With a shudder...

...the van stopped. Shudderingly.
 The back, where I was held captive, was deceptively large. At first it had been to dark to see, but I'd quickly adjusted and grown accustomed to my surroundings. I was not in a small van, as I first thought: actually, it was a large van. Not huge, but a decent size. In the front corner - that which was nearest van's driver, presumably - huddled a Mexican family. I could tell they were Mexican from their costumes: stereotypes on the verge of being offensive, with large sombreros and ponchos over paunches. What I assumed to be the father stood uneasily, his chins shaking under his moustache, and offered me his hand.
 "Greeting Senior" He began. Addressing me in broken English, he told me that two days ago, two bears came to his house disguised as his aunt. Knocking him out, then his family, they had bundled them into this van and headed for wherever.
 So we return to present. The van, shudderingly, had shuddered to a stop. I can hear the bears coming towards the door. I don't know what horrors await me outside, but I sure wish I'd fashioned a shiv out of something... Those Mexicans look pretty pointy...

Bear naked.

I took another look at the two figures on my doorstep. They were obviously bears - probably the same bears that usually terrorise me, they all look the same - but, over their hulking form and hairy bodies, they had donned disguises. Well, not good disguises: I couldn't tell, but I think they were meant to be Chuck Norris. Or maybe Hermione Norris. They were pretty ambiguous disguises.
 I stood looking at them. They didn't look back, instead shuffling their feet and looking at the sky or the ground. After a while, I asked what they wanted. The larger of the two looked at, taking a swipe at me with his claw. When I woke up, I was in the back of a truck, driving across bumpy terrain. Or flat terrain, covered in the elderly. Whichever it was, it didn't make for a comfortable journey.
 I don't know where they're taking me. I just hope it's not Italy. I can't go back there, the Mafia are after me.

Freedom, sweet freedom!

The mayonnaise is no more! This morning, I experienced a genuinely new feeling when Max accidently rescued me. Wandering into my kitchen with the intention of making surreptitious and unnecessarily expensive phone-calls abroad, he knocked the murderous condiment from the table, smashing its evil egg-blood across my once-clean floor.  My joy at seeing Max lasted almost 5 minutes, before he tried to clean up and almost drowned me in mayo.

desperately, I looked around...

That's not a very good sentence, is it? Well, sorry. Live with it.
 Anyway, I looked around, in a desperate way. It was no use, there was no escape: Even if I could make it across my kitchen, around the open fridge door, and to the window, it would be no good: My hands were tied, and the window closed. The back door was locked, and the key upstairs in my coat. The cat-flap, foolishly, was only big enough for a cat. For months I'd stop at the magic stall down the road and eye up the magic suppositories that let you shrink or grow at will, but I just couldn't see how any humour could arise from them. Now, of course, I was being haunted by the one product I hadn't impulse bought.
 My captor sat at the table, mocking me silently. Sightless, but always watching, he fixed a milky-white stare on me. Daring me, daring me to escape. But it was no good, I knew I couldn't escape
 I just hate it when mayonnaise goes bad...

A series of unfortunate revenges

I took a look at the door in front of me. I didn't look very strong, I could probably kick my way through it. But that was unnecessary, as my mother had explained at Christmas. Instead, I decided to do the polite thing, and knocked on the door. To keep my anger on an even keel I knocked loudly though.
 After a few minutes, I heard some shuffling from inside. Duly, a goth opened the door and looked at me in a depressed way. Resisting the temptation to shout "Vampire!" and steak him through the heart - as I am wanton to do in cliched fashion - I instead began my spiel:
 "Mornin' love." I began. He didn't look impressed, but I didn't know if he could. "You called for a plumber?"
 "No." He replied plainly.
I sighed. This wasn't going to plan. Pointing at the floor, I lured the goth to lower his head in inquest. Reaching into my toolkit, I picked out a wrench, and hit him over the head. Dragging him into his flat, I stole his clothes and makeup. Dressing the goth in my stolen plumber costume, I then dragged him outside to my stolen van and dumped him in the driver's seat. I am trying to escape my life: Back in my flat, a severely concussed plumber is wearing my clothes and hearing about Max's trip to the supermarket, where he had been racially abused by two Koreans.
 Dressed as the goth, I headed out to obtain another persona. Perhaps I'll be a supermodel, who knows?

