The truck eventually stopped at a roadside diner. I escaped, running across a wide desert. However, it seems someone doesn't want me to escape. Rover, the giant ball thing from The Prisoner, chased me for several hours. I think he joined an American border patrol, it appealed to his racist nature. I imagine a big, white blob with little purpose is a good symbol for white supremacists though.
Eventually, I fell into a ravine, dying instantly.
I must say, it is something of a bugger.

I took another look around the truck. The fat Mexican man next to me looked at me sadly. We hit a rut, and a wobble ascended his body, shaking his chins and his moustache, wobbling his nose.

"When do we stop?" I asked him.

He shrugged. It was no good, he clearly didn't speak English. At first, I had rather enjoyed my attempts to teach it to him, but after 4 days in the truck, I was losing my patience. 5 days ago, I got on a bus, seeming going to Tesco. Now I was in a truck, sneaking across the border from Mexico to the US. I don't know how these things keep happening to me.

I settled down on a box of burritos. I didn't know how I'd gotten here, but I knew panicking wouldn't get me home.

I am away. Where am I? Well, even I don't know that. Wherever it is, there's no internet yet though. There should be soon though, so don't worry. When will I be back? A week, perhaps. But don't worry, the blog will continue without me. It's good like that.

I recoiled in shock from the fridge. I know that the king cobra is the biggest of all poisonous snakes. i even know that it can grow over 13 feet long. I do not know, however, what one was doing in my fridge. It has bitten me.
A bite from a king cobra can kill an elephant in 4 hours. But I'm not an elephant. Not by a long chalk.

No matter how hard I try, there is little money to be made from dressing dogs up in jester costumes. It is a sad state of affairs, that reflects the state of society today.

A Sobering Tale

I took another sip of the generic beer I had ordered, hoping if I kept drinking it, I could block out the figure who sat opposite me. His name was George, I think. He had always been a good friend of mine, apparently. To be honest, I had little idea who he was, except for the fact he had tried to sell me a wind-up portable television in 1991, and since I was off my head on a combination of Draino and heroin coffee - as was fashionable in the Thatcherite era - I had told him we should have a drink one day. And so, in Pythonesque fashion, he had taken me up on the offer 18 years later.
He was telling a story, I think. I didn't really care what it was about, but if it was like the last 7 he had told, it was about his van's various problems. My beer was flat, but it didn't matter. I didn't like beer. I must stop impulse-buying beverages.
"I'll be damned..." He continued, "Damned, I'll be... If I'm going home to that whore-bitch of a wife tonight."
"Oh..." I offered
"You know... She used to be such a pretty thing... Well, not pretty... Handsome! Yes... when I first met her, you know, she looked just like Han Solo. Same dress sense and everything! But now... She..."
He leaned across the table, and I reciprocated, interested to hear his secret:
"She... She doesn't!"
He leaned back, nodding and smirking conspiratorially.
"Yea... Not going back there... Wild horses... couldn't... drag me... to water, can't make me DRINK!"
I watched him topple from his chair and stumble towards the next table, where he grabbed a vase of fake flowers happily. As he waltzed around with them, I wondered how hard it would be to actually attach him to some wild horses. It is a thought worth some further consideration...

Success!

I have invented a machine that allows the fast printing of vast amounts of text by utilising movable print! However, I doubt it will have much use. It is 1440, and reading is not as wide spread as it might be one day in the distant future.

Dead Philosopher's Society

Dead historical figures are still frequenting my home. Today, the ghost of Bertrand Russell visited. He is a nice enough chap, and showered the sponge cake I offered him with praise - I endeavour to prevent him finding out I bought it from Tesco. However, this esteemed gentleman feels the need to re-invent himself since death, to keep up with today's youth. He's been terribly depressed since his rapping career stopped dead (no pun intended). Now, he is attempting to learn to skateboard in my back yard. I haven't the heart to tell him skateboarding is not as big as it used to be, but he is dead, and can be excused for being a bit slow to catch on to trends.
Russell is at least safe in the knowledge that he cannot hurt himself skateboarding, seeing as he is a ghost. For the same reason, I'm not worried that he's just landed in my geraniums.

Coffee and Prejudice.

Having found an empty table, I sat down and took a sip of coffee. On reflection, I didn't like coffee, and had no idea why I'd ordered it. But, I had paid, so I'd damn well finish it.
As I reached this revelation, I also noticed a couple enter the coffee shop and sit near the window. They caught my attention primarily because they were dressed in 18th or 19th century periodic clothing. The pair looked slightly agitated, checking their watches - concealed in their costumes - and looking around, at the door and the nearby street. Therefore, I assumed they were waiting for someone. Presently, the man turned with a sigh, and said to the woman:
"Right, he's late. Let's just get on with it."
Settling back, I prepared to see what exactly it was...

