100 BF Spoofs Hanging On The Wall...

Determined to escape the child support nightmare that is his life, the Doctor waits until Charley falls asleep while eating a banana. Fighting away countless erotic fantasies, the Doctor locks himself in the cupboard, pulls out a canister of Dustbin bubble bath solution and injects it into his arm. It's not clear if this is to transport him to another dimension or simply to commit suicide. Either way, the bubble bath solution makes the Time Lord grow so large he leaves the sub-atomic universe altogether and ends up in a new plane of existence.

When the Doctor finishes singing Jefferson Aeroplane songs and praising them for the unerring accuracy when it comes to parallel-dimensional-physics, he realizes he is in an optometrist's waiting room made of some strange sugar-like cinnamon. Since he has committed so many naughty acts his eyesight should be so bad it makes OTHER PEOPLE go blind, the Doctor walks through the door to meet the cinnamerians – three yellow extras in girly saffron togas (Ferris Wheel, Herr Lenses and Holly Card).

These are the inhabitants of this universe, which is smaller than a BBC Studio, made out of cinnamon and looks like the eye department of a surgery. The cinnamerians are generally known for being totally irritating and psychotic, due to their voices that sound like burning corpses of cats screwing dead fish. The Doctor quickly gathers from the responses to his cinnamon-related jokes that they have a sense of humor that makes the most humorless person you ever met look like they have a sense of humor in comparison. The locals, however, get their own back when they learn that the Doctor spontaneously vomits if he hears the word 'blue'.

The Doctor retorts back with even more sugar-based wisecracks and makes the stupid mistake of getting his eyes checked out. The Time Lord is amazed that his eyesight is brilliant, and even more he has just defiled the Grand Potentate of the Cinnamon Universe. Behind him, Holly Card, Ferris Wheel and Herr Lenses begin to chant "Encase the Arseholes" and decide chase him to a windmill and attempt to kill him with burning torches. The Doctor runs for it, but is out of his depth – he is now in a dimension without corridors and is soon trapped in the only other room in existence. At the last moment, the Doctor realizes what is going on and pretends to be a lamppost. The cinnamerians find him far more agreeable and let him live if he sings their national anthem with them – 678, 765 stanzas consisting of the words "Encase the Arseholes" in a variety of silly voices. The Doctor has barely convinced the entire cinnamerian population that all he really wants to be is a squirrel when Charley turns up, demanding he sate her demands for pickles, gherkins and oral sex. The Doctor protests he is utterly exhausted and, apart from anything else, is a lamppost and lamppost simply do not DO that sort of thing.

Charley refuses to take "No", "Piss off!" or, "For God’s sake, you stalker, leave me alone!" for an answer and begins to slowly but surely rip off the Doctor’s trousers. Terrified of just what an arsehole Charley is, the cinnamerians run for their lives, and the Doctor tries to choke himself on the Grand Potentate – but at the last minute is woken up to discover the whole thing...

...was reality.

And that's one of the first spoofs I did in 2000 to the amusement of my high school chums. Now, I've done over 100 of the bloody things, and out of 111 mainstream BF releases, I have done 105 of them. That front page is finally complete. But do I feel any better? Does it bring back my cat and my dog? Does life suddenly seem worthwhile? A clue: get real.

So, instead some random First Doctor passages from my ever-expanding Doctor Who ebook collection...


Although the Doctor and his companions were not yet aware of it, they were heading into even greater danger. The planet on which they had landed was called Skaro and it had been devastated by years of warfare between two races, the Kaleds and the Thals. Over the long years of warfare, the Kaleds had changed, mutated even, building themselves war machines in which to live and fight. They had changed their name as well as their appearance. The Doctor was about to meet the creatures who were destined to become his greatest enemies.
Out there on Skaro, the Daleks were waiting for him.

- Terrance Dicks proves not really that interested in novelizing the very first episode and tries desperately to drum up some vague interest on the last page.

