'Twas the Night Before Christmas: A Quest For Science

So I've come to some interesting conclusions about Santa.

Now, we've all heard the rumours. The naysayers. Those who claim there's no such thing as Santa, that science has disproved him. But I'm not buying into those lies. Santa's real. Santa exists.

Of course it doesn't make sense to view Santa as one individual, though. That's ridiculous. How could one person possibly visit every house on earth in one night? No, no, it's obvious. Santa's not one man. Santa's a species. A species with a sacred duty: to deliver presents to those children who've been good. Between them, they spend the year creating presents in their huge underground workshop at the North Pole (although the younger Santlings, that we know as 'elves' do most of this duty). Come Christmas Eve, the Santas set off from their bases in shopping centres around the country, consulting the computer database for 'good children' kept by the government from their surveillance footage. I'm not quite sure about female Santas yet - either they look identical to the males, beards and all, or, more disturbingly, the females are the reindeer. Regardless of if the reindeer are the females or members of another species, the dominant reindeer in the grouping is marked by a red nose to help lead them through the fog.

But once I'd hashed out this brilliant idea on Christmas eve afternoon, there was only one action to take. A species undiscovered by science? I was going to have to catch a Santa. I was going to have to dissect the jolly man in red. And so it came to twenty past eleven that night...

I'd set up the traps hours before, and, as soon as I heard those sleigh bells ring, I knew it was time. There was a thud as Santa's little harem hit the tiles of the roof. No bear traps - I didn't want the adult male slipping away while his lovers were trapped. No, I had to wait for him to enter the house - and, as he started to descend the chimney (the species must be very flexible), I began to hope all my traps would hold. Was the bait in place, I asked for the millionth time? Could I rely on the urban legends and children's stories for the dietary habits of a species as yet unknown to science?

The answers, it turned out, were yes. From my vantage point on the stairs, I could see the Santa - or Santus Niculus, to use the psuedo latin name I had coined - tumble out the chimney and immediately spy the mince pie. The mince pie, so as not to hedge my bets, was laced with the horse tranquilizers I keep around "just in case" and for party tricks - but I was hoping not to have to use those, and, indeed, I didn't have to. As soon as the hapless creature touched the mince pie, blind animal lust in his eyes, it triggered the spring loaded net, trapping him helplessly below it. It was time for phase two of the plan.

I walked up to the creature, and, without compassion, regarded the terror in it's eyes. One cannot be sentimental when one is working for Science. The next step was vital: I looked it directly in the eyes, and enunciated slowly and clearly. "Do you understand English, Santa?"

He had a strange accent, and spoke slightly haltingly, but he was perfectly understandable. "Please let me go. I have children. A family. All I do is bring Christmas, is that so bad?"

His words were hugely important. He spoke and understood English. We could communicate. He was sentient. This meant I could only possibly follow one course of action.

"In that case, I judge you fully understanding of your actions. You are under citizen's arrest for one count of breaking and entering." I had never placed anyone under citizens arrest before, but felt there was more that needed to be said. "You have the right to remain silent, though anything you do not say and later rely on in court may harm your defence. You have the right not to be lowered into a piranha pit..." No, something still missing.

Shit, where were my sunglasses?

Ah, I know what I have to say now. My sunglasses at the ready to put on, I looked him solidly in the eyes. "Looks like Christmas... has been cancelled."

Now, press the button.

Of course, the arrest was merely to delay him. My plans for the evening involved an autopsy table, my bone saw, my set of scalpels, and really getting to the heart of (father) Christmas - but Santa had other plans. Seizing the oppurtunity while I was slightly blinded by wearing dark glasses in a darker room, he struggled free of the net with a hitherto unseen strength, grabbed the sack, and swung it with desperation at my head. Before I passed out, I just heard his voice, growing fuzzy, spit out "Yo ho ho, motherfucker." Due to my rapid loss of conciousness, I am unable to ascertain whether or not he put sunglasses on.

So that was how my family found me, on Christmas morning, unconcious under a large net and next to a partly eaten mince pie smelling of horse tranquilizers. (He'd even broken some of it away so it looked like I'd been eating it, craft devil.) But to his credit, Santa still delivered the presents. Well played, Santa, well played.

But there's always next year.

Snow Joke

So once again in the lane, snow is glistening, and the whole of Britain is looking like God let the icing sugar fall down from the cupboard and send its sweet powdery goodness everywhere. For most people, the snow is an annoyance, something pretty, or that thing which falls down occasionally and is very exciting oh God run everywhere run everywhere. Okay, that last group of people are all dogs.

For me? Trauma. Flashbacks. Screaming.

Shut up man, you weren't there! You don't know!

So, errm, last time it snowed. There's a story in that. As has already been recorded in certain highly reputable news sources, I had time off school. And what I always, without fail, do on a snow day is this: go over to my friend Dominic's house, because he will organise a day of great show based shenannigans.

Now, regular readers of this blog may realise that my friends are somewhat lacking on the normality scale. So while Dominic is may excel at creating a day filled with winter wonderland capers and reindeer games, he has his peculiarities - most based around the fact that Dominic is an artist. With the medium of celluloid, he constructs epic cinematic masterpieces. Dominic is a director of the highest calibre. So was I really to be surprised at his greeting?

"Ben. We're making a movie."

Now, please bear in mind that this was the first I, or any of the others he would later rope into this scheme of his, had heard about it. "So, errm, Dominic..." I asked, a tremor in my voice as I anticipated what was ahead, "Do we have a script?"
"No."
"Do we have props?"
"No."
"Do we at least have some other actors?"
"Of course. Mark and Mark." I have two friends called Mark, one of whom regular readers will have met before. Things can get confusing.

"So, to recap, we have three actors, no plot, no script, no props, and no plan."
"Planning a shoot is part of the bourgeois repression of the lower classes. I intend to make an artistic statement with this film." As far as I'm aware, this is director speak for "I didn't think this through properly."

And so we went, to the wide open expanse of heathland that would be our set for today, seeing the undisturbed snow lying across it and checking for polar bears, and the shoot began. We seemed to manage, actually. I played a villain because of the particularly villainous hat I was wearing, and laughed menacingly in lieu of actual dialogue, and chased Mark and Mark a lot. Sure, they fell over a bit, and sure, I had a lot of snow pelted at me, but it all seemed to be going fine. But Dominic is making art, and there comes a point where sacrifices must be made.

Here, the sacrifice came in the form of Mark and Mark's knees. They were forced to crawl through snow, snow which filled their boots, snow which filled their trousers, snow which filled their very hearts and souls with its icey cold snowness.

I'm not a doctor, but I do occasionally pretend to be one on the internet. And even I can tell you that burying someone's legs in snow isn't a great idea. Yet here these two were, suffering for someone else's art, abused at the hands of a cruel, cruel director. Mark was badly affected, but Mark was worse. He was literally frozen into his clothes, in unbearable agony - and I have a nasty feeling he's going to turn into a Batman villain.

So watch the below film. Watch it, and understand the blood, sweat, tears and pain that have gone into its production. Watch it for those fallen to villainy and despair.

Also features amusingly shaped pieces of wood, silliness, bad puns, and a conclusion that makes no sense whatsoever.

