Batteries Feel Included

353

2012-01-24T15:34:00.000-08:00

The Make-A-Wish Foundation came to him on his deathbed and offered him one wish.

"I wish for Sarah Michelle Gellar and Kristen Bell to fight for my love." he told them.

An hour later the diminutive blonde stars of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Veronica Mars were standing beside his bed. "You may begin!" he roared.

Immediately Kristen threw a fist into Gellar's face, knocking her across the hospital room. Sarah got to her feet and went straight for Bell's hair. Kristen retaliated by unleashing a headbutt.

As the fight went on, Gellar's superior combat training became apparent. Bell was tiring and Gellar was evading the incoming attacks with ease. Desperate to gain an advantage, Kristen shouted "Hey, is that Joss Whedon?" pointing at the window. Sarah turned. There was nobody there. Kristen tackled Sarah to the floor and sank her teeth into her neck. Gellar had no time to appreciate the reference. She was losing blood fast. She jammed her thumbs into Kristen's eyes and let out an inhuman cry.

They rolled around, tearing away at each other's flesh, banging heads against the tooth littered floor. "He loves me more!" he heard one of them cry, but he couldn't tell who, the voice seemed to be coming from the depths of Hell. Still they rolled. He saw a severed ear tangled in Kristen's bloody hair. It was getting to be too much, so he closed his eyes.

Ten minutes later the sounds of fighting stopped. He opened his eyes. Sarah Michelle Gellar lay crumpled and dead on floor. Kristen got to her feet and gave a toothless bloody smile. One of her eyes had come loose from the socket, she was missing an ear and much of the hair on the left side of her head. She appeared to have pissed herself. "I won." she coughed, as she tried to kiss him, splattering blood across his face.

He realised that he no longer found this woman attractive and had no desire to seduce her. The wish had backfired. "I should have specified that I didn't want a fight to the death. An arm wrestle would have been enough." he thought to himself. Not wanting the whole affair to be a complete waste of time, he called for the doctor. "I think I might have found a donor." he announced, pointing at the lifeless body in the corner of the room. The doctor ran some tests. A perfect match! He was taken straight into the operating theatre. They cut out his heart and replaced it with the heart of Sarah Michelle Gellar.

As soon as he awoke after surgery he called Kristen into his room. They'd managed to re-attach her ear, but the eye was a goner. "I'm sorry I look this way." she wept.
"It's ok." he told her. "I have something for you." She came and sat on the bed. He reached into the drawer, pulled out a bloodsoaked cardboard box and gave her his heart.

John, Streatham.

352

2012-01-23T14:52:00.000-08:00

When scientists announced that in 120 years time a meteor would strike the Earth and wipeout all of mankind, half the people of the world went mad. The other half remained perfectly calm. They would be dead in 120 years time anyway. Those who went mad took to looting, raping and hysterical screaming. This caused a problem for the 50% of the population who wanted to carry on their lives as normal. Nobody wants to get raped and pillaged on their way to work.

A plan was hatched. The looters, the pillagers and the hyserical would go live in the southern hemisphere. The calm would live in the North. At first it seemed a perfect plan, but after ten years of throwing toasters through windows, setting fire to the elderly and writing "Suck Shit!" on bus stops, the hysterical realised that it was no fun if they were just raping and pillaging themselves.

A message was sent to the North. "We've calmed down." it said. Mankind was united once more. The world was at peace for two days before the raping and pillaging restarted.

In a bid to put the minds of the hysterical at ease, the sane announced that it had all been a terrible mistake. "It was just a speck of dust on the telescope." announced the captain of NASA. The world became tranquil.

And they all lived happily ever after. Until the meteor collided with Earth and everyone died in a sea of fire.

351

2012-01-16T07:21:00.000-08:00

A honeymoon in Vegas. That was what they'd always dreamed of. Harold and Clare stepped into the casino, dazzled by the lights, laughter and despair. As Harold passed the detector a loud siren wailed.

"It's probably these." he said, pointing at the horseshoes he'd glued to his feet.

"I'm afraid you can't take those into the casino." the security guard explained. Harold removed the horseshoes and walked through the detector again. Once more the siren shrieked.

