Doctor Hula Hoop provides his own unique analysis of Smith and Jones…
Getting a review to K Towers from my snug Costa Brava hideaway is always perilous affair. Normally I only have to deal with fellow writer/reviewers, typically from other Dr Who websites, trying to assassinate me on route/run me off the road or steal the reviews and try to pass them off as their own. A tiresome affair and although I used to enjoy the thrill and adventure of it all now I am more concerned with getting the word to the fans on-time and un-molested. Now I can get Who at the same time as everyone else, not to mention Confidential and Totally, things have taken a turn for the worse.
After the usual attempts on my life by jealous writers during the course of Saturday; Gorilla in the oven, Crocodile in the toilet bowl, poison paella and the infamous ‘Ice Cream Van of Death’ – to name but a few, I then find out that K Towers has been shipped to the Moon after a hoax call to none other than the Judoon! Yes, none other than the kilted-Rhino-faced Intergalactic Police Force we (now) know and love.
Speaking from K’s ‘Panic Room’ was a more then usually frantic Atomic – ‘Hoop’, he spluttered, ‘the situation is dire. Someone from a rival website has tipped off the Judoon and they are searching K Towers as we speak for the infamous Band-Aid Absorber from Saturn.’
‘Son’s of the Jesuit,’ Replies I, ‘not the ‘Plaster-vore.’
‘It’s worse than you think, Dry has been using the ‘Panic Room’ on the sly and has eaten all the cucumbers and burnt out the battery on the vibrating door lock probe, we are stuck fast and the air is running out, for the sake of the fans you must bring the review, personally, to my cottage/love nest on the peak of Scafell Pike.’
‘Did anyone escape?’
‘Yes, fortunately Gerald, the Slitheen Butler, met a bird down the pub on Friday night and skived off today with a very weak excuse and had his contract terminated. We’ve reinstated him of course and he’s flown to Girona on Ryan Air and will meet you there and fly back with you.’
‘Ok’, I say, then thinking about it for a minute, ‘Look. If you think I’m getting on a plane with a Slitheen for two hours you must be mad or tripping or all three, it’s a pressurized container for the sake of Jeebus. I’ll meet him and drop it off; the rest is up to him.’
All agreed I donned my all-black leathers, took them off again after realizing they are quite un-necessary for driving my ancient VW Golf and set off, post-haste, forthwith and not-sparing-the-horses stylee and roared up the N-Dos to the ridiculously titled Costa Brava Airport where I found Gerald in the unclaimed luggage department (having the foresight to ship himself as freight, thus avoiding any customs complications!)
I press the review into Geraldâ€™s warm, sweaty and slighlty hairy palm, wish him luck and give him a semi-warm can of beans with sliced spring onions to munch on for the flight back (heh heh, hope the other passengers enjoyed the flight as much as Gerald.)
On the way home I am ambushed at a road block by the incompetent boys from â€˜weloveyouwhoyeswedo.comâ€™ and subjected to a very humiliating strip-search.
â€˜Too late fellas.â€™ I gleefully declare as the flight back to London roars overhead, belching green smoke from the air-outlets, â€˜the review has gone, yet again your attempts to deny the gathered Intelligencia of the UK has failed.â€™ I add, â€˜Miserably.â€™ Then get back in the Golf and leave them standing, naked and humiliated (I told you they were daft, â€˜strip-searchâ€™ means me not you, you brain-donors!) and roar back down the N-Dos to the safety of my own home. I step over the bizarre site of a Crocodile eating a Gorilla while slowly dying of poison and relax, looking forward to next weekâ€™s shenanigans.
So, to cut a long story short if you are reading this then Gerald must have survived and yet again the People of Britain breathe a collective sigh of relief. Gracias Publico.
Nowâ€¦.on to the episode itself. Good wasnâ€™t it?