By Rory Chapman
It was during last Saturday’s title sequence: the swirling vortex, the theme blasting through the room, TV casting that familiar blue glow. I was sat on the sofa, popcorn bowl in my lap, lights dimmed, all set for the usual ritual.
And that’s when it hit me.
I was watching Doctor Who alone.
Not alone as in “I’m the only one in the world still watching.” But for the first time ever, I was doing it completely solo. No mates in the group chat. No one coming round. Not even my family fancied sitting through it.
And I won’t lie, it felt strange. A little sad, even.
Because this used to be our thing. Back in the Tennant and Smith days, Saturday nights were sacred. We’d pile into someone’s living room, sometimes mine, sometimes whoever had the best snacks, and treat it like a live event. Regenerations, surprise returns, Daleks… we’d laugh, we’d cry, we’d argue, we’d cheer. It wasn’t just about the show. It was about watching together.
I was a teenager when the show came back in 2005, and over the years I watched it with all sorts of people, parents, siblings, schoolmates, uni friends, you name it. Different houses, different Doctors, different companions, but always a shared experience. We grew up alongside the show. Lives changed, jobs, cities, friendships, relationships. But Doctor Who was a throughline. A comforting, chaotic constant.
When the Chibnall era rolled in and none of us really clicked with it, when the dialogue and characters felt flat or the plot was off, we still watched. I still remember “Orphan 55”. We all groaned, and every time poor “Benni” came up, we’d all shout his name like it was an inside joke. It became one of those so-bad-it’s-good rituals. A chance to have a laugh together. It still meant something.
But that’s gone now.
The Series 15 opener pulled in two million overnight viewers. For a show that once dominated Saturday nights, that’s a stark drop. But maybe it’s not just about popularity. Maybe it’s about how audiences watch now.
TV doesn’t work the way it used to. The age of appointment viewing has given way to algorithms and personal schedules. Everything’s on-demand, whenever it suits. There’s no urgency, no single moment where everyone is watching the same thing at the same time. We’ve traded shared experiences for convenience. Streaming culture is brilliant in many ways, but it’s also chipped away at the collective buzz, that sense of all being part of something, together, in real time.
New Doctor Who episodes now premiere on iPlayer in the mornings, several hours before they air on BBC One. Some people watch over breakfast, some on the train, others the next week, month, or even year. It’s all scattered. The idea of everyone gathering at the same time, in front of the same channel, is fast becoming a relic of the past.
But I still hold on to Saturday night, for as long as I can.
I sit down at the same time I always have, remote in hand, BBC One glowing on the screen, pretending the country’s watching with me. I know most aren’t. But it’s the only way it still feels like something bigger than me. Like it still matters.
I always imagined I’d pass Doctor Who on to my kids, that they’d fall in love with the TARDIS the way I did. But they, like most kids today, prefer YouTube. My wife will humour me now and then, but it’s never really clicked with her.
Most of my friends have moved on. Some just stopped watching Doctor Who and never looked back. Some tried the current era, but never took to the new vibe. Others, maybe, just grew out of it. What I miss most isn’t just that they moved on, it’s that we no longer share this thing we once cared about together.
It’s not resentment. It’s just change. Natural, inevitable. The show’s changed many times since the golden Saturdays, and so have we. For some, that means moving on. I just hadn’t realised I’d be the last one still tuning in, still holding on.
And I do still love it. Or at least, I love what it can be. The potential. The weirdness. The heart. I watch in hope of that spark, that one brilliant moment that makes me feel 20 years younger, makes me want to turn to someone and shout, “Did you see that!?” But there’s no one on the sofa beside me now.
Online, yes. There’s social media, forums, debates. But it’s not the same. Feels like a hundred loud voices shouting past each other, not with each other. I miss the warmth of sharing the moment with someone right there.
Still, I’ll keep going. Because maybe next week will be the one. Maybe an old friend will drop a message, curious again. Maybe my kid will wander in, catch a glimpse, and decide to stay.
Until then, it’s just me, a sofa, and the Doctor. Still travelling through time, still holding on. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