So I'm drunk...

...Let's see where this goes.
 "Erotica for the elderly?"
 Max was still here, sitting on my fridge, talking about his job. His dream job, in fact. Me, I was looking for a job myself. I'll admit, my last job seemed perfect: Professional alcohol finisher: Basically, I'd hide under a table, and finish other people's drinks, so they wouldn't lose face in front of the lads, or whatever. Essentially, this had gone badly wrong: After a week of drinking from a straw, I realised it wasn't linked to alcohol. In fact, it was a catheter.
 "How does the the whole thing work then?"
 "Well." Max began, "I get an erotic work, and read it to the old people, obviously. I mean, usually, they can't really hear me, so they have no idea what's going on. But I think they like it. Well, I have no idea what they think, but I slip them a few Viagra pills, so they think they enjoyed it."
 No, it was no use. I didn't care for Max's stories at the best of times, and this was just ridiculous. I'd subconsciously blanked out Max's words, but he was still talking. In fact, he was reliving his erotic tales - many of which featured the high seas - and using expressive, disturbing hand motions.
 Worried, I edged towards the fridge. There was a cucumber in there, and I wanted to destroy it before Max found the bloody thing...

"So, anyway"...

Max began. "I was on my way back from work, when..."
 It suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea what Max did for a living. When I first met him, he'd sold insurance against giant rat attacks, but I knew that he'd gone out of business soon after. Since then, he'd gone from one job to the next, as hilarious situations required. This time, however, I decided to bite the bullet and just ask what he did.
 "Oh." He replied, "You know Green Meadows? The retirement home?"
I nodded in the affirmative.
 "Well, I read erotic fiction to the old folks there."
I got up and left. It was my home, but I don't care. Behind me, I caught the occasional word. Words like fellatio, sponge-bath, reach-around, bran flakes and purple. Disturbing words. Sick words.
 Passing out my door, I tipped over my emergency petrol. With any luck, the place would burn, and take Max with it.

A mooving story...

"Two hundred?..."
 "Two hundred head of cattle, that's what we want to buy."
I looked back at the two cowboys stood on my doorstep. This was getting stupid. Yesterday, the council came 'round and tore down the railway line - which apparently lacked planning permission, and also sped trains onto a busy road and killed a lot of people - which left several carriages sitting around in my garden, looking bored. From these carriages, in due course, had opened shyly and released a large amount of cows, who proceeded to moo and wander around my garden. Since no-one else seemed to claim ownership of the creatures - who were now debated the works of Socrates and eating my hats - they were assumed to belong to me. As such, any passing cow fancier was attempting to purchase the animals from me for what they thought a fair price. To bring this paragraph back to where it began, I shall explain that these men were two such would-be cow buyers.
 "Well," I replied. "Two hundred head? Yes. Yes, that sounds fine."
I then sold them two hundred cows, and they left. My sale made a rather pleasing conclusion to the incident, which is more than can be said for this sentence.

A summer's tale...

I looked at Max. He looked back at me sheepishly. He's done something, I thought, I just know it.
 I took a look out the window: Nope, nothing there. Frankly, I'd been expecting another mob of recent: Angry Wookies, maybe. But no, my garden looks quiet. Not that creepy almost-too-quiet they have in films, but a normal quiet, with the occasional noise of no particular interest, and only a few zombies in the distance.
 "What've you done?"
Max continued to look sheepish. Maybe, I hoped, it would something anti-climatic, like that time he spent a week worrying he would die because he picked a peanut out of his teeth after he peed, but before he washed his hands.
 "You've done something, I can tell."
After the recent Smurf debacle, I hadn't really been happy leaving Max alone. But yesterday, he escaped on the train to the highway. After some questioning, I found out he'd stolen an ice-cream truck that had been abandoned in the pileup. Then, filling it with vegetables, he had raised the hopes of local children. And, as they gave him money for a refreshing, icy beverage to cool them down, he'd thrown celery at them and sped off.
 Max, while usually well-meaning, had a very cruel streak...

Trains, trains and duckpondmobiles.

