WARNING: Gratuitous free-form squealing with a heady dose of “postmodern poeticism” (note the constant refrain of the cute stage-name) below. Pretentious prats need not read further.
David Tennant is the bestest Dr. Who, with the bestest stage-name.
He does this eyebrow-thing.
He does this eyebrow-thing so well as Dr. Who that I’ve recently become a convert, after years of keeping a relative distance (because Star Trek, some said, was a blight on my reputation already – and I used to care about these things).
He is refreshingly weird.
He is the sole reason that I, once upon a time, was actually a tiny bit sympathetic to a twitchy Harry Potter villain (which is saying quite a lot, if you know me).
I think David Tennant has a bit of imp-blood (which is a huge compliment if, once again, you know me).
I completely understand Martha Jones and her not-so-subtle glances at Dr. Who when they were forced to share a bed in Shakespearian London (and I’m sure that Martha Jones did not feel forced in any way, actually, considering her facial expression).
Even the creepiness of never sleeping is something that this particular Dr. Who pulls off with grace: grace which is part Swan Lake and part manly and yet finely textured and lithe cheetah-style hotness.
David Tennant’s fans write stories about being stuck in a lift with David Tennant. Word.
David Tennant would make a fine pirate.
David Tennant probably knows how to use all of his utensils properly – including those tiny fork-type things that always throw me off if there is no lobster on the table.
David Tennant is the reason why Sophia Myles is one of the luckiest people on the planet – perhaps even luckier than Bill Gates and Monica Bellucci combined.
David Tennant is the reason why I made a fool out of myself at lunch recently. I have never been to Scotland, you see. I was talking about visiting Scotland with Boyfriend. My favourite author lives there; if Scotland is good enough for Kate Atkinson, it’s obviously good enough for me, you see. I want to visit Edinburgh, I want to experience the intensity and weirdness of the Angel of the North (on the way to Scotland). Boyfriend was joking with me about getting my hopes up too much. So I said: “You mean not EVERYONE in Scotland looks like David Tennant? Or Gerry Butler?” At this point, the girls who were seated next to us (and had probably been listening in) looked at each other, shook their heads, and looked disgusted, as in, “I can’t believe this, what a moron!” Context, girls, context! I make ze joke. I funny. And anyway, acting like a fool for David Tennant is infinitely more stylish than acting like a fool for Nick Lachey.
David Tennant is sweeter than an Easter chick.
My Boyfriend has a man-crush on him.
He won’t admit it, but whatever.