'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.