The second thing I saw was a glass Dalek!
He was resting on a kind of dais and his casing was totally made of glass. Inside, I could see the same sort of repulsive creature that the Doctor and I had taken out of the machine and wrapped in the cloak. The Dalek looked totally evil, sitting on a tiny seat with two squat legs not quite reaching the floor. The head was large, and I shuddered at the inhuman bumps where the ears and nose would normally be and the ghastly slit for a mouth. One shrivelled little arm moved about restlessly and the dark-green skin glistened with the same oily substance that had revolted me before.
'Hurry, hurry,' I heard it say and it spoke with a different kind of voice altogether, not like the dull, lifeless monotone of its fellows but more of a dreadful squeaking sound that only just made the words intelligible.

- Ian Chesterton critiques Nicholas Briggs mercilessly

Barbara was alert in an instant, her nerves tingling. By her side Susan had sat bolt upright in bed, her hands still hidden underneath the covers. Barbara smiled with more than a little relief, chiding herself for her nervousness. ‘How are you feeling now?’ she asked.
Susan looked at her strangely. Perhaps she was still slightly concussed, thought Barbara. ‘I’m fine,’ the schoolgirl said slowly. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Susan, you do remember who I am, don’t you?’ Barbara asked. Susan’s voice sounded oddly clipped; for an awful moment it reminded Barbara of the staccato emotionless tones of the Dalek creatures they had encountered on the planet Skaro. She was suddenly very worried.
‘Of course I remember who you are,’ the girl continued in the same flat monotone. ‘You’re Barbara.’ Barbara’s brow furrowed with concern as she registered Susan’s unfamiliar use of her first name. Up till now Susan had always referred to her, in her presence at least, as Miss Wright, retaining some of the teacher-pupil respect which had been encouraged at Coal Hill. Her sudden use of the name Barbara unnerved the schoolteacher.
‘Why?’ asked the girl. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s no need to cosset me like I was Tiny Tim or something.’
‘Who?’ Barbara asked sharply.
‘Tiny Tim,’ repeated Susan. ‘He was the young cripple in Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol.’
‘I didn’t think you knew any Dickens,’ Barbara said slowly. She suddenly remembered something Mr Foster the
English teacher had once said to her that girl Foreman, brilliant in some respects—she can recite quite huge hunks of Shakespeare as if she really knew him. But she’s never even read a word of Dickens!
Susan flushed and Barbara imagined that she had somehow upset the girl. ‘I—I must have heard Grandfather talking about him sometime... He’s very well read, you know...’
Barbara looked at Susan suspiciously. The abrupt changes of mood, the violence, this piece of knowledge... was
this really Susan she was talking to, or... She shuddered at the thought of the alternative. Like a person possessed, Ian had said. Barbara tried to humour her. ‘Of course there’s nothing wrong with you, Susan,’ she said. ‘You just need a rest, that’s all.’
Susan seemed to acquiesce and sank back down onto her pillows. Suddenly she sat back up again, and clutched
Barbara’s arm. ‘Where’s Grandfather?’ Her voice had suddenly changed: no longer was it emotionless and cold; there was no mistaking the concern in it.
Barbara loosed herself from Susan’s grip, and replied. ‘He’s checking the controls with Ian—Mr Chesterton.’
Susan’s face seemed to relax and then she said, ‘Why did you ask me if I knew who you were?’
‘It’s just that before you seemed to...’ Barbara felt embarrassed, unsure of how to answer the girl’s question.
How do you tell someone that you suspect they’re losing their grip on reality?
Susan continued to stare at her in an odd way. Underneath the covers Barbara was aware of Susan’s hands
fumbling with something. Barbara held out her hand. ‘Susan, why don’t you give me the scissors?’ she said with gentle firmness.
Susan drew her hand out from under the pillow and pointed the instrument threateningly at Barbara.

