I think about this a lot, but let me think about it quickly. A long time ago now, I was at Radio Times, reading a book in a break and when I looked up from the page, everything changed. I was at Radio Times, where I had so wanted to be, but now, one page later, one paragraph later, I was at Radio Times and for all I liked it there, it was no longer where I wanted to be.

The book was The Writer’s Tale by Russell T Davies and Benjamin Cook — a Radio Times writer at the time, as it happens — and the paragraph was a mention of some casting decision in Doctor Who. The punch for me was that I had written a news story for RT about that casting decision but from the dates in the book, I knew that I’d done this more or less exactly one year after the choice had been made. I no longer wanted to be writing about other people’s writing, I needed to be at the point when those decisions are made.

All of which is on my mind because it is so very often on my mind, but particularly today because it’s just happened again. And again it was because of Doctor Who.

Follow. You will know that there was a very good Christmas Special this year and that it was the first story for the 15th Doctor, Ncuti Gatwa. After it aired, there was a flurry of fan activity over one character who had two lines of dialogue, but made infinitely more observant viewers than me catch their breath. This character was played by Susan Twist who was also featured in “Wild Blue Yonder”, two episodes before. She played a seemingly different character, Mrs Merridew, and was certainly in a different time.

As I say, smarter people than I spotted this and, whumph, conspiracy theories ignited. This wasn’t chance casting, this was A Clue about future stories in the show. Amusingly, for me, you can read all about it in this article — on Radio Times.

But now.

Some 225 Doctor Who and Doctor Who-related scripts have been released online and one of them is for that Christmas Special, “The Church on Ruby Road”. Which was previously, as you learn from the script, going to be called “The Bridge”. Anyway, there it is, scene 3, page 6:

A WOMAN in the CROWD – a woman we’ve seen as Mrs Merridew in Special 2, a woman we’ll see a lot more of – YELLS:

I’d like to be as observant as viewers who spotted this, but I need to be writing, creating, making.

I need to write betterer.

I’m not 100% convinced that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences knows how films are made. Yes, I am thinking of how Greta Gerwig and Margot Robbie have not been nominated in their main categories. (Gerwig was shut out of Best Director and Robbie out of Best Actress, but the “Barbie” film they created – Gerwig co-wrote it and Robbie created the project — are nominated for Best Picture and Best Adapted Screenplay.)

Oddly, that bit about Best Adapted versus Best Original Screenplay gets questioned a lot and it’s one of the few really clear rules. If it’s based on any existing property, it’s adapted. So admittedly it’s unusual that the source material for “Barbie” is a doll instead of a book or play, but there’s no question that it’s in the correct screenwriting category. Even if it is easily the most original script I’ve read in such a long time.

I’ve worked on awards and I know there’s no such thing as a lock, a given, not when countless people are voting. But if something is a candidate for Best Picture there is something wrong when the director isn’t in contention for Best Director. I’m not sure that it’s the same for best actor or actress, but I do think that Margot Robbie was extraordinary as Barbie.

Where I am sure is over the writing categories. Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach deserve their Oscar nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay. They won’t win: they’re up against Oppenheimer by Christopher Nolan, for which I can only presume he’s made the dialogue audible this time.

My longer-standing problem and where I question the Academy’s concept of filmmaking, is in the history of the Oscars. To date, there have been 95 ceremonies and so 95 Best Picture winners. (It is confusing: there were two winners in the very first Oscars, covering 1927-1928, in slightly differently-named awards. Somehow it still adds up to 95 even though this year’s Oscars are the 96th.)

Assuming I haven’t cocked up the spreadsheet, out of 95 Best Picture winners, only 16 also won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, and another 16 won for Best Adapted. That means only 32.68% of what the Academy says are the greatest movies ever made, also won any award for their writers.

That’s the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences saying that it doesn’t matter what the story is, doesn’t matter what any character says, really doesn’t matter about the characters at all, a film can still be the best without any of those.

I can just about see how Best Production Design or Best Makeup and Hairstyling could be done without the script, except no, I can’t: as talented as any film department is, they have to start with the script. The script says it’s set in a desert, the script says there are three women, two men, and a kid, and describes them.

It’s not all there on the page, I am not in any way trying to reduce anyone else’s contribution to a film, but none of it is there at all without the script. None of it.

So the Oscars thinking the script doesn’t matter two thirds of the time, yes, it makes me question how they think films are made.

