"Just get him on the fucking phone before I shovel camel shit into your loins you pansy dairy farmer!"
Malcolm Tucker, head communications director for the Prime Minister of Great Britain, was in no mood for relaying messages towards other people like a glorified postman. He wasn't calling some cabinet member or an official aid to give them an official bollocking, nor was the crisis that he had been assigned any ordinary political spin. For the past few weeks, ever since the appearance of the particular person he was trying to reach over the phone, the public had gone mad with protests and demands for answers were being heard all over the television and internet. This particular problem wasn't the kind he was used to, and neither the one he would preferably handle. This kind of problem almost made Malcolm long for the days he spent covering for Hugh Abbot and the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship. Nevertheless, his teeth grinding, he dialed the phone again to reach the main person this crisis was centered around.
"Come on you big eared wanker answer your fucking phone or whatever space mumbo-ti-fuck-jumbo thing it is you use.." he said under his breath as it continued to ring.
The voice on the other line was not the one Malcolm was expecting. "Who the fuck is this?" he asked.
"Well considering you're calling me and being very hostile at an answer you ought to have known before you dialed..."
Malcolm recognized the sass and tone of the person he was calling, even if the voice maybe was different. It has been almost five years after all.
"Look save it Alien vs Predator. You need to come the fuck to the Prime Minister's office this fucking moment."
"I'm sorry I don't seem to recall you being able to order me around. But if you were to ask a bit nicer and not like some after school bully I would be more than happy to accommodate Señor Prime Minister." the man on the phone responded. Malcolm was becoming increasingly irritated.
"Listen you fucking extra terrestrial you should be fucking lucky we didn't fucking lock you into the spooky space shit jail with ET and the fucking aliens from the last Indiana Jones movie. When you decided to announce to the world that you do in fact exist the public here have gone haywire, and you've done nothing to fuck show for it. Considering you have been an agent of the British fucking government since Margaret Thatcher was in her fucking twenties shagging bozos and canines for fucking bon bons, you are a British problem therefore you are my problem. And if you want to continue your comings and goings without the full force of the world losing it's shite and declaring war on you, you need to come the fuck into Number 10 at this fucking moment or I'll light that stupid leather coat on fire and smash your fucking dumbo ears inwards to your brain with your stupid so called 'screw driver.'"
The other man on the phone was aghast. There was a long pause, but then replied, "Is this Malcolm Tucker?"
"Yes it fucking is."
"What's the year, date and time?"
"September 14th, 20 fucking 10, 4:55 PM you cunt, Number 10. NOW." Malcolm hung up.
About a few seconds later a distant whirling noise was heard in the back of Malcolm's office, getting increasingly louder. Desk papers began to fly off and a wind had began to blow most of the things around the office away. You could hear Malcolm shouting "And again with this fucking entrance" but his voice was under-heard compared to the now loud whirling. An old british police box slowly materialized finally and the wind and noise stopped. The door opened and a visibly younger man in a tweed jacket and suspenders walked out to face Malcolm.
"Hello again Malcolm." The man said.
Malcolm was enraged. This wasn't the man he had met in 2005. The man he met was considerably older. "What the fuck is this? I've never met you. Who the fuck are YOU?"
"What? You don't recognize your friendly neighborhood Doctor?"