- Susan Foreman does her Linda Blair impressions (the crucifix scenes are torn out of my copy for some reason)

'Oh, dear, oh, dearie me,' the Doctor gasped with tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks. Marco looked at him.
'Laugh if you will, Doctor, but my mind is made up,' he said. 'Your caravan goes with me to Shang-Tu. Now, give me the key and on my oath I will not enter it until we reach the court.'
Helpless with laughter and to the astonishment of Susan, Barbara and Ian, the Doctor held it out. Marco took the key, strode to the entrance, called off the Mongol guards and went out into the courtyard. The Doctor collapsed in a chair, almost sobbing with laughter. 'Oh, dear, oh, dearie me,' he kept repeating. Susan ran over and shook him.
'Grandfather, grandfather,' she cried, 'why are you laughing? It's serious.' Barbara and Ian came over to him.
'Marco means it,' Barbara said. The Doctor took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.
'Yes, I know he does,' he admitted.
'What are you going to do about it?' Ian asked. The Doctor looked at him for a moment and burst out laughing again.
'I haven't the foggiest notion,' he gasped finally.

- The Doctor's companions finally begin to suspect what a stoner he truly is...

At 701 zeniths (Inter Galactic Time) precisely, three BXV sub-oceanic assault craft penetrated Marinian territorial waters at a depth of fifty sonars. Fitted with antimetradar devices, they sped undetected to within one hundred yards of the shore before surfacing and slithering onto the wide beach. For several minutes the BXV’s lay there, glistening in the sun like giant slugs. Then, one of the outer casings was pushed open and a shiny black hand emerged, its webbed fingers clawing the air for support.
The Voord invasion of Marinus had begun.

- Terry Nation discovers lightning really DOESN'T strike twice...

'How's John?' she asked, and then checked herself as the Administrator turned around to face her. 'Oh, I am sorry,' she apologised, 'I thought you were one of the scientists.'
The Administrator's tone was severe. 'Did you not see my collar of office?' he asked, pointing to the black band around his neck.
'I said I'm sorry,' she replied, slightly irritated by the Administrator's attitude. 'When your backs are turned it's very difficult to see who you are.' She chuckled. 'I don't know what we'd do if you all changed your badges and sashes: we wouldn't be able to tell you apart.'
'I had never thought of that before. . .' the Administrator said slowly, struck by the novelty of the idea.

- Private Dexter IS the Sensorite Ambassador

'My sergeant was quite right,' he declared smugly. 'It did pay us to look in the house, after all.'
Ian struggled to free himself from the two militiamen who were holding his arms behind his back. 'But we ... we have no connection with ... ' he began, searching his memory for the words in French.
The lieutenant strode forward and thrust his face into Ian's. 'Silence!' he hissed. Then he marched slowly round and round the table as if uncertain what he should do next. 'If any of them speak again without permission, shoot them,' he ordered.

- Ian Marter spits on the idea of TARDIS telepathic translation circuits

The Black Dalek scanned them. ‘Speak!’
Barbara held out Dortmun’s notes. ‘This is the bomb—’
‘We are not interested in the bomb. Give information on planned revolt.’
Barbara racked her brains for a sufficiently colourful story. ‘Well, it’s planned to start quite suddenly, like the Indian Mutiny.’
‘We have already conquered India.’
Barbara rattled on, ignoring the interruption. ‘I’m talking about Red Indians of course, in disguise, like the Boston Tea Party. General Lee and the Fifth Cavalry will attack from the North while Hannibal’s forces move in from the Southern Alps...’
While the bemused Daleks were listening to this historical mish-mash, Jenny made a sudden dash for the communications console. Immediately a nearby Roboman grabbed her—but the diversion gave Barbara her chance. She ran to the console. ‘Attention all Robomen. You will attack the Daleks. Attack the Daleks—’
Like a huge metal dodgem car, the Black Dalek shoved Barbara aside. ‘Cancel last order. Resume normal operations.’

- not even Tezza can believe THAT was the original plot resolution.

