Would ya Adam an' Eve it?

Wotcha!

Bit of a mad day, innit? It started off well enough. I woke up in Dr Goodhead's room. Last night, I'd kinda snuck into the women's wing of the Ex-Doctor's Retirement Home. Before long, I'd met a group of Bond girls. There woz Dr Holly Goodhead, Dr Warmflash and the marvellously named Dr Christmas Jones! She woz a nuclear scientist and dressed like Tomb Raider! Time Lord heaven! Well, I'd also snuck in a bottle of Draconian brandy and before too long I was showing the lovely ladies why I have that nickname and why my first episode was called The Christmas Invasion!

Christmas came early this year, let me tell you!

You must think me shallow. Well, let me tell you, I had an epiphany, innit. Being selfless and noble got me NOWHERE. I travelled for two years with Rose Tyler. She was beautiful, funny, in love with me, but I got hung up on being a Time Lord. I live for centuries, she'd live 80 years. She was also 19, to my 900. I held back, it couldn't work. Then she got banished to an alternative Universe (it's never easy, is it?) and I ended up travelling with nice but dull Martha and butch Donna. God bless'em both, but I missed Rose.

Then she came back, to help stop that ol' nutjob Davros destroy the bloomin' Universe! I had another chance, and I bottled it. I tried to be noble, grown up, realistic, and while I was dithering, my human clone bagged her. Bollocks. This stuff could only happen to me. Sometimes I wish I was in Hollyoaks. So I'm stuck alone, fannying about having halfhearted adventures waiting to be killed off by Bernard Cribbins, and Rose is bangin' a guy who looks like me, who sounds like me, who thinks like me - IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!! What do I get? What is my reward? I get to hang around stalking my ex-companions for a bit - whoop de fuckin' do.

So, now, this Time Lord is out for himself. I'm going to have my reward. Look where being a hero got me - killed by Bernard Cribbins because he got stuck in a cupboard. Sure, casual sex is a little shallow, and maybe I feel a little cheap and maybe I see Rose's face everytime, and maybe my life feels empty and pointless and... and...

... Anyway, where was I? So I'm sat in in bed with the lovely doctors, considering if the old Sonic Screwdriver could come in handy, when we all heard an explosion from the Men's wing.

"What was that?" shrieked Dr Goodhead, dropping the chocolate spread.

"Sounded like a chaise being destroyed by a wrist mounted gun," replied Dr Jones, stripping off some bondage tape.

I leapt out of bed, jumped into me trousers, hopped into my boots, sprinted from the room, ran back, borrowed some of Holly's hair gel, smoothed it in, then ruffled it for that look, shouted "Allons-y!" then ran off. to the men's wing, cos, at the end of the day, this is what it's all about, innit?

Must ask Holly where she got that hair gel - it was well good!

I dash into the dayroom to see that all the nurses appear to have become autons! Blimey! There's a geezer in a cream suit stood in the middle, looking commandin' and stuff. He said his name was Dr No. Never heard of him.

"What is the meaning of this, Sir?" said old Dr Jon, as pompous as ever.

Dr Chris said something too, but I can never understand a word he says.

"Damn and blast, this is a fine old fillet of fish, and let me tell you!" blasted Dr Bill.

The room went quiet. Dr No regarded us. He raised a metal hand and with a rather slow squeak, pointed a finger at us, one after the other. This took some time.

Not sure about the new red wallpaper.

"I am now in command here. I am Dr No. You will obey me at all times, or face the wrath of my auton nurses."

"I can guarantee," said Dr Tom, slouched with one leg over the arm of his chair, "that no-one else will utter that line today."

No ignored him. "Change is coming to this world. New management has moved in. This is but the beginning. I have been sent here to ensure you do not engage in your infamous meddling. You will remain in this building. No-one leaves."

"WHAT!?" shouted Dr Tom leaping to his feet. "I've got to get to the bookie's, and I'm meeting the lads in the pub at noon!"