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said the lady to him suddenly, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?"
'Mr. Bennet' jumped, seemingly startled by the dialogue. Composing himself, he replied that he had not.
"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it."
'Mr. Bennet' made no answer.
"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his 'wife' impatiently.
"You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."
Suddenly, a man rushed into the shop. He was obviously flustered, and somewhat nervous. Running his hand through his hair, then down his face to a small goatee, he approached the table.
" Sorry. Sorry, sorry sorry." He offered, spreading his hands out widely, "So sorry..."
Then, in a booming voice, he continued;
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man..."
"Colin..." The man seated interrupted, "We've started. Do try to keep up. You're not voicing Mr. Men anymore."

I watched them continue for a few more minutes, but started to feel awkward. Most of the other customers had started to slowly slip out the door, offering polite smiles to the thespians as they passed by. Deciding I couldn't finish the coffee after all, I threw it over Colin, along with the remains of a muffin.
Later, the police arrested me. They got the wrong man, if you ask me. If anything, I was the injured party.

There's some sort of gang outside my house. Late at night, they walk past, sometimes stopping nearbye to talk in an unfamilar dialiect. They all wear long black coats and big hats, their faces hidden by large beards. They seem polite enough, but I'm not sure. Probably Goths, up to no good...
On reflection, they might be Hasidic Jews...

“Brian! Brian Simmons, is that you?”
Brian turned, taking in the figure that was rapidly approaching him. Similatiously, he tried to hide the tin of supersaver beans he had been studying.
“Yes… It’s…”
“John! John Booth – we were in the Co-op together – remember: you worked there for a week back in ’99, stacking shelves! I had a smaller moustache back then though!”
Brian looked slowly up and down the little man in front of him… yes, the moustache was familiar, and so was the excitable figure it was attached to.
“Oh yes, you were acting manager that week, weren’t you... That was supposed to be your ‘big break’. [Here Brian laughed nervously] So, how’d that work out for you anyway?
“Oh…” John replied, “Well, remember June? There were allegations. I lost the sexual harassment case.”
“Ah… yes, that would be bad.
“Anyway, how’s the family? I remember you talking about your kids – Tom and... and Lucy, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that was them. Caroline got custody after the divorce. I haven’t seen them since she moved to Carlyle. Of course, I tried to get joint custody, but it’s hard when you live in a Ford Escort.”
“Yes, I can imagine” Brian muttered. For a moment, all he could think to ask was ‘what model of Ford Escort?’ but suddenly, a memory surface:
“How are your parents then? I remember them picking you up one day in that old camper van! Always looked like it was about to explode.”
“They’re dead, I’m afraid.”
“Oh… what happened?”
“The camper van exploded. Dad survived, but he didn’t make it through the year.”
“Ah, that’s often the way, I suppose.” Brain attempted to reassure him, “broken heart, was it?”
“No… not really. He was savaged by bears.”
“Oh.”
Brian tried to think of something to say, but he couldn't think of any words of sympathy that seemed appropriate. Smiling politely, he began to back away slowly until he was first out of the store, then by his car. He got in, and reversed out of the car park. By the time he was backing onto the main road, all he could see was a moustache, sadly watching him through a pair of automatic doors.

Today, I acquired my own nemesis. It is a big day in a man's life when he acquires his archenemy, and can shape the rest of my life. What tragic backstory do we have? How did you become enemies? What colour is his hat? All questions that people will ask when you tell them about your foe.
So what form does he take? This Moriarty to my Holmes, this Janitor to my J.D, this tub of lard to my exercising fat man, this... I've ran out of them... I don't owe you an apology...
Well, he is rather more bland than many famous villains. His name is Clive, he's 42 and owns a small shop selling mobile phone accessories. You know, those small shops you see with the shiny clip-on covers and individual number keys? To start with, he is simply a hindrance to me - running up behind me and pushing me into puddles, signing me up to newsletters I don't want, and tipping out my trashcan. However, as time goes on, I expect he'll become more threatening - killing my best friend, stealing a train or maybe eating starving orphans. His back story will expand, maybe he's my long-lost brother, who knows? Then, we'll join forces for a Christmas, child-friendly Special.
Still, I'm excited at all the possibilities that lie ahead. I just hope he doesn't kill me outright, that would just be impolite.
And the one thing I can't stand is an impolite Nemesis.

A Latesummer day's dream.