Outside, a metal horse sped past. Smoke billowing from its nostrils, the train sped across my backyard, surmounting a bridge over my duckpond. It was certainly a rather romantic train; an old-fashioned steam affair, with beautiful hand-painted red carriages. However, setting aside the beauty, the train was something of a nuisance.
 It all started two days ago. A moustached, gross man in a tight black suit arrived in my house. "Your ranch kid? How much for it?" He demanded. "Ain't got no ranch." I replied, leaning back on my fencepost, tipping my hat back rakishly, lighting up a smoke. I probably shouldn't have encouraged the man, but it seemed harmless at the time. The day after I refused the man's offer, two heavy-set men with high waistlines and large braces arrived to muscle me. They shoved me around for a while, then besieged me in my house while a team of workmen built the train-line from a hastily-constructed station across the road, to the highway behind my house. Actually, the rail line lead to the side of the motorway, then stopped. Trains kept flying onto the road, sending cars spinning and vans cartwheeling into the sunset.
 As for me, I've settled into this brave new world. Every day, I meet exciting new people from exciting locations. Actually, most of them are Mr. Jenkins from across the road.
 He never gets anywhere, but I think he likes the trip out. It's been lonely for him since his wife was torn down to build the new airport that stretches from their house to my garage.

A special treat.

Yes, dear reader. As a special treat, here's a photograph of my friend Ben being savaged by a Tiger. This really happened, and it looked exactly as shown above...

Everything's about tiny men nowadays...

Max stopped cleaning, and looked up at me.
 "What're we going to do with all the Smurf bits?"
I looked at the small pile he'd made. Sure, we could probably dispose of the dead mice easily enough: If anyone asked too many questions, we could pretend to be mice exterminators, I suppose. We could even buy fake moustaches, overalls and a painted truck, if things got out of hand. But Smurf parts, on the other hand, we probably not binnable. And I don't think we can put them in the recycling either...
 Gathering the pieces up, I headed into the house to find an envelope. With any luck, the Internet will soon yield me James Cameron's home address... I'm not entirely sure what brought this on...

Why I shouldn't be left alone...

Over at Iced Tea and Sarcasm, I've just seen a video of a Russian guy drinking a bottle of vodka in twelve seconds... I'm having ideas...

 And yes, I was too lazy to embed the video myself. But I pretty much summed up what happened. Oh, and people spoke Russian...

Mice, mice everywhere, and not a drop to drink...

The Mice were back. I'd found them this morning, milling around in my basement. They seemed to have upgraded their weaponry since the last time, and some were wearing adorable little camouflage costumes.
 "Sup?" I asked the leader casually.
 "My friend!" He replied, "We became disillusioned with the rebellion. We are now soldiers of fortune!"
I'll admit, the leader's dialogue was somewhat clunky and expositional. On the other hand, he was doing very well for a mouse. He was leaning against the wall now, in camo fatigues, and holding a cigarette.
 Oh, I told him. Secretly though, I was beginning to plot ways I could use an army of mice... After all, I have a lot of enemies. And some friends as well... Ooh, I'd make them pay...

 Anyway, the Smurfs were back. They too were milling around, in the garden. They'd cut some branches, and started to set up for a siege. Tiny smurf engineers had begun work on tiny catapults and battering rams. I'd tried to negotiate with them, but to no avail. Similarly, my bribes of catfood had been unsuccessful. I offered them one last chance to leave, then set the mice on them.
 The garden's a blood mess. Mice guts are spread across the path. Tiny blue arms are stuck up trees, little white hats are piled sadly beside my rosebush. Max arrived earlier, and since this was his fault, I sent him to work with a leaf blower, cleaning the place up.

It's been a few days...

I'm sorry I haven't blogged for some time, but I've been trapped in the bowels of a Martian Spaceship. There, they carried out horrific tests on me, such as making me write essays on the history of European tourism...
 However, orchestrating a cunning distraction using a funnel and a bag of grass clippings, I escaped from the ship and fell all the way to safety. It would appear I'm indestructible. I intent to push my luck by wrestling fire-spewing bears for a living.

"Don't open the door!"