"You poor deluded man," chided Dr Bill. "To contain us you would have to destroy all living matter!"

"No," said No. "Just not let you out."

And with that, he lowered his finger (this took some time) and walked away. The nurses' guns disappeared back into their wrists. They went and stood by the various exits.

"This is intolerable!" shouted Dr Tom. "I'm down to my last case of whiskey! I have to get out soon!"

"Get out, we will, my boy, hee hee," chuckled Dr Bill. "Do they think they can contain us, hmmm?"

Dr Chris uttered something, but no-one understood it. Sounded like 'mud ferret', or something.

"Let's go back to my TARDIS," said Dr Jon, "and discuss our escape plan."

"Actually," said Dr Peter, "can we go to Dr Eight's TARDIS?"

"Why, dare I ask?" replied Dr Jon haughtily.

"Cos Dr Paul's has chairs, cups of tea and space to fit us all in the one room." I said. It was true - that episode of his may have been a bit crap, but boy, those yanks could certainly build a control room.

"That's fine," said Dr Paul quietly. "shall we go?"

"Top Gear's starting!" yelled Dr Colin from the TV area.

"OK, after Top Gear," I said.

Curse of the Plastic Nurses of Doom

Hello, the Doctor here. How are you, my dear?

Life here isn't that bad, you know. Of all the Doctors I know what it's like to feel confined, so I'm more able to put up with it. I was exiled to Earth, in the 1970s (or was it the 1980s?) which anyone with the basics of Earth history would know is pretty dire. You just have to make the best of it; if you can't beat them, join them. Being an anti-establishment figure is all well and good when you can get in the TARDIS and be off, but when you're stuck, you have to make compromises. I learned to fit in, to get to know the right people. On Earth, it's not so much what you know but who you know. Being here is not that different really.

So I don't fret too much about life here. I pass the time with the inferior versions of myself, I work on Bessie and the Whomoblie, I sometimes wander over to the Ex-Officers Retirement Home and see old Alastair and Benton. I get my hair done in the salon. I order a new suit with matching cape, shirt and bow tie. There are worse ways to spend a life.

But there's a bit of a flap here at the Ex-Doctors Retirement Home. We've had a change in management, with dear old Doctor Legg replaced by some new fellow. Haven't seen him yet, but when I do, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind, let me tell you! I don't know what he's said to the nurses but they're acting very strangely today. I went to go to the garage to do a bit of tinkering on dear old Bessie (she's never been the same since my gnomic seventh incarnation went galavanting around in her - the man's a positive menace), only to find Nurse Chapel standing at the door in my way.

"Excuse me, my dear," I said giving her the full Doctor charm.

"Go back to the day room," she replied in a rather monotone fashion.

"You don't understand, my dear," I said, still exuding calm and charm. "I need to have a look at old Bessie. I do this every morning, remember?"

She just stared at me. Maybe she's ill; she looked a bit shiny, waxy almost. "Go back to the day room," she repeated.

What's wrong wirth Nurse Chapel?

"My dear," I said in my commanding voice, the voice that made middle ranking civil servants tremble back in the day. The voice that used to show Brigader Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart who was boss. "I have no intention of going back to the day room. I am going to the garage." And with a swish of my cape, I politely but firmly went to shoulder past her.

Imagine my surprise when I found myself flying across the air and landing, with an undignified crash, in the middle of Doctor Bill and Doctor Colin's game of backgammon. I pulled myself to my feet, dusting pieces of wood from my best velvet.

"Damn it, Chatterhorn," spluttered Doctor Bill. "I was winning!"

A crowd had gathered now. Even Doctor Tom, sleeping off a hangover had stirred in his chair and was looking on. I drew myself up to my full height and approached Nurse Chapel again.

"Madam," I said. "It is not in my nature to attack one of the fairer sex, but I must warn you, I know Venusian Karate and I am not afraid to defend myself if you attempt to molest me again."

