The second regenesis of Who ushered in the unlikely figure of Christopher Eccleston with surprising smoothness. The Doctor was now Northern. Russell T Davies had jumped that hurdle and knocked it out of the park. 10 million viewers and the brand was back, bigger and better than ever before. And everyone was happy until the Slitheen blew - *ahem* - into town. Quite literally, too, as these big green death machines in disguise had an alarming propensity for extraterrestrial trumping. Kids no doubt rolled on the floor laughing at the derriere-based display. Fans, meanwhile, chucked their toys out the pram. What was Davies playing at!? This is Doctor Who, not Galloping Galaxies! The abrupt shift in tone was rarely repeated, but the gaseous grotesques left a whiff that permeated the series for years to come. Perhaps fittingly they were despatched to CBBC and The Sarah Jane Adventures before the expensive costumes got left to gather dust in the costume department.
I am a journalist and comedian who enjoys American movies of the 70s, Amicus horror compendiums, Doctor Who, Twin Peaks, Naomi Watts and sitting down. My short fiction has been published as part of the Iris Wildthyme range from Obverse Books.
