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"DOCTOR JONES – MARTHA’S FUTURE, BUGS IN THE PAST, AND A TEMPORAL IDENTITY CRISIS"

Doctor Jones by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé offers a well-meaning if somewhat uneven origin tale for Martha Jones—clever, capable, and on the cusp of becoming the extraordinary woman who'll walk the Earth. Set just before she takes her A-levels, this is a story of identity, pressure, and choices wrapped in a sci-fi package that plays with Doctor Who motifs but never quite lands the emotional or narrative punch of its inspirations.

A BRIGHT YOUNG MIND IN A STRANGE LITTLE SHOP

Àbíké-Íyímídé presents Martha at a crossroads: she’s bright, observant, and already thinks like a doctor, but remains uncertain whether to pursue medicine. The story grounds her in a strong, believable family dynamic—especially her relationship with her mother, Francine. Their interactions crackle with realism, capturing both affection and frustration. It’s a good foundation for exploring how Martha becomes the woman we meet in Smith and Jones.

The story’s sci-fi kicks in when Martha stumbles into a strange little shop with a shopkeeper who looks both ancient and youthful—and who coughs up insects. It's creepy and compelling, with unsettling imagery that lingers. The parallels to Smith and Jones are deliberate and effective: the isolated, displaced location, the feeling of being cut off from the world, the slow realisation that time and space are being tampered with. There’s also a touch of The Shakespeare Code, as Martha ends up in 1692 Salem and is promptly accused of witchcraft. It’s a clever echo of her future adventures, albeit one that’s not fully explored.

BUGS, BRANCHES, AND THE DOCTOR

The alien threat, a time termite that shifts timelines and takes on human forms, is a functional if familiar concept. It provides the excuse for time travel and the crisis at hand, but it’s not the most memorable antagonist. The stakes never feel especially high, and the resolution—surprise, it’s a memory wipe and a timeline reset—is too neat and too familiar, especially in a collection that’s already seen multiple stories end this way.

The Ninth Doctor makes an appearance here, but it’s a fleeting one and not entirely successful. His dialogue doesn’t quite capture Eccleston’s sharp, manic intensity, and his presence feels more functional than dramatic. He’s here to deliver exposition and pull Martha out of danger, but we’re left wondering whether this cameo really adds anything to the tale beyond ticking a continuity box.

SALEM AS WINDOW DRESSING

The biggest missed opportunity is the Salem setting. The infamous 1692 witch trials are fertile ground for tension, fear, and historical commentary—but the story doesn’t do much with it. The girl Martha meets in the prison cell is barely developed, and Salem itself is little more than a backdrop for a short escape scene. It’s a fascinating period, reduced here to a single beat in an already overstuffed narrative.

Still, there's something satisfying in seeing Martha’s moral clarity and compassion shine through. She doesn't need a sonic screwdriver or time travel knowledge to make a difference—she helps people, questions what’s wrong, and finds the courage to confront things others would run from. That, more than the time termites or witch trials, is what sells her future as the Doctor’s companion.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Doctor Jones is a passable but unremarkable piece in the Origin Stories anthology. While it successfully captures Martha’s intelligence and compassion, the sci-fi elements feel underbaked, the Salem setting is squandered, and the Ninth Doctor’s cameo doesn’t quite land. It’s a story with a strong emotional core but a wobbly sci-fi frame, ultimately worth reading for its character insights rather than its plot mechanics.

6/10

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"THE BIG SLEEP – VASTRA, DINOSAURS, AND A DEADLY COUNTDOWN TO HIBERNATION"

In The Big Sleep, Dave Rudden gives us something quite rare in the Doctor Who universe: a Vastra-led tale set entirely in prehistoric Earth, before she ever met the Doctor. It’s a bold and thoughtful story of murder, justice, and extinction, taking place against the ticking clock of a civilisation about to go into slumber for millions of years. But while the premise is fresh and the world-building ambitious, the execution occasionally struggles under the weight of its own lore.

MURDER AT THE END OF THE WORLD

Rudden’s decision to explore Vastra’s origins in the time of the Silurians and dinosaurs is inspired. Here, the world is lush and dangerous, and the Silurian society is at its height—elegant, hierarchical, and facing an apocalyptic threat. It’s a setting bursting with detail, where the grandeur of civilisation is met with the looming certainty of planetary doom. There’s something deeply compelling about a murder mystery set in a city shutting down for the end of time.

At the centre of this tale is Vastra, young but resolute, a Silurian detective unwilling to abandon justice even as her people prepare to sleep through the oncoming extinction event. It’s a great angle on her character: her refusal to look away from injustice, her determination to bring murderers to justice, and her sense of duty even when others are prioritising survival. Her clash with her superiors—who would rather let crimes go unsolved than delay hibernation—adds tension, even if the stakes never quite reach a boiling point.

DINOSAURS, DEATH, AND DECEPTION

One of the highlights of the story is a thrilling confrontation between Vastra and a Deinonychus—a scene that injects a jolt of action and reminds us that, yes, this is a world of dinosaurs. More than just a fun set piece, it underscores the physical danger Vastra faces, reinforcing her bravery and skill as a warrior long before she became the poised detective of Victorian London.

The other standout character is High Priest Acracan, Vastra’s wise and humble mentor. His decision to enter stasis among the common people rather than claim privilege feels both noble and quietly radical. It makes the eventual twist—that Acracan is the murderer, killing off criminals to prevent them from joining the new world—land with real weight. It’s a classic twist, but it works well here precisely because he’s so likeable. His motivation, while extreme, is rooted in his desire to shape a better future.

WORLD-BUILDING FATIGUE

Rudden’s attempt to create a fully realised Silurian culture is admirable. He populates the world with alien customs, unfamiliar terminology, and a deep sense of history. But the sheer volume of invented vocabulary and dense exposition can feel overwhelming at times. It sometimes pulls the reader out of the narrative, especially when the core mystery could have used more pace and urgency. While it’s intellectually interesting, it’s not always emotionally gripping.

The central murder mystery, while solid, doesn’t quite crackle with suspense. There's a sense of inevitability about it all—perhaps a reflection of the hibernation countdown—but it robs the story of narrative energy in places. It’s less of a thrilling whodunnit and more of a quiet, respectful farewell to an era. That’s not inherently a flaw, but those expecting a fast-paced detective yarn may find it a little sedate.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

The Big Sleep is an atmospheric and thoughtful glimpse into Vastra’s past, filled with unique world-building and a compelling central conflict. While it occasionally buckles under the weight of its own lore and lacks a real spark of danger, the character work—especially between Vastra and Acracan—shines through. As an origin tale, it succeeds in showing the roots of Vastra’s unshakeable moral compass. It's not the most exciting story in the collection, but it’s certainly one of the most original.

6/10

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"MURMURATION – BIRDS, MEMORIES, AND A SCARF IN PERIL"

Mark Griffiths’ Murmuration, from Origin Stories, is a brisk, slightly surreal slice of Doctor Who that pitches teenage Sarah Jane Smith against a possessed flock of carnivorous birds—and a fleeting encounter with none other than the Fourth Doctor. It’s a short story bursting with nostalgic energy and gothic undertones, even if its conclusion feels like it chirps away a little too neatly.

THE GIRL WHO ASKED QUESTIONS

Set in Sarah Jane’s school days, the story gives us a glimpse of the inquisitive, bold, and stubborn young woman who would one day become one of the Doctor’s most beloved companions. From the get-go, Sarah Jane is sharp and probing, peppering the strange man with a scarf with all the right questions. Her curiosity and fearlessness are entirely in character, and Griffiths effectively shows how she always had the mind of a journalist—even before UNIT and outer space.

The Doctor himself is written with a delightful sense of authenticity. Tom Baker’s voice practically booms off the page, full of eccentric charm and exasperated wisdom. One of the funniest beats in the story involves his infamous scarf causing him to trip—a rare but hilarious case of his wardrobe working against him, and a clever reversal of his usual dramatic grandeur.

CROCUSES, MURMURATIONS, AND MURDEROUS BIRDS

Then there’s Crocus Pinker—a name that sounds like it stepped out of The Beano—who serves as Sarah’s smug school rival. It’s a brilliant moniker for a snooty antagonist, and it sets the tone for a story that straddles the line between childhood fantasy and body-horror-lite. The central threat, a murmuration of birds possessed by an alien intelligence, is genuinely eerie. It echoes Hitchcock’s The Birds but adds a sci-fi twist, with the avian swarm devouring people whole.

The concept is fantastically grotesque, and the imagery is strong. However, the execution leaves something to be desired. After a chilling build-up, the alien menace is rather anticlimactically dispatched—literally turned off with the flick of a dial. For a foe that eats humans alive and speaks through flocks of starlings, it’s a disappointingly tidy resolution.

MEMORY WIPE WITH A TWIST

Like many origin stories in this collection, Murmuration falls back on the well-worn memory-wipe device to preserve continuity. But to its credit, this one attempts a new spin on the trope. The Doctor explains it not as a telepathic trick or chemical fix, but as a correction of corrupted timelines—the universe itself course-correcting a paradox. It’s not wildly original, but it adds a faint shimmer of legitimacy to an otherwise overused tool.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Murmuration is a charming, slightly macabre tale with flashes of wit, nostalgic warmth, and a surprisingly grisly central idea. Its strength lies in the vivid portrayal of a young Sarah Jane and an excellently voiced Fourth Doctor, but it’s let down by a perfunctory climax and another predictable memory wipe. Still, it’s a fun little story that perches nicely among the Origin Stories collection—even if it never quite takes full flight.

