Author Archives: Andy Ward

Scones and stories.

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I have scones. I will have stories.

I have, somewhat foolishly some (including myself) might say, decided to set myself the challenge of attempting to write and release 30 new story podcasts in 30 days, starting this week. I have decided to do this to attempt to break myself out of a writing rut, and, in a way, to attempt to prove to myself that I still can. Anybody who was aware of the ghost stories from university will probably be aware that they were often written around an hour before we actually went on air, such was the sheer professionalism of our show, and it is that same spirit of hopeless unprofessionalism and blind panic that I am hoping to channel again now. It is inevitable that the quality of these stories will be fairly low, at least at first. I’m hoping that by the end they will be of a higher quality. We will just have to wait and see. Of course, all the stories that I wrote at university fell into the category of horror. These will probably introduce some new genres: romance, thriller, err… thrilling-romance, ghost-romance. I can’t really think of any other genres of st- MYSTERY! THAT’S ONE! CRIME! CRIME ROMANCE!

Ok, I think that’s it now. I’m basically walking around a virtual Waterstones in my head, and those are the only genres of literature that I can think of. I keep walking into the ‘books for dummies’ section, and then I end up in Botany. Now I can’t find the stairs. Where the hell are the stairs? I can’t walk past the counter again, they already think I’m mental since I’ve circled it twice without browsing any books, staring deep into their eyes in a sinister fashion on every pass. The stairs have to be around here somewhere. What’s this? Oh, wait, that’s the fire escape. I guess when I find the stairs they won’t be alarmed. Still, since the door is open I may as well go down it now. I hope it leads to the street. Ah, here we are. The high street. Victory is mine.

Anyway, yeah, stories. They should all be available through the Llamageddon podcast feed at http://llamageddon.jellycast.com , and I’m hoping to put them up on iTunes too. They’ll either start tomorrow, or possibly on Wednesday, as Monday and Tuesday are busy with gigs and the like, so I may not be able to release a story then, and it would be such a shame to fail at my challenge within the first day. Why not also download the Llamageddon podcasts from there if you’ve never heard them. They’re unique, that’s for sure. We should really do some more of those, they were a lot of fun. Anyway, it’s about time I ate a scone, so I’m going to leave it here, safe in the knowledge that I have completed another outstandingly boring blog post. Well done self.

I have gone to America.

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I am back now, and desperately trying to adjust to the temperature difference. Everything is cold in England now. I remain confident that soon I’ll be back to being like a blast furnace in stupidly chilly temperatures though, capable of being overly hot in even the coldest of temperatures. Anyway, America, yes. Allow me to briefly explain the highlights and lowlights.

HIGHLIGHTS

1. Yosemite National Park.

Here I scaled great heights, and met a bear. I celebrated the glorious return of my knee, who allowed me to traverse the rocky terrain without exploding. When I got to the top, me and my knee poured ourselves some mojitos from a flask, toasted our success and regaled each other with stories of good times past we had had. Alternatively, the altitude may have made me delirious, and none of this may have happened. I’d like to believe that it did though. I certainly got to the top of something, then I went off track and half-suspected I was going to die. The path at Yosemite can be pretty basic at the best of times, but when you suddenly start scaling slippy rocks without any kind of security, in the mistaken belief that you’re Spiderman, it can get pretty dangerous. Thankfully, danger is my middle name. Well, that and ‘Completelackof’. It’s double-barrelled.

2. Six Flags Magic Mountain.

This was a cool theme park. I was curious as to how it would compare to the magical beast that is Alton Towers, and it certainly compared favourably, despite the fact that on just about every ride I went on I accidentally pulled my harness down so far I practically suffocated myself. Here, I was also interviewed about Halloween by some scary clowns and a TV camera. I can’t be 100% sure, but I’m probably now pretty big in America. I think that if I were to check my email, there’d probably be an invitation to appear on the Jay Leno show waiting for me. Or alternatively, there may be nothing, as I bumbled my way through, talking rubbish. I can’t even remember what I said now, I think I just looked baffled, mumbled something about clowns and stared at my feet. Then me and my knee went and had mojitos. Or something. Anyway, Six Flags Magic Mountain. Mega fun, even if after a mix-up booking the tickets there was a real danger that I was going to have to pretend to be from some country called Dijbouti. Thankfully my phenomenal lack of ability to slip in and out of various aliases like an inept, work-experience Jason Bourne was never called upon.

3. I sang with a tramp.

When I got to L.A., I met a lovely tramp in the street who told me he was going to sing a song for me. At this point, I half-suspected that this was some kind of hustle, and he was going to smash me over the head with his guitar and take my wallet, but I was proved wrong, as he struck up his guitar and launched into the song ‘Stand By Me’. He asked me to join in, and, naturally, being the berk that I am, I didn’t need to be asked twice. I now found myself stood in the street dancing with a tramp whilst we both sang Stand By Me to passers by. It was at this point that my friend Hannah arrived to pick me up in her car. I’ll be honest, it’s a wonder she didn’t keep on driving as she surveyed the demented scene taking place outside my hotel. I think myself and the tramp just sort of stared at the car for a moment in silence, then I handed him two dollars, which he seemed disappointed by. I think he was expecting some kind of lucrative recording contract. One day Mr Tramp, we will work together again, on our supreme album ‘Music To Ruin Passing Civilians’ Day By’. And it shall be glorious. Anyway, this leads nicely onto point 4.

