Tag Archives: Llamageddon

Starburst and Shanghai.

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Things I have done since my last blog:

- Given up on attempting to write 30 stories in 30 days. It was not as fun as I imagined it might be, and it was leaving me little time to do anything else really. I may just write and release stories when I find the time, rather than setting myself some kind of absurd, almost masochistic challenge that was always going to be kind of tricky.

- Eaten a garibaldi biscuit. That was yesterday. It wasn’t brilliant.

- Had a job interview. I am now fairly certain that I have now been invited back for a second interview, though to be fair, prior to the interview I ate an entire pack of Starburst, then strolled in, talked about how much I’d enjoyed the Olympics this summer (they took place two years ago), and used a moment of silence to excitedly blurt out ‘The Apprentice is on tonight!’. Professional as ever. I would still like to find a home at a company, though at this rate I’m starting to think that perhaps it would be easier to just start my own business. I’m not 100% sure what the process to do this is, but I’m fairly sure it involves stealing a priceless jewel from a heavily guarded museum. Of course, if I could do that, I probably wouldn’t need to flog socks from a shopping trolley in the rain. Maybe I’ll just stick with the jewel idea.

- Thought about going to Tokyo. Or Shanghai. I’m not sure which one I’d rather go to. Not just for a few days. For a few weeks, maybe even a few months. Possibly to try and learn a bit of the language. Apparently they’re pretty much the two hardest languages to learn though, Japanese and Mandarin, requiring around 2200 hours of class tuition to master. This seems kind of intimidating, but nothing is impossible. Apart from me having money it would seem, which makes this purely fantasy, as travelling to learn these languages on an intensive course in either Shanghai or Tokyo requires thousands of pounds. Which I do not have. Until I steal the jewel/sell lots of socks in the rain. They both look like interesting cities though, so I’ll hopefully go in some capacity at some point. Probably just on a holiday for a few days one day. Anyway, this is something I have been considering. I have also, on a slightly lesser note…

- Thought about buying some crumpets. I stared at some crumpets for a bit today. I thought about buying them. They were 89p. I had 67p. I cursed my having not brought my debit card, and swore that one day, I would enjoy some crumpets, sat at an oak table in a meadow, as bees swarmed about me complimenting my frugal butter usage and choice of scarf. That could be how it pans out. Alternatively, I could end up just abandoned in a meadow in the middle of nowhere, fighting off angry bees as I tried in vain to tuck into some overly dry crumpets. That sounds more realistic.

- Considered buying more Studio Ghibli films. ‘My Neighbour Totoro’ apparently has a cat that doubles as a bus. He is called Catbus. How could anybody fail to be entertained by that?

- I watched the X Factor. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and see whether it was actually any good. It was not. Indeed, I was surprised by just how poor it was. I didn’t really enjoy it, and for some reason, it seemed like each contestant had been told to dress as a different member of the Jetsons. Maybe it gets better, I don’t know. I’ll probably just stick to watching The Apprentice.

That’s probably about it actually. I should probably do more stuff. Looking at crumpets doesn’t really count as an activity in most people’s book. Today I may do some writing, then tomorrow I have a gig. That’s something I guess.

Story #6 – Pipe Gripes.

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“Ah, that’s some good smoke.” Said Donald Boddington, as he ingested another lungful, “if only all smoke tasted this good then I’d probably eat an exhaust pipe.” Donald’s assembled guests all chuckled to themselves. Nobody had any idea whatsoever what he was talking about, but everybody chuckled as if they were Pavlov’s chuckling dogs. “Why Donald, truly you are a fine wit, and a supreme host!” Remarked Donald’s close friend, the esteemed Dr Perrins, “and verily this collection of pipes is unrivalled throughout the land! Let us raise a toast… to Donald!” The assembled throng of dignitaries raised their glasses.

“Please, there is no need for thanks.” Said Donald. “After all, that is the first rule of Pipe Club.” He was right, that was the first rule of Pipe Club. Unfortunately, it was all downhill from there rules wise. By the time you got to Rule 45 it was mostly a mess of by-laws about the inability to enjoy a meringue in the car park. Still, this had affected relatively few people in the past, and what people had been affected by it wouldn’t be doing any talking now. Donald received a polite round of applause for his humble speech, before people returned to trading anecdotes amongst themselves. Donald felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned around to be greeted again by his good friend Dr Perrins. “Donald you’ve done it again!” He said as he hugged him, nearly setting his blazer alight with his pipe embers as he did.

“Mind your pipe embers.” Said Donald, gruffly.

“I’m sorry.” Replied Dr Perrins, apologetically, “it’s just that this is the best pipe club we’ve had for years, I’m very excited.” Dr Perrins was right, this was the best pipe club they’d had for years. Various disappointments had befallen the group. Only a few weeks earlier Barry Barnados had promised the club the night of their lives with the world’s largest pipe. Such a bold claim was always going to be hard to back up, however nobody was prepared for the level of disappointment that did hit when they arrived at Barry’s to be confronted with what was simply a bucket attached to a bit of guttering. “This isn’t technically a pipe.” They grumbled. And they were right. Many saw this as the final straw for pipe club, especially since it was just weeks after the shameful ‘Bubblegate’ incident. Those who had remained loyal to the cause however had seen their loyalty rewarded in the most spectacular fashion. With an above average selection of pipes. Truly, this was all the world’s best pipes in one room. Or so Donald thought.

“You think you’re the prince of pipes?” Said a shrill voice in Donald’s ear. Donald turned around to meet the source of the voice, however there was nobody there. “Dr Perrins, was that you?” He said.

“Was what me?” Replied Dr Perrins.

“You called me the Prince of Pipes.” Said Donald, accusingly.

“No I didn’t.” Replied Dr Perrins.

“Then who did?” Said Donald, as a chill spread down his spine.

“Come to the study…” hissed the voice. Donald turned again to be confronted by thin air.

“You’ll have to excuse me.” Said Donald, nervously, as he made haste towards the exit.

“But where are you going?” Asked Dr Perrins, however, it was too late. Donald had already left the room, rendering this piece of dialogue entirely pointless.

Donald found himself standing in the corridor. He was sweating now, the cold beads of liquid fear cascading down his body like a buttered jaguar on a log flume. What was this voice? And what did it want with him? He would have to venture to the study to find out. He slowly walked down the hall, the resounding crash of his ill-advised knee cymbals echoing about the empty corridor. As he approached the door he felt a sudden chill wash over his body. He slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open. The room was dark. By the window, Donald thought he saw a shadow. Then it vanished. He heard a scuttling noise, then a faint laugh. Donald slowly found himself drawn into the room. “Is there anybody there?” he asked, nervously. Then, suddenly, the door slammed behind him, throwing him into almost complete darkness. Only the faintest beams of moonlight that had managed to penetrate the Power Rangers curtains now illuminated the room. Donald turned to see, standing against the bookcase, the shadowy figure again. Without warning, it began to lurch menacingly towards him. Donald emitted a blood-curdling scream, and toppled backwards. The figure stopped in its tracks. Donald hastily crawled across to a lamp and flicked the switch. What he saw shook him to his very core. “What are you?” He said.