6/10

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"THE LAST OF THE DALS – A CHILDHOOD DAVROS TALE THAT TRAVELS DARK PATHS"

Temi Oh’s The Last of the Dals, from Origin Stories, dares to do something few Doctor Who stories have ever attempted: humanise Davros. Not the unhinged creator of the Daleks, nor the raving, half-machine dictator of Skaro—but Davros the child. And somehow, against all odds, it works. By painting a portrait of the infamous villain as a young boy with hope, conviction, and curiosity, Oh creates a layered, unsettling narrative about destiny, choice, and the thin line between good intentions and monstrous outcomes.

THE BOY WHO COULD HAVE BEEN GOOD

Davros here is not the megalomaniacal figure we’ve seen in Genesis of the Daleks or The Magician’s Apprentice. He is presented as a brilliant, idealistic young boy, living with his mother amidst the desolation of the Kaled–Thal war. He wants to end the conflict, not perpetuate it. He dreams not of extermination, but of peace and purpose. That tension—between who he is and who we know he’ll become—drives the entire story and gives it a powerful tragic weight.

What’s clever is how Oh uses Davros’ youthful intellect and moral questioning to build sympathy without ever fully redeeming him. He’s clearly a special child, but also one with shadows gathering around his heart. His conversations with Elwyn—an idealist who serves as both guide and warning—reveal a boy teetering on the brink between salvation and damnation.

SKARO REIMAGINED

Oh’s descriptions of Skaro are vivid and immersive. The radioactive wilderness, ruined cities, and bleak landscape are brought to life with almost mythic detail. A particular highlight is the scene where Davros and Elwyn traverse the Lake of Mutations, their boat attacked by decaying hands reaching from beneath the surface. It’s pure gothic horror and evokes imagery from The Lord of the Rings’ Dead Marshes or Harry Potter’s inferi-infested cave. Skaro becomes a character in its own right—unforgiving, twisted, and hauntingly atmospheric.

The structure of the story is almost quest-like: a journey through the wastes to the Dal city, a confrontation with the truth of Davros’ future, and an inevitable betrayal. Along the way, we get effective action beats and some quieter, philosophical exchanges that ask timeless Doctor Who questions about time, destiny, and whether knowledge of the future can truly change it.

“I WON’T BECOME THAT”

The beating heart of the story lies in Davros’ confrontation with a holographic prophecy: a vision of his future as the twisted creator of the Daleks. His horror at what he might become is palpable—and for a brief moment, we’re led to believe he might defy fate. But fate, or perhaps character, wins out in the end.

The final twist—where Davros lets Elwyn fall to his death, either through intent or convenient inaction—chills the blood. It’s a small but crucial moment, revealing that the seeds of the Davros we know are already sprouting. He’s still a child, but already calculating, already ruthless when it suits him. This is not a neat redemption arc. It’s the shaping of a monster.

AN IMPOSSIBLE UNIVERSITY?

There are, admittedly, elements that might cause lore purists to raise an eyebrow. The inclusion of a Skaroan university, for instance, is jarring in the context of a planet supposedly devastated by a centuries-long war. Likewise, Davros living a semi-normal domestic life with his mother feels slightly at odds with his famously grim origins depicted in Genesis of the Daleks and further explored in Big Finish’s Davros.

Still, Oh acknowledges the canon's murkiness by referencing The Magician’s Apprentice, where Davros' child-self was also briefly seen. This is a tale that doesn’t seek to rewrite continuity, but to deepen the emotional and psychological understanding of its subject.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

The Last of the Dals is a surprisingly poignant and atmospheric take on Davros’ youth, one that plays with the mythic trappings of Skaro while delivering a character study that’s as tense as it is tragic. It may stretch believability in parts, but its thematic strength, strong structure, and evocative prose more than make up for it. A bold, haunting addition to Doctor Who’s ever-growing tapestry of “what made the monster.”

8/10

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"MY DADDY FIGHTS MONSTERS – DAUGHTER, DEFENDER, AND A LEADER-IN-THE-MAKING"

Dave Rudden’s My Daddy Fights Monsters, from the Origin Stories anthology, zooms in on a childhood Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, long before she became UNIT’s cool-headed leader and global defender of Earth. In place of invasions or cosmic catastrophe, this tale delivers something far more intimate and affecting: the messy, complicated reality of growing up in a broken home, shadowed by secrets and shaped by silence.

It’s an origin story with heart, handled with the care and nuance befitting the future leader of UNIT—and it features a truly memorable alien too.

A SCHOOLGIRL WITH A SOLDIER’S SPIRIT

What immediately stands out is Kate herself—not as the commanding officer we know, but as a perceptive, sharp, and emotionally intelligent schoolgirl. Rudden cleverly sketches out her precocious duality: a young girl adept at standing up to bullies but paralysed by stage fright during presentations. That contradiction already hints at the woman she’ll become—capable, brave, yet marked by the emotional distance required to survive a complex childhood.

The focus of Kate’s inner world is her missing father, the Brigadier. She doesn’t know the truth—only that he’s gone more often than he’s home, and her mother, Fiona, spins stories to cover the absences. There’s a rich emotional vein running through this dynamic, with Kate aware of the falsehoods but too hurt to confront them, and Fiona equally caught in the web of duty, love, and regret. It’s not just about Kate’s beginnings—it’s about a fractured family trying to make sense of the life the Brigadier’s role has forced them into.

AN ASSESSOR IN THE HOUSE

Enter the alien: the Assessor, a member of a spy species that clones people’s appearances, slips into their lives, and gathers data. What makes this invader fascinating is that it's not here to conquer or destroy—it just wants to learn. But what it learns is what makes the story so powerful.

By impersonating Kate's teacher, the Assessor gains a front-row seat to Kate’s emotional pain. Rudden does a superb job making the alien oddly sympathetic. Despite being a psychic spy wrapped in a cloned skin, the Assessor is riddled with self-doubt and anxiety. It is moved by Kate and Fiona’s strained relationship and becomes, in a way, an accidental therapist as it absorbs their grief, their hopes, and their resilience.

And in a surprising twist, it’s Kate who defeats it—not with action, but with reason. She simply convinces the Assessor that they don’t know anything of importance about the Brigadier or the Doctor. There’s no laser blast, no chase through corridors—just human truth standing strong against alien manipulation.

LOVE, LOSS, AND TRUTH BENEATH THE MONSTERS

The story’s strength lies in its emotional intelligence. Fiona’s fables about the Brigadier’s exploits aren’t just lies—they’re acts of love. Kate’s mistrust isn’t just teenage angst—it’s protective pain. And the Assessor, though alien, becomes a lens through which we see the toll taken by secrecy and sacrifice.

There’s a particularly touching moment where Kate realises Fiona isn’t trying to hide the truth to be cruel—she’s hiding it because she misses him too. That moment of shared vulnerability marks the beginning of healing, and Rudden handles it with warmth and elegance.

MISSED CONNECTIONS

Despite being billed as Kate’s origin story, the narrative often shifts focus to Fiona and the Assessor. While that doesn’t ruin the experience, it does blur the edges of Kate’s arc slightly. This could easily be called My Mummy Misses Monsters, given how much screen time Fiona commands. Additionally, while the Assessor is a compelling creation, one wonders why Rudden didn’t simply use the Slitheen—already established shapeshifting aliens with Earth infiltration plots. The Assessor is original, yes, but not so different that it couldn’t have leaned into existing lore more strongly.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

My Daddy Fights Monsters is a heartfelt, quietly resonant piece about grief, identity, and growing up in the shadow of heroism. Though it meanders slightly in its focus, it still manages to deliver a beautifully drawn portrait of a young Kate Lethbridge-Stewart and the fractured world that shaped her. Its emotional power is matched by the sensitivity of its prose, and while it may be light on action, it’s rich in feeling. 7/10.

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"FELLOW TRAVELLER – TEA, TEARS, AND THE RETURN OF SUSAN"

Mark Gatiss’s Fellow Traveller is a rare gem: tender, poetic, and quietly devastating. Clocking in at only a few pages, this short story delivers more emotional depth and character insight than many full-length episodes. It's the kind of tale that sticks with you, lingering like the scent of rain in a countryside breeze—or the warmth of shared kippers and tea between two very old souls.

WALKING THROUGH MEMORY

Set in the misty wilds of the British countryside, the story initially appears simple. An old woman is out walking alone in the drizzle, wrapped in memory and loss, when she encounters a kindly stranger. They share food and quiet conversation. The descriptions of weather and landscape are so vivid they seem to drench the page: sodden earth, rustling trees, a chill wind creeping through autumn air. It’s slow, atmospheric, and introspective.

The stranger, of course, is the Doctor—but Gatiss plays it coy, allowing the reader to piece this together from tone, rhythm, and implication rather than outright statement. The moment-by-moment build-up is delicately paced, focusing instead on emotional resonance.

AFTER THE WAR, AFTER THE LOSS

As their conversation turns to the past, hints begin to emerge that we are post-Dalek Invasion of Earth—the old woman references the Daleks, speaks of rusting husks, and of the husband she lost in the aftermath of war. It’s not just a story of historical memory—it’s a story of personal memory: grief that never quite fades, wounds time can’t fully close.

And then comes the revelation: this woman is Susan. The Doctor’s granddaughter. The very first companion. Gatiss drops this truth like a whisper rather than a bombshell, and it makes the moment even more moving. It recontextualises everything: her sorrow, her isolation, her strength. She's not just any old woman—she’s a Time Lady who stayed behind, grew old, loved, lost, and waited.

A MEETING LONG OVERDUE

What makes Fellow Traveller so powerful is its quiet restraint. There are no grand confrontations, no convoluted plot mechanics, no dramatic soundtracks swelling in the background. Just two people, sharing food and feelings. The Doctor never says who she is out loud. Susan never needs to say she remembers her. It’s all in the silences between words, the looks not described, the memories unspoken.