"Please could you empty your pockets." the security guard asked. Harold turned out his pockets, revealing a rabbit's foot and a four leaf clover.

"I'm afraid you can't take those into the casino." the security guard explained.

"It's OK. I don't need those. I'm already the luckiest man alive." Harold proclaimed, pointing at his beautiful wife. Within a second three guards tackled Harold's bride to the floor. A fourth guard arrived a moment later. He held a gun to Claire's head and fired twice.

350

2012-01-05T05:11:00.000-08:00

"Place the ring on her finger and repeat after me." said the priest. Chester nervously placed his grandmother's wedding ring on Felicity's finger. Then came the vows, the kissing, the confetti and the long awkward drive to the reception where they both wondered if they'd made a terrible mistake.

After dinner there were speeches of varying tones, from light hearted Farrelly Brothers to emotional Disney. Chester asked for everyone to raise a glass to his grandparents who had passed away the year before. His grandmother had eventually succumbed to the confusion which had plagued her for a decade. In protest to a 30% rise in city centre parking charges she had decided to park her car at the bottom of a lake. A week later, stricken by grief, Chester's grandfather was seen throwing himself into the same lake where his wife of 60 years had drowned. Although his body was never recovered.

After tears were shed and cakes were cut it was time for dancing. The bride and groom met on the dancefloor as You Can Never Hold Back Spring by Tom Waits sounded from the speakers. But before the first chorus arrived there was a defeaning bang as the doors to the ballroom flew open. There stood Chester's grandfather, naked from the waist down. Very much alive, very much erect.

"I have come for my bride." he roared, pointing at Felicity with both his finger and his penis. He approached the startled newlywed and began to kiss her. Nobody tried to stop him. They were too shocked and amazed. Shocked that he was still alive, amazed that a man of his age could maintain an erection so strong and true.

Eventually, after the trouserless grandfather made strides towards second base, Chester took hold of him and said "This is my wife, grandad. Nana is dead."

"Then why does she wear my wife's ring? By law she is now my bride." exclaimed the old man. He grabbed Felicity's breast. Neither Felicity nor Chester were lawyers and were unsure of what to do. Perhaps he was right. There did seem to be some logic to what he was saying.

"Maybe I should go with him..." Felicity whispered to her husband. "He is very old. I don't want to upset him."

"Yes. It's probably for the best." Chester agreed.

Hand in hand, Felicity and the grandfather left the wedding reception. "I can't believe you fell for that." he said as they got into the limousine. "But it's too late. If you go back now you'll look like an idiot." And he was right.

349

2012-01-03T13:30:00.000-08:00

When the warning came on the radio Bob had just four minutes to prepare for Hurricane Cassandra. It was heading straight for the farmhouse where he'd spent his entire life. Maybe the chickens could fly away, but the cows were done for. Bob climbed the stairs to the room where his mother had given birth to him fifty years ago. Nothing had been moved since she'd died last Spring. He opened the drawer beside her bed and pulled out her wedding ring. As he quickly made his way outside to the shelter he began to regret never getting the chance to fall in love. The air was filled with leaves and the heavy winds grew stronger and more violent. He could see Cassandra bearing down on him in the distance. With a trembling sigh he stopped running and got down on one knee. He closed his eyes and held out the ring. And waited.

Flying through the air at 150 mph Bob opened his eyes and realised that he'd made a terrible mistake. A second later his body was split in half as he collided with the tree under which his mother and father had conceived him fifty one years earlier.

348

2011-02-20T14:39:00.000-08:00

There was once an Egyptian man named Colin. He was the son of the famous Imhotep, the architect responsible for creating the first Egyptian pyramid. As a result of his father's achievements, Colin lived a life of splendour and ease. He was on first name terms with the pharoah Djoser, he could have any woman he wanted and he could slap any peasant in the face without fear of retaliation or punishment. Life was good.

"Life is good." Colin would say to his fellow Egyptians, but behind closed doors life was not good for Colin. He felt empty inside. Everything came easy, nothing challenged him, there was nothing he couldn't do or have. Everyone was his friend, but he always felt alone. He had a wife who loved him, three beautiful daughters and two strong sons, but they couldn't help fill the hole inside his heart.

