(pictured above: envelope pushing imagery)
On the planet Panto, The Doctor Who and Clara McPerky enjoy jolly japes in the type of snowy scene that might be conjured in the imagination of one who has no imagination.
“Oh The Doctor Who”, says Clara McSassy “I'm not going to make a shred of bloody sense”. The Doctor Who is delighted and he says, “I love girls whose general narrative direction doesn't amount to anything remotely resembling a coherent story, just like River and Amy.”
Then some monsters come along (don't worry children, they were just the usual bunch of easily defeated arseholes - this time one looked like a popcorn machine and even made the same fuckin sound when it wasn't dialling in Magneto) and The Doctor Who tells Clara McCheeky that the monsters can only hurt her if she thinks negative thoughts and then The Doctor Who gives Clara McBubbly a copy of the best seller The Secret and informs her that it is the show's new story bible.
Then sad music comes on and the legacy of the irrepressible inventiveness, eccentric uniqueness, and pure intelligence of Lambert, Newman, Derbyshire, Nation and co. is laid out on a table and breathes its last and it rains tears on all of Whodom but no one cares or even notices because it reminds them all of a fun episode of Coupling with a dash of sub-Harry Potter, a pinch of Lois and Clark, and a large dollop of fuckin Merlin or that awful Robin Hood thing from a few years ago that didn't work out.
...and then Bruce Forsyth's Celebrity Dancing Holocaust comes on and everyone is so pissed drunk they think it's still The Doctor Who Self-Referential/Reverential Television Action Hour.