“Hold on, I’ll be with you in a second.” Replied the figure, “you appear to have curdled my blood.” Donald stared at the figure. It was unlike anything he had seen before. “What is that?” He stammered.

“Oh, you mean my face? Don’t you recognise me Donald? Or is it all the meringue that’s confusing you?” Rasped the figure. He was as tall as a five foot seven house, and with a face that appeared to be crafted entirely of meringue nest. A chill spread across Donald’s body as the realisation hit him.

“Alan? Alan is that you? But… this is impossible?” Said Donald, backing into a corner.

“Is it Donald? Is it really?” Replied the monstrosity known as Alan.

“You have a meringue for a face. I’d say so.”

“Well it’s not.” Replied Alan. “Tell me, do you recall the events of that night Donald?”

Donald did recall the events of that night, all too vividly. He remembered the clock striking eight and heading out into the car park for a cigarette break, with many of the other members of the pipe club. He remembered the scent of whipped egg whites in the air. The way the moon illuminated the figure of Alan hiding behind a bin eating a meringue. He remembered the fury that spread throughout the group at this flagrant disregard for the sacred laws of pipe club. He remembered the mob justice that they had dealt out to Alan for this insult. He remembered the blood on his hands. So much blood. Enough to make even Dracula himself say “no more for me thanks, I’ve had enough blood”.

“You’re probably wondering how this happened.” Said Alan, gesturing towards his sugary head. “As I lay there, dying by the bins, my nostrils full of broken meringue, I tried to pull myself up, but only succeeded in crushing myself with a barrel. A barrel full of radioactive material…”

Donald shuddered. He should have known that his overly-relaxed approach to the disposal of hazardous materials would come back to haunt him. It was almost as if Captain Planet had never happened.

“… the fusion of that radioactive waste and the shards of meringue may have saved me, but at what cost? AT WHAT COST DONALD?” screamed Alan.

“I’m sorry Alan, I never meant for any of this to happen. We only meant to kill you, we never intended to turn you into… this…”

“It’s too late for apologies Donald.” Replied the figure, shaking himself out as his blood became to decurdulise.

“What do you want from me?” Said Donald, nervously.

Alan pulled an object from his pocket, and began to advance towards Donald. “I want you to try this pipe…” he said.

“You want me to smoke a pipe? But I love pipes. Is this meant to be a punishment?”

“Try the pipe…” Snarled the beast, in a manner that did not befit a man named Alan.

“Ok, I’ll try the pipe.” Stammered Donald, as he took the pipe from Alan. It was a pipe unlike any he had seen before. It seemed to almost glow in the relative dark of the corner that was perhaps only 30 percent illuminated by the lamp. Donald could have sworn he heard it whisper to him. He was entranced by its majesty, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He had to take a puff. As he lit the tobacco and slowly inhaled the smoke he suddenly felt himself awash with coldness.

“How’s the pipe?” Sneered Alan menacingly.

Donald felt himself growing weaker and dropped the pipe. His hands seemed to not only be draining of blood, but draining of skin too.

“What have you done?” Screamed Donald, as his wrist was vaporised.

“You always did love pipes.” Laughed Alan. “Tell me, how does it feel to become one?”

Donald crashed to the floor, as his body continued to disintegrate. As he glanced across at the pipe lying next to him, he was stunned by what he saw, as it was no longer just miscellaneous clay, but his own face staring back at him. He screamed, and then he was gone. His own soul inhaled by the very pipe that he had coveted so much.

Story #5 – A Room With A View To A Kill

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“Hey Robert! How do you like soup?” Shouted Johnny as he threw a bowl of soup across to Robert. Robert screamed as his clothes were covered in a chickeny mess. Johnny laughed.

“Johnny! What have you done to Robert! His clothes are covered in a chickeny mess!” Screamed Mrs Porridge as the home economics class fell silent.

“He did it to himself, apparently he really loves soup.” Said Johnny, nonchalantly, as he lit up a cigarette.

“Johnny! How dare you smoke in my class, you’re only 15 years old! Give me that!” Said Mrs Porridge as she swiped his cigarette from his mouth. “Robert, go and get yourself cleaned up. And you, Johnny, get yourself to the headmaster’s office right now!”

Johnny shrugged, and left the class. He wasn’t worried about seeing the headmaster, he saw him all the time. They were practically pen-pals by this point, except without the air of cordiality, or the letters, or indeed, the ink. Basically any of the key characteristics of pen-pals. Besides, he probably wouldn’t go anyway. Johnny lit up a cigar. Perhaps he’d walk to Tesco and buy himself a sausage roll instead, that would be more fun. He checked his watch, there was plenty of time, it was only 2010. The death clock said he wouldn’t die until 2052, which left him plenty of time to get to Tesco and back. Chances are it probably wouldn’t take 42 years, the walk usually only took 15 minutes. Unless he had to walk back and forth exchanging his sausage roll 735840 times, he’d probably be ok. Johnny flicked his cigar into a bin and set off on his journey.

As he reached the entrance to Tesco, he was surprised to see one of his friends there. Donna Marbles. She was hanging out with her crew too, all skiving off school and smoking their pipes. Johnny loved Donna, though he had not told her. He watched as she seductively withdrew her St Bruno tobacco and ignited her pipe. She was looking beautiful today, her flat cap almost gleaming in the sun. She spotted him from a distance. “Johnny!” She shouted, excitedly, as she ran across to hug him, the clip-clop of her workman’s boots echoing about the car park.

“Hi Donna.” Said Johnny, as he hugged Donna. “What are you doing here?”

“Skiving. Same as always.” Shrugged Donna. “How about you?”

“I’m here to buy a sausage roll.” Said Johnny. He mentally slapped his own head. That didn’t sound sexy at all. Come on Johnny, he thought, think of something more seductive, you can do this. “I mean, I’m here to buy a sexy sausage roll.” Said Johnny. He mentally slapped his own head again. If anything, that was worse than before.

“Ok… cool.” Said Donna, slightly confused, as she inhaled another lungful of pipe. “Hey Johnny, what are you doing later?”

“Later?” Replied Johnny.

“Yeah, later.” Said Donna. “I mean after school. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Said Johnny. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

“Me and the girls were going to head up to the house on Kill Hill. It’s meant to be haunted you know. We thought we’d check it out, why don’t you come with us?”

A cold rush of fear spread across Johnny’s body. The house on Kill Hill was meant to be haunted. There were rumours that those people who had gone to see the house had never been seen again. “The house on Kill Hill? Isn’t that boarded up now?” Said Johnny, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“Yeah, but we can break in. We skive off school, breaking into an abandoned house is the kind of thing we might do in our leisure time.” Replied Donna.

