Doctor Who (BBC1) is possibly the longest running joke played on the British television-watching public. It is indebted to scriptwriter Terry Nation, whose comedy credentials were impeccable: his talent was spotted by Spike Milligan; during the 1950s and early 60s, Nation worked as a scriptwriter for Eric Sykes, Frankie Howerd and Tony Hancock. Nation's most enduring legacy was to introduce the Daleks, whose wrinkled creator Davros - and no, the much-vaunted prosthetic version was not that much of an improvement on the rubbery 1988 figure - was wheeled out as part of the all-star cast that graced the series finale.

The programme disappointed some of its most loyal fans by failing to provide viewers with the sci-fi epic's 'money shot', the regeneration sequence. It was a good example of a Who prank. Instead of morphing into an 11th avatar of the Time Lord (thank goodness we've been spared, for the time being, the familiar musing over the prospect of Richard Me' Grant being handed the role), the episode began with Tennant shrugging off the lightning bolts that heralded the regeneration process with a nonchalant "Where were we?" as companion Donna (the normally bovvered' funny woman Catherine Tate) stood, as usual, open-mouthed and Captain Jack, of spin-off Torchwood fame, basked in his permatan.

Needless to say, the Daleks were defeated, even if the Doctor had to recruit a slew of old pals, including pouty Rose (Billie Piper) as part of the galactic showdown. The Tardis door was thus left open for David Tennant to smirk his way through a few more specials' as the mockney traveller from Gallifrey before the franchise relaunches in 2010 with Steven Moffat in charge. Moffat's writing appears more edgy than that of the generally avuncular Russell T.Davies (RTD' to the geek fraternity), but it may also have helped his sci-fi career that his wife is Sue Vertue, whose mum Beryl was once the agent of . . . Terry Nation. As for Tennant, he would be well advised to gain a working escape pod; while the revived, ironic Doctor Who has a thriving fan base, the portents are bleak for those who wield the sonic screwdriver for long. Has much been heard of Sylvester McCoy or Colin Baker of late?

The verdict on Bonekickers (BBC1) has to be breathtaking - breathtakingly awful, that is, for a series hailed as some sort of flagship for Tuesday nights. Supposedly Time Team meets CSI, a crew of gung-ho archaeologists in the series' debut confronted a sect (well, a couple) of Knights Templar trying to start a war against Muslims using broadswords. The acting was so hammy it may have prompted complaints from vegetarians; the dialogue was more wooden than the True Cross the Da Vinci Code-style nutters were seeking, and the obtrusive backbround music underscored the lack of tension - Indiana Jones it wasn't.

Yes, it had an impressive beheading midway through (probably in an attempt to court controversy), and it was set in Bath, confounding the rule that the West Country is off limits for fiction other than 1930s whodunnits. But to think this six-part pap was offered by Ashley Pharaoh and Matthew Graham, the writers who gave us Life on Mars . . . Next week there's some old hokum about slavery, but I'll have paint to watch.

Talking of swords, Reaper (Channel 4) was offering superior entertainment the same evening. The protagonist of this impish series is Sam Oliver (Bret Harrison), who finds out on his 21st birthday that his parents have sold his soul to the Devil, and he must combine working at a DIY store with acting as Old Nick's bounty hunter - catching souls and sending them to hell with a demonic vacuum cleaner.

Back to the blades. In Tuesday's episode, Satan ordered Sam to hunt the soul of a crazed magician wielding a sword. It may not be the best US television to have been shipped to Blighty, but it's another example of how our transatlantic cousins regularly leave British TV (laughably still referred to by some patriots as the best in the world) looking slow, cheap and, ultimately, about 10 years behind. US telly's like Californian wine: much of it is appalling, but the best stuff is sublime.