Thursday, October 13, 2011

"Time to Noodle."

Dr. Wu-hu Returns!

Okay, Jo!  We have just returned from many exciting adventures in the Far East.  The Brigadier suggested we Nip Around the Corner (his yuck-yuck Colonial Era racist type of music hall humour) and pick up some takeaway Chinese food.  As Time Laird, I suggest we jump into re-Tardis, set Wayback Control for early era, really fresh Szechuan food.  Hot & Spicy!  It Szechuan fire.  Chapter end.

The story so far...well, you remember Jo, off we go in a flurry of shakey camera work.  Winds whip your little mini-skirt.  Have your undies like Chubby Checker.  How you say?  Knickers in a Twist?  No matter.  Before you could say Hammer Burt Electrique (featuring Gong Lee), we were in the Ming Dynasty (it was So Mercilous!).  Quite an adventure!  But not to bore you with minor details, save to say that thanks to Sonic Screwdriver (3 parts vodka, 1 part hedgehog), a certain talent with pasta and my inimitable impersonation of Robert Wyatt, the day was saved along with 8 separate species.  But that's another story.

The Story of O by Pauline Reage.  Well, that's another story too.

So back into the re-Tardis, Brigadier food kept warm on hot plate, off for an evening of clubbing in Shanghai.  Everybody Wang Chung tonight.

But as so often happens on program, co-ordinates off due to abundance of cat fur (don't ask) and we wind up in pre-Eighties Cathay.  Shanghai, yes.  But yak loving, pre-disco dancing authorities think mysterious blue box smuggling opium.  Monkey farts!  If only.  Don't you Melrose Avenue extras from Von Sternberg film recognize me?  I am Doctor Wu-hu!  Cosmic Celestial Cabin Cruiser.  To no avail.  Must hide on train, Shanghai Express.  Jo and I meet lovely ladies.  Share their car.  Bohemians.  Tall blonde lady of Germanic descent.  And mysterious Chinese woman in black.  Jo asked if they were going to a Siouxsie & the Banshees concert.  A chilling quiet filled the room, which was already filled by tons of cigarette smoke.  Many birds died for their clothing.  I was attracted to them both.  And with Jo in the room, I suddenly felt the desire to start a commune in Scotland or Big Sur.  Me, as Yogi.  My ladies as Handmaidens or Dacoits.  Ah, what delights!

This reverie was soon interrupted by a halting of the train.  The seriousness of the situation came fully back to me.  A military man, who in evening dress reminded me of Charlie Chan, demanded to see my papers.  I showed him this psychic paper thingee I have which becomes whatever the viewer thinks it should become.  I don't understand how it works but it seems to get me past the doorman everytime.  Anyway, this credential, backstage pass/passport thingee bought me some time for a moment.  Until an unfortunate question came up. Unlike most episodes, we show up in the Forties, my companion is half naked in short skirt, thighs glistening in the bunker, lit only by the Battle of Britian.  No questions asked.

Not this time.  These damnably fiendish Chinese instantly noted the peculiarity of our clothing.  Bryan Ferry haircut and Fox News Conservative bowties.  And Botox ("Bowtox are cool").  Mon Dieux!  We didn't FIT IN!  The question was put to me.  What kind of undergarments was I wearing.  Never one to lie except when it is necessary, I replied, "I am a Calvin Klein man.  I am wearing black briefs."

Without realizing it...I had started the Boxer Rebellion.

We escaped by our chins.  Seriously, Max and Mabel Chin, laundry entrepreneurs, helped us get back to the re-Tardis, hidden in a cart of un-starched shirts ("no washee without tickee," we heard them shout while being pushed madly down the coach aisle, safely hidden amongst the shirt-tails).

Before safely leaving in the re-Tardis, I bought two shirts with the face of the lovely Chinese woman I had met earlier on the train car.  Arriving back safely in Golders Green Cemetery, East Finchley, Jo and I, still wearing the shirts you see pictured, met a man who offered to trade a shirt with Betty White on it for our two shirts.

Glad to be home, food still warm, I had to refuse.  "Sorry, no, " I replied.  "Two Wongs don't make a White."