I awoke to this rather depressing story about a man who was arrested under the terrorist act for tweeting the message "Robin Hood airport is closed. You've got a week and a bit to get your shit together, otherwise I'm blowing the airport sky high!!"

Good work, South Yorkshire Police. At least we know that our airports are safe from Mr Paul Chambers in Doncaster. And that police are being paid to interrogate his kind of scum for seven hours. Who needs intelligence when you've got the South Yorkshire Police? Good old South Yorkshire Police.

When I read the story, I decided that I would have to leave the country unless all charges are dropped against Paul Chambers - because, cliche though it may be, if we can't tweet jokes about terrorism, the terrorists have won. Indeed, in a sense the state (and the South Yorkshire Police) have become terrorists themselves.

I was about to tweet something to that effect when I realised it would be much funnier to tweet the following: "Unless all charges against Paul Chambers are dropped, I'm blowing Robin Hood airport sky high!!"

And then it occurred to me that if I did tweet that, the South Yorkshire Police might come down in force to Bedford and lock me up under the terrorist act. I dared myself to do it all the same, because that would be funny, and would certainly draw attention to the sense-of-humour failure that threatens to destroy our country. But I'm a busy person and it would be really bloody inconvenient to get arrested; also, I expect my family would disapprove.

So I didn't tweet at all. Because I was scared of being arrested.

Darn - the terrorists have won already.

I had a small dinner party this evening and while we ate I put Bill Evans on iTunes as every good host knows to. Then, when we reached the coffee stage, I turned off the computer speakers and we migrated to my (second) living room upstairs.

I'm now turning everything off and paused at my computer to briefly check emails and BBC news, and turned up for the volume for this rather tragic clip of Europe Minister Chris Bryant learning of the Hoon-Hewitt bid to oust Brown whilst talking live on TV.

And I was astounded, but deeply impressed, that the BBC had backed the whole painful moment with a particularly angsty quartet by Webern.

I was equally disappointed when I realised that the music was just coming from iTunes.

I was quite looking forward to The End of Time (part 2); sure, part 1 had been lame and mostly involved running around some docks somewhere while our Christmas dinners digested, but there was the distinct smell of Time Lords about, and Timothy Dalton looked kind of awesome and clearly wasn't messing around. I'd originally hoped that Russell T Davies would do the honourable thing and not actually write a series reboot as his outgoing story, leaving Steven Moffat the chance to figure out exactly how he wanted things to be, but since RTD has the world's largest ego there really wasn't much of a chance of that. So I was confidently expecting him to bring back Gallifrey, kill the Doctor, and then show us the face of Matt Smith with exactly the same characterisation as before. All fine, because come April we'd have forgotten a handful of lines and the Eleventh Doctor could go off in whatever direction made sense.

And of course I was expecting RTD to screw it up. A trainwreck. A disaster. But I had absolutely no idea quite how far he would manage to get things wrong.

Let's look at the story, half hour by half hour (as I remember it), across the two parts.

1. Some running around, the Master comes back to life, or maybe not, or something. He can now apparently break the laws of physics whenever he likes, and is stupid enough to think that when he desperately needs lots of energy the best use of what little he has is to repeatedly propel himself several hundred feed in the air. The Doctor finds him by the cunning method of going to his regular quarrydocks.
2. An Evil Plot Device is introduced, which the narrator tells us portentously will lead to the end of, well, everything. They put the Master in it. He turns everyone into clones of himself. Apparently rich black people are crazy megalomaniacs, in the same way that poor black people are into voodoo (in Planet of the Dead).
3. More running around; the Doctor goes into orbit for a while to avoid having to confront the Master, the Time Lords hatch an almost-believable plan to create a link between themselves and the Master as a baby (ignoring that this violates one of those pesky Laws of Time that the Doctor was talking about in one of the other tedious specials). This leads to the best music in the episode, where there isn't any music and just drums, riffing on the timing of the theme tune.
4. Timothy Dalton sends back a diamond to provide a physical link between him and the Master (while I'll let slide, but only because I remember The Invisible Enemy), and then uses it to mosey on over to Earth, taking all the other Time Lords, and Gallifrey (only we don't see much because all the money's been spent on Timothy Dalton), with him. (At some point everyone clearly forgets that Gallifrey is Time Locked, and that trying to pull a planet through some sort of physical-psychical link created by a small diamond should leave you with, well, a very squished planet.) Timothy Dalton then undoes everything the Master has done (meaning that humanity exists again), the Doctor undoes everything that else Timothy Dalton has done (meaning that Gallifrey is still Time Locked, that the Earth is safe, etc. etc.), and then finally the Doctor realises that the Master (in a bit they didn't show on screen, or possibly my brain blanked out in an attempt to survive) had made a couple of little death boxes, and Bernard Cribbins in locked in one, but it's okay because if the Doctor goes in the other one they'll both live, because the Doctor is a fucking Time Lord and he knows it's time for him to regenerate because the Ood have been cropping up in his mind for the last year or so telling him.
5. The Doctor goes on a farewell tour all around the galaxy to remind everyone of all the really shit characters that Russell T Davies created, and Sarah Jane Smith. Then the TARDIS explodes to remind you that RTD won't be writing for the series any more and therefore it will be shitwe won't have to suffer this shit from now on, and David Tennant becomes Matt Smith.

