Saturday, 3 August 2013
Who is "Whodini"? Gatiss spills the beans. And my pint...
I was outside the "Stick of Celery" pub in the West End recently, enjoying a low-fat gluten-free cigarette, when I noticed a bunch of black-clad Ninjas beating up a group of Ecuadorian boy scouts.
"They're Doctor Who bloggers - in disguise..." purred a voice, archly, from a nearby stretch limo.
"I recognise you, don't I? Lord, didn't I get rid of you when that No 24 to Hampstead Heath "accidentally" careered out of control into the nuclear reactor at Sellafield?" My blood ran cold as I recognised the voice as belonging to the real mastermind behind Doctor Who.
I mumbled an apology, explaining that I had got off at Charing Cross Road because I'd forgotten to top up my Oyster - and, no, I didn't realise the bus had been subsequently hijacked by black-clad Ninjas and driven 300 miles to Cumbria.
"Maybe next time... So, I might as well tell you all about Whodidni then."
"You expect me to blog about it?"
"No, Mr D. I expect you to die!!! (Cough) I mean , yes, report it if you like....".
"It's all my idea of course. Moffat is suffering writer's block. Has been since The Beast Below. You must have noticed?"
As I nodded violently, he whispered:
"You know that Sherlock thing. All me. Don't like to boast... Of course I'm sure you have worked out who the new Doctor will be. No? It's all there in the press statements. A cunningly hidden anagram. Still not got it?"
He groaned wearily and started to raise the bullet-proof window. His Ninja goons piled into the back of the limo, knocking my low-fat gluten-free pint of whisky (Scottish, double malt, shaken but not stirred) to the ground.
"The clue is in the presenter. Why do you think we got Zoe Ball - who knows absolutely 'nowt about Doctor Who - to present the programme on Sunday night? Zoe Ball - as in Al Bloze - the famous Ukranian mime artist. He was wiling to do it for twenty quid a series, plus a Porsche. And he was prepared to live in Cardiff - 'cos no other sod was prepared to do it... Actually, I might hang onto him to replace Cumberpatch (much too big for his boots these days - quite insufferable) - so long as we can teach him English...".
As the limo began to pull away, and I could see the Ninjas start to divest themselves of their outfits and slip into the onboard jacuzzi, he had one parting shot for me.
I ducked - and the bullet hit an unfortunate "War Cry" seller.
"Of course, it might not be Al Bloze, though I don't think he'd be that bad... Certainly cheap... Whoever gets named on Sunday night, just you remember who really runs this show... We'll meet again, Mr D - for one ...final...time..."
And with a maniacal laugh, and a request for a loofah, he was gone...