of change. And there were A LOT of changes to take on board. I was worried that it would feel like a completely different show; no longer the show I've loved since 2005. Hence the nerves.

Luckily, these nerves went away the moment the first episode began; the moment the Eleventh Doctor found himself facing circumcision by Big Ben, in a great visual gag that made me do a laugh. And then came the excellently creepy, gothic, Addams-Family-Styleeee titles, and a newly-tweaked theme tune that gave the familiar little ditty a somewhat ethereal quality. Little bit mysterious.

Already the show was beginning to feel different. The tone was different; the look; the feel. But it was still, somehow, reassuringly the same.

The same. But better.

I loved the RTD OBE era, and was hooked from the very first episode. But as an opener; a series 'reboot'... A point for new viewers to join and not feel like they've missed 40-odd years of 'Other Stuff'... It was a million times better than Rose.

It was funnier, it was more confident and it had a proper villain instead of a non-English speaking orange blob. It didn't have Graham Norton talking over the first five minutes. It didn't have Mark Benton. It was a brilliant 'stepping-on' point for newbies, and a pitch-perfect way of introducing the multitude of changes to stubborn David Tennant fans. It's a cliche, but by the end of the episode, it really was a case of "David who?!"

Matt Smith was fantastic. Even in the first ten or so minutes, where he spits out various foodstuffs as if he were a Chuckle Brother dicking around on CBeebies. Immature and clearly aimed at kids... I pissed myself!

"Beans are evil. Bad, bad beans"

The introduction of Amy POND as the companion - Doctor meets her as a kiddie, says he'll be back in five minutes, returns in twelve YEARS to find she's all tits-and-legs-and-kiss-o-gram - is nothing short of genius.

And quite poignant. Imagine what that would do to YOU? Waiting all that time; wondering if you'd imagined it? Wondering why even your imaginary friend has let you down?! No wonder she sunk her teeth into four different psychologists!

The sight of little Amelia POND sitting on her suitcase, while Evil-Genius-Composer-Man Murray Gold assaults your ears with music of hope, only for that hope to fade when morning comes... It kills me every time, that scene. Genius.

The story itself? Prisoner Zero has escaped through a crack in Miss POND's room. The big space EYEBALL in a flying snowflake is going to torch the earth unless Prisoner Zero surrenders. Prisoner Zero disguises itself as Sophie from Peep Show and The Shining Twins. The Doctor has the whole world sending the message of 'ZERO' to indicate to MR EYEBALL where the naughty little alien can be found and captured. Doctor saves the Earth. Again.

The solution - the whole 'ZERO' thing - reminded me of The Last Of The Time Lords, where everyone revives the Doctor from his wrinkled-parrot appearance merely by uttering the word 'Doctor'. But while that was shit, and probably the least-convincing resolution to a plot EVER, this actually made sense and worked really well. As did so much else about this episode...

Frosty Bitch-Faced Greyhound Enthusiast, Annette Crosbie, turned in a distinctly underwhelming cameo, but Lord Nina Wadia was brilliant, as always. And Rory, the nurse we first see her ticking off, looks set to play a bigger part in proceedings. The Mickey Smith of 2010. And while I don't want to lick every inch of his hot, naked body in the same way that I may, possibly, perhaps have wanted to do with Mickey Smith, I can't help but admire his genius sense of comic timing.

The comedy in this episode as a whole, actually, was BRILLIANT. I don't think I've laughed this much since Unicorn And The Wasp. I loved the internet porn jokes - "Get a girlfriend, Jeff" - and the way "WHO DA MAN?!" fell flat on its face a little bit.

And: "Did he just save the world from aliens and then call the aliens back?!"

BRILLIANT! And once he HAD called the aliens back, there was the confrontation on the roof that confirmed what we'd all been thinking for the 45-minute previous to this: Matt Smith IS now the Doctor. It may be too early to tell, but based on this performance, Lord Smith has certainly earned his place alongside those other ten faces that flashed up courtesy of the EYEBALL's databank.

PLUS he got his nipples out, which automatically makes him my favourite Doctor!

The twist at the end... Turning up late again, taking Amy with him, but in the time he's been away, she's gone and got engaged and her wedding is TOMORROW...Talk about cliffhangers! Is there any way this episode could possibly have been any better?!

