Dan Wainwright: Doctor, I’m besotted with this tiny being

Ten weeks ago my understanding of the universe was altered as I made first contact with a life form more beautiful and more baffling than any I have encountered before.

My daughter arrived on the planet through a process as miraculous as a TARDIS emerging from the time vortex. Tiny, scrunched up and looking a little bit like ET she nonetheless cast some form of alien hypnotic spell, binding me to do her bidding, that I doubt I shall ever shake off.

Since that day I have been reading everything from military style manuals on fatherhood to books that talk about connecting with your 'feelings'.

I know how I feel, thank you very much. I feel utterly terrified.

And I imagine I will do so every day for the rest of my life. I just have to get used to it.

Now I'm trying to be the best father I can possibly be and I am looking to the world of popular culture for guidance. David Beckham, Brad Pitt and so on are clearly devoted to their sprogs.

I, however, intend to copy The Doctor.

That's right. Doctor Who. We know he has had children even though they never appear on screen. I will make it my mission to show my daughter the wonders of the universe, to embarrass her with my absurd sartorial decisions (The Pertwee era crushed velvet suit is on order) and to engage her in debate on the issues that really matter, such as will the Daleks ever realise that a toilet plunger and an egg whisk are no substitute for opposable thumbs?

I will instruct her in the ways of the geek and show her that, as Willy Wonka once said, a little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.

I will 'pimp' her baby walker with panels and Dalek bumps and try to learn how to build a Wendy-TARDIS.

I want her to follow the wisdom of the rogue Time Lord – that you never interfere in the affairs of other people, unless there are children crying.

But before you call social services there is one thing about which she will be left in no doubt . . . bow ties are definitely not cool.

Liz Joyce: Lock up your grannies; the prats of the day are back

The Olympics is over. After being tinted with a golden glow for the past few weeks, our lives are now fifty shades of grey.

We marvelled at the athletes' superhuman strength, shed a tear at their stories of sacrifice and beamed with pride at their all-round eloquence and modesty.

Such a shame then that a vulgar and vacuous motley crew is about to roll into town and undo all the good work. Yes folks, Premier League footballers are back. Lock up your daughters. And your mothers. And your grandmothers.

After enjoying the rare and refreshing sight of sports stars able to string a sentence together and pushing themselves for something other than money, the return of footballers is about as welcome as John Travolta at a spa.

Nothing contrasts more with the spirit of London 2012 than the diamond-encrusted army of overpaid, under-educated ball botherers, whining about their Wags and wages.

After years of John Terry, Wayne Rooney and Joey Barton muddying our lives with their mucky antics, the likes of Mo Farah and Jessica Ennis made us realise just how starved of genuine sports stars we've been.

But hopefully the Games will be a turning point – both for us as a nation and the footballers themselves.

After being force fed a diet of football for years, perhaps our eyes will now open to the wealth of other sports out there. Never mind Soccer Saturday, how about Triathlon Tuesday or Weightlifting Wednesday?

And, after seeing the outpouring of love and respect the Olympians received, maybe the footballers will realise the way to our hearts is through hard graft and humility. Not Swarovski Crystal Xboxes, bathroom firework displays or love triangles involving each others' girlfriends or game grannies.

I know for every bad boy Balotelli there is a nice guy Craddock, but this monopoly of soccer 'stars' has to end. When it comes to all things wrong with modern British culture, they take the gold medal.