TARDIS LOG 3: The Eleventh Doctor Cometh

Pete: Thursday 1st April

I was having another of my really good Karen Gillan dreams, when I was disturbed by what sounded like the mournful ruminations of an angry cow. It took several seconds of panic-stricken flailing before I realised it was my mobile. God! The vibrate setting on this thing was really getting vicious in its old age! It was a text from Dom, reading 'Spoiler Alert! Tom Baker confirmed to make appearance in 11th Hour!!!' and then, in caps lock: 'THIS IS AN APRIL FOOL!' I couldn't help thinking he was somehow missing the point.

The door abruptly swung open, and in crashed a bare-chester Jeff, simultaneously dribbling toothpaste, making monster noises AND warbling the 'Who theme. The man was a genius! I immediately sprang into action, grabbing one of the sonic screwdrivers from my bedside table, and shouting 'he's hyperpodulating!' Then we both fell about laughing.

These japes got better every year!

***

Jeff: Thursday April 1st

I steeled myself, staring into the mirror.
“I'm the doctor. I'm a timelord. I'm 903 years old...”
Ok... it was time, although it wasn't really working, I'm a bit fatter than David Tennant.
“Hey Pete!” I greeted him far too cheerily.
“What's wrong?” he looked terrified.
“Nothing. Well... you know I said my parents were going away for Easter? Well... my brother's not at college at the moment and he can't really stay at home by himself...”
“What do you mean not at college?” said Pete, aghast.
“It's Easter. Half term.”
“No, I mean, why's he still college? He's twenty seven!”
“You know why.” I sighed.
“Because he's retarded?”
“Kevin is not retarded! He has mild autism.” Pete frowned. “Alright, it's pretty severe, but he's not retarded. You can't say that any more.”
“But if I could say it... then he'd be a retard?”
“Shut up. He's coming to stay.”
“What?!” Pete looked like he was going to cry.
“Just for the weekend!”
“This weekend?? My Helicopter?? Guy?? This weekend??”
“Yes this weekend...”
“But it's Doc-”
“Yes, yes, I know! But what could I do? I'm not retarded. Autistic. I'm the grown up sensible one, my mum asked me a favour and I can't say no because we're watching kids TV in our pants all weekend. I couldn't say that, I'd get the sigh.”
“I thought it was Daisy that did the sigh?”
“It's just women in general. He'll be here tomorrow, but don't worry. I'll sort something out.”