“It’s a fairly tenuous link isn’t it?” Said Johnny.

“Shut up Johnny.” Replied Donna. “Do you want to come to the house or not?”

Johnny found himself in a tricky situation. This could potentially be the chance to spend some quality time with Donna. Admittedly, in a house that had a reputation for killing people, but still. On the other hand, if he said no, he’d appear to be a coward, and nobody accused Johnny of being a coward. Danger was his middle name. Unfortunately, his surname was Mouse, which somewhat undermined its cool tone by conjuring up images of David Jason, but still. “You know what, yeah, I will come to the house.” He said.

“Great! We’ll meet you at the bottom of Kill Hill at midnight then?” Said Donna, excitedly.

“I guess so.” Murmured Johnny, disappointed that he’d probably have to give Film 2010 a miss. He may have been a bit of a thug and a bully, but he loved that theme tune. Johnny hugged Donna again to say goodbye, and headed off into the supermarket to purchase his sausage roll. Little did he know that soon, he himself would be the metaphorical sausage within a perilous roll.

Johnny found himself stood at the bottom of Kill Hill. He checked his watch again. Five past midnight. Where were they? Perhaps it was all an elaborate joke they had played on him. He was cold, alone, and missing Film 2010. Perhaps singing the theme tune would warm him up. “Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo dooooo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doooooo, doo doo doo doo dooooo doo doo doo, da doo doo doo doo doo doo doo dooooooo.” He sang.

“Johnny! Over here!” Shouted Donna. Johnny turned around and saw Donna and her friends coming towards him, the glow of their pipe embers illuminating their faces as if they were sexy fisherman out on a seductive trawler.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming.” Said Johnny.

“We wouldn’t miss this.” Replied Donna. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so.” Said Johnny, nervously.

The group slowly made their way up towards the house on Kill Hill. It was the only house here. Many constructors had declined to build on Kill Hill, fearing that the general population would probably have an aversion to living at such an address. One developer, however, had built a single house, which had once had a single occupant. Nobody knows exactly what happened to them, only that once they went in, they never came out. The house was earmarked for demolition soon after, but all attempts to destroy it had ended in disaster, and nobody dared try again.

Reaching the door, the group paused for a moment. The house looked a lot scarier up close. There was a warning tape around the perimeter, the windows were boarded up, and the walls were covered in graffiti telling people to stay away. It was almost your stereotypical spooky house.

“Alright, how do we get in then?” Asked Johnny, nervously. As he did, the door slowly creaked open. Now it was the stereotypical spooky house.

“After you Johnny.” Said Donna. Johnny’s heart sank. He could see that he was going to be the sacrificial lamb at this horrific barbecue. He couldn’t show his fear though, he couldn’t be seen to be afraid, and so he strode through the door as machoily as he possibly could, followed by Donna and the rest of the girls.

No sooner had they got inside than the door slammed behind them.

“This really is just one big cliché isn’t it?” Said one of the girls, unwisely choosing to deride the narrative of the story. Suddenly they heard a bang. There it was again, another bang. A constant banging sound, coming from upstairs.

“Do you want to try the door to see if we’re allowed to leave?” Said Johnny.

“There’s no point, it’ll only be mysteriously locked now.” Said one of the girls sarcastically. She was right, it was mysteriously locked. Her sarcasm and know it all attitude would not go unpunished. Then, a whisper from within the house. “Come upstairs” beckoned the voice. The banging continued. Johnny looked towards the rickety stairs that ascended into the darkness. He was afraid now. Everybody was. Donna could barely get her St Bruno tobacco out of her pocket her hands were shaking so much. She ended up spilling it all down the front of her dungarees. Now they would not even have the illumination provided by the pipe. Then, the whisper again. “There’s no way out.” It said. “Come upstairs…” Then more banging.

“What do we do?” Said Donna, nervously as she tried to brush the tobacco off her overalls with her thick hairy hands.

Johnny gulped. “We go upstairs.” He said in a voice that he intended to sound manly, but just came across as Mickey Mouse getting his ear trapped in a door.

The group slowly shuffled towards the stairs, and began to climb. Each floorboard seemed creakier than the last. The banging grew louder as they got closer. Soon they found themselves on the landing, the banging was almost deafening now. It was coming from within the darkness. They slowly crept along the corridor towards the noise, their skin damp with the cold beads of fear. Donna took off her flat cap and wiped her bald head with her handkerchief. Johnny was beginning to wonder what he ever saw in her. Suddenly, the banging stopped. Then, the voice again. “Come inside…” It said. Another door creaked open. The group found itself drawn into the room, entranced. No sooner had they all got into the room than the door, somewhat predictably, slammed behind them. Then, they heard a menacing laugh. “Prepare to meet your death.” Said the voice. They all screamed. Then there was a long pause.

“What’s going on?” Said Donna, confused. Then they heard the voice again.

“You’ll have to come over here to meet your death I’m afraid.” Said the voice, somewhat resignedly.

“What? Where are you? What are you?” Said Johnny. Then he turned around and saw. As he looked back at the entrance to the room, he found himself staring at a door with a face. “What the hell?!” He said, as he leapt backwards, startled.

“That’s right! Tremble in fear!” Laughed the door. “Then come over here so that I can kill you all!”

“Wait, you’re a haunted door. Is that it?” Said Donna, somewhat more relaxed now that she realised what she was dealing with.

“A killer door!” Cackled the door. “There is no escape from this room! Resistance is futile!”

“What about the window?” Said Johnny, pointing to the open window. “Is the window haunted?”

“No.” Replied the door. “No, no, wait, yes. Yes, the window is haunted.” Said the door, quickly correcting himself.

“It’s not is it?” Said Donna.

“It is. The window is more evil than I am, watch out for that evil window. Whooooooo.” Said the door, backtracking quickly.

“Then why isn’t it talking like you are?”

“It’s an introverted evil window.” Said the door. “It only talks when it wants to.”

“Make it say something now then.” Said Donna, growing ever more cynical.

“Ok, but don’t look at me when it talks, that puts it off. You’ll have to turn around.” Said the door, as he cleared his throat.

The group turned around. “This is ridiculous.” Grumbled one of the girls.

“Hey window, it’s ok to talk now, say something evil.” Said the door. “Ooh, I’m such an evil window.” Said a voice that sounded surprisingly like the door trying to put on a Scottish accent.

“Alright, that’s it, we’re leaving.” Said Johnny, fed up now. “Come on guys, let’s go.”

Johnny opened the window and looked down, it was a fairly long drop, but it was into a bush, which would probably break their fall. Even so, it wasn’t particularly convenient.

“Wait!” Screamed the door.

“What is it now?” Sighed Johnny.