But then at least the Oscars have always recognised that films are written. The British Academy of Film and Television Awards didn’t notice writers for the first 19 years of the BAFTAs. I’m not joking.

I don’t know how long we’re going to have to suffer through the hype years of AI, but we’re definitely there now and I can only wish that it will be over soon. I use AI apps for transcription of interviews and videos and audios, it’s fantastic how much better all of that is now that I don’t have to be the one manually winding back a tape a syllable or two at a time. And ultimately, that’s where we’re heading because that’s where we’ve already been: AI was the word of 2023, but AI was already behind at least many years of technology development that we already enjoy.

So when your iPhone suggests the correct spelling of Beiderbecke, or remembers that when you email me you usually also email these two other people so it offers you their names, that’s AI. When your iPhone offers you news headlines in the morning, it’s because it’s spotted that you regularly look up news headlines in the morning.

You didn’t once think it was AI, nor even Machine Learning as Apple has been calling it since at least 2016, you just accepted the suggested names if they were right and ignored them if they were wrong.

Android or iPhone, these devices have been using AI or machine learning for ages and it’s all good, none of it threatens our work, most of it helps and none of it gets in our way.

And yet at the moment I see people claiming that writers will be replaced by AI, or that writers can use AI in order to spend less time writing. I do believe that such people are the same ones who will tell you they’ve got a great idea for a film, they just need you to write it and they’ll split the millions with you.

But more specifically, I am now thinking of one claim in particular, a course that advertised itself as being how to use AI as your co-writer and muse. The workshop has been taken down so I can’t check the details, but I remember it being something about how AI can free you up to spend your time doing things other than writing.

Listen. Nobody is forcing you to write.

And if you have a problem with the thousands of hours it takes to write anything, the answer is not AI. It’s tough shit.

I don’t doubt that AI will get better, In fact, I think it will become so very much more useful for everyone that at some point quite soon we are going to forget the term “AI” and just think of it has how things work, if we think of it at all.

But if AI really does somehow get so good that it forges in the smithy of its soul the uncreated consciousness of its race, then I still won’t care. If you can’t be arsed to write it, I fail to see why I should spend my time reading it.

Or to put it another way, go read the script to Barbie and tell me anything but talented people could — or would — write that ridiculous, joyous, moving screenplay.

For a long time now, I’ve found it hard to watch The West Wing or read any of its scripts because real-life politics has seemed infinitely and painfully separated from the fictional politics in the show. It still does. But a few weeks ago, I came across a West Wing script online.

Nothing about the last few weeks has narrowed the gap between that show and this world, and this week the Conservative Party Conference here in the UK has made me scared and queasy. Yet despite this, and despite the rather more prosaic reason that I’ve read the script before, on August 22, I re-read Aaron Sorkin’s pilot script to The West Wing.

It actually hurt to read the idealism and the cleverness and the wit. But admittedly it also hurt because that script is now 24 years old. It is a quarter of a century ago, and I am therefore a quarter of a century older than I was.

I haven’t got over that. But in the weeks since, I’ve read a further 14 West Wing scripts. Season 1, episode 5, The Crackpots and These Women still irritates the kidneys out of me for its closing moments of such patronising crap toward the women characters. And season 1, episode 11, Lord John Marbury makes me want to slap people.

But Celestial Navigation (s01e15), In This White House (s02e04), and Bartlet for America (s03e09, script not online) are superb. That’s the word I wrote next to each script in the little list I keep so that I can go back to good ones. No analysis, nothing in depth, I just write “superb” or anywhere from there down to “utter shite altogether”, which even Lord John Marbury wasn’t bad enough to earn.

Although next to The State Dinner (so1e07), very unusually, I did say a little more. “Excellent. And I don’t think I will ever write for television. 468.” (It was the 468th script I’ve read this year.)

Only, I didn’t intend to talk to you about aging or my writing failings, I want to talk to you about a line from The West Wing, a famous line, which goes: “Crime. Boy, I don’t know.”

It’s said by Governor Ritchie (James Brolin) to President Bartlet (Martin Sheen) in s03e21, Posse Comitatus by Aaron Sorkin. I can’t link you directly to it because it’s not one of the half dozen online, it’s one of the sixteen or so that were published in a couple of books. You can still get this script in the second volume, which Amazon has just told me I bought on February 7, 2005. I’m not convinced I was even alive that long ago.