On Colin's 30th birthday his family threw a surprise party for him in the royal palace, but he never turned up. The failed birthday party became a search party which was an even bigger failure. When Colin arrived home two days later all he could say was "I went for a walk."

These walks continued for many months without explanation. Colin's wife spent most evenings alone, never recieving an explanation or invitation to her husband's mysterious walks. He was becoming more distant and lost inside himself than ever.

Seven months after the walks began, Colin was fast asleep in bed with his wife, although she was still wide awake, filled with anxiety over her husband's behaviour. Suddenly he spoke whilst still in a deep sleep. "Could I be wearing any more clothes?" he said. This startled his wife, firstly because Colin had never spoken in his sleep before and secondly because she had no idea what he was saying. He wasn't talking in Egyptian.

The next day she asked him what the words meant. He seemed confused and denied having any knowledge. When she continued to question him he became angry, but she wouldn't let it drop. Eventually he snapped and screamed "Oh my God, you're such a Monica" and stormed out. Colin's wife didn't know what a monica was, but by the way he'd said it she was sure it was something bad. This was the final straw. Instead of going straight to bed to cry like she always did, she decided to follow her husband.

For two hours she tracked Colin through the desert, following his footprints in the sand. Finally she came to a cave of laughter. Bouncing and echoing off the rocky walls she was hearing a sound for the very first time - the sound of her husband's laughter.

Creeping into the cave she saw flickering colours fill the walls as if by magic. The laughter became louder until eventually she came face to face with her husband who was laying on the floor wiping tears of joy from his eyes. On the wall in front of him were pictures of the like Colin's wife had never seen before - pale men and women in the strangest clothing. And they were moving! Great Horus, they were talking too!

"What cursed sorcery is this?" cried Colin's wife. And so, Colin began to tell the tell of the magic wall. Many months ago, on his birthday, when he was feeling particularly depressed, Colin set out on a long walk with the intention of taking his own life. As if guided by an invisible divine hand he was led to this cave where he discovered the Wall of Wonder. At first he could not understand the words coming from the mouths of these alien looking people. He didn't need language to understand that the tall man with the black hair had lost his wife to another woman. He didn't need language to understand that the fat man with the blank eyes had just said something stupid. He didn't need language to understand that when a man and woman temporarily cease relations both are perfectly entitled to court another. After a month of watching he began to pick up the odd phrase and now seven months later he was nearly fluent in their strange tongue.

Colin had found a reason to live, something to fill the hole inside his heart. These six people with their coffee and funny lives had become his friends like no others in real life. Colin's wife was grateful to finally learn the truth of her husband's mysterious disappearances and relieved that he had not been seeking comfort with another woman. "If this is what makes you happy" she said "Then we shall watch it together."

The two of them sat side by side and watched episode after episode, with Colin explaining the back stories of the characters and translating his favourite lines. When the funny one and the nagging one became man and wife both Colin and his wife questioned whether the Wall of Wonder had jumped the crocodile. Maybe it had. Luckily the wall did not always move in the correct chronological order. One day the quirky one would be pregnant with her brother's baby, the next she wouldn't have even met her brother yet. The wall never ceased to show the lives of these six friends. Transfixed by the development of storylines, the noticing of jokes they'd missed the first time around, the increasing funniness of the the tall one with black hair, Colin and his wife eventually starved to death in the cave.

4,800 years later mankind had grown, grown tired of re-runs of the hit TV show Friends. "Enough is enough." declared the head of television. He gathered up every last episode of the sitcom and placed them inside a rocketship filled with nuclear waste. The ship was fired into the heart of the sun, causing a miniature wormhole through space and time. The molecules of the episodes were broken down into the tiniest of particles, merging with the nuclear material and being flung back to ancient times. Finally they arrived in 23rd Dynasty Egypt, trapped within a wall of wonder, soon to be discovered by a suicidal man.

Jack, Brooklyn.