And then Susan takes a stick and beats the lifeless husk of a Dalek. It’s a small, almost absurd act—but it's loaded with everything she’s held in for decades. Pain, fury, grief. It’s catharsis, not spectacle. And it’s earned.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Fellow Traveller is a beautiful, melancholic reunion between two characters long separated by time, space, and narrative neglect. Mark Gatiss crafts it with subtlety and emotion, proving that sometimes the most powerful stories are the quiet ones. It gives us what the show never has: closure for Susan. And it does it not with fanfare, but with feeling. 9/10

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"ZERO SPACE – CLONES, CHAOS AND HINTS OF A DOCTOR"

Adrian Poynton’s Zero Space wraps up the first volume of Jenny: The Doctor’s Daughter with an inventive sci-fi setting, some brisk pacing, and—at long last—a satisfying use of both Jenny and Noah. After a string of episodes that mostly teased intrigue or fell into comedic territory, Zero Space brings a more serious and contemplative tone to the table while still keeping things light on its feet.

WELCOME TO THE EYE OF THE STORM

The Eye of the Storm space station—suspended in the experimental void of Zero Space—is a genuinely cool concept. In this lab-like vacuum, scientific progress can apparently be pursued without interference from the outside universe. That premise alone would be enough to sustain a story, but Poynton adds some juicy twists: the station is run by clones of two original scientists (all of whom are on the brink of existential crisis), and it has the ability to duplicate anything—including weapons, and enemies.

Cue a lively second act where Jenny and Noah are stalked through the station by deadly replicas of the scientists, and the tension finally feels earned after a few too many earlier episodes relied on banter or exposition. The constant movement and shifting clone dynamics give the story a sense of urgency, and there’s a refreshing lack of narrative padding.

The real triumph here, however, is how well the leads are used. Georgia Tennant is endlessly energetic, and Sean Biggerstaff finally gets some decent material to work with—Noah’s blend of naïveté and cryptic intelligence finally adding layers to the character. Jenny and Noah’s dynamic evolves under pressure, and their scenes together carry real weight.

COLT STRIKES (KIND OF)

That said, the inclusion of COLT-5000 continues to be a structural misfire. After being ominously teased throughout the series, she once again skirts the edges of the story until the second half, where it’s revealed that the entire trap—clones, wormholes, threats to reality itself—was part of her convoluted plan to test Jenny. Unfortunately, this doesn’t land with the impact it should, as COLT still feels more like a half-formed concept than a credible antagonist.

The resolution is also a bit too neat, with Jenny using motivational speeches once again to break the station’s chain of command and set things right. It's a tad too easy, especially considering the existential and ethical weight the script briefly flirts with earlier on. Still, there are enough high-stakes sci-fi ideas in play to give it a finale-worthy gravitas.

A CAMEO AND A CHOICE

One of the most delightful surprises is the final scene: the Tenth Doctor himself arrives on the space station, just moments after Jenny and Noah have departed. It's a beautifully bittersweet cameo—David Tennant’s voice instantly adds emotional weight—and it subtly underlines a key decision in Jenny’s arc: she doesn’t want to find her dad. She wants to carve out her own path, exploring the stars not as the Doctor’s daughter, but as her own person.

This tiny moment does more for Jenny’s emotional arc than some of the entire earlier episodes, and it’s a smart way for Big Finish to acknowledge the looming presence of the Doctor without letting him overshadow her story.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Zero Space delivers on what the Jenny series has been promising all along: smart sci-fi ideas, a strong lead performance, and a sense of narrative purpose. While the villain’s plan is still too vague and the resolution leans heavily on pep talks, the inventive setting, clone chaos, and that touching final cameo make this a satisfying closer. Jenny may be the Doctor’s daughter, but she’s very much blazing her own trail now. 7/10

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"NEON REIGN – A DRAGON, A DYSTOPIA, AND A DASH OF DISAPPOINTMENT"

In Neon Reign, Christian Brassington conjures up an arresting dystopia for Jenny: The Doctor’s Daughter to traverse—a city soaked in neon-lit rain, ruled by a tyrant known only as the Dragon Lord. It’s a visually evocative world, somewhere between Blade Runner and The Macra Terror, with layers of oppression, drug addiction, and gender-based authoritarianism baked into its culture. For a series that often leans on fast-paced antics, this story makes a surprisingly earnest stab at atmosphere and allegory.

KAMSHASSA DREAMING

Kamshassa is the star of the story. The detail of constant neon rain, poisonous smoke drifting through alleyways, and an enslaved populace patrolled by Dragon Guards feels like something out of a lost cyberpunk novel. There's rich inspiration drawn from East Asian cityscapes, with undertones of societal decay that lend weight to the premise. The first half leans into this strength, drawing out the world and laying the groundwork for rebellion. It even throws in a heist plot, as Jenny and Noah infiltrate the Dragon Lord's inner sanctum—a premise brimming with promise.

The Dragon Lord, too, is a compelling concept, initially presented as a literal fire-breathing dragon (because why not?) but eventually unmasked as a woman hiding behind holograms, projecting a hypermasculine persona because of her own internalised misogyny. The backstory—fuelled by hatred for her "weak" mother—adds depth to what could have been just another moustache-twirling villain. Her twisted campaign to suppress women while glorifying male dominance stands as a surprisingly bold metaphor for internalised gender bias.

DRAGONS, CYBORGS AND… EXPOSITION?

Unfortunately, all this potential ends up largely squandered by an underwhelming second half. After the rich setup, Neon Reign trades world-building for exposition dumps and a strangely lethargic infiltration sequence that never quite catches fire. The revolution that’s meant to be the emotional payoff just fizzles, lacking urgency or consequence.

The return of the cyborg bounty hunter COLT-5000 adds a bit of flavour and action late in the game, but once again it’s a subplot that seems to serve no purpose beyond dangling a threat for a future episode. Meanwhile, Noah—despite some intriguing early teases about his mysterious knowledge gaps—is mostly shelved during the climax, an unfortunate misuse of a companion still trying to establish a strong dynamic with Jenny.

Worse still, the distorted voice used for the Dragon Lord is sometimes difficult to understand, and Noah’s deeper mysteries are frustratingly sidelined just as they were starting to spark interest. While the gender politics are well-intentioned and thematically resonant, they’re not fully earned due to the lack of tension and emotional engagement.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Neon Reign boasts an inspired setting and a few bold thematic swings, but it can’t maintain its early momentum. Strong ideas about identity, revolution, and gender politics are weighed down by clunky exposition, poorly used supporting characters, and a third act that never quite catches flame—despite the dragon. 6/10

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“PRISONER OF THE OOD – OOD ENOUGH, BUT NO GREAT ESCAPE”

Prisoner of the Ood, the second story in Jenny: The Doctor’s Daughter, keeps up the light tone of the opener while transplanting Jenny into a very different setting—suburban Earth in the early 21st century. Writer John Dorney takes the “Time Lord meets mundanity” formula popularised by The Lodger and Closing Time and filters it through the eyes of someone who’s never even heard of Earth. The result is breezy, entertaining, and occasionally sharp, but it also leans heavily on cliché and never quite escapes the gravitational pull of the average.

JENNY VS THE COUNCIL ESTATE

The biggest asset once again is Georgia Tennant, who imbues Jenny with infectious energy, quick wit, and a charming impatience that’s straight from her dad. Jenny is a fish so far out of water she’s practically airborne, and Dorney gets good comic mileage out of her trying to make sense of bins, domestic disputes, and oddly passive humans.

Landing in the middle of a suburban housing estate and befriending a freshly divorced single woman, Jenny finds herself in what feels like a sitcom setup, albeit one with a crashed spaceship on the lawn. Her banter with the locals, questions about Earth’s social norms, and frustration with human inaction help keep the story ticking along with an amiable tone. There’s a touch of satire in the way the neighbours react to a giant glowing pod on their street—assuming it’s a prank, a secret art installation, or simply someone else’s problem.

OOD TIMES AND OLD TRICKS

Of course, this wouldn’t be a Doctor Who story without aliens. The titular Ood are back, and their inclusion is mostly surface-level. There’s a fun twist involving the old Planet of the Ood trick of an Ood inside a human body, which leads to some effective tension and confusion. Silas Carson, as always, does excellent vocal work, giving the Ood both menace and melancholy. But overall, they don’t get much development beyond “scary psychic aliens being manipulated again.”

That manipulation comes courtesy of the episode’s true villain, Valderon, a mind slaver who’s trapped in another dimension and hoping to use the Ood to free himself and enslave Earth. The problem is, Valderon barely appears. His presence is mostly told through exposition or brief flashbacks, meaning he never feels like a proper threat. It’s difficult to care about his plan when the script treats him like a minor inconvenience.

NOAH NOWHERE

While Jenny gets plenty to do, her would-be companion Noah is pushed almost entirely to the sidelines. He only appears in a flashback explaining how Jenny got to Earth, and otherwise has no bearing on the story. If he’s meant to be Jenny’s co-lead in this series, Prisoner of the Ood doesn’t do much to sell him as vital.

RUNAROUND FATIGUE

The second half of the story devolves into a fairly standard “chase the MacGuffin, stop the villain, reset the damage” structure. Jenny runs about, the Ood cause panic, and there’s the inevitable noble plan to close the dimensional rift. It’s fine, but uninspired. The setup was charming; the resolution feels perfunctory.

