As I stood at the British Embassy, waiting for the latest news on Max (he'd created a diplomatic incident while on holiday. Again.) it dawned on me I had no idea what happened to those kids who claimed to be mine. Further still, I had no idea what happened to that Mexican family. I'm not really very good at noticing things, I suppose, but it was worrying me that the dragon might have eaten them. Really, it had been foolish of me not to call the council the second I found a dragon living in my backyard anyway. Now, of course, if I was to report it had been there some time and I hadn't told anyone - coupled with the fact it ate a Mexican family and some orphans - I may be going back to jail.
 I can't go back to jail, not after the showers.
 You see, I prefer a bath myself.

Suddenly, in a blaze of glory...

I return to you! Thank you for waiting, loyal disciples. Or whatever...
 Anyway, my exams are over. Never again shall I learn Scottish History, tourism or metaphysics. Even if I need to learn areas of them again, I won't study them. Well, I'm a student, so it's not like I would have studied them anyway. But this means I'm free for the future, so I should be able to enliven your dull lives with my exciting exploits, and tales of bears. That rhymes. But I digress...
 So, its Summer. For me anyway. It's raining, but what the hell. Theoretically, the three-month break I have now should entail me finding a job. It seems like a good idea, anyway. Unless anyone wants to send me money. Hint, hint...
 But suddenly, I got brilliant news! Jobs, bah! Who needs them, when such brilliant, genuine e-mails as this arrive:

"To Hjkhkh Hkjhkh
hjkhkh
LONDON, kjhkh
Hjkhkh,

Are you still at hjkhkh?

You may be eligible to receive upto 71,019 GBP in government money that you would NEVER HAVE TO REPAY.


Complete your application at [a website, obviously]"

Strangely, I don't ever recall living in hjkhkh. But I'm sure it is just lovely there. Anyway, all I need to do know is sit back and wait for my £71,019 to arrive. I may buy a horse, and put a dress on it.

Gorillas, not Gorillaz

Gorillas do not know how to swim, and they sleep about 14 hours a day. I have no idea if The Gorillaz do this, but I'd like to think so. You know, unless they sleep in the sea. That would be foolish.

Don't worry!

Never fear, gentle reader, I'm not dead. Soon, I'll return, telling you more tales of excitement and adventure at the high seas, tales of sexual conquest, yaks, sea-lion wrestling and drunken tramp biting... Or whatever it is I do here...

We were at the train station

It wasn't a tube station. It wasn't midnight. It wasn't a brothel this time though, so Go Me!
 While I was certainly at an actual train station today, there were still no trains. The kids were milling around pointlessly, buying tomato soup from a vending machine and pouring it on tramps and passing dogs. A conductor in a uniform predating the war stood stiffly nearby. Growing weary of the trainlessness, I approached him to ask when any form of train would arrive.
 "Trains? Goodness Son, I haven't seen one of them since before the war. When I got this uniform" - I knew it - "Don't get many people here these days."
 I looked around. The train station, spreading extensively into the horizon, was packed with people. Moreover, the conductor was about 25, pale-faced and spotty, not a veteran of the Second World War rail service.
 "But don't worry!" He began again, "I have my own train service! I'll carry you to you destination!"
 Spreading his arms out, he encouraged the children to climb onto his back. They rushed forwards, excitedly, hesitantly. I reached out and stopped them, encouraging them to back away.
 Quickly, we reached the steps, where I shouted "RUN!" and we all ran.
 Behind us, trains began to pull into the station. I don't know what that was all about, but I don't think I'll be using public transport again...

In the City.

We were in the jam factory, as it seemed a good place to take the kids. Kids like jam, probably. Nearby machines cranked out copy after copy of Paul Weller, depositing him in tiny jars and sending him off to supermarkets. Nearby, the children were spreading jam on strips of wood and eating it. Overall, the Jam factory was a strange place. A large, moustached man in a purple, 3-piece suit was telling us about the history of jam. Apparently, it was created by God at the dawn of time.
 The Jam factory was, as I said before, a strange place. Frankly, I don't think they really knew about Jam, or The Jam, or anything. The second I got out of here, I was tipping of health and safety about this illegal cloning/cannibalism deathshop...

Well, better be off. The kids have to be down in the tube station at midnight.
Yes, I planned to work more titles of songs by The Jam into this blog. It didn't really work. At all. Sorry...