347

2011-02-01T16:29:00.000-08:00

Hello. You probably don't know me, but I'm the greatest science fiction writer of all time. You've probably read a lot of my stuff without even realising. No, I'm not Isaac Asimov. Nor am I Philip K Dick. I'm Billy Fateswinger and I've never published a book. I was, however, resposible for the Argos catalogue between 1983 and 1995.

I'd always been fascinated by sci-fi as a child and started writing short stories in my early teens during the late 1970s. Sadly science fiction died a death in the decade that followed. After seeing Star Wars, people got fed up with science fiction. "It's all a bunch of nonsense" they said. The only thing people were interested in were period gangster movies like Once Upon A Time in America and re-showings of that Godfather one. "It's so real." they said.

I was the hottest new sci-fi author in the world and nobody gave a damn. Publishers wouldn't even look at something unless it could potentially be turned into a film starring Robert De Niro. Desperate for work I replied to an add in a phonebox which simply said "Sci-Fi Writer? Out of work? Call this number."

It was Argos. They needed someone to come up with a list of items to fill their catalogue with. I know you've always assumed that they make the catalogue after the items have been invented and brought to market, but it's really the other way around - the catalogue comes first, then the products. They wanted us to come up with crazy concepts, the kind of things people would want to buy for Christmas.

I was a natural. In the interview I quickly fired off the idea for a Mr Frosty Ice Machine and a car that could transform into a humanoid robot. I spent the next twelve years sleeping with the finest women, eating the most delicious drugs and living the life that the sci-fi writers thought was lost forever.

Sadly it all went wrong in 1995 when I messed up. During an LSD binge I conceived of a machine called the Sega Saturn. After the success of the Sega Megadrive/Genesis I thought it couldn't fail. And a games console that uses CD-Roms - What a sci-fi twist! I assured the bosses at Argos that this machine would be the biggest selling thing of all time and they spent a lot of money making it. Their warehouses were full to the brim with them. Nobody could have predicted that come Christmas 1995 only one would be sold in the entire world.

Billy Fateswinger, Isle of Man.

346

2011-01-31T11:30:00.001-08:00

So an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scot are sailing on a boat. One thing leads to another and eventually the boat crashes into a rock. The boat is destroyed.

Luckily the three men are strong swimmers and even luckier are just a mile away from a desert island, the kind that you see in dreams and fictional depictions of desert islands.

Once they reach the shore the Irishman goes off to scout the island for food and water. An hour later he returns with an armful of coconuts. "There's enough coconuts on this island to last forever" he says "We could survive here indefinitely, but the thought of spending eternity here and never seeing my sweet wife's beautiful face again is too much for me." And he smashes a coconut on his head - killing him instantly.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to spend the rest of my life with an Englishman" says the Scot. He then picks up a coconut and smashes himself on the head with it - killing himself instantly.

"And I hate coconuts!" yells the Englishman, who takes the coconut from the dead Scot's hand and smashes himself on the head with it - but it doesn't kill him. He drops to the sandy floor, unable to move any part of his body, unable to cry out in despair, not even move his eyes.

Meanwhile, out at sea is a Welshman who had been following the three men, angry at never being invited into their jokes and adventures. Unfortunately his boat meets the same fate upon the very same rock.

He washes up on the same shore as the three Brits and sees the three bodies lying there motionless. He checks them all for a pulse, finding the Englishman still alive. Using all of his cunning the Welshman quickly assembles a makeshift intravenous drip out of a vine and a coconut and so the Englishman lives on for thirty years, slowly being filled with coconut, trapped, screaming with his thoughts "Please let me die."

345

2010-08-19T17:06:00.000-07:00

Today I finished babyproofing my house. I must have spent over £10,000 on barbed wire alone, but at least I can sleep easy knowing there's no way a baby is getting in now.

Phil, Doncaster.

344

2010-07-29T07:38:00.000-07:00

Are you always accidentally offending the larger type of woman by asking when the baby's due? This can easily be avoided by carrying around a tiny baby.

When she says "I'm not pregnant." simply bend down, pretend to pick up the baby (which will be concealed in your hand or sleeve) and say "What's this then?"

The baby will have to be very small just in case she's wearing trousers and you need her to believe that it could have fallen through the leg. Hand her the baby then run away.

