Had the Master a farthing for every time a British citizen approached him with this question, he would be richer than Jeff Bezos, and possibly, God.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Can’t imagine why.”
Thank the stars for this bloody beard.
However, he doubles back round to consider, they’re both currently in the Doctor’s TARDIS, and she’s already introduced him as “her oldest friend.” Very little to lose.
“So! Who’d you vote for in the last generals?”
He waits. Patiently.
“Oh, I don’t really want to talk about that, mate. Politics and polite conversation, they don’t mix.” That was how they knew this bloke was from Earth. Money and politics weren’t topics for discussion, that was what Graham’s mum had always said. It just wasn’t polite – and it was especially impolite to actually ask who somebody actually voted for.
“You’re not from the TV, are you? Do they let aliens on the television now?”
The Master’s head lulls back. He snorts a luxurious laugh, flashing beatifically straight white teeth, and wheezes a weary version of his ordinarily obnoxious laugh.
“You have no idea,” he sighs, and then, looking Graham square in the eye, relents, “I’m Harold Saxon.”
His expression is wan. He awaits either complete horror, or the rugged disinterest common to many Northerners well after the fact of MP appointments.
The Master puckers his lips at his daughter from across the room. He stalks over, and snatches her up.
“Ohhhh, c’mere, you little MONSTER. Daddy’s shirt is yours for the sacrificing.”
He dangles her upside down and blows raspberries into her belly button. Then he hoists her upright and makes vaguely threatening fish-lips at her face, certain that he’s about to get peacock-hued war paint on his own cheeks.
The Master: My knife, you see… is coated in poison.
The Master: The smallest cut can be fatal.
The Master: Take care. My knife… has quite a burn.
The Master: [licks the knife]
The Master: …I shouldn’t have licked it.
Jack: So what’s it like? Dating the Master?
The Doctor: Once I asked him for water when he was pissed at me, and he brought me a glass full of ice and said “wait”.
“Well OB-viously, darling, we hold them over the top of each pumpkin while they pull out the goo, which is wonderfully disgusting, and then we sit them on workstools for the rest, and we finish what they can’t when they get too fatigued! We’re going for a festive high-point here!”
Icarus 