Don't call me a stalker

This is all a bit embarrassing.

Looked at from the outside one could get the impression that I am a stalker. But it's not like that - it really isn't. Have you never been in love? Not just 'I fancy you' love, or 'we could have a future together' love, or 'you're my soul mate' love. I'm talking about love that is so intense, so visceral, that it actually hurts. This is love that transends everything, that dominates, that completes. This is the type of love that you have to pursue because, without it, it's like missing a part of you, like a limb. Doctor Who is my life.

I knew from the moment I first saw him. We were supposed to be enemies, what with us Zygons based in Scotland, attempting to take over the world with the Loch Ness Monster. A bonkers plan, I know, but Broton, our leader was a bit bonkers. I said to him: "Broton, mate, do we really need to draw attention to ourselves by letting that stupid great cyborg fish go biting up human oil rigs?" His suckers starting going a dangerous purple colour so I quickly made an exit.

Me and Broton in happier times

I was right though. The authorities got involved, with UNIT turning up with soldiers and guns and then he appeared, a vision in velvet and couderoy, with that wide brimmed hat and huge scarf. The other Zygons couldn't stop laughing, I mean the very concept of clothes is alien to us, so someone who wore such ridiculous ones was a laugh riot. But I knew. I knew that this wasn't a guy to mess with, that under all the nonsense was a being of extreme intelligence and cunning, a wisdom born of centuries. I also knew he was dead fit.

I mean, just look at him - those curls, those blue eyes, those teeth, that tall commanding presence - and that VOICE, OMG, I go weak at the knees when I hear it. It's like Zygon pleasure honey poured over your bits on a sunny day. I knew I had to have him. Obviously this was a little complicated. There was no time for small talk what with him blowing the Zygons to kingdom come and foiling our master plan. I barely escaped, and spent the next few years disguised as various earth people hiding out and waiting.

Phwoarrr!

That is the bonus of being a shapeshifter, it does come in awfully useful sometimes. As a lover of British TV I spent several years disguised as Peter Purves on Blue Peter. That was fun. I also spent a year as Carrie Fisher - that was an eye opener. All the time I kept my ear to the ground listening for when he would turn up again. Finally I got word that the blue box had turned up in Brighton. I headed down there and on the beach saw him in a deckchair. He hadn't aged well and was decked out in burgandy, which didn't suit him. There was the usual floozy, some blonde waif, and the naffest looking robot dog in all of the cosmos. Had an even more stupid name, as I recall.

It was child's play to adopt the guise of a deckchair attendant, lure the floozy away, stick her in a beach hut and adopt her appearance. Then I asked the Doctor to help me check the Spatial Whatsit, bent over a lot, and before too long gave him the green light. That was a very successful weekend, let me tell you. Then it went wrong. The waif, Romana, got out and I made a hasty retreat. Worse, he presumed the fun and games were still on and she didn't mind at all. I'd set them up! It was heartbreaking.

Years later, after I'd finally managed to escape Earth, I bumped into him again. he was all morose over Romana going and was pretty drunk. I dared to show him my true self and we had a rather unsatisfactory fumble, that turned into a drunken week of debauchery. Then he was gone and I was heartbroken again.

Imagine my surprise when I learnt that he could change his appearance! We now had even more in common! Life need never get routine or boring if your partner could have over 10 different bodies! I made my way to the retirement Home, adopted a suitable guise and started my exploration of which Doctor would be best in the sack.

They're not all great - the first is ancient and would have trouble raising a smile, and the second is a bit ugly. The third is pompous and the fifth wet. The sixth fat and the seventh mad. The eighth is much more promising and as for the tenth - hello sailor! Here's one to give Doctor Tom a run for his money. I soon adopted a suitable appearance and, boy, I was not disappointed - Ten-Inch indeed!

But I had to be nosy, and now here I am, found out, in front of my true loves like a naughty schoolboy in front of the headmaster.

"For Rassilon's sake, Kevin," thundered Doctor Tom (he's so masterful when he's angry). "You have to stop doing this!"

"So," said Doctor David. "I actually spent a night of lust with a Zygon and not a Bond girl?"

"Yup," I smiled. "And I was the best you've ever had!"

"Gentlemen," said Dr Paul, looking gorgeous, "we're presented with an opportunity here. Kevin can become anyone. He can assume the appearance of a nurse, or Dr No himself and just walk out of the doors."

"And then what?" said haughty Doctor Jon. "We're still in here, surely."

"As good as we are," continued Doctor Paul, "as many times as we have escaped from places, this is different. Our sonics don't work and there are autons everywhere. There is no room for surprise, or improvisation."

"So what do we do, Chesterfield," said Doctor Bill, "hmmm?"