***

Jeff: Friday 2nd April

My Dad dropped Kevin off on their way up to the lakes. As usual my Mum stayed in the car and my Dad lingered reluctantly on the doorstep, trying to get away as soon as possible.
“Are you sure you don't want to come in for a quick brew?”
“No...No... We'd best be off. You be good now.” He mock punched Kevin on the shoulder. There was something quite depressing about that. He used to treat him like that as a four year old. That kind of exchange is normal between a father and small boy, but when it's a fifty nine year old and a twenty seven year old it's quite unsettling.
Anyway, it was probably for the best they didn't come in. The Lost continuity guide was still scrawled all over the wall. (It was eventually crossed out and “FUCK IT” scrawled across in red marker pen.)
“You ok?” I asked Kevin, in a resigned sort of way. The question was a formality, I knew whatever I received in reply would be unintelligible, irrelevant or banal to the point of.... banality?
“Ye.” He shrugged. “Is Pete About?..” He asked with a completely false sense of casualness. He couldn't actually keep eye contact as he asked the question. He's been terrified of Pete ever since they first met twenty four years ago. Pete had long hair, and for some reason this distressed Kevin. Every time Pete came round, my brother used to hide in the airing cupboard.
“Yes.” I wanted to say. “Pete's here. He's just next door. And he's got a knife.” Just for the fun of it.
“No.” I said. (He was asleep.)
“Oh. Where I am I sleeping?” Kevin speaks very quickly, so this all came out as one word. He's also not too clever when it comes to the letters L or S.
“On the sofa.”
“What if Pete wants to sit on it while I'm asleep? He might hurt me.” He visibly paled.
“He won't. Do you want a brew.”
“Yeh. But not with the weird milk. It's not the weird milk is it?”
“What are you on about? We only use one kind of milk. The normal kind.”
“No, you have the weird milk in a carton. I like it out of the bottle.”
“It's UHT. Everyone drinks UHT.”
“It tastes funny. I like from the bottle.”
“Well, we don't have any.”
“Right. Can I have some orange juice instead?”
“We don't have any. It's water, tea or Carlsberg.”
“BEER?” He looked at me like I was forcing him to take heroin.
“It's all we have.”
“I bet you've got big cupboards full of beer. People will think you're like a crazy person.” He paused, staring in horror at the wall as though he'd just realised something awful. Like he only had a few hours left to live. “Oh, no!... Pete's not gonna get drunk is he?”
“Not unless it's a special occasion.”
“Oh no! He's gonna be drunk. Can you tell him to go away?”
“What do you mean go away? He lives here.”
“Yeah, but it's your house too. Please, can't you just tell him to go away until Monday?”
“No! I couldn't do that... he's not well.” I lie, but I thought playing the sympathy card might help him see Pete in a different light.
“Oh no!” He clamped the sleeve of his jacket over his nose and backed into the corner of the living room. “It's not legionaries disease is it?” His voice was shaking.
“No. I don't even know what the fuck that is.”
“Don't swear!”
“He's not ill, he's just, you know, under the weather.”
“Bet it's legionaries disease...”
“Do you want a drink or not?”
“Can I have a shandy?”
“Yes.” I lied. We'd got some pretty week Sainsburys own beers in, I could put a teaspoon of sugar in it and say it was shandy. Of course, that would make it flat.... Ah! Of course, I could dilute it with the organic cucumber presse Daisy left in the fridge. (I asked if she was going to drink it, and she said it was a flower in a barren garden. I think this was some kind of metaphor comparing cucumber juice to Carlsberg export.
We walked through to the kitchen, or rather I did. Kevin hovered in the doorway. You know the way the SAS raid a building, bursting into rooms by securing themselves against the wall and checking every direction for enemies? This is exactly the way bursts into the kitchen, absolutely petrified that there may be another human being in there.
Luckily this gives me time to pour some 2% beer into a glass and dispose of the can. I stick the kettle on and then decide, fuck it, who cares if it's 10:30, he'll think I'm drinking shandy. Besides it's good Friday. I'm allowed a treat. I know I'm working later, but I work in a pub... so it's like market research.
Kevin started looking at the model Daleks on the windowsill.
“Which garlics are these?”
“Daleks.”
“Yeh, which ones are they?”
“I got them from that convention. Remember, the one we went to in Manchester when you were 10?” I remembered, he'd run out screaming.
“Yeh, but which garlics are they? Are the Davros's garlics or the renegade garlics?”
“It's just a model dalek.”
“Yeah but it's gold. The gold garlics are from the 70s aren't they.”
“It's just that colour because you're supposed to paint them.”
“Yeh, but the gold garlics were from the 70s.”
I wanted to go into detail that there had been a gold Dalek in the 70s, in Day of the Daleks, and of course the black and gold movie Dalek in Planet of the Daleks... but there were never more than one. And the ones that were gold weren't gold all over. That would look ridiculous. But I can't do it. I'd sound as bad as him.
“Yeah, they're from the 70s.”
“With the old man?”
“Jon Pertwee wasn't an old man!”
“Right yeah... you know the, err, undertaker? And John Cenna? Well Cenna won at backlash...” Oh god, not WWF. He always ends up on fucking WWF. He's been obsessed with the undertaker for about twenty years and I still don't know what he hell he's on about. The amount of sentences which begin with “You know the, err, undertaker?” And I just zone out.
In his bedroom at home, one half of the wall space is dedicated to the Royals (specifically the Queen mother and Princess Di for some reason.) and the other is a mural of WWF posters. Oiled, muscled men in leotards grimacing. No wonder he's never had a girlfriend.
By this time, the conversation – or rather his monologue – has turned to the time he tried to get a goat in the back of his Dad's car, and the hilarity that ensued when they were pulled over by the police and the officer found a goat in the back, munching its way through an A-Z.
Every time he starts ranting about WWF, it always ends up with the goat story. And I never heard about this story in the first place. I mean, his Dad is my Dad, and he never said anything about a goat. It's all been relayed to fast, it's hard to distinguish most of the individual words, so I just let him get on with it.
I made to go through to the living room and Kevin froze in the doorway.
“Oh, no!” He wailed. “There aren't any cydermen are there?”
“Not unless Pete's been upgraded!” I quipped. He didn't get it.
“Pete's a cyderman?” He regarded me with a look of genuine confusion on his face.
“No. There are no cybermen.” I informed him. I'd made a routine check before he came round to remove anything featuring, or relating to cybermen from the living room. I'd shown him Attack of the Cybermen when he was a kid, and he'd been so scared by the scene where the cybermen crush that guys hands that he'd had to have counseling for about four years after. (That was the reason he ran from the convention in '93, although bizarrely he was more frightened of Sophie Aldred than the guys in cybermen costumes. He was running along a corridor screaming “Don't let the scary lady get me!”) And in the 80s, the cybermen were made of tinfoil, so for a few years he was too scared to go into the kitchen. He got over that eventually, but to this day he's still afraid of cling film.
“What about the DVDs? You've got cyderman DVDs!”
“Yeah... In the DVD rack. You can't see the covers?”
“Are the cydermen on the sides.”
“No! It's just grey, and a picture of the Doctor. You're not scared of the Doctor you?”
“You won't make me look at it will you?”
“Why would I want to do that.”
“Dunno. Oh no! You're not gonna make me watch The Earthshocks are you?”
“No. And it's called Earthshock.”
“I need a wee.”
“You know where the bathroom is.” He trundled off and I quickly ran to get another beer. It was only as I opened the fridge that I remembered; I hadn't removed the cyberman flannels from the bathroom.

***

Pete: Friday 2nd April

“Look after him??” I protested. “But I was all set to watch Battlefield tonight. Can't you take him to work with you?”
“Oh shame!” Jeff smiled to himself, obviously impressed by the apt timing of his quote; and now I was going to have to put another quid in the 'Bambera jar'. “I can't take him to work with me. You know what he gets like around noise... and alcohol... and people. What if he tries to climb into the chiller again? Kathy'll go mental!”
“But it just won't work. We both know how he feels about me! Besides, what if I'd been planning to go out?”
Jeff tilted his head. “Let's face it Pete. Kamilian's had more outings than you in the last few years!”
“Well, tonight could've been the night!” I was more than a little hurt. How could he compare me to that stupid, poncey robot; the blight upon the otherwise tolerable King's Demons? “Anyway, how would Kevin react if I was planning to have Dom round? He's still got long hair.”
“Dom's not coming round.” He spoke sternly.
“He might be...” Grinning, I reached for my mobile, which was buried beneath DWM, FHM and some clumps of toilet paper.
“Dom's NOT coming round!” I could tell I'd wound him up. “Now, I'd better go. I'm going to be late for work.”