But anyway, “Crime. Boy, I don’t know.” There’s been a situation in the episode, there have been a lot of situations, and Bartlet the Democrat is talking about them with Ritchie, the Republican. Ritchie is the one who says this line when asked what he thinks. It’s a telling line that we recognise means Ritchie isn’t up to the job of being the next President.

So on February 7, 2005, when I first read the script, or sometime very soon after the show’s first US airing on May 2, 2002, I read or heard that line and was appropriately informed. Sorkin leaves you no question whose side you’re on — he’s very good at putting opposing sides together and not weakening whichever one he disagrees with — but here, Bartlet yes, Ritchie, no.

And to drive it home, a few minutes later Bartlet concludes the conversation and the scene with this line to Ritchie: “In the future, if you’re wondering, ‘Crime. Boy, I don’t know,’ is when I decided to kick your ass.”

February 7, 2005, that line worked and I got it as intended. May 2, 2002 or so, I got that line as intended.

But when I read it just now on October 3, 2023, not so much.

What was considered shocking back then, what was a sufficient signal to tell us this Republican is not a good choice, is nothing now.

I know that audiences bring something to any show, but this is a quarter of a century of being an audience to some truly miserable politics, it’s having been an audience to corrupt children playing at politics.

Now, even “Crime. Boy, I don’t know if I should tell you about the 91 that I’m charged with,” wouldn’t be shocking.

Shows and scripts are nothing without the writer, but the audience does bring something, I know. I just hadn’t really thought about how time brings something too.

It was pointed out to me yesterday that writers have never lost a strike. And it’s true, most clearly right now when the US writers’ strike has ended so well this week, but winning this time and winning every time, it does not reduce how difficult it is to strike. I don’t think it’s easy anywhere, but in the arts especially, people are living pay cheque to pay check all the time.

No one ever wants to strike, but also when it happens, you have countless networks and streamers and studios on one side, myriad writers on the other, yet it’s the writers who stick together.

I think that’s amazing in so many ways. The networks and the streamers, sure, they always want more and they always want to pay less, but we’re supposed to be the arty creatives, they’re supposed to be the hard businessmen and women. So you expect them to find it easy to stick together. After all, what affects one firm’s balance sheet affects at least most others.

This reminds me suddenly of how when I was growing up, the Conservatives in the UK and the Republicans in America were seen as the parties of business. Yet today neither party can actually organise anything, neither one can get anything to work.

Still, when money is all you measure worth by, a strike could be avoided with two minutes on a spreadsheet, not 146 days of picket lines.

Whereas writers, we tend to work alone, we don’t know what the writer next to us is being paid, we don’t know what their working conditions are — okay, we know when they’re on staff on a Disney show and still have to accept charity, but overall, we are siloed. We should be easy to pick off, we should be a target-rich environment where anyone can turn us against one another and consequently divide and rule. I’m British, I’m embarrassed to say that we know from divide and rule.

Except, of course, there is the Writers’ Guild.

Obviously it was the Writers’ Guild of America that called for the strike and it was its staff and its members who managed to hold the line and even keep pickets cheerful while executives publicly said they would just wait until the writers were losing their homes.

I’m deputy chair of the Writers’ Guild of Great Britain and you would be amazed — I was amazed — at how much work the strike and advising members with international projects caused the staff here. I didn’t appreciate that, and I had nothing to do with anything strike-related whatsoever, but I do now appreciate all the UK staff did.

I am profoundly proud to have ever been the smallest spoke on a cog within the British Writers’ Guild, and to stand with these particular people at this particular time, it’s been a privilege. I think it’s been an easy privilege for me, but if I had nothing to do, nothing I could help with, that only reduces me, it obviously doesn’t diminish all that the Writers’ Guilds of America and of Great Britain did.

And I’ll tell you, to sit there yesterday with the Writers’ Guild of Great Britain staff, having chocolate cake and a mug of tea, it was a highlight of my year.

I need the Writers’ Guild for a thousand personal reasons and I aspired to be a member for at least that many again. But we truly need the Writers’ Guild, we need all of the Writers’ Guilds around the world, and these past months have demonstrated that vigorously.

Look what they managed to do. Look what they did.

So I was thinking a few weeks ago that it is amazing how great the Mission: Impossible films are when they aren’t written in advance, when they are kind of compiled on the go as the makers come up with particular sequences and then look to see how they can be connected into a story.