"Just... Leave it!"
 For me, not wanting to open the door was a familiar sentiment. Today, however, it was Max voicing the command. He'd arrived at mine, looking rather flushed, about 5 minutes ago. He'd rushed in, drawn the curtains and tried to hide behind the fridge. Yanking him out, I'd placed him in a chair and asked him what was going on. Before he could answer, the ominous door had knocked, taking us neatly back to the start of our story.
 "Why? What've you done?"
 "Oh, don't ask. Just... Well, do you have an escape tunnel?"
I did, but I wasn't going to tell Max. I might need it one day, to escape him.
 "No," I replied. "You destroyed them all last year, when you pretended to be a Dwarfish miner in my backyard."
 By now, my cat-like curiosity had kicked in, and I was attempting to peer out, through the kitchen curtains. At first, I couldn't see anyone outside. But, looking down, I noticed my callers: Smurfs!
 A large, yet tiny, mob of Smurfs had gathered by the front door. Bearing pitchforks and burning torches, they were obviously pissed about something.
 "Seriously Max, what have you done now?"
Max, head in his hands, refused to answer. I watched the Smurfs: After a few minutes, they began to mill around, their anger replaced by boredom. A few more minutes passed, and the mob turned to leave as one. On the way out, they stopped long enough to tip over a gnome.
 Max, still at the table, refused to answer why the Smurf mob were after his blood, except to mutter occasionaly, "But they looked so tasty..."
 I expect they'll be back tomorrow. But I'm not worried, I've set the sprinkler system up in the garden. That ought to see them off...

A history lesson...

Before becoming the diarist and biographer of Samuel Johnson we all know and love, James Boswell was a young man seemingly destined to follow his father in the legal profession. In Edinburgh, Boswell fell in love with a Catholic actress, and his pissed-off father sent him away to Glasgow. Then, of course, the 30-odd miles between the two cities would have been more of a problem. Boswell, however, determined to engage in teenage rebellion, and intended to run away to London, convert to Catholicism, and become a monk.
 And that's where I come in. This, dear reader, is not teenage rebellion. Teenage rebellion should be something wild, like getting drunk and running down someone's grandmother, or maybe growing opium poppies in a basement and making heroin, before injecting it into puppies. Becoming a monk is not an act of rebellion. No-one looks at monks and mutters rebel under their breath. Monks rarely, for example, form a motorcycle gang and terrorise shop owners.
 So my message is, James Boswell - while otherwise well-grounded in his beliefs (See, for example, his splendid poem 'No Abolition of Slavery; or the Universal Empire of Love') - was a rather stupid teenager. I mean, stupider (I know) than the rest of us.
 Or was he? Perhaps Boswell was in fact playing the long game of teenage rebellion. Perhaps, after securing a place of trust in the largely anti-Catholic community, he would systematically abuse some children. Of course, this is another example of misunderstanding teenage rebellion. Boswell was clearly a man who liked to take things to extremes, one way or the other.
 Why, you ask, am I telling you this? The answer is simple: I should be doing an essay on European Tourism History. As such, do any of you have sinks that need cleaning? I'm willing to travel....

At the factory...

I watched the machines stamp down, the huge moulded pieces of metal flattening under the force. Moving along the conveyor belt, mechanical arms reached down, manipulating the metal and making, well, more mechanical arms. More machines reached out, putting the pieces together, and depositing the humanoid android carcasses into what resembled a roller-coaster seat, with a metal barrier dropping down around them. Continuing down the factory, I saw the blank androids entering the last parts of the production line: First, the chip boards and other thought processing units were inserted into various crevices on the human figures. Then, they were connected to the master computer, their software was updated to the latest patches. Lastly, laid down flat on the benches, they passed into human hands - a line of skilled artisans, programming the last details.
 "What happens here?" I asked the supervisor.
 "Ah, this is where the magic occurs. The technicians add the 'human touch' to the whole thing, you see?"
I didn't see.
 "In short, they program the android's thoughts. They make sure, for instance, that the androids dream of electric sheep."
 I glared at her, but she didn't seem to be making a joke. I asked, hesitantly:
 "Like in the book?"
 "What book? Everyone says that... No, we programme them like that so they only think of electronic sheep. They used to think of real sheep, you see. And that had pretty disastrous consequences... Did you know, if a sheep is startled a lot, it doesn't produce any wool? You can spend a whole day pulling their udders, but nothing!"
 I nodded even though the woman was a moron. Sometimes, I wonder if we've become too reliant on technology.

