Ok, so you may have read that rather excoriating review of Doctor Who: The End of Time, and … hey! Why hasn’t this blog been updated since November? I previously announced my intention to close it down, but I’ve revised my judgement, and I’m going to keep it going as a ‘personal’ blog (oh, and Scott might pitch in occasionally, if he’s not too busy with Film Studies *snigger*. Ok? Good! I regularly write for Aeropause.com, so if you want some other stuff I do, look for me there. I’m looking at starting another site… and that may feature in these ‘pages, so if you’re interested (not sure why you would be, but if you are…). Have a nice Boxing Day!
DISCLAIMER: This was written at about 11 o’clock on Christmas Day, so any lack of cogency, coherency, spelling mistakes, etc. are due to this fact. Don’t whine. This took ages to write.
Right then, let’s get one thing straight. This episode was unremittingly awful. I don’t just mean a little bit, I mean really, really awful. As soon as Timothy Dalton stopped talking, I questioned whether I actually wanted to go though with it. But I did, and I’m here to tell the awful, awful tale. So, if you really want to read as I rant about the episode where Russell T. Davies surrendered to his worst excesses (hold on, that may have been The Waters of Mars…), then feel free. But it won’t be pretty.