Still, there’s fun to be had along the way. The orchestral-rock rendition of the Doctor Who theme is a lovely touch, adding flair to the series identity. And Dorney’s knack for dialogue—especially Jenny’s sarcastic asides and awkward interactions with humans—helps keep things light and accessible.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Prisoner of the Ood is a serviceable second outing for Jenny, with a fish-out-of-water charm and Georgia Tennant’s irrepressible energy carrying it through. The Ood are underused, the villain is underdeveloped, and the story loses steam in the second half—but there's still fun to be had in watching Jenny try to survive the suburbs. 6/10.

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“STOLEN GOODS – JENNY TAKES FLIGHT IN A FUN BUT FLIMSY STARTER”

Stolen Goods by Matt Fitton kicks off the Jenny: The Doctor’s Daughter audio range with a charmingly chaotic debut outing. Georgia Tennant reprises her role as Jenny, and it’s a delight to hear her finally take centre stage after such a brief TV introduction back in 2008. This is very much an origin-style tale for the character—less an epic odyssey and more a light-hearted space caper as Jenny learns, often the hard way, how the universe actually works.

Jenny crashes a stolen spaceship, finds herself in trouble with interstellar authorities over minor laws she didn’t even know existed, and quickly discovers that not knowing the rules doesn’t stop the consequences from landing hard. It's an amusing and grounded way to frame a Time Lord-adjacent character’s introduction to the wider universe—not with grandeur and destiny, but with a hefty repair bill and insurance fraud.

GEORGIA TENNANT – THE STAR AT THE CENTRE

The absolute highlight of Stolen Goods is Georgia Tennant. Her performance as Jenny is full of spark, balancing youthful exuberance with a hint of the Doctor’s fast-talking cleverness. Jenny here is not yet the seasoned adventurer—she’s still green, still learning—but she’s clearly her father’s daughter. There’s a playful cockiness to her, but also moments of calculated cunning that remind us this apple hasn’t fallen far from the TARDIS.

One particularly satisfying moment sees Jenny pretend to be more clueless than she really is, lulling the scam artists into a false sense of superiority before revealing she’s seen through the con. That mix of naivety and sly intelligence makes her immediately likeable.

THE CON JOB: FUNNY, THEN FAMILIAR

Much of the first half plays like a sci-fi sitcom: Jenny has to deal with a trio of hopelessly incompetent con artists, led by the returning Big Finish character Garundel (played with oily relish by Stuart Milligan). He’s a charmingly annoying rogue whose schtick—snarky patter, wheedling self-interest—can be entertaining in small doses, though he does threaten to overstay his welcome here. The dynamic between him and Jenny is fun, especially when she refuses to be belittled or called “blondie.”

The humour works well early on, but once the setup is over and the gang starts bouncing from escape attempt to con job to confrontation, the narrative energy starts to sag. A cyborg bounty hunter turns up to raise the stakes, but the final third is a lot of noise with not much purpose. The story loses its sense of momentum and drifts into being just a functional bridge to later episodes.

NOAH – A COMPANION IN CRYOSLEEP

During her escape, Jenny meets Noah, a frozen alien who becomes her reluctant shipmate. Voiced by Sean Biggerstaff (yes, Oliver Wood from Harry Potter), Noah is introduced with the clear intention of being a long-term companion—but he doesn’t get much to do here beyond defrosting. His character isn’t especially memorable in this outing, though there’s enough mystery around him to justify keeping an eye on his development in future episodes.

SETUP OVER STORY

As an opening chapter, Stolen Goods does exactly what it sets out to: it introduces Jenny as a vibrant, capable lead, establishes a ragtag supporting cast, and seeds future plot threads. But it never fully convinces as a standalone story. The central narrative is thin, especially in the second half, and there’s a definite sense that the story is marking time before bigger things happen later in the series. It’s a fun ride, but one that coasts more on charm than depth.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 5/10

Stolen Goods is a breezy, humorous introduction to the Jenny range, powered by Georgia Tennant’s brilliant performance and a welcome return from con artist Garundel. It’s more setup than story, and the plot fizzles out in its final act, but it still delivers enough fun, energy, and potential to justify following this Doctor’s daughter on the rest of her adventures.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“THE SHADOW IN THE MIRROR – A FINAL GLIMPSE, A FINAL MERCY”

Paul Cornell concludes his Lockdown trilogy with The Shadow in the Mirror, a direct follow-up to both Shadow of a Doubt and his acclaimed TV story The Family of Blood. This time, it’s the Thirteenth Doctor who comes calling—quietly, gently, and with finality.

After centuries of imprisonment, the girl once known as Daughter of Mine is finally granted release. The Doctor arrives not to lecture or punish, but to offer a rare kindness: she returns the girl to her now-dead homeworld, giving her the freedom to walk among the ruins of her past.

It’s a quietly poetic image. And yet…

MERCY OR MISTAKE?

Cornell’s prose remains elegant, his economy of language effective—but this very brief story stirs a sense of ambivalence. The entire narrative weight of The Family of Blood rested on the unrelenting nature of the Doctor’s punishments. They were terrifying precisely because they were absolute. Daughter of Mine was to remain trapped in the mirror forever, a living shadow frozen in time.

To see that punishment undone—even gently—feels like a retcon that saps some of the story’s power. Yes, people change. Yes, eternity is long. But was this redemption earned, or simply granted?

The story doesn’t offer an answer. Instead, it lingers in a moment of atmosphere and quiet ambiguity. The girl has changed—or says she has. And the Doctor, older now, perhaps softer, chooses forgiveness over finality.

A BOOKEND TO A CURSE

This story essentially acts as the epilogue to an epilogue. As the final piece in Cornell’s mirror trilogy, it closes the book on Daughter of Mine with a gentle sigh rather than a dramatic flourish. There’s no great twist or revelation—just a quiet release.

Whether that’s satisfying or not may depend on how strongly you felt about her original fate. For some, this will be a welcome moment of grace; for others, it slightly dulls the poetic sting of The Family of Blood’s conclusion.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 5/10

The Shadow in the Mirror offers a soft and sombre end to the tale of Daughter of Mine, but in doing so, undercuts the eternal punishment that once defined her story. Thoughtful and bittersweet, it serves as a quiet coda to Paul Cornell’s trilogy—but one that may not sit well with fans who preferred the original, unyielding conclusion.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“SHADOW OF A DOUBT – MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE WALL…”

The second of Paul Cornell’s lockdown shorts, Shadow of a Doubt, is a haunting little follow-up to his celebrated two-parter Human Nature / The Family of Blood. At just a few pages long, it serves as a quiet, chilling coda to that story—checking in on the fate of “Daughter of Mine,” the girl trapped for eternity inside a mirror.

Time has moved on. Civilisations have risen and fallen. But the girl remains, cursed to watch and reflect, always hoping that someone might finally release her. And over the years, the Doctor(s) have occasionally returned—always silent, always leaving her there. She says she’s sorry, but it’s clear she doesn’t quite know why. There’s a great thematic tension here: is she repentant, or merely regretful that her punishment continues?

A STRANGER AT THE GLASS

The framing device sees the mirror picked up in the far future by an unnamed narrator who becomes her new listener. The girl speaks directly to this stranger—telling her story again, in hopes it will be different this time.

Cornell deliberately muddies the perspective with layered pronouns, making it initially unclear who is speaking and who is being spoken to. On a first read, this can be frustrating, but there’s a method in the murk. The ambiguity invites the reader to consider all the people the Doctor touches, and all the echoes that linger.

Eventually, if you’ve got your lore goggles on, a reveal presents itself: the mysterious figure holding the mirror is none other than Professor Bernice Summerfield. It’s never stated outright, but the hints—her tone, her wit, her location in Andromeda—are unmistakable. It’s a lovely, quiet nod to Cornell’s own legacy within the expanded universe.

THE LAST RED-HAIRED DOCTOR

Among the fleeting glimpses we get of the girl's eternity is one red-haired Doctor who once came to visit, believing he was the last. It’s a brief but tantalising moment.

A WHISPER, NOT A SHOUT

Ultimately, this is a piece of mood and memory rather than plot or development. It exists in the margins of one of Doctor Who’s more poignant tales, offering a character sketch in miniature and a postscript that’s more about atmosphere than answers. It won’t change your understanding of Human Nature, but it adds a mournful echo to the fate of its most tragic figure.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 5/10

Shadow of a Doubt is a short, ambiguous, and slightly obtuse piece that rewards fans of Human Nature and Bernice Summerfield more than the casual reader. As a postscript to one of the show’s most poetic punishments, it adds an eerie whisper to the mythos—though it’s more thought-provoking than emotionally affecting. A nice nod, but not an essential read.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“THE SHADOW PASSES – THIRTEEN, LOCKDOWN, AND A DEADLY MOON”

Paul Cornell kicks off a trilogy of lockdown-inspired short stories with The Shadow Passes, a story that feels very much of its time—both in its real-world context and in its emotionally resonant character work. The setup is instantly familiar in a post-2020 world: the Doctor and her Fam arrive on a supposedly vibrant party planet, only to find it eerily deserted. As it turns out, the population is isolating—hunkered down in their homes while they wait out the ominous passage of a deadly moon that poses an extinction-level threat.

It's not exactly subtle, but it is effective. The parallels to our own world’s lockdown are made explicit, but rather than focusing on the threat itself, Cornell instead zooms in on how people live, cope, and connect during prolonged isolation.

THIRTEEN VS. THE BOARD GAMES

What really elevates this story is the downtime. The Doctor, Yaz, Ryan, and Graham are stranded in safety—nothing to do but wait it out. So what do they do? They play board games. Chess, Scrabble, and all the classics get a whirl, and Thirteen is hilariously, spectacularly terrible at all of them.

