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