A Seasonal Poem

Well, tis fast approaching time of year to be jolly, and, in recognition of that, I've written a festive poem to share seasonal goodwill.

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

When down from the chimney a figure came creeping,

While peacefully, upstairs, the children lay sleeping.

But this wasn't Santa! This shape was - oh dear-

The notorious Grinch, trying to halt festive cheer.

But what's that I'm hearing above on the roof?

There's a face at the window - the moment of truth...

He dives through the glass and he takes down the Grinch,

Who'd been eyeing the tree, wondering what he could pinch.

This man - is it Santa? This beggars belief!

Has Saint Nick left the Grinch bruised and spitting out teeth?

But Santa was once simply jolly and fat,

These days he'd rather dress up like a bat,

And talk about "JUSTICE" in a voice made of gravel:

But not the same type that you get with a gavel,

No, "JUSTICE" is delivered with Batsanta's fist,

You'd better hope you don't end up on his list,

And he's checking it twice, as he puts on his mask,

Flies around the North pole and takes villains to task.

It all started last year when Nick's two favourite elves

Got caught up in a robbery - Santa Claus blamed himself,

In a bid to make rights, Santa trained, over time,

To begin his notorious crusade against crime.

And now Rudolph's his sidekick in bright yellow tights,

The man and the reindeer bring law to the night.

Out went the red suit, Santa's now clad in black,

There's a mask on his face and a cape on his back,

The beard is all gone - in it's place, manly stubble,

There's a new name for Santa, that new name is Trouble.

So this winter season, if you're low on the cash,

And wondering just how you'll manage to splash

out on presents for family - just stick to the law,

Lest the Christmas Crusader with his lantern jaw

Should teach you that Christmas is all about caring:

To help with this point, he will kindly be sharing

His fist, in your face, quite a number of times:

'Til, curled up and weeping, you repent of your crimes.

He can see when you're sleeping, he knows you're awake,

With his new pimped out sleigh he can easily take

off and give back the whole of your ill gotten gains,

But you still learn the hard way - Bat Justice is pain,

While Batsanta's farewell's slightly lacking in cheer:

"LISTEN, CRIMINAL SCUM: I BRING JUSTICE ALL YEAR."

And So Winter Hits Us...

So, England's had this thing called snow. You may have heard of it.

It's a terrible demon. Everything in the country grinds to a halt at the mere whisper of it's name. The media speculate about it, the people lie awake at night in fear of it...

.. and then it comes, a dark, transforming magic that turns the sky grey and changes the whole world. And, like Bernard's watch, everything stops.

Everything. Businesses and public establishments alike just bolt up their doors, the proprietor hiding under a blanket weeping. Snow is serious business.

But there's one institution that, no matter what the weather, refuses to close. No matter how few lives it will manage to touch, this brave enterprise stays open.

That enterprise? My school.

Disregard that about half the school can't make it in. Disregard that further still can't make it back. No, despite the chaos around them, it decides to stand tall as a beacon of hope and inspiration to the community. The headmaster, and I say this entirely seriously given that this blog has been given to exaggerations in the past, actually attempted to make a rousing speech today. The snow could turn to blizzards and they would still attempt to drag us in. Polar bears could settle on the school field, and all that would change is that sports lessons would now consist of shooting. The gates of hell themselves could open, and Beelzebub and all his devilish companions could be dragging souls to eternal torment: we'd still be advised to get in if we can. The apocalpyse could take place, and the website would read "The school is still open despite the best efforts of War, Plague, Famine and Pestilence: please ensure you come in to maximise your learning potential (and mind the fire and brimstone)."

Not that I'm bitter about having to be in school, mind. No, what's concerning me is that tomorrow, the school is closed. We're taught not to back down to storms, Gods, demons or genetically mutated sharks (and boy, was that a fun lesson) - so why's it closed tomorrow?

My bets are on blackmail. Such an ancient organisation as the school (it's been going for at least a thousand years, and there are rumours that the funny looking cup in the trophy cabinet is actually the holy grail) surely has a few skeletons in the cupboard. Actually, we've got one in the science labs cupboard, and there are rumours that it's all that remains of the last headteacher - but that's not the point. My school is hiding a terrible secret, and if they do not bow to the pressure of the shadowy blackmail organistion, we're all going to find out...

Still, I talked to the head quite extensively with my voice changer over the phone, so no one needs to know what they'd find should they dig up the old quarry.

Yet.

Do you expect me to blog?

Every man under thirty has one story about the one time he has, however briefly, felt a tiny bit like James Bond. This is mine.

I was walking home with a friend who, for reasons that will become apparent, I shall not name. Let's call him Quentin. Quentin and I were rounding the corner as we came to his house, and I prepared to bid him a fond farewell.

"What's that outside your house, Quentin? New car?"
"Shit. Ben, keep walking. Don't make eye contact."

I'd suspected something different was happening as soon as I saw the car, but this confirmed it. The car was shiny, sleek, and black. It certainly didn't look like his family's car, a slightly beaten up estate. Although the engine was off, it seemed to be full of men in black suits, blacker sunglasses, and with suspicious bulges under their arms. I did as Quentin advised, kept walking, and didn't make eye contact.

As you can imagine, I had some questions, four of them to be precise. They went: are those men government agents, are you wanted by them, are we in great danger, and dear Lord, what have you done. The answers, Quentin explained to me as we continued to walk further away from his house, were yes, yes, maybe, and it's complicated. Quentin had, he explained, "Done some stuff for the military. It was a long time ago, and it all went rather wrong."

"What happened? What did you do?"
Quentin, someone who until five minutes ago I'd thought of as being roughly as macho as an oestrogen sandwich, grinned a grin at me that was new, dangerous and worrying. "If I told you that..." he paused for effect, really relishing the opportunity to say this line, "I'd have to kill you." He relaxed a little, and continued to tell his story. "Thing is, everything got way out of hand, and the government don't really want any inconvenient reminders of their failure there."
"And they know who you are?"
"Looks like it. Look, all of this..."

And then the most terrifying sound cut him off. The one sound, at that time, neither of us wanted to hear.

The sound of a car motor starting.

It was one of those magical moments. We shared a look that spoke volumes - not in a throbbing homoerotic tension sort of way - and instantly knew what we had to do. We split up, him leaping the nearest fence and heading into the gardens, while I continued along the road at a somewhat faster pace...

I won't go into the events of the next hour because I quite simply haven't the time to narrate everything. But suffice to say that I've learnt several new skills, and those skills include snapping a man's neck as silently as possible, using passers by as human shields, and humming the mission impossible theme no matter how out of breath I am feeling.

Also, I'm now wanted by the government. So if this blog suddenly stops, you know where to find me...

Armistice Day

So, I actually want to be serious.

I've written a lot about, well, bucket wizards and talking pigs, and millipede fights and... all sorts here, but it's November the eleventh, and that's remembrance day.

It's not something I usually take much notice of, to be honest. Of course, I buy a poppy, and I keep the silences, and have a moment's thoughtful contemplation... but I don't really dwell on it. It's nothing more than a slight addition to an otherwise normal day.

