Nothing Compares To Who
Dr Who is hurtling to the end of the third series, lashed on by the arrival of John Barrowman, John Simm and Derek Jacobi. Everyone one of them has eyebrows askew and is grandstanding with gusto. Barrowman is heroically camp in the face of a collapsing universe, but David Tennant is never knowingly upstaged, and so they’re hurling lines at each other like broadswords, keeping it busy and witty and fun.
The Bailie kids are transfixed, the adults are enjoying the cosmic vigour and the double meanings. Meantime, there’s a giant rocket aiming for Utopia, and a mob of badly tattooed underlings are roaming the old planet. They look like members of the Anti Nowhere League, and in a sense, they are.
Like many veterans, I was aghast at the return of Dr Who, while the Christopher Eccleston casting in the first series didn’t move me. But the show is now a necessary spectacle every Saturday, and the previous programme, with the nasty statues, was wonderful value. The Doctor is emphatically in the house.