Homemade Who: My Doctor Who Script. Part 1.

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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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Big eyed, blank faced, nightmare children.

These pictures fill me with horror.

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More vintage crumpet.

Every now and again I get the urge to cast my net through the depths of the internet and drag it for delicious images of old/dead people. Come! See what treasures I have found!

Roger Moore

Roger started out as a successful knitwear model, and I bet dirty old women across the land were dropping stitches all over the place, eh?

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Sean Connery

Was a body builder apparently. Or maybe he just liked chilling in his pants. *Severe danger of the boys breaking out of the barracks here.

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 Eric Sykes

Why not?

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James Cagney

Short arsed and ginger? Probably the most awesome man to have ever tap-danced down a set of stairs or juiced a grapefruit on someone’s face.

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Orson Welles

I LOVE a man with a typewriter. If you throw a pipe and a beard in the mix, then you just know I’m going to be clapping like a seal on ecstasy.

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Harrison Ford

In speedos!!!

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Sparks

Ronald and Russell Mael. I don’t think I can explain this one adequately, so I’m not going to bother.

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Rock Hudson

Rock Hudson was awesome. See him unflinchingly take a blow to the nethers…

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Christopher Lambert

Cross eyed, Gallic, love God. There can be only one.

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DJ Otzi and Glo Sticks.

A few years ago, when you came to visit us, here in Australia, you livened up a bus trip back to our house by shouting ‘Jesus Christ!’, quite loudly, when our inexperienced driver hit a pot hole at top speed. Like, really loudly. It was a pretty standard Clayton response, but the entire bus turned to stare at us, and had obviously never witnessed such unfettered disgruntlement. It was glorious. I like to think of that moment every time I travel back on the same bus, and hit the same pot hole. Then I usually think of the millions of funny things that you did or said, that still make me laugh out loud when they pop into my head. Like when we went to see that dreadful Kurt Russell movie, ‘Unlawful Entry’ and you shouted ‘Shoot him, Kurt!’ during the tense ‘Psycho is only pretending to be dead and will spring back to life suddenly’ style finale. Or the time you flew 10,000 miles with a concealed Mr. Blobby costume and nearly gave me a heart attack by rushing into the front room wearing it, unannounced. Funny.

And that’s how we spent your birthday. Thinking of you being funny and having an indoor disco, with flashing lights, glo sticks, whilst listening to that CD you made Alex for his 11th birthday. You know, the one that starts with DJ Otzi’s ‘Hey Baby’. (Thanks for that.) God, there were some shockingly bad songs on that CD, Sarah. That’s why I treasure it.
I even baked sausage rolls after work, though I was in a rush, and they did look a bit like diagrams of horribly botched circumcisions. Tasted fine though. Suffice to say, we finished up doing the Can Can whilst listening to Bad Manners, even though we were absolutely stuffed full of sausage, crisps and sweets. I like to think you would have approved, Sarah. I woke up this morning covered in spent glo bracelets and with caramelised onion flavoured potato chips in my teeth. If there is a more appropriate way to celebrate the spirit of you on your birthday, I’d be very surprised. Love you.

Splodge. x

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The Professionals Poetry Corner Part 2

Part 2 of The Professionals Poetry Corner.

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This time we turn our attention to agent 3.7, or Bodie, and his mind boggling collection of unpleasant leather jackets. Don’t worry this one is super short.

Leather or not, here he comes…

Bodie liked a bit of leather

And a polo neck in colder weather

He favoured varying shades of tan

And had eyebrows just like Action Man.

bodie catalgoue2.pdf-page-001

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The Professionals’ Poetry Corner Part 1.

What is it with poets and corners anyway? Are they like cockroaches and simply prefer to hide in dark corners, to avoid being swept away by brooms or being squashed by a woman wielding a flip-flop? Eh? Daft emo scribblers!

To accompany my series of Professionals themed twaddle, I have written some suitably toe curling poetry for your reading pleasure. First up, a poem about my mum’s favourite; curly haired, pert waisted Ray Doyle.

A Cherub in Beige Slacks

Raymond Doyle is a sensitive chap,

He reads all kind of philosophical crap.

Listening to his LPs of Mantovani,

He’ll make you a cracking lamb biryani.

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A dead eyed shot and a karate master,

No-one can run through a warehouse faster;

With bouncing curls and sardonic air,

And that weird cheekbone that just shouldn’t be there.

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He’s fond of shades and lemon shirts,

And classy girls in maxi skirts.

A charming boy, unless shouting at Cowley;

When you find his voice gets all deep and growly.

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Though he works for the government, he ain’t that patriotic.

He’s just far too busy being homo-erotic.

You see, he and his partner are truly devoted;

All that unnecessary touching should definitely be noted.

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So hot-headed Doyle, with your morals and doubts,

With your giggles and big-eyed angelic pouts,

The thing that’s become very clear to me

You’re a scruffy, bruised cherub in a Ford Capri.

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The Professionals in Lego

I bet you’re thinking, “Why hasn’t she done any of her cool Lego stuff recently, I loved that.” Yeah? Well, truth is, I have been a bit busy, and also my son banned me from mucking up his neat Lego minifig display. I’ve had to wait until he was in a good enough mood before I could go in and steal stuff.

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Ok, The professionals. What is not to love about this 70’s gem, eh? Tan leather jackets. Bubble perms on men. Banter about liver sausage.

Naturally, I had to capture the epic boyish fantasy that is ‘The Professionals’, in all it’s blokey glory as part of my increasingly sporadic series, that I might start calling ‘Stuff I made out of Lego’.

To be honest the show’s grimy, dismal tones don’t exactly lend themselves to the bright, primary colours of Lego, but if you squint or bugger around with the colours on your computer maybe it might just work.

I also apologise now for not having the right hair for Martin Shaw. Just imagine he’s been caught in the rain or something.

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And BTW It’s incredibly hard to get a lego fig to leap over anything and not just look like it’s just standing wonkily. Not quite sure I pulled it off.

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Though I do feel I gain extra points for getting minifigs with Martin Shaw’s ‘interesting’ cheekbone arrangement, Gordon Jackson’s grumpiness and Lewis Collins’ ‘hardman’ eyebrows. Go me!

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