“So, if you’re sitting up there in your silly little spaceship with all your silly little guns, and you’ve got any plans on taking The Pandorica tonight, just remember who’s standing in your way. Remember every black day I ever stopped you, and then… Do the smart thing. Let somebody else try first.”
(The Eleventh Doctor, Stonehenge, 102 A.D.)
I haven’t always liked Doctor Who. My first memories of the show come from when I was young. As far as I can honestly recall, I remember seeing Christopher Eccleston, the Ninth Doctor, doubled over in pain inside a grungy, dimly-lit room. I had not seen the rest of the series, or if I had, certainly not in enough detail to realise what was happening on screen. Even so, I remember the bitter-sweet feeling when he flashed a smile and exploded into a brilliant golden light.
Then, a different face appeared in his clothes. In his TARDIS. I remember the feeling of shock and awe, too young to quite separate fantasy and reality. What was happening?
“Oh yeah. Barcelona!”
From there onwards, I bought every sonic screwdriver that my parents would let me own. I had the secret journal, I vividly remember pouring my soul in my own fob watch to hide from the Master in my garden. I remember how tense I became when the Tenth Doctor met the Daleks in New York. I remember Davros’ terrifying return (even though I hadn’t the foggiest who Davros was). And I’m sure that no matter what happens throughout the rest of my life, I will never be able to forget the sheer power that emanated through me when Derek Jacobi, the apparent 18th incarnation of the Master, revealed his true identity, and the Doctor remembered the words of the Face of Boe.
When David Tennant, holding back tears, began to glow just as Christopher Eccleston had done some 5 years previously, I now realised what this meant. Death and rebirth. The beginning and the end. This song is ending, but the story never will. When Matt Smith’s chin shattered through the familiar golden light, I felt great sorrow. Who was this usurper, taking Tennant’s place? It simply wasn’t fair.
And I would feel the same when Capaldi arrived. And, despite my brief departure as an avid fan of the show during the Capaldi era, when his regeneration into Whittaker found its way onto Twitter, I felt a pang of both sorrow and joy. Sorrow for those who thought of Capaldi in the same way I thought of Tennant and Smith. And joy for those who would fall in love with the 13th Doctor, who would avidly watch her interviews, who would subscribe to the official magazine, who would buy the screwdriver, and who would feel the tight knot in their throat, when her song came to a close.
This, to me, is the gift and the curse of Doctor Who.
You must say goodbye, and you must resent the man (or, indeed, woman) who will replace your idol. And you must feel this again, and again, and again.
And you must not forget one line, not one day.
You must always remember when the Doctor, whoever may have embodied the role, was yours.
Joe Porter 