Freedom!

As a Brit there has never been a point in celebrating Independence Day. The one time I was over in New York for July 4th we had got so ripped the night before that everyone spent the day sliding in and out of consciousness.

By the time everyone got their act together to head down toward the East River and watch the traditional Macy’s fireworks display it was pretty much over. Walking through the virtually deserted Upper East Side I bumped into a chap from my year at The Esteemed School of Art who I hadn’t seen since I ran screaming from the building, three years earlier.

With the renewed terror alerts, torrential rain, power cut and fouled up public transport, this week had been something of a downer so far. It probably wasn’t brilliant for ITV who had planned to broadcast Die Hard 2 late on Monday night. It certainly wasn’t brilliant for anyone tuning in, either ready to complain at the channel’s insensitivity if the screening went ahead or, for curiosity’s sake, wondered what would replace it.

They went for Cliffhanger instead. Is there an action movie more inept then Cliffhanger? I’m surprised Renny Harlin is still allowed to make films. Obviously it’s difficult to recreate the same lighting conditions from the exterior mountain shots, but all the studio-filmed scenes scream, “Fake!” at the top of their voice.

Could there be the faintest glimmer of a silver lining to boost spirits. Actually, yes, and from the most unlikely of places. Step forward Doctor Who.

I’ve pretty much nailed my colours to the mast when it comes to my opinion of this rancid old pile of ocelot vomit. So much so that some commentators have suggested that if I don’t like it, don’t watch it.

That seems to be the most sensible thing to do, and I tried to stop for a couple of weeks, but the show managed to elicit an alluring siren call. Every time I’d watch in the hope that it would be good – which, for a brief moment it was – only to have my expectations cruelly dashed on the rocks.

At least the first year made some attempt to draw in an audience who doesn’t have time for this juvenile “sci-fi” crap. As the weeks and years went on, with generally piss-poor stories and the blatant theft from other, far more accomplished material, it was a perfect example of what happens when grown-up fanboys are put in charge of this kind of material.

Now I’m happy to be done with it. The final straw? The news that the new companion for next year has been cast and it’s Catherine Tate – yes, that loud-mouthed, unfunny harpy, who appeared in last December’s Christmas Day episode. Some called it a special. “The fairy on top the Christmas Tree of Stupid” is what I called it.

I may be a traditionalist when it comes to sketch comedy but I prefer sketches that are funny, whether through visual gags amongst the jokes or very clever plays on words. Getting made up into a succession of grotesque characters and spouting tired, idiot catchphrases ad nauseam simply doesn’t do it for me.

So with that miserable old sow added to the mix, that’s it for me. What a bloody relief. I think a few people have suggested this is a clear example of Doctor Who jumping the shark. More like jumping the shark and then dragging it onto the beach and beating it to death.

I don’t know whether they’ve made the news official but the word from very reliable inside sources is that the next series is the last for Russell T Davies and Tennant. Maybe RTD is going for a full-on Viking Funeral, burning it down so that if he isn’t doing it all that’s left for the successor is an utter shambles.

Thinking back to the third series finale just gone, here’s something to mull over. It was daft enough already but then the companion goes walking the Earth telling people about this unrecognised saviour who have saved their drab and dreary lives.

What subtext should we deduce from this? Would it have anything to do with a writer/exec producer who got into a strop because his show hadn’t been feted at the last BAFTA ceremony? Just a thought.