Homemade Who: My Doctor Who Script. Part 1.

 cap19

Opening Scene

Night-time in a dark, dirty city alley. A smartly dressed, arrogant man paces impatiently. He is clearly waiting for someone, and shady business is most likely afoot. He sees movement in the darkness and calls out.

Man:

(Rudely) It’s about time. I was about to…

He pauses. A strong wind blows down the alley; papers and dust fly up in his face. He swirls to see a small shimmering patch on the alley wall. A woman’s voice calls out from the darkness.

Voice:

(Gaily) Just relax. The process is much less painful when you aren’t clenching anything.

Man:

(Confused)What?

An elegant feminine hand reaches out from the shadows holding some kind of alien torch. It shines in the man’s eyes and we see an instant change to his pupils. They become feline in appearance. He screams and falls to the ground. His cries quickly become strangely muffled, until there is a chilling silence. We pan to see his clothes crumpled and empty on the alley pavement. A frightened cat is hissing and crouching in fear next to the man’s fallen wallet. We can see his smug face on his driver’s license.

Esmerelda steps out of the shadows and is revealed to be a striking, middle-aged, white woman with remarkably structured hair, a knee-length pencil shirt and horn rimmed glasses. Her lipstick is the brightest, most savage shade of crimson, and her whole persona excludes absolute malevolence and the highest degree of outrageous, milf-esque villainy. The cat shrinks away from her opaque stockinged leg. Esmerelda purrs. The camera pans around to show the wall in the alleyway melt away into a swirling, whirling circle of shimmering light, like it was a portal to another world, or dimension. Or something. Esmerelda scoops up the cat under her arm, and prepares to step into the portal.

Esmerelda:

Come along Tiddles. Someone has an appointment with the vet.

Title sequence

Scene 2

The Doctor is swishing around his control deck. Clara’s eyes are wide with delight and wonder about something. As she walks around her hair  is mesmerising. Amazingly shiny and bouncing beautifully on her shoulders, almost like she’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

 The Doctor:

I’m bored, Clara! Bored! And hungry! Hungry hyphen bored!

 He twirls about, flamboyantly. Like a matador with an itch he can’t quite reach. Then he slumps on his console, like a defeated child.

The Doctor:

 Hungry and bored and depressed.  I need a new challenge, Clara. Cooped up in here with a plumpty like you.

Clara looks less wide-eyed and delighted. Even her hair becomes moderately less animated.

(He brightens) I’m actually thinking of installing a wee cooker in this part of the Tardis. Maybe a deep fat fryer? We could start selling tacos from a little window.

The Doctor gestures over to a corner. Clara looks bemused, thus creating maximum dimplage.

Clara:

(Doubtful) Really? Like a cosmic burger van?

 The Doctor: 

Yes, really. But not burgers. Tacos. Everybody loves ’em. Henry VIII loves them; eats them every Thursday after grouse hunting and before Eastenders.

Clara is now looking rather suspicious. She narrows her eyes but still manages to be as cute as a hamster eating a burrito.

The Doctor:

Of course, when I say everybody loves tacos, I’m not including the Yiiitfruuc Peoples of Broox.

 Clara:

(Exasperated) Now why would that be?

The Doctor:

Because they have the unfortunate luck to resemble, exactly resemble, a taco, complete with salad and chilli sauce.

Clara look amazed and wide-eyed. The hair jumps back to attention.

 The Doctor:

Yeah, it’s true. Check on Yiiitfruucikipedia if you want. The last time I knocked up a batch of tacos in Broox, I accidentally ate their Prince Regent. Caused a bit of problem, as you can imagine.

 Clara:

What happened?!

The Doctor:

I had the most distressing case of trapped wind.

Clara shakes her head. Hair reacts accordingly.

The Doctor:

You try buying Windeze in that part of the galaxy. Impossible.

Clara uses her other facial expression.

 Clara:

You don’t make tacos in a deep fat fryer anyway.

The Doctor looks slightly preoccupied but rattles on nonetheless.

 The Doctor:

Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you do. How else can you cover them in deep-fried batter.