When I went through to the lounge, Kevin was nowhere to be seen. I searched frantically, but it was only when I began to curse aloud - “Ah... Fucking hell!” - that he gave himself away.
A gasp of shock sounded from near one of the lounge chairs. “Don't swear!” Kevin was hiding behind the sofa, surrounded by a makeshift fort of cushions. “You won't go to heaven.” I removed one of the cushions from his head. “Don't hurt me!” He whimpered.
“Kevin,” I tried to sound calm and reasonable, “I'm not going to hurt you.”
“But I did a bad thing.” He inclined his head down to where a damp stain was spreading on his already food-encrusted trousers. “I'm dead sorry.” His lips trembled. “I didn't mean to. I was scared. I heard you say Don was coming round.”
“It's DOM!”
“Ahhhh!” He screamed pathetically.
“Come on.” I tried to hide my exasperation and sound sympathetic. We couldn't afford to hire a carpet cleaner, and if I gave him anything else to be scared about the whole lounge would end up smelling of piss. Kevin's combined mortal terror for practically everything and weak his bladder meant that he was a volatile house-guest. Last time he stayed, we ended up having to replace a whole set of bed covers after our flannel, which had a picture of Shrek on it, gave him nightmares. I grabbed his arm to hoist him up, but he began to chew his lip and wail pitiably.
“Geroff! Geroff me! I'll call a policeman. I'll tell him you've been drinking pot!” He shot up, ran into the kitchen and went to hide underneath the table. I came through just in time to see him knock it off-balance, and, from then, everything seemed to go in slow-motion. A beer bottle swayed precariously on the brink, but mercifully came to rest. A Marmite jar slid to one side, stopping just in time. A teapot tipped and lost its lid. Miraculously, however, it didn't smash.

For a brief moment, it seemed as though everything was going to be okay, but then the unthinkable happened. The K9-biscuit barrel, that Jeff had bought for my 21st birthday, fell to the ground and shattered into tiny pieces. The noise sent Kevin into some kind of fit, and I had to call Jeff back. When he eventually got home, I'm not ashamed to admit that I was slumped dejectedly on the floor, staring at a fragment of K9's ear and weeping.

***

Jeff: Saturday 3rd April (am)

I got out of bed and had a long hard look in the mirror, just to remind myself what a morally corrupt bastard really looked like. I'm a bastard... But it had to be done.
I picked up the phone and called Dorset Gran, my only surviving grandparent. The trouble with Dorset Gran is that I started lying to her when I was about 25, and I've been unable to stop. I sort of dig myself in deeper every time. If I really was the kind of person she thought I was, then I imagine my parents would actually come round for tea.
“Hi Gran? It's Jeff.”
“Hiya Darling! How're you doing?”
“Oh good, good.”
“How're things at the Brewery?”
Cringe. “Oh, you know – tough but rewarding!”
“I still can't believe it, managing director!”
Cringe. “Yeah... Listen, I really don't like to out you out but I'm looking after Kevin at the moment... yeah, they're in the Lakes... But I've got Daisy coming round and...”
“You're lovely fiancée!”
Cringe. “Yeah... and, well, you know, we're having ... The kids talk!”
“Oh! How exciting! I always hoped I'd be a great grandmother before I died. You're a treasure, Jeffry.” It was entirely possible she was crying. I cringed.
“Don't worry about Kevin, he can stay here while you get yourselves sorted. I'll put some steak pies in the oven, he likes them doesn't he?”
“Yeah, just remember to take them out of the foil tray.”

***

Pete: Saturday 3rd April

The anticipation was too much. I couldn't sleep, so I was up by 11 – the eleventh hour. I skulked cautiously around the house, checking for signs that the deed had been done: sleeping bag empty; big puddle on the bathroom floor; discarded pairs of tracksuit bottoms slung over sofa, cooker door AND record player; spilt UHT; trail of Rice Krispies leading towards the exit; and everything blissfully quiet. I breathed a sigh of relief. Kevin had left the building, and the rest of the day was mine to enjoy!

A part of me was pleased to be out of bed so early – I could put on that exercise video Uncle Julian had sent me, make a start trying to repair the laptop, clean the house, write a novel. Another part of me, however, knew that it'd be like childhood Christmas Eve all over again – that I would rattle round the house, feeling tense, wringing my hands, going slightly mad, running baths and then letting the water go cold without taking them, bidding on ebay for German car parts and football memorabilia.

As it was, I ended up on the sofa – which was inevitable, really – using duct tape to bind together the TV, DVD, video and Freeview remotes... which was less inevitable. This actually proved decidedly fiddly, and I was still going at it when Jeff walked through the front door. He looked at me, before his eyes turned excitedly to the remote controls, dropping a pair of shopping bags, and raising his arms aloft.
“The Megatron returns!” He shut the door. “Pete, you're an absolute genius!” He locked the door. “I mean, there was me abandoning the whole idea...” He bolted the door. “...After Daisy got that hi-fi remote stuck to her arse,” he put the chain on the door, “and went all...” He pulled a face and waved his hands frantically, before shoving a wedge beneath the front door, “and here you are, br- wait! Have you unplugged the phone?”
“No. Wh-”
“You dick!” He ran to yank out the extension cord, eventually succeeding after several attempts.
“Jeff, is there a reason you're being so security conscious?”
“Just want to make sure no one disturbs us during Doctor Who.” He stopped, and seemed to be catching his breath, before adding guiltily. “Plus, I just stole shitloads of stuff again. Now come on!” He snapped his fingers.
“Erm, Ok... But you are quite sure you're not going to get caught sooner or later?” His eyes widened considerably.
“Yes... Maybe... It hardly matters! Did Tom Baker play by the rules in 'Genesis of the Daleks'? I think not!”
“Oh, come on! You can hardly compare a life-changing moral decision like that to you nicking-” I rustled through the shopping bag. “...Slim-a-Soup, motor oil...”
“I'm an outlaw...”
“Value brand tampons?”
“A vigilante...”
“You're a kleptomaniac!”
“For fuck's sake, Pete, as if I'm the one with the problems!” He slammed a can of XXX-Chunky dog food down onto the kitchen table.
“And just what's that supposed to mean?” Jeff fell silent, biting his lip, and when he blinked, it seemed like whole minutes passed in the time it took him to shut and open his eyelids.
“Never mind.” He said at last, smiling genially. “How about I make us one of those special hot chocolates while you do the important work?” He waved a stolen pad of paper, and red Biro. “We've got six-and-a-half hours, and ten doctors to get through. Do your worst.”

