When Doctor Who meets Norman Stanley Fletcher

I enjoy reading. Always have done. And one thing I enjoy reading is fan-fiction. Course, it’s got to be good, because there’s so much bad fan-fiction, now that anybody can write and publish the stuff. I’ve even tried my hand at it on a few occasions.

For those that don’t know, Fan Fiction is when you write about someone else’s characters – whether from a movie, a tv show, a book, a song, whatever. The intent is normally to add something to the genre, but the outcome rarely adds to th source material significantly.

Sometimes,there’s a bizarre meeting of two completely different shows or films, such as Star Wars chartacters in Star Trek, or The Three Musketeers arriving on the set of Beverly Hills 90210.

Here’s a little effort of my own, bringing two of my favourite shows – Doctor Who and Porridge – together for a short while.

Anyway please enjoy this little tale….


Bunny Warren poked his head around the doorframe of the cell, but his infectious grin failed to impress me, seeing as how this was Saturday afternoon, the one time in the week where I like to get some peace and quiet. I had me mug of tea, me dirty mag courtesy of the snout I traded with Taffy Jones, and last week’s Muswell Hill Echo, courtesy of my Ingrid, who brought it up with her on visiting day.

Warren’s normally a nice chap, but I knew he had a letter from his missus, and being illiterate, he’s after someone to read it to him. Now I don’t mind as a rule, but I didn’t want to spoil the rest of my afternoon with memories of his letter in my mind, seeing as how his missus is … graphic, about what she’s missing and what she’d want to do to him when he gets out.

“Now Bunny” I said, “You know my Saturday afternoons are sacrosanct. You know how I like a bit of quiet and solitude. So naff off and take your bleedin’ letter with you!”

“No, it’s OK, Fletch” he replied. “I only popped over to tell you that Lukewarm read it to me, so you don’t need to worry – I won’t disturb you today.”

The thought of Lukewarm reading out all those outpourings of heterosexual passion gave me a moment’s chuckle, and thankfully Bunny said his farewells and went on his way. With a sigh of peaceful contentment, I turned my attention back to the lovely Dorothy from Bodmin.

All was quiet for about five minutes – there was a blue glow from the landing, but the screws are always messing with the lights and stuff. I said my fond farewells to Dorothy from Bodmin, and was getting very well acquainted with a perky blonde called Maria, when I realised that, once more, I was no longer alone.

Putting on my best scowl, I lowered the copy of Penthouse, only to find that it wasn’t McLaren after chewing gum, or Blanco Webb after a loan of my magazine, or even Mr Barrowclough looking to break the monotony of his day.

No, stood in the doorway was a complete stranger. Blazer, bow tie, non-regulation haircut – my guess was that the new social worker had arrived.

“Yes?” I said, making sure that he knew I was the strong, well-adjusted sort of bloke that hated wet liberals interrupting his Saturday afternoon read.

“Hello!” he chirped. “I’m the Doctor. Is this your cell?”

Yep. New social worker. Yet another chinless wonder fresh from the University of the Bleedin’ Obvious.

Years, it is, what?” I said in my best posh-boy impression.

“Not very big, is it?” he remarked, looking around at the dull, grey-painted brickwork.

“It’s a single cell by rights, I’m just temporarily sharing it, as it were. What were you expecting – did you think it’d be bigger on the inside?”

He looked at me with eyes gleaming, with intelligence or stupidity I couldn’t tell.

“Yes, I did. Mine is…”

I couldn’t cope with this – not when I could still recall Maria’s nubile curves calling to me from the pages of my magazine.

“Look – what are you after?” I asked impatiently. “It’s just that I was having a lovely time with Maria and Dorothy, and I want to get back to them before they start without me.”

He glanced around again, and then looked back at me with a grin that Bunny would have been proud of.

“Ping pong balls.”

“You what?” I said, surprised.

Ping pong balls. I’ve got to fix something that’s gone a bit… wibbly. And when I asked where I could get some, I ended up here. Where IS here, by the way?”

“Slade Prison, otherwise known as the Cumbrian Hilton. Here, how come you don’t know where….”

“I can pay!” he interrupted. I’ve got – what was it – oh yes. I have SNOUT!”

This last line was delivered in the proud, excited voice of all toffs who feel they are happily dumbing down for the masses. However, I let this go, as I was a bit short on snout.

“Well, as it happens I DO have a couple of said spherical objects tucked away somewhere. How much snout we talking about?”

He turned away for a few seconds, and when he returned, he was carrying a box that must have weighed a stone at least.

“Will this be enough?”

A few minutes later, the trade complete, the strange social worker gone, I settled back onto my bunk, but I couldn’t get excited about Maria or Dorothy any more. I had a new problem.

How the hell was I going to smoke, spend or hide fourteen pounds of snout in a 12 x 10 single cell?


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