Awkward situation dodged!

Ted, London.

343

2010-07-27T07:43:00.000-07:00

There was once a man whose girlfriend left him to pursue a career in making love and relationships with other men. He spent many of the weeks after the breakup curled up in a meat shaped ball, crying out her name and banging his fists on his head. He was in a bad way.

A month had passed and still he spent most of his time in the ball of pain and punches, but with the arrival of his birthday he decided that he could take no more. He stood up, stretched out his legs and marched to the living room where a birthday party was being held in his honour.

The party was in full swing and as he gazed upon the faces of his friends and family he realised that there was no need to be sad anymore. There was life before his girlfriend and there would be life again without her.

Sadly, the man's best friend (not a dog) had made a bold attempt at humour when choosing the birthday cake. Instead of the typical cake design of Eric Cantona or Thomas the Tank Engine, the man's friend decided to have the cake iced in a way that replicated the exact face of the man's lost love.

When confronted with this dessert of tragic horror, the man did not cry. He put on a brave face, a face filled with a false smile. Oh, how everyone laughed. "Classic Barry!" the man heard someone yell.

As the words to Happy Birthday began to come to a close, the man became sadder than ever before in his life. His first instinct to return to the ball of pain and punches was quickly replaced by a desire to stand up perfectly straight. Forever. He would become a living statue, free from the troubles of life.

However, after some minutes of silence passed, people started to become concerned. He had remained motionless since the final "to youuuuuu" and the candles were burned down to almost nothing. The melted wax on the girl's icing based face looked like the rainbow filled tears of a clown. Upon noticing this, the man became consumed by the thought that maybe wherever she was, his former lover was just as sad as he was.

The crowd began to chant "Blow out the candles!" and "Make a wish!" both out of worry for the man's mental state and their own desire for cake. Their cries gave him the courage to leave his frozen state. He leaned forward and began to blow out the thirty-one candles, wishing that the only girl he'd ever loved was with him again.

Within a millionth of a second of the last candle being extinguished, a terrible shriek sounded from within the deep layers of the sponge, possibly from the cream, maybe from the jam. Five fingers shot out from the side, followed swiftly by a wrist and an arm. The man jumped back in terror, because his initial thought that Barry had got him one of those strippers in a cake. The man had long lived in fear of being confronted by a stripper at a birthday party and having to recieve a lapdance in front of his parents and cousins as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do. Although he soon dismissed the idea of there being a naked woman inside his cake, because of simple mathematics. The cake was only six inches tall and twelve inches wide. There was no room for a woman in there, clothed or otherwise.

What the cake contained was far more sinister than a stripper. As the minutes passed more limbs began to hatch from the coconut flaked walls. After a drawn out struggle, two fully formed woman's legs emerged, allowing the cake to stand. After the legs came the to torso and the neck. Stood before the man, with the body of a woman and the face of a cake was the woman who had broken the man's heart.

The room became a giant collective gasp as she began to speak. "I'm sorry I left you, David." she said. "It was a mistake." David didn't know what to say. Was this really the girl he'd sworn to love forever? The last time he'd seen her she'd had a human head, with real hair and three dimensions. This woman with a body of flesh, but a flat cartoon face resting on a square bed of marzipan couldn't really be her, could it?

"Is it really you?" he asked.

"I don't know what you mean." she replied.

"Was it really a mistake?" he asked, checking her naked body for the familiar marks and scars that he'd seen a million times before. They were all there.

"Yes." she said "I shouldn't have left." That was all he needed to hear. David took her by the hand and led her to his bedroom, stopping to kiss her artificially coloured face, which left a massive tongue sized hole in her cheek. Once in the room he pushed her onto the bed and locked the door.

An hour later, the man walked back to the living room, where the entire party had remained paused since the moment he left. His face was covered with jam and his hair was filled with sponge.

"She's dead." he wept.

342

2010-07-14T15:04:00.000-07:00

I'm a very slow reader, especially if I'm not enjoying something. I'm not ashamed to admit it took me months to get through the alphabet. I was gripped at the start. I thought it was going to be something special. Everyone knows that ABC is probably the greatest and most iconic opening of all time, but by the time I got to the middle it really started to drag. It was the like I was reading the same thing over and over again. M and N stinks of a man who has run out of ideas. I stopped reading right about then, but I went back to it a month or so later and I'm glad I did. The X and Z right at the end was like something straight out of science fiction. What a twist!