"Chance'd be a fine thing," I heard Doctor Tom mutter.

Then a very surprising thing happened. Nurse Chapel raised her arm, pointed at me and then her hand fell away on a hinge to reveal a gun.

"Fookin' 'ell," shouted that uncouth yobbo Doctor Chris. "She's a fookin' auton!"

Good grief! The nurses are bally plastic!

He was right, and I looked around the room to see all the nurses approaching me, guns protruding from their wrists. They were all autons: living plastic creatures, the product of the evil Nestene Consciousness. This was a most unexpected start to the day.

Dear old Dr McCoy came around the corner and started to approach Nurse Chapel. "Christine? Are you OK? It's me, Leonard."

"Stay back, Sir," I commanded. "That's not Nurse Chapel. She's an It - an infernal plastic monstronsity!"

To prove my point Auton Chapel helpfully fired her gun hand and blew the chaise next to Dr McCoy into several hundred pieces.

"Fair enough," said Dr McCoy and shuffled off.

"This is intolerable," I boomed. "I demand to see who is in charge here!"

"You tell that spastic auto...phone!" said Doctor Bill.

"I was supposed to battle the autons," said Doctor Colin wistfully, "I was going to be in Singapore with the Master... but then we got cancelled..."

Then a strangely accented voice, quiet, yet menacing, came from behind me.

"I believe, Doctor, that you are looking for me."

We all turned as one. A tall oriental chappie, in a cream Nehru suit, stood incongriously in the middle of the day room. The most remarkable thing about him were his hands. They were black metal.

"I am in charge here now," he said in his infuriatingly calm voice. "I am Dr No."

Dr No in charge? Tune in next time to see what happens next!

The Land of Fiction

None of this is real.

I'm hoping you know that, I really do, as many of those in here with me don't. I am a fictional character, played on TV by Paul McGann. I look like Paul McGann, I have his voice and mannerisms, but I am not Paul McGann.

This is a Land of Fiction, a place where fictional characters end up when they are no longer of any use. They bide their time, in various retirement homes until the day they may be called into action again. Some go away and come back looking like a totally different person - it happened to my friend John Watson a little while ago. He was young and dashing and then when he came back he was about a foot shorter and wearing modern clothes. He went again this morning; he'll probably come back looking different again.

So I am not real, and yet I am the Eighth Doctor. I have two hearts, knowledge of Time Travel and Daleks, I fought the Master in San Francisco on December 31st 1999, I kissed Grace, I ran barefoot in the park, I saved the Earth. The experiences are as real to me as yours are to you. I think, therefore I am.

Yet there are several other versions of me here too! In the fiction I change, I become a new person, and now, when I change, the old version turns up here too. Most cling onto the image that they're real, although some suspect. It's a huge thing to accept that you are fictional, that your every thought and utterance was written and performed by someone else. I think Doctor Seven knew and he ended up in the nutty wing, in a strait jacket, with only an hour a day's freedom to play his spoons under armed guard.

Why am I different? I think it's because I was only Doctor Who for a brief time. I did one episode, a pilot for a proposed revival by the Americans (that's why I like tea so much, because that's what our cousins believe we are like). The show wasn't picked up and so that was it, here I was. I was the one hit wonder, the George Lazenby of Doctor Who. I wasn't even in the first half hour! I think because my character was so new, so untouched, that there was more room for me to develop here. I had fewer foibles written into my character, less backstory. As an almost blank slate I have more free will than the others. Or maybe it's because I'm half human on my mother's side.

So I am not real, yet I exist, and a life's a life, even if it is fictional. We're well looked after, by pleasant nursing staff, although I can look after myself. My room resembles my TARDIS control room from when I was the Doctor. I have an endless supply of jelly babies...things could be far worse.