Cornell mines excellent comedy out of the Doctor’s bafflement at the rules and her barely contained frustration at not immediately understanding the point of human games. This is a Thirteenth Doctor who’s deeply alien in the most adorably awkward way. It’s also one of the best written takes on her social awkwardness—less quirky catchphrases, more genuine discomfort navigating social norms. A brilliant little character beat that builds on what we saw in episodes like Kerblam! or Can You Hear Me?

WHEN THE PARTY'S OVER

The second half of the story brings the emotional core to the fore. As the moon continues to loom above and the end (possibly) approaches, the Fam takes a moment to show gratitude to the local citizens who welcomed them in. It’s low-key, sincere, and heartwarming.

And in a lovely character moment, the Doctor opens up in a quiet heart-to-heart with Yaz. Their chat is brief but touching—a rare pause for Thirteen to reflect on her own sense of displacement and her endless wandering. It adds a necessary emotional weight to what could otherwise feel like a punchline-driven tale.

A SHADOW THAT PASSES BUT LINGERS

Like many lockdown stories, The Shadow Passes isn’t really about action or threat—it’s about stillness. It’s about the quiet moments in between the chaos of adventure, when companionship, humour, and gratitude become survival tools. There's a strong sense of community here, even among strangers, and Cornell makes a compelling argument for the importance of empathy during isolation.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 6/10

The Shadow Passes is a characterful and quietly resonant start to Paul Cornell’s lockdown trilogy. With Thirteen delightfully out of her depth with board games and a few touching emotional beats tucked into the stillness, it’s a smart, funny, and reflective story that leans into the Doctor’s alienness while reminding us what makes her human-adjacent heart beat.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“PATIENCE – TIMEY WIMEY WHIPLASH ON A STRANGE PLANET”

After the TARDIS spent two box sets grounded in time but not space, Stranded 3 finally blasts off with Patience, taking the crew to an alien planet for a moody, metaphysical mystery. Tim Foley’s script uses the premise not for spectacle, but to split the characters apart—literally and emotionally—and explore their perspectives. It’s an intriguing start that promises much, but ends up as a somewhat uneven exercise in style over substance.

TEMPORAL TRICKS AND JUDOON TURNS

The narrative structure is non-linear, tangled in time loops and overlapping realities, with each character encountering different facets of the same puzzle. This sort of storytelling has long been a Big Finish hallmark, but it’s starting to feel well-worn. While the title Patience is a neat meta-joke, referring both to the plot’s themes and the experience of the listener trying to piece it all together, it’s a slow burn that never fully ignites.

The big twist—that Mr Bird is behind the Judoon operation—is a satisfying callback to the first Stranded set, bringing a much-needed sense of cohesion to the larger arc. The Judoon themselves are unusually fun here, with one delivering an absolutely hilarious, personality-filled exchange with the Doctor. It’s a rare instance of giving the rhino-headed space cops more than just grunts and legalese, and Nicholas Briggs provides suitably differentiated vocals to hide the usual familiarity.

A PLANET OF EMOTION

The story is more interested in character dynamics than plot mechanics. Foley’s decision to separate the leads pays off in how it develops their relationships. Liv and Tania’s ongoing romance remains the emotional heart of Stranded, and their scenes—filtered through conversations with Helen—are intimate, moving, and wonderfully performed. It feels like a natural progression of their arc, maintaining emotional continuity even when the narrative jumps around them.

Andy has now fully stepped into the role of comic relief, his warmth and clumsy charm bringing necessary levity to what can be an emotionally heavy series. His presence recalls Rory Williams, not in imitation but in function—a loyal everyman amid gods and monsters.

THE STORY THAT FELL TO EARTH

Unfortunately, the Doctor is somewhat underutilised here. Much of his involvement consists of narrating a story-within-a-story that feels disconnected from the actual events. While Paul McGann’s delivery is typically assured, the material lacks impact and coherence, and doesn’t quite tie into the emotional stakes of the episode.

The climax also suffers from a lack of weight. After a lot of build-up, the resolution flies by, offering little fallout or reflection. It’s one of those Stranded entries where the end arrives too abruptly, leaving the listener wanting more closure.

ATMOSPHERICALLY SOUND

Where the story shines is in its sound design. Despite minimalistic elements, the audio conjures vivid scenes of an alien world, complete with shifting weather and echoing silences. The alien landscape feels tangible, strange, and lonely. The Judoon voices are also impressively varied, adding colour to what could have been a monotonous alien presence.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 6/10

Patience is a solid opener for Stranded 3, full of intriguing character work, atmospheric soundscapes, and a welcome Judoon twist. But the overfamiliar timey-wimey structure, rushed resolution, and sidelining of the Doctor make this more of a tonal table-setter than a standout story.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“THE LONG WAY ROUND – INTERROGATIONS, TWISTS, AND A TRIP THROUGH TIME”

John Dorney’s The Long Way Round is easily the most structurally inventive instalment in Stranded so far, unfolding entirely through a sequence of interrogations that slowly piece together a fragmented narrative. It’s a high-concept chamber piece that leans heavily on dialogue and character work, trusting the listener to join the dots as the mystery unfolds. The result is a slow-burn story that rewards patience, with a finale that delivers a jaw-dropping twist and throws open the doors for the next set of adventures.

QUESTIONING EVERYTHING

The episode is built around a central conceit: each of the regulars – the Doctor, Liv, Helen, Andy – is being interrogated in the future about their actions, choices, and motivations. As each interrogation progresses, layers are peeled back, truths are questioned, and suspicions start to mount. This narrative framing device cleverly allows the plot to develop through conflicting testimonies and shifting perspectives, all while maintaining a taut atmosphere of quiet dread.

Annabelle Dowler delivers a standout performance as Houlbrooke, the coldly efficient interrogator who maintains an unsettling air of polite menace. Her conversations with each character are laced with ambiguity, revealing just enough to move the story forward while deepening the enigma. She knows far more than she should—particularly about the Doctor—and that knowledge hangs like a shadow over the whole piece.

THE FRIENDLY VILLAIN AND THE UNKNOWABLE DOCTOR

One of the most compelling elements of The Long Way Round is the gradual shift in how Houlbrooke is presented. She begins as a relatively reasonable authority figure, but the more she presses, the more adversarial she becomes. Her growing hostility and attempts to undermine the Doctor’s identity and authority create a rising tension that questions the nature of truth and perception.

In true Dorney fashion, this culminates in a twist that reframes much of what we’ve heard. When the true nature of the interrogations becomes clear, it’s a gut-punch moment that not only makes you want to re-listen to the story but immediately increases anticipation for what’s to come in Stranded 3. It’s a classic Big Finish twist – audacious, clever, and character-driven.

THE CURATOR RETURNS

Tom Baker’s return as the enigmatic Curator is a treat. Though his scenes with Gemma (Clare Louise Connolly) initially feel like distractions from the main narrative, their eventual significance becomes clearer by the end. The Curator’s peculiar charisma and poetic dialogue once again blur the line between insight and riddle, and Baker delivers each line with the gravitas and warmth we’ve come to expect from this mysterious figure.

CHARACTER IN FOCUS

One of the story’s biggest strengths is how it gives every character their moment. The interrogation format means each companion is allowed a spotlight episode within the larger story. Andy’s bumbling, affable honesty is used to great effect, while Liv’s deeper understanding of the Doctor positions her as the most perceptive of the group. Helen’s quieter, more measured voice brings emotional insight. Each scene builds on the last, giving the listener a fuller picture of events without ever resorting to direct exposition.

Even with its timey-wimey framework, the story remains surprisingly coherent, never losing its grip on narrative clarity despite the fragmented structure. This is a testament to both Dorney’s script and Ken Bentley’s direction, which maintains a strong sense of pacing across what is essentially an hour of dialogue-driven drama.

SLIGHTLY OFF THE RAILS

That said, this is a slower-paced story by design, and those expecting immediate thrills may find the first half hard to engage with. Some of the longer conversations risk feeling repetitive if you’re not locked into the story’s mood. Additionally, the scenes between the Curator and Gemma, while important in retrospect, slightly interrupt the rhythm of the interrogations when they first appear.

Still, these minor dips in pacing are more than made up for by the story’s overall ambition and its rewarding structure. Dorney has crafted a genuinely unusual Doctor Who story—something increasingly rare in a range as expansive as Big Finish’s.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 9/10

The Long Way Round is a bold, cerebral episode that plays with narrative form to great effect. Its slow-burn tension and layered dialogue build towards a superb twist, while offering sharp character moments and the welcome return of the Curator. A thoughtful and thrilling detour for the Stranded team.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“BAKER STREET IRREGULARS – TIME BOMBS, TORCHWOOD SECRETS AND BLITZ SPIRIT”

Lisa McMullin’s Baker Street Irregulars is a busy, atmospheric chapter in the Stranded saga, packing in wartime espionage, Torchwood intrigue, and personal drama into a tightly woven mystery. The Doctor and his companions find themselves in a race against time to defuse an alien bomb buried in Baker Street—one that links back to the height of the Blitz in 1941. This ticking-time-bomb thriller is laced with emotional threads that tie present and past together, though not every fuse lands with quite the intended impact.

LOVE IN THE TIME OF TORCHWOOD

The episode deepens one of Stranded’s most compelling subplots: the evolving relationship between Liv Chenka and Tania Bell. Their romance, introduced with such promise in Stranded 1, hits a new level of complexity here as Tania’s clandestine ties to Torchwood begin to surface. The tension grows palpably, creating believable friction that threatens to upend their trust. Liv, ever sharp and independent, doesn’t take well to being left in the dark—and rightly so.