It proved to be an impossible task. By the time Jeff'd made a hot chocolate, the page was still completely blank. By the time he'd had a bath, I'd managed to write the name of each doctor down, but had got no further. By the time he'd cleaned out the kitchen, tidied the lounge and barricaded the door, my head was in my hands and there were so many crossings out that I had to start afresh. And by the time Daisy came round and nearly ruined everything, the list looked like this.

Jeff refused to shift the furniture and let Daisy in, shouting through the peep hole that he was 'very ill'.
“Aww, but Jeffy,” Daisy squealed, “don't you want me to come in and wook after you?”
“Daisy, there's nothing I'd like more than for you to come and 'wook after' me, but I've got...” He fumbled at thin air, as though it would provide him with an end to his sentence. “...Smith's Disease,” he said at last, a little too triumphantly, “and it's tewibly contagious.”
“OMG!” She screamed, banging hard against the door. “Phoenix from 'Lentil Fetish' had Smith's Disease, and he nearly lost a hand! You have to let me in so I can bath the affected area in lavender essence!”

The exchange continued like this for some time. We thought we were in trouble when she threatened to mount a doorstep vigil, and her medley of Bryan Adams' love songs proved to be a particularly bleak moment. The Radiotronic Workshop could show her a thing or two! When she finished, I shouted that Jeff had taken to his bed. I'm a terrible lier, and felt sure she'd know that he was stood right next to me, eating a waffle, but it seemed to work. After fifteen minutes pawing at the door, she eventually left. Somehow we'd lost most of the afternoon.

The rest of it rapidly vanished in the time it took to boil the kettle, prepare the experimental schnitzel-sausage-noodle sandwiches, artfully arrange the Twiglets, sufficiently defrost the ice-cream, arrange the Twiglets again, decant the crisps, set up the video recorder, and rearrange the Twiglets to perfection.

Before we knew it, the moment was upon us... The Eleventh Doctor had arrived...

To pre-order the novel Life Begins at Forty, click here!

TARDIS LOG #2: The Scary Door

Pete: Sunday February 14th

Valentines Day: received one small card, written, quite obviously, in Jeff's curvy handwriting. He watched me open it, the smile on his face such that I decided to play along, even though we both found the situation unbearably depressing. "See," he winked, "told you there was someone special out there for you." And he ruffled my greasy hair.

Sent Simone a big box of permanent marker pens, with the note 'Remember Bridlington, '06? XXX' tied beneath a red ribbon.

***

Pete: Wednesday February 17th

I peered my head around the corner, bracing myself. Nothing. Just another anonymous-looking walkway in a labyrinth of gloomy corridors. Taking Amy's hand, I sped off at a dash, only my Timelord instinct guiding me through the really long, windy maze. I knew the exit to the abandoned quarry was close. Then, if we could just get past that row of 'deactivated' Cybermen, we'd almost be back at the TARDIS. Suddenly, however, the tall shape of a Dalek materialised from out of the shadows. I looked at my reflection in the metal wall, and saw that I was Jon Pertwee. Great- I'd been Matt Smith for ages. It was then, aiming a judo chop at the eyepiece with a shout of 'hii!', that I noticed something was wrong.
"Hang on a minute!" I said, oddly enough in David Tennant's voice. "You're a Peter Cushing movie Dalek! You're not even supposed to be in proper Doctor Who!" When I raised my sonic screwdriver, the metallic monster began to weep uncontrollably. Thank god- my bluff had worked. It obviously had the mind of one of The Rod's over sensitive, touchy-feely Daleks. Soon enough, it began to frazzle and burn out, its casing blowing off to reveal the hideous green creature hidden within.
Amy took my hand and said, in a pan-British accent, "Oh Doctor! You're brilliant... and so good looking!" She kissed me passionately, and, at long last, I came to realise that the universe could truly be a beautiful place. And then I woke up.

My underwear and bedsheets were an unpleasant mess of bodily fluids. There were several embarrassing reasons for this, and I knew I'd have to clean up before Jeff found me out. I mean, it's not as though he really snoops round my room that often - I don't have anything worth stealing like he does - but after the 'soup pan fiasco' the other week, I feel as though there are certain standards I have to set. Am I not, after all, the more responsible of the two of us?
Scrutinising my homemade chart of Jeff's work shift-pattern, I saw that he should be out, but I pressed my ear - and a glass tumbler - against the wall for a good 10 minutes to make double-sure. Everything seemed reassuringly quiet, so I pulled on the new pair of beige underpants that Uncle Julian sent me for Christmas (ever since I turned 14, Uncle Julian has, without fail, been mailing me boring underwear and photo laminates from every male-model catalogue he appears in - why is this?) Then, scooping up the blankets and making sure the coast was definitely clear, I ventured into the lounge.

As someone who believes that, no matter how arduous and debilitating the task, cleaning needn't be a chore, I can honestly say there was something weirdly pleasurable about stripping my sticky sheets and dancing to the sound of Rush's '2112'. Unfortunately, as is so often the case, it was probably the volume of the record that prevented me from hearing the front door. I only realised I wasn't alone when I felt the cold finger of doom running down my back, and I spun round in horror to see Daisy, who grinned manically.
"Pete'ums!" She spoke as though oblivious to my humiliatingly near-naked body. "I know I should have called, but I was in the area to check out Cassie's new place. You know, The Yoghurt Dungeon?" She didn't give me time to answer, which is probably for the best, because I don't think I could have formed a coherent sentence. Daisy generally has this effect on me. "Anyway, I thought it'd just be so rude not to pop round and see what my two favourite boys were up to, so... oh my god!" She stopped abruptly, staring in horror as though only just having noticed my lack of clothes. "Naughty boy, Pete! Washing at 40, AND using one of those nasty super-strength detergents. Do you want to be held responsible for destroying the environment? Do you want people to call you a rapist?" She slapped me lightly twice on the buttocks, and various areas of my body visibly stiffened. "I insist you let me hand wash those in some aloe-fragranced salts, with a splash of lemon juice!"
"No... it's... really." She seized the blankets from my hand with surprising force. My mouth fell open and remained that way for several seconds, my lower jaw somehow rendered temporarily incapable of performing its primary function. I attempted my usual confidence trick, and tried to picture myself as an inspirational TV character, but saw only the Absorbalof. Halfway to the sink, Daisy suddenly stopped in her tracks, spinning to face me.
"Uh oh... looks like someone's been having a good time." She was inspecting the cold, damp patches on my bed covers with disconcerting fascination. Every inch of my moral fibre spurred me on to say something like 'this is ridiculous' and throw her out, but the best I managed was a hollow syllable. "Oh, don't worry, Pete," she winked, "there's no shame in being a wanker. From the way you've been behaving though, I can see you're in no fit state to look after yourself today, so why not lie down on the sofa and let me take care of you until Jeff gets back." I don't know why, but I found myself doing exactly as she instructed. Why is it that my powers are rendered utterly useless around Daisy?