But something this year prompted me to do my first serious blog post in, well, ever. I overheard someone say, and I can't remember who on earth it was, sadly, that they didn't see the point of a holiday that glorified murderers. And, as someone who doesn't believe anyone owes allegiance to a particular chunk of rock they happen to call a country and who, depending on their mood, verges on pacifism, you might think I agree. And I absolutely don't.

It's an interesting point. After all, we're mainly remembering World War One and World War Two. World War One was a war where, in all honesty, we weren't particularly on the side of all that was right and good. Neither side was particularly good or particularly evil, and both committed their share of atrocities. World War Two was, granted, a slightly more clear cut conflict, but we have to remember that the 'morally right' side committed, among other things, the Dresden Bombings - not to mention detonating the only nuclear weapons so far fired in anger.

But, well, remembrance day isn't about that anyway. The poppy isn't about sides, or the moral rights of a conflict. A poppy honours the fallen dead, on both sides, whoever they were. We have a minute's silence for the casualties of war, because war is ugly and war is cruel and war, at it's core, lies to a bunch of poor sods and sends them to fight another bunch of poor sods.

There isn't glory, and there are precious few heroes. There's just a bunch of broken families where Daddy or Uncle Jack or the youngest son, or whoever it is, never came home. There's just the senseless loss of whole generations because people cannot and will not treat other humans like they are the same species.

So you're silent, and remember the people who were led to their deaths by lies, false ideals, and stubbornness. You remember the genuine friendship and the moments of beauty among the mud, the blood and the screaming and dying. And you remember the soldiers out there now, whatever war they're in, whatever you feel about that conflict, and you hope your hardest they come home safe.

It's not about sides, and it's not about victory.

It's about sacrifice, whether it was for anything worthwhile or not, and loss.

AN ADDITION:

So I wrote this yesterday before posting it.

Since I wrote it, apparently there's been a very, very small protest in London, with some Islamic Extremists protesting about British Army presence in Muslim countries, and it involved the burning of poppies.

Obviously, it's entirely missing the point of the day. That's what the rest of the post was about, and it's a terrible and monumentally stupid action.

But the amount of 'us and them' it's immediately caused, and the amount of attention that's been brought to a very, very small protest, is equally worrying. Yes, these actions are sickening, and deserve to be condemned. But what worries me is that here, the first thing described about the protesters was that they were Muslims. Back on September 11th, with the Koran burnings and all, the people involved were usually referred to as 'extremists' first, and Christians second. It's important to grant others the same distinction, and to stop what was, after all, a protest attended by about 35 people being blown out of proportion.

But avoiding being distracted by the ugly side of it all, here's a similarly out of character tribute: Dropkick Murphies, normally rather a loud and noisy punk band, lay down the guitars to perform a beautiful rendition of Eric Bogle's Green Fields of France.

A Spooky Story... (Part Three)

This probably isn't going to make any sense if you haven't read Part One and Part Two, preferably in that order.

There is some music that is so primal, so simple, that it bypasses the brain entirely. It doesn't bother with the ears, or with nerves, or with understanding: it speaks straight to your soul. It flows through your inner most being, and fits a red hot wire straight to your arms and your fight. You move to this music not because you have a choice, but because the music itself commands you - that deep, primal urge to respond in some way to something beyond mankind's understanding.

The Macarena is one example of that sort of music.

And by all accounts, it was going rather well. Those tiny remnants of humanity left in the child zombies were activated, stirred and awakened - their adorable stumbly little legs were desperately turning, their hands moving to various parts of their bodies as they danced, not because they wanted to, but because their souls had no choice. Needless to say, the second song of our set tonight was by far the more successful - on the keyboard, I was providing the backing, while Jacob had set his guitar down and was leading the actions, as Mark mirrored him and sang. Our seemingly certain death had been averted, as a warped version of thriller seemed to be taking place.

For once, just for once, Jacob had had a good idea. Not his usual "good ideas", which have, in the past, resulted in the explosion of a snowman, him setting an entire room on fire, and, my personal favourite, him deciding highly poisonous yew leaves would make a great tea.

The Bucket Wizard, however, was having none of it. With a snap of his wizened fingers, the power blew on my keyboard. Sparks shot from the speakers, looking somewhat like stage pyrotechnics but with the unfortunate effect of stopping the music. Unable to cope with the overload to what was left of their rotting brainstems, the childzombies collapsed, neutralised.

As the power blew, Mark ran away, seemingly in terror. It was just me and Jake left now, against an advancing foe of such ancient evil that petty malevolence seemed to roll off him. He raised his crinkly, liver spotted hands, and began an enchantment so ancient and virilent that the pavement began to melt and pool around his feet...

Thwack

That's the best I can describe the noise of a spade going through a three hundred year old skull soaked in dark magic and satanic influence. It's not a noise I've had to transcribe very often.

Mark, wielding the spade he'd just saved us with, further proved that he was, in his spare time, a bit of a badass. Surveying the corpse of the ancient evil he'd defeated with both the power of God-awful-pop-songs and cold steel, he spat out the strangest, if most appropriate to the situation, post mortem one liner ever.

"Come on Barbie. Let's go party."

Scratch that last line. I have never heard a man sound so badass and so incredibly gay at the same time.

A Spooky Story... (Part Two)

Please read Part One first.

It was close to midnight, and something evil was lurking in the dark.

Not Michael Jackson. A Bucket Wizard.

Luckily, we were prepared. The traps were set. The time was right. It may have been coming up to the most occult time of year, but the forces of evil were about to go running back to their mothers in hell.

We'd spotted the wizard some fifteen minutes ago, standing in the street, watching the house, surrounded by a legion of his child zombies. Heaven knows why he had his mind set on us as his prizes. Perhaps he chose this house at random. Perhaps he was drawn to it by a mix a mixture of Jake's technical skills, Mark's brains, and my rugged good looks?

Yeah, it was probably chosen at random. Based on reading up in Jake's Bumper Occult Grimmoire, the Bucket Wizard would strike at midnight - and, for the second time on this blog, I'm compelled to say that that's the sentence most like spy code I have ever typed. Jake had his guitar clasped in hand. I was seated at the keys. Mark gripped the microphone so tight, his knuckles went white. We were going to fight the abomination to this world, the spawn of Satan, with the greatest gift God had given us. The foundation for the very best of all cities. Rock and Roll. And, as the hands on the clock reached 23:59, it had never been more vital to play music with such crystal clarity, such simple, beautiful perfection, that God himself would weep tears of utter joy. The sweet music would repel the wizard, and then we could initiate phase two of the plan, also known as 'hit him with a spade till he stops moving.'

"We're all settled on the song, yes?" Mark was checking me and Jake, who couldn't always be counted on to be playing either the same song, in the same key, the same chords, or at the same time.

"It's fine Mark, we've run thr- good God, here he comes."

The clock struck midnight. The wizard slowly and demurely crossed the road, his minions trailing in his wake. He mounted the steps, and reached for the door. He never got to open it: by the time he touched the handle, the door had been blown off it's hinges by a riff of such strength and power, it seemed the very earth was playing with us, in perfect unison with both guitar and keyboard. As the strains of that opening riff died away, I caught Mark's eye.

