Maxfall

                              Nazis aren't funny.                              Cover of Downfall"What've you got there Max?"

 The sun, gentle and benign in the sky was shining down on us. Max and I were seated under the azure openness of a clear summer's day, sipping tea on the veranda I imagined to be part of my garden for this setting. We'd been here for half an hour or so, but I had taken my time asking Max what he was carrying in his briefcase. He didn't usually carry a briefcase, you'll be surprised to hear, and I was gripped with the grim foreboding that accompanied almost every visit Max made to my humble abode.

 "What? Oh, this? It's a script." Max replied.

 "Ah." I offered. Max had a habit of writing film scripts, play scripts, musicals and so on, and brining them to me. They weren't, technically speaking, usually badly written. The problem was they could be a little... offensive. Well, very offensive. And I had to explain, in great detail, exactly why Max's so-called family-friendly screenplays would offend a drunken toaster.

 "And what's it called?"

 "Black Hitler." Max replied.

 I nodded. I took the script. I read the script.

 "This is, what? Just the film Downfall?"

 "Yea." Max replied.

 I nodded. It was basically Downfall, except everyone in the Third Reich was inexplicably black. To Max's credit, he hadn't written any offensive dialogue, or added a rap soundtrack. Indeed, it appeared just to be an aestetic thing - the whole cast was to be black. Of course, at no point did Max tackle the varied problems this would cause to Nazi ideology. In reality, he'd just printed the script for Downfall of the internet, and added a note that said "Everyone should be played by black actors."

 I put the script down on the table and turned to my own briefcase.

 "What've you got there?" Max asked.

 I didn't answer. I just opened the briefcase and turned on my portable shredder. The sound of paper screaming out filled the afternoon air, as the sun watched happily.

A fierce gale was blowing outside.

                               Fuckers. Image via WikipediaHowever, seated by my warm fire, it concerned me little. Only the occasional "thud" as a clown was hurled into my wall distrurbed me from my newspaper.

 The doorbell rang. It is, as you may remember dear reader, prone to doing that. I rose from my armchair, tied up my smoking jacket and headed for the front door. Upon opening it, I was greeted by a clown. Like most clowns I meet, he was sad, dejected and dripping with rain.

 "Come in, my good fellow! Come in!" I said. It was to prove a mistake, such sayings.

 The clown entered my house, dripping on the carpet as he did, his big shoes squelching forlornly. I invited him to the living room, where he quickly helped himself to some brandy and took my seat in front of the fire.

 "Are you warm enough?" I asked, with only the slightest hint of anger.

 "No." he replied. Reaching into his oversized trousers, he pulled out a can of petrol. Emptying this over himself (and my armchair) he proceeded to pull a lighter from his pocket.

 "Clowns against bad weather!" he yelled, before immolating himself and my favorite chair.

 I waited a few minutes until the fire had extinguished itself, and sweeped up the remains with a broom. I was getting sick and tired of this happening to me, and first thing tomorrow, I was going to buy a sternly-worded sign that told clowns I did not wish them to call upon me. In the meantime however, I made some tea.

So it's been a while. Again.

What can I say, I had exams. Well, I could say that. And I have done. But I'm back baby!

 In all reality, I don't imagine many babies can actually read this blog.

 Anyway, yea. I'll go write some stuff now to keep you entertained for a while. If you want to see some pictures of Britain's Chancellor of the Exchequer looking silly in the meantime, head over to George Osborne Looking Stupid.