***

Pete: Thursday February 18th

Felt nauseous this morning, so decided to alphabetise our food products. The tinned goods situation wreaked anarchy! I'd done so well with 'fridged' and 'boxed', but I felt a challenging dilemma in cases such as 'baked beans' and 'tomato soup'. Was it more valuable to categorise them under their product suffix i.e. In the case of beans, 'baked' rather than 'beans' or their overall genre classification?? It probably shouldn't have mattered. I can see that now. I mean, we didn't even have any other products to index between 'ba' and 'bea', and we only ever bought the one type of beans; the one type of soup; the one type of spaghetti. That was it! We needed a shake up. That'd stop me wanting to throw up! I was going to buy more than one type of tinned spaghetti! Hell, I'd surprise Jeff by doing the whole weekly shop! We were down to the last 17 cans of beans, after all.

It'd been a while since I'd called my Mum, and she sounded taken aback to hear from me. Our exchange, as usual, covered a melee of unpleasant topics. When I told her I'd been ill, she told me that I needed to get some meat down my neck, and when I asked how she'd been feeling, she went into graphic detail about the bulging veins in her inner thighs. At one point, I could hear my Dad in the background, rasping in his metallic voice. "Has he made an honest man of himself yet, or is he still shacked up with that nancy-boy-fag?" "Your father says hello." My mother tended to reinterpret his comments in edited form. I asked if I'd be able to use her account details to do a food shop on Tesco online. After much grumbling and making me feel guilty, she eventually agreed. "You'll have to have us over for dinner though," she said insistently, "so we can check you're not spending our money on a load of rubbish." I reluctantly agreed, but managed to postpone things until the following week. My parents are fiercely critical visitors, and the prospect of entertaining them has been known to bring on asthmatic attacks weeks in advance of their arrival.

Bizarrely, Tesco have started segregating their cereal into 'children' and 'adult' categories. I was sure my choices would fall in with the grown-ups, but, oddly enough, both 'Frosties' and 'Coco Pops' are filed under the kids' section. I had to wonder what this suggested about me as a person. If I'm not deemed mature and responsible by the good people at Kellogg’s, what does this say about how actual people see me? I almost dropped my 'Starbug' mouse into my mega-milkshake when I saw that they now make Doctor Who pasta shapes... in tomato sauce! I ordered 30 tins as a treat for Jeff. The only trouble is, Tesco don't display ingredients. Still, surely there could be nothing nasty lurking in tinned pasta... Well, apart from some Daleks in this case! What a triumph! So why did I still feel sick?

Redressed my blankets in newly washed, stain free bed covers. At 11pm, I vomited all over them. My medical sixth sense seemed to suggest that I was coming down with something...

***

Pete: Friday February 19th

Things gradually deteriorated from there. I tried to discard the dirty covers, but became increasingly entangled, my feverish hallucinations transforming the struggle into a wrestle with one of those rubbish butterfly creatures from that William Hartnoll Doctor Who episode that not even I pretend to like. I didn't sleep for hours. I was too scared. The room just seemed to be getting bigger and bigger. I reckon Roger Delgado was miniaturising me! I desperately needed the toilet, but was convinced I'd slip down the plughole. I did at least dream of relieving myself, but when I looked in the bathroom mirror, I was covered in lime green bubble-wrap. When I woke up, I'd actually pissed myself!

The doorbell was ringing. It seemed to be getting louder too, like someone was drilling in my head. Then it hit me. Shit! The Tesco man! Donning my dressing gown, I lurched unsteadily downstairs to find that the Tesco man was actually a remarkably good-looking Tesco woman. I wiped a stray bit of sick from my beard, and tightened the dressing gown cord. It was the same as the Tenth Doctor's in 'The Christmas Invasion' and 'Smith and Jones', and the thought had crossed my mind that the delivery girl might mistake me for David Tennant. She looked at me as though she were actually considering this, but then said "Sorry. I didn't realise you were disabled. Let me get these shopping bags for you." Her tone of voice and moronic grin suggested she were dealing with a retarded six-year-old. I wanted to cry.
When I got back to the flat, I felt too weak to do anything about the shopping, so I slumped onto the sofa - surrounded by stacks of tinned vegetables and melting ice-cream, watching Flash Gordon on ITV2. When a 1993 Wheel of Fortune repeat came on, I actually started crying about the Tesco girl. So, I picked up the phone and tried to call Simone: the only girl, aside from my mother, who had willingly seen me naked. I left an impassioned message about body hair, the Transformers movie, Silurians and world poverty, and ended by whispering "I still love you, you know" with unrestrained sensitivity. I wish I'd managed to hang up in time before the retching started.

