Doctor Who's least fearsome foes

[AdamSmith]

See, if we had a dedicated Television subforum, this kind of crap wouldn't have to clutter up the main forum here.

Doctor Who's least fearsome foes

As you may have heard, the Time Lord turns 50 this week. But if the UK's favourite teatime children's programme is so great, how do you explain this sorry bunch?

• Joe Bishop
• The Guardian, Friday 22 November 2013 08.00 EST

Sil

Sil has the unfortunate burden of looking like the perfect stool. Top to bottom, Sil's anatomy screams "juice cleanse" and "baked kale". Up from the smooth ridges at his base, his pectorals form those sticky clumps that are bound in crud, fitting together so magically, a shitty Pangaea before the fecal tectonic split. And, as if by magic, the most beautiful pinch atop his browned head, tightly sliced by the anus of some kind of goddess. Imagine observing the toilet bowl and seeing Sil staring back at you. I'd feel like the proud father of a PhD graduate (Ivy League).

War Machines

These things look like IDS's entry into Robot Wars. I know technology was sparse in 1966, and they hadn't invented Blu-ray yet so TV looked like a yoghurt lid smeared with dogshit and pepper, but Jesus Christ, these things are like the Daleks' parasitic twin: mild resemblance but all round the bend and up the creek. I could imagine these guys as zany robo-sidekicks in some depressing Bolshevik science-fiction sitcom called General Industrious & Steel Working Companion, or whatever. Pretty sure I've chucked a dull sandwich into one of these at the Tate Modern, too.

Kandyman

As we all know – perhaps too well, some of us – Doctor Who is a programme for children. It doesn't matter how many grown adults will tell you how much they cried when that woman's face got stuck in a paving slab, the show is for the chiblaines. Kandyman, a psychopathic killer hired by Helen A, ruler of human colony Terra Alpha, is some kind of confectionery nonce. The man is dressed as a bag of fucking liquorice allsorts, enticing unwitting youngsters with his sweet, sugary undercarriage and tragically leading them to their early graves. It's sick nonsense and it is not British.

The Family Slitheen

These lot are a bit dodgy, I reckon. Not because they're a Raxacoricofallapatorian crime syndicate, oh no. Just because they're not the most imaginative of Whovian baddies. It's all there: the glassy black eyes of your typical Roswellian extraterrestrial, big reptilian dragon claws, fat old sinewy Jabba-the-guts – the whole shebang. Even their name sounds a bit like the somewhat racist, genocide-brewing Slytherin house, from the otherwise sparkly spectacle-fest Harry Potter. Plagiarism all over the gaff, not a single original thought. Was this episode written by Johann Hari, or something?

Haemovores

I think I got a case of the haemovores when I went to Newquay with some friends after GCSEs, once. We went surfing but, in my haste to catch a wave, I cut myself on a rock on the beach that our mate Spag Bol had just spat on. The ensuing infection caused me to convulse violently on top of discarded and torn cans of Holsten Pils, which subsequently gave me a further three infections. I had what appeared to be deep red suction cups covering my abdomen, and resembled something akin to an octopus made of sun-blushed tomatoes.

The Great Intelligence

Your boy Yog-Sothoth, AKA Great Intelligence, apparently lost his body after fleeing from the Fendahl, a bunch of roving, murderous gangrene sores from the Sol system. The only other times I've seen people described as "losing their bodies" is when I pick up a copy of Heat magazine and see that a woman has apparently been rendered unattractive by having living creatures pulled from her sex organs. It looks like Yog-Sothoth didn't lose that baby fat in time, and is now condemned to an eternity as a sort-of thought-cloud. Circle of shame, am I right ladies?! … Ah.

The Doctor Who anniversary celebrations continue for the rest of the millennium

http://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2013/nov/22/doctor-who-lamest-enemies