It’s hard to believe that just four short years ago, I was a 90lb lad, sat at home creating magical stories of adventure and kindness with the help of my trusty toy sonic screwdriver, K-9 model and fez.
As I sit here today, facing 25 to life for a string of offences including arson, kidnapping, grievous wounding, spitting, theft and coveting my neighbour’s ox, I must wonder what turn life took to bring me to this point.
Was it poor parenting? Genetics? Was I a good lad really who just got in with a bad crowd? No, I can’t say any of those reasons are right.
It was the evening of July 17th, 2017. I recall being in a frenzy of excitement with my big, floppy scarf and sprig of celery, waiting to find out which dashing, manly man would replace Peter Capaldi as The Doctor.
As we all know, the defining feature of The Doctor is that’s he’s a man. In fact, he’s really manly. Yes, he’s got all that time-travel stuff going on, but the most important thing about the character is his tough demeanour, square jaw, stoical, rugged individualism, and that he’s packing a monster in his trousers.
And then, horror. It was a… I can barely begin to say it. It was a girl.
I was so stressed that I immediately put a brick through the window of my local Tesco, nicked four bottles of Jack Daniels and two hundred fags, and punched a nun.
Without a man as The Doctor, I had no grounded role model to tell me not to do those things.
Over the next few years, every time I saw… her… being all vagina-y in the TARDIS I couldn’t help myself. You might have seen my campaign of terror across four countries reported as I went not just off the rails, but stone-cold psycho.
It was the woke agenda of the BBC that pushed me to this life, your honour, and if life was fair then it would be they, not me, standing in the dock today.
And this ends the case for the defence.