Faced with the offer of s-e-x-u-a-l gratification in exchange for victory in the under-10’s Dennis Brent look-alike contest, I did what any normal, sensible person would’ve done under the circumstances.

“Timothy” I said loudly, “your mother is a whore.”

“Like Doctor Who rode in the story with the clockwork French monsters?” asked young Timothy.

“No, Timothy, that’s a horse. Your mother is a whore – meaning someone who offers s-e-x-u-a-l favours in exchange for goods or services. I thought you should be aware of this fact as you’ll have to spend the next few years in her company and you may want to know where the food on your table or the gifts under your Christmas tree really came from.”

Timothy burst into tears and ran from the stage, his mother went bright red and ran in the opposite direction, and the audience whooped and hollered like they were Americans or seals. This was, I later learned from Saragh-Jayne, exactly the sort of thing they paid to see.

“If we could, um, press on with the judging…” prompted the organiser of the event. Suddenly, all the other mothers looked very nervous as I scrutinised them. Obviously they had never come across a man of integrity before, albeit one operating under a false name because he’s pretending to be dead.

I studied the line of (mostly) boys and found them to be a sorry bunch. Not one of these under-10’s would convincingly pass muster as Dennis Brent. No one – not even someone who was born and raised in Bendaton and who has twelve fingers (or two depending on how you treat webbing) – would believe any of this incredulous bunch was Britain’s leading telehistorian, technical raconteur and convention calibre panellist.

“Well he’s too fat isn’t he! No! He’s too thin! That one’s too young! Oh now that won’t do at all! This is ridiculous!” I exclaimed.

“Maybe, Mr Brent impersonator, you should ask some of the mini Dennis Brent’s a few questions to see who does the best impression of the old cu…”

“Good idea” I said swiftly. I was all in favour of judging on personality rather than looks. Something the Edinburgh Woollen Mill chain might’ve been polite enough to do during the audition process for Mr Cardigan 1986.

“So, mini Dennis Brent wannabe, which is your favourite monster from the original ‘Doctor Who’ series?” I asked, debasing myself with such a banal question but for purely financial reasons.

“The Sliveen” replied the boy.

“No no, sonny, the original ‘Doctor Who’”.

“That was the original ‘Doctor Who’ – Christer Eccleton. He was the first one. Then David Tent. Don’t you know anything?”

The audience took this in very good spirits and cheered their new hero. Little Bobby – for that was his name – revelled in his celebrity status as man of the people.

“Don’t be pathetically stupid” I quipped. “You can’t just ignore forty-two years of production documents, broadcasts and collectable merchandise just because you are a small child and didn’t live through all forty-two of those years. Believing that ‘Doctor Who’ began in 2005 is beneath contempt and I not only think you should apologise but I think your mother – if this woman is indeed your mother – should apologise for the appalling way in which she has raised you. Madam – I have never come across so blatant an example of child abuse as bringing this boy up without a solid working knowledge of the eras of William Hartnell, Patrick Troughton, Jon Pert…” but she punched me in the mouth before I could complete my list. Needless to say, the audience were in spasms watching this take place. Some, I fear, lost bladder control (and worse) due to laughing so hard. I didn’t see anything funny in it but it was later explained to me and I concede that her reaction was indeed inexplicable enough to warrant the ‘humorous’ tag.

“I think, perhaps, that asking the contestants questions was an idea a bit ahead of its time” announced the contest organiser. “Frankly I think we should get this over with as quickly as possible. Pick a number between one and twenty.”

“Seven” I replied.

“Congratulations to the winner of the contest” he counted along the line, “Bradley Gusset.”

The audience clapped and a couple stepped forward. The boy I didn’t recognise (except in so far as he was dressed as me) but the mother was that of Nigel Gusset – the technical boy who did me a small service some years earlier.

“Well done, Bradley” said the compare. “Here is your prize.”

“Thank you” said Mrs Gusset. “It lends me great pleasure to borrow this prize on behalf of my son. I have leant the best years of my life to this village and this overdue recognition will incur a sizable fine. I would like to thank, in alphabetical order…”

I left Mrs Gusset to her speech and the rapidly boring audience. The event organiser handed me my money and wished me a good evening. My employee was waiting for me outside the tent.

“Good gig?” he asked.

“I made some children cry, was punched in the mouth by an angry mother and entertained an audience best suited for the Gerald Springer Show” I said tersely.

“Still, two hundred quid and you got to make some children cry. Can’t be bad.”

“Do you think we might leave soon – I grow weary of this mutated hero worship” I said with exasperation.

“The night is still young” said Saragh-Jayne. “There is the Dennis Brent Experience ride, the Dennis Factor talent show, the premiere screening of the new film ‘Die Another Dennis’ and unless I’m very much mistaken, this gentleman is about to ask you if you want to hold a question and answer session.”

“I’m glad I’ve finally caught up with you, Mr Brent impersonator. We’re having a mock convention over there and we were wondering if you’d be willing to do a little Q&A for us. Sensible technical questions only, I’m sure.”

“I’d be delighted” I said. Finally, an event that could not possibly be spoilt in any way. An opportunity at unadulterated pleasure for myself and my fans.

“We’ve got Gary Russell to moderate the session” he added.