‘There is a story about Clive of India,’ the old man remarked casually, ‘which tells how he attempted to commit suicide as a young man by putting a pistol to his head. Three times he pulled the trigger and each time the gun failed to explode. Yet whenever he turned it away, the pistol fired perfectly. As you know, Robert Clive did eventually take his own life in 1774. The point is that Time, that great regulator, refused to let the man die before things were done that had to be done.’
The Doctor held up a hand as all three of his friends started to speak.
‘I know exactly what you’re all about to say. Why do men like Lincoln and Kennedy, those two outstanding American Presidents, have their lives cut off short when everything lay before them, and they had shown themselves capable of doing good for their fellow men? How can I, or any person, answer that? It is too easy to say that the sharp, shocking manner of their deaths underlined heavily the contributions they made. Life, death, the pattern of Time, are eternal mysteries to us. Here you find one man squandering his talents on wholesale slaughter, evil and terrible acts of indignity. There, another makes every effort for peace, goodwill and happiness. Inventors of medicines and advantages for others are laughed into insane asylums. Discoverers of murder weapons die in old age as millionaires. True love is set aside, hatred seems to flower.’
‘But that’s appalling!’ said Ian vehemently. ‘That’s,the gloomiest view I’ve ever heard in my life.’
‘My friend,’ said the Doctor softly, ‘it is only one small part of what I am saying. Time is constant. Look at history. You’ll find the brave have their share of successes. You’ll see that honesty, unselfishness and good works overflow in every generation. All I am saying is that what is going to happen on Earth must happen. If Rasputin is to die, no will to survive by that extraordinary man, no black arts, no personal power, can save him. Remember that they drugged Rasputin, shot him and then drowned him. No, don’t try to understand why a fine man is cut off in his prime and an evil one prospers. Try to understand what benefit there is in observing history as it actually happens.’

- um... 42?

‘Well?’ Lobos barked.
‘Robot number 9284...’
‘His name is Matt,’ Lobos said.
The soldier frowned. ‘Matt?’
‘That’s right. His name is Matt. So forget the number, just tell me what he’s come up with.’
The soldier gulped. ‘Nothing, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. He’s still working on it.’
Lobos cast a quick glance at Ogrek who immediately wiped the smile from his face and found something very interesting to look at on the ceiling. But what was happening at ground level was even more interesting for, far from being annoyed, Lobos was highly delighted and Ogrek was quite startled when, hearing what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, he looked down again to find Lobos grinning broadly. He raised a questioning eyebrow and Lobos burst into laughter.
‘He’s been beaten!’ he yelled. ‘Matt has finally met his match. He doesn’t know the answers! Now I can’t wait to meet these aliens.’

- it's pathetic, isn't it?

Assuming he had a best friend, this hypothetical friend would have been hard pressed to say anything even vaguely complimentary about Morton C. Dill, native of the state of Alabama. At school, he had been unaffectionately nicknamed ‘Dill the Pill’, a reference to his being rather hard to take. Since his school days—or, as some critics called them, ‘school daze’—Dill had not improved. On the contrary, his tendency to spout whatever came off the top of his mind (there being no deeper level to his thinking) was worse than ever. He rarely worried about having any content in his speech. He constantly intruded on others, generally in loud and obnoxious ways. Convinced that he was the life and soul of every party, he would make his way into any gathering and try to take over as quickly as possible.
The general response to his actions was usually a distinct drop in the air temperature, a general move in any direction away from him, and from time to time a proffered fist or a call for the nearest police officer. None of this did much to dampen Dill’s enthusiasm; he simply moved on and tried to ingratiate himself into some other gathering, firmly convinced that the original group merely lacked taste. The original group was extremely relieved to merely lack Dill.
It came as a matter of much surprise to anyone unfortunate enough to be acquainted with him that in the summer of 1967, Dill was promptly locked up in a home for the bewildered, where he resides to this day— attempting to drive professionals in the sphere of mental health crazy with his constant, long, rambling discourses. Many of these deal with the event that led to his being incarcerated in the ‘joint’ (as he insisted on calling the Newman Rehabilitation Clinic)...

- John Peel asks the crucial question "Whatever happened to Morton Dill"?

