15th December

I've arranged my Christmas Day - I will be having lunch with my friend Ian Devine and my best friend Midders in the Morning at the Elk and Bush. As three single gentlemen (by choice, obviously) we all happened to have space in our otherwise busy diaries. My friend Andrew couldn't make it as he has a "wife" at home. Last year I spent the day with Elkie but <shrug> the past is the past. I wonder how she and Elka are doing ? No I don't. The past <shrug> is the past. Donald said he might go to the Elk and Bush but only if (and the line wasn't too clear) Hull freezes over. I think he might have friends in Hull that would otherwise be visiting him. Here's hoping <g>

17th December

I am nursing a hangover after the Bendaton FM (also covering the villages of Shagford and Cymm) Christmas party. My best friend Midders in the Morning got me an invitation and I partied until well after ten pm. I remember having at least three glasses of shandy and, heavily under the influence, I remember telling Mr Roberts what I thought of him. I was promptly bundled out of the building by three elves and told never to darken their doors again. My friend Midders in the Morning was face down in a bowl of punch and couldn't do anything to help me. I expect he'll tender his resignation in protest at my treatment.

18th December

I am a prisoner in my own home. Carol singers besiege me - standing outside by door and singing "jolly" songs. I dare not move from behind my sofa in case they see me and expect monies in return. I heard the tell tale signs of the beginning of "Away in a Manger" and leapt to safety. It is worse than Halloween because this time one looks like a Scrooge style character (from the novella by the author Charles Dickens (not to be confused with Terrance Dicks <g>)) if one refuses them remuneration. So, until they go away, I am forced to remain here. At least I had the foresight to bring my diary with me. Its pages may prove useful soon as I can't risk getting up and going to the toilet.

20th December

My friend Ian Devine and I were in the Elk and Bush when something bizarre happened. He was downing pies (which isn't the bizarre part) when suddenly he began to choke. I recognised the signs from my recent encounter with the actor Peter Davison and I made the decision, there and then, to try the same technique that had saved the fifth Doctor Who. Naturally I couldn't get my arms all the way around my friend Ian Devine's massive waist (I'm not Mr Tickle <g>) but I did my best and, at the fourth or fifth attempt, an entire pork pie flew out of his fat mouth like a ball fired from a very fat cannon. My friend Ian Devine sank down to his chair, his face bright purple and sweat pouring out like Niagara Falls.

"Dennis" he gasped.

"No need to thank me Ian Devine" I told him, secretly hoping he would.

"You saved my life Dennis" he croaked.

"This is very true Ian Devine" I replied.

"The nation will thank you" he panted.

"I'm sure the nation would be only too willing to buy me a small glass of sherry..." I hinted. My friend Ian Devine took my subtle suggestion and ordered another round of drinks.

I saved a fellow human being's life today - I am, officially, a hero. I rang the Bendaton Probe and suggested it might make a nice item on the celebrity news page but they pretended never to have heard of either Dennis Brent or my friend Ian Devine. I suspect they had been drinking. The half witted woman said something about the "rainy day file" which must be good news given the weather we have in Bendaton <g>

24th December

The Annual Brent family dinner was a typically gruesome event. The dramatis personae were myself (Dennis Brent), my brother Donald, my father (Wollaston Brent) and my mother (Glenis Brent). Mother and Father haven't been on speaking terms since their divorce and it always falls upon Donald and I to be the life and soul of the party. In days gone by, Elkie and Elko have entertained us with their juggling, impressions, pratfalls and general clowning. I've had more than one theatrical agent tell me that Elkie could've turned professional. But the past is the past <shrug>.

I gave father his Christmas card and he rumbled bronchially and told me that the font was terrible - typical of the modern inability to do anything properly. He dismissed his present - a signed copy of my book "Doctor Who - the Biscuit Chronicles" (which lists every biscuit eaten during the first six seasons of Doctor Who production). He started out criticising the font (obviously) before broadening his abuse to my subject matter, my research, my prose style and eventually my face.

"Clarence" he said, "Here is your present." He gave me a carrier bag with some beer mats in it.

"Thank you father" I said politely.

"I want those back next week" he warned.

"Yes father."

