Doctor Who and the Case of the Altered Absinthe

It was a cold, wet Sunday night in a remote corner of southeastern Europe. My friend Marc and I wandered the empty cobblestone streets of the pretty capital, nursing a 2-day hangover trying to find the energy and venue for good night out.

All we found was an Irish pub. It was busy with locals sipping pints and watching English football. Dull, but better than the drizzle and dark for now. So we stepped in for a drink or two, hoping to find better options later on. We didn't. Not only was this the best it would get, but it also turned out to be a portal to another dimension.

We'd spent the Friday and Saturday in a nearby city. It'd been crazy. Two vodka-fuelled nights in a relentless series of bars and clubs heaving with oh-so pretty slavic girls, brash blokes, and excessively surly bouncers. This was a comedown to say the least.

That afternoon we'd caught a train through a rolling landscape of forests and fields, of cute clapboard hamlets, of patches of snow reflecting the winter-blue sky and the soft light of the low sun. We saw the sights of the old town then set out to continue the weekend's partying. But as darkness fell, so did rain – and then our expectations, for most of the bars were empty or closed.

So we got a table in the corner of the Irish pub and joined in the drink sipping. I was now tired and not in the mood to go hunting for action. Marc, though, was on the prowl. There wasn't much on offer apart from a group of plain looking student girls by the bar.

He wanted me to join him, but I refused, so he went over to speak to them alone. Surprisingly, they spoke back. While he chatted, I tried to watch the match, but it was too dull. The table in front of me was more interesting, I just wanted to drop my head on it and sleep. But I resisted and instead joined Marc by the bar.

One of the girls recommended me a hearty local liquor, and I soon felt perky again. Disappointingly, they couldn't recommended anywhere better to go on a Sunday night, so we delayed leaving for a bit longer.

The girls soon lost interest in Marc, but we carried on the conversation by ourselves. Next to me were two guys who kept going outside to smoke. The booze started flowing and time started slipping. When I went to order another round, I noticed the guys had left and had been replaced by a young bloke who looked just like a blond Matt Smith of Doctor Who fame. An unusual face. Thin and bony. Good looking in an odd kind of way.

He'd ordered 3 shots and had them gathered in front of him. Surprisingly, he offered me one. I declined, thinking they were for his friends, or that he was drunk. But he seemed sober and insisted, saying he was there alone.

I reluctantly accepted. The shot was dark in colour. He said it was a local spirit, but didn't know the name of it. Marc was also suspicious, but we both got talking to him. He was friendly and chatty. Said he was a house music producer and friends with several top European DJs. I wanted to believe him, but it sounded like bullshit. Even though he kept talking about girls, we thought he was just gay and trying to chat us up.

Despite supposedly being so well connected, he also didn't know where else to go on a Sunday night. He then wanted to buy us more shots, and started flashing 50 euro notes. He said he'd been in the studio all weekend, and had only just got out and wanted to celebrate. Not wanting to be in his debt, I said I'd get that round in and asked the barman for more of the same shots. He said they weren't local liquor, but tequila with crème de cassis, and that the Doctor had ordered it specifically. Strange.

We necked those, and it wasn't long before the Doctor had more shots lined up on the bar. Large ones. I hadn't been paying attention, but Marc said they were absinthe as he'd seen the barman put the bottle away. The Doctor denied it, and again said he didn't know the name of what they really were.

Why lie? Why Absinthe? What was he up to?

He placed one in front of me and one in front of Marc. When he turned away, I deftly swapped mine with his.

'Cheers!' I said, then downed it. I grimaced. Seventy percent proof fire in my throat. Marc didn't want his and tried to pour it into my empty glass, spilling half down my shirt. I got annoyed, but still finished it off.

After that things got hazy. When the Doctor started talking to the barman, Marc and I deliberated what to do. He was obviously suspect, but we couldn't work out how. He now wanted to take us to this 'Kebab Club', so named as a lot of the clientele were Turkish, and said he'd buy us drinks there too. It sounded dodgy, but he seemed harmless enough. If the worst came to worst, I suggested, we could just kick the fuck out of him.

But then he leant right over the bar and got deeper in conversation with the barman.