The Doctor stood outside the spaceship and looked thoughtfully into the sky. He had the curious feeling that he had missed something – something that was staring him right in the face. What could it be? He let his mind thread very gently through the experiences they had had since materialising on this planet; he was not concentrating too hard, and in fact noticed that one of the suns had now gone down and the next was edging toward the horizon. Their speed of travel he did not know, but clearly night could not be far away. How long that would last he had no idea, but guessed not too long. By the time the last sun had gone down the first would be moving round to rise again and that would bring the planet one step nearer to extinction. What was it that chap Bertrand Russell had said? Something about the fact that the Earth’s sun having risen for countless millions of years being no guarantee that it would rise tomorrow. That man knew of what he spoke. In life it was all too easy to take matters for granted and assume that things would trundle along as they always had. But where was the guarantee? Fate had a nasty habit of lulling beings into a false sense of security and then yanking the mat from under them. It had happened before and would undoubtedly go on doing so. It was about to happen here, with quite a sizeable bang. He found himself wishing that he could retain his own mind and this time occupy a body more like Steven’s, compact, muscular, capable of far more than this decrepit creation he was using at the moment. He was tired of it. Sooner or later renewal would come and he prayed that when the time came he would be better served. Something comfortable and capable was what he longed for, something able to do more of what he asked of it. He mused and pondered on the whimsical ways of Fate.

- the author William Emms denies writing this while sound of mind

Festooned here and there with silks and tapestries showing Hercules and people about their vainglorious business – and pictures of horses everywhere, with details of their track records and pedigrees worked in gold thread on a giant ivory stud-book. There was even a picture of Helen’s father – a swan, if you remember – which she must have brought with her from Sparta. Probably snatched it from her dressing table at the last minute, with Paris teetering on the ladder with the luggage, and saying, ‘For god’s sake, woman, we can’t take everything!’

- one of numerous Blackadder moments in The MythMakers

‘It’s too close to the limit now. I shall stay on Kembel until the Daleks begin their masterplan. You and the others will be able to join me there in about three weeks.’
Thinking about his plans always pleased Mavic Chen. The Daleks thought that they were using him, but they didn’t dream of how grandly Chen had planned! With the Dalek taskforce heading towards Earth in three weeks, Kembel would be left vulnerable to a small strike fleet...
‘The day of Armageddon is drawing close,’ Chen breathed, savouring his plans. ‘The whole history of mankind will be snuffed out like a candle in the wind. When I return to the Earth it will be with a power that no human has ever known! Power absolute!’ The inner light of madness was burning strongly now, and Karlton knew better than to interrupt. ‘Then Earth will rise again, but without the shackles of infantile philosophies like democracy and equality! It will be a new and virgin land that can be shaped... moulded... fashioned into the image that I design. I will be its life-blood – I its creator – I its very god!’
Abruptly, Chen seemed to realize where he was, and he slowly calmed down, his vision burning dimmer. After a moment, he turned to his assistant. ‘You are a fortunate man, Karlton,’ he observed in quieter tones. ‘You will have a high place in this destiny.’
‘The highest,’ Karlton agreed, obsequiously. ‘Next to you.’
‘Yes,’ Chen said, thoughtfully. Was this fool getting ideas above his station? Could Chen continue to trust him for much longer?

- Mavic Chen: not a bit like the Servalan-Carnell wannabe Alan Stevens and Fiona pretend he is...