Sleeve-pulling and a complete lack of sodomy (luckily)

(there's nothing sinister about the title and the fact this blog features fictitious children. I just wanted to use sibilance)
 "Daddy!" a little sleeve-pulling voice called out. "We're bored."
I took another look at my multi-ethniced children. To be honest, I was seriously beginning to doubt they were mine at all. In fact, I think they might just be a group of orphans who've latched on to me. But I lack purpose, so I suppose I'll keep them 'till they're old enough to leave home, or I turn them into dog food.
 Or whatever you're meant to do with kids...

 Anyway, I'd ran out of ideas of what to do with them after the airport (Max is gone for a while. I'll forward his mail on to him, don't worry Max fans) so I'd continued the transport theme and taken them to the train station. There were no trains. In fact, the more I looked around, the more and more I doubted we were actually in a train station. Scantily-clad women were wandering around, and there seemed to be a lot of red upholstery, curtains and such. Taking a final look around, it struck me that we were actually in a brothel.
 I have no idea how I managed to confuse the two, but this is no place for children. I can't, in all good faith, leave them here. Oh well, maybe there'll be an accident at the jam factory...

Children and airports and crap.

I've taken my children to the airport. As far as you should be concerned, they wanted to see planes taking off, landing, eating and bathing themselves in ponds, or whatever planes do in the wild. Whatever you may hear, I wasn't attempting to stuff them into other people's luggage and get rid of them. Max, meanwhile, has been getting under my feet recently. His foolish antics, once lovable, have become tiring and crass. Packing a case for the gentleman, I've reminded him of his desire to visit Fiji.
 Max has never desired to visit Fiji, but I saw an advert and sent him on his way. Hopefully he'll be far away before he realises his case is full of obsolete Video cassettes and old newspapers. Still, dressed entirely in elk fur, he's ready for the trip. I'm unsure if he knows where Fiji is though, or what climate it has. If he did, I doubt he'd have opted for 7 pairs of underwear...
 For my part, I've left the kids in the airport cafe. I'll go back for them eventually, when they run out of muffins and cappuccinos.

More Lord of the Rings erotica...

I left the kids with Max earlier, intending to go to the shop. He said it would be fine, and he would tell them a story. Fortunately, the penny dropped before I got out of the house, and I was able to rush back in and wrestle the manuscript for the first volume of his masterpiece off of him (The Fellowship of the Ring, Who Have Orgies)
 As I hastily ate an entire packet of dry cereal, I took a look through the book. Starting from the beginning, I began to read:

 "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence and hookers, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton, where everyone had lots of sex.
 Bilbo was very rich and very peculiar, and had lots of sex
 Penis."

I put the book down, and continued chewing.
 Having finished the cereal, I hid the manuscript in the empty packaging. I then went outside, and fed the packaging to the dragon in the backyard. Some things are not fit for the eyes of men...

No more adventures in time and space...

So, I've gone back and smashed the time machine. Almost everything has gone back to normal. Max, unaware that time ever changed, has returned to his life's work - his erotic version of the Lord of the Rings (entitled, masterfully, "The Lord of the Rings, with Lots of Sex") which revolves mainly around his misunderstanding of everyone being after Frodo's ring...
 For my part, I've returned to the drudgery of my life as a housewife, or whatever I'm meant to have done. However, as I said, almost everything is back to normal: I seem to have gathered a flock of children, claiming to be mine from a different timeline. Dressed in rags and caked in filth and poverty, they insist I'm their father and have to look after them. Ah, what adventures me and my children of multiple ethnicities will get up to...

Adventures in time and space, part 3

Max messed with the time toaster machine thing again. He's gone too far this time, changing the world enormously. Outside, a giant cat is roaming the streets of London, lecturing passers-bye on the Capital Gains tax, and trying to acquire muffins. Vikings, confused by modern technology, have become trapped in Double-Decker buses across the country, and short men are being forced to grow moustaches at an incredible rate. Through all of this, Max sits at my kitchen table, muttering about how all he wanted was a slice of toast. I too want some toast, and feel these time-travel shenanigans have gone on too long.
 At first dawn, I intent to create a paradox and travel back to my basement last week, to destroy my toaster once and for all, and avoid this whole series of events.
 While I'm there though, I'll probably disguise myself and rob Max...