“Listen, if you’re going to be leaving anyway, you might as well use the door. The truth is, I’m fed up being evil. I’m a lonely door, I just want a friend. Please, we can be friends, and I don’t want you jumping out and hurting yourselves. Come on, how cool would it be to be friends with a supernatural door? You could make money out of this, just promise me that you’ll come and visit occasionally and I’ll let you leave…” Whined the door.

Johnny looked at Donna. She raised her monobrow quizzically.

“Alright, fine…” Said Johnny resignedly. “Promise you’ll let us leave?”

“I promise.” Said the door with a smile.

“Ok then, let’s go.” Said Johnny, as he led the way. He placed his hand on the door handle and started to turn it. No sooner had he done so than a huge tongue emerged from the door and dragged him into its mouth. Johnny screamed but it was too late. Donna and the rest of the girls watched as he disappeared into the jaws of the door. They screamed and ran for the window. Unfortunately, as Donna began to clamber out of the window, it slammed shut, chopping her in half. A Scottish laugh filled the room “You’ll never get out of here!” Shouted the window. The remaining girls were quickly picked off as a cursed lightbulb descended from the ceiling to behead one of them, whilst the other found herself devoured by some satanic dado-rail. Their truancy had been the death of them. If only they had been at school, they might have attended the special assembly on ‘Malevolent Home Furnishings’. Alas, it was now too late. Johnny had eaten his last sausage roll.

Story #4 – An Unsavoury Nightmare.

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Steve loved cooking. Once he’d cooked himself an omelette so large that it wouldn’t even fit in the garage. “Steve! Get that omelette out of the garage!” his wife would shout. “I can’t see the car.” It had taken them three weeks to get the car out from under the omelette, and when they eventually did, it ended up failing its MOT because the engine was jammed with egg. That wasn’t the first time that Steve’s ambitious cooking had caused trouble. He once made a soufflé that absorbed so much air that seven people nearly suffocated. It was hard to explain that one to the police.

Steve was bored of his usual recipes now though, he’d made pretty much everything from his ‘101 dishes involving ham’ cookbook, and he’d got tired of the ‘larger versions of regular dishes’ book ages ago.

“You know what darling, I’m going to go out and buy myself a new cookbook today!” He said to his wife. She sighed with relief, there were only so many times you could eat a 4 foot lasagne before you never wanted to see any béchamel sauce ever again. Steve grabbed his hat and coat from the coat-hanger and headed off into the world to buy his new cookbook.

Three hours later, Steve was still wandering around town trying to acquire his new cookbook. It hadn’t been as easy as he’d expected. Where once there had been an entire street full of cookbook shops, now the street was deserted, the windows of these shops boarded up with slices of mouldy bread. Steve checked his watch. It was 5:25, and getting dark. He had to find a shop that sold cookbooks within the next 5 minutes, or else he’d be dining on nothing more than disappointment tonight. Suddenly, he heard a voice.

“Are you looking for a new cookbook?” Said the voice. It was harsh and raspy, almost as if its owner had swallowed a tub-load of bees. Steve turned around to be confronted by a man eating a tub-load of bees.

“Who are you? How did you know I was looking for a new cookbook? And why are you eating a tub-load of bees?” Said Steve. The stranger chuckled.

“Those are all very good questions.” He replied. There was a long silence.

“Do you have any answers?” Asked Steve.

“No…” Replied the stranger, disappointedly.

“Listen, I’ve got to go, I’ve got to find a new cookbook in the next 4 minutes, or we’ll all going to be eating comedown casserole tonight.” Said Steve, as he went to leave.

“Wait!” Shouted the stranger, as he rested his tub-load of bees on the floor and reached into his jacket pocket. “I have a cookbook for you if you want it.”

“What kind of cookbook is it? Italian cuisine? Spanish? Chinese?” Said Steve, slightly suspicious.

“Oh, it’s much more unique than that. Recipes from far-flung places you’ve never been before.” Said the stranger, muffling a chuckle in his own shoulder.

“Hmm…” Said Steve. He was now very suspicious, especially after the man had attempted to muffle a chuckle into his shoulder. He thought he’d gotten away with it, but Steve could recognise a shoulder-chuckle from 200 yards. On the other hand, he was desperate for a new cookbook so that he could make a delicious new recipe for dinner, and it didn’t seem like he was going to find one anywhere else. He was going to have to trust this mysterious bee-eater. “Ok, how much do you want for it?” Asked Steve.

“Seven pounds fifty.” Said the stranger. Steve smiled, and only just managed to reverse the polarity of a chuckle at the last second, sending it cascading back down into his lungs. The reason for Steve’s arrogance was that he knew he was phenomenal at bartering. It was his gift, his talent, his Heroes ability. He was Peter Petrelli, and right now he was about to barter this man down to size. Soon seven pounds fifty would seem like a lifetime ago.

“Seven pounds forty five.” Countered Steve.

“Ok, sold.” Replied the stranger. Steve had done it again. They didn’t call him ‘Steve the battery-powered bartering bartender’ for nothing. Well, they did, because he wasn’t a bartender, or powered by batteries. But by jove could he barter. Steve took the book from the stranger. It seemed fairly old, the pages were oxygenated and stained. Still, at least he’d found something. Tonight he was going to cook something truly special. Oh yes, it would be truly special.

“I’m back! And I’ve bought a new cookbook!” Steve said excitedly, as he came in through the door.

“Who the hell are you? And how did you get in?” Said the old man standing in the lobbyway.

“Oh sorry, this is the wrong house.” Said Steve, having completely ruined the general narrative of the story. He excused himself and left.

“I’m back! And I’ve bought a new cookbook!” Said Steve, this time making sure he’d got the right house.

“How wonderful!” Replied his wife. “What are you going to be cooking for us tonight?”

Steve flicked through the pages of the book, then he spotted something particularly tasty.

“Tonight Mary, I’m going to be making toad in the hole!” He exclaimed.

“What size toad in the hole?” Asked his wife, warily.

“Regular size toad in the hole!” Said Steve. “All the recipes in this book are for regular size dishes!”

“Great! Then get cooking!” Said his wife. She slapped him on the back encouragingly, as if she were some kind of football coach from a 1990s American teen movie. Steve skipped away into the kitchen to prepare his meal.

An hour later, and Steve was finding it harder to make this meal than he’d expected. The batter seemed to require a lot of ingredients that he hadn’t expected to put in a toad in the hole. He’d already had to add sulphur, Tabasco sauce and a VHS copy of a Jim Davidson stand-up DVD, what kind of batter was this? Still, he’d come this far, he might as well make it now. He scanned down through the list of instructions. Just one more ingredient to add. Blood. Steve selected an implement from his kitchen drawer and went to cut his finger. Alas, it was nigh on impossible to do this with a whisk. He would have to select something else. A knife would probably suffice, indeed, it would have been the sensible option to go with this from the outset, but it wouldn’t have taken up nearly as much time. Steve gently pricked his index finger with the knife, and watched as a small drop of blood slowly dripped into the batter mix. As it did, there was a rumbling sound. His wife came rushing in.

