We’re in need of a regeneration...

I was going to write about the charlatan at number ten, but I’m actually too angry and deflated to do that. Then ray of light hit me on stage last night, when I did a quip about another unbelievable character who similarly tries to defy physical reality in order continue his existence. A being who will change his very appearance to survive to fight again. Nope not Boris –I’m talking Dr. Who!

Crikey, have we really had nearly 60 years of fearfully watching the telly from behind the settee whilst nervously peeping through our fingers?

Being honest, I still did this until recently – not for Doctor Who though – just for watching the Toon under Mr Bruce.

The mere sound of that iconic theme from the BBC radiophonic workshop would have the nation’s kids throwing down their clackers, evil Knievel action figures or BMX bikes to come rushing in to living room (younger siblings were usually heading the other way to avoid a week of bed wetting, night terrors or a future in accountancy).

Just as each of us had a particular music style, sports star or fashion to define our own era – everybody has a specific ‘Doctor’ to claim as theirs.

For those around my age it’s got to be Jon Pertwee who is ‘the daddy’ while slightly older readers would swear blind that Pat Troughton was ‘the man.’ Both would, however, feel a deep sympathy for those unfortunates who were children in the eighties and had to claim Sylvester Mccoy as their personal time lord. This is a travesty that can only be likened to being introduced to the works of Bowie by first listening to the ‘Laughing Gnome.’

Whilst acting as Compere to one particularly awful comedy gig, long ago and far away, the audience were so indifferent to the comedians, that I introduced each subsequent act as a former Dr Who; ‘ladies and gents that was Will Hartnell ...now give it up for the fantastic Pat Troughton.’ Nobody noticed.

As for the regeneration business ,the good Doctor did seem to have a soft spot for white middle class blokes – or more recently a lady – when he chose to come back.

Let’s be different.

Why not regenerate as a tracksuited radge from the West End? Or even a trout-pouted wag wannabe from Love Island or Geordie Shore? The latter would be especially watchable; the Cyber men would be fighting the Daleks outside a nightclub because she wound them both up into a jealous rage by showing a picture of herself in a hot tub with one of the ‘Autons’ on Facebook.

The Tardis would then be used to ferry her drunken mates home, complete with ‘L’ plates , inappropriate inflatables and a drunken, orange, middle-aged woman vomiting out the door. We could carry on the North East night out theme by renaming the show ‘Doctor who the **** you lookin’ at ?’

A new list of baddies could be created such as the ‘Sign – ons’ a race of shuffling tracksuited aliens from the Giro quadrant, who travel about the universe doing jobs for cash, whilst simultaneously claiming benefits from the intergalactic inactivity fund. Even scarier than that is the thought of the good doctor going private; the Tardis gets refurbished, placed permanently on Osborne Road.

Then it’ll be Doctor Who is picking up the tab?