I sighed deeply. The bus was late, and it was beginning to rain again. I waited a few minutes, looking at my watch intently, to see if that would help. Just as I was about to give up hope, I saw a speck of grey in the distance. I watched, hopefully, until it became a more solid, bus-shaped object, which duly stopped in front of me.
I got up and, seeing no-one approach the door from inside the bus, rushed onwards. However, as the door opened, I realised I had missed several passengers waiting to exit.
Around two dozen mice rushed from the bus, cheering and waving tiny medieval weaponry. I recoiled, somewhat startled.
"Hey!" One of them yelled, "Which way to the council offices?"
I studied the mouse. He was slightly bigger than the rest, although it didn't make much difference. His armour was more shiny, his clothing grander, and his sword bigger. As I watched, two more mice approached, holding a shield. The first mouse got onto this, and they raised him up. A fourth mouse stood nearby, waving a flag enthusiastically.
It was safe to assume, I assumed, that this first mouse was some sort of leader...
"Well... You want to head down this street, then take a left onto Carswell Lane." I replied. Frankly, I didn't know if this was true or not. I didn't even know where Carswell Lane was.
"What are you doing anyway?"
"Too long we have lived under the feudal oppression of this government" He yelled, "Too long have we suffered the injustice of repressive laws and unfair taxation. We will overthrow them!"
"Oh." I replied, "How?"
"We... will... Eat Their DOCUMENTS! Without proper records, confusion will ensue. Then, we will take over!"
"But... won't most of their records be on computers?"
"Oh... then... we chew through the cables!"
"I think they have a coating to stop that." I replied.
The mouse looked at me, about to say something. Then he signed, and climbed down from the shield. The mice, formerly brimming with purpose, started to wander around dejectedly. After a few minutes, the leader lit up a cigarette and wandered off. The rest of the mice, 8 of whom were dragging a tiny catapult, followed him at a respectful distance.
I watched them go , until my thoughts were interrupted by the bus driver:
"Oi! Mate, you gettin' on or not?"
"Oh. Sorry." I replied, "No. I only came to see if you'd be on time. And you weren't."
I suppose if I continue to test the reliance of bus companies, then I should expect these kind of things to happen. But frankly, I wish I'd just stayed in bed.

Yes, I changed the blog setup a little. And yes, it still looks plain, boring, and barely functional. Like your sister.
If I can be bothered, I might make it more exciting one day. I don't imagine you give a damn, I certainly don't. All I know is that the text goes aaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll the way to the left now, and that makes me pretty gosh-darned happy...

When I look back on my childhood, I always remember my father's stories fondly. He would always tuck me in at night, sit down, and tell me a fantastical story. They would always be full of magic, adventure, and bright lights.
When I was seven, I was forced to grow up rather quickly. It transpired my father's stories, which I had thought simply to be the result of an over-active imagination, were in fact hallucinations he was experiencing due to years of abusing hard drugs. My childhood was abruptly crushed when he shot a clown he mistook for one of his fantasy villains. Unable to escape, he was kicked to death by a unicorn he thought he saw.
In my mind, however, he is still the well-dressed, twitchy man who would tell me daily stories. I suppose it can be hard to look back on the past and see it as it really was.

A documentry on Irons

In the wild, of course, man and iron are natural enemies. But, when raised together in captivity, it has been shown that the two can interact peacefully. In some cases, they have even been shown to bond and work together.
Irons first came to public attention thanks to the entertainment industry. While irons had been known about by a percentage of the population as a weapon to fight creases, knowledge of their existence spread mainly due to their ability to create mirth in domestic situations. The famous sequence, where an iron is inadvertently left on a shirt or pair of trousers, and causes various amounts of damage, was first popularised by William Ironson in the 1921 silent film, "Troubles of Lordship". In one sequence, the titular Lord is forced to iron his own trousers as his maid is ill. Distracted by a knock at the door, the Lord leaves the iron on his best trousers. Soon, of course, the iron burns through the trousers, starting a fire that kills 17 people.
Ironson, the child of an Ironmonger and a triangle, became an instant star due to his now-famous routine. In the decades that followed however, he became more and more despondent due to typecasting. Unable to get any serious acting roles, Ironson returned to his original passion - the stage - in 1983, and retired from film and television. However, in recent years, he appears to be more nostalgic in regards to his film roles, reprising his part for several charity events.

I am writing on the right! I am flaunting social norms, and there's nothing anyone can do about it!
Bet you all feel small now...