I concluded that this process was exactly the same as drafting and redrafting a script, just without the Final Draft writing app and with millions of dollars in camera gear and travel expenses.

Mission: Impossible 1 was written in advance and is very good. MI2 was written in advance and isn’t. I don’t know about MI3, but it doesn’t quite work. But Mission: Impossible: Ghost Protocol, Rogue Nation, and Fallout were all done this way and they are all excellent.

In my opinion, of course. But I like those films so much that I’ve watched them often.

The new Mission: Impossible: Dead Reckoning Part One isn’t as good. It’s fine, there are the most exhilaratingly arresting sequences in it and there’s no question that I won’t be seeing the sequel next year. Whereas MI2 was sufficiently bad that it took years for me to get around to seeing MI3.

Your mileage with MI7 may vary, naturally, but it’s on its way out of cinemas — and appears to have been a relative failure. The extremely high cost of the film caused by COVID delays was a factor and so was the scheduling that saw MI7 denied its usual length of run in IMAX theatres.

But I think there is also just that it stumbles and I want to think this through from a writing perspective. Because these Mission: Impossible films are, well, impossible and you can easily make a case for any or all of them being ridiculous, yet some work and some don’t. Then MI7 comes in the middle: it’s not that it doesn’t work, it’s that it doesn’t work enough.

For me, anyway.

I offer that there are three moments in the whole running time that are problematic. They each took me out of the story and where only two definitely burst the bubble and make you consciously think no, that’s actually impossible, I wonder if all three would have been smoothed over if the film had been written before it was shot.

One issue is the killing off of a major character where the drama is subtracted because we’d believed she died earlier and so we’ve no way to judge that she isn’t going to come back in a minute. Again.

Then there is a gag. Ethan and Grace are in a teeny yellow car which at one point goes tumbling through the air. When it lands, the two characters have switched places. It’s not a mistake: the characters look at each other to emphasise that it’s a gag, but it’s impossible. It’s wrong.

Later on, Benjy is in what becomes a fully self-driving car. But there’s very little reason Benjy has to be travelling to anywhere at this point and switching to self-driving is another gag instead of a dramatic imperative. And it’s impossible. It’s just wrong.

Even including the death of that character, we’re looking at under three minutes of screen time, but each one breaks the preciously thin bubble of these movies.

I’m obviously not saying that I could have done better. But the great Mission films are deeply satisfying because they put characters you care about through such high stakes that it feels like a vice closing in on them — and because when they prevail, it is at a cost, but it’s never a cop-out, it’s never a gag ending.

For instance, there’s a moment in Mission: Impossible: Rogue Nation where I was taken out of the film because it was such a perfect sequence. If you’ve seen the film, I mean when Ethan Hunt has to decide which of two assassins to shoot in order to protect their target. The resolution is very simple, but at least for me, it was a resolution I did not see coming and I admire it.

I’m okay with being taken out of a film to applaud. But with MI7, it had these moments where I just had to consciously think okay, let that go, let’s try to get back into it.

I did get back in, each time, but it took a while, every time. And while I imagine I’ll watch it again some time, it won’t be the turn-to favourite that the last three have been.

I get impatient with writers who aren’t practical. If this needs to be written and it needs to be written now, you write it now. I’m conscious that this may all be a failure of imagination on my part, that I could be a hack in the worst sense of that, but I do not write better for having sat on my arse until the last second.

Nor would I have said that it matters to me in the slightest where I am when I write. Certainly I don’t need peace and quiet, and certainly I will write in a newsroom as readily as a library.

Only, you know there’s a but coming. I didn’t, though. I would not have seen this but, not have considered this but.

Last Sunday, I was shut out of my office for hours. Overnight a tall Ikea Billy bookcase collapsed in there, falling sideways so that on the thinking positive side of things, it didn’t send very heavy books crashing out onto my equipment. But as glad as I am about that, the shelf unfortunately collapsed sideways — toward the office door. It barricaded that door.

With every ounce of girth I could manage, and that is regrettably quite a lot more than it should be, I could not get the door open more than a fraction of a centimetre.

This was around 3am and there’s a limit to the wailing you can do if you don’t want to wake the neighbours. So I went back to bed and I plotted.

