9am

I could smell the basting oils as I approached Ian Devine’s solarium. I knocked firmly on the door (at the third attempt – my eyes were already closed and I had previously found myself knocking on a bust of Sophie Aldred and a wall mounted replica of the footprint casts used in Story Q.

“Ian Devine?” I called after my knocking failed to rouse him.

“Yes?” came the muffled reply.

“May I enter?”

“Please do so but kindly avert your gaze as I am in a state of some undress."

I edged carefully into the solarium and turned myself fully to the wall. I tentatively opened an eye and, feeling safe to continue, opened the second one.

“Can I help you?” asked Ian Devine, his oiled flesh audibly sizzling.

“I have been invited to address a Doctor Who convention in the United States of America, tomorrow” I explained.

“Ho ho ho – richly comic, Dennis Brent, but I fear you are rather premature with your April practical pleasantry.”

“This is not a practical pleasantry” I protested. “The invitation is entirely genuine.”

“Like your Tom Baker m-a-s-t-u-r-b-a-t-i-n-g halfwit memo?” he chuckled.

“You promised never to bring that up. A gentleman wouldn’t rub his friend’s nose in the past like that.”

“I regret my remark, Dennis Brent. I am repentant. Are you entirely sure this invitation is legitimate?” he continued. “Have you checked it isn’t from a h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l?”

“I have checked my files and the name is not one I am familiar with.”

“It isn’t another missive from Dicken Myass then? Or Benton Lovesit? Les Bosluts? Roger D’Backpassage? Willie Strapedon?

“No no and thrice no – this is without a shadow of a doubt a bona fide invitation. I understand you being envious of this great honour but…” I began.

“I am confident I will be asked to give a brief lecture” he said bafflingly.

“I’m not with you” I told him.

“When we arrive I am sure that the organisers will be falling over themselves to ask me to lead a seminar or two on topics of mutual interest.”

“I regret I’m still fogged” I told him.

“Upon our arrival in America” he began slowly, as if trying to explain something to a woman, “the people in charge of this conference will be so pleased to have not one but two world famous telehistorians present that they will clear space in their itinerary for me to address a no doubt packed hall on a subject of fascinating merit.”

“Ian Devine, you appear to believe you are accompanying me to the United States of America. This assumption is flawed in one crucial regard.”

“That their ethnic, social and economic divisions mean that the States can never truly be United?” he offered feebly.

“No.”

“You cannot mean…”

“I can.”

“Surely not…”

“Yes.”

“But you couldn’t…”

“I am.”

“But Dennis Brent, who will protect you while you are in the colonies if I am not there to see you remain undamaged?”

“I shall be perfectly safe, Ian Devine, it is a relatively civilised country with an admirably draconian attitude towards security.”

“But Dennis Brent, you are aware, are you not, that the United States’ constitution permits – all but encourages in fact – h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s to carry guns?”

“I beg you pardon?” I asked, genuinely amazed by what I thought my normally sensible ears had heard.

“They allow h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s to own firearms.”

“And use them?”

“Whenever they feel like it.”

“Surely not.”

“It is true.”

“But that is absurd. Having a gun pointed at one is a trying enough experience as it is without the added worry of where the gun might have been inserted the previous night. This country sounds barbaric, Ian Devine, and I insist you drop everything and come with me on my trip.”

“I have very little to drop” quipped Ian Devine, “as I am only wearing a thong.”

“That is a disturbing amount of information, Ian Devine, and I shall expect a note of apology in the next post for mental distressed caused.”

“I am hardly dressed to visit the Postal Office” he added, never knowing when to stop. He will insist on crossing the line from richly comic witticisms to borderline indecent filth.

“Pack your trunk, Ian Devine” I ordered.

“You are asking me to leave your home simply because I am wearing a thon…?” he blubbled.

“Please do not say THAT word again, Ian Devine. I am simply saying you should start packing for our imminent trip. We only have a few hours before departure and there is still an awful lot to be done.”

“Speaking of things being done, my half hour on the sun bed is almost up. So if you will excuse me…?”

“Yes of course” I said, slamming my eyes shut and inching my way, crab-like, to the exit. The oak panelling on the walls, normally the height of sensible style, had the unfortunate effect of making everything feel like it ought to be a door. After several moments of increasingly panicked touching I was forced to resort to Plan B and attempt to smash my way through the wall with my head.

“Allow me” said Ian Devine, opening the door for me like a gentleman and friend.

“Thank you” I said, still seeing stars but retaining my manners. Then I made the mistake of looking up and catching a glimpse of him. His reddened flesh was piled up before me like a tonne of fresh sausage meat just waiting for the skins to arrive. He was completely n-a-k-e-d but for a lurid and almost certainly luminous pink, string-sized under garment. I was horrified at seeing my acquaintance in such a state. He obviously detected my unease and tried to fill the silence with conversation.

“It’s a good job you didn’t start doing that earlier” he babbled, “or you would’ve seen me in my thong.”

I couldn’t speak. I merely ran from the room in search of something sensible and soothing to repair the damage.