4. I met my friend Hannah.

Who succeeded in reminding me that bowling is not my sport. I scored about 150. This doesn’t sound too bad, until you realise that this was my combined score across two games. I think the real problem lay in the fact that they don’t have the aiming slide in America, the philistines. How am I expected to score 300 if I don’t have a tool intended for children that helps me aim? Still, this presents a business opportunity, as I shall shortly be importing these slides into the country, which should assist me in making millions of pounds. We shall see. She also somehow succeeded in stealing my most prized possession: my waffle crown. I’ve prided myself on knowing what I thought was the best waffle shop, but she knew a better one in L.A. I was stunned. Having also lost my cupcake crown to another friend, I now only have my alcohol crowns remaining. It’s only a matter of time until they too are stolen, then I shall be forced to wander the earth, a crownless peasant begging for money, singing his hideously out of tune version of ‘Stand By Me’. The waffle defeat also came as something of a disappointment because it’s a shame to know that this superior waffle place is so far away from me that I may never see it again. What a shame. It was delightful to hang out, but unfortunately Hannah found herself busy with work a lot of the time, however this gave me the opportunity to venture along to one of the other highlights of my trip.

5. I went to Sprinkles Cupcakes.

It was delicious. Whether it beats the delicious cupcakes you can find in Brighton is hard to say however. One day I shall have a proper cupcake showdown to decide. I had to venture a long way to find these cupcakes though. They were in Beverly Hills, I was in the middle of nowhere. I had to get on a bus, which was fun, as they have trivia questions on their buses in America. During my brief stay on the bus, I learned that squid have ten legs, the thinnest skin on the human body is on the eyelids, steel is alloyed with chrome to make it stainless, and various other facts too, which I have now completely forgotten. There wasn’t too much time to take in this information, as I spent the majority of my time on the bus wondering how the hell I was meant to stop the thing. There didn’t seem to be a button to press, yet everybody else seemed to have no problem dinging a bell and getting the driver to stop where they needed him too. I eventually came to the conclusion that they were all using telepathy. When I saw my stop approaching, I tried to communicate with the driver via the power of my mind to ask him to stop. It was only as we careered past my stop that I realised that this had not worked. It was then that I discovered everybody else was pulling a string on the roof. Nobody had informed me about this, the cads. I telepathically swore at them, and got off the bus in the middle of nowhere. Here, I dined on Argentinian cuisine, and asked a taxi to take me to Sprinkles. It was good.

6. The Getty Museum.

I went to the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. It was nice. I’m not a particularly cultured person, and am unable to recognise what is brilliant art beyond the childlike view of ‘that one has some pretty colours’, or ‘that looks nice’, but I enjoyed this museum, there was some lovely artwork that even I could appreciate was fantastic, and I also had a tasty hot dog. It was great.

LOWLIGHTS

1. Las Vegas.

This was strange, as Las Vegas has been somewhere I’ve wanted to go for ages. It always looks like such fun, and yet in reality, I actually found it to be quite a depressing place. There’s very little to do but gamble, and I really don’t enjoy gambling. I did have one token $10 gamble on a roulette wheel, but then instantly lost it, and walked away. Later on in the evening, indeed, it was at 4 AM in the morning, when I was slightly drunk and tired, I decided to walk down to the Strip to place a large bet on a roulette wheel just to see what would happen. Where I was staying was off the strip, in a dark area. I had to walk around a mile or two just to get to the strip, down dark backroads, alone. I was later informed that this was quite dangerous, as people are constantly being mugged here. Thankfully, I avoided this, by giving anybody I walked past my most threatening look. I say most threatening look, I don’t really have many, if any, in my arsenal. It’s like being glared at by Bambi. Still, it worked a treat. What also worked a treat was jogging down this street for much of it, thus being so speedy that any potential vagabonds could not assault me if they wanted to. My knee had returned to form. When we got to the strip, we drank mojitos from a flask etc etc. Actually, that’s not true. When I got to the strip, intending to put my bet on, I walked into a casino and was instantly engulfed by the depressing atmosphere of the place. People still sat at slot machines at 4 in the morning, gambling away all their money. I decided not to bet at all, and simply got a taxi all the way back to my hotel. This particular part should actually be filed under highlights, as myself as the taxi driver spent the journey discussing Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs, as he was a Manchester United fan. When I mentioned that I was a Middlesbrough fan, he said that he liked them, as he thought they played nice football. I was thus forced to come to the conclusion that he had never actually heard of Middlesbrough. I gave him a tip though, as he was highly entertaining.

Oh, and I paid $17 for a double Jack Daniels and Coke at a casino bar. SEVENTEEN DOLLARS. When they informed me of the price, I was tempted to have a sip of my drink, and then spit it out, 1980s surprise style. As it happened, I simply mumbled to myself, drank my drink, and then made a note to just order water from that point on. And I did. FOR FIVE DOLLARS. FIVE DOLLARS FOR A WATER?! DO YOU NOT HAVE TAPS IN LAS VEGAS?! Disappointing.

2. The Grand Canyon.

To be fair, I was only there for about half an hour. I saw the sunrise come over the Grand Canyon though, and it was at this point, when I was staring out onto the sun rising over one of the most amazing natural wonders, that I came to the conclusion that I am essentially a robot. I didn’t feel any kind of emotion of ‘oh, this is so wonderful’. I just thought ‘this is kind of boring, I wish the sun would hurry up so that we can all move on’. To spite the Grand Canyon, I took a photo of some Condor Socks, and a bin. That canyon certainly won’t be the star of my photo album, the scoundrel.

3. I realised that there is no escape from my problems.

A holiday is nice, but it is only temporary. Until I fix all the problems that continue to hold me back, I won’t be able to fully enjoy such excursions, as in the back of my mind, I know that soon I will be returning to the same place that I left. In many ways, I expected America to refresh my mind. In reality, it has probably only further destroyed it, by showing me the kind of things I could have in an alternative world, and how far I appear to be from them at the moment. One day though perhaps, we shall see. I would like to believe that eventually, everything will work out, though it’s up to me to ensure that happens. I know what I want, and I will try my hardest to achieve it, so we shall see how things go.