The End.

I'm not going to lay into the dialogue, the magical bullshit that makes no sense whatsoever, or even RTD's obsession with making this Big Exit more about him than about the Tenth Doctor (if you don't believe me, read some of the self-satisfied twaddle he's said about writing these episodes); what troubles me is his cowardice. There was a beautiful moment (insofar as it could be beautiful with such first-draft writing) where Gallifrey explodes into the Earth's skies and dooms humanity. Then, five minutes later, he undoes it because it feels all a bit too drastic.

This is the moment where anyone who didn't already realise it was struck with the realisation that RTD isn't actually a very good writer. (Except for the ones who are irredeemably stupid.)

If the outcome is too big, dial back the outcome a bit, don't write it out in the next scene. A better ending would have been for Gallifrey to be brought into the Solar System in a kind of reverse Trojan position with respect to the Earth (we can ignore the problems with the science bit, since earlier in the story the Master shot bolts of electricity from his hands). Then the Earth becomes a subjugate planet to Gallifrey, and humanity becomes a slave race to the rather fun New Time Lords who have given up on the whole non-intervention thing and are out to rule the universe. The Doctor has to choose between joining them in ruling the planet he loves, or being exiled from it, in a nice reverse on the Third Doctor's punishment, and the Master (who should have been weakened from being resurrected, as in say The Deadly Assassin, rather than being an unstable energy form or whatever) could be marched off to be executed for being a coward during the Time War.

Then the Eleventh Doctor can romp around the universe for a bit, with the aim of getting back and stopping Timothy Dalton; by which time of course the Time Lords will have moved on again, or something. Anything's possible in this context.

Russell T Davies would still have managed to find a way to make that lame and drag out, but at least I could have respected him for it. Bringing back Gallifrey only to immediately send it back out of the series is a bit like saying "let's see what you could have won" when you could have won an Aston Martin but you actually won a used tea bag. It's an admission of mediocrity and of cowardice, at the exact moment you're trying to convince everyone that you're awesome. The remaining respect I felt for the man who brought Doctor Who back to our screens died today, killed by his own inabilities.

In case you think I'm utterly down on the story and being unkind, here are some things I didn't have any problem with at all:

1. The spiky headed aliens. Great fun, and the female one was cute.
2. June Whitfield.
3. The Visionary, telling fortunes for the Time Lord Council. (If you want to believe that she was channelling the Matrix, and driven mad by that knowledge, then feel free.)
4. Mickey marrying Martha (although to be fair that's because I don't care about either of them).
5. The Doctor calling The President that R word. He's clearly not the original, who would have killed the Master as soon as he appeared, and probably the Doctor as well just to be on the safe side. The Wikipedia entry notes that the Doctor might just have been comparing them.

If you haven't seen it, here's what is to come. Or at least bits, with some excited singers in the background.

The suggestion in Gordon Brown's new year's message that 2010 is when everything gets better is tragically naive, because even in the unlikely event that things get easier for most of us, it isn't going to be an easy year for him. At least, not until May, when his schedule looks like getting a lot lighter.

So as we near the end of his unwhelming stint as PM, I thought it would be nice to look back on the noughties and remember a happier time when Gordon Brown didn't wear a desperate smile but proudly grimaced like the moody Scot he is; a time when people wrote musicals about him being 'locked in a semi-gay sadomasochistic tango' with Tony Blair (that's how Johann Hari saw it, at least)...

And if that brought a nostalgic tear to your eye, you'll be pleased to know you can get the whole jolly award-winning sell-out musical on iTunes!

Naturally, when I watched this year's annual Christmas disappointment - i.e. Doctor Who - the things that bothered me were variations of the usual questions, like: does anybody find these topical references to the economic downturn anything other than utterly embarrassing? Did nobody edit this script before the actors started learning these long, long scenes of dull exposition? Did Russell T. Davies really think that multiple John Simms wearing dresses was the doom-laden cliffhanger image befitting the penultimate episode of David Tennant's Doctor? Doesn't Bernard Cribbins deserve better? Doesn't Timothy Dalton deserve better? And, generally, why oh why oh why oh why...?

But I was already resigned to the whole two-parter being the uncomfortable enema that the series so badly needs, and everything this year has led me to prepare myself for such questions. The question that I wasn't expecting almost slipped me by at the time of broadcast but is now possibly the most concerning thing about the whole episode, and it is this:

He said what about Good Queen Bess?

So unlikely it seemed, I thought I must have imagined it - so I went and checked it out. And I hadn't imagined it.

What David Tennant's Doctor says is this (in his most irritating mockney): "Got married! That was a mistake. Good Queen Bess. And let me tell you, her nickname is no longer..." (does his most irritating mockney oops-missus-I've-been-naughty face).