Yet I'm uneasy. There's a change afoot. One characteristic my Doctor has is a nose for these things: something's wrong. I heard a rumour this week that Dr Legg, the man who manages our home, has mysteriously moved on. No one has seen his replacement yet, but we can hear things, things behind closed doors. And this morning the nurses were different. I mean they looked the same, but they weren't the same. They don't smile anymore and their faces are strangely shiny...

THE DOCTOR

The Saviour Speaks

Alright?

You know who I am? Yup, I'm him: the bloke who saved Doctor Who.

Look at these other versions of me, sat around in their fookin' fancy dress. I tell ya, I wanna jus' giv' 'em a slap. That one in the scarf? Slap. That ponce in the cricket PJs? Slap. The ol' fella in the bow tie and the smokin' jacket? A double slap. Listen to 'em when they open their gobs, lah de da, la de dah! How are you meant to believe this bunch of RP meths could stand up to Cybermen and Daleks? I mean, get real! You don't save the Universe wearin' a fookin' cravat!

Let's be honest, everyone had forgotten about me. I was a fond memory, and an endless array of jokes about wobbly sets, crappy monsters, and Daleks not being able to go up stairs. I was totally in the past, a has-been, a never-again. I mean, my eighth incarnation had one adventure! One! No one apart from blokes called Clive gave a toss. It was embarrassin'.

And then I came along, and made everyone love me again. And I didn't do it by wearin' fookin' question marks, or by having a comedy hat, or by speakin' like Prince Charles. No, I kept it real, in me leather jacket, bovver boots and buzz cut. When the evils of the Universe saw me comin' they thought: "I ain't fookin' messin' wi' him!" And they'd be right. C'ere Davros, Slap! Oi, Slitheen, Slap! The Master? I'll slap that girly little goatee into next fookin' week! Seeing my simple silhouette advancing along a corridor would even make a Sontaran mess itself.

Ya don't save the fookin' Universe dressed like this!

When I was the Doctor, it meant somethin', my adventures meant somethin'. It wasn't just space stuff, it was drama, mate, proper drama! You think we went to Downin' Street and fought fartin' aliens! But really we were making a comment on the War in Iraq. Do you see? It was subtle: you might've missed it. They said there were alien weapons that could destroy earth in 45 minutes. D'ya see now? That's cutting edge social commentary. This is edgy, this is gritty, this is current; this is fookin' Art!

In another one we commented on the meedja. All news was contolled by an alien, drip feeding it to the masses. Bitin' satire, that was. I'd like to see them others doing that. What about that one with the Dalek? I did some proper drama in that! Should've won an award, or somethin'. I was fookin' emoting my arse off in that one. Did'ya see it? That was commenting on the effects of war an' stuff. Me and the Dalek had been traumatised by the fookin' Time Wor. That's real drama, not runnin' around on spacestations...well, I did run around on spacestations, but in a proper dramatic way. I may have been runnin' around a corridor, but if you look at my face, you can see I'm thinking about the Time Wor, in a proper dramtic way. It's like fookin' Shakespeare.

My adventures were like this, only without the cissy crown and gowns bollocks.

But it all turned sour. I had a little peek into my future and saw that I was lined up to fight robot santas on Christmas day, and meet cat nurses. Where's the gritty realism in that? I can't be doin' edgy drama, where I kiss a guy one week and then be poncin' around fighin' fookin' santa the next! It's demeaning. I'm the saviour of Doctor Who, and this is how they treat me, so I thought, Sod this, and regenerated. Now I'm back in a bow tie and mincin' about the TARDIS like one of the judges from Strictly Come Dancin' and I don't mean Len. So much for proper gritty, edgy fookin' drama!

Keep it real,

THE DOCTOR

I Have Feelings, You Know!

Greetings. I am known as the Doctor.

Let's get a few things straight. Firstly, I've heard them all before, so don't bother. Yes, My outfit is ridiculous; yes, I am slightly more rotund that the average Doctor; yes, I was not everyone's cup of tea; and yes, I regenerated by falling over onto my own TARDIS floor. So, go on, say your worst; it can't be worse than what I've already heard in here.