Other than Matt Smith showing more than just his nipplettes? Probably not.

Total Score: TEN out of TEN

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Most Satisfying Article Of The Year

After an amazingly sexy weekend away in Germany, I was trying to decide where it ranked in my 'not-written-down-because-I'm-not-that-sad' list of every holiday I've ever been on. Short answer is: Dunno.

I've been on so many genius holidays - The Honeymoon Suite at Center Parcs, Brighton 2008, Southend, Alcudia, Roquetas De Mar 2008, Halkidiki, Prague, Portugal - that it's really hard to choose where to place it on this list wot only exists in my head, honest.

Ask me to name the WORST holiday, however, and I have no trouble.

Blackpool.

Don't go. Seriously. Avoid like the plague.

Hands-down the most depressing, skanky, wanky coastal town (that they forgot to close down, come Armageddon, come Armageddon, come...) that I have ever had the misfortune to visit.

From the racist undertones of the seaside "cabaret" to the eye-watering smell of actual, proper shit liberally scattered over the beach... Being there was like stepping into a land designed to be the complete OPPOSITE of Brighton. I was SO disappointed.

The Golden Mile sounded nice and inviting.

But then, if you think about it, so does a Golden Shower.

In reality, both are down-right dirty and wrong. And smelly. And seedy. And unhygienic. And - once again, for emphasis - down-right dirty and wrong.

The main reason for venturing to Blackpool was the theme park, which - in all fairness - was amazing.

But the fact our hotel was MILES away meant a half-hour walk through the vileness of the ramshackle seafront to get to the wonderfulness of Valhalla or Wild Mouse. It completely ruined what could have been a great holiday.

(Of course, it doesn't help that I went with a young gentleman caller, who dramatically started a fight on our last day... with the toilet door)

But if I haven't provided you with enough evidence for why you shouldn't go to Blackpool - as if shit on the beach wasn't enough?! - here is another:

Anyone who has been on Brighton Pier with me will know how much I like to win cuddly toys. (Who said "Grow up"...?!)

So I merrily approached the Hoopla, en route to the theme park, and tried to win something. With every throw, it seemed like I was getting better and better; closer and closer to the prize. I was nearly there. Nearly. Nearly. Nearly.

Seventy quid later, I had to walk away...

Seventy pissing quid! Gone.

The smooth-talking dicktard of a CONMAN on the stall kept promising champagne (which I thought would be a nice, romantic thing to win) or a wad of cold, hard cash or a giant Tigger (less romantic). He would move the targets closer to me if I handed over more cash. It seemed like he genuinely wanted me to win. I gave him money, the targets got closer, the chance of winning got easier and easier. A no-brainer, yes?

Except the whole game was designed so that NO-ONE could win. There was more chance of me marrying TV's sexy Susan Hampshire than winning this Hoopla game, no matter how close he moved the targets. Because they were built in a way that made winning impossible.

Regard:

I swore to this day that it was a fix, and that they were a bunch of conmen. I swore I wasn't just being a bad loser, bitter at the fact I was stupid enough to give them SEVENTY FUCKING PISSING QUID. And now, I feel vindicated. And a little bit smug that those Blackpool Bastards have been caught out. In the Daily Telegraph, no less.

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Tonight

Well, the sky broke in two
I found you dancing alone
In the room filled up with you
And a song we both know.

That's when you caught me with your eyes
You're sending shivers down my spine
And then you whispered in my ear
You said, "I can feel it too"
And then you pulled me into you

I am completely obsessed with this song. It makes me happy in all the right places - almost as much as Wherever You Will Go, of The Calling Fame.

This is Tonight by Alex Band (formerly of The Calling)

The video is a bit 'Bastard-Child-Of-Evanescence-Twilight-And-Jon-Bon-Jovi' but the song is amazing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDDBNu6Tyz8&feature=related

And it's good to see that the childhood crush I had on him when I was at school and he was a blonde, Aaron Carter-eque surfer dude still remains now he's older, wiser and brunette. He is gorgeous. I'd let him sink his teeth into me any day of the week. Mainly around my penis.

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2010: Three Months On...

"So how have you been?" I can hear almost none of you ask.

