He looked on as a tall box-like shape materialised in front of him, a blue light flashing at its top. The shape solidified: a coffin. The lid creaked open and a white-haired old buffoon in a velvet jacket and a ridiculously frilly shirt stumbled out looking confused and bewildered, pieces of straw falling out of his hair as he looked about him.

“Oh shit, it’s Fancy Pants!” exclaimed the man sitting beneath the tree.

“What the…? Bugger me… it’s that bleedin’ Pat Troughton,” Pertwee replied and started patting the pockets of his jacket. “Where’s my bastard water-pistol?…”

“Water? You won’t find any of that around here.” laughed Pat. “No liquid of any kind. No alcohol, even!” he lamented, wiping away a stray tear. “Don’t you know where you are?”

Pertwee looked about him with obvious distaste.

“Well, it’s obviously the BBC’s idea of another crappy planet isn’t it? What is it this time, eh? Anusol Minor? Megamix III? Prozac XIV? Testosterone Beta? Yet another Who anniversary special, eh? Yes. I recognise the special effects. Huh, dried ice everywhere as per bloody usual. They needn’t’ve bothered with the sulphurous stench though, that’s going a little too far. Now stop pissing around, Pat, where’s the bar? I need a stiff drink.”

“Look, Jon,” Pat said, “This isn’t just another Who special. You could say that it’s the ultimate episode…”

“…and where’s that fuckin’ Tom Baker this time?” complained Pertwee pacing round and around the tree. “He’s cried off again has he? So, Who’s not good enough for him these days, eh? Can’t lower himself to work with the likes of us…”

“Uh, Jon, I don’t think you understand,” said Pat climbing to his feet and shambling over to join him. “You see, Tom’s not ready to join us just yet. He’s not due for quite a few years in fact.”

“Huh, I suppose he’ll be appearing in an out-take from some untransmitted shit or other…”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, JON!” shouted Pat savagely jabbing Pertwee in the chest with his recorder. “SHUT UP!! YOU’RE DEAD, MAN!”

“What? Oh-no! Not again. You see, that’s the part when I change into old Teeth and Curls Baker. No, I’ve done that bit once already.”

“You’re getting confused, Pertwee mate. You’re not really Doctor Who. You’re an actor. Well, that is, an ex-actor. A dead one. You’re dead, matey.”

“But…” whimpered Jon, “But… then, why are we here? Are you telling me this is the afterlife?”

“Yup.”

“But… Well… It’s a bit grim isn’t it? Where’s the reception committee? You know, the scantily clad angel totty with harps and stuff? Where’s the grub? The feast? The flagons of wine? The nectar? This isn’t my idea of Heaven, Pat.”

“There’s a good reason for that, Jon.” Pat said, shuffling his feet and looking somewhat awkward. “Namely that, uh, this is… well, how can I put it? Hell.”

“Oh my God! What have I done to deserve this? I’m a much loved actor and comedian and have brought joy into the hearts of millions. And my Worzel Gummidge alone was a work of sheer genius that should have guaranteed me immortality…” Pertwee cried in despair.

“It seems that the Big Guy himself just hated us. He thinks Doctor Who is a dead shitty show. Probably a Star Trek fan.” offered Pat.

“What? So you’re saying I’ve got to spend an eternity here with YOU, and, errr…” Pertwee stiffened as a horrible thought occurred to him. “Oh no! Please don’t tell me that he’s here too…”

As if on cue a TV monitor materialised within the branches of the dead tree. The screen flickered to life and a frail old man with long white hair swept back from his balding head came into focus. The man peered at Pertwee and Troughton, looked confused, coughed a bit, and then falteringly said “Ah, so… Umm. Yes well, Hmm, Yes I’m here… aw bugger, I can’t quite read my lines. Can you move the autocue closer a bit, my dear, hmmm? Um, where was I? Yes! So, what have you… um, five, no, err, two achieved so far, eh? Eh?”

“Stop arsing about Bill,” shouted Pat leaping up and down in frustration, “and come down out of that bleeding television set!”

“But I’m a… a… hold on a minute my memory’s not… uhh… Oh, Yes. Hmmm? No, you see, I’m not well. No, I’m not a well man… I’m sick…”

“No, Bill, you are not a well man, YOU’RE SODDING WELL DEAD, JUST THE SAME AS US. NOW GET DOWN HERE NOW BEFORE I RAM THIS RECORDER UP YOUR AERIAL SOCKET!!!”

“Hhhmmm?” muttered Hartnell, “Oh, all right then. But first I’ll just go and check the fornicator… Hhmm… Yes…”

“Shit,” murmured Pertwee, “an eternity with these two old gits. Well at least I’ve been spared the cardboard monsters and those fuckin’ dreadful daleks…”

Pertwee stiffened with alarm as the air was pierced by a whole excrutiating barrage of Dick Mills’ sound effects, BBC Radiophonics-type dirge and the ring-modulated cries of “Exterminate, exterminate…”

“Awww, SHIT!”