Since I'm taking a bit of a break between Dr Who stories, here's a tiny little piece I wrote last year. It's a one-off, meant to be what's known as a Round Robin story (where different people pitch in and contribute individual chapters), I wrote the first chapter--it just didn't fly. The character of the Producer was inspired by the character of the Controller of Satilite (or how the heck-ever one spells that) Five in Series 1 of Who...and Who knows? It may be the same guy.... 
It takes place in Hollywood in the late 1970's, and features a certain Doctor from that era:
Dr Who: The Producer
The Producer strode into the smoky board room, staring about him with a jaundiced eye. In his five-hundred dollar cream colored polyester leisure suit and open necked red paisley silk shirt he strode silently back and forth across the room, restlessly pacing like a caged tiger. Every last one of the assembled flunky’s sitting apprehensively at the long table had been twittering nervously amongst themselves before his arrival. Now they sat in stone cold silence, waiting word from their master. The pale man continued pacing and pacing in silence, eyeing his assistants like a king before his cowed slaves.
He stopped. Pursing his lips, he rocked back and forth on his heels and looked them up and down skeptically. “Well,” he boomed sarcastically, “the competition has us down the crapper again, boys and girls.” He sneered. “No thanks to you.” He added sarcastically. He leaned inwards, placing his hands upon the table in an almost predatory gesture. The flunky’s leaned back involuntarily.
“Spelling has us dead to rights. The Love Boat has taken the top Saturday night slot yet again…and Fantasy Island trails right behind it.” He curled his lip in what passed for a smile. “The question is, boys and girls…” He hesitated. Abruptly, he slapped the table with his open palm, causing the water glasses and papers on the table to quiver. “What’re we going to do about it?” He shouted at the top of his lungs.
One of the flunky’s, a young woman with a heap of long blond hair and a curvy body encased in a tight-fitting pink jumper, replied in a quavering voice: “S-sir? There’s s-s-someone outside I think you should-should s-see.” She slid a little lower in her chair as the pale man stalked over to her. “Oh yes? And wh-wh-who would that b-be?” He mimicked sarcastically. He leaned over her, stroking her hair. “Well!” He boomed. She jumped and dropped all of her papers on the floor. “Who is it? Or are we playing guess who the next pitch man is, today?” He slapped the table again, glaring around the room. “What are you all waiting for, you bunch of dress shop dummies? Bring him in!” The flunky’s sat motionless. “NOW!” The pale man screamed.
One of the men at the table pressed an intercom in front of him. “Marge? W--w--would y-you-you s-show in our first--our first pitch man?” The girl recovered her composure. “I think you’ll like this man, sir. His ideas seem very cutting edge, first rate. I met him at the disco last night. He had ideas that neither Spelling,Weinberger or Gelbart ever even dreamed of!” She gushed. “With his ideas, we can take American television into the eighties and beyond. Who knows? Maybe even capture a ninety-percent household share!” He rolled his reptilian gaze at her. “Oh, yeah?” He sneered. “Well I’ll believe it when I see it.” He waved his hand in the air. “Where is this wonder-boy of yours?”
Just then, the double doors bust open. The producer turned and looked askance at the man who’d just bounded into the room. He was very tall, with dark curly hair, big teeth and wide expansive eyes. He had on a floppy hat, a long multicoloured scarf and a corduroy jacket and pants. Without ceremony, the man flung himself into an easy chair in a corner of the room. He pulled out a bag from his pocket and held it up. “Hullo! Would anyone care for a jelly baby?” He asked, smiling broadly.
And, as I always try to reaffirm, at the end of each story, Dr Who is copyright of the BBC.