Now I’m going to go and check my inbox to see if Jay Leno has emailed yet. Fingers crossed.

I am going to America.

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Tomorrow I’m going to America for about two weeks. I’m flying out to San Francisco, where I’m meeting around 8 other travellers, and we’re going around the West Coast for a bit. Naturally, despite this all sounding great, the thing I’ve perhaps been most excited about is the fact that I may be able to watch a film on the plane. They don’t have this on Easyjet. I’m moving on up, slowly but surely. It’s only a matter of time until I’m John Travolta, flying my own plane about, and dancing awkwardly on stage with a football at World Cup Press Conferences.

Anyway, yeah, I’m going to America, somewhere I’ve wanted to go for years. I start adventuring in San Francisco, muddle about a bit, see the Grand Canyon, go to Las Vegas, and eventually end up in Los Angeles, which apparently has a Magic Mountain. It should be fun, though potentially disastrous for me to go to Las Vegas. I’m going to try and only gamble small amounts (that shouldn’t be too much of a problem, given that I only have small amounts), as previous experience has taught me I’m horrifically bad at gambling, and should not do it. In addition to this, I fully expect the Le Chiffre-esque scar above my eye to start leaking blood every time I get good cards, thus completely ruining my ability to bluff (I say ability, I basically chuckle to myself and punch the air every time I get good cards anyway. If other players can’t read that, they shouldn’t be playing poker).

I have been warned that I may run into a bear at some point. The warning also told me that I can’t outrun a bear. Being the idiot I am, I see this not so much as a warning, more of a challenge. I did once see a man outrun a giraffe, on a TV show hidden away on ITV4 called ‘Man vs Beast USA’, but to be fair, the giraffe only lost because he stumbled a bit at the beginning. I do not know how fast a giraffe is compared to a bear. I did however, see a bear defeat the speed hotdog eating champion of the world, so have learned that if nothing else, I cannot eat a plate of hotdogs faster than a bear. This is information I have retained over the years. Can I tell you anything about my degree? No.

Oh, and an orangutang is a lot stronger than a sumo wrestler. More useful Man vs Beast facts.

Other things I intend to do:

- Try not to smash my face on a roundabout.
- Try not to stumble into a ravine.
- When I get to Las Vegas, gather 10 other people and form ‘Ward’s 11′.
- Inform the police that ‘Ward’s 11′ was not my idea. Pin the blame on somebody else.
- If allowed out on bail, immediately form ‘Ward’s 12′.
- Wait to be deported.
- Fly back under an devlishly clever alias. ‘Wandy Bard’ ought to do it.
- Turn up at Universal Studios. Pitch them ‘Wuther and Heights’.
- Return to hotel, wait for phone to ring with lucrative three-film deal.
- If phone does not ring. Return to Universal Studios. Try pitching ‘Ward’s 11′ instead.
- Wait to be deported. Possibly watch Iron Man 2 on the plane.
- Return to country dressed as Jafar.
- Go to Disneyland. Kick Aladdin in the face. Run away.
- See whether they have Toblerones. If not, hastily put together business plan importing Toberones.
- Go to harbour. Watch as boat full of Toblerones is sunk by renegade bear.
- Inform bear that he has ruined everything. Fight bear.
- Go to hospital to have lungs re-inserted. Perhaps take off Jafar costume beforehand.
- Book a slot on that David Letterman thing to discuss Wuther and Heights.
- If allowed on show, tell hilarious anecdote about Ward’s 11 and how we got away with $30 million.
- Wait to be deported.
- Fail to have enough money to return to America. Sit at home and pen Wuther and Heights.

It should be good anyway. Who knows, perhaps I’ll win several million dollars in Las Vegas after accidentally getting myself involved in a game of high stakes poker. Then I may even be able to watch ‘Up’ on the way home. It’ll be great.

Rupert Bear masquerades as a pony.

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Pony 1: WELCOME TO PONY TOWN FELLOW PONY!

Rupert: (Chuckling) Thanks Pony…

Pony 1: Why did you chuckle?

Rupert: Sorry, I’m just happy to be back in Pony Town. Being as I am, a pony myself.

Pony 1: You look decidedly strange for a pony. It’s almost as if your pony eyes are painted on.

Rupert: (Muffling a laugh) Yeah, sorry, they’re just my pony eyes. Can I go into Pony Town now?

Pony 1: Ok, ok, in you go.

Rupert: Hur hur hur.

Pony 1: What was that?

Rupert: Sorry, I mean, err… clippety clop, clippety clop…

Rupert strolls into Pony Town. He finds himself surrounded by ponies. He wipes his brow. It is now very warm in his pony costume, but he is unable to take it off lest he be set upon by renegade ponies. He nudges another pony with his face.

Rupert: Excuse me, could you tell me where I could purchase a lucozade sport?

Pony 2: WELCOME TO PONY TOWN!

Rupert: Thanks… and the lucozade sport?

Pony 2: PONY TOWN!

Pony 3: You don’t smell like a regular pony…

Rupert: I’m wearing aftershave.

Pony 4: Ponies don’t wear aftershave…

Rupert: I have a date.

Pony 3: With?

Rupert: WITH PRINCESS PONY!

Rupert realised now that he was pushing his luck. He didn’t even know whether there was a Princess Pony. All the ponies in the vicinity gasped as one. As far as ponies could gasp.

Pony 4: YOU HAVE A DATE WITH PRINCESS PONY?!

Rupert: Hur hur hur…

Pony 3: Why do you keep laughing?

Rupert: I’m just happy to be a pony. I’m 100% pony. Feel my pony calves.

Pony 2: PONY TOWN!

Pony 4: Are you sure you’re here to see Princess Pony?

Rupert: Yes. Princess Pony. We have a date.

Pony 3: Why is there a scarf draping out of your mouth?

Rupert reels the scarf back into his costume.