***

Pete: Saturday February 20th

It turns out that the Doctor Who spaghetti shapes have anchovy extract in! I can't bring myself to throw them away, having paid for them. I decided that my first course of action would be to write a polite email to the manager at Tesco HQ, threatening legal action for not clearly displaying the ingredients online. Bafflingly, an hour later, I received a response from the company's legal team threatening to 'counter-sue' me. I find it odd that they replied to me so quickly when, on the occasion I emailed them to ask whether their 'beef and tomato noodles' contained any beef (and tomatoes), I received only an automated response telling me what a valued customer I was. To get them off my back with the whole 'counter-sue' scenario, I emailed again, casually dropping in the lie that I was disabled, and that their delivery lady could verify this for me. Moments later, another message appeared, informing me that all legal action would be dropped. "One can only imagine," it said, "what it must be like to have no legs." No legs?? No Legs??! Where the hell did that one come from? They're sending me a palette of 'Doctor Who Pasta Shapes' as compensation. Perhaps if I put all the tins in the cupboard, the pleasure I glean from looking at the wibbly spaghetti K9s, and deformed Cyberman heads, on the packaging, will make it value for money? I still don't feel any better.

***

Pete: Monday February 22nd

When Jeff got home tonight, his hair was gelled into a pale imitation of Matt Smith's. I looked at him. He looked at me. For once, I think I actually had the edge on coolness.
"I tried," he said solemnly.
"It isn't working, is it?" He let out a long breath of air, spent a while studying his shoes, walked to the fridge, and opened a can of Hogg Bavarian Beer.
"No," he spoke at last. "I think I'd better do something about this..." He wiggled his fingers around his head "mess. Daisy's coming round in a bit. What if she ends up liking it, and tries to make me keep it? She's always telling me I should get my hair cut like the singer in Kasabian."
"What's that? I don't think I've seen it. And why's Daisy coming round? It's Doctor Who night!"
"We don't have a Doctor Who night." Jeff protested.
"Yes we do. I found that timetable we made a few years ago: Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday - we watch Doctor Who. Tuesday - we do Sarah Jane - and on Saturday we try to get into Torchwood. The rest of the time we write."
"Oh yeah, and that's working out really well for us," Jeff said, a little too sarcastically. We both opened and closed our mouths several times, not really knowing what to say. It sounded like a couple of slugs crawling up with work surfaces. "Look Pete, you know I'd rather watch that 'Sixth Doctor Years' video you bought me, but Daisy's invited herself, it's Romantic Comedy Night, and that's that!" A globule of sweat, merged with neon blue hair gel trickled down his forehead, which didn't help dispel the slug image.
"Romantic comedies?! You do realise I'm a sick man?" I coughed, perhaps a little too theatrically, to drive the point home. "I don't mean to moan, but my head's throbbing, I'm totally worn out and sick, my throat feels like someone's rammed a pitchfork down it, my body's permanently shivering, my nostrils are clogged with snot, and my lungs must be touching 11 on the mucus scale." I forced a wheeze, and was perversely impressed by how grotesque it sounded. "I won't have Daisy here... for her sake, really. I'll infect her. Yes, I forbid it!"
"You could always stay in your bedroom?" Jeff suggested.

Six hours later, as yet another Rom Com reached its spectacularly banal conclusion, Daisy lay with her head in Jeff's lap, her legs stretched out onto me, bare feet buried firmly into my crotch.
By this time, Jeff had turned as pale and yellow as I'd been looking for the last few days. From the way he was shaking, I guessed he must be catching my flu. It was during 'Four Weddings and a Funeral', when Daisy said "Oh, Jeffy, I hope our wedding can be this womantic," that he suddenly sprung to his feet, dashed to the bathroom, and narrowly missed the toilet.
For one reason or another, that night I was at least spared the sound of Daisy noisily climaxing.

***

Pete: Tuesday February 23rd

For once Daisy left early the next morning, and Jeff was too ill to go to work, so we spent the day sat on the sofa, watching the 'Phantasm' box set (although, despite my protestations, we skipped the third film). Just after lunchtime, when we'd finished breakfast, Dom texted: 'Turn on BBC1 now... something you WON'T want to miss!!' There was an excited scrabble for the remote control, which had become wedged somewhere between the cushion and our collective buttocks. In our panic, we knocked the mute button, and the volume wouldn't go up again - I told Jeff he should have changed the batteries! This was terrible! What if it was another new series trailer, as an attempt to make up for Saturday's below-par effort?
When we eventually got the sound working, we were disheartened to find ourselves staring at 'Dickinson's Real Deal'. What was Dom playing at?! He knew full well that David Dickinson was on our hate list, ever since Daisy had made the ridiculous suggestion that 'he'd make a good doctor who'. After a moment, however, it cut to a shot of a man with a frightening beard and ginger ponytail manhandling a pair of model Daleks. I must now question how this man rose to the rank of antique-valuer when he was clearly borderline simpleton. The Daleks in question were clearly replica facsimiles from the 'Dalek Invasion Earth 2150' film, and yet the auctioneer seemed to be under the false impression that they were 1970s Tom Baker models. Retard alert! Hadn't he noticed the lights on the head casing were different? Jeff and I could hardly contain our outrage, our mouths hanging open as he drastically under-judged the value of the figurines. We spent the afternoon drafting a harshly-worded letter Jeff was obviously as concerned as me: he even managed to get dressed, go to Omar's and photocopy of our source material, returning with a carrier bag full of Lemsip and Pot Noodles.
"They had an offer on," he said. "Free Lemsip for every 'Bastard."
"But that makes no sense whatsoever?!"
"Doesn't it? Well, perhaps I stole them. I can't quite remember." He spoke drowsily. "But, what does it matter? We live in a world in which people voluntarily watch David Dickinson on TV, and grown men treat Dalek models like cheap toys. If anyone's the thief," he slurred, "it's the BBC." And he fell unconscious onto the sofa.

***

Jeff: Thursday February 25th

I woke up at 7am but couldn't move. For some reason I had the urge to watch Scream (it's on youtube in 12 parts!). It brought back a wave of nostalgia for those mid 90s summers! Ahh the folly and freedom of youth. Obviously I hated the movie at the time, spending a lot of time screaming to Jon and the others about “Desecration of the classics! Michael Myers would give that pansy a lesson or two!” - but I was surprised to see how retro it now looks. I know it's only been a few years. Well, a decade. Well, a decade and four years. Jesus, I'm getting old. And clearly snobbish.

