“I don’t believe you” said Grantham. “The whole idea is absurd.”

“It would require ego on a massive scale to even conceive of such a plan” added Wicks. We pondered this remark for a moment.

“I think I was wrong to disbelieve you” conceded Grantham. “Such a web of mayhem and intrigue could only come from someone as complicated and enigmatic as Tom Baker.

“I should’ve eaten that dog” mumbled Ian Devine. “I have never before turned down a sandwich. I feel like I have betrayed my stomach.”

The gang turned their attention to Mr Moore. I was keen to preserve my exclusive interview and decided to lie to the team.

“This is the noted radiologist Golightly Van Cumfiesta” I told them. “But he doesn’t say much.”

“Are these more autograph hunters?” he asked wearily. “I must insist on some privacy – I have given so much that I feel I have earned the dignity of solitude.”

“Why don’t you wait in my special security cupboard?” I asked, an idea having come to me suddenly.

“Security? From autograph hunters? I normally get by with a solid but respectful nolle prosequi”

“You have been identified by Tom Baker and his genetic army. Your life is in danger. Step this way.”

I took him to my cryogenic unit and beckoned for him to get inside. He fell for my sensible manner and stepped in. I slammed the door and within five second my super dooper exclusive interview was preserved perfectly for all eternity. Him not having given even one interview made him even more valuable to the discerning collector. Maybe I’d leave him there – the ultimate piece of “Doctor Who” memorabilia. But we had more important things to consider – our lives were in danger. More importantly my life was in danger. Tom Baker would stop at nothing to get me and I needed a plan. Something honest but cunning.

“So Tom Baker and his mysterious German scientist have created a pie eating virus?” gasped Ian Devine, I having decided to favour cunning over honesty.

“He most certainly has” I said sensibly.

“Then by the gods of crust, filling and jelly we must see to it that this web of mayhem and intrigue is stopped.”

“Hear hear” cried Wicks.

“Encore” added a slightly confused Grantham.

“We must strike at the heart of Tom Baker’s laboratory” said Ian Devine.

“Hang on” I interrupted, this conversation not quite going according to plan.

“Yes, Dennis Brent?”

“I was thinking we would be better off following a plan of withdrawing to the airport, flying several thousand miles away and you chaps surrounding me at all times to stop Tom Baker, Tiny Tom or the Cheshire Tom from attacking me.”

“Is Dennis Brent a coward?” demanded Wicks.

“Is Dennis Brent a snivelling wet?” added Grantham.

“Is Dennis Brent a h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l ?” asked Ian Devine.

“Damn you all to heck and back” I snapped. “Very well – we strike at the heart of Tom Baker’s scientific web of mayhem and intrigue. I propose that we knock on the door – in disguise – and say we are from the Gas Board…”

There followed a passage of time.

“…and we’re here to check your basement pipes” I said, a false moustache covering my real moustache and a adopting the Scottish accent picked up during my starring role in the Bendaton Players performance of Gregory’s Girl (Clare Grogan can kiss Dennis’s backside).

“I hadn’t noticed the smell of gas” said Tom Baker. I elbowed Ian Devine and he released what is normally a most unpleasant emission. “Although now I think about it…”

We were shown down to Tom Baker’s basement and it was just like a scene from the “Doctor Who” story “The City of Death”. Computers and scientific equipment were everywhere (which I already knew about since I’d been there but Ian Devine and the others were suitably impressed.) Another Ian Devine emission and Tom Baker announced that we should continue without him as it smelt worse than Tom Baker the Fourth after he’d eaten someone who had just had a curry.

“Right – we must destroy this evil virus” said Ian Devine.

“Dennis has a confession to make – there is no virus” I said. “I told you that because I wanted your help. But I’m sure there is something going on that we should deal with.”

“No virus? Then pies are safe?” beamed Ian Devine. “Dennis Brent, I could hug you.”

“I would brand you a h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l if you did” I warned. I meant it literally too and kept hot coals for that very purpose.

“What does this machine do?” asked Grantham, pointing to a large contraption attached to the fluid tank.

“Maybe it’s a vending machine” hoped Ian Devine. “I’ll give it a bit of a prod and see what happens.” He stuck his finger into a hole and withdrew it sharply. “Owww – it stuck a needle in me.”

“It may be just a needle to you” I said as he sucked his bleeding finger “but it could be life or death to some poor chap.” Wicks and Grantham roared until the machine sprang into life. A numerical gauge gave a percentage reading, the tank filled with liquid and a shape was growing. After five minutes of nervous waiting a timer dinged, the tank drained and a thing appeared.

A miniature Ian Devine stood before us, chomping on a miniature pie and letting out miniature burps.

“Son” beamed Ian Devine. “I shall call him Pasty.”