"Let's rock this joint."

And at that, he drew a deep breath, and sang. He sang like he'd never sung before: a tortured angel singing the blues in a smoky bar. Every phrase was injected with it's fullest meaning, and forced through his lips, to create a heartbreaking, melodious song. It brought a tear to my eye, and a tremble to my lip. For the first time in my life, I felt those words. I understood the true meaning of the song: a darkly ironic tale of two desperate lovers, forced together by a life of shallow materialism, where everything seems fake.

The words he sang were these:

"I'm a barbie girl

In a barbie world.
Life in plastic

It's fantastic..."

On the third line, Jake and I rejoined him, a triumphant, crashing chord. This was the pure joy of music making. This song, at this time, was perfection itself. If anything could defeat the Bucket Wizard, it was this.

Yet there he stood, unruffled, looking us dead in the eye. Around him, his zombie children stood, waiting only for his word to attack. As we saw him standing there, the music ground to a halt. This was not going according to plan.

Then, as the last echoes bounced off the street, he spoke, in a voice filled with evil and corruption. "You really think you can defeat me with such music?"

Jake was the first to gain courage to speak. "Back, foul demon, to the pits of hell that spawned you!"

"Oh, really, cut the melodrama. Besides, why would that song be particularly effective against me, the pinnacle of evil?" He grinned, and his teeth suddenly seemed incredibly pointed. "After all, I wrote it. Besides, I've had enough of your so called music." At this, he turned to address the ranks of child zombies surrounding him. "Kill them."

At once, a solid wall of the dead, four foot high and wielding buckets began, slowly and excruciatingly, to move towards us. I have to admit, I was panicking. I thought this was the end. But Jake, thank God, wasn't as easily defeated. In a hushed voice, he spoke to us.

"Guys, I have a plan. We're going to have to appeal to the one human part left of their brains, and stop them attacking us. There's only one thing for it. Only one song for the job." And he named it, to our horror.

"I hate that song!"
"Jake, do you really think this is the time?"
"Look, guys, just play it! What else can we do?"

And so, facing an eternity with our souls enslaved to a man who had just claimed to write Barbie Girl, we took up our instruments, and began to play.

TO BE CONCLUDED

A Spooky Story... (Part One)

So, Halloween.

Okay, okay, I'm a bit late. But it's a beautiful time of year: capitalism and the old custom of knocking on people's doors, threatening supernatural vengence on them if they don't comply, and demanding they give you sugar products come together in one sickly, slightly green, fusion.

It warms your heart.

But none of this bothered me. I was going to meet a friend of mine, we were plug in, amp up, and create that little something we call rock and roll. So I walked through the lonely streets, all by myself, on the one night of the year I was most likely to meet with the occult. Strange shapes flitted in front of me: ghosts, demons, witches, a pirate, long dead and displaced in time. The apparitions appeared small, out of proportion, and wandered the twilight world in groups of three or four. Each group was headed by a taller, more imposing figure, appearing almost human and yet mocking humanity - these arch demons seemed to be in charge of the expedition to the human world. Each group would march purposefully to the doors of the innocent, and demand entry, their thin, hellish voices piping up the eldritch curse of "Trick or treat!" to the unwary who opened their doors. I gripped my crucifix firmly and continued on to my friend's house.
I walked up the drive, rang on the bell, and... well, what follows happened rather quickly, so let's move into written slow motion. The door opened, and I saw the flushed face of my friend, eyes wild, and, much more importantly, holding a gun, which he shot at me. The shot flew wide, and I staggered down the steps in shock.

Recognition flickered across his face, and, with cracked and strained voice he greeted me. "Ben! Thank Goodness you're here!"
"Jake. Hi! You, err, just shot me." Although this was obviously a shock, it wasn't entirely unexpected. I have some... unusual friends.
"Yes, well, never mind that. Get in the house!"
"What?"
"Get in the house now."
"Jake..."
"We have a Code Lazarus, Situation Ultimate Gamma. You know your orders. Get in the house."

Damn. Code Lazarus, as it happens, is one of our series of emergency codes. The code for a zombie uprising, to be precise. Situation Gamma meant it was local - the fact it was Ultimate meant that we had certain, confirmed sightings nearby. I needed no further persuasion: I stepped into the house.

"You're here!" It was Mark, our singer. The two of us being shut in the house with Jake, a man who, I just remembered, had once set his shoes on fire because he was bored. Oh, and he just tried to shoot me. Maybe this wasn't the best idea...

Time to establish what had happened. "Okay, Jake. What's the situation?"
"It's worse than we ever planned for. It was about an hour ago, and I looked out the window, and there they were, stumbling down the road. The children, Ben! They took the children!""
"So you saw some children who looked like zombies walking down the road on Halloween..."
"And buckets! They've taught the zombies to use buckets! We saw them walking with buckets!"

"So, you saw some children who looked like zombies, on Halloween, carrying buckets?" I shared a sidelong look with Mark. "There's only one explanation for this." Mark was nodding. Jake looked worried, and the tension in the room reached breaking point...

"It's a Bucket Wizard."

"A what?"
"A Bucket Wizard. They reanimate those who died young, and give them buckets to collect human souls in."
"Buckets?"
"Jake, are you a dark and dangerous force of the occult?"
"No."
"Then don't question the buckets." At this point, Mark chipped in, ever practical.
"What can we do?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Outside, the thunder executed a perfectly timed dramatic roll. "We're going to need a bigger spade. Settle down, gentlemen. It's going to be a long night."

TO BE CONTINUED

My Grandfather - A Tale of Bravery and Valour

A long, long time ago, my grandfather was in university, taking a history degree.

Now, universities in those days weren't like they are now. For one thing, you could go to one without selling someone elses' organs on the black market (and welcome to my first topical political humour since the election!). Also, they seemed to conform much more the stereotype of hallowed halls of academia, where only the brightest and best went, and the lecturers could be... somewhat eccentric.

One of my Grandfather's history lecturers was the very epitome of a mad academic. It was the early fifties, and so although this man has not been described to me, I am perfectly justified in imagining he wore a tweed suit, bad glasses, and probably an eccentric haircut. The man in question was a particular expert in Tudor history, especially regarding Queen Elizabeth the First. He was also, or so my grandfather informs me, a bastard. Possibly this perception is skewed, as the enduring memory of him my grandfather has is of humiliation at his hands when late for a lecture. (Because of the slightly rambling old person style of story telling that was employed, I lose track of what exactly happened. It definitely involved a chair, and possibly a bucket full of eels, although the last part may have been a fabrication.)

So to my Grandfather there was only one possible course of action.

A prank. It would be done well, and it would be done soon...

Well, fairly soon. Once he'd finished his degree, and so couldn't get in trouble for it.

Now, when I said earlier that this lecturer was fond of Elizabeth the First, I wasn't kidding. In fact, it would probably be fair to say he had a tiiiiny bit of a historical crush on The Virgin Queen, from her royal toes to her flame-coloured hair, from her queenly liver to her heart and stomach of a king. So much so, in fact, that in lectures he had picked up the habit of referring to her as "my dear queen" or "my elizabeth" in lectures.