Daniel, New Orleans.

341

2010-07-06T15:49:00.001-07:00

It's hard to meet women. How can you just start a conversation someone? I know they like babies and puppies, so I stuck a puppy's head on a baby's body and went up to Finsbury Park. That was a bad day.

Paul, London.

332

2010-05-19T18:15:00.000-07:00

There was once a man with a penis so incredible that it gave him immense courage, the kind of courage that allows a man to seduce a woman, the kind of courage that makes a man photocopy his penis for everyone in the office to see. Not just out of pride, but also out of duty.

Sadly this man lived through the early days of photocopying, when the machines were heavy, poorly designed and full of sharp angles. Upon trying to remove his penis after making a copy he found himself without a penis. It got stuck. As it lay there on the glass, all bloody and unattached, this man muttered to Dave from accounts that "this had all been a terrible mistake." Even without his magnficent penis he still had the courage to admit he'd made a mistake.

All he had left was an A4 copy of his once glorious penis and his tremendous courage. Nobody could strip him of that courage. He could have lost a thousand penises and still had the power to make women agree to enter his place of residence late at night, without knowing his name, his background or his potential motives.

Back in his room he'd get them naked and horizontal, pinned to the bed with nothing but anticipation, then open his briefcase and hand them the photocopy of his penis. They would gasp. Then he would describe in great detail what this penis could once do. The images he created through words and presenting a black and white image would send the ladies wild, but it wasn't enough to satisfy them. Women need more than words and stationary. Inevitably they'd demand for this penis, even though all he had was a 2D representation on the lowest quality paper.

Still, he did his best. He made love with his penis of paper, shredding the lady inside and out, but they never complained, even though they'd instantly regret suggesting it. You can't complain about a few genital papercuts to a man who lost his penis in a photocopier. It's just rude.

Peter, Stoke.

333

2010-05-19T09:58:00.000-07:00

Did you hear about the dyslexic pervert who accidentally went to a warehouse, but it had been abandoned since the 80s and there was a homeless woman living inside it who agreed to have sex with him for money, so it all worked out OK?

Timothy, Essex.

331

2010-03-27T16:31:00.000-07:00

I'll never forget the day I woke up and I was 100ft tall. My career as the Amazing 200ft tall man was over.

Derek, Las Vegas.

330

2010-02-28T05:02:00.000-08:00

Why would anyone want to pay to see fireworks when you can just watch them for free on Youtube?

Damien, Stratford.

329

2010-02-22T15:32:00.000-08:00

We didn't have a lot of money growing up, so every Christmas we'd gather around the fireplace and watch my parents make love for hours.

Daniel, Luton.

328

2010-01-28T14:02:00.000-08:00

Apple has put an end to weeks of speculation by unveiling its latest cutting edge device, which it has called the iTomb.

Steve Jobs, Apple's chief executive unveiled the device at an event in San Francisco.

Mr Jobs described the iTomb, which will cost between $49,999 and $89,999 in the US, as a "third category" between tablet PCs and coffins.

Industry watchers say Apple's long-awaited "cool death box" could reverse the fortunes of burials after a massive shift towards cremations in recent years.

The device, which looks like a large plastic box, but with rounded corners, can be used to watch films, play games and browse the web.

It also includes the firm's iTunes software built in, which will automatically purchase songs for all eternity, leaving the deceased up to date with all the latest trends in the music industry.

Protesters at the announcement were not happy at Apple's "full control" of the religious software, which only allows the burial to be carried out according to the customs of Apple's own religion, which is that of the Devil.

The lack of a camera, video output, USB or firewire ports, multitasking or enough room to house the deceased's body in one piece has left many tech reporters unimpressed, but Apple have responded by saying "It doesn't really matter, because the person will be dead."

The iTomb goes on sale this full moon in the US and the following Friday in Europe.