Tania’s secrecy puts real pressure on their dynamic, and it’s to the story’s credit that this isn’t resolved neatly. The episode leans into the discomfort, making this more than just background drama. There’s a quiet war going on behind the war—a Cold War of romantic mistrust and institutional paranoia—and McMullin gives it space to breathe.

FROM THE AKHTARS TO AKTION

Having spent time focusing on Ron and Tony in previous episodes, Baker Street Irregulars pivots toward the Akhtar family, whose ties to Baker Street stretch back decades. They make for warm, capable companions to the Doctor, with a lived-in chemistry that suggests these characters have a rich off-screen life. Their involvement also connects neatly to the historical elements, grounding the story’s temporal stakes with human ones.

THE DOCTOR GOES FULL 007

There’s no shortage of action here. Once again, Paul McGann steps up with a spirited, kinetic performance, playing the Doctor as something of a wartime James Bond—cool under pressure, dashing through the wreckage of the Blitz with sonic screwdriver and moral clarity alike. The high-stakes drama includes infiltration, sabotage, and an alien device with the power to rewrite reality—all given life through robust sound design that vividly evokes the chaos and danger of 1940s London.

In fact, the audio work here is exceptional. Explosions rumble, sirens wail, and crumbling masonry makes every escape feel earned. It’s one of the story’s biggest strengths, immersing us in the tension of a city under siege.

TENSION WITHOUT DETONATION

While the dual threads of mystery—the alien bomb in the present and the mystery of its origin in the past—are gripping in theory, the actual resolutions to both feel frustratingly undercooked. The story builds up so much potential energy, only for it to dissipate quickly once the reveals come. There's a missing beat somewhere, a lack of dramatic punch in the final stretch that might have made the story's emotional and narrative arcs land more powerfully.

Similarly, while Baker Street Irregulars touches on big ideas—what defines family, the scars left by war, the ache of memory—it often gestures at these themes rather than fully interrogating them. It’s a character-driven piece at heart, but some of the character arcs feel caught in the detonation blast, not fully developed by the time the credits roll.

THE STREET THAT KEEPS GIVING

Still, this is another confident slice of Stranded’s tapestry, and one that continues to make Baker Street feel like a place teeming with stories—some tragic, some thrilling, all interconnected. While the central mystery may resolve with less impact than it promises, the real value here is in the characters and relationships that continue to deepen.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 8/10

A solid wartime thriller laced with character drama and Torchwood secrets, Baker Street Irregulars offers atmosphere, action, and emotional complexity—though it doesn’t quite stick the landing. Strong sound design and a deepening of Liv and Tania’s story keep the tension alive even when the bomb plot fizzles.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“CHEMISTRY – ACE'S EXPLOSIVE ORIGIN”

Nitro-9 with a spark of heart!

Sophie Aldred steps into the author’s chair to pen Chemistry, her contribution to Origin Stories—a short but satisfying exploration of Ace’s formative years. There’s something immediately charming and authentic about this story: who better to write Ace’s backstory than Aldred herself? Her deep familiarity with the character shines through, presenting a believable teenage Ace—intelligent, impulsive, and brimming with untapped potential.

Set in Ace's school years, the story focuses on her growing obsession with chemistry, particularly the kinds of chemistry that go boom. Aldred uses the story to give us the origins of Nitro-9 and Ace's iconic bomber jacket, but more than that, she paints a strong internal portrait of a headstrong, morally principled girl with a real spark. Ace’s refusal to dob in her teacher after getting caught with explosives—even at personal cost—rings true for the girl we’d later see travelling time and space with the Doctor.

A DOCTOR IN THE CLASSROOM

A highlight of Chemistry is the mysterious appearance of Ace’s new chemistry teacher, who seems a little too quirky and wise to be entirely ordinary. Sharp readers will begin to suspect this might be the Doctor, and sure enough, she returns at the end and is revealed as the Thirteenth incarnation. It’s a lovely twist that ties together Ace’s past and future—and slyly acknowledges The Power of the Doctor, where Thirteen and Ace reunite on screen. That little moment of circularity adds unexpected weight to what could have been a simple prequel tale.

The story smartly avoids laying things on too thick—it never confirms outright that this teacher is the Doctor until the very end, and Thirteen’s brief appearance doesn’t overshadow Ace’s journey.

THE GOOD STUFF STICKS

Aldred's writing voice suits Ace perfectly: her teenage frustrations, moral compass, and rebellious streak all feel honest rather than exaggerated. The inner monologue captures the character’s mixture of righteous energy and scientific curiosity. Even when she’s making dodgy decisions—like stealing chemicals to whip up her first batch of Nitro-9—Ace remains sympathetic. She even experiences guilt and wants to return the chemicals before being caught, showing the beginnings of the moral compass that will define her TARDIS-era self.

The story’s most emotionally satisfying aspect is how Ace begins to understand that her abilities make her stand out—that being “normal” is not something she should aspire to. That message lands well without feeling like an after-school special.

A FEW DUD NOTES IN THE MIX

Unfortunately, not everything in Chemistry bonds as smoothly as its title implies. For a story so deeply personal, it’s oddly lacking in supporting character interaction. There are no real dialogue exchanges with friends, teachers, or classmates—so much of the story is told through internal reflection. As a result, the world around Ace feels a little flat until the closing scenes with the Doctor.

And then there’s the alien. In a rather sudden genre-shift, it’s revealed that Ace’s headmaster is a shape-shifting alien monster who tries to eat her. It feels like a strange third-act twist dropped in to add a dash of Doctor Who-style danger, but instead of enhancing the drama, it detracts from the more grounded coming-of-age story that was developing nicely. The monster’s presence is too brief and too underdeveloped to be scary or meaningful.

Worse still, Chemistry concludes with a memory wipe. Yes, another one. It’s a trope that’s been done to death across Doctor Who spin-off fiction, and here it feels like a cheap narrative reset button, robbing Ace of some of the emotional weight the story had worked to earn.

FROM PERIVALE TO THE STARS

Still, this is an origin story that works more often than not. Aldred doesn’t try to write Ace as a “proto-companion,” nor does she indulge in clumsy foreshadowing. Instead, she captures a snapshot of a young girl who is already smart, brave, and flawed, and who, in hindsight, was always destined for something more.

If anything, Chemistry makes a strong argument for Aldred to return to writing for Ace in a larger format. She gets her character better than almost anyone else—and when she's not being eaten by aliens, Ace shines brightly here.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 7/10

Chemistry is a warm, witty, and smartly observed coming-of-age story for Ace, written with heart and insight by the woman who knows her best. While a clunky alien subplot and memory-wipe ending undermine the emotional momentum, there’s enough charm, character, and clarity of voice here to make this a standout from the Origin Stories collection.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“NIGHT THOUGHTS – A FORGOTTEN EXPERIMENT WRAPPED IN GOTHIC RAIN”

A rainy experiment that just about lives… but only in the end.

Night Thoughts, Edward Young’s grim slice of gothic horror for Big Finish’s Main Range, sets its moody tale in a suitably remote Scottish manor, drenched in rain and foreboding. It’s an evocative location for a haunted house tale, brimming with psychological unrest and decaying academia. Originally penned as a potential story for the unmade Doctor Who Season 27, this audio marks Big Finish’s first foray into adapting a TV script-that-never-was—and the DNA of that era shows.

It’s grim. It’s quiet. It’s a bit too clever for its own good. And it's haunted by the ghost of what might have been.

HAPPY THE RABBIT WILL SEE YOU NOW

Perhaps the most unsettling presence isn’t the house or its guests, but a stuffed rabbit named Happy. Voiced by Lizzie Hopley through the character of the disturbed maid Sue, Happy sounds like he could have stepped straight out of Child’s Play. Hopley’s performance makes both Sue and her fluffy mouthpiece genuinely eerie—and later, heartbreakingly tragic. One of the few vivid elements of the story, Happy the Rabbit becomes the unlikely highlight of the piece and even gets the final grisly laugh.

Meanwhile, Hex hears strange voices and experiences visions, lending some tension to the proceedings. But for all the story’s talk of nightmares, visions, and philosophical dread, little of it lands emotionally. It tells us characters are disturbed, but rarely shows us why.

PART FOUR TO THE RESCUE

It’s not until Part Four that Night Thoughts begins to justify itself. Major Dickens (the great Bernard Kay, in his swansong Doctor Who role) is finally unveiled as the true villain behind a twisted experiment: the deliberate death of a child, orchestrated in order to prove that she can be brought back. It’s a horror conceit that’s genuinely arresting, morally complex, and fits the Seventh Doctor’s era like a glove. The Doctor’s ultimate choice—to travel back in time and persuade the academics not to go through with it—is beautifully in character, and a smart, non-violent resolution.

Dickens' comeuppance, delivered at the paws of a vindictive Happy the Rabbit, is darkly satisfying in its absurdity. It’s just a pity it takes so long to get there.

AN ATMOSPHERE LOST IN THE FOG

The first episode is all rain and shadows and cryptic dialogue, but little actual plot. The pacing stumbles often, and while the atmosphere starts thick, it grows thinner the more the story explains itself. By Part 3, once the pseudo-science behind resurrection is laid bare, the sense of mystery deflates rather than intensifies.

There’s also a tangle of indistinct characters—various aging academics who are difficult to keep track of and don’t do much to earn our investment. Philip Olivier’s Hex is given a fair amount to do, but Olivier himself seems oddly disengaged. Meanwhile, Bernard Kay—normally a scene-stealing presence—is surprisingly underused and gets lost in the shuffle until it’s too late to make his menace truly resonate. Joanna McCallum's Bursar similarly fades into the fog, offering a stiff performance that never fully connects.