I've got no evidence that he had a suit made out of her skin, but it's kind of tempting to think so.

So, having assessed the man's weakspots like the ninja I suspect my grandfather of being, my grandfather waited for the best of times.

Which is Valentines day, obviously. He then got his sister, a truly magnificent artist, to draw a huge picture of The Good Queen Bess, and signed it in immaculate writing as being from "Your Elizabeth". Now, his brother in law, the husband of the artist, then went to this university, even though my grandfather had graduated. So, this man, my Great Uncle Stan, made arrangements for the picture to be delivered to the lecture theatre mid lecture.

I don't know how he did it. I think he had some contacts, from his street days.

Or he just, you know, walked into the lecture room, but I prefer the former.

The reaction my grandfather expected was one of truly epic proportions. He expected a reaction to rival Vesuvius, with screaming, anger, explosions, and possibly rivers of blood. In actuality, the lecturer was amused and quite thankful for the present, although my grandfather never saw him again and thus never owned up to it.

And the moral of the story? Well, firstly that no matter how much of an inhuman monster you've painted your fellow man to be, at the end of the day, they're a human just like you, who enjoys a joke as much as anyone else.

And secondly?

My Grandfather is awesome.

Adventure on the High Sea with Marcor Paul

So, the other day, my mother went for a drink with a sailor on shore leave.

I know how that sounds. Perhaps I should present it in a way slightly more accurate to the real world. So, the other day, my mother went for a drink with an old teaching colleague who now works on a cruise ship. Better?

So, anyway, this old colleague had a new man in her life. Apparently, he was quite dashing, it looked to be a fairly serious relationship, and my mother couldn't remember the name, saying it was something like "Mark, or Paul." They met on the cruise ship, but now he's on another boat and they don't see each other much.

Imagine how this sounded to my ears. Marcor Paul, adventurer, travelling the high seas, searching for hidden treasure and pining for his lost love. As he fights through Amazon pyramids, he probably turns down the love of steaming native beauties, remembering his love who sailed away from him.

But my mother wasn't done. Oh no. She recounted some of the other news of her seafaring friend, before moving to talk about their future plans. The woman plans, it seems, to move near Glasgow, partly to be nearer her parents, and partly because that's where Marcor Paul, Dread Pirate lives on shore. He's Scottish too? The badass points just keep rolling in. And, naturally, Marcor will spend much more time on shore when he's training for his captaincy exams...

His captaincy exams.

"The name's Marcor Paul. Captain Marcor Paul."

There is no way this man is not a pirate. There is no way that Marcor Paul does not fight off redcoats, loot, pillage, and woo beautiful native princesses (such as my mother's friend?) His name is Marcor Paul. What other career options can he have? When Mr and Mrs Paul had a bouncing baby boy, and named him Marcor, did they for one minute imagine that with that name he could live a boring life? You can't be Marcor Paul, plumber, or Marcor Paul, solicitor - it has to be Marcor Paul, secret agent, or Marcor Paul, The Chosen One.

Hell, at least I know what I'm going to name my son.

And, before you ask, his middle name will be Batman.

Useless Superheroes

"Doctor Disaster is threatening Vaguely Futuristic City!"

"Sounds like a job for... The League of Mediocre Superheroes!"

At this point, a vaguely inspiring brass fanfare plays.

That's right, the superheroes major comics companies conveniently forgot will save the city from the evil schemes of Doctor Disaster (which, by the way, isn't necessarily a supervillain name. Maybe he's just a really bad doctor. You know, you go for a check up and wake up to find yourself an amputee.)

MARVEL at the powers of Domino Man. By day, a perfectly ordinary pizza delivery man.... by night, he fights crime - by falling on top of it!

Behold, the graphical rendering power of MS Paint

BE AMAZED by Spoon Man - he talks to... well, to spoons. They don't have much to say.

"So, what are cutlery drawers like?"

By day, Midas Moneybags is a perfectly ordinary rich idiot with no day job. By night, everything he touches turns to Gold, and he fights crime as The Human Moneybox.

On second thoughts, maybe he shouldn't fold his arms.

And one hero will make THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE. Beeman has the tragic power to sting someone... and then die.

Not a man I'd like to cross.

Even Batman is scared of Beeman.

So with such guardians, will Vaguely Futuristic City fall to Doctor Disaster?

Yeah, probably. Still, I guess we've learnt one thing. My Microsoft Paint skills are negligable at best...

Hamming it Up

I'd just like to mention that I made bacon sandwiches today, and cooking bacon is actually harder than it looks. Firstly, you've no idea how hard it is to get a pig at short notice. (Some people would just buy the bacon, but this smacks of amateurism to me. If I've never cooked something before, I like to do it properly.) The next problem I had was getting the meat off the pig...

Once the pig and I had wrestled for a while, complete with dramatic crash through plate glass window, something became clear to me. Neither of us were going to win. I pictured myself and this unholy swine engaged in everlasting combat: two mighty titans, forever in conflict until the trumpet sounded for the day of judgement. Two behemoths, locked in a war that knew neither end nor victor: an image to be passed through myth and folk memory, to be passed down in the oral traditions of far distant cultures.

This would not do: I wanted to be a man who lived for the moment, not the ages. I wanted a glorious legacy of deeds I had done, not the fight I would be forever embroiled in. I wanted a life, to live, die, laugh and love: a time for greivances and sorrow, and a time for happiness and victory.

Also, it was nearly lunchtime, I ought to get this bacon done, and my bladder was kind of full.

It was clear we needed a compromise. After all, conflict creates no real endings, and is ultimately futile: or, as the poet said:
"War. (huuuh. Yeah.)
What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing."

And so the pig and I entered diplomatic relations. I'll admit, as propositions go, "I want to eat some of your flesh and have nothing to offer you, oh combat pig" isn't a great one. In fact, his response was less than enthusiastic. Great. I'd not only found the world's first pig that could talk, but the world's first pig that was trained in debating.

The issue was that he insisted that he ought to have some human flesh as recompense, and, well, I rather like my flesh, thank you. The man who fortunately rang at this point to clean the windows probably rather liked his, too, but it's amazing how quickly you can tie up and gag an errant window cleaner with porcine might on your side. I granted the pig use of my kitchen and culinary facilities, and he soon left after I took a good sized chunk of flesh from his side. Apparently window cleaner tastes good. Anyway, he promised to keep in touch, and wandered away over the horizon. Lovely bloke.

His flesh was cooking nicely in the frying pan, and looked fairly ready. In fact, I was about to serve it up when something important struck me: bacon isn't just any flesh off the pig. Bacon is smoked.

I don't know if you've ever tried rolling meat up in cigarette papers, but it's harder than it looks. It's also tricky to light and trickier to keep burning. And it smells... as if you've set a pig on fire. Also, I have the majority of a window cleaner to dispose of...

I'm not going to say this bacon sandwich has been an unqualified success, but we live and learn. Anyway, that's the bacon out the way.

Now to get my hunting gear on. I have a loaf of bread to catch.

I'm in a state of shock.

I have undergone a transformative experience, of the sort one has maybe twice in a liftime. Everything has changed for me. I look up from my special, custom made blogging chair, and see nothing I know or am familiar with.