"What have you been up to since your last, grippingly-exciting blog-type entry thing?"

I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing, as in just 72 hours, Doctor Who makes a return to the beautiful BBC and I feel it is my duty to continue 'reviewing' each and every episode. With varying success, depending on how bored of my own voice I get. Sometimes there is zero effort there. That's why I need to get back into the habit of writing something - so it flows a bit easier when it comes to assessing The Eleventh Hour. Hence my appearance now.

Not that I have much to say for myself. It's pretty much been life as normal at this end.

"What's new?"

Well... John Terry's been doing my fucking head in.

I refer not to his dirty, sleazy, cheaty antics. He's a footballer - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. Scratch that. He's a MAN - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. No, I refer not to his wandering genitalia, but to the hilarious running over of a Chelsea security guard as JT was driving away from the grounds. He was later breathalysed as a result of this "comedy mishap" - outside his home in Oxshott. As anyone who has been into my bedroom (triple-figures, last count) will know, from glancing at my super-cool map, Oxshott can be found in North Surrey.

Do you know how many separate news stories there were reporting this?! And how many I had to work my way through for a certain Surrey-related client?! Four-thousand, six-hundred. That's how many. My GOD... Work has been hell these last few weeks, with JT, the Budget, those pissing unions, more bank-related greed and a smattering of political stuff. Is there an election coming up or something?!

Which is why 'The Year Of Plenty' has been a welcoming distraction...

St Albans, where I ate lasagne, four-hundred waffles and my hair fell off.

The Annual Brighton Panto Trip, where Lee Tracey made a triumphant return to the stage but David Raven called in sick. I hope he's not dead. Like his beloved Dong.

La Tasca, where too much Chorizo was consumed and the reading material was heartily uplifting. And the place just reeked of seamen. (Oddly enough, this made us even hungrier)

Soho, where I spent more money on the jukebox than I did on pretty tipples - but still ended up drunk as a skunk and sick as a bastard.

Jewel, where discretion is the better part of valour.

Come Dine With Me, where I cooked stuff, ate stuff, drank stuff... And fell up something. Again. Always falling. If it's not a bush, it's a slightly ajar door.

The Rise & Fall Of Little Voice, where Diana Vickers played a mute and old men wore sexy scarves.

Tom McRae at Heavenly Social, where Gollum and Billy Connolly's love child on the mixing desk seemed to be having a fit. For an hour.

Tom McRae in Kings Cross, where I nearly cried over American Spirit, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Boy With The Bubblegun, nearly cried over My Vampire Heart, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Silent Boulevard... And did a sly masturbate at his sexy cover of human punchbag Rhianna's finest weather-based song Umbrella. Cleverly renamed Tomberella. You probably had to be there. PISSED. MYSELF. LAUGHING.

The Railway Tavern, where the leg-stroking appeared to rile the regulars and ninety-year old men started to play thrash metal. Urgh.

Diana Vickers at The Borderline, where people had lovely laughs, the man next to me smelt of piss, the man just in front of me was pretty hot and I realised that I cannot WAIT for her album, as every song she sang (Count them - Nine. Just nine) was actually completely worthy of purchasing-ment.

The Murder Mystery shindig, where my father died at the hands of the most vicious, manly, strong, threatening, butch boxer I've ever seen.

The most productive Writey Weekend I think we've ever had, where we actually managed to get first drafts of every episode to a stage where I am immensely proud of them. And came up with a line that - every time I think of it - makes me laugh like a camp hyena in the most inappropriate places. Mainly work, shops, public transport and funerals.

It's been a great start to 2010.

And that's without mentioning the fisting.

With all the behind-the-scenes reshuffling and management changes and restructures going on at Eggplant right now, I'm hoping for even more random days, nights and weekends in this 'Year Of Plenty' to distract me from the shitness of work. I'm also hoping John Terry doesn't get questioned by the filth outside his home in Oxshott again.

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Can I Predict Who Killed Archie?

No.

It seems that I can't.

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Can I Predict Who Killed Archie?

Several years ago - I could Google it to find out the exact date, but I can't be arsed (even though typing that sentence probably took longer than Googling the date, and yet STILL I continue waffling...) - I was "working" in Wapping.