Adventures in time and space, part 2

"We could go and shove Stephen Hawkins!"
 "No." I replied, "That would be in bad taste. Besides, I like the man: remember when he taught you the value of friendship?"
 "Fine." Max replied, "But we've got a time machine, we should really be messing with more physicists."
With that, Max grabbed our time-travelling, Simpsons-inspired toaster and vanished into the either. Reappearing 16 seconds later, he looked incredibly smug.
 "I've given you rabies!" He laughed smugly. Trying to ignore his smugness, I asked how and why.
 "Time travel! And dogs!" He replied smugly. I don't really know how that statement deserved any smugness, it wasn't really and answer.
 I think I might bite him...

Adventures in time and space... Part 1

Following the apparent success of the time machine in scientific tests (Max sticking his hand in it), we have concluded that time travel is both safe and not unsafe. Indeed, over the last hour - at least, the last hour for you - Max and I have travelled to several historical events; the sacking of Rome, Max's failed first marriage to Anne of Cleves, the sacking of Rome again, (where we didn't see ourselves) and our local Woolworths store back before it closed down. These trips have all been a roving success: we even bought a lawn-chair from Woolworths, and a rampaging barbarian from Rome.
 However, my longstanding fear of damaging the space-time continuum appears to have been worth it's longstandingness, as rips in space have appeared across the living room, upsetting the goldfish and scaring my visiting grandmother, who dropped her tea. Determined not to let a drop of tea go unavenged, Max and I have launched war on Space and Time, intent on destroying the tyrannical rule of the laws of physics. We've already given Newton a good kicking...

Time memorial

"So, how was time travelling then?"
 Ok, an expositional question it's true, but I genuinely asked it. Well, not really, this blog is mainly one big lie. But anyway, in the confines of my fictional mad brain world, I genuinely asked this question. Of Max. Who, for some reason, had been left alone with the time machine.
 "Well," Max replied. "I went to the future. You know Robocop?"
 "Yea"
 "Well, it was nothing like that. All their cops were organic, like now. Except a few of them were grown from corn, I think. Organic corn."
 "Oh." I replied.
 "Yea." He continued, "And they gave me these pills. Want one?"
I looked at the for-offered pills. If my street-smarts were to be trusted, they were ecstasy. I wondered if Max had been to the future at all. Noticing the long glance I was taking at the pills, he too looked down.
 "Oh, sorry." He withdrew the pills, "Those are for the cat. Here: these are the ones!"
These pills looked more futuristic, I'll grant you: they were chrome.
 "What do they do?" I asked tentatively.
 "Well, have you ever wanted to have diarrhea and constipation simultaneously?" Max replied.
I took the pills, and hid them in my pocket. Maybe they'll come in useful one day. In all likelihood though, I'll just forget about them...

Yes, it's a new thing...

So I added a little box to show my new Tweets. Of course, I don't use Twitter that much, so most of the Tweets will just be notifications of new blog posts, which you'll probably already be reading. But what the hell, maybe you'll get to see some more of my brilliant insights into life... Or complaints about my flatmates, not actually being flat.
 Inconsiderate bastards...

We have seen the ends of time...

The toaster worked, providing both burned bread and a vision of the future. Terrified, dragged into the void, we have seen all that is, and was, and will ever be. We have seen the beginning and the end of time. The Alpha and the Omega. And bears. We saw a lot of bears.
 Travelling to the depths of time, Max and I skipped yesterday, transporting ourselves to today, Tuesday. Later, we might go to the shops. I'm out of butter, and toast - even if it has travelled the length and breadth of time - is still rather dry on its own.
 So far, the space-time continuum is holding up fine...

Toaster Troubles

I took another look at the toaster. Max had been right to fetch me from the desert; it was well and truly buggered. Knowing we couldn't go back to the electronics store after Max first insulted then embarrassed himself in front of the Korean workforce, I decided I would try to repair the kitchen appliance. Dragging the broken husk into my basement workshop, which has just appeared from nowhere to meet the requirements of this story, I got to work. Max, watching over my shoulder, offered occasional gasps of shock or fear when appropriate.
 After about 2 hours, we stood back to appreciate my work. Lacking basic electronics skills as I do had made the task somewhat difficult. However, I think I may have accidently made the world's first working time machine. I've already sent Max back in time a week, to steal my toaster from my home before he broke it.
 I wonder what effect all of this will have on the space-time continuum?

Once again, it's been a few days...