I reside, in this Retirement Home for Ex-Doctors, with nine versions of myself. That's odd in itself, but at least you'd think I'd get some sympathy, but no, they all take the piss out of me. I had such high hopes, you know. I came bursting into existance, once Perfect Peter had sacrificed himself to save Peri, full of vim and vigour. I had such plans! No more Mr Sweet, with his manners and his stiff upper lip. I felt released, unchained, ready to do battle with whatever evils the Universe had to offer. I had curly hair again (I love curly hair) and could feel a bit more package in the old trouser department. Things were certainly looking up.

But I never had ANY luck. Has there been an unluckier Doctor than me? Has there?? HAS THERE?!? First I get Post Regenerative Trauma, which had a few unfortunate side effects, such as me attempting to murder my companion. Didn't really start off things well, did it? It also gave me unpredictable mood swings, you know, impulsive one minute, cowardly the next. It was almost as if there was someone up there writing my life and they really didn't like me much. I mean, what possessed me to pick this outfit? It is bloody awful. No one in the Universe would take this outfit seriously. Even Timmy Mallet wouldn't have worn it. One Dalek laughed so hard he exploded. The Master was always teasing me, and he had a goatee and wore velvet. Why didn't I just put on the old ruffled shirt and smoking jacket? A classic look. It would have made such a difference.

I had no luck with my companions either. Peri? Peri?? PERI?!? What a pain in the arse. Moan, moan, moan. If she wasn't having any fun why didn't she go home? I'd have gladly taken her. Why did Nutty Tom get Sarah Jane? I'd have killed for a Sarah Jane (not literally - I told you, that was Post Regenerative Trauma!), or even a Leela. Jamie would have been good. I met him, during that Sontaran affair. Should have asked my Second self if he'd fancied a trade.



What a surprise - she's moaning again.

 I was also pretty unlucky in some of my adventures. Yes, I fought Cybermen, Sontarans, Daleks and the Master but I kept feeling I'd kind of done it before. I'd throw myself into things, with a breezy air, but I don't remember it being much fun; it all seemed a bit violent and nasty at times. I ended up in some dodgy places too: the ice tombs of Telos, the prison planet Varos, a funeral parlour, the North; not the most desirable locations. Where was the glamour? Where was the wonder? And next to me, endlessly moaning and whinging, was Peri. Maybe I should have just strangled her in the first place.

I got quite down actually, and took a few months off, you know, to recharge and rethink things. I took to comfort eating, putting away two tubs of Ben and Jerry's in a sitting. I pretended things were fine, but I felt lost; I felt as if I wasn't fulfilling my potential. I truly believed I could be the best of the Doctors, the brightest, the most memorable. I planned to travel for years, yet something, I don't know what, was holding me back. My adventures seemed much less violent, and more than a little silly.

What AM I doing??

Then the Time Lords placed me on trial. On trial? ON TRIAL?!? Talk about bad luck! Who'd have thought, after being put on trial when I was Doctor Pat, that lightning would strike twice? My whole life seemed to be one long Deja Vu! I lost Peri and picked up that crazy ginger fitness fanatic, Mel Bush. (Mel Bush? If you had that last name, wouldn't you change it?) I ran around, doing my bit, but to be honest, I didn't really understand what was going on. The Master was up to something and then my Prosecutor, the Valeyard, turned out to be an evil future alternative version of me! I know! it's crazy! (He's probably in here somewhere, I mean, he is technically a Doctor.) Then I left with Mel before I'd even met her. Bonkers. I once tried to get the later Doctors (apart from the knome - he's in the psych ward) to explain it to me. They just looked at me, shrugged and laughed at my jacket.

Ha! I'm the only one man enough to grow a beard!