"Almost there" I mumbled. Don't worry, this isn't a sex blog... Or is it?
 Anyway, I wasn't having sex, I was reattaching Max's eyes. In a cartoon fashion, they had popped out of their sockets when an attractive woman passed by, and hadn't gone back in. After a few minutes of blind wandering, and accompanied by the mocking of heartless children and cocker spaniels, he had arrived at mine. And, as usual, I had to sort out his problems.
 Frankly, I think Max is becoming to reliant on me. But, since his eyeballs were hanging off his face by the stalks, I didn't think this was the right time to discuss our (platonic) relationship. Actually, I didn't really help him much: When I went to get medical books for help, a passing dog wandered in and ate his eyes. Fortunately, I've drawn pupils on ping-pong balls, and stuck them in his eye sockets. Somehow, he seems to be operating fine.
 Max is, as always, a medical mystery. I don't want to ask him how his body still works though, in case the whole thing collapses. That'd be far too much effort to clean up, to be honest.
 I suppose I could just let that dog eat all of him... Nah...

In 1986,

A man called Steven wrote me that the Queen is Dead. Only two years after the brief period of dystopian dictatorship, and during a 11-year span of democratic dickship, the news came as quite a shock. However, the Smiths were wrong: The Queen wasn't dead. She was, in fact, in my kitchen.
 Now, not in 1986.

Insisting on being called Liz, she had forced her way into my house to look for a swan. While I was at first annoyed at the intrusion, I was glad on reflection: She owns a lot of swans, and I had often worried she couldn't take care of them all.
 After a few minutes, however, I began to worry: I'd knocked down, killed and then eaten something with my monster truck the night before. That was a bad sentence, I'll clarify: I knocked down and killed the something accidentally the night before, then eaten it. I'd cooked it first: I don't eat roadkill on the road itself: I'm not Mexican.
 I don't know where that racism came from, or what it means, so go ahead and ignore it.
Anyway, I think it could have been a swan: It had been long-necked and white feathered. I mean, it could have been a tiny giraffe returning from a stag-night prank, but I found that unlikely. Besides, it tasted like swan. I think... It certainly tasted like one of the many animals I had eaten that legally I shouldn't eat.
 Actually, it tasted a little like Dodo...
But I digress...
 Actually, I have no idea where I'm going with this. The Queen is still in the kitchen, opening one of my cupboards over and over again. She insists the swan is hiding there, and if she opens the door fast enough, she'll be able to catch him. I've phoned the police, but they tell me there's little they can do. I would raise more of a fuss, but I don't want to draw attention to myself. Any minute now, wildlife officers could burst in and find my Mr Burns-esq collection of endangered animal-based clothing.
 Also, someone might ask how I managed to run down something, then cook and eat it without - at any point - even wondering what it was...

It was getting late...

when I found Max on my doorstep. He was huddled in a ball, clutching a potted plant and giggling. Throwing a cursory glace around, I reached out and pulled him into the house.
 "You know," I started, trying to snatch the plant out of his hands, "This isn't what you're meant to do at all."
Shrugging, Max took another bite at the plant, ripping off leaves and stalk in one go.
 "Seems to be working." He muttered.
 He did appear to be right, of course. He was clearly stoned off his ass, which probably explained why he kept taking bites out of his cannabis plant. Wandering from the room long enough to fetch a UV lamp, I returned to find him heartily eating my cat food. Frankly, I was annoyed: Not only was he taking my stuff once again, but I had been saving that catfood for dinner.
 With a minimal amount of effort, I wrestled his foliage from him and inspected it. Looking closer at the plant, I realised it was a fern. Once again, Max had been duped. This didn't surprise me: He had one of those faces. You know, the ones you want to hit with a snowplow. Like Hitler.
 I feel this story should have led to some sort of punchline. I'm sorry it didn't really. But, I suppose Hitler was funny...
 Actually, no. No he wasn't. Shame on all of you!