I still couldn't move after watching the film and ended up watching the entire trilogy. I nearly cried when I saw Sarah Michelle Gellar in the sequel. I miss Buffy...!

By 4pm I was still lying there surrounded by used tissues and empty doritos packets. I couldn't help it. I still couldn't get Rachel out of my head. I ventured down a foolish path and went on to her facebook page.

Stalking is so much easier in 2010. Not that I was stalking, besides it's all public information. There's nothing wrong with reading it. There's nothing weird about making the page available offline and then spending hours crying over it.

As usual it was heart wrenching and I wished I hadn't. There was a bright pink neon counter, counting down the days until her wedding until captain perfect, and there wasn't a single post or photo that didn't somehow involve her “wonderful perfect beautiful little girl”.

It was sickening but I couldn't help but feel completely wrong. When we were 16 we said we'd get married, why wasn't the pink counter waiting for my wedding day? Why wasn't she the mother of my children?

This was insanity. I don't even want children. But I missed her, I missed the innocence of “one day”s. When life was this endless, shapeless thing stretching out before you riddled with limitless possibility. I feel as though there are no “one day”s any more.

I lay in bed listening to Disco 2000 and Warning Sign and cried.

***

Pete: Thursday February 25th

4.31am: Jeff's barely stirred, and his temperature's through the roof! I couldn't sleep through worry, so I decided to get up and make a brew, but instead found myself cleaning out the airing cupboard. Came across a cardboard storage container (labelled, inexplicably, 'Rob's Box') and happened upon an old Captain Scarlett VHS box set. Score!
Also found an old draft of our famed 'Who script, 'The Kraagan Masterplan', which I spent the remainder of the evening reading. Oh, the youthful naivety of our 32-year-old selves! My writing has, without doubt, come on leaps and bounds since then. (Although only in its ideas stage, 'The Vaporiser' sequel, 'We Melt Again', has seen me and Jeff turning out some of our most top-quality work). Additionally, it has only now dawned upon me that the Kraagan's sinister business front, the 'Company Unit of National Terra-firma', yields the acronym 'C.U.N.T.' I think I'll change it to Spectre.

***

Jeff: Friday February 26th

Went back into work today. Despite telling Daisy I was feeling too ill to spend any time with her this weekend, I found myself agreeing when Anita invited me to accompany to Mel Totto's wedding reception at the Pines in Preston tomorrow night.

Apparently he's a former work colleague from her Sainsbury's days and she has no one to go with.

I mean, it's not like it's a date or anything … I'm just helping out a friend. Assisting a colleague. If anything it's overtime.


11 pm – What kind of name is Mel Totto?

***

Pete: Friday February 26th

Spent all day erasing 'C.U.N.T.'s, and scribbling 'Spectre' in their place, before realising that this was also the name of Blofeld's organisation in James Bond. Got angry, and stuck 'The Kraagan Masterplan' back in its box (Rob's Box, apparently), back in the airing cupboard.

The full length novel, Life Begins at 40, is now available for pre-order! Click here to order a copy signed by the authors with your name on the thank you list!