"Clarence" said Mother, "I've bought you something nice." She gave me a framed photograph of myself and Elkie, taken in Blackpool 1997. I pulled back a tear and told her it was lovely.

"Here you are Clarence" said Donald, taking great pleasure in using my hated Christian name. He gave me a chocolate K9 and warned me not to eat it as it was 22 years old.

"Thank you Donald" I replied. I gave mother her card (complete with five pound Bargainsave voucher, the sherry having solidified in the bottle) and Donald his chocolate Spock. The chocolate Spock had mysteriously arrived by post the day before. The card was unsigned apart from a single kiss and the letter B. I remembered telling Brian how my brother Donald was just sad and boring enough to want a chocolate Spock so I suspect it came from him.

Christmas dinner was a gruesome time - mother and father not having spoken to each other since I was four years old meant that it fell to Donald (bore) and myself (Dennis Brent) to carry the entertainment burden.

"Did I tell you three that I found a memo explaining to Tom Baker that he couldn't add the phrase 'masturbating halfwit' to the script of Destiny of the Daleks ?" I asked cheerily. Donald started to snigger.

"Don't tell me you fell for that old trick" he chuckled. "I found the exact same thing explaining that Patrick Stewart couldn't say that in 'Best of Both Worlds' and my friend David discovered a paper telling Paul Darrow that he couldn't say it in 'Rumours of Death'. It's the oldest trick in the telehistorian's book."

I was devastated. Father and mother both found it hilarious and, turkey stuffing flying from their mouths, they laughed and pointed at me for a full ten minutes.

"Oh Clarence - you always were the stupid child" said mother.

"I think you are the masturbating half wit" said father (independently of mother as they refused any sort of interaction).

"I...I...I..." I stammered.

"Three I's in one breath - makes you sound a rather egotistical masturbating half wit" said Donald. The laughter and the pointing continued. It was just like being back at school, where Donald would never protect me from the hoards of boys who teased me for being from a 'broken home' (my argument that our house was in an excellent state of repair only seemed to fuel their taunts). 'Two Dads Brent' they called me, as if father being a h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l was in some way my fault. I began to have flashbacks to those horrible days.

"Shall we go and watch the Queen?" asked Donald. "Or would Clarence rather stay here and masturbate in a half witted manner?" More laughter. They trooped to the lounge to watch a video tape of last year's episode of "The Windsors" (another family tradition).

I snuck out through the cat flap while they enjoyed the fat old German's whingings. I returned to my empty house and tried to pour my heart out to William Hartnell but, my friend Ian Devine having decided he would out do me no matter what the cost, even William failed to sooth me.

25th December

I was in the Elk and Bush for ten past ten even though lunch wasn't being served until one pm. I had downed three half glasses of shandy before my best friend Midders in the Morning turned up. He had brought his posse with him (Crazy Dave, Mad Micky, Loony Bob and Wild Phil) and they whooped and cheered everything he said. They began to get on my nerves. My friend Ian Devine arrived in time for the pie course (a special addition to the menu whenever my friend Ian Devine is dining at the Elk and Bush). Never once did my friend Ian Devine bring up the subject of my saving his fat life - I didn't want to be the one to tell Midders in the Morning (who has a 'Hero of the Day' slot on his show which I wouldn't turn down an appearance on if it were offered). Eventually I dropped some big hints but, there being food on the table, my friend Ian Devine was permanently distracted.

Later - I got back home about five and there was an odd smell in the house. I immediately rushed to my cryogenic unit to make sure there hadn't been a power failure - William was, thankfully, safe. The odd smell led me to investigate the entire house as I searched for its source. Eventually I went into the kitchen. The back door (which I never lock on the grounds that I get lonely and wouldn’t like to deter company who might pop round on the spur of the moment). Lying on the kitchen table was a body bag. It seemed fairly obvious that one or other of my inner family had killed one of the others and had placed the body in my kitchen to frame me for murder. Again. With fearful fingers I unzipped it and looked inside. I could hardly believe my eyes. There was a note attached.

"Dear My Friend Dennis,

I can never thank you enough for saving my life but I hope this parcel can go someway to letting you know how much I appreciate what you did.

Your friend Ian Devine."

I put the note down and had another look at the preserved face before me.