"Down the road," the delicious Doctor Paul continued, "is the Ex-Officers retirement Home-"

"The Brigader!" excalimed Doctor Jon. "Of course!"

"I don't mean dear Alastair," said Doctor Paul, the light shining off of his lustrous locks. "Rumour has it that there resides there a group of ex-soldiers, adept at pulling off the impossible and the ridiculous. They hire themselves out to help those in need."

"I remember them," said Doctor Colin. "They played havoc with my viewing figures. Four of them, a Unit."

"UNIT?" Doctor Jon's ears perked up.

Doctor Paul continued in that voice of his, perfect for any voiceover from cheese to banking. "We have a problem, no-one else can help and we know where to find them. Maybe we could hire..."

He paused. The whole room looked at him. I could feel a major boner developing.

"The A-Team."

Will Kevin the Zygon escape and find the A-team? Tune in next time!

Conference of the Doctors!

Hello? Can you hear me? Is this thing on? Oh, there you are! How nice to see you again!

It's all very exciting here! Turns out the nurses are plastic! Apparently I'll be fighting these things when I'm the Dandy! Not sure about plastic nurse - it all seems a little scary to me. I mean, Cybermen on the moon is one thing, but plastic nurses? What next? Plastic policemen? Aren't we a kids' show?

Where was I? Oh yes! We all went off to Dr Paul's room for a conference. What a charming console room he has! People don't seem to be to nice to Dr Paul, you know. I remember Dr Tom saying he 'wasn't canon', although I'm not sure what that means. Dr Paul's room has lovely comfy chairs and a Jules Verne feel. He also has a 500 years diary like I used to have. I feel quite at home. I think there may even be a recorder lying around somewhere.

Wonder if he'd do a room swap?

"Right," said Dr Dandy, trying to take control as always. "Let's recap the problem, shall we? Hostile takeover, Auton nurses, prisoners in our own Home, escape plan needed?"

"Can't we just telepathically communicate, like we used to?" I asked. "Much quicker, isn't it?"

"I ain't fooking doing that poncy 'Contact' bollocks," said Dr Chris. "It's embarrassin' and not proper drama."

"Just as well," said Dr Tom, who had somehow found and mixed himself a whiskey and soda. "I wouldn't Contact with you if my lives depended on it."

"You had plenty of contact with Trevor the Zygon," whispered Dr Colin.

"What was that, inferior Baker?" Tom growled.

"You watch yer mouth," said Dr Chris stepping right up to Dr Tom. "Or you'll get a slap."

"You got bitch slapped by Jackie Tyler," said Dr Tom quietly. "Don't embarrass yourself. Sit down."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Dr Paul, arriving with a tray of tea things. "This is getting us nowhere, is it? Remember, we're all the same person and we're all in the same boat."

"Allegedly," said Dr Tom sharply.

"The situation's obvious, innit?" said Dr David. They call him Ten-Inch but I don't know why. "Something's up here. This Dr No is part of a bigger plan, innit? We're gotta get outta 'ere and stop it!"

"Here, here," said Dr Bill waving his stick and accidentally clonking Dr Peter on the head. "We stop this Dr Yes, er No, find the evil in charge, and plan his elaborate foil!"

"But how?" asked Dr Colin. "Our sonic screwdrivers don't work in the Home, and the nurses are Autons. They are armed."

"If we could rustle up a spoon, a tin plate, some string, a cork and a copy of Women's Weekly, I could lash something up," said Dr Jon, with a gleam in his eye.

"There is an easier way," said Dr Paul. "We could find someone who just walks out of the door and goes and gets help."

"Who can just walk out of the door? What about the auton nurses?" asked Dr Peter.

Dr Paul smiled and walked over to the door, opened it and Dr Goodhead, who had been listening, tumbled in.

"Holly?" exclaimed Dr David, "What are you doing here? Why are you spying on us?"

"That's not Dr Goodhead," said Dr Paul. "Dr Goodhead has been locked in the linen cupboard since teatime yesterday."

"That's not possible!" said Dr David. "Last night we were..."

"What, old chap?" I asked with a twinkle.

"Oh God," said Dr Tom. "Please tell me it's not."

"Time to reveal yourself, Kevin," said Dr Paul.

Dr Goodhead smiled ruefully and then began to shimmer. She gradually changed from a pretty young woman into an orange creature, with no neck, covered in suckers - a bit like that Earth woman Jordan.

Oh my Giddy Aunt! That's not Dr Goodhead!

"Ha!" said Dr Chris, waving a finger at Dr David. "You shagged a Zygon! You shagged a Zygon!"

For once, Dr David had nothing to say.

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.