The reason for all this? The huge, momentous life change?

I tidied my room.

A huge roll of thunder pealed away on the horizon (This might be because I've taken to using rainymood.com to make things seem more dramatic). The earth shook and the heavens screamed.

I discovered something of such great consequence, it has shaken the hallowed halls of academia and overturned theory upon theory.

I have a floor.

It's overturned the 'rubbish compacted to such a level it can take my weight' theory. It's overturned the 'Gravity looks the other way' theory. It's overturned the 'Look, it's just magic' theory. Who'd have thought that underneath the compacted layers of books, clothes, lego, the remains of important pieces of paper and all that's left of a very surprised pigeon (hey, your guess is as good as mine), I found I had an actual floor.

There's a carpet - it's green.

So, to celebrate, I had a mighty feast. (Roast month old pigeon is totally better than you'd think, especially with the strange mushrooms/fungi that were already growing out it's eye.)

Also lurking on the floor: the elixir of life, a sixteenth century scroll revealing the fundamental truth behind the whole cosmos (it's not what you think, and if I were you, I'd be extremely nice to your cat), and my Dad. I thought he'd been quiet recently.

Oh, and with some of the lego I found, I built this:

I know that was an incredibly long buildup for me to post pictures of my lego village, but, hey. The rest are on my flickr here.

Ten Things I've learnt This Summer:

It's been a long summer, and while a little of what's happened has involved me learning things which are, comparatively, Serious Business, I felt that this little list would sum up what the summer's really been like.

1. If I go somewhere else, and leave my tent with my friends, and get back to find my tent has mysteriously rotated one hundred and eighty degrees, my friends didn't move it: tents just get up and move like that, honestly.
2. You only need a cape, a paper crown, and a toy sword to become a convincing King. Even passers by will be impressed and reverent in the face of your majesty.
3. The reason Batman is so lonely and violent is because no one will hug Batman. The reason no one will hug Batman is because Batman wears a cape. Hugging capes is awkward: do your put your hands outside the cape, and thus have a much wider radius for your arms to cover due to dramatic billowyness, or put your arms under the cave and invade Batman's personal space? Superheroes are hard to hug.
4. Speaking of which, a man dressed as Batman preaching about God is hard to take seriously.
5. Celery is a difficult fashion accessory to manage, and not many people can pull it off: a decorative vegetable isn't for everyone. Don't wear celery.
6. Any story, if dramatic enough, can be adapted to the form of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air opening theme song.
7. I can imagine no bad day that cannot be improved by three or four people coming together to play "Yellow Submarine" on their instrument of choice.
8. Sandwich making among teenage males is somewhere between an art form and a competitive sport: making an incredibly tall sandwich with a ridiculous variety of flavours then crushing it down as far as it can go is an immensely manly pursuit.
9. There is always one person in a card game who takes it ridiculously seriously, one person who is astonishingly good, and one person who always loses. I will always be the last of those people.
10. People seem remarkably happy to lend me a cuddly lion at short notice.

Bonus eleventh thing: my good friend Mozzy, who I met in the far off lands of The Internet, has started a wonderful blog that is one man's story of his trials and tribulations in the Zombie Apocalypse. Regular readers may see why this appeals to me. I'm on hand as a sort of editor/zombie/story consultant, while not actually writing posts for it.

Anyway, go check it out here. It's pretty cool.

Sometimes, I love my life.

Today, I achieved... well, not an ambition. You plan an ambition. I didn't know this was something I wanted to do until just after I did it.

Picture the scene. A quiet, small town corner shop, fairly newly open. It's eight o clock in the morning in the school holidays. There is no one else around as the owner contemplates taking tomatoes from the fresh fruit section and juggling them, something he's always wanted to do. When, suddenly, a mighty clatter arises as the door is slammed open, by the interpid passer by.

(I was not, sadly, wearing a cape at this point. To aid in the drama, imagine I was.)

The man has a wild look in his eyes. He has not shaved for several days, and looks as if he hasn't slept for them either. In one hand, he brandishes a cucumber from your own vegetable rack. He walks up to the counter with a purposeful gait, cloak that he isn't wearing billowing dramatically around his body from the draft from the door.

"This cucumber. Quickly."

His voice is gravelly and hoarse, like he's been gargling with gravel. Like he's a desperate man trying to be Don LaFontaine. Like he's a man who, at eight am on a Monday morning, knows he needs to buy a cucumber in a hurry and thinks he might as well make it cool.

He pays in cash. He thanks the man profusely, drops the cash into the charity box because he has no time to put it back in his wallet, and leaves the shop at speed, the cucumber held in the air.

I swear I bought this cucumber for a good reason. And not a sexual one, either;

And one day, I may tell you good people what that very good reason was.

Holidays, Camping, and My Evil Family - two blog posts in one

So, I just got back from holiday, and I'm off again tomorrow to go camping with a few thousand of my friends in a great big field. So it's no surprise that this post's going to include a few sun soaked anecdotes and theorising - and to make up for the absences, it's essentially a DOUBLE PLUS GOOD blog post today. Ie, it's longer.

I'm not actually going to talk about the holiday I just went on. Not because it was boring, but because if I start blogging about what actually happened recently in a relatively normal way, that's one step away from blogging about my feelings and how no one understands me and starting to talk about my muse. I might even start painting watercolours, writing serious poetry and using the phrase "my heart bleeds" non ironically.

So instead I'll tell you about how my aunt assassinated a world leader.

Everything you are about to read is true, and is reconstructed from my interviews with a key witness - known to me as "Mum".

In one Summer, my mother and her family were visiting some Mediterranean country - I can't remember which. One of those places which is deeply Catholic, and where all the women are either devastatingly beautiful or old and toothless and wearing black, with no middle ground. One of those places where outside every beautifully scenic village is a log with four old men sitting on it. One of those countries.

They arrived on a Saturday night. Now, one of the things peculiar to this area of the world is that not only, because of the Catholicness of it all, is everything closed on a Sunday, but everything's always closed on a Monday too. I've no idea why. But all this left my Aunt rather exasperated.

"We can't buy any food now, it's far too late," said she, "and we obviously can't buy any tomorrow, it's Sunday. Nowhere's ever open on a Monday, and I bet on Tuesday, that the... that the pope will die and we won't be able to get anything then!"

Guess what happened on Tuesday?

My Aunt, a lovely woman, killed the pope. I don't know how. Maybe she's a witch. But she's responsible for the death of the leader of the Catholic Church.

I am never, ever, getting on the wrong side of my aunt ever again.

As for the camping, I'm sure it'll all go great. Sure, my tent is large and complicated and I've never gone camping before, but, well, what could possibly go wrong? Just because I don't know the terminology...

Friend: Have you checked the tents this morning?

Me: Yeah, they're rocking up in a pretty tentlike fashion. Come on, let's do camping people things!

Friend: No, I mean... the tents, is everything tense?

Me: You're asking me if the tents are tents?
Friend: Yes, I'm asking you if the tents are tense.

Me: Seriously?

Friend: Well of course!
Me: Well, what do you expect them to be?
Friend: Not tense, if we're not careful.