It was dark at first. Then, slowly, I realised my eyes were closed. Once opened, I found the room to be somewhat brighter. Struggling with my quest for light, I got out of bed and stumbled towards the window, intent on opening the curtains. However, as I approached, I noticed a sticky note attached to the them. Leaning closer, I read it: "DO NoT Open the WINdoW!"
The handwriting was definitely mine, but it was shaky, as if I was writing it while scared. I didn't remember writing it however, so I disregarded the warning.
Pulling back the curtains, I was greeted by an unfamiliar sight. A tramp, dressed in torn shirt and jeans, was stood just outside the window. He had an eye-patch, and as he noticed me, he began to wave enthusiastically with his left hand - or, to be precise, left hook. I froze for a few seconds, and, not detecting movement, he seemed to lose sight of me. Dejectedly, he began to look around, first peering around the room through the window, them moving to the other windows of the house. After a while, he began to search in the trees near the gate, and while his back was turned, I dropped the blind and returned to bed.
I'm not sure what I've gotten into this time, or how to get rid of him.
I still have some sulfuric acid in my cupboard. I suppose I could throw that at him.

It was getting cold. Looking around, I noticed several penguins settling down in the corner of my room. Hopefully, their presence will illustrate the level of coldness present. In reality, they had lived here first. It was, I imagine, foolish of me to move my house into a penguin enclosure.
Shivering, I set fire to myself. Then I went to bed.

Nature

When looking at a badger, I often imagine how easy it would be to kill it with my teeth.
But I don't, and the world keeps on turning.

I knew it had been foolish to leave the door open - there had been reports of bears in the area all week. Now, however, it was too late for regrets. I had to deal with this.
First, I'd tried ignoring the bear. Sitting rigid at the table, I'd made a point of reading my whole newspaper. However, when I finished, he was still sitting opposite, staring intently across the table at me. It was no good, I had to acknowledge him.
I tried to act casually. I smiled at him in what I hoped was a friendly manner. Spotting his opportunity, he leaned across the table.
"Have you heard about our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ?" He asked.
I looked at him in confusion. After a moment, he realised I wasn't going to reply. Reaching for the floor, he picked up a briefcase and started to rummage around inside it.
"I have some pamphlets here, you might like to look at them."
I politely declined. He looked rather deflated, and there is nothing more depressing than a sad bear. I made awkward smalltalk for a few minutes, then he left to catch a bus.

I was wet, and dressed as a women. It had not been a good night.
After a few minutes, an elderly man wearing a crown, dressing gown and slippers opened the door.
"Hello. I am a real Princess."
He looked at me somewhat dubiously, but let me in anyway. He told me I could stay the night, and his wife set off to prepare a room for me.
The room was, to be fair, rather nice. It had a quaint, old-world charm to it. The bed, however, left something to be desired. It seemed to be made of twenty mattresses, and then twenty feather beds on top of the mattresses. However, I slept the night there.
In the morning, The King and Queen asked how I slept.
"Oh terribly bad!"I replied, in my best Princess voice. "I have hardly closed my eyes the whole night! Heaven knows what was in the bed. I seemed to be lying upon some hard thing, and my whole body is black and blue this morning. It is terrible!"
They seemed delighted. Apparently, the old bitch had hidden a pea under my mattresses when she prepared the room. Feeling it through the bed meant I had the delicate skin of a real Princess. Before I could voice my displeasure, they attempted to force me into marriage with their son.
No-one makes a fool of me with legumes. I killed them all, and burned the mattresses.
Now this is a true story.

I met Doctor Dolittle today. He tells me he is glad that no-one else can talk to animals. We wouldn't like what the bears have to say.
He's probably right. What they do in the woods in bad enough.

Find a penny...

I found a penny and picked it up.
I did not have good luck. In fact, I had a cut on my finger, and caught something from the penny. I'm going to die now, but it's probably for the best.
For the rest of my days, I aim to eradicate rhymes. They are a cancer on our society, corrupting our youth and stealing our jobs.

"Hey! We should get married!"
I looked at her across the table. Truth be told, I wasn't too keen on the idea. I didn't agree with marriage on principle anyway, and I couldn't really imagine spending my life with her.
"That's a big step."
"Yea, maybe it's too soon. Lets do something though. We never seem to do anything. When I first met you, you seemed so full of life. You came into the cafe like you owned the place, ordered a coffee. Remember, I said it looked like rain, and you said 'I don't care, I've got a hat!'
But now, you just sit around looking bored."
"Look..." I examined her name-badge, "Mary-Lou... I'm sorry, I just came in for a coffee. We barely know each other."
"How can you say that! After all we've been through - remember when I brought you that menu? It meant something to you then."
"I'm sorry... This isn't working."
I continued to apologise politely, but I was starting to panic. Fortunately, I could the manager's eye, and he made my coffee to go. I escaped onto the street, glad to be out of that place. I'd wasted 6 minutes of my life on her, and I wouldn't waste another second.
Looking back though, I know she was right.
It looks like rain.