TARDIS LOG #1: Feast of the Damned

Pete: Monday December 21st


"I've been doing some thinking," Jeff said to me this evening, "and I've just got this feeling that everything's going to turn out OK." He removed his fist from the back-end of a chicken, pulled off a pink rubber glove, and placed a hand on my shoulder. I stood there in silence, playing with the dial on my broken 'time-travel adventure' watch and wondered what flawed epiphany was heading my way. "I mean, I was talking to Dom..."
"You've been taking advice from Dom?" I interrupted, incredulous. “His favourite episode is ‘The Horns of Nimon’, for Christ’s sake! Are you insane?!” I grabbed the nearest kitchen implement and held it aloft, emphasizing my point.
"Leave Dom alone. You know he's been having a hard time since the..." he paused, pulling the glove back on, "event. He was making a valid point too. And, for god's sake, put that wooden spoon down. You look like a terrorist."
"Sorry, I... just don't appreciate you sharing revelations about my future when you've got your hand up a chicken's arse." His face contorted into a brand new look of distaste. In sympathy, I patted his back with the wooden spoon. "What're you cooking that for anyway? I'm vegetarian. You're vegetarian. Daisy's-" Jeff held up his hand. If the other had been free, I have a feeling he would have been attempting to fit it into his mouth.
"Daisy recently decided she's exxo-vegetarian... for health reasons. We've all got to be very nice to her about it."
"Haha, something to do with that imaginary condition she's got?" Jeff spun round, frustrated.
"Light - Mild Non-Organic Durum Wheat Intolerance is NOT imaginary!"
"Alright, alright!" I waved my hands defensively, and gave what I hoped came across as a good-natured smirk to hide the fact that I was gritting my teeth, secretly wishing I was the one with the overly neurotic, self-obsessed girlfriend.
"So, what did Dom have to say for himself anyway? It wasn't about that secret level on 'Tomb Raider II' again, was it?" We both smirked guiltily, snorting as we laughed. Wheezing hysterically, Jeff dropped a bag of giblets into the sink. He had told Dom that if you entered the correct sequence of keys when Lara reached the middle of her maze, she would strip off her top and cargo pants. No one saw Dom for 6 days afterwards.
"Secret level!" Jeff shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all, and filled a tumbler with luke-warm tap water to help catch his breath. "You're right: Dom can be such a tool sometimes! But, you know, he's kind of a genius too..."
"People thought Professor Thascalos was a genius, Jeff," I snapped, "but we all knew it was just The Master up to his old tricks!"
"Are you seriously comparing Dom to the most evil, vindictive villain ever to appear in the Whoniverse? Dare I say, the... universe?"
"Well, until John Simm came along and-"
"We are NOT getting into the John Simm debate again! I thought he'd grown on you now?"
"His performance was sub-par at best, sacrificing a whole plethora of The Master's true characteristics in order to compliment the Tenth Doctor's personality... albeit with some comical results." I realised I had been gesticulating wildly, my wrist hanging limply in the air. For a moment, I thought I could hear my Dad's voice, asking why I'd yet to find any nice girls 'willing to put up with me'. By the time my brain floated back into my head, Jeff was gazing reverently at a poster above the sink - a still of Tom Baker from 'The Ark in Space' - and seemed to be winking at me.
"The answer's been in front of us all along..." He looked at me in a way that suggested I was supposed to know what he was on about. "I mean, you know we've been having that whole 'scary door' conversation? Well, we don't have to worry about turning 40 anymore!"
"Have you found some sort of magic age serum inside that chicken?" I think my eyebrows were raised more than was really necessary, as I noticed my reflection in the window and looked like the victim of a botched facelift. I looked old too. Maybe Jeff had found the secret to eternal youth inside a Netto frozen chicken?! "It's something to do with the giblets, isn't it??"
"What? No! It's Tom, Pete! You know- he had the rough upbringing in Liverpool, the failed marriage, that thing with the rake, the struggle for cash when he was a builder... And then... When he turned 40..." He raised his arms theatrically. He looked like a possessed cleric in one of those weird American churches. "...He got given the greatest job in television history!"
"What's your point?"
"It's us!" He gripped me by the shoulders, shaking me with violent enthusiasm. "We got the rubbish start in life: my shit job, bad hair and, frankly, terrifying girlfriend; you having no money, hardly leaving the house, that 'thing' you had with Simone." A dark look crossed both our faces, and my genitals stirred pathetically. I hope Jeff didn't notice. He was stood very close to me. "Tom's living proof that life really does begin at 40!"
"Ok then..." I reasoned sceptically. "What about my Dad? He fell a few days before he turned 41, and has to go round in a wheelchair now." Jeff was obviously trying to reign in his usual impulse to laugh. Admittedly, what with his wrinkled skin, elongated scar and glass eye, my dad does now bear a striking resemblance to Davros. "Or sex-offender Stanley, from down the street, suffering that stroke. Or-" I was cut off by a knock at the door, and the sound of giggling coming from outside. "What's going on?" I asked suspiciously, dropping the wooden spoon.
"Oh, er, I probably forgot to mention, but Daisy's brought a friend with her." His genial smile, as he left the kitchen, could hardly mask the fact that my best friend was a total cunt! I stooped down to retrieve the wooden spoon from the dirty floor, took it to the sink, and began scrubbing, with carbolic soap and fury.

Pete: Tuesday December 22nd


I wasn't sure what length of time spent hiding in my bedroom would be sufficient to make the point about how pissed off I was. So, after some time on the laptop - mostly spent trying to get the bloody thing to work properly - I decided it would probably be safe to re-enter the living room, just as soon as I'd chilled myself out by naming every classic Doctor Who story - in order. Unfortunately, I got confused somewhere around Patrick Troughton's second season, and kept having to start 'from the top' with 'An Unearthly Child'. Things unravelled from there, and by the time Jeff walked in, he found me in a cold sweat, repeatedly shouting "Fury from the Deep! FURY FROM THE DEEP!! at a wall of post-it notes.
Despite my steely determination that I would not join the others for dinner, Jeff quickly broke down my iron resolve with the promise that he'd taken my favourite meal to new culinary heights. He wasn't wrong! I don't know if he'd switched allegiance from Heinze to Branston, but my generous serving of pasta and beans was delivered with a whole new twist. I awarded it a full 10 out of 10 doctors (snort!) Of course, Daisy didn't agree.
"If you boys keep tucking into these revolting, carbohydrate-saturated meals, without burning off any of the calories, you're only going to get fatter." She nibbled at a tiny mouthful of her 'Poulet et Arrose', and fixed Jeff with a dark look. "I think it's about time I whip Jeffy here into shape." Giggling, she pinched his cheek. He winced.
Her guest, Tracey - who appeared from the bathroom the moment I arrived, and sat intrusively close to me - was even worse. Her bulky frame spilled out from a black cocktail dress that would have been better served as a belt. It left little to my horrified imagination, being too high to hide the crease of flesh on her buttocks, but low-cut enough to show the tattoo on her breast: a toppled chalice, its yellowy-white contents spilling out. I don't think it was just the glistening sweat around her cleavage that made it look like semen. She kept looking at me and winking, raising chunks of food to her freakishly long tongue, and licking them until they sparkled with saliva. I think the overall effect was supposed to be sexy. I couldn't help but feel nauseous.
The meal became an increasingly tense affair and I was desperate for the girls to leave. And so it was with considerable horror that I eyed Daisy when she suggested that her and 'Jeffy' head to the bedroom to giver her "astral alignment a good seeing to."
I decided to adjourn for a lengthy toilet break (safe in the only room with a lock on the door), when Daisy forced me down onto the sofa, next to Tracey.
"Oooh, this'll give you a chance to get to know one another!" She clapped her hands together girlishly. The moment we were alone, Tracey began to advance on me. I had no idea what to do or say, so I started giving a talk on the difficulties faced by the 'Who' production team during the shift from the Second to the Third Doctor. It wasn't easy to discuss the rise of Technicolour, what with the sound of Daisy's violently enthusiastic lovemaking coming from the next room. I was also put off by the way that Tracey kept inserting her index finger in and out of her mouth.
"I'm not wearing any knickers." She said, after some time. I had no idea why this was relevant, or how to respond, so I told her I was wearing a pair of Cybermen boxer-shorts, and went to make a cup of tea.
Shortly after the kettle had boiled, Jeff walked in looking troubled, breathless, and - in a short, silk dressing-gown - remarkably gay.
"See," he wiped his blackened eyes, frowning, "I told you everything was going to be OK."


Pre-order Life Begins at Forty here!