“What was that?” She exclaimed nervously.

“I don’t know.” Said Steve, confused. He examined the batter mix. It looked fine. Apart from the sulphur, blood and Jim Davidson tape, obviously. Still, perhaps it would taste good. It was certainly a unique recipe, the stranger was right. Steve whisked the batter, added some sausages, and put it in the oven to cook for 30 minutes. He left the kitchen and went to watch CSI on TV.

Steve wasn’t really sure what to make of CSI. He was sure he was probably meant to like it, but for some reason none of it made sense. It was just a lot of close ups of bullets. If Steve wanted to see close ups of bullets, he would go and stick his face in a box full of bullets. Watching CSI seemed easier tonight though. His watching of CSI was disturbed however by a constant humming noise. He wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps the TV was broken. It was fairly old now. He made a mental note to buy a new TV later. Steve checked the clock on the video recorder. Half an hour had passed. It was toad in the hole time.

As Steve approached the kitchen, the humming grew louder. Perhaps it wasn’t the TV after all, but what else could it be? Everything else was turned off wasn’t it? Perhaps Mary was in the zeppelin again. “Mary!” Shouted Steve. “Mary, are you in the zeppelin?”

“Steve, we don’t have a zeppelin.” Replied Mary, as she came down the stairs. A chill spread across his body. She was right, they didn’t have a zeppelin. Then what else could it be? Then he saw. Steve glanced across as the closed kitchen door. A light was shining within, but Steve was sure he’d turned the kitchen lights off when he left. He’d even removed the lightbulb to be sure. He checked his pockets. Yes, there was the lightbulb. Then where was the light coming from? Steve and Mary cautiously approached the door, the humming sound growing louder the closer they got. Steve slowly turned the door-handle, and swung the door open. He was startled by what he saw. The room was strewn with blood. Where once there had been an oven, now there was just a swirling portal. At the back of the kitchen, a large figure stood over the kitchen counter, examining the George Foreman grill. “Who are you?” Stammered Steve. The figure growled fiercely, and slowly began to turn around. Mary shrieked in horror, as the large beastly figure grinned at them with its huge teeth and red eyes.

“What the hell is going on here?” Screamed Steve in panic. The figure tossed him his cookbook. Steve caught it, and looked at the recipe again. As he did, he froze in fear. Beneath a grease stain on the page was a word that he had missed. Whilst he was hoping for a delicious sausage and batter-based delight, he had made a hideous error. He had baked toad in the hell-hole.

“Mary! Run!” Steve screamed, but it was too late. The demon grabbed them with its huge hands and dragged them into the portal. Mary and Steve were never seen again. They had become a senseless sacrifice to a sausagey dream.

Story #3 – Robert Rocksteady Goes To The Beach.

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Robert Rocksteady opened his curtains and looked out. Ah, what a beautiful day, he remarked to himself. The sun was shining, and wind blew a gentle breeze in his face. It smelled vaguely of Dolmio. Robert checked his calendar. Ah yes, it was Dolmio Day. That explained it all.

Robert poured himself a bowl of Coco Pops and doused them in milk. He sat and watched as the milk slowly went chocolatey. Robert was fairly sure that he could live to a hundred and never get tired of this. Having enjoyed the chocolatisation of his milk, he then threw the coco pops in the bin. He hated the taste of them, but he loved the magic. He began to cook himself some bacon. Half an hour later, his bacon was ready. He took it off the hob, and threw it in a bowl of milk. Robert then sat and watched as the milk went bacony. Then he threw the whole concoction away, and ate a slice of toast. Robert wasted a lot of food this way. This was especially cruel as he was the head of an orphanage. Sometimes he made the starving orphans sit and watch as he threw entire milk soaked roast chickens in the bin. Sometimes he would take them into the garden, load a cannon with sticky toffee puddings, and then watch their faces as he shot them all onto the horizon. Robert was a cruel, cruel man. It was strange that he had been entrusted to run an orphanage, but evidently, there had been some kind of clerical error, and now he found himself earning 20 billion pounds a week and living in a giant mansion. Albeit a mansion swamped with orphans.

Robert chewed his toast, and wandered how he was going to spend this delightful day. He looked out again at the lawn of the orphanage. The orphans were happily playing on the swings. Robert could not have this. He removed his shotgun from the cupboard and took careful aim. Pulling the trigger, he was pleased to see that he found his mark. His cartridges hit the frame of the swings, blowing it apart and sending the whole thing crashing to the ground. The orphans screamed, and ran away. “PRESS MY TROUSERS!” Shouted Robert, as they scrambled for safety. He was probably a little bit drunk. Even so, his trousers needed pressing, and he wasn’t going to do it himself. Not on such a fine day. No, today would be a day of leisure. He would go to the beach. A delightful day at the beach. Or so he thought.

Robert pulled up at the beach in his Ferrari Brillianto just after noon. He removed his towel and trunks from the boot of the car, and lit a cigarette. Alas, he lit it too close to his trunks, with promptly went up in flames. Robert swore to himself. Now he’d have to find himself some new trunks. Thankfully, and somewhat coincidentally, he turned around to be confronted by a strange occurrence. It looked like some kind of dark, abandoned shop. Some of the windows were boarded up, yet the door was swinging open. On the front was scrawled the word ‘trunks’ in a thick red ink, almost blood-like. Robert thought nothing of it. Evidently, his luck was in. This place would provide him with the trunks he needed.

Robert walked into the shop. It was surprisingly dark inside. The only illumination to the place was provided by candles that were littered about aimlessly. “Hello?” Robert called out. He heard a scuttling noise. “Is there anybody here?”

“Are you looking for some trunks?” Said a voice from the darkness.

“Yes, I need some trunks.” Said Robert. “For swimming and stuff.”

“Are you… Robert Rocksteady?” Said the voice. Robert wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but he was now very confused.

“Yes, I am. How did you know?” He asked.

“We’ve been expecting you Robert…” Said the voice. Finally, a figure emerged from the darkness. It was hunched over, and draped in a robe, so its face was barely visible. It was short, and smelled sort of like the Armani Code. “I think that these trunks will be to your liking.” Sneered the figure, as he handed Robert a pair of red board-shorts.

“Hmm…” Said Robert, as he examined the trunks. “Ok, these will do. How much are they?”

“They’re free Robert. Compliments of the house.” Hissed the voice, as he slowly began to amble back into the darkness.

“Free? Why are they free?” Asked Robert, slightly chilled by these events now.

“You are Robert Rocksteady are you not?” Said the voice.

“Yes, I am.” Replied Robert.

“Then they are free. Accept our gift.” Said the figure, smiling menacingly as he disappeared into the shadows. Robert looked at the board-shorts. They were kind of strange looking, and smelled a bit funny, definitely not like the Armani Code. Still, they were the only shorts that Robert had, and he did want to go swimming. Perhaps the sea would wash away the strange odour.

