Friday, September 25, 2009


I have not ever watched Doctor Who. I realize that there has been considerable renewed interest in the franchise over the last few years thanks to a Mr. David Tennant, who is considered quite handsome. Fair enough. And the new Doctor (premiering next year!) appears to be even more entrenched in the alterna-cheesecake vein, which only proves that the Doctor Who producers know their youthful nerdlady audience extremely well, and are trying to ensure the series' longevity by installing what is essentially a British Wentz in tweed (fig.1, at right) as their new hero. He's very cute, don't get me wrong, I support you, young nerdladies! Chase that tweed fox! But there are other things to be considered, like the fact that I am ancient, and no longer with it; what is out there in the Dr. Whoniverse (actually a real thing on the internet, gurgle) for moi?

Shall I tell you? I shall. It is the Eighth Doctor series on BBC Radio 7. Starring the lovely Paul McGann, whose voice is really his best attribute anyway. The adventures are glorously improbable, and very silly, and always involve disastrously cheesy aliens (I think this is the deal with Who, M.D., but I'm a beginner, so it stands out) and of course there is a harshly shrieking companion lady who always gets into scrapes, boy howdy. She grows on you, though, despite the constant 'oi!'-ing.

McGann was on TV once as Dr. Who, although I have not seen it. He's solely a radio Who now. Because really: Paul McGann does not need to get dragged onto the TV for this gig anymore. Not that he isn't dreamy or anything, because I think it's been clinically proven that (even at 50, long pause) he is. But oh my grandmother, that is not a good look for him, that eighth doctor outfit. And they assault me with it every time I open the BBC page; like cold defiance. I can handle the velvet jacket and the ascot, mostly. But the hair is beyond the pale.

Here, take a look at this fan art (thank you, dedicated fans, you never fail me), and I challenge you not to spontaneously scream, all together now:


But really it's the wig's fault. It's very alarming, and fully overpowers an otherwise quite nice looking person. And that was in 1996! A man doesn't need to deal with that when he's reached his fifth decade. It's just not right. It shows a lack of respect, strapping that limp rug on his head. Never again, atrocious wig, never again. He looks like Rex Smith after a conditioning accident.

I think we've established, I hate the wig.

And also this is just wrong:

Ten years and no gold watch

As much as I love it and will miss it probably, I've left CJSF. So there. I've been doing a radio show at Simon Fraser University for ten whole years, and frankly my old bones don't want to make the weekly drive up the hill anymore. Yes, that's me, so broken down that even a short car ride is a hardship. The bumps in the road! My hips! I mean, yes, it's good knitting time, but the risk of spearing onesself in the eyeball is ever-present. Where is my PSA about that? Blah blah blah, sum up: Flushie flushie goes Singing with Barbra.


I did so used to enjoy bleughing, and so I am going to instead use this space to catalogue my many little projects outside of radio, provided any of them get off the ground at all. Also to complain about my angina (which incidentally would be a lovely baby name, I think - let's rehabilitate that word via innocent children) and itchy scalp. Baby, it's gonna be a ride and a half, and you and I will take it together. Or I'll take it alone, what the shit.