Gogglebox rips the piss out of New Who

DeadManRising wrote:To be fair though, most of the people in that video don't exactly strike me as the type of people that would really enjoy Classic Who that much either. They seem more like the type of people that would eagerly tune into Eastenders each week to see who Phil Mitchell is going to beat up next.

This video proves absolutely nothing.

It’s hard to express the joy of that. For 20 years, this thing was a joke. It was slightly embarrassing admitting liking it. In fact, very embarrassing. You’d see comedians taking the piss out of it. It would crop up on I Love the 60s shows, where they would make it look like rubbish. And to see it being what it always was in our hearts is just amazing. You mentioned it in the same sentence as James Bond. My God, that’s impossible! .

I love the old Doctor Who (1963). But, even with all that love, you have to admit that the name of the programme had become a joke and its reputation had become a cheap joke at that - you know rubber monsters and shaky sets. And Christopher Eccelston, as one of the country's leading actors, by being willing to step up to the line and take on that part has proved has turned it around. So now you get actors like David Tennant who is the next generation and just about one of the best actors in the world. David himself says he wouldn't have touched this part if Chris hadn't done it because the part had become a joke. But Chris has salvaged it and made it new.

Back when I was in my early twenties, I thought Doctor Who was the scariest programme on television. I had one particular Who-inspired nightmare which haunts me to this day — except it wasn't a nightmare at all, it was something that happened to me on a regular basis. I'd be sitting watching Doctor Who on a Saturday, absolutely as normal... but I'd be in the company of my friends!!

Being a fan is an odd thing, isn't it? I was in little doubt — though I never admitted it, even to myself — that Doctor Who was nowhere near as good as it should have been, but for whatever reason I'd made that mysterious and deadly emotional connection with the show that transforms you into a fan and like a psychotically devoted supporter of a floundering football club, I turned out every Saturday in my scarf, grimly hoping the production team would finally score.

Of course my friends all knew my devotion to the Doctor had unaccountably survived puberty and had long since ceased to deride me for it. I think (I hope) they generally considered me someone of reasonable taste and intelligence and decided to indulge me in this one, stunningly eccentric lapse. And sometimes, on those distant Saturday afternoons before domestic video my nightmare would begin. I'd be stuck out somewhere with those friends and I'd realise in a moment of sweaty panic that I wasn't going to make it home in time for the programme—or worse, they' d be round at my house not taking the hint to leave — so on my infantile insistence we'd all troop to the nearest television and settle down to watch, me clammy with embarrassment at what was to come, my friends tolerant, amused and even open-minded.