“So you’re my replacements” the Ninth Doctor says, peering at Ten, Eleven and Twelve in a way that can only happen in cyber-imagination-land because Eccleston appears to have totally burnt his bridges when it comes to Doctor Who. “A skinny boy, a chap and a Mod.”
“You’ve redecorated…” begins Ten.
“Shut up, we had that line in the 50th Anniversary Special,” Eleven slaps him down.
“All this arguing amongst myselves can get so effing tiring,” yells Twelve, slightly channelling one of his previous acting jobs. “Can we focus on the matter in hand?”
“Which is what? And why are you Scottish?” asks Nine.
“Lots of planets have a Scotland.” pipes up Ten, self-consciously.
“Gentlemen, we are here because that insaniac writing type steven harris has written a thing about me meeting Paul Weller in 1964!”
“Ooh I read that,” says Eleven, “Fan fiction is cool.”
“It effing deleted censored crikey blimey is NOT cool!” yells Twelve. “It gives any Tom Baker, Dick Hurndall and Harry Sullivan freedom to write gibberish crossover tat masquerading as a tribute to us!”
“Oh lighten up and stop swearing before the watershed. You’ll have someone’s eye out.” Ten is the voice of reason, it seems.
“We can’t control fan fiction, That would be like expecting the treasury to actually have any control over how the economy works.” Nine is feeling grumpily satirical.
“Exactly,” says Eleven. “And you’re all missing the real point here?”
“Which is what, foot-face?” Twelve makes the insult sound like a swear.
“If you’re a mod and get to meet Paul Weller, what are the rest of us and who is our famous pop guest star?”
“Good point there. Loving the glasses too, by the way.” Ten and Eleven beam at one another.
“Oh shut up and get a room.” says Nine.
They all have a bit of a ponder. Most of them pacing up and down the console room of the Tardis, occasionally bumping into one another, mumbling apologies and then continuing to plod around. At one point Twelve steps on one of Ten’s sand shoes with a heavy Dr Marten boot. Ten makes a noise like an early 21st century indie band singer.
“That’s it. You’re like one of those early 21st century indie band singers.” says Eleven.
“I beg your very pardon?” replied Ten.
“You know, they all wore tight suits with ties not properly done up and had names that began with ‘The’.”
Nine gets his drift.
“The Hives. The Strokes. The Not Really Very Good. The Totally Copying Britpop Bands Even Though We’re A Decade Late and Not Even British.”
“Yes, that lot.”
“Oooo-kay,” Ten isn’t entirely convinced. “And who do I get to hang out with who is cool and famous?”
“Well, none of them were especially cool or that famous but, oh, let’s say Julian Casablancas.” Eleven is pleased with himself for knowing the name of singer of The Strokes.
“Who?” Ten is shushed by the others. He flushes and points at Eleven.
“Okay then, tweed boy, you’re clearly into entirely uncool music like Bing Crosby and Tony Bennett.”
“Crooners, eh? I like crooners, now, crooners are…”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. And you can meet up with Andy Williams.”
“Oh. Well, okay then. What about Nine, though?”
They all stare at him. All they can think of is how fortunate it wasn’t him in the episode with the Ice Warrior on the Russian Nuclear submarine because he has enough of a Das Boot vibe going on anyway. He decides to get there before any of the others.
“Look, weirdly macho dress-sense. Hanging out with Barrowman. Not crushing on Billie Piper like Ten here did. It’s pretty obvious I’m in the closet, guys. Overcompensating. Which means my secret vice is loving gay anthemic stuff like Cher, and Dusty Springfield. Or, what was that band in the Nineties who sang Barbie Girl?”
“Aqua.” Says Twelve. “Er, I think.”
Ten and Eleven sing a snatch of the song: “Life in plastic, it’s…”
“Fantastic!” yells Nine.
The Tardis vomits some time spew into the vortex and lands on the writer’s head, crushing him to death. Which means someone else will have to work out who Nine’s special guest would be. And what music the other eight of them would be into.
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