“I’ve changed my mind” said Tom Baker. “I don’t want to kill Dennis Brent.”

“Good” I said, relieved and not in a s-e-x-u-a-l way.

“I’ve decided that your death will be ordered by use of exerts from Shada. Tiny Tom – press the cassette tape button.” Tiny Tom scuttled across the room and pressed a big button. Some Cambridge students began singing.

“Press the rewind button”.

The tape spooled.

“I love the autumn – all the leaves…”

“Arghhhh – take that woman away” cried Tom. Tiny Tom began pressing buttons randomly and Lalla Ward's voice kept slipping out in amongst the Denis Carey and Daniel Hill (not forgetting the dulcet tones of Victoria Burgoyne). Tom Baker sank to his knees, cursing and swearing. Tiny Tom began to panic, the mysterious German scientist blushed at the profanity and I took my chance to escape. The last thing I heard was Tom Baker cry “Richard Dawkins is a soul swallowing hippogriff.”

It was gone eleven o’clock but I still had time to get to Pip and Jane Baker’s for my interview with Pip and Jane Baker. I hailed a taxi cab and told him to take me to Pip and Jane Baker’s house.

“Who?” he asked, clearly a prole.

“Pip and Jane Baker – the famous writers.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Your loss, my friend, your loss. Now take me to the Bakers and less of your proletarian verbiage”.

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

We pulled up outside a palatial mansion which could only belong to two such successful entertainers as my new friends Pip and Jane Baker. I alighted from the taxi and was about to make my way to the house when I noticed a car outside which was parked at a meter. The meter was past it’s proper time and the vehicle was thus illegally parked. As a committed upholder of the law I found myself (naturally) unable to leave the car until the proper authorities had been informed. I decided that I should find a telephone box and dial 999. To identify the car I placed my sensible satchel against the wheel and went in search of a pay telephone. I informed the constabulary of the car’s location and returned to stand guard over it. When I got there I found a man standing by it.

“Is this yours?” he said, kicking my sensible satchel.

“Yes it is.”

“Why was it propped against my car?”

“Because you have parked illegally and I have summoned the authorities.”

“You’ve done what?” he shouted.

“I have dialled 999 and told them that a crime has been committed in this street. They said they would send officers shortly.”

“I’m ten minutes late” he said as if that made a difference.

“A crime is a crime, Mr…?”

“Moore, Paul A. Moore – professional writer. And you are?”

“Devine – Ian Devine, writer of appalling telehistorical articles and producer of allegedly popular musical compositions. I am also a minor member of Brent’s Seven – a group of freelance freedom fighters.” I felt that, if tension was in the air, a clever subterfuge was required.

“Ian Devine? I’d heard you were the size of twenty castles in the sky.”

“I’ve dieted.”

“I commend your discipline.”

“Thank you”.

“But that doesn’t excuse your rather excessive summoning of the constabulary.”

“Wait – did you say Paul A. Moore?”

“I did – no autographs.”

“Writer of The Attack of the Cybermen?”

“I was – no autographs please.”

“I thought you were a woman.”

“I had an unfortunate hair year in 1985.”

“Could I interview you? You must be the rarest person in all of ‘Doctor Who’ circles.”

“I suppose I am – I really must insist on no autographs at this time.”

“An interview with you would be worth even more than an interview with Pip and Jane Baker. Shall we find a nice secluded but inexpensive coffee establishment and have a chat?”

“You have summoned the police – who I expect will pester me for autographs – and now you’re asking me for a date?”

“Nothing so h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l I assure you – this is purely a professional arrangement between yourself and Dennis Bren… Ian Devine.”

“Did you say Dennis Brent?”

“No… yes… why?”

“Well, without wanting to sign any autographs, I have to say I am a little confused as to who you are and what you really want. You call the police, give me two different names, sexually proposition me, pester me for autographs…”

“I can assure you I am Dennis Brent – star of Mucky Devastation and previous guest on “Good Afternoon Firkinside With Tim Flimsy and Marion Frott” – and that the Ian Devine gimmick was merely a joke to break the ice. I am as normal and sensible as they come.”

At that moment Tom Baker, Tiny Tom, the mysterious German scientist and a creature that was half cat, half Tom Baker ran down the road towards us.

“There he is” boomed Tom Baker. “Tiny Tom – attack.” The little Time Lord zoomed towards me like a toothy torpedo. Paul A. Moore looked flabbergasted.

“More autograph hunters” he tutted. “Why won’t people leave me alone?” I grabbed his arm (in a purely h-e-t-e-r-o-s-e-x-u-a-l manner) and told him to follow me. We ran for safety, almost feeling Tiny Tom’s little teeth biting at our r-e-a-r-s. But luckily for us he didn’t have our climbing ability being only a few minutes old. I led Mr Moore up an old oak tree and Tiny Tom could only chew the bark in frustration.

“Come down and face your grisly death, you suppository in the mouth of humanity” shouted Tom Baker.

“I don’t think so” I replied wittily.

“In that case” he said, turning to the Tom Baker / cat hybrid, “go and get them, Cheshire Tom.

I had encountered a Cheshire Tom on the ‘Internet’ but this seemed an altogether more dangerous kind. The cat faded away and, just as quickly, Mr Moore and I saw a grin begin to materialise on a nearby branch.

“Another autograph hunter?” sighed Mr Moore.

“I don’t think so” I told him, “this time I really think it could be the end.”