GOOD INTENTIONS, GOTHIC EXECUTION

There’s a fascinating moral thread buried beneath all the rain and rabbits: the ethics of resurrection, the cost of tampering with life and death, and the temptation of brilliant minds to cross lines they shouldn't. All very Seventh Doctor. But the script is so tonally muddled and structurally slow that these ideas never come to life with the punch they deserve.

As a curiosity from the unmade Season 27, Night Thoughts holds academic interest. But as a standalone story, it feels more like a ghost of a better script, haunting the halls of a perfectly good concept.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 5/10

Night Thoughts promises spooky gothic horror and delivers on some fronts—Happy the Rabbit is terrifying, the setting is atmospheric, and the final act lands with some weight. But sluggish pacing, indistinct characters, and a clunky tonal mix leave much of the story feeling distant and foggy. Despite a strong finish, it takes far too long to matter.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“PRESS PLAY – A LONELY GOD ON PLAYBACK”

Press Play is a tiny tale with a big emotional core. One of the shortest entries in Adventures in Lockdown, it nevertheless manages to tug at the heartstrings with elegant simplicity. The setup is as minimal as they come: the Doctor sits alone in the TARDIS. There’s no enemy, no mystery to solve, no planet to save. Just the Doctor, a bag of snacks, and a moment of quiet reflection.

But then the TARDIS steps in.

In a beautifully understated touch, the ship activates a holographic message from Susan. It turns out she programmed the TARDIS to record the Doctor’s adventures for posterity, a personal archive of a life too big to ever fully remember. It’s a moment of poignant clarity: the Doctor, always moving forward, is gently reminded that her story has continuity, connection, and care—even when she feels most alone.

EVERY EPISODE ON DEMAND

The idea that the Doctor could, in effect, sit down and binge-watch her own history is charming and oddly comforting. The story doesn’t dwell on it for long, but the implication is rich. Here’s a character whose life is chaos incarnate, finding stillness by looking back. It reframes the TARDIS as not just a ship or a friend, but an emotional anchor.

The image of the Doctor curled up in her ship, munching snacks, and watching past adventures might sound twee, but it lands because of how well it reflects the time it was written in. This story is pure lockdown energy—quiet, introspective, and aching for connection. As a metaphor for the COVID era, it sings: we were all isolated, and many of us turned to stories and nostalgia for comfort. Press Play taps into that without being didactic.

A GHOST FROM THE PAST

And then there’s Susan. She’s only here for a holographic moment, but the effect is profound. A message across time. A reminder that the Doctor, however untethered, has roots. The Thirteenth Doctor’s soft, isolated demeanour finds gentle contrast in Susan’s warmth. It’s a beautiful micro-scene between two characters who haven’t shared a screen since 1964 (or 1983, or 1993; pick your poison)—and yet it feels earned and meaningful.

It’s the kind of moment fans yearn to see on screen. A quiet coda to a long-forgotten relationship. And as you rightly note, something like this would’ve worked beautifully in Wish World or The Reality War, where dream logic or cosmic unreality could’ve allowed for more personal, emotional reconnections.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 7/10

Short, sweet, and surprisingly moving, Press Play offers a gentle pause in the Doctor’s endless journey. With a poignant Susan cameo and a lockdown-era metaphor woven through its core, Pete McTighe delivers a minimalist story that punches far above its word count in emotional resonance. Not much happens, but that’s entirely the point.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“THE TOURIST – A STRANGER IN GLOUCESTER”

Some Doctor Who stories explode with Daleks, Cybermen, or interdimensional peril. Others take a quieter route—and The Tourist is as quiet as they come. This meditative, slow-burn short story follows a man named George, who has recently moved to Gloucester in search of a new life. He’s unemployed, socially isolated, and largely directionless. He rents a flat, takes long walks through the city, reads the local newspaper, and reflects. For most of its duration, it reads more like slice-of-life literary fiction than anything remotely Whovian.

And yet, there’s a lingering sense that something is not quite ordinary. It’s as though we’re reading around the Doctor rather than about her—watching the wake she leaves behind in someone else’s life.

AN OUTSIDER'S TALE

The ambiguity is the point. We're never told outright who George is or why he’s come to Gloucester. The question that hangs over the story is: Should I know him? There's no hint that he's a returning character. Instead, the story invites us to accept his mundanity—his tentative exploration of a new city, the quiet loneliness of his routines, and the slow rhythm of starting over. It isn’t until the final scene that something overtly science-fictional enters the narrative.

That’s when George meets a woman in a pet shop who casually mentions a blue police box in the back, and suddenly everything tilts. She’s described as wearing a blue jacket—cryptic but deliberate. Combined with the tone of the scene, it suggests she’s the Doctor. But which one?

THIRTEEN OR FUGITIVE?

We’re told the Doctor here is a woman, and the blue jacket is the only defining feature. That narrows it down to either the Thirteenth Doctor or the Fugitive Doctor. The setting—Gloucester—is particularly evocative of Fugitive of the Judoon, which first introduced Jo Martin’s Doctor and made the city a focal point for mystery. The minimal detail, however, preserves the ambiguity. In a way, this Doctor exists almost like a fable: a fleeting, semi-mythical figure working on the fringes to set things right.

COMPASSION IN THE SHADOWS

The beauty of this story lies in its subtlety. If we accept the reading suggested near the end—that George is not human, but a refugee the Doctor has helped settle on Earth—then the story becomes a gentle meditation on displacement, marginalisation, and kindness. There’s something moving about the idea that the Doctor doesn’t always solve problems with explosions or speeches. Sometimes she just quietly helps someone begin again.

And George? He may never realise the full truth. But the story suggests that he doesn’t need to. He’s found a flat, a routine, a life. And for someone starting over—alien or not—that might be enough.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 6/10

The Tourist is an unusually grounded and contemplative Doctor Who story that holds its cards close until the very end. A quiet meditation on new beginnings, it subtly reframes the Doctor not as a central figure, but as a distant force for good—guiding without fanfare. It may leave some readers puzzled by its lack of overt narrative, but its emotional resonance and final twist make it a rewarding read for those willing to trust the journey.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“THE SIMPLE THINGS – DRACONIANS, FOOTBALL, AND A LOT OF WASTED POTENTIAL”

Joy Wilkinson’s The Simple Things sets itself up beautifully. The Doctor, Graham, Yaz, and Ryan head back to 1896 East London so Graham can witness the first win by his beloved West Ham. A time-travel story anchored in a sentimental trip to watch a historic football match? That’s already a winning pitch. Add to that the unexpected twist of a clandestine Draconian warship being built in a nearby shipyard, and this could have been a hidden gem in the Doctor Who short story pantheon.

Alas, what begins with promise ends with a shrug.

A VISIT FROM THE EMPEROR'S PEOPLE

The Draconians are a rare treat in Doctor Who—majestic, honour-bound aliens with a rich culture first introduced in Frontier in Space. Their theatrical grandeur and political complexity make them ideal for thoughtful storytelling. That’s why it’s especially frustrating that here, they’re reduced to a single representative: one unnamed female Draconian who strolls into the story and then quietly watches football.

There’s no sense of why the Draconians are here, what the purpose of the warship project is, or how this ties into any broader galactic politics. The story all but forgets the warship exists. Even the character of the Draconian, potentially a rare chance to explore a seldom-seen alien through a new lens, is never developed beyond surface-level intrigue. We never learn her name, rank, or motivation. It’s a drive-by cameo for a species that deserves more.

GRAHAM TAKES CENTRE STAGE

As a character piece for Graham, the story does slightly better. He’s charmingly enthusiastic about seeing West Ham's first win, and Wilkinson clearly has a good grasp of his voice and character. Yaz and Ryan, however, are mere passengers—tag-alongs with barely a line each, which only serves to emphasise how overstuffed the Chibnall-era fam dynamic could be in shorter formats.

The story ultimately lands on a whimsical note: Graham gets his football moment, the Doctor hands the ball to the Draconians (for reasons never fully explored), and we get a moment of strange cultural exchange between Earth’s working-class sports fandom and an alien empire. But even that feels undercooked. It's a story about the “simple things,” but ironically, it over-simplifies all the potentially interesting ones.

SETTING THE SCENE, BUT NOT MUCH ELSE

To its credit, the Victorian East London setting is effectively sketched. There’s a rough-and-ready atmosphere to the shipyard and the working-class neighbourhood that grounds the story nicely. There’s a definite sense of place, even if the events unfolding within it are less memorable. The idea of alien intrigue being juxtaposed with something as grounded and ordinary as early football has clear Doctor Who potential—it just needed more time and depth to work.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 6/10

The Simple Things teases an exciting collision between Doctor Who lore and British football history, but delivers only a faint sketch of both. With an underused Draconian presence and a plot that fizzles out before it begins, it ends up being more of a kickabout than a proper match. Charming in places, especially for Graham fans, but a major missed opportunity for anyone hoping to see the Draconians get the spotlight they deserve.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“ONE VIRTUE, AND A THOUSAND CRIMES – THE SWASHBUCKLING TIME LORD YOU NEVER KNEW YOU NEEDED”

Neil Gaiman’s One Virtue, and a Thousand Crimes is a lockdown-era gem—an all-too-brief but utterly electric tale that gifts us our first real encounter with the Corsair, the roguish Time Lord referenced in The Doctor’s Wife. We were told the Corsair was wild, charming, dangerous, and gender-fluid long before the show began exploring that side of Time Lords in earnest. Now, in this short and swashbuckling escapade, we finally get to see her in action.