But I have feelings you know. I may seem arrogant and rude and repeat things in an increasingly louder voice but it's just insecurity. I just want to be loved; I just want to be accepted. To be honest, I tend to stay away from the other Time Lords. I wander into the other wing sometimes and mingle with some non Time Lord Doctors. There's a nice chap from the 23rd century, Dr McCoy, who plays some Scrabble with me, now and again. To him, my outfit is pretty tame by 23rd century standards. Primary colours were in then, apparently. Dr Watson seems nice, if a little serious.

Just remember this: I tried my best. No one wanted to be a better Doctor Who than me, you know. So think of that before you call me a colour blind lard bucket.

The Ultimate Enemy: The Mid-Life Crisis

Is this thing on? Hello? Hello? Ah! There you are, Chesterfield!

Yes, it's me, the Doctor - THE Doctor, not one of these Johnny come latecomers, hee hee! The original, and still the best! I've been following the adventures of my future selves and they've been interesting - very, very interesting! Well, there's not much else to do at the Ex-Doctors Retirement Home, other than watch the soaps (I'm a Corrie man) and look forward to my sponge bath.

It's an odd thing, being surrounded by future versions of myself. I'm the youngest, yet physically I appear the oldest. Many look to my as old wisdom, which is daft, when you think about it, as they are all older. I'M the young Doctor, not that new fellow with the long fingers and the funny face! Hmmm?

It was all different in my day, you know Chatterton. My modern adventures seem very fast and exhausting. I watched one the other day and it gave me a headache, all running and screaming and music and monsters! I think my early adventures were better, in calm black and white, with plots that took at least an hour to get going. One had a chance to relax into things, to feel one's way. None of this waving a sonic whatsit about, or jumping off of things. That's what you were there for Chesterhatch! Yes indeed!

I must confess I find some of my newer selves a trifle...embarrassing. They seem to think that because they get a younger body that they are younger. But they're not. Look at the way I've been dressing lately. The rot set in around the time of my fifth incarnation. I started weating shirts with question marks on the collar and then that awful question mark tank top and umbrella. Ghastly - look at me, I'm enigmatic. No, you're not, dear fellow, you're a fashion disaster!

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

It got even worse when I started trying to be trendy. What was that leather jacket look about, Chestofdrawers? And then the skinny suit and those training shoes! Oh dear. Worse, I started using hair products to make it all spiky. More than enough evidence to suggest a serious mid-life crisis. Next thing I'll be getting an earring and marrying Callista Flockheart (I read Hello too, so know all the celebrity gossip)!

And as for my behaviour, sometimes I blush for myself! I've become a dirty old man! In my day, I travelled with my grand daughter and two school teachers! My adventures were wholesome and educational! We met Marco Polo, Aztecs, Nero, Richard the Lionheart! I didn't lust after shop girls! That Rose Tyler was 19! 19! I'm now over 900! That's disgusting! She's young enough to be my great-great-great-great...um...you get the idea, hmmm? Now I'm kissing everything! Martha, Amy Pond, Kylie Minogue! Imagine if Bruce Forsyth starting pawing that nice Tess Daly? That's how I feel about it.

Stop that! You're 900 years old!

They normally calm down once they arrive here. Doctor Seven is still in the Psychiatrict Wing but the others normally settle down. Doctor Eight keeps escaping to do Voice Overs, but Nine and Ten have joined our Bridge nights. They're a little...common, these new ones, but they're still me, and one must be charitable.

Ah, Chestinfection, here comes the nurse. Time for my sponge bath! Must go, hee, hee, hmmmm?

THE DOCTOR

I Was Killed By Peri's Bosom

Hello, the Doctor here. No, not THAT one, why does everyone always thing of Old Show Off in his scarf? No, this is his replacement, Doctor Five! What was that? Who just called out 'the wet vet?' That's not funny, you know. SOMEONE had to follow Old Show Off, and it just happened to be me. If you are mature and discerning, you will see that my time as Doctor Who was one of quality and fine acting, rather than hamming it up and wandering up Soho sloshed with daleks. Look at my adventures - did anyone else go back to prehistoric Earth in Concorde? I rest my case.

