The end of the world as I know it

I haven't slept since my world ended, writes blogger Dan Wainwright.

An explosion of temporal energy triggered by a projected energy weapon to the lower abdomen appears to have finished off the tenth incarnation of the universe's best-loved hero.

On Saturday we may be cheated out of seeing David Tennant finish the greatest showdown with the Daleks in the whole of, well, this year.

If rumour, well, The Sun, is to be believed Northern Irish baldy James Nesbitt might be about to squeeze into the Converse trainers and pinstripe suit before keeling over and then picking out new hats – such is the traditional script for a post regeneration episode.

But this can't be happening.

Surely not even Russell T Davies, who seems obsessed with filling episodes with celebrity cameos and John Barrowman, wouldn't be so maverick as to change his lead actor half way through a season finale?

I wouldn't put anything past him.

I am filled with respect and hatred for the Welshman in equal measure. I hate him for making the Doctor a romantic character, a heart-throb. He's meant to be two hearts and no sex appeal – that's the trade off. He is the sole property of nerds like me who gave up our teenage years watching Tomb of the Cybermen on video over and over. He doesn't belong to you mainstream types.

But I will love Davies for all time for bringing back a character so unkindly consigned to a dimensionally transcendental dustbin by former BBC chairman Michael Grade in the 80s.

As a child I only remember seeing about three episodes of Sylvester McCoy's run before the series was axed.

My generation was cruelly denied the Doctor and all the wonder and majesty of the universe as well as the moral guidance he had to offer.

Today's youngsters receive a subtle lesson in abstaining from guns and are told that they can better themselves and make a difference if they stand up for the little guy.

But far better than that they get to watch in awe as a legion of upturned dustbins covered in ball cocks for toilet cisterns and Mini indicator lights try to invade Cardiff.

There is surely nothing better on TV today than Doctor Who. After next Saturday I will have to face up to the knowledge that next year it will be reduced to three specials while Davies hands over the TARDIS to the much better writer Steven Moffat.

But for the rest of the week I shall be as anxious as the scores of kids tearing around the playground with their sonic screwdrivers while I wait to find out if Tennant really has dematerialised for good.

And I love it.