“Herr Baker… Herr Baker” called a voice from Tom Baker’s hall.

“What is it?” he growled. “I’m in the middle of thrashing this crab in the bush of existence.”

“The experiment is complete – he is ready.”

“Whaaaat?”

“Yes – he is ready. If you would come this way please.”

“Dennis Brent – it seems you have been spared the pounding of a lifetime. Now, sod off you putrid mucus in the handkerchief of humanity.”

I made a pretence of running away but actually hid myself behind a statue of Tom Baker that was standing over the entrance to the drive. A mysterious German scientist doing secret work for Tom Baker had to be of equal value to an interview with Pip and Jane Baker. My last experience of a Tom Baker exclusive (the masturbating half-wit memo that my family mocked me for believing was genuine) had not been a pleasant one and this was my chance to make amends. Tom Baker and the German scientist walked back into the house and closed the door. However, there was a large flap in said door (presumably for the use of the late lamented Tom Baker the Seventh). I removed my sensible tweed jacket and squeezed in through Tom Baker’s flap. It wasn’t easy (I had to employ the pound of butter I always carry in case Ian Devine has a turn and needs calories urgently) but I managed it in the end. I sustained a minor tear to my sensible corduroy trousers but nothing a discrete leather patch wouldn’t cure. Tom Baker has a carrying voice and I was able to locate him and his mysterious German scientist with little effort. They were heading for a basement and I kept behind them – my many years of Boy Scout training coming to the fore yet again. Just to make the trip worth my professional while I snuck a few items of no real value into my pockets. The television memorabilia buying public has very little taste and a genuine Tom Baker knickknack can raise a substantial sum for a good cause. Especially when they are autographed. It occurred to me later that Tom Baker might be a little reluctant to sign goods stolen from his house but these old hams will sign anything as long as there is a fee involved.

Tom Baker and his mysterious German scientist reached a cellar laboratory and I hid myself cleverly behind a bank of computers.

“Where is it?” asked Tom Baker.

“It is here – it has taken five years and over a thousand attempts but it has finally worked.”

“Cut the waffle, you haemorrhoid in the anus of civilisation”. I winced at his invoking of the a-word. I also shuffled a bit to get comfortable again.

“Just pull this lever and it will be complete” advised the scientist. Tom Baker and the scientist were staring at a dark tank containing some kind of thick fluid. The mysterious German scientist flipped a switch and the vat of liquid was suddenly illuminated. I could see some kind of shape inside but the liquid prevented any detailed examination. Tom Baker pulled the indicated lever and the fluid began to drain from the tank.

“And it’s perfect?” asked Tom Baker.

“It is a perfect replica but, as requested, one eighth your size.”

The last of the fluid drained away and there stood a miniature Tom Baker, hair lively and white, teeth numerous and bright and a scarf which looped twice around his neck and still came back for more.

“I shall call him… Tiny Tom” beamed Tom Baker. “Come here Tiny Tom”.

The little Tom Baker scuttled across the floor of the cellar and attached itself to Tom Baker’s leg.

“Isn’t he adorable?”

“He is magnificent” agreed the scientist. “And all grown from one of your used handkerchiefs.”

“Who needs acting work when you have your very own clone?” said Tom Baker rhetorically. “What is it Tiny Tom?” Tiny Tom had begun to look in my direction. He sniffed the air and began to point.

“Being made from nasal material he may very well display an advanced sense of smell” explained the scientist.

“If that’s you, Tom Baker the Fourth, I’m not giving you any dinner until you apologise for that bark which sounded like the word ‘has-been’.”

I tried to bark like Tom Baker the Fourth but fooled no one.

“Is that you, Tom Baker the Fifth? How did you get out of your pond my little angel?”

Tiny Tom broke away from Tom Baker and padded across the laboratory floor towards me. He sank twenty or so of his inestimable teeth into my leg and I let out in involuntary moan.

“Dennis Brent?” boomed Tom Baker.

“Um… yes” I said convincingly.

“Tiny Tom, bring Dennis Brent over here.” The little clone dragged me using only his teeth and deposited me at Tom Baker’s feet.

“Now I’ve been terribly nice to you, Dennis Brent, but you are trying my patience you dollop of smegma on the lips of mankind.”

“Is this the lavatory?” I lied.

“No”

“I need the lavatory.”

“I’m not surprised. Scientist, when you built Tiny Tom did you add that little extra we talked about?”

“Oh yes Herr Baker – he is quite lethal.”

“In that case, Tiny Tom – Mr Brent has seen too much and must be eliminated.”

Tiny Tom licked his lips and attacked me.

“Noooooo” I cried (in a manly way).