Robert dressed himself in his new trunks in a nearby changing room, and headed towards the beach. He thought he spotted an orphan hiding behind a bush, so he threw a grenade, just to be sure. The bush was decimated, but there was no orphan there thankfully. Robert remained however, a bad man. He reached the beach, and was greeted by a stranger. “Hello.” Said the figure. It was tall. Taller than the trunks man, but similarly dressed. Robert thought this a little strange, but perhaps it was just coincidence. The figure spoke again. “Would you like to rent a deckchair?” It said.

“I would actually, yes.” Said Robert. “How much do they cost?”

“They’re free.” Chuckled the stranger. “For you at least.”

Robert didn’t understand what was going on. “Why is everything free for me? How do you know who I am?” He asked.

“You are the famed Robert Rocksteady, of the orphanage on the hill are you not? Everybody knows of Robert Rocksteady.” Said the stranger, gesturing towards a deckchair. “Please, accept our gratitude.”

Robert looked at the deckchair. There was something funny looking about it, but he couldn’t quite make it out. Squinting, he was surprised by what he saw.

“That deckchair looks just like Art Garfunkel.” He said, confused.

“It is our special chair.” Said the stranger. “Only special people get to sit in the special chair.” He said, with a sinister smile.

“What about that deckchair? Can’t I sit in that deckchair?” Said Robert, pointing towards a regular deckchair.

“No!” Snapped the stranger. “You must sit in the Garfunkel chair.”

“I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with this.” Said Robert. “I mean, it literally looks exactly like Art Garfunkel. I never thought a deckchair could look so much like a person. It would be like I was sitting on Art Garfunkel.”

“Do you want a deckchair or not?” Snarled the stranger.

“I do, but don’t you have any that look less like famous singers?” Asked Robert.

“No.” Said the stranger. “It’s either the Art Garfunkel deckchair, or perhaps you’d prefer to spend some time in the Des O’ Connor hammock?” Said the stranger, threateningly.

“Ok, fine. I’ll take the deckchair.” Said Robert. The stranger laughed an evil laugh, as he slowly ambled across to the deckchair. As he got nearer and nearer, it became more and more clear that this was not just a deckchair that looked like Art Garfunkel. It was a deckchair that was Art Garfunkel. He found himself staring at a deckchair that possessed the very face of Art Garfunkel. The deckchair smiled. “Sit down.” He said.

“I’ll probably just sit on the sand actually…” Said Robert. The deckchair made an ear-piercing shriek that made Robert drop his trunks.

“SIT DOWN!” Screamed the deckchair. Robert did. He sat in the deckchair, nervously.

“I’m going to play you a tune now. Are you ready?” Said the deckchair. Robert nodded nervously. The deckchair withdrew a flute from nowhere, and began to gently play. Robert wasn’t sure he’d ever heard this tune before. It was bizarre and mystical, but strangely soothing. He began to relax a little bit more. However, this was short-lived. As the deckchair continued to play, Robert noticed something happening. Tiny creatures were emerging from the sea, and slowly scuttling across to him. Hundreds of them. They came ever closer. As they did, the horror became ever more apparent. They were some kind of sea scorpion. They began to circle around the deckchair, who continued to play, enchanting the scorpions with his music. Soon, the sand around the chair was completely covered in scorpions. They stood still, waiting. The deckchair finished its tune.

“What’s going on?” Said Robert, terrified.

“You should have been kinder to the orphans Robert. And now you shall pay.” Replied the deckchair.

“But none of this makes any sense!” Protested Robert.

“Oh, doesn’t it Robert?” Sneered the deckchair.

“No.” Said Robert.

“Oh right. Well that’s a shame.” Conceded the deckchair. “Oh, and by the way, your trunks are made of scorpion food.” It added.

“What?!” Screamed Robert.

“Yeah, I guess I should have mentioned that earlier. Do things make more sense now?” Said the deckchair.

“No! If anything they make even less sense!” Shouted Robert.

“Oh well. Nothing we can do now I suppose.” Sighed the deckchair.

“Can I ask one question?” Said Robert, nervously.

“Go ahead.” Replied the deckchair.

“Why Art Garfunkel?” Said Robert.

“He was the first person I thought of.” Shrugged the deckchair. “Now, release the scorpions!”

The scorpions charged towards Robert, engulfing him within seconds. They began to tear apart his board-shorts, and devoured his flesh. Robert soon found himself dead, a victim of his own unkindness to orphans. And that’s the moral of this story I guess. Be nice to orphans or whatever. Something like that anyway.

Story #2 – Julian the Unicorn Befriends a Shrub

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‘Clippety cloppety clippety clop’ went Julian’s hooves, as he plodded through the enchanted forest. He stooped down and picked up an apple with his teeth. His sharp unicorn fangs made light work of its crispy skin. Julian found it refreshing, and the apple juice reinvigorated his bouncy unicorn energy. He skipped merrily through the forest, singing his happy song as he did. It was something about apples and the taste of glitter. Nobody really knew. Very few mortals had ever encountered Julian, and those that had had been so confused by the whole experience they thought they must have imagined it.

Julian loved being a unicorn. He felt special, like Thornton’s Toffee. His life revolved around apples, and running so fast that his mane blew backwards. It was super fun, but at the same time, it was kind of lonely. Julian didn’t like to think about it, but he didn’t really have any friends. He’d never met any other unicorns. Julian had invented plenty of games involving apples, there was apple chess, apple roulette, blackjapple, buckarapple, pop-up papple, plenty of games, but they were all intended for more than one player. As such, Julian had never really had opportunity to test these games to see whether they actually worked. He hoped they did. He was convinced that pop-up papple could be brilliant, if only he could find a spring and a set of seventy-five cutlasses. This also presented a problem to Julian. Seventy-five cutlasses were not easy to come by for a unicorn.

Julian spotted another apple on the floor. He cheered to himself. What a brilliant day this had been, he thought, as he slowly skip-bounced towards it. Unfortunately for Julian, just as he stooped down to pick it up, the apple was seemingly stolen away from before his eyes. Julian made a distinctly inquisitive noise, not exactly sure what had just happened. He scanned the forest floor to see if he had simply nudged the apple elsewhere. Nope. He couldn’t see it anywhere. How bizarre. Perhaps an invisible forest elk had snuck in and nabbed it at the last second. Yes, that would be it, remarked Julian. Julian’s zoological knowledge was not brilliant. All other animals tended to scatter when they saw a unicorn, so Julian had never really had chance to study them. As such, he had had to invent animals in his head. As well as the invisible forest elk, there was also the water-dwelling elk, the fire-breathing elk, and the tiny scuttling elk. Julian did not have much of an imagination. He could only think in terms of elks. He would write this apple off as a misfortune, and continue to search around for more.

