First Doctor Who’s Regeneration Blues
By Laurence Wilson
Regeneration?
Never heard of it, my dear.
I’ll not change, no no, no, never fear.
I’m as sure footed as a Dalek death ray.
I mean, what are they proposing? Eh?
I turn into some sort of cosmic hobo?
Who looks like he might one day marry Yoko Ono?
Hmm?
I think not.
I’ll not give Troughton a shot.
Ho ho, no.
I’ll never clown about or jig.
Or wear a ridiculous Beatle wig.
I’ll not faint or sigh.
Or say, “I may, maint I?”
A stripy recorder?
hmm?
Out of order, dear boy.
Stay and help out?
Not one bit.
I’ll just head back to my spaceship.
Meddling leads to Time Lord intervention.
Travel suspension and a forced regeneration.
Then what will be next in store? Hmm?
An Earthbound bore?
A sort of military cop? Eh?
A 70’s fop?
You can’t face the Zarbi in those sort of clothes
Or have Chris Achilleos reduce your nose
On those Target books
I don’t give a hoot about my looks
As long as I look like me
I don’t need any Peruvian Karate
Or Venusian Akido or whatever it might be
Cavemen skulls crack easily enough when hit with a rock
I’ll leave the neck pinching to Mister Spock
Huh huh huh.
I’ll not have an assistant who’s plotting to burn her bra
I’ll not be seen dead in a flying car
I’ll never succumb to some sort of galactic embargo
Or hang around Devil’s End fighting Roger Delgado
And when I fight giant spiders I win
I’d never come back with radioactive egg on my chin.
Mumbling cuddly nonsense to anyone who can hear.
A teary Sarah Jane Smith and a perplexed Brigadier
Ha!
No, good heavens, no.
And then re-gen-er-ate into some curly haired, toothy bohemian farce.
With a mechanical mutt for his other half.
An overlong scarf doesn’t look remotely right.
Keep it short and elegant and white.
With eyes so wide, I look like I’ve a dangerous dose of rabies
Offering up tatty old paper bags brimming with jelly babies.
Even when they’re obviously liquorish allsorts.
Eh?
Resorting to cavorting with a savage strumpet.
And a bit of Galifreyian crumpet called Romanadvoratrelundar.
Heading toward marital blunder
Only to lose her in E-Space.
They want to see what it’s like on a proper chase through space and time
Pursued by black and white Daleks in their most evil prime
Eh?
Right on your tail
One fail and they’ll introduce your fate to a maniacal “exterminate!”
No, this Doctor Fourth with teeth like a horse
And adventures with Mona Lisa paintings
Might well have the highest ratings and be on a good little earner.
But he’ll not be liked by John Nathen-Turner
No not at all.
No creature is too great or too small.
And so after a fall from a radio telescope
They’ll probably want to change me into an ordinary bloke?
Just a nice, normal, youthful cub.
Who you can have a frothy pint with down the pub
No monocle, no cloak, no rickets?
A boring young sod, with a thing for cricket?
Who was last seen chasing a poorly pig through a farmer’s thicket.
I know, I know, I hate to nit-pick it.
I don’t even like to mention it
But aren’t I meant to be just a tad eccentric? Eh? Hmm?
Concentric circles of regenerations bring me to this?
A lanky string of piss?
Does a Time Lord really put such bland DNA on his wish list?
And Sir, I’ll bet you a nice crispy blue fiver.
This dumb blonde can’t keep hold of his sonic screwdriver.
And while we are at it
Let David Bellamy
Attach a piece of celery to the lapel
And tell Adric to not be so sarcastic.
Never mind What Tom would do
Or JNT will get rid of you to
The Tardis might be spacious
But it’s time to crash you into the Cretaceous
Doctor Five can have a little jive at your demise
But soon it’ll be time for his goodbyes.
Quick, waste no time, poison him with spectrox.
Maybe I’ll change into someone with dreadlocks.
Hmmm?
Because surely they would never dare to change me into an obnoxious grump?
Who’s always got the hump
Who everyone wants to thump?
They’d not turn me into a man so closed off
He has his very own moat.
Or clothe me in an Amazing Technicolour Dream Coat.
Would they? Hmm?
Would they do that?
To this kindly old Grand Pater
Dare to interfere with the very forces of nature?
Would they dare?
Should I dare to stop them?
I’d rather regenerate into Bill or Ben
Or any other friends of the Flower Pot Men.
But wait!
Perhaps I can make it work
If my companion is a bigger berk.
Someone ginger, petite and lean.
Who used to scream and scream and scream.
And make herself sick.
Someone to take our minds off this inflatable brick.
A really irritating pantomime chick.
Bye-bye, Peri.
Time for someone merry.
That’s what we need on telly.
Nice and human, don’t want to confuse them
That’s why I went and got rid of our Susan.
yes, yes, yes, ho, ho, ho.
Of course none of this will happen
Auntie would run a mile
Before allowing Doctor Who to go on trial.
Either way, if I did end up this way, for whatever reasons
It would be for no more than two short seasons.
And then in a wave of last minute catharsis.
In my spaceship, (I don’t often call it the Tardis)
I’ll what?
Be zapped by The Rani?
Enough to harm me into another change
Another rearrangement of my molecular whatsit?