I used to take some solace that, although I was doomed to always be in Old Show Off's shadow, I would always be the young and handsome one. I mean, look at when I was Doctor Bill - now there's a face for radio - and need I mention Doctor Knome? I would always remain the housewive's choice.

And then that bloody (pardon my language) David Ten-Inch comes along. With his eyes and his teeth and his gelled hair. And he's young! That was my USP! To add salt to the wounds I ended up in one of his episodes with the time differential shorted out, so I looked bloody (pardon the language) ancient. I'd got fat as well. I looked like Colin. It was mortifying. The new one's young too but, thank Rassilon, he's funny looking.

Bloody (pardon the language) Ten-Inch got so much action as well. Every companion was throwing themselves at him, even the male ones! I would've killed to have had Rose Tyler in my TARDIS; lovely bit of rough there. Martha wasn't half bad either. Donna reminded me too much of that nightmare Australian Tegan, who hung around forever giving me grief.

It's not fair. I was the young and dashing Doctor and I didn't get one legover in my entire tenure, and I was surrounded by young flesh. With my last assignation with Trevor the Zygon, back when I was Old Show Off, a distant and unpleasant memory, I was desperate for a bit of how's your father. I think I could have got in Nyssa's skirts but. of course, there was Adric.

Adric. The very name makes me wince. What was I thinking of bringing him along in the TARDIS? I'm sure Old Show Off did it for a laugh, knowing he would soon be off. Adric was his parting 'gift' to me. He only had one pair of space pyjamas which he wore all the time, so he smelt, and he cut his own hair with a bowl. And any, ANY time, I was about to make the move on Nyssa, he'd bound along with his notebook, asking me for the time and spatial coordinates for somewhere or other. I think he thought I was his dad or something. Truth to be told, I probably could have got back to that space freighter and rescued him before it crashed into the Earth; I just didn't try that hard.

Things got more promising later on. I finally offloaded the Australian and then Turlough brings back this beauty he's rescued from the sea, in the galaxy's smallest bikini (the girl, not Turlough). First thing I did was 'accidentally' land the TARDIS on the planet his brother lived on, meaning he went home, leaving me with the delectably curvy Peri Brown. Woof!

She was perfect: not too bright, easily impressed, and with a habit of wearing very little. I knew it would only be a matter of time before we started playing 'hide the sonic screwdriver'. My problem was I left it too late. It I had been old Ten-Inch, I'd have smarmed her into the bedroom in moments, but, in my fifth incarnation, I was a little more reserved, and far too nice.

Then I hit on a great plan. I let us get 'accidentally' poisoned by raw Spectrox, resulting in me having to be all noble and heroic and rescuing her from certain death. Trouble is, to make it convincing, I had to start to bring on my regeneration, but stave it off at the last moment, leading to her undying gratitude. Things were going great, I'd defeated the bad guy, got an antidote, given it to her, pretended I'd needed it but sacrificed myself for her. She was all emotional and had me propped up on her legs, leaning over me and all I could see was an endless expanse of cleavage. It was so bloody (pardon the language) marvellous I lost all my concentration, forgot to hold back, had a premature regeneration and became bloody (pardon the language) Colin. So I was effectively killed by Peri's bosom.

So I put in all the hard work and Colin gets to travel with Peri and her endless array of skimpy outfits. It's all a waste too, as Doctor Six is only really interested in himself; his ideal date would be with a mirror, or an android duplicate. Many a day here at the Ex-Doctors Retirement Home I've rued that one.

Anyway, must go, I can see Colin wobbling along. I don't want to get caught by him, he'll be moaning about his trial again.

Brave Heart!

THE DOCTOR