The Doctor is staring at a screen on his deck. His eyes betray concern, and maybe even a small quantity of fear. Clara joins him, slowly becoming aware that all may not be as calm as it seems. She continues to play along though, albeit with half-hearted enthusiasm.

 Clara:

Batter?

The Doctor is now almost entirely transfixed by whatever has grasped his attention.

The Doctor:

Yes, a thick coating of batter. You know, to stop the salad from falling out, when you get hit by space debris from a rocket that hasn’t even been built yet.

We hear a humongous crash. The Doctor ducks and rolls across the floor. The Tardis rocks, alarmingly. The Doctor, flies around the controls and adjust levers and settings. We get to see the lining of his jacket, which is nice. There is another impact. Clara, clinging on, looks out of a viewing portal. Strands of hair may be out-of-place, but her adorability is otherwise uncompromised.

Clara:

Doctor? What was that!?

He picks himself up.

 The Doctor:

Nothing.

Clara:

It doesn’t feel much like nothing.

The Doctor is now pulling his hawk-like face; impassive and clearly not going to communicate anything useful.

 Clara:

You said something about Space debris? From a rocket that hasn’t been built yet?

 The Doctor:

(Abruptly) That’s ridiculous.

 Clara:

(Hurt) It’s what you said it was!

 The Doctor:

It’s ridiculous that we are being battered by debris from a rocket because I haven’t even built it yet.

 Clara:

Battered?! (Jokingly) Are we getting deep-fried?

Clara is suddenly worried.

 Clara:

Oh my God. We aren’t are we?

The Doctor:

Actually, there is a deep fat fryer planet somewhere around here. I think I used it to incubate those Zreuv Dragon eggs last week. But my point is, I haven’t actually built the rocket yet. Really, Clara, you must try and keep up.

Clara rolls her eyes.

The Doctor :

I haven’t built the rocket, it hasn’t yet exploded and its extremely dangerous, debris has yet to fly around the galaxy, clumping into The Tardis which might one day sell delicious deep-fried delights from a little window. That is what is ridiculous. And annoying. Because it’s a lot less fun building a whacking great big rocket when you’ve already been pelted by its potentially lethal shrapnel. (Sighs) Really leeches the joy out of the whole endeavour.

Clara flips into serious mode. Serious hair.

Clara:

Is this some kind of time travel prank? Or a memory wipe? Or maybe some kind of hallucinogenic maggot made you do it.

The Doctor:

I’ll have you know, I haven’t touched tequila for 123 years. Not since I woke up and found myself half-naked and chained to Benjamin Disraeli.

Clara’s eyes could not get any wider. She recovers, after a beat.

 Clara:

Why would you even make a rocket anyway, Doctor? Wouldn’t that be a little dangerous? And stupid.

 The Doctor:

(Irritably) I dunno. For a bet?

Clara:

(Aghast) A bet?

The Doctor:

I honestly don’t know. I think it’s one of those times, where things have happened in the future, but I only find out half way through our adventure. Then I do that annoying thing where I suddenly realise what’s happening, but don’t tell you anything. You know? When I berate myself for being a fool whilst also being smug, cryptic and clicking my fingers a lot.

Clara:

Oh yeah. That thing. (Under breath) The Sherlock thing.

The Doctor looks at her askance.

 The Doctor:

I have no idea what you mean.

Clara swiftly changes the subject.

 Clara:

OK. What do we do?

 The Doctor:

We retrace our steps. Forward in time.

 Clara:

We retrace the steps that we haven’t even taken yet?

 The Doctor:

Yes.

 Clara:

(Sarcastically) Isn’t that just called ‘walking’?

The Doctor has already flounced off. Clara shakes her hair, and bounces after him.

End of part 1

Obviously this is a bit of fun and I do not in any way claim to own any rights to anything to do with Doctor Who. Jus’saying.

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About oddboggle

Here are the letters I write to Sarah, aka Sarge, who will be sadly missed but never forgotten.
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2 Responses to Homemade Who: My Doctor Who Script. Part 1.

  1. Val Clayton says:

    Cannot wait for episode 2. You should submit this to Moffat, it is a lot better than some of his.

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