X-NEWS: spcvxb.spc.edu junk: 544703 Xref: spcuna junk:544703 Path: spcuna!rutgers!noao!asuvax!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!uknet!gdt!ch0mpc From: ch0mpc@midge.bath.ac.uk (M P Clifton) Newsgroups: alt.drwho.creative Subject: The 5-Docs Cabaret Extravaganza Message-ID: Date: 19 Jan 94 18:02:40 GMT Organization: School of Chemistry, University of Bath, UK Lines: 318 Okay, well as promised in the other newsgroup, here's the All-New Five Doctors Show. Part one. About nine other bits to follow - not entirely sure myself as I haven't finished it. Comments and criticism welcome. Grouch. ***************************************************************************** ** The All-Singing, All-Dancing Five Doctors Pro-Am Cabaret Extravaganza ** ** part one ** ** (c) Matt Clifton 1994 ** ***************************************************************************** The black screen gradually fades up into a sepia picture of the First Doctor, an old man with long, flowing, white hair, sporting an Edwardian frockcoat. Which is a funny thing for hair to be sporting, by any standards. Behind the Doctor, the TARDIS console stands resolutely, the slight rocking being the only indication that it is not, as appeared at first glance, a remarkable Time Lord invention, but actually a collection of fibreglass and balsawood cobbled together by a bunch of pissed set engineers at Lime Grove Studios, London. The Doctor is holding his lapels and staring at a point some four feet to the left of the camera. Clearing his throat, he begins to speak. "Harrumph...yes, my boy...what I wanted to say was...now, Chesterfield, I... harrumph...ho,ho,ho..." The speech then tails off somewhat into an inaudible mumble. Behind the camera, Verity Lambert sighs and points to the Doctor's right. Seeing his mistake, he turns, and this time facing the viewers, starts again. "Yes...well...harrumph...what is it, hmm?...ho,ho,ho...hmm? hmm? mumble... mumble...intelligent, my boy? Intelligent? Ah, it's not clear is it, I can see that...harrumph...ho,ho...ah, Chestleton...no, no, what if you didn't, eh? eh? eh? ...ah,yes...you see now? Hmmm. Hmmm. Well, that is all I wish to say on the matter. Get on with it, then." Lambert walks onto the set and punches the Doctor in the face, incredibly hard ; he falls with a sickening thud. Another of the crew runs on and kneeling, checks the old man's pulse. He stares at Lambert. "You've killed him!" he gasps, shocked. Lambert sighs. "Okay," she calls to a colleague at the back of the studio, "Get me Richard Hurndall. And for Christ's sake, make sure he knows his lines..." ZZZZZZZHHHHHHHHHHHHHNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOO............. woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo woopitywoo Peter Davison Richard Hurndall William Hartnell Tom Baker Jon Pertwee Patrick Troughton and many, many (3) more in ----- The All-Singing, All-Dancing FIVE DOCTORS Cabaret Extravaganza ----- The screen faded back up and the man with the electric guitar ran off quickly...pulling the cable out of the TARDIS console as he did so. The Fifth Doctor ran on hurriedly and started to wipe the console with a damp cloth. He stared at a spot on one of the panels and frantically rubbed at it. Tegan, a short, pretty Australian with subtle nasal inflections and a floral dress that hugged her figure entered the main room from the inner passages. "Have you managed to get rid of it yet?" This question was directed at the Time Lord, who was now scrubbing at the stain with a Brillo pad. "No. I told you hot cheese would stain, you Antipodean imbecile.Let's have a fondue, you said. Let's all get really sozzled and dance around the console naked making 'Woo, woo' noises, you said." Tegan averted her eyes from his face. She couldn't entirely remember the events of last night - only tiny fragments of memory remained to haunt her...and from what she could recall, she wasn't at all sure she wanted to know the rest. She was pretty sure she had slept with someone, though. And yes, it had all been her idea, although it had been Turlough who suggested that they materialise in the middle of a psychiatric hospital and treat the inmates to a quick spot of close-harmony singing. "Ow," she complained, as the first waves of a migraine began to thump at her temples. That Andromedan Horse Juice was stronger stuff than she'd thought. Certainly after two glasses, she had had no reservations to the Doctor's slurred suggestion that she "dress up in a Wirrn outfit and sit on his face". Come to think of it, neither had Turlough. The whole celebration thing had been, she remembered, a result of the Doctor finally bending to public demand and getting the new console fitted, and properly plumbed in, and everything. Last night, in fact, she could have sworn she saw the Doctor and Turlough dressed up in grass skirts and wearing boot-black on their faces as, singing a strange ritual mantra (incorporating the words 'Arsenal' and 'smells', in that order, ad infinitum) as they cavorted, semi-naked, around the old console. Or perhaps they hadn't. It all seemed like a bad dream now, but... "Where's the other console gone?" Tegan enquired, as she searched in vain for any sign of the battered, scarred, antiquated piece of machinery that had occupied a central position in this room for twenty years. Well, not entirely central, of course - there had been the