“Calling occupants of interplanetary craft! Calling occupants of interplanetary craft that have been observing our planet EARTH. We of IFSB wish to make contact with you. We are your friends, and would like you to make an appearance here on EARTH. Your presence before us will be welcomed with the utmost friendship. We will do all in our power to promote mutual understanding between your people and the people of EARTH.

“Please come in peace and help us in our EARTHLY problems. Give us some sign that you have received our message. Be responsible for creating a miracle here on our planet to wake up the ignorant ones to reality.

“Let us hear from you. We are your friends.”

(A telepathic message transmitted into outer space by members of the International Flying Saucer Bureau on the first World Contact Day, 15 March 1953.)

“Good morning neighbours, this is Big John on the phone-in line here on WRF AM, the ‘Talk of New York City’. We’ll be with you from 12am to 5am. And, as we wake up to a new day, I’d like to be the first to wish you all a Merry Christmas! We still have a week or so left of 1953, so I won’t be saying Happy New Year just yet…” 

Amy Pond was used to nights like these, alone with the radio. She’d had enough years now to settle into her life in post-war New York. Rock ’n’ roll was starting to hot up, but it will be a long slog to reach Lady Gaga, if she even manages to make it that far. 

Rory was working night shifts at Bellevue Hospital. He’d managed to swerve Christmas Eve for the last few years but this year, he won’t be back home until the early hours of Christmas morning. Amy was a girl who was used to waiting. She knew she wouldn’t sleep until her husband was home. In any case, Big John’s phone-in was her guilty pleasure. 

The radio show covered a mix of anomalous phenomena, UFOs, and other offbeat topics. It felt faintly nostalgic, and somewhat naive, to hear people phone in with stories about flying saucers and little green men. This is the girl who battled Weeping Angels on Alfava Metraxis and was forced to wait 36 years in quarantine on the planet Apalapucia. She got the years back, of course. Maybe she’ll get these years back too. But for that, she’d need a Doctor… 

“Tonight we’re going to take your calls about alien encounters in your neighbourhood. Always a popular and interesting discussion. If your story has a festive twist, then all the better. As usual, you have to convince me it wasn’t a fever dream, an optical illusion, or your neighbour out with a torch taking his nighttime ablutions.” 

Big John was a sceptic. And Amy sympathised with him. Most ‘extraterrestrial experiences’ usually turn out to be hoaxes or hysteria. Except when they’re not. Like when the Atraxi, the Cybermen, the Daleks, the Silurians, the Sontarans, the Vashta Nerada, the Weeping Angels, and the Zygons all assembled at Stonehenge to trap the Doctor in the Pandorica in 102 AD. But that was a fairly exceptional occurrence.

The first caller, Mavis from Cooperstown, NY, seemed to be in the hysterical, possibly intervention-needing camp. 

“Oh Lord! Big John! There I was, minding my own business when a bright light descended on little old me from the heavens,” Mavis explained. “I found I couldn’t move as these small, blue aliens emerged from this huge metal saucer saying ‘beep-beep’. They took me aboard their ship and poked and prodded me. I woke up back in my field, feeling like I’d been through a mangle. My husband Ronnie… well, he just laughed, but I knew what happened was God’s truth. The aliens are out there, and they want to communicate with us.” 

That was the first of many calls that morning. Amy could tell Big John was going through the motions, saddled, as he was, with a series of less-than-thrilling callers. Most with variations of Mavis’ story: lights, aliens, spaceship, probe, then home to disbelief. It was now well past 4am and Amy pondered drifting off to sleep. At least then she’d wake to see Rory’s stupid face. 

Amy’s waning mind started filling with visions of legions of nubile Roman soldiers. The invasion of the hot Italians was always a dream-time favourite. But her reverie was interrupted by a voice as familiar as the aroma of Jammy Dodgers and Artron energy…

“Hello Big John! Long-time listener, first-time caller. In fact, I’ve been listening to your show from the start until it ended in 1976. They should have let you carry on until they released Close Encounters of the Third Kind a year later. Whole new audience. Still, everything seems easier in foresight.” 

Big John couldn’t be more delighted: this sounded like the sort of maniac caller that livened up the twilight hours. Some sort of British looney tune who thought he was from the future. 

“Hello, caller. What’s your name and how can we help you this morning?” 

“Why do people always ask for names? It confuses things when you don’t use one. Just call me the Doctor.” 

“Just… Doctor?” 

“Doctor, well…’ The Doctor paused to think of a plausible explanation for his lack of a moniker. Something he’s failed to do for more than 900 years. So why he assumed he’d be able to explain it live on the radio is anyone’s guess. 

“Okay, Doctor Well, tell us your story…” said Big John. 

The Doctor supposed it was as good a name as any at this moment. “It’s more of a message, really. It’s a reply to a message that you put out.” 

“I don’t remember putting out a message,” Big John replied. 