Since I have a security camera in the office, I was able to see on my iPad what it was like in there. Thank goodness for that iPad which I’d left in our living room. Because what I could also see was that my iPhone, my office Mac, my MacBook Pro and a digital recorder I was supposed to be taking out to an interview, were all on the wrong side of the barricade.

Okay. Now 4am and I am not sleeping, I am pondering just the right drill pattern to make in a door panel so that I could then hammer through to get a hand in and start trying to move some books.

The hammer is in the office.

The drill is in the office.

So instead it takes me two hours on my knees, scraping the skin off my hands, as I get a fingertip through that sub-centimetre gap and manage to make it a centimetre, then two, then three. I got it to a stage where instead of having to try flicking a book away into the office, I could just about lift it up — and drop it again, lift it again, drop it — until I could get it up to the top of the door and pull it through there.

Two hours of that. And it took perhaps the first hour for me to have any sense of progress at all. I carried on solely because I didn’t have any other ideas.

But around the two hour mark, I got that door open enough that I could get my head through, then using the wall for leverage I pushed the door enough that my body could get in — before the door snapped back, pressed again by books and shelves I hadn’t been able to reach.

I think I sat at my office desk for easily ten minutes, though, just being there. Seeing the debris field, sure, but also just being conscious of how for all my pragmatism and write-anywhere approach, I had been scared when I was shut off from this space.

I’ve been writing in this room for twenty years. It’s at least a couple of million words now — in the last six months alone I know I wrote half a million — and I cannot imagine how many hours thinking. There was one night when it was so late and it was so dark outside that my office window was more like a mirror and I saw the late Alan Plater reflected in there. “It’s only a book,” he told me as I fretted about something.

I’ve had some bad times in there. I have literally bled over the keyboard — though that felt like a badge of honour somehow — and some of the toughest moments in my writing career were in this room. But of course so were some of the best. And if the journey of a thousand miles ends with 2,112,000 steps, the journey has been the best.

Doubtlessly there are other spaces where I could’ve been writing, but I was writing in this one, it was taken away from me, and then I got it back through harder physical labour than I ever signed up for.

It occurs to me that I’m just saying you don’t miss something until it’s gone. But I missed this. And it’s back.

Mind you, I also missed a joke about it and will now forever envy writer Peter Anghelides, who said to me on Facebook: “You have only your shelf to blame.”

Brace yourself for a metaphor.

It goes like this. We have a back garden that I rarely go into. It is for want of trying. But we also have a greenhouse in there and one evening this week my wife and I stood watching a bee trying to get out of it.

The door was open, it had been opened wider to encourage the bee, and that bee was clearly struggling in the heat of a greenhouse in the heat of a hot day. We tried being inside the greenhouse waving our arms at it, we tried being on the outside and tapping on the glass to encourage it to move toward where not only was there a door, but there now seemed to be a draught. A breeze. A big clue that this way lies freedom, that way lies glass.

But while that bee did keep on edging closer to the way out, it would also keep on turning back around and trying to walk up this metal support frame or burrow into that green plant thing. (I’m not big on plants. See above re gardens.)

Eventually we gave up and walked away, the very last option being that maybe the bee was self-conscious and without us watching, it would wipe its brow, pick up its bags and walk out of there just fine.

I hope it did and now I hope this isn’t too obvious, but even if I hadn’t primed you about an impending metaphor, you would have already figured out that I am seeing myself in that bee.

Unless I thought I was the greenhouse. Trying to grow on the inside, completely transparent from the outside. It could’ve been that.

But no, it was the bee, it was the bee’s determination to escape being thwarted by its own inability to see the obvious way out or to not keep repeating the same mistakes.

Only, okay, there I am that evening wishing that it would escape and there I am identifying with the little thing, yet the afternoon was the opposite. That afternoon, I pitched for a commission and was so confident in my ability to do it that I was borderline cocky. I know what this work needs, I told them, I know that I know how to do it.

If you ask me what I think of my writing, no stopwatch is fast enough to measure the speed of which I can change that subject. Yet here I was being asked why I thought I could do this work and they could barely shut me up about it. Afterwards I even wondered if I’d just talked them out of commissioning me.

But in the moment, being asked to justify my being commissioned, nope. Total confidence. There are elements of the brief that I don’t understand yet, that I have no experience in, but overall, here’s a project, it needs this, this and that, and I can do these things, that’s me.