Unless I'm totally misinterpreting Russell T. Davies here, what he wrote for the Doctor to say was the pre-watershed equivalent of "then I shagged Queen Elizabeth". And whilst I think I am accurately imagining Russell T. Davies chuckling to himself as he knocked the line out, a little chunk of my childhood died when its meaning really dawned on me.

The Doctor has never been interested in sex. When Paul McGann kissed his companion in 1996 a lot of fans kicked up a fuss, though in actual fact it all turned out to be all rather innocent. The new incarnation of the series has had various female companions boringly fall in love with the Doctor and he has formed some strong attachments to them, though this isn't necessarily a problem as love is a noble thing.

But by making the Doctor a person who casually refers to the notches on his bedpost (whether he did it within wedlock is hardly the point), he has become something that the Doctor has never been before - someone I despise. Tennant's Doctor was already headed in this direction: he's vain, a show-off, effortfully trendy - the cool kid in the playground rather than the outsider the Doctor ought to be. But now he is the kid who brags about how many girls he has casually felt up behind the bike shed, which is either misogynous or simply shows a lack of respect for other people (the brush, incidentally, which tarred all gay people in T. Davies' Queer as Folk). The most sinister thing is that Russell T. Davies, who clearly finds nothing at all objectionable about such bragging, has snuck this character up on us bit by bit, delivering the final blow as a casual one-liner that actually exacerbates the nastiness when you analyse it.

It goes further than a loss of innocence; it makes the Doctor, who has always stood for moral values, respect and equality, a terrible role model for the very people who adore him. I've been told by various people that they think David Tennant is the best Doctor ever; sorry folks, but I simply can't wait to see the back of him.

Last Christmas day I accompanied my parents to their church, which is a little on the trendy side, and was forced to endure a congregational rendition of a "hymn" to the tune of the hokey cokey (I'm not making this up) which had the refrain "Sheep, shepherds, baby Jesus!".

And actions.

So churches are supposed to save your soul, not destroy it, but I've learned to expect this kind of thing from a certain branch of evangelicalism. I had naively imagined that traditional places of worship would never be infected by such lunacy.

So I am appalled - it's the only word - to learn that this year's Carols from King's will include a carol set to the tune of "Where has the knitted character been this week?"...

What we've heard so far about Tony Blair's interview with Fern Britton is about as revealing as it gets with a man who persists in revealing absolutely nothing - whilst he constantly denies possible reasons for the war in Iraq, can anybody find me a single interview in which Blair explains what the actual reasons were? Except for his oft-repeated assurance that he thought it was the right thing?

But it is revealing that he is now downplaying the significance of WMD and falling back on the Saddam-was-a-nasty-man argument that holds so little water as a reason for the invasion (if getting rid of dodgy leaders is a valid reason for war - which it isn't - why not Zimbabwee? Why not Korea? Why not Italy? Why not put in the time and resources needed to make the operation successful?). Blair is obviously on the defensive, downplaying the original cited reasons for war by suggesting that, even without those reasons, it was a jolly good job we went in anyway. It's as if he's expecting to need back-up justification for when he's revealed to have led us into war on false pretences.

Equally concerning is his statement about his Christian faith, which he speaks of as something which "sustains" him, with the pretty massive caveat that "what your faith can't do, I'm afraid, is tell you what is the right thing."

This is worrying for two reasons: firstly, because as self-elected faith leader Blair misunderstands the very core of Christianity. For him, it is simply a crutch: a way of feeling better when everything is going wrong, a reason to be nice to each other. That's not Christianity - it's humanism with fancy clothes.

It's no wonder he doesn't see his faith as serving any useful purpose. Not for him a transformative God whose sacrifice conquered death; not for him a living word which, rehearsed through communion with church and God, can offer wisdom even on contemporary moral issues. Certainly not for him a faith worth dying for. The ironically-named Tony Blair Faith "Foundation" is grounded in such vague theology that Richard Dawkins could sign up for a membership card with no qualms whatsoever.

As a society we're wary of personal belief coming into politics - I would say unreasonably so. Before you get your knickers in a twist, I'm not advocating politicians justifying decisions with their faith either publically or personally - faith used as a claim of infallibility is also a serious misunderstanding of what it actually means. But the second reason why Blair's statement undermines his credibility, not just as a faith leader but a political one, is that he distances what he calls "the right thing" from the beliefs on which his values are (presumably) based. Essentially, it is an admission that political expediency overruled any system of morality in his decisions.

Cynical generation that we are, we already know that's true for most politics. But we can't surgically remove morality from everything that goes on in government - without denying the complexity of political decisions, or suggesting that they can be simply split into decisions of "right or wrong", what Blair calls "the right thing" must be informed and guided by personal (and indeed universal) beliefs - otherwise, what is it based on?

It is a particularly worrying question in the case of Iraq, given that the only solid reason Blair has given for the invasion was that he "thought it was the right thing".