I was sitting with the Editor of The Sun's TV Mag. We were in his office, discussing who should make it onto next week's cover, who would be attending the Crossroads relaunch (yes... It was THAT long ago) and generally talking about the process of putting the magazine together.

I sound like I was practically running the place.

I wasn't.

I was on work experience. And, in truth, he was probably only talking to me because his lovely PA had told him it'd be "nice for the spotty little urchin - look at him, sat there all sad and pathetic, typing up interviews with TV's Sylvia Hollamby and Queen Babs Windsor... Go on, you've not got any meetings for the next hour. Don't lie to me - I keep your diary, remember? I'm your PA. Go on, show willing. Bit of Christian charity?"

To reward the PA's faith in me, I concluded our meeting by managing to lock the Editor out of his own office. With hilarious consequences.

Anyway, he did actually spare me a whole hour of his time, which, for an Editor, is almost unheard of. And I did learn a lot. For example: Mike Baldwin was to be on next week's cover.

But the main topic of conversation was EastEnders, and the 'Who Shot Phil?' story that was due to conclude that very eve. I could have been asking all sorts of probing questions about editorial and journalistic methods; things that could have served me well in a future career. But no... I was more interested in hearing who he thought had pulled the trigger.

He thought it was Steve.

Fool. I told him, there and then, seven hours before broadcast... No - It was Lisa. Bet you it was Lisa.

And bugger me backwards with a spoon... It was! It was Lisa.

Except when I told that story, nobody believed me. Because nobody actually expected it to be her, so they didn't believe I'd guessed in advance. They certainly didn't believe I'd out-guessed the Editor of The Sun's TV Mag. A man whose job it was to know. They thought I was just saying that to try and look big, clever and wonderous.

Untrusting cunts.

So I've learnt my lesson... I'm writing this blog now, on Tuesday 16th February. Three days away from the EastEnders episode where Archie Mitchell's killer is revealed.

And I shall predict the naughty swine wot dun it. Right here.

I'm recording it here, so that there is no doubting my Miss Marple-like deductions. One of my Ex's used to call me Poirot, you know. (We didn't last. Oddly enough)

So, I think the killer will be revealed as...

(This is like a less exciting installment of Derren Brown, isn't it?)

*DRUMROLL*

...Well, now hang on.

It's always the wife. It was Chrissie "Sexy Big Hair" Watts who killed Dirty Den. It was Amanda Donohoe who killed 'im off of Grease 2 in Emmerdale. It's always the wife.

And Babs Windsor is leaving, so it MUST be her. And she's one of the very few who haven't been obvious suspects, so it MUST be her. Everything points to her.

Except I fail to believe for one second that she could lift that fucking great big statue. She's smaller than Wee Jimmie Krankie's dong. How could tiny Peggy Mitchell pick up that great big thing and use it as a weapon?!

So it's not the wife. It can't be. Physically impossible.

It's not Ronnie. She told Dot she didn't do it - and no-one lies to pretty Dot. They tell Dot their deepest, darkest secrets, they don't lie to her. Plus, Ronnie's too obvious. Same as Bradley or Janine - all too obvious. Roxy has never displayed any emotion other than love towards Archie, so if she turns out to be the killer, it will be the massive twist we're looking for... But it will be completely unbelievable.

I'm hoping it's Danny Mitchell. Just because it means I get to see him again. He's gorgeous. I want to lick his hair.

For a long time, I did think it was Jack. They've not made him too obvious a suspect, so it'll still be a bit of a shock. It would lead to a few storylines with Ronnie (who he presumably did it for) and Roxy (who would probably be a bit narked and withhold custody of Amy a little bit). And if Bradley gets the blame - which is where this plot seems to be going - even though Jack is the real murderer, then Max isn't going to be too pleased, kicking off another brotherly feud.

I can't think of any other outcome that could kick off as many repercussions as it being Jack. That was my thought process behind picking Lisa as being the rascal who gunned down Phil, so I'm applying it here as well. It was Jack.

Jack killed Archie.

Maybe?

Oh, but I keep going back to Peggy. It's the show's 25th Anniversary - It's a live episode. It's a big occasion. Peggy IS EastEnders. It HAS to be her.

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