I must apologise for my lack of contact. I'm sorry if anyone got worried and went to look for me in the desert again, but I've been right here all along. Not right here, obviously. This is a box I'm typing in on the Internet, and it doesn't really have a location. Anyway, I've been caught up in the excitement of the General Election. Not only has it been, like all politics, exciting and bear-filled, but I've had my work cut out in other ways. Primarily, explaining the British electoral system to the Mexicans, who still seem to be living with me. Max has had several days of fun regarding the fact we have a hung parliament as well. I am yet to hear one good joke on the subject, I must admit...
 While the overall result was something of a victory for the moderate right, it was nice to see Britain's far right parties get totally demolished. Of particular delight was the BNP's complete failure to gain a seat, and the subsequent loss of all of their local government places. To my foreign readers, I'm hoping the British National Party lack the influence to be know to you. Let's just say they're Nazis, led by a vile little man that looks like a frog poured into a suit.
 In other news, I still have many, many oranges. Would anyone like one?

It's ok, I'm getting out of the bloody desert today.

That was something of a lie, I'll admit. There is little blood in the desert... Except for the Mexicans: the customer killed and ate them all. Nah, not really. Everyone's doing fine, we even found a copy of Hungry Hungry Hippos to play of an evening.
 The helicopter, that's where we were. I can't really be bothered re-reading my last post, so I'll hope for the best. The helicopter's landed now. Did I mention that? Oh well, here goes.
 I approached the helicopter. With any luck, this wouldn't just contain deer like the last three airborne vehicles I'd seen. Who'd have guessed deer loved oranges so much? Anyhow, as I approached, the pilot hopped out, accompanied by the familiar figure in the passenger seat: Max! Twice in as many decades, I felt pleased to see him.
 "Max! What're you doing here?" I yelled happily, rushing to greet him and offer an orange.
 "Nuclear war!" He yelled "The sky burned, the oceans boiled, the fish cooked! Britain's full of zombies, from Aberdeen to Zurich!"
 Disregarding the location of Zurich, Max continued:
 "Civilization has collapsed. Armies of nuclear choirs roam the countryside, and the mutant-zombies have seized control of the electricity supplies. We have to rebuild civilization! Here! With Mexicans!"
 "Really?" I asked. Frankly, it was all a lot to take in.
 "Nah." Max replied. "I just thought I should find you. I broke your toaster."
We packed up the oranges, and all flew home. Sometimes, there's a simple solution to problems. One minute, evil British aristocrats kidnap you and make you man an orange stall in the desert, the next minute, you get in a helicopter and go home.
 Actually, you're right, this is deus ex machina really. Not a satisfying conclusion at all. I'm very sorry.

The sun had once again risen...

And so had we. Myself, the Mexicans, and now the customer from yesterday - who had inexplicably joined our workforce - we milling around the storefront, bored. We'd already rearranged the pyramid of oranges, and drawn little faces on some of the bigger oranges, and done other things to oranges. Now, I wanted out of the desert. This had gone, like most of my life, beyond a joke.
 Outside, a desert snake prowled restlessly. I didn't worry about it, all the snakes 'round here seemed to do was steal the oranges. Everything revolves around oranges in the desert, it would seem.
 Crafting a gun from oranges, I set out into the desert. I'd seen a rock nearby, and thought it might be a nice place to shoot myself. Or drown myself in orange juice. Or get a nice view, whatever. Settling on the boiling rock surface in the blistering sun, I threw one cursory last glance at the sun. It looked like a giant orange, and I was so very angry.
 My internal monologue broke: Something, fast approaching from the sky. Helicopter! Coloured fecking orange, but you can't have everything. An eternity passed in a moment, and the mechanical, bladed seagull descended to the sand, near the orange stall.
 I approached, not getting my hopes up. Most likely, it wasn't a rescue, but another orange-hungry passer-by.
 We have bloody good oranges, you see.

Yes, I'm still in the desert. Why is no-one sending help?

