The Dr Who Inspired One

The Dr Who Inspired One

We don’t have a TV in our house.

It’s not that we’re some new-age hippies who think the blinkbox is the work of the devil and that humanity’s downfall will come as a result of I’m A Celebrity On Ice, Now Get Me Strictly Out Of Here.*

*It will.

It’s just that a hell of a lot of it is shit and we’d rather spend our time talking to one another – even if our only conversations are about how shit television is.

However, peer pressure is a powerful force (how else do you explain Scouse Brows?) and so this weekend we finally succumbed to society’s demands to watch the 50th anniversary special of Dr Who.

The boy lost interest within seconds. Turns out banging a plastic tomato tray against a rug is more entertaining (sorry Steven Moffat). The hubby wasn’t far behind in his abandonment.

I stuck with it. But only because my son wouldn’t let me play with his tomato tray.

It was what I imagine living through the 60’s would be like. Hugely enjoyable, but  if someone asked you what actually happened, you’d be hard-pressed to make any sense of it all.

And I couldn’t quite get over how much David Tennant looked like a squirrel in its final death throes after accidentally consuming a six pack of Pro-Plus.

But it did get me thinking.

What if I could write a letter from my past self about the future selves I was going to become in both the past and future and see if we too could team up and save ourselves from making our own planet- shatteringly regrettable mistakes?

So having absolutely nothing better to impart this week, I wrote it.

 

Dear Past Selves,

Hello, I’m your present self.

You’re probably wondering what you look like. Let’s just say the regeneration process has not been kind – more degeneration process to be fair.

When they cast people to play your different incarnations, they’ll leap from a twenty something Liz Hurley with a prosthetic nose, to a thirty-something Peter Lorre with a bad wig.

You’re also probably wondering why I’m writing to you? That’s because in the future we have not yet evolved telepathic skills.

This explains why the divorce rate is now almost 50%.

I am actually here to stop me making the same mistakes as I did. To alter the course of our history. And to tell us to not ignore the oil light on our Ford Ka days before your engine falls out on the M6.

Here’s some other things to watch out for:

At the age of 12 you will be so ridiculously into Batman you will have your hair cut into a bat signal shape around your face. Seconds later puberty will hit and you will want to be attractive to boys. It will suck to be you.

When you are a  teenager you will write poetry and think it is good. It is not. Under no circumstances should you share any of it with anyone, and definitely don’t recite any to boys you are trying to get off with. The cringeworthy memory of it will haunt you until your dying day – and probably beyond.

When you are at University you will think that attempting your first ‘legal high’ herbal joint after a pub crawl with a man you are attempting to get off with is a good idea. When you are still picking chunks of vomit out of the duvet cover on his spare bed the next afternoon, you will realise it is not.

Don’t pick spots.

When you are twenty four you will forego a ‘natural break’ during a meeting in favour of staying and talking to a senior marketing director who you are trying to impress. As a consequence you will accidentally do one of the longest, most sustained, rasping farts imaginable as he looks on agog. You will never see him again, but the story will live on as legend.

The same year you will attempt to defy the laws of gravity on a drunken night out and you will break your wrist in two places. Ignore your boyfriend when he tells you to ‘run it under the cold water tap’ and seek immediate medical attention. Better yet, don’t go out with him in the first place.

In your early thirties you will buy a pair of denim hot pants. What were you thinking?

Your future self has a baby. Take the laxative when it’s offered. It turns out a shit in time saves at least nine stitches. Babies’ heads and impacted colons do not an easy labour make.

You will be happier than you ever imagined possible.

Apart from when you watch Star Wars: Attack of the Clones. Then you will be as rage-filled as a Twitter user.

What’s Twitter? Don’t ask, some things are like the 50th anniversary special of Dr Who; they defy logic.

Yours,

SalTx

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