The new Dr Who makes the front page of countless newspapers, broadsheet as well as tabloid. Even the normally, terribly serious Guardian.
But who cares who's Who?
I mean, who really cares?
It's a daft children's programme about a self-recycling Time Lord whose enemies include a cumbersome squad of tin-bin robots with prong arms and dodgy voice-boxes.
But it's been elevated to the status of cultural treasure by a generation (several generations, now) of grown men who can't seem to let go.
Dr Who is an essentially male obsession.
There's been more fuss this week over whatshisname taking over from your other man than has been devoted to many a Cabinet reshuffle.
And fair enough, it's a bit of escapism. It entertains a sizeable audience and no harm in that.
But the question of which actor gets the role for the next few years is hardly a matter of national significance.
You can't fault the Beeb for attempting to ratchet up the "suspense" with a whole show devoted to the unveiling of the new Doc. But elsewhere this periodic hoo-ha over Who has become as tedious as his endless evolution.
"Like the Doctor himself I find myself in a state of utter terror and delight," comments the new Who with the sort of inter-galactic understatement we've come to expect.
Who needs to get a grip ...?