Another body kops it and I’m someone new
It’ll never happen of course
For <u>I</u> am Doctor Who
Doctor First and Last
No energy blast will manipulate me into a circus juggler.
I’d rather be that bungler Ian
Or that loudmouth Tegan.
I’ll not be wielding an umbrella.
I’m not that kind of feller.
Why not Pen from Pen and Teller?
Or Eddy Izzard.
Or none of them
Because, I’ll not wear thin in this Antarctic blizzard
I’m the one and only Doctor and I look like a wizard.
Not some tiny man with a Scottish gizzard.
I’ll not be any other man.
Not a McGann in a wig, who stands on a box to look big.
Who kisses his assistant and has a further existence in radio plays.
And says, with a big heap of la di da
“Who am aaaarrhhh???”
I’m not changing, no matter how bad the weather.
Not to some northern sourpuss in a t-shirt and leather.
Never, no not on your Nelly.
I’ll never be on telly filled with angst.
Not a chance.
Screaming at a Dalek?
I’d rather chew garlic.
Or get thrown into the Salaak pit.
Yes, yes, yes…
Don’t knit pick it, dear boy,
It’s all the same to me.
Tattooine, Vulcan Galif-free.
But I’ll always be me
An Alien Limey.
Not some wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey spouting mockney.
Only my assistant Ben is allowed to be a Cockney.
It would be a mockery to boot.
To pop me in a pinstripe suit and 3d glasses.
With secret passes.
And have long legged lasses
Flashing their rashes at me left right and centre.
And then when it’s the end of that particular tenure.
Spaceship crash
Slap on a bow tie
Like James Bond
Meet Amy Pond.
Chin nice and long.
Marry River Song.
Smoke a bong in a fez
Get my head on a Pez dispenser
Then I’ll be a fencer who fences with a spoon
But not yet
I’m not ready to give up the mustard
For I have cravings for fish fingers and custard.
I’m a reject from Busted.
Then Doctor Eleven will be all done and dusted.
Even older than me.
He’ll be needing a set of new regurgitations from Galif-free
Because they’ll have slipped in another by then.
For such is the power of the show writer’s pen.
This is what happens when you cast a bighead
Who’d rather be shot dead
Than reprise the role that pocketed him a million pounds
So it was off to lost and found
No need for a plumb t-shirt
When you can have John Hurt step in
with a goatee on his chin
No expense spared
No need to be thrifty
We’ll all be on board
When Doctor Who turns fifty
Except that swine, number nine.
Hmm?
But back to Trenzalore
Cue big musical score
And Doctor Eleventh will be no more.
And in comes Doctor Twelfth
Who looks old
But is still in good health.
Killer eyebrows as dangerous as any bullet
Don’t be fooled by the short hair
It’ll soon be a mullet
Perhaps the biggest bouffant yet
Dead set on channelling a bit of me and Doctor Three
What’s his name?
Worzel Pertwee
And, am I to foresee?
That his Master will be a Missy?
All prim and prissy
And complicated storylines that make you go dizzy.
And a big fishy in the Thames
Roman soldiers in the Scottish Fens
Checked trousers back on my legs
And more Easter Eggs than the Easter Bunny
And then is it finally here?
Am I finally to be Joanna Lumley?
With a little womb in my time travelling tummy?
A makeup tin that looks like a Chumbley?
Not on your life, sonny.
You must be a dumb’n
If you think I’ll ever be a woman
Or a clown
Or a fop
Or a Scouse Bohemian
A demon bowler
With a stroller hat
A chameleon circuit fixer
A Scottish tricksy trixter
Another Scouse
A manc
A heartthrob
A boy not old enough to buy his own house
Or another Scot with a hairstyle pinched off Thora Hird
And never, ever, will I be a bird!
I’ll not play a Fender and then change gender
Strumming strings is one thing
But you’ll not catch me trimming my minge
Ha!
Is this some sort of joke?
I’m a full blooded bloke.
I’ll be staying as I am, my dear fellow
I’ve been toning down the crotchetiness
I’ve been getting all mellow
Soon I’ll be as cuddly as Marti Pellow
I don’t need to change
The very idea is strange.
I’ve got it all right here.
In this police box I can steer
Myself into historical adventures
As well as ones in outer space
All with this very same face.
So who needs Davros
When you can by the DVD of me
Sparring Wotan from Argos.
I don’t need vengeance on Varos
Or Sutek in a sarcophagus
The Master, The Rani?
Pah!
Utter Junk
I’ve already got a Meddling Monk
Auton, Zygon, a guest starring Monty Python?
Don’t need a single one of them.
And if you think The Deadly Assassin is gory
Two of <u>my</u> assistants die in the same bloody story.
Yes, yes, yes, my dears, don’t forget what I say
Doctor First is here to stay.
hmm? Yes? Eh?
Now where the devil is pretty Polly and that bone idol Ben
I need them to help me defeat these silly new Cybermen
I’m ready to sock every one of them in the silly cyber chin
Ha!
Who’s the idiot who said my body was wearing a bit thin?
Oh calamity, what am I doing lying on my back?
I think I’ve just had a double heart attack!
(Just a bit of fun I wanted to share with fellow Doctor Who fans)
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