Julian turned around, and was about to skip away, when suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder. This made him jump. He leapt a good two hundred feet in the air, as unicorns are prone to do, before he came crashing back down to Earth. He picked himself up, and looked around nervously. Was the invisible elk still here? He began to nudge the air, to see whether he could reveal the elk, but he could not seem to find anything. Then something slapped him on the back. He panicked, and ran behind a tree. This was spooking Julian now. Then he had an idea. He would try to appease the elk with a song. He mentally ran through his repertoire of songs. There was the apple and glitter song, the song about jack-knifing a lorry on a busy motorway, the song about balloons, and the Thong Song by Sisqo. He figured he hadn’t sung that one in a while, and so from his position behind the tree, he nervously poked his head out and began to sing the thong song. No sooner had he got to the bizarre bit about having dumps like a truck, than he heard a faint voice nearby. He slowly ambled out from his hidden spot, looked down, and saw a tiny plant singing about ‘seeing that thong’. In its tiny arms it was clutching an apple. Julian trotted across and sniffed the plant. It smelled like the Armani Code. This seemed strange. Julian nudged the plant gently with his nose. The plant stopped dancing and stared at Julian silently. Half an hour of silent staring passed, before eventually, the plant offered Julian his apple. Julian smiled, took the apple, and bit it in half, so that they might both share the apple. The plant and Julian both high-fived, and sat down to tuck into their apples together. Over the next few hours of general chat they became the best of friends. Julian let the plant sit on his back whilst he ran about the forest like a maniac. It was fun. As they were charging about like a unicorn and a plant possessed, Julian spotted something shining in the distance. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was very shiny. The plant noticed it too, and encouraged Julian to go and have a look. And so he did. He and the plant slowly cantered across, towards the shiny horizon.

Seven hours later, they finally seemed to be approaching their destination. During this time, they had both wandered where this story was going. Neither could be entirely sure. Nobody could. Still, the shiny thing was very near now. Julian slowly sauntered towards it, still unable to quite make it out, such was its shininess. Then it all became clear. It was a pile of seventy-five cutlasses, all neatly stacked. Julian could hardly believe his luck, he made an enchanting unicorn sound and rushed towards the cutlasses, happily picking one up in his mouth. Suddenly, he heard a growling sound. He turned to be confronted by the biggest winged elk he had ever seen. The plant whispered in his ear that he was in fact looking at a magpie. Julian had no idea what a magpie was, so dismissed this suggestion. This was a flying elk. A flying growling elk. He stared at the elk for a moment. The elk stared back at him, then, suddenly, it grabbed a cutlass in its mouth and charged at Julian. Julian picked up a cutlass himself and prepared to duel. What followed was perhaps the worst fight in the history of time. Imagine a magic horse and a magpie attempting to utilise cutlasses, with their mouths. It was pointless. Neither gladiator actually dealt any blows to the other. At one point the magpie managed to sort of brush Julian’s hair with the cutlass handle, but even that was a fluke. After half an hour of pointless bravado, both Julian and the magpie downed their cutlasses and sat down, exhausted. The plant brought Julian a refreshing cup of squash. What a good friend, but where the hell had he even found this? Julian lapped up the squash, bemused, but thirsty. He looked across at the magpie. The magpie had no squash. This made Julian sad, as he was a nice unicorn who loved sharing squash. Julian wasn’t entirely sure at what point he’d entered a children’s book, but it had seemingly happened almost accidentally in the last few sentences. He nudged the cup of squash towards the magpie. The magpie smiled, and took a sip of the drink. Then he made a very funny joke which everybody laughed at, but was in magpie language, so can’t be transcribed here. It was, however, absolutely hilarious. It turned out that the magpie was actually a very funny character. He told them the story of how he’d come to acquire seventy-five cutlasses over the years, which was also an absolute hoot, but again, can’t be told here.

Julian, the plant and the magpie spent all evening telling each other stories. Some of them a laugh riot, some of them less of a laugh riot, some of them borderline offensive. By the end of the evening they were the best of friends. Which was kind of nice, I guess. Julian was now the most popular unicorn he knew, and he finally had enough friends to play all the games he had invented in his head. He turned to his new friends, and suggested that they should all play pop-up papple. They smiled and nodded in agreement, and so it was, as the sun set on the horizon, that Julian, no longer a lonely unicorn, the plant, and the magpie, all gathered around and happily played pop-up papple together.

And it was rubbish. Really rubbish. They all blamed Julian and he turned to drink. The end.

Story #1 – A fistful of mince.

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“Is this it?” Asked Brian. Harold nodded. This seemed to be the tomb they were looking for. Brian and Harold had travelled hundreds of miles, and spent thousands of pounds travelling to Egypt or wherever, to find this tomb. It had been a dream of theirs since they were both undergraduate students at the famed University of mmdjdaksja, an establishment world-renowned for continually producing world-class archaeologists. That was 40 years ago. Now, they had both moved on. Brian was a Professor at Harvard, whilst Harold too found himself in a position of archaeological authority, being Chairman of the International Trowel Association. Throughout this time, Brian and Harold had seen little of each other, but remained friends. They wished each other a happy birthday on facebook once a year, and occasionally accidentally clicked ‘like’ on each other statuses when their fingers sort of slipped. This was of particular embarrassment to Harold when Brian had posted a status about the death of his mother. Harold had apologised profusely to Brian for this mistake, who accepted that it was just an accident, and the two had remained friends. Today they were two friends who were finally about to achieve their dream together.

“Shall we go in?” Said Harold, smiling at Brian.

“I think so.” Replied Brian. Harold fired up his wind-up torch and walked into the darkness.

Brian and Harold walked for what seemed like two hundred and fifty yards before they came across the room. It was full of gold and stuff. The kind of things that would fetch a really high price on the Antiques Roadshow. Brian gasped. “These are exactly the kind of things that would fetch a really high price on the Antiques Roadshow.” He said. And he was right, they were exactly the kind of things that would fetch a really high price on the Antiques Roadshow. Harold chuckled gently to himself in delight.

“In that case, perhaps we should go to the Antiques Roadshow…” He said, smiling at Brian.

“Yes, perhaps we should. Just imagine what kind of a price we could fetch for all this!” Replied Brian. Harold did imagine. It would probably be a really high price. But there was no time for that now. Harold picked up a cup.

“We did it Brian, we finally found the treasure of [Insert famous pharoah here] the third. How does it feel?”

“Good Harold. Good indeed…” Whispered Brian quietly to himself. “It’s such a shame that you’ll never get to see it on the Antiques Roadshow.”

“What do you mean?” Said Harold, confused.

“I’m sorry Harold.” Said Brian, as he withdrew a pistol from his corduroy trousers, and raised it at Harold.

“But Brian, I thought we were friends!” Protested Harold.