Dawn broke, rising over the horizon like some sort of unbroken light thing. Stretching, awoken by the light, I scratched myself and rose from my orange-sack bedding. Nearby, the Mexicans began to stir, too warm under their ponchos in the morning heat.
 Walking from the storage room we now called home, into the store front, I prepared for another busy day. I pulled the lever on the wall, raising the metal grating covering the service window. Moving around lazily, I found some trousers and put them on. Toying with the idea of pretending two oranges were over-sized testicles, I noticed the customer.
 He was a rather shocking sight, considering we were in the middle of the desert, and I had only half a pair of trousers on. Hanging around a few feet from the shop front, he looked nervous, hesitantly taking steps towards the shop, then stopping and backing off. After a moment, I flicked another switch, activating the neon "open" sign on the front of the shop. Delight flickered across his face, and the customer approached the window.
 "Ah, good morning!" He hullowed me cheerily. "I've been lost in this damn desert for damn near 3 weeks! What news of the war? Has the Kaiser fallen yet?"
 I sighed to myself. The man was clearly no more than 30, although dishevelled and ripped of clothing. However, he looked rather well-fed and watered. Suspicion rose in my head: probably, he was a test customer, sent by my kidnapper/employer.
 "How can I help you sir?"
 "Ah, young man. I wonder, do you have any... pears?"
I closed the window. This was a test, a very stupid test. Turning the neon sign off, I went back to my sacking bed. As I closed my eyes, I could hear the Paco opening the window and trying to serve the man. Paco spoke excellent English, but to his credit, he had taken to his role brilliantly. Even now, I could hear him haggling with the man in broken English, offering his services as a day labourer.

Valencia or bust...

The bears are hard taskmasters. Within minutes of our van departure, a truck appeared in the distance. Snaking across the desert, it arrived in front of us, stopping in the midday sun. A fat man in a vest got out of the driver's seat, rushing to the back, and pressing some buttons on a panel.
 The side of the truck opened, sliding up onto the roof. Inside, a tropical paradise revealed itself. A man in safari outfit sat behind a camp table, in the middle of a lush jungle that seemed to stretch for miles, even though it was about 20-foot deep. Exotic birds flew from the jungle, exploring the desert and exploding into flames occasionally. The man, around 6-foot and with a small blond moustache, rose from his seat and offered a white gloved hand.
 "Sir Nigel Farnsworth-Holmes." He stated. I assumed it was his name, as gloves generally don't have doubled-barreled surnames.
 "And you must be the, ah ha, willing building crew!"
I looked around. This, even for me, was rather strange.
 "Gentlemen" - and here he addressed the bears - "You've brought the supplies?"
 The first bear nodded the affirmative, taking some sort of device from his pocket, and pressing a button. It was then I noticed a second truck had arrived silently behind us. As the bear pressed the button, the back of the truck opened, and teams of workmen began to bring building materials onto the sand.
 We watched for a few minutes. They brought out bricks, wooden trusses, cement, even paint.
 "You have your materials," Sir Nigel began, "And your unskilled day-labourers"
 I looked at the Mexican family. The father mouthed to me that he had a doctorate in Sociology.
 "So you can begin work immediately. I will return in one week, and expect to be able to buy fresh oranges at my convenience"
 With that, the truck closed up and departed. The bears and the supply truck did likewise. Approaching the building materials, I found a case full of papers. Amongst them, I found blueprints for a small building, and a pamphlet entitled "How to build and run your own Orange Empire - In the DESERT!"
 Resigning myself to my fate, I set the Mexicans to work. Prising open a crate, we found many oranges, and did eat heartily. Afterwords, we built the orange shop, and waited for customers. It was not long before they began to, I lie, flood in.

Eternal sunlight on the spotless bear.

The van doors opened. In fact, they opened in a fashion far more dramatic way than I can convey with words. But I'll try anyway:
 Springing open like caged rabbits eager for fresh lettuce, the metal doors of our confinement stood at attention. Sunlight bathed us like the care-worker of an elderly man, stroking itself softly across my wrinkled, fully clothed genitals. Terrified, we recoiled, fear snaking around our hearts, as if our very entrails would crush the life from us. Fearful, the Mexicans recoiled, mumbling and crying out in a manner cliched enough to be called racist.
 Outside, the bears. Now we were away from civilisation and their need for disguises, they were dressed in leathers. Leather biker coats, leather caps and large sunglasses. They looked a little like that one member of the village people, but without moustaches. Also, they were giant killing machines. The first one held the keys for the van, the second appeared to be clutching a submachine gun. Modified for his bear-fingers, of course.
 Gesturing sharply, the first bear ordered us out of the van. Stepping onto the desert outside, I felt like the first human to set foot on Mars. Although hopefully, that achievement won't be overshadowed by bear kidnap. The Mexican family followed me out, huddling together near the van. I stretched and looked around. Nothing for miles, red sand stretching to the horizons, and no signs of life beyond the trail from the van stretching towards the sunset.
 This probably wasn't good. Still, it's my birthday in October, and maybe someone's planning an elaborate surprise. One should never give up hope...