On the morn of the 3rd March, in the year of the Mayan cataclysm, in great vexation, I gingerly rapped on the door of 221B Baker Street.
A small delicate woman with pinched nostrils meekly answered.
I laughed, because I remembered her from that show with Lionel Blair years ago.
"I've come to see Wholmes".
"Ah ha!" I exclaimed, "So you admit it!"
"That The Doctor and Sherlock have morphed into the same idiosyncratic child of Moffat. That they have both become so superior to their stations that any emotive pull has been drained from either show and all suspense removed, and that they have both been rendered little more than an masturbatory, intellectual exercise for up their own arse clever clog screenwriters."
"I don't know what you're talking about" she retorted, "I'm just a cleaner for the museum".
"Oh" I said, walking off, a little lighter than before.