Doctor's special photographic equipment which he had insisted she try out on her arrival (she never had, but apparently Turlough quite enjoyed it). The Australian air-hostess put her hands on her hips and stuck her chin out - a sure signal to the Doctor that she was in the middle of a really heavy PMT thing. Actually, Tegan had PMT pretty much all the time, which goes a long way towards explaining the way she was. The Doctor glanced surrupticiously at the suspicious lump under the rug, near the main doors. "I don't know," he lied. Suddenly there was a loud knocking from outside. The Doctor operated the scanner, which revealed a small group of unshaven, orange- clad men in black aprons, standing in front of a large dustcart. The front man held a bulky, console-shaped dustbin bag in his arms. He peered up at the scanner camera and shouted at the occupants of the time machine. "Oy mate, I can't take this. Domestic and garden refuge only. You wanna hire a skip, John, you do." Snarling in a lovable working-class manner, he spat at the TARDIS door and threw the bundle over a nearby hillock. A sullen 'moo' noise emanated from behind it, as a slightly disgruntled cow emerged and gazed reflectively at the retreating dustcart. Back in the TARDIS... "Where's that weirdo Turlough?" The Doctor, who felt a cold coming on, sniffed stertorously. He didn't know it, but in the middle of the night, Tegan and Turlough had shoved him out of the TARDIS into the middle of the Arctic Circle, whereupon they had proceeded to strip off his pyjamas and have a snowball- throwing contest, the Time Lord's genitals being the prime target. It being so cold, however, and the Gallifreyan race's collective libido being so sloth-like, nobody had actually succeeded. Tegan ambled across to the console. "Painting outside." "What, all of it?" Tegan held her sides and parodied jubilant laughter. When she looked up again, she found the Doctor had sodded off to find their travelling companion. Sighing, she donned a ridiculously Yeti-like fur coat, and followed. She found the two men out by a stone gate, with a signpost that had been recently painted over with the words 'To the Eye of Orion'. She noted that the air was very peaceful, and tranquil ; not even birdsong filled the air. She looked down at the mounds of dead sparrows with holes through them, and realised why this was. Turlough put down his air rifle and seated himself upon a rock. It wobbled a bit. "Peaceful, innit," he remarked in a broad London brogue that he thought someone, somewhere in the capital, must use, but he was sadly mistaken as he had copied it from Dick Van Dyke. Thus his remark sounded more like, 'Peeshfoo, eeni?', and as such, neither Tegan nor the Doctor could understand a bloody word he was saying, and said so, loudly, and with many a punch in the solar plexus. Turlough staggered back to the TARDIS, clutching his stomach and vomiting over a small colony of gypsy antelope (what?). "Peaceful, isn't it?" the girl remarked pleasantly, in a lilting Australian accent. In fact, it was so lilting that a small number of native sheep began to gambol and cavort behind her, making soft 'baa' ing noises. The Doctor muttered some bollocks about the positive effect of negative ions, or the negative effect of positive ions, or something like that, only it's all been superseded now by some new thing er zhnippi ions I think only I read in some book somewhere mutter mutter.. It suddenly ceased to be very peaceful as the strains of Anthrax screamed their way across the meadow. Turlough was returning from the time machine with a huge black box attached to his shoulder by way of what appeared to be a parachute harness. "My new hi-fi," he explained. "I've put a deposit on it." "So you have," observed the Doctor wryly, gazing at the lumpy mass standing proudly atop the stereo system. "Well done." He walked off to clear his nostrils. Tegan and Turlough exchanged a knowing glance behind the Time Lord's retreating back, and settled down for a rest. The sun shone, the bees buzzed gently in the heather, and for once they were having a really nice time. Right. That's enough of that. Time for a juicy kidnapping or two. ********************************************************************** 'Twing, twang, twong,' went the loyal fan, aware that the next scene was about to introduce a fair slice of Doctor Who mythos, and as such, he had to advertise it to all those who were in the know. 'Twong, twang, twing'. ********************************************************************** The room was black, which is handy, because it's where the baddie lives. The baddie dresses in black too, which is even handier for the science fiction fan who just knows that all baddies dress in black and goodies in white, but not at all handy for the baddie, because he keeps bumping into things. At the moment the man in black is bent over a vision screen, framed by a bank of lights and twirly knobs. The twirly knobs are for the baddie to twist and turn in order to operate whatever nasty scheme he has up his sleeve ; the lights are just for effect and don't really do anything. The baddie wears a full-face mask, not for effect because there isn't anyone else there to see it, and not because he's got a particularly repulsive face, although that's a pretty good reason. The mask is there to hide from the viewer the true identity of the baddie, which is a