Rupert: Sorry, I must have ingested some fabric soup.

Pony 4: This isn’t making a lot of sense.

Rupert: I know, sorry. Anyway, could you point me in the direction of Princess Pony? Or some lucozade sport, either is fine.

Pony 3: It’s that way. (Nudges head)

Rupert: What? Lucozade or the Princess?

Pony 3: You’ll see.

Rupert: Ok, thanks. Byeeeeeeeeee.

Rupert saunters off in the direction of the nudge. He walks for roughly 13,000 yards, chuckling with every step. He still can’t believe he’s getting away with this. After 13,000 yards, he comes across a lake. It is filled with golden liquid. There is a beautiful pony stood besides it, sipping from the lake. She wears a crown. Perhaps she is the Princess Pony. Yeah, that’ll do.

Rupert: Alright.

Princess: Who are you? Why do you smell of aftershave?

Rupert: Are you Princess Pony?

Princess: I am, yes… who are you?

Rupert: I’m a pony.

Princess: I can see that.

Rupert: Hur hur.

Princess: I don’t like your laugh, can you change it?

Rupert: Tee hee.

Princess: That’s somehow worse. Go back to the other one.

Rupert: Hur hur.

Princess: Right, so you say you’re a pony?

Rupert: I am a pony. Definitely a pony. 2000% pony. Which mathematically makes me 20 ponies. You can call me Ponyzord.

Princess: Alright Ponyzord, what are your intentions?

Rupert: I’M TAKING YOU FOR A NIGHT ON THE TOWN!

Princess: Where?

Rupert: Pizza Express?

Princess: There isn’t a Pizza Express in Pony Town…

Rupert: !

Princess: GET HIM PONIES!

Rupert: FEAST ON MY PONY CALVES!

Rupert kicks a pony guardian in the face. It topples into the lucozade lake and dissolves. Rupert runs off.

Rupert: Clippety cloppety clippety cloppety.

Rupert crashes through a wooden wall and out of Pony Town. He quickly de-ponyulises himself. Badger Bill appears from behind a tree.

Badger Bill: How did it go?

Rupert: I dissolved a pony in a lake.

Badger: Let’s go home.

Rupert: Good idea.

U Can’t Touch This

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A short excerpt from my latest sitcom project. It stars MC Hammer and King Midas as two ‘kerazy cats’ who live together and have madcap adventures. Naturally, it’s titled ‘U Can’t Touch This’. In this episode, MC Hammer and King Midas have a nice day out. Let’s take a look.

EPISODE 43 – HAMMER AND MIDAS GO BALLOONING.

Hammer: So here we are! What do you think?

Midas: That’s a big balloon. Is it ours?

Hammer: It certainly is! We’ve going into the clouds Midas! Into the clouds!

Midas: Oh how exciting! Let’s get going then!

Hammer: Wait wait wait! There’s just one last thing, and I’m not entirely sure how to put this…

Midas: What is it?

Hammer: It’s just that, you know… you… you can’t touch this. I mean it, under no circumstances can you touch this. It’s a balloon Midas, and we know what you’re like, this could potentially be disastrous.

Midas: Oh, you! Come on, let’s go!

Hammer: No Midas, I’m serious, you absolutely cannot touch this. For the sake of both of us, please. You can’t touch this, do you understand?

Midas: Fine, fine, I won’t touch it… I’ll just stand there I guess…

Hammer: Look, I’ve even brought an assistant along, he’s going to help you get into the basket, so that, you know, you don’t turn it into gold. Gold is a hell of a lot weightier than wicker.

Midas: What? So I can’t even touch the basket now? You just want me to stand in the centre of the basket? I can’t even lean over the edge?!

Hammer: Midas, please. It’s for your own safety…

Midas: This is stupid… I knew we should have gone to the swimming pool…

Hammer: No Midas! We can never go back there! Never again! So many people burning in molten metal… It keeps me awake at night Midas… all that screaming… the smell of burning flesh… never again Midas… never again…

Midas: Fine, fine, let’s go in the balloon…

Hammer: Right, let’s go. Clive, could you help Midas into the balloon please? And might I just add, you should absolutely not touch this hands, they’re surprisingly deadly.

Clive: Right you are.

Midas sighs as he is hoisted into the basket on a winch.

Hammer: That wasn’t so bad was it?

Midas: NOT FOR YOU! YOU DIDN’T GO ON THE WINCH!

Hammer: Right, well, anyway, let’s get going shall we? Clive! Release the balloon!

Clive releases the balloon. It floats away into the sky.

Hammer: Ah, the good old sky eh? Look at that view! Isn’t it lovely Midas?

Midas: Hold on, let me go and take a look…

Hammer: NO! NO MIDAS! STAY AWAY FROM THE SIDES! YOU CAN’T TOUCH THAT! Ok? You- you can’t touch that. Please Midas, you’re making me very nervous.

Midas: (Muttering) Stupid balloon and it’s bloody wicker…

Hammer: Look, I’ve packed some sandwiches, why not just have a sandwich and relax ok? Did you bring your sandwich trident?

Midas raises a small golden trident.

Midas: Here…

Hammer: Alright, if you just prong one of the sandwiches with that then. I’ve made cheese and ham and coronation chicken, which would you prefer?

Midas: Coronation chicken.

Hammer: Alright then, I’ll just put this coronation chicken one on the floor down here so that you can prong it more easily, ok?

Midas: Yeah, yeah, fine.

MC Hammer puts the sandwich down on the bottom of the basket. Midas goes to skewer it with his trident, however, he is hit in the face by a passing goose, and in his panic prongs MC Hammer in the shoulder.

Hammer: ARGH! JESUS CHRIST MY ARM! MY BLOODY ARM MIDAS! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!

Midas: There was a goose! A goose hit me in the face! Did you not see?

