British politics, I love you. But, like Peter Capaldi’s 12th Doctor, surely now is the time to regenerate, the time to take a new course of action, to fight bad, to do good.

Where to begin?

Brexit is looming. Like the realisation that exams are not too far away, so too beckons the coming of our exit from the European Union. I grieve. I hurt. I continue to wear Stronger IN merchandise. My map of Europe is still proudly pinned to my bedroom wall. I share posts by Guy Verhofstadt and flirt with the idea of buying the New European, held back only by my flailing bank balance (who the hell buys three Topshop dresses in the space of a week, despite being a social-recluse? Me, that’s who.)

Then there’s Hammond and his complete balls-up of a budget, whose U-turn was simply accepted, his mistake brushed under the carpet, May’s culpability nowhere to be seen (despite the fact she knew of his National Insurance plan), with an opposition leader wholly incapable of holding the government to account. I watched PMQs completely mortified at Jezza’s performance (or lack of), cringed as he let the Tories walk all over the party he claims to love, and applauded Yvette Cooper’s bravery as she showed her own leader how to do his own job.

“My non-Cambridge hours this week have been dominated by ghoulish murmurs of Brexit and clips of George Osborne trying to look assertive-cum-friendly”

British politics is like my childhood teddy bear, Russ – loved, battered, in need of a new bow-tie, but still with the potential to be something worthy to pass on to my children. And like that scary toy-repairer man in Toy Story 2, I’m waiting for someone who has the right tools to sew the seams of greatness back into this old institution. I’m holding out for a hero, but I think they may have got lost on the way to the British Politics Repairing Centre.

Every morning, I have allocated a time specifically dedicated to non-Cambridgeness. In this hour, I do (admittedly) eat breakfast in a grand hall, but I also watch and listen to… the news (remember that?!) and read… the newspaper (a what?). In these moments, where I have triumphantly popped the Cambridge bubble and feel a sense of freedom in my own rebellion, I delve into the mysterious world of reality. Goodbye, Gardie’s and BNOCs. Hello, John Humphreys and laughable attempts at adulting by repeatedly failing to complete a sudoku.

My non-Cambridge hours this week have been dominated by ghoulish murmurs of Brexit and clips of George Osborne trying to look assertive-cum-friendly as the new Editor of the Evening Standard. And then it dawned on me – bang – the regeneration is beginning. The face of British politics is changing, morphing into something new.

RON is the real winner of every Cambridge election

Brexit, the big, bad, Dalek-style monster. Osborne, perhaps a slightly odd-choice for the Doctor’s companion. Jeremy Corbyn, Donna’s grandfather. James O’Brien of LBC, the socks-and-sandals Captain Jack. Yvette Cooper, a headstrong, assertive, passionate Rose. All that’s left is for someone, please – anyone! – to take up the role of the Doctor, and to save us. Save us from the impending doom.

I have waited for this Doctor, like a Cambridge-esque Amy Pond, staring into the dark sky from her bedroom window, willing for him – or her, that would be très cool, – to appear and save the day.

But why must we be Amy Ponds? Can we not be the Doctor? As Rose Tyler once said, “You don’t just give up. You don’t just let things happen. You make a stand! You say no! You have the guts to do what’s right, even when everyone else just runs away.”

We cannot afford to run away. We cannot afford to let British politics continue on its current path of non-compassion and indifference. I’m going on the Anti-Brexit march this weekend. Like a real-life Rose Tyler, I won’t “just let things happen.” After all, we are the cogs that keep the Tardis of British politics whirring and humming, and buzzing and swirling, and I will not stand by and watch the Tardis break down before my eyes. We must wave a metaphorical sonic screwdriver and make a stand by letting the government know that we are the state. We are the Tardis – and we get to decide where the next adventure will take us.

Trust me, I’m a doctor. And so are you