shame because it is in fact President Borusa the Mad Time Lord from Gallifrey. More of whom, later. He twiddled a twirly knob and the screen sprung into action. And a picture of a rose garden came into view. ********************************************************************** The old man brushed a greenfly from the fragile yellow petal, and gave a deep sigh. The parasitic infestation of his blooms was beginning to get out of control. He knew in his hearts of hearts that this was because he was dying ; his concentration had all but gone ; he was virtually blind and deaf and he only spoke in strange giggling cryptic mumbles, so communication with other life forms, unless they had motor neurone disease, was near impossible. Straightening his back and giving an involuntary cry of pain, he stumbled off to another clump of rose bushes. A faint, but tangible, sound impinged on his hearing. It sounded almost exactly like one of those flying black triangles that they used to use to transport beings into the Death Zone on Gallifrey, thought the Doctor, turning. Actually, he turned rather too quickly, and found he had in fact made a 360 degree rotation ; the upshot of which was that he still couldn't see whatever the hell it was that he had heard. So ever so slowly now, he turned back in the other direction, with his eyes shut tight to aid concentration and to stop him getting dizzy and needing to have one of his pills. When he opened them again, he found that he hadn't in fact turned at all and was still standing with his back to the approaching sound. With a tut of exasperation he balanced one foot between two small rocks, and with his stick pushed firmly into the soft ground, twirled around...and fell flat on his back in the muddy soil. With much groaning and sighing, he raised himself up on two legs, and stared angrily into the air, where he could see nothing whatsoever. He felt a tap on his shoulder. "Peekaboo," giggled the flying black triangle, and ate him. *********************************************************************** The small, fluffy sheep nuzzled its head into Tegan's lap. It had found a friend. So had Tegan, whose fur coat seemed to attract every sentient life form on the planet, and a few non-sentient ones too, as could be divined by the way Turlough was rubbing his face into Tegan's chest. Actually, that didn't have anything to do with the coat, but that's really beside the point. Unless you really want to go into that sort of thing, in which case this is the wrong sort of book for you. With an expression of annoyance, Tegan shrugged the boy off and went in search of the Doctor. She eventually found him crouching beneath a pile of rocks, doodling in the sand with a stick. She joined him. "Have you farted?", he said, absently. "No", she replied. "I think it's Turlough." "But he's by the TARDIS." "Yes, I know. Turlough's gaseous anal excretions are legend among all the populated worlds of the cosmos. 'Tis said that when he lets off with a particularly vicious one, dark clouds will swallow up the sun for forty days and forty nights ; seas will boil and wild winds will whip across the earth and it'll be well smelly." "Mmm", said the Doctor, who was obviously pretty damn impressed, and showed it by yawning widely and loudly several times in Tegan's face. He stood, and scuffed over the design in the sand, which had been crap, and vaguely pornographic anyway. A slightly foul-smelling breeze heralded the approach of the exile from Sarn, who had spent the last ten minutes trying to have his blazer surgically removed, to no avail. "Hello, Doctor", he sniffed. "What's that smell?" "That'd be fresh air." "Thought so!" shouted Turlough manically, and proceeded to consume vast quantities of muesli to feed his fermenting bowels. A few seconds later, the first redolent fruit blew forth. "Phew, that was a ripe one," he admitted, as Belgium dissolved. Rejoicing filled the air, but it was quickly stifled as it was realised that one small Flemish kumquat had survived the affray ; the massed military forces of the world were swiftly dispatched to destroy it. In the meantime, Tegan and Turlough were watching the Doctor with amusement, barp, sorry, consternation. He was staggering around and clutching his lapels in some idiotic way, muttering something about 'anti-radiation gloves' and a 'cinder floating around in Spain'. "Doctor? What's wrong?" Tegan attempted to communicate, but was answered by a fit of manic giggling. In an attempt to remedy the situation, she slapped him quite hard in the face. This appeared to result only in the Time Lord spraying saliva all over the place while talking very quickly in a Scottish accent. "HHHHHHaaaaaaaaaccccccceeeeeee!!!" he shouted at Turlough, who tapped the side of his own head with his index finger, then smashed the Doctor in the side of his with his fist. For a moment or two, there was silence. Suddenly, the world's massed weapons of destruction, having failed to locate their quarry, hoved over the horizon, determined to nuke the first life form they encountered. Then Turlough farted again, and they too disintegrated. END OF PART ONE -- ***************************************************************************** * Doctor: The fluid link's run out of mercury, see? * * Ian: No it _hasn't_. The Daleks (original script) * *******Random Grouch**************************ch0mpc@midge.bath.ac.uk********