“We were Harold. Until that fateful day when you liked my status…” Replied Brian.

“How many times do I have to apologise for that! My finger slipped! I didn’t mean to click like!” Said Harold.

“Fair enough.” Said Brian. “But that doesn’t explain why you also posted a comment saying ‘ROFL’.”

“That was an accident too! I was drunk! I thought the status was ironic!” Said Harold.

“Perhaps. But did you really have to add a link to a lolcat too? MY MOTHER HAD DIED HAROLD! YOU KNEW SHE COULD NOT HAS CHEESEBURGERS!” Screamed Brian.

“Ok, that’s a bit harder to explain…” Said Harold, resignedly.

“Goodbye Harold.” Said Brian, finally, as he took aim at Harold’s head, and pulled the trigger.

A year later. Brian found himself sat in a local village hall, surrounded by TV cameras. On the table was a golden chalice he had retrieved from the tomb, which the expert was now appraising. “So tell me Brian, how much do you think this would be worth?” He said.

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve never really thought about it…” Said Brian.

“Well let me tell you Brian, this is worth a very high price.” Said the expert. “I would estimate thirty or forty zillion pounds.” Everybody gasped. Brian smiled. He had expected as much. As soon as the cameras were off, he picked up his chalice, shook Michael Aspel’s hand, and headed off into the car park, where his car was parked. No sooner had he got into his car than his phone began to ring. He checked the screen, but there was no number. He answered the phone. “Hello?” He said.

“Hello Brain.” Replied a raspy voice at the other end.

“My name is Brian.” Replied Brian.

“I know, I just misread my lines. Sorry.” Rasped the stranger.

“Who is this?” Said Brian, confused by the whole shebang, as well as the fact that he had utilised the word shebang, a word that he had never used before in his life.

“Don’t you remember me Brian? Or has all the money made you forget?” Snarled the voice. A chill spread across Brian as the realisation hit him.

“Is this… Michael Aspel?” Stammered Brian.

“No! Why would Michael Aspel be calling you? Have you ever met Michael Aspel?” Said the voice, slightly annoyed.

“I met him about five minutes ago.” Said Brian.

“Oh really? What was he like?” Said the stranger.

“He was quite nice actually, very friendly and polite. We had a nice chat.”

“What did you chat about?” Asked the voice.

“Well it turns out that he’s originally from Battersea, which is where my grandfather was from, so we got chatting about that for a bit.” Said Brian.

“Had he ever been to Price’s Candles on York Road?” Rasped the voice, again.

“I didn’t ask. What’s Price’s Candles?” Asked Brian.

“It was once one of the largest candle manufacturers in the UK, but now it’s been converted into residential flats.” Snarled the voice.

“Oh, right, well that’s kind of interesting…” Said Brian.

“This has gone completely off-topic. I’ve forgotten what I called for now, you stupid bastard.” Said the voice, angrily.

“So if you’re not Michael Aspel, then who are you?” Said Brian.

“Oh yeah, that’s right, now I remember, I called to be deliberately ambiguous and threatening.” Said the voice, as it cleared its throat. “My name is Harold.”

Another chill spread across Brian’s body. He found himself paralysed with fear. Surely it couldn’t be? He found himself stammering into the phone.

“Harold from Neighbours?” He asked, nervously.

“NO! NOT HAROLD FROM NEIGHBOURS!” Screamed the voice. “HAROLD! YOU REMEMBER! Archaeologist buddy? You shot me in the head?”

“Oh right, that Harold.” Said Brian, relieved that another day was seemingly going to pass without him having to confront his mortal fear of tubas. “But wait, aren’t you dead?” He added.

“That’s precisely why this conversation should be so chilling!” Protested Harold. “Anyway, I just wanted to call to let you know that I’m coming to take what’s rightfully mine. I shall have my revenge Brian. Soon I shall have my revenge.”

Then, the line went dead. Brian sat for a moment in his Vauxhall Astra, deep in thought. Surely this was some kind of prank. Harold was definitely dead. He had seen his head explode. He had burned his corpse. He had buried it in the tomb. He had then reduced the tomb to rubble. He had removed all trace of the location from Google Maps. There was no way that he could possibly still be alive. He chuckled lightly to himself. Perhaps this was Michael Aspel playing a cruel trick on him after all. He started his engine and drove home.

A few days later, Brian found himself sat in front of the TV, eating some kind of miscellaneous mince-based dish and watching his appearance on the Antiques Roadshow. He chortled to himself as the value of his chalice was revealed. If only they knew that he was now sat drinking Ribena from it. Such was the breadth of valuable items that he owned, he could afford to do this. His mansion was decked out in gold and emeralds, as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t massively far, as corridors tend to operate to relatively strict size parameters. He ingested another mouthful of mince, before his beef-based pleasure was interrupted by what sounded like a knocking coming from afar. Brian put the TV on mute. Nothing but silence. How strange, he thought, as he unmuted the TV again. Then, another gentle thud. What the hell was that? He slowly got up out of his seat and made his way through the house. He was alone. It was dark. He switched a lamp on. He was alone. It was light. As he made his way out of whichever room he was originally in, and moved towards through the house, the thudding grew louder. It was constant, almost like dull footsteps nearby. Suddenly, his phone started ringing again. He answered it, nervously.

“Hello Brian.” Said the voice. It was Harold.

“Harold? Where are you?” Asked Brian, nervously.

“I’m nearby Brian. I’m here for what is rightfully mine.” Said the voice, menacingly.

“Nearby? How nearby?” Said Brian, as he circled around, terrified.

Harold laughed. “Turn around Brian…”

Brian spun around in horror, to be confronted with nothing but thin air.

“I said turn around Brian.” Said Harold again.

“I did, there’s nobody there.” Said Brian, confused.

“Really? Then who the hell am I standing behind?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask them?” Said Brian, growing increasingly tired of this game.

“Ok, ok, hold on there for a second, I’m just going to put the phone down for a second. Wait there.”

Brian sighed as he waited on the other end of the line in silence for two minutes. Finally, Harold returned.

“Ok, this is the wrong house. Forget I called.” Said Harold. Then he hung up. Brian slowly walked back to his plate of mince, muttering to himself as he did. No sooner had he sat down and lifted the fork to his mouth however than there was a knock at the door. Brian swore to himself as he stood up and walked across to the entrance. Who the hell would be calling now? He swung the door open in anger, and was stunned by what he saw. On the doorstep was standing what looked like the rotting corpse of his old friend Harold. But he was not alone, for in his arms, he was cradling a giant brass tuba. “Hello Brian.” He said. Brian was paralysed by his tuba fear. He wanted to run, but he could not. As Harold lifted his mouth to the blow-horn and began to play, the last thing Brian remembered was a sharp pain in his chest, before his heart exploded. As he lay on the floor, breathing his final breath, the last thing he saw was Harold, looming over him, eating his plate of mince.

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.

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.