Category: Drabbles

She strolled down towards Via Fossa. Three hours to get ready tonight, more than she spent for her first date with Michael Chambers in Year 12.

The door swung open, knocking the gift from her hand. Picking it up, she realized who was passing her.

“Nathan!” she called. “Happy seventeenth!”

He looked at her like she was nothing. “Oh,” he said eventually. “Hi, Donna.”

“I…” got you a present, she started to say. “See ya later,” he called back, already walking away.

See ya later: the last words her mum said to Gary. Words she said when she meant goodbye.

He had skin of gold. In all Stuart’s nights of searching for the perfect man, he’d never found flesh of such perfection.

The boy stared all around, taking in the sights of the cobbled street. Every so often their eyes locked, and a gentle smile emerged. All too soon, his gaze started wandering again, desperately consuming each passing figure. A wide grin broke out as a familiar face approached.

Vince sat down next to Stuart, causing Alfie to gurgle with joy. Stuart cursed. Just his luck – to fall for someone who only has eyes for his best friend…

Vince took a deep breath and burst through the door. It wasn’t what he had been expecting. No long scarves, no silver foil Cyberman costumes – some of them even had decent haircuts.

It was nice to feel like he wasn’t alone. There were other Doctor Who fans out there.

He bought a Budweiser (declining the Beck’s out of protest), looked round and spotted a friendly-looking crowd nearby. As he approached, he heard a dumpy looking chap with wandering hands say, “Of course, everybody knows that Russell based the character of Vince on me…”

He turned on his heels and ran.

Stuart Alan Jones had done some seriously stupid things in his time, but this had to be right up there with the worst of them. For someone who normally felt no shame, he was absolutely shitting himself.

He looked over to his mother. She could barely raise a smile in support, but her presence was gratifying.

The lights came up. Stuart took a deep breath, and tried not to notice the single bead of sweat running down his neck and under his designer collar.

The woman stepped forward. “Today on Trisha, ‘I flushed my blackmailing nephew’s head down the toilet!'”

“Well I think he captured us all really well,” Vince said as the Weather Girls segued into the theme music.

“Of course you do,” grumbled Stuart. “You’re the everyman hero who every mother wishes their faggoty son will meet and settle down with.”

“But you’re the one that everybody will want to fuck all night.”

Phil groaned. “Oh, give it a rest, the pair of you. There’ll be miles of slash fiction on the Internet about you. Nobody will remember the fat one who died halfway through.”

“You think that’s bad?” complained Alexander. “People will think I wear purple suits!”

Friday night started with the usual tales of previous exploits.

Vince was bursting. “You’ll never guess who he was,” he said. “Works in television: fantastic! He lists all the programmes he’s worked on and I’m thinking: Oh my God! And then when he tells me his name, it’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven. You’ll never guess what series he wrote a book for.”

“Star Trek?” Phil deadpanned.

“Fuck off,” Vince retorted. “We talked loads, and he’s writing this new series. Set on Canal Street. Based on us. But after that comment, I’ll ask him to kill you off…”