Talk during Doctor Who and I'll have you put on the sex offenders register

Yesterday I watched the season finale of Doctor Who. I ended up camping out on the common room couch for some time beforehand just in case anyone would dare try to watch something besides Doctor Who. Then again, since England only has 1 ½ channels I’m not sure what else they’d be watching. Test patterns maybe?

Anyway, before Doctor Who there’s this terrifying show called “Strictly Come Dancing,” which I think is what the American “Dancing with the Stars” is based on. It’s terrifying because I don’t know all the endearing backstories of the celebrities because, coming from America, I’m used to actual celebrities. So instead of viewing their dancing from a sympathetic perspective, all I see are a bunch of old, sad tarts clad in sequin disasters being rather violently flung about on the dance floor by some eternally cheery young thing who has the almost impossible job of hiding his disbelief at how shit his partner is at dancing. And, frankly, it makes me fear old age. I don’t mind making an ass of myself, but I prefer KNOWING when I’m making an ass of myself. And it seems that when you’re old you lose your awareness of how ridiculous you are, and instead do a dance routine on national television in which you look like an overweight corgi chasing after dropped table scraps.

But I’m not here to talk about Strictly Come Dancing. I’m here to talk about child molesters. And by that I mean people who talk during Doctor Who. So I’m sitting there, practically pissing myself with excitement from watching the resolution of the huge mystery of the entire season, whether or not the Doctor does actually die, when suddenly an entire battalion of visitors to the college decided it needed to have a tea party in the common room RIGHT THEN. “Team, we need to have tea RIGHT NOW, and we need to very loudly and passionately discuss and sort out all of the world’s problems. RIGHT NOW. The world’s depending on us. And to show the world just how seriously we take our responsibility, we’re going to clink our cups and saucers loudly enough that even folks in Siberia are aware that this historic discussion is occurring.” …Sometimes I truly think universities should be made illegal and their students sentenced to 20 years hard labor in kibbutz laundry rooms. Whatever, I tell myself, that’s fine. I turn up the volume a bit and try to keep up with all the crazy shit that’s coming out of Matt Smith’s mouth, which is sometimes challenging enough even if you’re in a silent room…and you’re Stephen Hawking.

But then (and this person is so nice in every way, I just want to make that clear) someone decided to ask me about my day. A slight grunt was my response. Part of me felt so rude to not respond properly by reciprocating the question (or even simply responding with anything besides what was essentially a mouth fart), but the part of me that won out thought that anyone who talks during Doctor Who is clearly some kind of a pervert. And, dear readers, I just don’t have time for perverts.

Now, I don’t want anyone to think that I’m an awful person who prefers TV to human beings—the reality is that I’m an awful person who prefers Time Lords to human beings. And to be fair to myself, I may not have the patience to exchange pleasantries during Doctor Who, but if someone came to me desperately needing a sympathetic ear during Doctor Who I wouldn’t be angry. Hell, if it were something serious and urgent like, “Sam, I’m contemplating suicide,” I might even turn down the volume. A bit.