'Please sit down,' said the Toymaker. As the Doctor sat opposite him, the Toymaker continued. 'The last time you were here, I'd hoped you'd stay for a game or two, but you hardly gave me the time of day before you took off again.'
The Doctor stared at him. 'And very wise I was too.' The Doctor slapped his lapels in irritation. 'And you've been conniving ever since to bring me and my companions back here. You and your games are notorious throughout the universe. You draw people to this place like a spider attracts flies. Then you enmesh them in this devilish web of yours and they never get away again.'
'My games, notorious!' replied the Toymaker. "Really Doctor, you are quite wrong.' The Toymaker motioned to his elaborate office: 'This is my universe. All I expect people to do is to play games to amuse themselves. It also amuses me to see them play. There is no web to enmesh them. If they continue to play throughout eternity, perhaps they were - how shall I say? - fated to do so.'
'Fate?' The Doctor paused for a moment then leant forward and picked up a small, perfectly made model of an astronaut off the Toymaker's desk and stared down at it suspiciously. 'I suspect this fellow was one of your victims of fate. Was he amused by your games?'
The Toymaker's eyes flicked over towards the small astronaut doll. He shrugged. 'Perhaps he was, Doctor but then he lost the game, you see, and became one of my toys.' The Toymaker reached over, took the doll from the Doctor's hand and put it back on the desk. 'But, like all my dolls, he will have a chance to play another game and regain his human form. Surely this is what life is all about. We all play games, even you, Doctor.'
'Your universe, Toymaker, has blinded you to reality. Everything is not predetermined according to your desires. Humans do have free will.' The Doctor leant back, crossed his arms and shook his head obstinately. 'I refuse to play your games,' he said.

- Amazing how The Celestial Toymaker turns out to be its own sequel, huh?

Suddenly, a long wailing cry came from the control room. The voice was not the Doctor's. They rushed out. They hurried over to a long couch-like arrangement with a folding metal cover over it. The use of it had never been fully explained to them. The Doctor had simply told them that it compressed sleep. The cry seemed to be coming from this apparatus.
'How does it work?' said Polly, struggling with the catch.
Ben pulled back her hand. 'Let me, Duchess.' He turned and pulled down a lever standing beside the apparatus. The hood slid silently back to reveal the long stretcher-like couch. To their relief, they saw the Doctor's familiar cloak and body. The corner of the long cloak was drawn over his face.
'He's been sleeping,' said Polly, relieved. 'Using the sleeping compressor.'
But Ben was staring at something. 'Hold on, Poll. Look!' He pointed at the Doctor's hands, which were folded over his chest. The Doctor had long, thin, sensitive, rather boney hands. Of late, they had become white and transparent, the blue veins showing through the skin: the hands of a very old man. But Ben was pointing in amazement at two completely different ones. They were shorter, thicker set, reddish—the hands of a much younger man.
Polly drew back, hand to mouth. 'Oh Ben! Do you think...'
'We'll see,' said Ben grimly. He reached forward gingerly and pulled back the edge of the cloak. The face under the cloak was not the Doctor's. It was the face of a much younger man—a man in his early forties. The Doctor's long, silver locks had been replaced by short dark hair, and the newcomer had a swarthy, almost gypsy, appearance. As Ben and Polly drew back aghast, the man slowly opened his eyes and turned to looked at them.
'Hello,' he said. His eyes were blue-green—like the sea. Although friendly, they had an elusive, slightly mocking quality. 'You must be Ben and Polly?' he continued. Ben nodded.
'And who are you?' asked Polly boldly.
The man stretched himself and swung his legs over the edge of the cradle. He stood up and looked down at his hands and legs with a certain pleasurable satisfaction. 'Hum!' he said. 'Not bad!' He flexed his arms. 'Not bad at all.' He turned to Polly. 'You haven't got a mirror by any chance?'
Polly looked at him in amazement. The one thing the old Doctor never had any time for was mirrors. The only mirror on the TARDIS was, in fact, a small, battered metal one in her back pocket. She drew it out and handed it over.
The man took the mirror and held it up. He examined his face. 'Yes,' he said. 'Pretty fair, all told!' He nodded and smiled pleasantly. 'I think I'm going to rather like it.'
'You didn't answer her question,' said Ben, plucking up courage and moving forward, his fists bunched. 'Who the heck are you? And what are you doing here?'
The stranger looked at him in slight surprise. 'You ask me that, Ben? Don't you recognise me?' The Doctor's two companions shook their heads. 'I thought it was quite obvious,' Again, he smiled his gently mocking smile and winked at them with his blue-green eyes. 'Allow me to introduce myself then. I am the new Doctor!'

- Gerry Davis does a bit of "If *I* Had Written..." on the very first regeneration sequence. Mein gott.