The Secret Diary of Dennis Brent

1st June

Day three of the convention. I thought things were looking up when someone asked me a question but it was only a prole wanting to know how to get to Nicola Bryant's signing table. I told him I was Dennis Brent and he just pointed at me and laughed. See - this is how popular Dennis Brent is. Why won't the convention organisers recognise this? They're all children. I sat in the audience for Ness's panel and asked my friend Andrew a technical question. He gave me a full and complete answer which was a joy to behold. The only downside is that I can see and talk to Andrew any time and it may not have been worth flying 5000 miles to hear. The cabaret was the usual juvenile faire - men dressing as women, women dressing as men and "blow the belt" jokes. I'm no prude but there is a place for smutty innuendo and this is not it. Doctor Who is pure, Doctor Who is sacred. Doctor Who is a purely anal experience and these h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s don't seem to understand anal experiences. Are they stupid or just out to annoy me? I refused to clap when the "show" was over and it was back to the hotel and an early night.

June 3rd

I am home at last. Elkie left a note saying she had gone to visit friends in Amsterdam so it was just Donald and I. Donald tried to interest me in a rare 1969 Star Trek coffee mug he'd picked up on EBay for only one hundred and six pounds plus postage and packing. I deflected the conversation to my rare 1968 Dalek mug (which cost one hundred and NINE pounds plus postage and packing) but he turned it back to his rare 1967 Mister Spock mug (one hundred and twenty pounds including postage and packing). We went back and forth until I defeated him with my ultra-rare Kevin Stoney dinner service (Daleks Masterplan on plates, The Invasion on cups and Revenge of the Cybermen on dishes). It cost one thousand, two hundred and ten pounds PLUS postage and packing. Donald had nothing to match it so he played dirty. "Do you think it was over priced?" he asked. We were both rather taken aback by this question and eventually ended the silence with the suggesting of a swift sherry at the Elk and Bush.

June 5th

Ness did her job very well and my copy of Doctor Who magazine came very early - subscribing proles haven't even received last month's yet. I am truly special - let no one forget this. I'm Dennis Brent. I spent the morning emailing Andrew every time I found something I disagreed with in his archive feature. I'm sure he appreciates feedback from me. Email is the last tool I have left since British Telecom have done something to his telephone (it just rings and rings and rings) and the Royal Mail seem to send my letters back "Addressee unknown at this address". In the good old days public services worked properly. I don't want to be seen as some kind of bigot but it only started to go wrong when they legalised h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-i-t-y.

June 8th

My rare and technically fascinating a-n-u-s is killing me.

June 11th

I have decided to express the pain of my life in a poem.

"The Anal Soul" by Dennis Brent

The rolling blackness is inky and dark
It eats me whole and spits me out
The mountains of despair that cannot be climbed
The roads to nowhere circle around me

The hollowness of life bangs on my door
And asks to come in and sit by the fire
But I tell it I'm busy with matters of import
I have a yesterday to catalogue fully

The future is full of yesterdays
My life can never be completed
The inky darkness of doubt rolls over me
The ravens ask is it worth it?

June 15th

I haven't discovered anything important for ages. I think I've lost my touch. I used to make more discoveries per week than most men make in a life time. Oh for a memo giving the location menu during the Abominable Snowmen. That would make me feel like a hero again. And I am a hero - a hero to fans of Doctor Who who rely on me for a diet of truth and factual honesty. I cheered myself up by watching Power of the Daleks. I feel like writing more poetry.

June 19th

Someone emailed me to say they were selling one of the bricks handled by Tom Baker the very day he received the news of his casting as Doctor Who. I weighed up the pros and cons and decided it was worth eight hundred pounds. It will be a talking point if ever anyone comes to visit me. Even better, Elkie can't eat it. She could devour my entire collection and my Tom Baker brick would remain undamaged. Yes - I think I'll send him the money (he requested cash) by first post tomorrow and await my brick.

June 22nd

I had a dream last night that I was on board the R101 and it was about to crash. The captain said we needed to get rid of all extra weight and prepared to throw my stuffed Jon Pertwee out of the cabin. I countered this vandalism by pushing the captain out instead. Jon was safe. Elkie had taken the only parachute and my collection and I plunged to certain death. We landed in the sea. At this point I woke up and realised I'd fallen out of bed and into a puddle left behind by Elkie. I can't believe there's any connection between her leaving that puddle at the side of my bed and her insistence that I eat a cheese sandwich just before going to bed.

June 25th

My bank telephoned today. They noticed an odd smell coming from my vault and, when they opened it, they found that I had the last of the food from the location catering for Logopolis inside. They failed to appreciate the historical significance and insisted I remove it. I've found space in the cryogenic unit for it. Sadly I've had to remove my Captain Scarlet pyjamas. They're damaged - it's not worth keeping them in the bank vault - so I'll have to reorganise my collection. While looking in the cryogenic unit I found a pair of test tubes - one containing my genetic material, one containing Elkie's. I still cling to my dream of creating a hybrid child but unless I stop paying eight hundred pounds for a brick, I'll never be able to afford it.

June 29th

I've won the National Lottery. Six and a half million pounds. Good things happen to good people. I immediately telephoned the man with the brick and asked if he had any more from Tom Baker's special day. He chuckled for a moment and said it was my lucky day. He had eight thousand one hundred and twenty five bricks - exactly six and a half million pounds worth. I was faced with a dilemma - either my existing brick was worthless (because it was commonplace) or I buy the lot. I opted for the latter as the former would mean I was wrong in the first place and that is impossible. I am considering using the bricks to build an extension - the "Tom Baker (First Three Seasons - Before He Became a Dipso) Wing". It's sensible thinking like this that makes it hurtful when people say unkind things about me.