Chapter One: The Gallifreyan Patient (Or "Get Your Hands off My Chopper Matron Binoche")

I am aware, dear humanoids, that since my sudden disappearance last week, rumours have abounded about my credentials. Well let me assure you, that my credentials are fully intact, or at least they are now that Matron Binoche has sewn them back on with a trussing needle.


I cannot deny that your lack of faith in me has hurt me deeply. In fact I haven’t been so deeply hurt since I accidentally fell backwards onto a Dalek and felt the full thrust of his suction cup where the red sun never shines. Some have said I am all mouth and no trousers, just like my old chum the Face of Boe Derek, who’s always happy to let me pop in when I’m in the neighbourhood. Some have suggested that I have been ensconced in Fagiros with that iffeminate FBI agent Dale Cooper - and to be fair it isn’t for the lack of him trying. The most hurtful suggestion has been that I have no balls at all and have abandoned my beautiful sisters of Plenitude to the dark forces of The Master, Sir Roger Povey. No! No I say!

How could you think that of me? To leave the luscious Mistress Louise and her magnificent Olympus Mons, or Sergeant Nikkster Nikerata and her finely tuned cloning skills, (which I believe in the galaxy of Twitter is called ‘retweeting’). How could I possibly leave Keoghsie of Kastopheria who constantly watches my back passage in case an Android emerges or KermitMash, my spunky reptilian warrier, who fights off Captain Jack if he pops up uninvited. Do you really think I would run away from my tiny little Graske, Lavins, who’s always happy to do the honours while she’s down there, or my lusty Pre-Raphaelite crespallion Nae Hutch? What about my potty-mouthed Cristal, a young Barbara Windsor with a smell that takes me back to the rotting vegetation of the Jaconda or, last by not least, my devoted assistant Fluffy Becks, who is always waiting all soft, fluffy, and pink to ensure I’m always erect and ready for action.

Did you really think I had disappeared with my tail between my legs girls? Did you really think I’d crumble? Did you think I’d lay down and die? Oh no not I ! Not Doctor ... Blimey, I really must stop going clubbing with Zennmaster and the Usal of Arakis.

The simple fact of the matter is that after my manhood was compromised by Sir Roger de Lodgerley’s chopper in the court of Sir Alan Sugar, I was left horribly maimed in the Forest of Death. If Matron Binoche hadn’t skipped by in her little red cape and peephole bra, popped my bazoolium in her coolbox and stitched it back on – and may I just say that she’s got a very strong grip for someone who can carve a butterfly from a slab of fudge – I would indeed have crossed the cusp from bass to soprano. Now as I lie here with Matron waiting to make a full recovery, bored to death with her covering my nuts in Bourneville, I can’t help but think back to all the mistakes I have made in my life. Yes it's pretty great being a hunk of spunk, but if only I could travel back in time, before that freak tardis pile up that turned me into quadrasexual.

I was indeed a one woman man once, and there was only one woman for me. Edna, the delicate 6 ft 4.5 Norfolk beauty, who seduced me like no woman ever did before or ever has since. Edna, dear Edna, how she entranced me as she danced on Dido with the desert breeze rustling through her ebony curls - and when she took off her hat, I could see that the hair on her head was just as beautiful. She was wasted on that enormous great Sycorax of a husband then and she is now.

I’ll never forget the day I winched her up onto my Quantum Accelerator and ravished her to the magical music of the The Harp of Rassilon. And then that joyful evening when she agreed to escape with me in my new Lada Paradox machine - only to crash in the desert of Karn. Oh cruel, cruel fate. How I regret leaving her in that cave, and accidentally forgetting about her for 300 years. What could I do? A gang of carrionites invited me to a witch-swapping party on Amanopia and I forgot the time. I can’t close my eyes now without being haunted by the sight that faced me when I returned to that cave. Nothing but a dry pile of empty spam tins and, the word TWAT scratched by a weak forefinger in the gravel.

I thought after all these years of torment, the pain was over, I thought my heart as well as my Roger Melly had finally healed – but then I saw her again and it was as if it was all yesterday. That same proud neck , the jaunty hat, and a nose you could swipe your Barclaycard on. I knew it had to be her when I saw her advertising her quiz, just as she used to do when I took her up the barracks every Wednesday in 1942.

Now, dear humanoids, as I lay, weak and broken, trying as hard as I might to fight off Matron Binoche’s attempts to massage me with mochalocha fudge sauce, all I can do is pray that one day I’ll have the chance to travel back in time to change my story. One day I will be reunited with my Edna. Until then, I’ll just have to fly wherever my tardis takes me and shag anything that moves. Although to be fair, there’s a lot to be said for a George Michael too