Dr Who, Series 5

So. When the hell did Doctor Who (BBC1, Sat, 6:20pm) become cool?

Genuine question. It wasn’t that long ago that the title alone was enough to conjure up images of snorting, mouth-breathing ubernerds, huddled round flickering ‘60s TV sets shouting equations at Tom Baker and feverishly hoping to catch a glimpse of the female assistant’s bare ankle. Ooh yes, ‘sci-fi’ was a dirty word, the bleeping, impenetrable preserve of the tragically over-educated and even more socially underdeveloped; a cursory mention of ‘daleks’ sent most people running to the hills, screaming with despair and frantically denying all knowledge. It’d have been more socially acceptable to pump an elderly goat full of laxatives and unleash it into a crèche than casually drop the c-word into conversation (and I’m referring to ‘cybermen’, of course, you filthy-minded scum).

NOT IN THESE PROGRESSIVE TIMES, HOWEVER!  Somewhat unexpectedly, in recent years the programme has enjoyed a massive popular resurgence, courtesy of a big-budget primetime BBC reboot, and now practically everyone’s lining up to shower it in yet more astronomically hyperbolic praise. Suddenly, no-one’s favourite poorly-dressed-eccentric-with-horrendously-complicated-back-story has been reinvented as a kind of swashbuckling action hero - brandishing his sonic screwdriver with all the slightly camp bravado of James Bond with a Beretta, he hurtles fearlessly through space-time, scores of women (‘companions’) hopelessly lusting in his wake. He’s even kissed Kylie Minogue, for Christ’s sake. Seems that lick of CGI and a better-looking cast has worked wonders for the good Doctor (not to mention the BBC’s Saturday night audience share) and, frankly, it’s bloody weird. It’s a bit like the nerd from secondary school turning up to sixth form in a leather jacket; acne, brace and inhaler mysteriously absent. Creepy, and deeply suspect, but even you can’t deny its sudden appeal.

Ugh. Well, that’s my excuse anyway, because, shamefully, this year I’ve gone and fallen for the ex-nerd. Yep, despite having previously avoided the programme like a coughing Mexican pig (ostensibly out of contempt for its hideous levels of hype; really in a desperate bid to stave off my own inevitable descent into geekdom), I’m now shunning my usual hectic Saturday-night social whirlwind in order to nail myself to the sofa and gawp mindlessly at the new series, cackling and devising Dalek conspiracy theories like some gurglesome village idiot. It’s embarrassing, really. Not even the looming prospect of a James Corden supporting role is enough to dampen my newfound ardour. Take that, cosy misanthropic worldview, take that.

As it happens, this year actually marks a bit of a seminal moment for the franchise, as Saint David Tennant of Over-actington finally left late last year, leaving a nation of hormonal housewives sobbing into their Brita filters whilst simultaneously unleashing a torrent of spluttering outrage from Internet fanboys everywhere. The current series, therefore, has been subject to some fairly vicious criticism from fans of His Over-Exposedness even prior to airing, and there’s a palpable sense of it having something to prove, not least in the almost totally revamped cast. First in the firing line of course is the BBC’s desperate attempt at a Tennant replacement, the somewhat self-consciously ‘zany’ Matt Smith. However, despite possessing a face that somehow manages to look both attractive and hideous simultaneously, he’s actually turned out to be quite good, forcing the online Bastard Brigade to sheepishly retract most of their pre-emptive shrieking and focus instead on the inevitably shoehorned-in romantic subplot with perma-pouting new companion, Karen Gillan (a ‘ten’, as Smith huskily informed us on the Jonathan Ross show back in March). There’s even a kissing scene, which has particularly infuriated them. Oh and, of course, the Daily Mail, who helpfully published a series of grainy frame-by-frame screengrabs of the offending segment in case anyone failed to grasp the full extent of its shocking depravity first time round. (Incidentally, I’ll just quickly confirm now for anyone concerned for their moral wellbeing the the scene in question is actually more hamfisted farce than steamy erotica - I kept expecting Kenneth Williams to burst out of a wardrobe with an appalled look on his face – so it’s OK, no need to blind the kids.)

Anyway, I digress. The acting from both leads is excellent, and, sub-romcom level ‘smouldering banter’ aside, the writing this series is also otherwise exceptional. Sound like I’m gushing yet? Good, because I am. In fact, sod it. I’ll just go straight out and say that the 2010 incarnation of Doctor Who is actually, in general, NOT BAD. Indeed, it’s NOT BAD AT ALL. And occasionally (such as in the opening sequence of the Tardis having a seizure over the London skyline, or the Spitfire dogfight in space), it’s even RATHER BRILLIANT. So frankly, when given the choice between watching this or Amanda Holden pretending to cry as another enormous belly-dancing Liverpudlian relates their tragic life-story, the Doctor gets my vote every time.

That’s not to say this series is perfect, though, obviously. It’s definitely got its fair share of flaws, poking out from amongst the glowing brilliance like a headlice infestation in a halo. For instance, it seems the regeneration wasn’t quite thorough enough for the Doctor to kick his habit of periodically descending into all-out, scenery-chewing, boggle-eyed irritant mode – and there’s only so many times you can sit through Smith’s ‘charmingly-befuddled’ routine before you feel like machine-gunning everyone in the world to death. Not only that, occasionally the plots themselves can also veer dangerously close to ‘utterly bloody incomprehensible’(see the beginning of Episode 4), though admittedly that may just be because I’m an idiot. Oh and the monsters aren’t actually that scary either, let’s be honest (with the possible exception of the Weeping Angels, which I‘m convinced are going to appear at my window every time I draw the curtains). But, let’s face it, all that is fairly negligible when the series as a whole is this... well, odious as it sounds, this fun. Yes, I’m disgusted with myself for saying that too. But it’s true.

So, to conclude then – Doctor Who may be the TV equivalent of a reformed teenage geek, but it’s actually pretty good. And if you’re like me and have previously just ignorantly sneered at it from afar, it’s probably worth a investigatory watch. You might like it. Yes, you. Get on iPlayer now, you newspaper-reading fool. Quickly.

Then at least we can all be snorting, mouth-breathing ubernerds together.