“Not you you. The human race you. More specifically the International Flying Saucer Bureau. I tried but they’re not answering their telephone. I suppose because it’s Christmas and they’re all drinking eggnog, surrounded by baubles and panettone. Trouble is, in their message, they didn’t tell the aliens not to contact them during the holidays.” 

“You are in contact with aliens?” 

“So are you, right now. Well, one alien. And you are an alien to me. But if you mean the ‘aliens’ who replied to the message: yes. I’m here with them now.” 

“Where are you?”

“I tried to take them to your studios in New York but we got a little lost. So we’ve ended up here. Somewhere called Cooperstown? Mavis says hi. She’s making them coffee.” 

“The aliens?” 

“I think they prefer the term ‘visitors’ or ‘occupants of interplanetary craft’,” said the Doctor. 

“Can we speak to them?” 

“Not really, all you will hear is some beep-beep noises. That’s why they asked me to call in and translate. I’ll put one on…” 

“Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep. Beep,” declared the alien, excitedly, in strange, grating tones. 

“See what I mean?” 

Big John was delighted at this interlude. The guy was obviously a madman. But he made convincing ‘alien’ noises. 

“What they said was,” the Doctor continued, “they come in peace and want to help you with your earthly problems. The message they received didn’t specify what the problems were. But they are happy to help with whatever.”

Meanwhile, Amy couldn’t believe her ears. She was scouring a map of New York state. Cooperstown was around a three-hour drive from central NYC. But she’d need Rory to come home with the car. 

“Is this the message sent from the IFSB on Contact Day?” Big Jon asked the Doctor. “We had a special programme for that. But that was back in March…” 

“Yes. It takes a while to travel 6.2465 light-years. But they had a good run once they cleared the congestion after Alpha Centauri. That’s why it only took nine months.” 

“Okay, Doctor Well, can you describe these visitors to me?” 

“I suppose you’d call them little blue men with three heads.” 

Big John was holding back the guffaws. “What do they need three heads for?” 

“One for thinking, one for speaking, and another for eating. It makes sense if you think about it: that way you don’t end up talking a load of nonsense while spitting food everywhere.” 

Amy was frantically phoning the hospital to get Rory back. He’d already left. This could be their chance. 

“And have they come in a flying saucer?” enquired Big John. 

“It’s chunkier than that. A flying bidet? Or a ramekin? Yes, that sounds more distinctive: a flying ramekin.” 

“Okay, Doctor Well,” said Big John. “What do you call these creatures?” 

“Visitors, please! They’re called the Hokes.”

“Ah, very good.” Big John allowed himself a chuckle. “I knew this was a ‘hoax’ call. I was just playing along!” 

“No, not ‘hoax’. They are called the Hokes, roughly translated. H-O-K-E-S.” 

“From the planet Prank, I suppose!” 

“No, from Fulnenrestoraximal 14, stupid!” The Doctor was annoyed now. 

Big John decided it was time to wrap up. “Well, it’s been great to have you on the show. I’m sure our listeners enjoyed this little Christmas treat.” 

From the call from Cooperstown, listeners could hear the unmistakable howls of a convoy of police car sirens. In the distance, over the frightened ‘beep-beeps’, they could just make out an exchange between the Doctor and Mavis. 

“What do you mean Ronnie called the cops? Ronnie! I told you it’s not threatening. That’s just the way they drink. Don’t worry, Mavis. It wasn’t your fault. Drink up your coffee, chaps — it’s time we were off.” 

The Doctor picked up the phone again to the radio station. “Sorry Big John. We’ve got to scram. Typical humans! You invite outer space visitors, say they will be welcomed as friends… Then you start pointing Smith and Wessons at them. I’ve got to go; they promised me a lift back to the TARDIS on the leisure satellite Hoodwink IV. That’s where I’ve left the Ponds to enjoy a zero-gravity spa day.” 

It all came rushing back to Amy, the Doctor slinking off while they were both being massaged by a six-armed, three-headed blue being. Sorted her cricked neck out, though. 

Suddenly, a wave of disappointment flooded over Amy Pond. That may have been her only chance. But no. It was locked into her past anyway, so it would only have caused another paradox. One more of those around here could be terminal. 

“Goodbye Doctor Well,” said Big John. “Look after those little blue men. Any last message to the listeners, Doctor?” 

“Yes,” the Doctor replied as he hurtled up the spaceship’s ramp. “A happy Christmas to all of you at home!” 

With a sombre click, Amy turned off the radio. “Raggedy man. Happy Christmas.” 

Before she had a chance to wallow, Rory sauntered through the door. 

“Thought you’d be asleep!” he said. “How’s things?” 

Amy couldn’t decide whether to tell her husband, or to let it go. In case it was too painful. 

“I’ve just had the best Christmas present I could ever wish for,” said Amy. 

“What’s that?” 

She looked into Rory’s stupid face. “You coming home, of course!” 

Rory gave Amy one of his ‘I can’t believe my luck’ faces and produced a single sprig of mistletoe. And a very happy Christmas was had by all.