Sunday 26 December 2010

'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.

Sunday 19 December 2010

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.




Tuesday 14 December 2010

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."