Hammer: Oh my god! So much blood Midas! We’ve got to land now and find a hospital!

Midas: Ok, ok! Let me just adjust the throttle.

Midas moves across to adjust the flame.

Hammer: NO MIDAS! NO!

Midas tries to adjust the flame, but the engine just turns to gold and the flame goes out.

Midas: Uh oh.

Hammer: YOU STUPID BASTARD MIDAS! WHAT DID I SAY?! WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!

Midas: (Resignedly) You can’t touch this…

Hammer: EVERY WEEK MIDAS! EVERY SINGLE WEEK!

The balloon crashes into a volcano. Cue theme tune (‘Midas Touch’ by Midnight Express) Roll end credits.

If any television commissioners are reading this, feel free to get in touch with my agent*. I look forward to hearing from you.

*And when I say agent, I mean me disguised in glasses and and a velvet jacket.

Carl vs The Hydra.

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Carl sighed as he sat in his bedroom sharpening a coathanger. He put down his knife for a moment and began to search through one of his cabinet drawers, looking for some kind of surgical mask. This was a futile pursuit. Both Carl and the cabinet knew that he had never owned a surgical mask. He would just have to tie one of his Superdry t-shirts around his face. He returned to sharpening the coathanger. It was pretty sharp now he’d say. Obviously it wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do until he could get to the kitchen. He picked up his keyboard, fastened the t-shirt tightly around his mouth and nose, and slowly sauntered downstairs.

He could hear the noise nearby as he did. The loud breathy sound of seven heads exhaling at once. Carl stood on the third step for a moment, mentally preparing himself for what lay around the corner. He gave himself a quick motivational speech, something about being a man my son or whatever, and then rounded the corner.

Carl was surprised to see that the room looked decidedly empty. He could still hear the breathing, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. He nervously took a few more steps into the room, careful to keep his wits about him at all times. Armed with his coathanger in one hand, and utilising his keyboard as a makeshift shield in the other, he slowly began to approach the sofa at the back of the room. Surely it must be hiding behind this? Where else could it be? He raised his coathanger, ready to strike, and leapt behind the sofa. His heart skipped a beat in horror as he saw that there was nothing there. Then, a high pitched scream filled the room. Carl turned around to face it just in time to be hit in the face by a video recorder. He toppled backwards, and fell into his crockery cabinet, smashing everything. The Hydra charged towards him and exhaled in his face. His Superdry t-shirt deflected most of the poison breath, but it rendered him a bit woozy. He took a swipe at the Hydra with his coathanger, severing one of the heads. The Hydra stumbled backwards, temporarily stunned. Such dizziness did not last long however, as no more than three seconds later it had sprouted an extra two heads to compensate. Carl swore to himself, and lunged once more. Deflecting a bite from head number four with his keyboard, he slashed again at the Hydra, this time into its body. The Hydra did not take much notice, and penetrated Carl’s defences with head number two. It smashed into Carl’s chest and sent him crashing backwards onto the coffee table, which promptly broke. Carl rolled away up just as heads two, three and five crashed down around him. He picked up a piece of shattered chocolate digestive which he been lying on the table and threw it at the Hydra, who quickly digested it. There was a moment of baffled silence whilst both combatants tried to work out exactly what Carl had been hoping to achieve. The Hydra raised sixteen eyebrows simultaneously. Carl shrugged. The Hydra picked up a DVD of ‘She’s All That’ from a shelf and threw it at Carl’s face. It hit him square on the nose. Blood streamed onto his t-shirt. He knew his slightly feminine DVD collection would come back to haunt him.

Carl turned and ran into the kitchen. The Hydra followed him in hot pursuit. Carl withdrew a knife from a drawer, and slashed again at the Hydra. Another lost head was quickly replaced by two more. Carl was really getting fed up of this now, and he let the Hydra know this by loudly telling him to go away. But in a more profanity strewn manner. The Hydra did not oblige, and wound Carl up further by turning on one of the taps. Brilliant, now Carl was not only being battered by a mythical beast, but he was paying for the privilege. Carl kicked the Hydra in the shin as he dodged another head. Unfortunately, the Hydra was wearing shinpads, so this had no effect. Carl opened the freezer door and ducked behind this for shelter. Searching through the drawers as he did, he found a tub of Rolo ice cream. He picked this up and ran towards the back door, the Hydra again just steps behind him. Carl opened the back door and threw the Rolo ice cream into the back garden. The Hydra charged out into the back garden, and Carl slammed the door behind him. Carl watched as the Hydra sat silently at the back of the garden, tucking into the ice cream. He breathed a sigh of relief. Why did this happen every time he purchased Rolo ice cream? He stared at the Hydra. The Hydra glanced back, his many faces covered in caramel. They both knew they would be doing the exact same thing next Friday. Carl turned the tap off and went back to bed.

Gordon Thunder goes bowling.

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Gordon put his shoes on. They were a lovely combination of red and white. Gordon remarked to himself that they looked vaguely like the shoes that Sonic the Hedgehog used to wear in the game ‘Sonic the Hedgehog’. Gordon chuckled to himself and began to gently hum the music from the Emerald Hill Zone as he went to select his bowling ball. He looked down at the balls as they sat on the rack. They were numbered from 4 to 76. Gordon decided he would probably just go for something light, something that allowed his arm to swing freely through the air as if it were a fleshy knife and the air were vaporised butter. He selected a number 12. It was green. Gordon thought this was probably a good sign, since not only was 12 his lucky number, but green was also his lucky colour. Surely the combination of these two things would lead to bowling greatness.

Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance departed with the young boy unconscious in the back. Gordon wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to throw the ball into straight into his face, since he was pretty much perpendicular to the pins he was meant to be aiming at, but somehow things had gone very wrong. The whole alley stared at Gordon now as he silently shuffled across to pick up a new ball, the silence only broken by the faint sound of the Emerald Hill Zone music. Suffice to say, he would probably not be going for a number 12 ball again, especially since the family behind him were made of glass. This had the potential to go very wrong. Gordon was selecting his ball in deathly silence, when a beautiful young woman sauntered over to the ball rack to select a ball for herself. She smiled at Gordon. Gordon smiled back, and watched as she selected a number 16 ball. Gordon mentally swore to himself. He couldn’t pick a light ball now or else he’d look weedy and distinctly unmanly in the face of this lovely woman. He looked across at the heavier balls. He stared at the number 76. Could he possibly lift that? It did look kind of heavy. The woman saw him looking at the number 76 ball, and looked flirtily surprised. Heck. He would have to go for it now. Gordon resignedly Emerald Hill Zoned across to the number 76 ball, and sighed quietly to himself, as he reached across to pick up the number 76.

An hour later, and the surgeons had finally reattached Gordon’s arm. The woman had long since gone. Ushered away by a councillor, covered in the blood that had jettisoned itself from Gordon’s severed biceps. Gordon was not really having a good time, indeed, he would have to say that this was the second worst bowling outing he’d ever had. The surgeons and paramedics said their goodbyes, as the alley manager ushered everybody back into the bowling zone. Many people glared at Gordon as they did, unhappy that he had been such a disruption on their games. Gordon kept his head down and continued to gently hum tunes from Sonic the Hedgehog. He hadn’t thrown a single ball down the alley so far today, the pins stood as tall and steady as they had when he’d arrived. He looked up at the scoreboard. A message was flashing across the screen. ‘THROW THE DAMN BALL YOU IDIOT’, it read. Yes, thought Gordon, this would be it. He casually picked up a ball (a number 14, if you’re interested), ran towards the alley, and threw his ball. The next seven seconds were occupied by disappointment, as Gordon watched his ball slowly make it towards the end of the gutter. Evidently he was not as good at bowling as he remembered. Indeed, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure why he’d come bowling. The last three times he’d been, he’d left with scores of 17, 25, and 12 respectively. It was a humiliating experience. He vowed not to repeat this experience again. Looking around, he saw a child of no more than six years old placing his bowling ball onto some kind of bowling slide, which launched his ball down the alley in a perfectly straight line. His family cheered as he got his first ever strike. Gordon envied this boy as he looked across at his own alley, still soaked in blood, remnants of muscle tissue, and the chalk outline of the young boy whose face he had so brutally (though accidentally) shattered. His alley was not so much a scene of sporting triumph as it was a location shoot for CSI by this point. He still retained the belief that he could turn this around though. If only he could get his hands on that slide. Gordon would need some kind of distraction to allow him to take it away from the family though. He searched his pockets for something that he could use. He found his wallet, chewing gum, some loose change, a Premier League ’97 sticker of Gary Pallister (his lucky Gary Pallister sticker no less), and an old Google map to a cupcake shop in Kensington. Oh, and a flashbang.

Having rendered the family temporarily blind, deaf and screaming, Gordon slowly wheeled the bowling slide across to his own alley. This would surely now be the highest scoring game of bowling he’d ever participated it. Gordon eagerly pointed the slide towards the top pin, loaded a ball, and then released it.

As the ball slowly but surely cascaded towards the pins, Gordon’s heart began to beat faster. This was all he had ever hoped for, all he had ever dreamed of. He adjusted his collar, ready to accept the applause of the rest of the bowling alley. Unfortunately, as his ball came within three feet of triumph, a metallic cage lowered itself, grabbed the pins, and raised them up into oblivion. Gordon’s ball slowly trundled underneath the pins and into the back pit of despair. Gordon looked up at the monitor. His game had timed out. Gordon sighed to himself. He sat down and slowly began to untie his Sonic the Hedgehog shoes. Replacing them the shoes he had crafted himself out of sandpaper, he miserably shuffled out of the bowling alley, leaving nothing but a bloody mess, a sense-deprived family, and an out of control fire sparked by his friction feet in his wake. It had not been a successful day out. Next time he would stick to darts.

I like my scar.

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Sort of. I mean, it really looks like it’s going to turn out quite pathetically (if at all), and you actually have to look pretty closely to see that it’s there, but I still like that for now I have it as a reminder of what a clumsy berk I can be. And of course, it being so close to my eye, it does give me a vague air of Monsieur Le Chiffre from Casino Royale. Admittedly, as far as Bond villain scars go, it’s really not up there with the best of them. I dare say the other Bond villains would somewhat frown upon me.

“I got my scar fighting with a shark. It tore my hand off and now I just have this metal atrocity for a hand.”

“Yeah, I know where you’re coming from, a man slashed across my face with a knife and tore half my cheek off… So tell us Mr Ward, have you any scars of your own?”

“Well, yeah. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Isn’t what obvious?”

“This!”

“What? What am I looking at?”

“This! Here! Look! Above my eye!”

“Is that a scar? It just looks like part of your face.”

“Ohoho! Well, let me tell you, there’s an pretty death-defying story behind this…”

“Go on…”

“Well, I was in Poland this one time, and we’d just had lunch I think. I might have had one or two beers, because they were kind of cheap. Anyway, I got to playing ping pong for a while. ‘Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong.’ Went the ball. This continued for around 20 minutes. ‘Ping. Pong. Ping. Pon-’”

“Mr Ward, is this story going anywhere?”

“Oh right, yeah. Anyway, then I saw a child’s roundabout, and thought that would be kind of fun. So I got on, and two other people spun it round. Very fast I might add. Anyway, this is where it gets really exciting…”

“Yes, yes…”

“I fell forwards and banged my head.”

“… and?”

“And it cut my head open. And that is the story of my scar.”

