Adam Roberts - Doctor Whom, or E.T. Shoots and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Parodication

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EPILOGUE

My relationship with Lexanco didnt last, of course. The time I spent upon Tapov had its moments, but the main thing I learned there was that I couldnt dance very well. Well, the two things I learned there were, (a) that I couldnt dance very well, and (b) its hard to keep a woman interested in you if you are flabby and pale and badly co-ordinated when that same woman is surrounded by a whole planetful of lithe, muscular, handsome, graceful and co-ordinated males.

Ah well.

But thats not what I want to talk about in this epilogue.

Youve now read my story, tailored out of my own prose, about my experiences with the Dr. If youve read it with any attention you will have spotted a variety of errors of punctuation, and the occasional grammatical solecism. If youve paid even closer attention you may have noticed that the story was not arranged according to the rules of sequential and chronologically-linear development. Everything that the Time Gentlemen represent.

This was done on purpose.

You see, I met up with the ET again. I couldnt stop thinking about his words, to be honest; and when I met him again he was able to convince me.

To convince me that the Time Gentlemanly obsession with rules, order and sequence is not only wrongheaded, but actively dangerous to the cosmos.

To convince me to join him in his campaign to save the universe from the Time Gentlemen.

And if youve been able to follow the story this far - if youve survived this dislocation of narrative - then I hope youll understand. Understand, and maybe join us too...

SPECIAL OFFER! SPECIAL OFFER! SPECIAL OFFER!

Your very own MORONIC SCREWDRIVER!

Only available from Whom Industries plc. Yours for only 399.99 plus postage and packing, placing, platterning and patrolling. And pirouetteing. [Whom plc guarantees that our staff will pirouette at least three times for every order received].

Bothered by screws?

Troubled by bolts?

Tenderised by a meat-tenderiser?

Worried by global warming?

Anxiously uncertain about the English translation of the German angst?

The answer to all your problems is a MORONIC SCREWDRIVER!

Thats right, a MORONIC SCREWDRIVER of your very own! Be king of screws with this handy device.

A professor writes: the usual principle of unscrewing a screw is that a screwdriver must be aligned and inserted in perfect connection with the screw head, and then rotated under pressure not once but many times. This is excessively tiresome, especially to those galactic species whose forearms and wrists are not fitted with the capacity for uninhibited rotation. What is needed is a screwdriver that operates according to a radically new principle. Either that, or somebody else to do the screwdriving instead of me whilst I have a little sit down and a cup of tea.

The MORONIC SCREWDRIVERO operates according to a radically new principle. Simply point your MORONIC SCREWDRIVER at the screw, engage the patented MORONICIZER RAY with your thumb, and watch as the screw goes all moronic, probably falling out of its own stupid accord, the stupid twit, hah! Any screw to which the patented MORONICIZER RAY is applied will become too idiotic, brainhurty and durr! to be able to continue doing its screw-ish work of holding stuff together.

Wam! Bam! Thank you Whom!

[WARNING: do not use this device to grout wax out of your ear. Should you accidentally activate the MORONIC SCREWDRIVER hellomum! inside your skull, Whom plc can take no responsibility for the moronification that may result.]

THE MONSTERS OF DR WHOM

The complete range of monsters against which the Dr and his apprentice have battled is now available via Monsieur Monster, the specialist Monster Introduction Agency

THE GARLEKS

Available in clove, megaclove, supermegaclove, hyper-supermegaclove and Big.

THE CYDERMEN

Oi am a zyder thinker, oi think it all of the day...

THE SLUTTYTEENS

Sluttyteen over-skin suits now available in Matt Lucas or Nicholas Soames sizes.

THE SKI DEVILS

Rising from the depths of water (well, of frozen water on the slopes of the Alps, but thats still technically water) to terrify innocent skiers...

THE SONTAGANS

A fearsome sect of fanatics whose life is dedicated to the writing of Susan Sontag.

Dr WHOM PAYS, TRIBUTE TO Dr WHO

Who could forget the roll of acting honour, the range of genius that embodied Dr Who for generations of eager viewers? Deathless their names shall be; never shall their glory fade; they shall not grow old as we who lack the capacity to regenerate our bodies via some frankly implausible cod-biological strategy shall grow old. Let us list them here, names as familiar to us as the names of our own families, in an if-you-will roll of Who-honour. Whonour, indeed:

Patrick HartweLL. Hartnell. Hatywell. Or was it William? Hmm. Not that it matters: nobody can remember him these days anyway.

Patrick Troughton. He was short. He wore a natty black jacket, black moleskin trousers. He had black hair, black eyes. In fact, as I recall him to memory, he had grey skin. That cant be a good sign, can it? Medically I mean? Let me put it this way: if I woke up one morning and looked in the shaving mirror and saw that my skin had gone literally grey , Id get down to the GP pretty sharpish, let me tell you. Here! I would say. What are you going to do about this? My entire dermis as grey as gunmetal, and my eyes, previously a rather fetching blue, gone all black. I want to know what youre going to do about it, thats what I want to know. And dont try giving me some brush-off prescription for a special medicated cream that we all know is just plain moisturiser, thats not going to fly with me, sonny. I want specialists from all over the world congregating to discuss this astonishing dermatological development, from off-pink to grey in one night. I want high-tech treatments.

Anyway, the point here, the point, is that nobody can really remember Troughton either.

Jon Pertwee. Sean Pertwees dad, you know. Curly white hair, red velvet jacket, no h in his first name. Thats what was memorable about him. Obviously most people called John are happy enough to carry the h. But not Jon Pertwee. I mean, whats that supposed to prove, anyway? Thats some strange affectation, right there: like hes saying oh, oh, I can afford to buy this crushed velvet jacket and to drive about in a personal hovercraft but I cant afford the h for the middle of my first name. Is that what hes saying? Because, let me tell you, personal hovercrafts are both extremely expensive and frankly unnecessary. If he can afford that, he can sure as dammit afford the h. Why cant he drive a Cortina, like everybody else? Or else that other Ford car, the one with the three gears and the single windscreen wiper, the one with the SFy-name, what was it called? I find that kind of behaviour despicable. Like those aristocrats who go around in really tatty tweed trousers with saggy crotches and holes in the knee, Oh look at me, Im rich enough to put all my children through Eton but Im too poor to buy new trousers. It makes me sick, I dont mind telling you. It makes me actually nauseous with fury. I may have to go and have a little lie down, right now.

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