Coal. Image via Wikipedia In my more insane moments, I entertain a paranoid fantasy that Al-Qaeda are out to get me. I know that the notion is insane - I have no intention of joining a Christian-Jewish conspiracy to destroy Islam. Singling me out specially would seem to be a huge waste of resources on their part, I know, but this does not help dispel the worry.
During my last episode, I became convinced that Al-Qaeda operatives were in place outside my house. I barricaded the doors, and promptly built myself a coal shelter to hide in. However, the extensive subterranean work required to build my coal bunker took several months, and severely weakened the structural integrity of my house. By the time I had finished working on the coal bunker, my fear had passed. I filled the bunker with coal, and got on with my life.
My house has now collapsed into the gaping crevasse that previously housed my coal. The men who inspected it say there was no sign of terrorist activities: Instead, they blame me for digging underneath the foundations.
I know better though. I think they're in on the conspiracy. I think everyone is.
Fortunately, I'm feeling a lot less paranoid these days.

I bought the Daily Mail today. Unsurprisingly, it tasted like cow vomit, even with the addition of salt and vinegar.
However, the coupons made for a few minutes amusement. I like to cut them out and glue them to immigrants. I think the Mail would be proud.

Unlike anything else here, this story is a work of fiction. Please, please, please don't go 'round thinking I buy the Daily Mail. Or even the Mail on Sunday. Is it worth whoring your values for £10 off things you don't buy at Tesco? You tell me...

Truth be told, this isn't the best medium to tell you about my superhero team. It should be a comic, or at the least, a badly adapted live-action film. In fact, even a cartoon suitable for 5-10 year olds would be better. However, I lack artistic skills, and my budget won't stretch to hiring professional actors. Anyhow, I'll soldier on as best I can.

Hero: The Trashman
By day, a mild-mannered trashman. By night, a mild-mannered hero dressed as a trashman.
Special Abilities: Can operate a bin lorry. Can list all public holidays that clash with rubbish collection.
Catchphrase: I'm taking out the garbage! And also you. Because you are akin to garbage
(There were worries that the first sentence -the original phrase - was too vague, and would cause confusion)

Hero: The Mime
Dressed in traditional mime garb, this fearless hero silently fights street crime.
Special Abilities: Can summon invisible walls to hinder enemies. Will never give away information. Can seamlessly merge into a crowd
Catchphrase: (He's miming it)

Hero: Thug The Terrifying
During the day, Conrad Brown is a boring accountant. However, every second Thursday night, he is overcome by a rush of testosterone and becomes a neolithic caveman.
Special Abilities: Cannot operate a telephone. Hits things with a club. Fights Dinosaurs, even though they didn't coexist.
Catchphrase: Ugg? Me Cliche...

Originally, Dr Bruce Banner was going to join us. However, we couldn't see what use he would be. When we asked him about his super-powers, he said we wouldn't like him when he's angry. However, the mime signed that we didn't like him anyway, and he left in a strop. I feel sorry for him, but he wouldn't have been much use. Not like the Incredible Hulk, who joined last week. To make him different from Thug, We've dressed Hulk in a suit and taught him Received Pronunciation.

To bath and beyond.

Hazley, I opened my eyes. Too bright. I closed them, and went back to sleep.

After a moment, I became aware of a strange sensation - I couldn't feel most of my body. Opening my eyes again, I forced myself to sit upright. Yes, once again, I was in a bathtub full of ice. I looked down at the fresh stitch-marks on my torso and wondered which of my organs had been taken now.
Damn the Natural History Museum!

The name's Hartman. Hank Hartmon. I'm a cop.
Two weeks ago, my partner was killed by a maniac known only as the Frenchman. He was 3 days away from retirement. I tracked down the guy responsible, but I broke procedure. They let him go, and I've been suspended. So I'm going to have to get justice myself.
I drink too much. Same with smokes. That's why I'm here in this shitty bar, drinking generic beers, and throwing back scotch like my neck's convulsing. But soon, I'll be faced with an important challenge in my quest for justice. I'll be able to stop the drinking straight away. Hell, I won't even shake. Be able to fire a handgun accurately up to half a mile, even though I've got a litre of alcohol in me.

Speaking of a litre of alcohol, I really need to pee. But I'm a Hollywood Cliché, and they don't use the bathroom. Not ever.

I opened the curtains. Noticing at once the lack of sunshine that normally caressed my exposed nipples, I took a look around.
Everything was red. It would appear someone has moved my house to Mars while I slept. It was probably Loki. That old trickster, when will he learn?
There is no oxygen here. This could be a problem.