And what action it is. The Corsair storms onto the page with a parrot on her shoulder and a pirate-ship-shaped TARDIS under her command, mid-heist, as she attempts to nick none other than the Hand of Omega—yes, that Hand—from a tower at the behest of the First Doctor. That twist alone is a glorious callback to Remembrance of the Daleks and immediately connects this tale to the wider mythos. If you’re a Classic Who devotee, that moment alone will make you grin like a madman in a blue box.

A PIRATE LIFE FOR HER

The Corsair here isn’t just a Time Lord with a cool tattoo—she’s a full-blown spacefaring pirate, equal parts Jack Sparrow, River Song, and Romana. Gaiman wastes no time establishing her roguish charm, sharp wit, and capacity for utter chaos. There’s a wonderful, chaotic rhythm to the storytelling that mirrors the character herself: breathless, fast-moving, but always laced with a mischievous undercurrent of heart.

The imagery is utterly delightful. As she barrels down a seemingly endless spiral staircase, dodging guards with the casket in her arms and her parrot squawking commentary, you can almost see the comic book panels unfolding in real time. It’s as much a tone piece as it is a narrative, and Gaiman's knack for surreal detail and witty language makes the whole thing sing.

And it’s not just pulpy fun. The relationship between the Corsair and her parrot is surprisingly warm, and her rebellious moral compass—stealing things to help people—is sketched in vividly. For a story that flies by in a flash, it’s remarkably rich with character.

THE FINAL FLIGHT

Just as you fall head over heels for this gloriously unpredictable character, Gaiman hits you with the sucker punch: a later incarnation appears briefly, as the tale closes in on the Corsair’s final hours before dying in the Time War. It’s brief, melancholic, and haunting—a poignant reminder that even the most wild-hearted adventurers can be swallowed by Gallifrey’s darker days.

That tonal shift from gleeful heist to tragic epilogue is masterfully handled, and it adds emotional weight to what might otherwise have just been a fun one-off.

THE ADVENTURE WE’LL NEVER GET

There’s a bittersweetness to reading this story now. The Corsair is a character begging for more—more stories, more worlds, more reckless plans and stylish exits. But in light of the revelations about Gaiman that now cloud his professional legacy, the likelihood of this character returning in official media seems vanishingly slim. That makes this short story feel like both a spark of promise and a eulogy.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 10/10

One Virtue, and a Thousand Crimes is a punchy, playful, and poignant tale that does more in a few pages than many full-length stories manage. The Corsair practically leaps off the page, stealing not just the Hand of Omega but the whole damn spotlight. It’s a joyous heist, a thrilling chase, and a sudden heartbreak—all wrapped in Gaiman’s signature lyrical style. A must-read for any fan of rogue Time Lords, even if it leaves you wishing for the spin-off that never was.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“RORY’S STORY – JUST A RORY, STANDING IN FRONT OF A PHONE, ASKING IT TO LISTEN”

Rory’s Story, penned by Neil Gaiman, is less a traditional short story and more a behind-the-scenes curiosity: a monologue-script meant to accompany the global lockdown tweetalong of The Doctor’s Wife. Written with Arthur Darvill in mind, the piece comes with instructions on staging, costuming, and tone—Gaiman’s affectionate way of directing Darvill from afar. The result is a unique blend of script and performance prompt, offering a fascinating glimpse into how actor and writer collaborate to create something meaningful in a minimalist format.

But judged as a standalone prose piece, Rory’s Story is a rather slight affair. Stripped of Darvill’s performance—his delivery, intonation, and facial expressions—it reads more like a sweet, fan-written extra than a fully developed work of fiction.

A WALK DOWN MEMORY LANE… WITH NO DETOURS

The narrative consists of Rory recording a heartfelt message into a smartphone for his child, reflecting on his time with the Doctor and Amy. It’s essentially a compact recap of Rory's travels, with emphasis on the emotional beats rather than plot twists. Unfortunately, because it’s so focused on familiar ground—"I travelled with a madman in a box, your mum was amazing," etc.—it doesn’t add anything particularly new or revealing to Rory’s character.

The strength of this piece isn’t in the writing alone—it lies in the performance. Darvill’s warmth, awkward charm, and subtle humour breathe life into what is otherwise a gentle retread of already-trodden emotional territory. On the page, it’s pleasant enough. On screen, it becomes a minor tearjerker.

WHEN A PERFORMANCE IS THE STORY

To read Rory’s Story is to feel half the experience. Gaiman’s annotations are delightful in their own right. But these only serve to highlight what the written text alone can’t accomplish. It’s a lovely gesture during an odd moment in time (2020, anyone?), but more of a companion piece than a standalone gem.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 5/10

Rory’s Story is a charming curiosity that lives and dies by its performance. On paper, it’s a sweet but lightweight piece of reminiscing. On screen, it becomes something more—an intimate farewell from a man who spent 2,000 years waiting, and who still somehow makes it all sound humble. Essential for Darvill fans, optional for everyone else.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“NORMALITY – THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF NORMAL”

Normality is a short, surprisingly introspective slice of Doctor Who that manages to say more in a few pages than many longer tales do with twice the word count. Set during Clara’s time at Coal Hill School, it places the spotlight squarely on her inner world as she momentarily steps away from life in the TARDIS – only to find that "normality" isn't all it’s cracked up to be.

We begin in space, as Clara encounters the majestic Tonnchenform – a cosmic relative of the Earth tardigrade, blown up to an interstellar scale. These gentle, floating behemoths capture the wonder of the unknown, reminding us that even the smallest lifeforms on Earth have awe-inspiring counterparts elsewhere. It’s a lovely bit of science fantasy laced with genuine education, especially for readers unfamiliar with the real-world tardigrades (a.k.a. water bears).

CLARA THE TEACHER, CLARA THE DREAMER

The bulk of the narrative is refreshingly grounded, following Clara as she returns to her post at Coal Hill and tries to lead a so-called “normal” life. But the story deftly captures how difficult that is when you’ve seen the stars. Even as she teaches her students about tiny water-dwelling organisms, her mind drifts to Tonnchenforms and time travel. She tries to walk the path of a regular human life, but her soul is still skipping across galaxies.

And yet, what emerges is a rather sweet realisation: that even in the confines of a chaotic classroom, there’s something extraordinary. The story subtly but effectively shows how Clara applies what she’s seen out in the universe to her life on Earth—how seeing wonder out there has helped her spot wonder down here, in the form of the unruly but bright students she teaches.

NORMAL IS OVERRATED

This is ultimately a story about perspective—about how our experiences shape us, and how even the most seemingly mundane settings can shine when seen through the right lens. It’s also a poignant reminder of why Clara chooses the TARDIS life. Normality is fine, sure. But why settle for fine when there’s a whole universe out there?

The writing is gentle, evocative, and emotionally attuned to Clara’s character. It paints her as someone caught between two lives, and it makes her eventual decision not to be normal—at least, not in the conventional sense—feel satisfying and earned. The story doesn’t need monsters or danger to be compelling. Instead, it offers a window into what makes Clara tick and reminds us that everyone, even Time Lord companions, need a break to reevaluate from time to time.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 7/10

Normality is a charming, low-stakes but thoughtful character piece that offers insight into Clara’s worldview while championing the idea that the extraordinary can be found in the everyday. Sometimes, all it takes is a tardigrade—microscopic or massive—to remind us that there’s magic all around.

Thworping through time and space, one adventure at a time!

“THE TERROR OF THE UMPTY UMS – WHEN THE MONSTERS LIVE IN YOUR HEAD”

Steven Moffat’s The Terror of the Umpty Ums begins in chaos. We’re dumped into the mind of a seemingly alien figure named Karpagnon—confusing, mechanical, analytical. The prose is intentionally cryptic and disjointed, making it feel like we’re trapped in the thought circuits of some strange, possibly robotic being. Questions arise fast: what is Karpagnon? Where are we? Why does he seem to be threatening something?

It’s frustrating. And that’s entirely the point. Because then comes the twist—and oh, it’s a good one. When the Doctor enters the narrative (with that familiar clever patter and a suspiciously disembodied voice in an earpiece), we start to piece together what’s really happening: Karpagnon is a boy. A deeply lonely boy named David, living in a children’s care home, who has invented this persona to cope with his reality. The “Doctor” he hears is imagined—his own internal compass, disguised as his TV hero.

THE DOCTOR WHO THEME AS MONSTER METAPHOR

The titular “Umpty Ums” are, delightfully, the opening notes of the Doctor Who theme song—rendered here as a child’s fearful shorthand for the unknown. But they’re also a brilliant metaphor for Doctor Who monsters in general, conjured in David’s head as both threat and comfort. The rhythm of the show’s theme becomes a psychological soundtrack to his imagined world—a world where he matters enough to destroy things, but also to be saved.

There’s a spiritual kinship here with Moffat’s early short story What I Did on My Christmas Holidays by Sally Sparrow, not just in form but in function. Both stories look at the show through the eyes of children, and how imagination becomes salvation. In Umpty Ums, the child’s voice is darker, but no less poignant. Moffat doesn’t flinch away from how horrible David’s reality is—but he lets Doctor Who be the reason David doesn’t give up.

AN ODE TO THE FANTASY THAT SAVES US

This is Doctor Who at its most self-aware and touching: a story that isn’t really in the Whoniverse at all, but about it—about how children (and, let’s face it, adults too) use the Doctor to fight their own monsters. It’s also a reminder that the Doctor isn’t just a character; she’s an idea, a moral compass dressed in eccentric clothes, whispering hope into the ears of those who need it.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 8/10

A moving, metatextual gem that hides real emotional resonance beneath layers of misdirection and clever concept. It’s classic Moffat—clever, funny, heartbreaking—and one of the more unique Doctor Who short stories ever written.