'Let's do a runner,' I said. Marc agreed and we quickly got our coats and slipped out of the pub, laughing as we jogged up to a set of neon signs that lit up the dark damp street. It was a strip bar. The big shaven-headed bouncer standing outside looked us up and down then asked if we were with the group. Marc instantly said yes, so he let us in.

'The group' was just several middle-aged men in suits who were in the process of leaving. We were now the only punters there. We were ushered to the back of the large shadowy room and sat on low sofas. A waitress brought over a menu of expensive drinks which once served had further tax and service charge added. The fuckers.

A succession of ugly girls got on the pole in front of us, then draped themselves over our laps asking for tips. They all reeked of the same cheap perfume and wanted €120 for a private dance. The waitress wanted us to buy them drinks. I just wanted to leave.

But Marc was adamant in staying, saying it was totally within our rights to perv without paying extra. I started having a go at him, even though I'm not one for arguments. The rest of the girls, staff and security looked at us from afar none too pleased. For some bizarre reason, I tried feigning sleep, but the waitress just came over to wake me up and sell me more booze. I eventually managed to coerce a very unhappy Marc out of the sofa, out past the evil stares, and out back into the dingy street.

Standing there trying to work out what to do next, I noticed a silhouette on the opposite side of the street. It was a bloke absolutely wankered. Comedy drunk. His skinny silhouette stumbling in wild zig zags through the shadows. It took me a moment to realise it was the Doctor. What the fuck??

I watched dumbfounded as he walked head-on into a shop window and bounced off backwards into the road. By utter coincidence there was a parked-up police van right in his path. Two policeman stood there casually either side of its open doors as he staggered directly towards them at speed. They just scooped him up and threw him in.

It was all too surreal. What? How? Why? I started laughing. Laughing very hard. We walked past the police van and I saw him slumped there, chin on chest, mop of blond hair on face, completely out of it.

'Doctor Who!!' I shouted.

'Doctor who?' One of the bemused policeman replied in English with a half-smile.

There was no response from the Doctor. He was completely gone.

The policeman's surprise and curiosity at the drunken foreigner quickly turned to frowns as I heckled the Doctor further. He made a move towards me, but luckily Marc dragged me away while I still shouted and laughed uncontrollably. What was going on with me? What'd happened the Doctor?

We wanted to continue on elsewhere, but the city had closed for the night. Instead, the laughter stopped and we just stood outside Marc's hotel arguing. He said I'd been rude to those poor strippers who were probably just country girls doing what they could to make money. I got belligerent at his sudden bout of compassion. I was again acting quite out of character and it took me some time to agree to disagree and begrudgingly shake hands goodnight.

As I shuffled off back to my own hotel, I finally realised this was a different kind of drunk. That I was completely off my head. I tried to think why, and remembered the absinthe. Was it that? Maybe. But the Doctor was even more drunk. What'd happened for him to get in such a state so quickly? We'd been in the strip bar for less than half an hour, and he reckoned he'd just left his studio before coming to the pub.

Then I remembered I’d switched glasses with him. Had he spiked the absinthe he'd tried to give me, only to end up spiking himself?? Would it have been me now lying unconscious somewhere? Taken to the Kebab Club and given a proper skewering??

But then I remembered I'd had the remainder of Marc's shot which probably would've also been spiked. I quickly assessed myself and deemed myself to be OK ...until I noticed I was stumbling through the country's main square with my cock hanging out, having a hands-free piss while shakily taking photos on my phone.

I looked around at the now mist-shrouded night and the looming ancient monuments. It felt like I'd been transported to another time, another dimension. I floated happily through that cloud world at first, until I realised I wasn't in a good place.

'Damn you, Doctor ...Damn you!!' I screamed to the edges of the universe. But I wasn't screaming at all. It was all in my head.

I managed to put my cock and phone away and continued stumbling back to my room, trying to control my own zig-zagging, skilfully avoiding any alien policemen lying in wait to scoop me up.

I eventually found a way back to our own dimension via the gateway that was my bed, and awoke the next morning to happy to be back on Earth and in my own head.

I thought of The Doctor waking up in a police cell, equally trying to work out what the hell had happened.

Was it a case of the absinthe being altered? Or the absinthe just altering us?

It's a mystery that only The Doctor could solve, wherever, whenever he may be.