A Teaspoon And An Open Mind: A Doctor Who Fan Fiction Archive
Twelfth Doctor
Presidential Address by JJPOR [Reviews - 8] Printer
Author's Notes:
So, it occurs to me that we're more than halfway through his second series and I still haven't tried writing anything featuring Twelve. I quite like the idea of those console room straight-to-camera monologues of his, so this is along those lines. And it sort of came out being a bit critical of NuWho NuNIT stories in general and recent ones in particular, that sort of thing being uppermost on my mind after last Saturday's episode. Anyway...

Friends, plastic Romans, Earthlings, lend me your ears.

Yes, I am going to give them back when I’m finished.

I have to begin by saying I’m flattered by the whole President of Earth thing. I mean, I’ve been President of several other planets in my time, most of them more impressive than this one, but, you know, the limos, the aeroplane, the colour-coordinated jelly babies, they’re all very nice. They remind me of when I was on tour with the Stones. Or was it Zeppelin? Anyway, I’m not ashamed to say I’ve thrown a few tellies out of hotel windows in my time.

Don’t do that when you’re on a plane at thirty thousand feet, though. That’s a bit of free advice there.

While this is all very nice, though, I’m going to have to say, with the utmost respect, that you can take your Presidency and stick it.

You see, I like this wee blue planet. I like it a lot. I even like you pudding-heads who inhabit it, most of the time, but that’s it. As I said at the start, you’re my friends, my pals. And I’m your pal too, I hope. So I help you out when I can, I look out for you. I give you free advice from time to time, like the importance of not chucking tellies out of aircraft windows, even though I know it’s probably only going to be a matter of seconds before you start ignoring it. Because that’s what pals do.

I’m not your boss, though. I’m not your god, I’m not your dad. I’m not your big scary space-dad who’s going to hold your hand and pat you on the head, wipe your nose and tuck you in at night. I’m not going to tell you what to do or how to live and expect you to obey me. Not even if you want me to. Not even if doing all of that is so tempting sometimes, because sometimes…sometimes I despair of you lot. I really do.

The other thing pals do is that they don’t put each other in difficult positions unnecessarily. I think it’s very cute the way some of you seem to look up to me. I mean, I’d look up to me too. I am pretty wonderful when you think about it. You can just cut it right out with the hero worship, though, some of you, all these rounds of applause and cosplaying and general fawning for my autograph and such. Individually, and as a species, you’re better than that. And have you seen the size of the doors on that blue box? If my head swells any more I won’t be able to get out.

It’s not that I don’t think I’d be a very good President. I know for a fact I’d be the best President you could ever have, if I put my mind to it, because I’m that damn good, but… You know what they say about the road to Hell? I’ve been around the block a few times, as you can probably tell. I know how that temptation is, if you give into it. I know the kinds of things I’d end up doing, the kinds of things I’d convince you to do too, and I know how badly it would end for all of us.

Those other planets I was President of, they didn’t all make it.

So I’m going to have to decline your kind offer. Even as much as I enjoy the limos and aeroplanes and carefully categorised sweeties, I think it’d be better if you forgot about the whole thing and we just stayed pals.

And with that in mind, I’m going to play us out with my version of a little number written by Mr John Winston Lennon and Sir Paul McCartney. You might want to turn the volume down on your media device. It gets a little loud.
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