“Is that it? That’s your story?”

“Did I mention that I’d only brought a limited number of plasters on holiday?”

“Get the hell out of our poker game.”

I actually have a collection of ridiculous scars. Indeed, every scar I have has a ridiculous story behind it. I think I still have one on my leg, due to a piece of cartoon theatre that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Road Runner cartoon. I have one on my chin which I gained by punching a rocky hill with my face, and I have one on my hand which was another piece of classic slapstick. Surprisingly gory slapstick, but slapstick nonetheless. My body is basically a canvas dedicated to what an idiot I am. I’m pretty certain I’m not done accidentally scarring myself yet, indeed, I reckon that by the time I’m 30 I’ll probably have managed to accidentally burn the word ‘oops’ into my chest with a blowtorch, and perhaps have even nail-gunned my ear to my shoulder.

Anyway, I’ll probably only have this ‘scar’ (and I do use that term fairly loosely, people have probably cut themselves worse whilst shaving), for about another week or two, so I figure I should make the most of it. I might take to wearing an eye patch, and regaling people with tales of the roundabout as if I were a Vietnam War veteran. Heck, if ever I were going to set up a SPECTRE-esque criminal organisation, this really is the window of opportunity right here. I’d better get to work on building my lair. And buying a white dinner jacket. The two staples of all good villains.

That and a vague degree of competence. I’ll just buy a second dinner jacket to compensate for that.

James Bond bakes a cake.

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Moneypenny walks into a house.

Moneypenny: James? James? Are you in?

Bond: I’m in here Moneypenny!

Moneypenny: James? Where are you? Where is here?

Bond: I’m in the kitchen Moneypenny! Come to the kitchen!

Moneypenny: Which way is the kitchen?

Bond: Can you see the door labelled ‘kitchen?’

Moneypenny: I can, yes.

Bond: Yeah, well it’s the one next to that, labelled ‘library’.

Moneypenny: Ok.

Moneypenny opens the door.

Bond: Ah! There you are!

Moneypenny: James! What the hell are you doing?

Bond: I’m baking a cake Moneypenny! A lovely cake!

Moneypenny: But James, aren’t you meant to be in Russia right now?

Bond: I don’t think so Moneypenny. I think I’m meant to be baking a cake.

Moneypenny: It’s just that, you know, we got you those plane tickets, you know, for yesterday, and we thought you’d go over to Russia and do some spying for us? Do you remember James?

Bond: …

Moneypenny: James? Are you sure you’re ok?

Bond: I’M BAKING A CAKE MONEYPENNY! I’M BAKING A CAKE!

Moneypenny: But James, that’s not your job… Your job is spying.

Bond: NO! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE MONEYPENNY! I JUST WANT TO BAKE CAKES! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY TIMES I’VE BEEN SHOT AT! THEY SHOT AT ME MONEYPENNY! WITH REAL BULLETS! REAL BULLETS!

Moneypenny: But you’re a secret agent James! What were you expecting?

Bond: I don’t bloody know do I! None of this ever came up in the training videos! Twenty-two missions I’ve had Moneypenny! Twenty-two! And do you know how many times I’ve been shot at? Hmm? Do you?

Moneypenny: I don’t James, no…

Bond: FIFTEEN THOUSAND TIMES MONEYPENNY! FIFTEEN THOUSAND!

Moneypenny: That seems slightly excessive…

Bond: Oh does it! Well perhaps you want to go and check for yourself do you? All you ever do is sit in your stupid office and watch me throw my hat at a hat stand! How many hats have you seen Moneypenny! HOW MANY HATS?!

Moneypenny: I can’t really rememb-

Bond: HOW MANY MONEYPENNY?!

Moneypenny: I don’t know! Twelve?

Bond: TWELVE HATS MONEYPENNY?! IS THAT IT? TWELVE HATS?! Now tell me Moneypenny, at what point did you stop getting bored of the hats landing on the hat rack?

Moneypenny: I don’t know, it always has a certain char-

Bond: ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTIONS MONEYPENNY!

Moneypenny: The fifth hat! I lost interest after the fifth hat ok? Five hats and it got tedious!

Bond: You see! Now picture if you will, FIFTEEN THOUSAND HATS SAILING PAST YOUR FACE! FIFTEEN THOUSAND HATS! HAVE YOU GOT A MENTAL IMAGE MONEYPENNY?!

Moneypenny: Not really, it’s a lot of hats to conjur up in your min-

Bond: DO IT!

Moneypenny: Ok ok, I’ll think of lots of hats…

Bond: Have you got it Moneypenny?

Moneypenny: Oh my god…

Bond: DO YOU SEE NOW! DO YOU SEE MONEYPENNY?!

Moneypenny: I’m sorry James! I didn’t understand!

Bond: Damn right you didn’t understand! Tell her Jason!

Jason Bourne: You just don’t get it do you Moneypenny?

Moneypenny: Bourne? What are you doing here?

Bourne: I’M BAKING A CAKE MONEYPENNY! I’M BAKING A CAKE!

Moneypenny: Alright, alright, sorry for asking…

Bond: SIX THOUSAND BULLETS MONEYPENNY! HE’S SEEN SIX THOUSAND BULLETS! LET HIM BAKE HIS CAKE!

Bourne: I’m a big fan of buttercream.

Moneypenny: That’s nice Jason. Very nice.

Bourne: Yes. Buttercream. It is nice.

Bond: Moneypenny, pass me the whisk.

Moneypenny: What?

Bond: PASS ME THE FUCKING WHISK MONEYPENNY! PAY ATTENTION!

Moneypenny: For goodness sake James! Will you just stop shouting for one minute? Just calm down ok? Calm down.

Bond: I’m calm. I’m calm Moneypenny, but if you ruin my cake we will never trade innuendos ever again. Do you hear me Moneypenny? NEVER AGAIN.