The Wizard and me

I don't think I'd ever seen a man look so dejected. Filling his pipe absent-mindedly, to have something to with his hands as much as anything, Gandalf refused to meet my gaze. For my part, I looked past him at the fridge door, my mind organising a thousand pointless thoughts at lightspeed. After a lifetime, I took another drink and tried to sum up in words, emotions that I couldn't even comprehend.
 "I'm... sorry." I stumbled, as if he didn't know that. As if all I needed to do was apologise to make everything better.
 I drained my glass, and poured myself another. Cliches. That's all we can think of, when we really need to express our own thoughts. Another lifetime passed in a matter of seconds, and Gandalf finally looked me in the eye.
 "It's not you, it's me" I began. "I just don't believe in magic any more."
In the morning, he packed his things into three cardboard boxes. He spoke to me once, asking for the sellotape. We agreed to divide up the hobbits later, when he'd found somewhere to stay. He left in the evening, to stay in a B&B nearby.
 I haven't seen him since, but still look at dawn to the East.

Happy Easter...

I grabbed the shotgun and headed for the door. Around me, crowds of rabbits recoiled in fear. Outside, two children with baskets of eggs and faces full of fear huddled on my doorstep.
 "Get in!" I yelled, pulling them into the house hastily. Throwing a worried glance around, I locked the door, and double-checked the window barricades.
 Outside, it is Easter. The reanimated corpse of our Lord and Saviour ambles through the countryside, feasting on eggs, rabbits and all who stand in his way.
 Darkness falls, and I prepare to get through the night. Arming the children with whatever was at hand and telling them not to open the door for anyone but me, I set off into the country. There's talk of a colony off-land, where Jesus cannot reach. As for myself, I'm going to see if I can get petrol. If we can get moving, there might be hope. Every year, it's getting worse, I tell you.
 Well, at least I'm not Jewish...

The darkness withdraws...

Around me, I could make out vague figures in the shadows. They seemed to be moving towards me, in short, shuffled steps. At first, I assumed they could see as poorly as me in the smog, as they bumped into each other and fell over obstacles hidden in the shadows. However, with a minute my eyes had adjusted, and my captors still bumbled aimlessly. They were terrifying creatures, in principle: Large, man-like beasts with long stouts, whiskers and tiny, worthless eyes. Mole People! Sneaking from their sewers, these underground Morlocks had disguised themselves as the London Philharmonic Orchestra to lure me from my home, and drag me to their lair. Now, unfortunately, the joke was beginning to wear thin.
 After 3 days without food or water - they kept spilling it - I decided to escape. Really, it wasn't hard: They had done a poor job of tying me up, and I just had to be quiet to avoid the guards. When, eventually, they noticed my escape, defeating them was easy: I just tripped them up.
 Climbing out of their tunnels, I felt the sweet embrace of sunshine once more. Behind me, the mole people shuffled fearfully, unwilling to enter the sunlight, waiting for the darkness they loved so much. To be safe, I got a spade and flattened their molepersonhills, and returned home.
 I'm glad to be free, but the little buggers totally ruined my lawn...

I was in a forest...

"And another... another thing!" The tree hiccuped drunkenly, "She never lets me see the kids! Bitch!"
 I looked around sadly. It was no use, there was no-one else here: I didn't like the tree, but I felt sorry for him. His divorce had come through today, and someone needed to look after him.
 "It's ok big guy," I offered sympathetically. Reaching out, I patted his soft, punchable bark.
 "Hey!" He yelled, "Don't patronize me! I don't need you! I don't need anyone!"
Batting me away with a branch, he stormed off, towards the setting sun. After a few uneasy steps, he began to lose his balance, stumbling over roots and terrified wildlife.
 "Get away!" He yelled, as I again offered to help.
 Fine, I thought to myself, be a jerk. Turning on my heel, I went to leave. Behind me, I could make out the noises of the tree falling over.
A tree fell in the forest, and I heard it. But I'll never tell.

Happy April fools

I have played a trick on you all. Just wait, its coming at any moment.
 I lied. I'm sorry, I just wanted to be the big man.

So, safe in the knowledge a trick isn't being played on you, why not go look in your closets? There certainly isn't a fire-spewing bear in there!