Me: What, you're expecting them to turn into hyenas or postage stamps and just wander off?

Friend: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: Well, how would they become not tents all of a sudden?

Friend: Don't you know anything? Tents don't stay tense all the time if you leave them up.

Me: Everything I thought I knew about the universe is shaken and changing.

Nope. I see no problems at all...

All Hail Her Majesty

It's already been discussed on this blog that the Queen is hungry for the restoration of the monarchy. I'm not fooled by her sweet old lady act: she's after power on a global scale, and a new beginning for the British Empire. Take her recent trip to Canada, for instance. A perfectly innocuous diplomatic visit? This photo, no doubt taken at great personal risk, tells another story.

Pictured: Lizzie's War Face

See the determined glint in her eye? The set of her jaw? Clearly this is a woman channelling the spirit of her ancestors, ie big hairy German men who became King because they were damn good at hitting people with swords. That mountie in the background? Her rebel army commander, ready to sweep back through Canada and reclaim it as the maple syrup source of the British Empire.

Why mounties? Mounties, despite the silly hats, are rather special. They have international jurisdiction: if a well known and famous example of a Candian celebrity commits a crime, (sorry, Canada, the only famous son of your land I can think of is the unfortunately fictional Wolverine,) there is nowhere on the planet they can hide - the mounties will get them. So with these powerful allies, the Queen can arrest those who threaten the spread or stability of her new international regime.

It started in Canada. Be prepared. Be warned. The second British Empire is coming.

And Philip's going to be racist about all of them.

Why I hate nature and it must be punished

Remember when you were six and used to grub around in the dirt, pretending to dig holes and tearing insects in half for the noise it made? No? Just me on that last one? I was a strange child. Anyway, in the last week, I had an opportunity to study nature and get back to that blissful primordially muddy state. Or so I thought.

Now, I passed my childhood in the magical far off land of Birmingham, a place not quite North and not quite South, and this means the pixies there must have been particularly hungry, as one thing I noticed which wasn't there in my childhood was ants. I was there to count centipedes and measure moss, which is exactly as thrilling as it sounds, but the trip soon turned into a battle against the forces of ant-kind, or, as we ended up referring to them, evil tiny unkillable biting bastards. There were adders in that forest. There were wolves. (In cages.) There was the malevolent ghost of Adolf Hitler (possibly). The ants were still the most evil thing there, swarming and biting and devouring all things. One intrepid explorer dared to venture near an ant trail with a particularly determined look in his eye, and the mass of black insects swarmed up him and stripped the flesh from his bones. Also, one of them bit me on the hand. One of those is actually a lie.

Anyway, this meant war.

We had to select a champion for our battle to reclaim the forest: we settled on a pill millipede we named, imaginatively, Pillipede. A giant of the bug world, he was huge, majestic, and armoured. If one man were to save us from the insect threat, it would be Pillpiede, in his gleaming exoskeleton. We placed Pillipede carefully, almost reverently, in a jar, and nurtured him lovingly. We prepared him for his big fight, giving him a rousing pep talk and a Rocky style training montage.

Yes, that millipede has opposable thumbs, why do you ask?

Pillipede, we judged, was finally ready to fight. To make his clear size advantage more fair, he would face three ant opponents, who were already in fighting spirits (the little fuckers bit all the way into the jar).

The ants were with the millipede. That's the most secret-spy-code-like sentence I've ever typed that wasn't secret spy code. It was time for the fight to begin...

A heated, if somewhat slow, battle began, Pillipede lashing out at the ants. Soon, a strange yellow liquid dathered on the floor. "Aha!" Thought I, "The ants are soiling themselves in sheer fear at the sight of our mighty warrior!" But as the fight continued, it was fairly clear the liquid was blood - and not ant blood. We began to face the unfaceable truth.

Pillipede was losing.

The ants, it was fairly clear, had won this battle by fair means. There was only one option left to us.

We would cheat. Pillipede was going down, but this was no reason not to take the ants with him. It was time to re even the odds a little.

We flooded the jar with water, hoping to let Pillipede show his as yet unseen amazing swimming skills and a talent for naval warfare. Unfortunately, this last shock was too much for his somewhat battered health, and he died. The ants?

They kept going.

We acknowledged our defeat - the forest was theirs. We buried Pillipede, a true hero, in the leaf litter, but under heavy observation from the forces of ant-ness. We had fought, and we had lost.

We left two days later, never to return.

Dire Warnings.

You know when you hear someone say something and you immediately know that everything is going to go terribly wrong?

So, I have this friend. And unlike most sentences which begin "I have this friend", they aren't pregnant, and this isn't a veiled way of me asking advice. No, seriously, I'm not pregnant. At all. No matter what you might hear. No name is given here, to protect the anonymity of the living and the dignity of the dead.

Anyway, my friend is a very nice person who I'd happily trust with a highly valuable camel, but has one terrible flaw. As terrible flaws go, it's not overly dramatic. They're not addicted to gambling, they've never shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, and I'm fairly sure they haven't got a heroin habit (by which I mean injecting nasty substances rather than wearing a cape and preventing supercrime. That wouldn't be a flaw, that'd just be awesome.) The flaw they do have is cooking.

Now, lots of people are just bad cooks. They cook food that tastes disgusting, or that is badly burnt, or, in extreme cases, makes restaurant critics spontaneously combust upon just smelling it. My friend, however, is not just a bad cook. They're a destructive and unpredictable cook. The food is good, when it survives unharmed, but the preparation process... Cooks cheese on toast? Kitchen accidentally set on fire, if only temporarily. There are some who say that they once managed to make a whole chicken just disappear from an oven after accidentally invoking black magic instead of preparing a marinade. I read the webcomic Questionable Content, (which is really very good, despite what I'm about to say) and back right at the very beginning, one of the characters managed to burn down their house while making toast. I used to assume it was just a badly done plot device by an inexperienced writer to get the character in question to move in with the lead.

Then I met my friend, and suddenly I'm not so sure.

But, moving on, the event which I mentioned earlier, which is so utterly terrifying?

My friend plans to cook bear shaped biscuits.

Biscuits. Shaped like bears.

I'm sure you can see where this is going. My friend is the sort of person who lives in an increasingly whacky fifties sitcom. My friend is the only person I know who could possibly end up accidentally in a gay pride march. My friend is going to make biscuits shaped like bears.

At some point or other, they will gain a soul, accidentally, in the cooking process. Tiny bearlike biscuits, beating their fists with rage on the oven door to be let out. Biscuits that bite back, launching themselves on their attackers and savaging them in a generally ursine way. Tiny biscuits with all the pent up rage and malevolent evil that lurks in a bear's black heart. With the possible exception of Paddington.

It's going to be like a heavy metal album cover telling the story of the gingerbread man. So be prepared, internet. Be prepared for a day of bears.

Writing a big budget Hollywood action film - how hard can it be?

So then, Hollywood. We meet again. I have a project for you that requires your rising stars, your expert directors, and your copious amounts of magic explosions. Oh, and the ghost of Don LaFontaine.

The Scene? A top secret military facility, where they do military things.

The year? 2012.

The situation?