Moneypenny: Ok ok, here’s the whisk.

Bond: Thankyou.

Moneypenny: So… what kind of cake are you making?

Bond: It’s a walnut fudge cake. Do you like nuts Moneypenny?

Moneypenny: Oho! Well, you know me James…

Bond: ANSWER THE QUESTION MONEYPENNY! DO YOU LIKE NUTS OR NOT?!

Moneypenny: Jesus Christ! I thought you were setting me up for innuendo? Is that not what that was?

Bond: I ASKED YOU IF YOU LIKED NUTS MONEYPENNY! HOW THE HELL COULD THAT BE CONSTRUED AS INNUENDO?!

Moneypenny: Well, you know… nuts.

Bond: EXPLAIN YOURSELF!

Moneypenny: Nuts… You know? Nuts.

Bond: STOP TALKING IN RIDDLES MONEYPENNY!

Moneypenny: Groin.

Bond: OH MY GOD MONEYPENNY! YOU HAVE RUINED THIS CAKE! YOU HAVE TOTALLY RUINED THIS CAKE! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT MONEYPENNY? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? JASON, PUT THE CAKE IN THE BIN!

Bourne: It’s not groin cake Moneypenny. Why would you call it groin cake? What’s wrong with you?

Moneypenny: I just… I don’t know… I thought we were innuneno-ing… I’m… I don’t…

Bond: GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN NOW MONEYPENNY! GET OUT AND DO NOT COME BACK!

Moneypenny: I’m sorry James! I’m so sorry!

Moneypenny leaves.

Bourne: Ok, what now?

Bond: John?

John McClane: Cupcakes?

Bond: Cupcakes it is.

Bourne: Good god I love buttercream.

Bond: Who doesn’t?

Rambo: Actually, err… I don’t.

Bond: Get the hell out of my kitchen.

Cherries do not disappoint.

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Today’s snack of choice: A black cherry Muller Fruit Corner. Unlike coconuts, this exceeded my expectations. Well played cherry. Very well played.

Just discovered that the laptop contained what my anti-spyware software describes as ‘level 10 threats’. Basically, super high-level viruses. What good news. Well, actually, I say that with a degree of sarcasm, but the fact is that when it comes to identity theft, I’m practically bulletproof. Not because of my incredibly tight secure measures or anything, unless you count being completely inept as a tight security measure. The fact is, my identity is actually more hassle than it’s worth. There’s no money to take. I’m not the CEO of a massive global company. I just sit down and eat yoghurts. My identity is essentially a trap. If somebody takes my identity, I’ll just create a new one for myself. I figure my new identity will be that of a retired scientist, who, content with having achieved all his goals by the age of 24, now just travels about the globe eating chicken and tiramisu. This will be my new identity. It’s all set, so if anybody does want to take my old identity, this is the new one that I’ll be stepping into.

Of course, I’ll need a suitably glamorous scientisty name to accompany my new identity. I’m thinking ‘Reuben Fandango’. PhD. As for my experiments, they were both numerous and lucrative, but I’ve turned my back on science now after accidentally torching my face off with a bunsen burner. Now I’m just a flaming skull who enjoys tiramisu. It’s sort of like that film with Nicolas Cage. Ghost Rider. Except instead of Ghost Rider, the title is ‘Dr Reuben Fandango PhD’. And I don’t ride a motorbike. I’ve instead used my stash of cash to purchase myself a Vauxhall Astra with flameproof seats. I’d have gone for something better, but I figure I already stand out due to my flaming skull. If anything, an Aston Martin would only distract from the spectacle. Of course, this does mean that I’m only able to take part in high speed pursuits up to about 90 miles an hour before the car starts shaking and the windscreen wipers disintegrate, but I don’t let that hold me back. I mostly just use it for attending film premieres anyway. I’m not invited to many anymore though, since a giant burning skull tends to render fading the cinema lights down null and void. I distract from the illusion of cinema. The escapism of Bad Boys 2 is slightly ruined when you notice that you’ve accidentally set your bag of liquorice allsorts alight on the man in front’s head.

The life of Dr Reuben Fandango PhD is a lonely one. Unlike Nicolas Cage, I can’t really turn my flaming skull off. Well, I mean, I probably could, if I stopped spraying myself with flammable aftershave, but I wouldn’t want to smell inadequate, that would detract from the refined image of Dr Fandango. Dr Fandango is a complicated man, and nobody understands him but a woman who specialises in the psychology of perpetually aflame skulls. I am yet to meet such a woman. I do however, keep myself occupied by participating in many activities. I enjoy beekeeping (requiring not a mask to keep the buzzy beasts away), baking scones (requiring not an oven to preheat), and driving my Vauxhall Astra over bubble wrap (just because). Tiramisu calms the pain. Mostly because it’s riddled with morphine. I like to refer to it as ‘Tiramorphu’, because I’m hilarious like that. I once sold the formula to Carluccio, but after a week’s trial in-store, and a number of lawsuits, it was eventually decided that they were going to remove it. Probably because it actually tasted quite good. I’m sure I’ve ranted about Carluccio’s food in a previous blog post. His range of cakes really are staggeringly bad. I did not enjoy them one bit.

I hope nobody steals the identity of Dr Reuben Fandango. Otherwise I’ll just have to go to one of my further backup identities. I mean, realistically, Reuben Fandango probably should be my last resort. I don’t imagine the logistics of keeping my skull perpetually aflame, whilst not damaging any of the material contained within, would be easy to work out. Unless I actually were Dr Reuben Fandango, in which case I would have no problem at all devising a formula. It’s really a Catch 22 situation here. If the identity of Andy Ward topples, I’ll instead retreat to the relative safety of becoming Jonathan Apollo, full-time accountant. Part-time wizard. It’ll be glorious.