Look, doubtlessly you could do this commission too, I’m not claiming some unique brilliance and, actually, while I appear to have got the work, it isn’t confirmed yet so I can’t presume I have. But total certainty that I could do it, not one pixel’s doubt, that felt uniquely brilliant.

I tell you, it was a buzz.

Normally it’s people who I’d say influenced me the most, but that’s possibly in aggregate. A truly enormous single influence has been Doctor Who, and I don’t truly grasp why — but it turns out I can pin down when that influencing me happened.

For I could only really call myself a Doctor Who fan from about August 1978 to somewhere around January 1984, and even working that out now I am surprised it was as long as it was. I sidled into the show in time for when it now seems Tom Baker had lost interest, and I faded away just before the end of Peter Davison’s era.

Yet that show is part of me. I did end up writing a few Big Finish editions of Doctor Who and that was special, that remains a rather towering highlight for me. But if the candle really burned for only a short time, I seem to have used that time and that candlelight learning about the show.

I do not believe, for instance, that there is a single Doctor Who story from 1963 to 1989 that I wouldn’t always have recognised by title or plot, certainly companion, and probably writer. I’m afraid it’s also a little impossible that I wouldn’t also have an opinion about any story you name: I hope that would be because because I’d seen it, but I’d more likely read the book, and I certainly knew what the general consensus of Doctor Who fans was.

But ’63 to ’89 is 26 years, or 159 stories, or precisely 700 episodes. And it was surprising to me how very many of those 700 I hadn’t seen, how many truly famous Doctor Who stories I had not watched.

Until now.

As of last night, I’ve seen them all. Or at least, all of the surviving ones, which works out to somewhere around 600 episodes. On 24 April 2022, I started watching the lot on Britbox, initially one episode per day, and apart from a month’s break while I was on holiday, the only thing that changed was that I moved to watching them on ITVX.

At first, I was rigid about that business watching one episode per day, but while I haven’t skipped any day other than over that holiday, during the Jon Pertwee years I started watching two or more in a row. I was feeling ill one evening, it was late at night, I was on my own, I watched two or three and having done so, that somehow freed me to keep doing it. I watched all of the final three-part story last night, for instance.

So as I say, I haven’t missed a day, and quite often I’d watch more than one edition. Sometimes that was because I was enjoying them, as you might hope, but sometimes it was also just to get them over with.

There are some low points.

Actually, I was surprised just how many low points there were. A couple of times I came within a pixel of giving up, I’d been through such a bad run, such a poor season, and it was only momentum plus knowing a famous one was coming, that kept me going.

Then of course there would be the good stories, the ones where you start to realise why you like this show but then forget that you’re even wondering that and are instead just into it all.

You do also have to factor in time, which I feel is ironic given what this show is about. Certainly the world and television drama has changed a lot since that first-ever episode in 1963, and certainly the show itself did not change along with it. Or at least it didn’t change to keep up very quickly, or at least not until the revival in 2005 where Doctor Who just burst out of the screen.

But even allowing for the Sixties, and the Seventies, and possibly most especially the Eighties, I don’t know why I like the show.

It’s been so important to me that I would like to know. The usual answer, if you ask a fan, is that because of its format, Doctor Who can do anything. It can go anywhere, it can go anywhen, it can be a farce or a thriller as it sees fit.

Except having watched it all now, I don’t think classic Doctor Who actually goes very far at all. So it can’t be the boundless possibilities because more than brilliant imagination being thwarted by inadequate budgets, the show didn’t seem to try bounding all that often.

Yet it has something. After watching Survival, part 3, by Rona Monro, last night, I went back to rewatch An Unearthly Child by Anthony Coburn, the very first story. I have now seen literally hundreds of episodes, yet that first sight of the police box, that first sight of the bigger insides, and that first sound of the TARDIS taking off, I think it was actually magical.

I’d like to understand but maybe I don’t have to and maybe I don’t have a choice. I do know that I feel I’ve accomplished something with this unbroken marathon viewing, but then I also know that’s a bit daft of me.

Let it be daft.

Let me not understand.

Whatever it is about Doctor Who that so got into me, it got so far into me and it has lasted so long that it has itself made me impervious to its worst moments. I have not one single clue how it did that, but for all its faults, for all its sometimes excruciating episodes, Doctor Who still owns me.

It was a small and flawed and cheap show, but it had an influence that was far bigger once you got into it.