A highly intelligent Combat robot, capable of impersonating a human, has broken out from its containment facility. The robot has turned against its masters, and is living among the other soldiers in the base, picking them off one by one.

Only one man is capable of identifying the robot amongst the recruits - computer programmer and excellent robot recogniser Alan Turing.

The problem?

Alan Turing died in 1954. And only one man can get him back - the whacky scientist with a time machine who's too much of a loose cannon to be trusted with such an important task.

Prepare for a time travel horror based thought provoking hilarious buddy comedy that elaborates on the ultimate differences between man and machine.

Also, naked women and explosions. But not combined, because that doesn't work unless you prefer your women as a thin red mist sprayed over several walls.

I'm very hopeful for the project - I've had a lot of interest. Well, everyone I tell about it says "Oh, that's... interesting..." and then walks away quickly. I even talked to Steven Spielberg about it! He didn't say much, other than "Who are you?" and "How did you get into the backseat of my car? This is a moving vehicle!" but I think there's real potential here.

Viva la (social) Revolution! Your guide to social etiquette in a post apocalyptic world.

I realise full too well that the start of the next sentence is going to make me sound like a French revolutionary.

But come the glorious day, brother, (told you), when the dead rise, and the living take up arms against the shambling, slightly smelly threat, we're going to go through some changes. In a world where you may find yourself shooting that nice old lady from two rooms down right between the red, unblinking eyes, and having no one thinking you need locking up for it, social conventions are not going to stay the same. So here's a few rules for that time to avoid that dreadful "someone just committed social death" awkward silence.

Sleepwalking is now even more awkward.

You've watched your friends and family die horribly to hordes of stumbling necrotic flesh, you're wary about anyone walking slowly and badly and seemingly not looking where they're going. Sleepwalking is currently just awkward and embarrassing. In case of zombie apocalypse? It involves your head being blown to delicious chunky salsa.

Suddenly, everyone loves the nutters.

You know that slightly weird kid who knows all sorts of weird things about making weapons, explosives, and surviving in odd circumstances? The one who seems to spend far too much time on the internet reading up on things? Well, firstly, wave when you next pass him sitting alone in his corner. That's me. Secondly, get ready to make him your new best friend, because he's got the skills and possibly the equipment needed to survive in this zombie-eat-dog-and-then-everything-else-world. Similarly, you know the great big scary guy in the leather jacket with the shaved head and tattoos? The one who's almost certainly got illegal guns somewhere? Your best friend number two.

The Three Amigos

Basically, if you ever see someone you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, or someone wearing one of those "In case of zombie apocalypse, follow me" t shirts... follow them.

Romero will become God.

Back in the far distant past of 1968, George Romero released Night of the Living Dead, and gave our conciousness the idea of a zombie not just being the product of black magic. Due to the slight accident of forgetting to copyright the film and leaving it in the public domain, he attracted a wave of imitators, warning humanity of the threat to come. Should all this actually happen, what are the bets this man will become, at the least, a prophet - if not a God in his own right? Be prepared to run into nutty cults who end their sentences "Romero be praised!".

Oh, and one last thing:

However much you want to go there, stay away from the shopping malls.

Just remember, Max Brookes tells you how to avoid actual death with the Zombie Survival Guide. I tell you how to avoid social death. Together, we're a team.

In a blog where the stakes are high...

Don LaFontaine is a man with one of the most recognisable voices of all time. Well, not right now. Right now, he's dead. But back in the long distant past of before September 1st 2008, his voice rang forth from speakers worldwide. Who was this man? This man was one of the greatest heroes of all cinema. (Besides anyone remotely involved in The Lion King, who I set aside on a personal level that cannot be touched by anything whatsoever. Ever.) Don LaFontaine was the man who did the voice for the trailers. Usually starting with "In a world..." or "This Summer...", he was how you knew you were at the cinema. (Besides the aroma of stale popcorn, darkness, comfy chairs, and big screen. Obviously.)

No one quite knows how his distinctive bass tones came into being. Some say he was the product of an illigetimate love affair between a tiger and a cement mixer. Some say that at the age of eleven, he removed his vocal chords, soaked them for a week in finest bourbon, and then reinserted them and gargled daily with gravel. Some say he found smoking so ineffective in keeping his demon-child tones, that he used to remove his lungs and paint them directly with tar. Some say a prophecy was made in ancient times that a man with a voice like thunder would shake the land of the silver screen, a man who would foretell what would be coming the following Summer, a man with the ability to look into the lives of hapless comedy protagonists, sum their misfortunes up in one sentence, and end... "Until now...". Possibly followed by a record needle scratching and the fast paced, upbeat music beginning.

However, his unique gravelly tones must have spawned a few problems. The temptation to lapse into clichéd phrases in uncomfortable situations must be enormours - not to mention the situations in which such deep and resonant tones may not be entirely appropriate. Imagine LaFontaine at a barbecue:

"In a world where the steaks are high..."

LaFontaine in a library:

"Mr LaFontaine? Would you mind being a little quieter?"

"In a world where the truth is kept silent..."

"What? Look, you're disturbing the other patrons."

"One man will discover they're out of copies of The Da Vinci Code."

"We can put you on the reserve list if you want?"

"On the way, he'll struggle against librarian adversity..."

"Honestly, Mr LaFontaine, if you don't lower your voice I may be forced to ask you to leave."

"... and the passive aggression that opressed a nation. He was always a mild mannered man..."

"If you don't get out, I'm calling security."

"...Until now."

At this point, LaFontaine's personal speakers start playing the rerecorded version"Lux Aeterna" from Requiem for a Dream (which plays in every trailer ever), he attacks the librarian from various camera angles, something blows up, there's a woman in a bikini, he dispatches the security guards with kung fu, there's a car chase (still in the library), and, finally, LaFontaine pumps his shotgun (which was probably in the stacks somewhere or other. They always have shotguns at libraries), says a witty one liner, and fires.

So, yes. I can see it being a problem.

Save the Planet.

That's right, I have single handedly solved global warming.

The way I see it, the problem is cars. Cars apparently let out gases that make earth sad, and we can't have that.

Look at what you're doing, industry.

I'm well aware that there's something about factories and industry in there, but factories make cars, yes? And once cars are rendered obsolete, we therefore won't need any factories anymore. For anything. As you can see, I've done a lot of thinking, and my logic is flawless.

So, I hear you ask, what are we going to use instead of cars? How will we possibly get from point A to point B? The answer is simple.

Bears.

The advantages of this are obvious, but in case you don't see the obvious superiority of ursine transportation, I'll point out the three biggest advantages.

1. Automobile theft will go down.

Which is easier, stealing a car:

Pictured: Car Crime

Or stealing a bear?

Pictured: Crime Prevention With Bears

Bears can defend themselves. Cars can't.

2. Bears are Safer.

According to thorough and diligent research (five minutes on wikipedia), there were about fourteen fatal bear attack incidents in North America in the last ten years. In comparison, in the US alone, in one year there were 42,815 people killed in car accidents. It's fairly clear which is the safe mode of travel here.

3. They're bears.

Enough said.

Petrol stations had better start selling honey and wild salmon. I'm expecting my cheque from Al Gore any day now.

Also, I really can't draw bears on ms paint