327

2010-01-21T07:47:00.000-08:00

I need to apologise from the start. And warn you. Apologies and warnings: The word fart is about to be mentioned many times. The topic of farting will also be heavily explored, although without heavy use of science. Sadly there's no way around it. If I want to tell a story about man and his farts I can't skip over the farting. I guess I could just come up with some metaphor or euphemism for farting, like 'singing the saddest song', but it might go over everyone's head. I know I don't totally understand it.

Anyway, once upon a time there was a man like no other. His name was Bear. He wasn't a bear, as I said, he was a man. He suffered from a very rare medical condition, which, when combined with his unusual name, made him the perfect character for a story.

At a very young age Bear realised that he wasn't entirely normal. Like other young boys he enjoyed cars that could be turned into robots (and vice versa) and planning to build treehouses. (Although a house in the trees was never anything more than a dream, because without a strong father figure or any father figure at all, who would help him build it?) What set Bear apart from his friends and classmates, apart from his name and his single parent family in a time of few divorces, were his farts. They smelled delightful.

This caused Bear great embarassment. He knew that he wasn't like the other boys and he did his best to keep his bodily gasses tight within his skin and flesh. Unfortunately skin and flesh were all he had, for he wasn't made of steel or bricks, and every so often the pressure grew too much for him to hold, leaving the inevitable outcome: a fart.

"Has someone spilled potpourri?" his classmates would cry. "Is that you, Bear? Have you been brushing your teeth with lilacs and lavender again?" His face would redden and it would take hours for his shame to pass.

But pass it did, as did the years. He became a man, a man of great sadness, but with the bowels and anus of a 25th century robot. Not literally, of course, but fifteen years of holding in farts had strengthened him up, leaving him with organs of steel (again, not literally).

Tragically, even the most advanced 25th century robot still malfunctions occasionally (I just want to re-iterate that during the fifteen year leap forward in the story Bear hasn't become a robot and just in case it's not completely clear, the fifteen years passed naturally without the aid of science fiction. Thanks). Bear was on a plane going from New York to London, the reason is not important, but what happened on that flight not only changed Bear's life, but also the lives of some other people. Maybe even you.

At 10,000 ft Bear farted for the first time in six years. Maybe it was the cabin pressure, maybe it was the bagel he'd eaten for lunch, or maybe it was something to do with Katie Price a.k.a Jordan a.k.a Katie Price sitting in the next seat over, in a lowcut top and hair curled up like a cheap princess. It's entirely possible that her gigantic breasts caused an onset of nerves. Even a man with steel-like insides is not immune to the circus-like proportions of a glamour lady.

After hearing the dull thud against her neighbour's seat, Katie turned to Bear, inhaled deeply and asked "Was that you?" Knowing that it's rude to lie to a celebrity, Bear admitted his flatulence with a sadness in his eyes.

However, his sadness was unwarranted, because Katie brought her head close to his thighs and whispered "Do it again." Even though Bear was pleased to recieve the attention of the former Queen of the Jungle, he was still embarassed about his body's odours.

"Not here." he said "When we land." Katie didn't say another word, she looked into his eyes, took hold of his hand and sat in silence for the remaining two hours of the flight, sometimes placing his cold and nervous hand between her warm, sweaty knees.

When they landed at Heathrow Katie excused herself for a moment, telling Bear that she needed to make a phonecall. "Don't go anywhere." Bear stayed where he was told and his thoughts wandered, mixing reality and his dreams. Was he about to become Jordan's latest plaything?

She returned five minutes later, with a smile and her luggage. Placing her suitcase next to Bear's she leant in close to him and parked her lips upon his, which is where they stayed motionless for five more seconds. It wasn't quite a kiss, even though technically it probably was. Bear thought to himself that she must have thought it was some kind of extremely sensual act, although he found it a little bit strange. Maybe that's just how famous people kiss.

Outside they jumped into a cab and headed straight to the nearest reasonably priced hotel, which was only thirty seconds away. It was quite clearly walking distance and Bear thought that if this was the celebrity lifestyle, then long may it continue. He'd never walk anywhere again.

They checked into the hotel under his name, leaving the receptionist, whose name was Natalie, to believe that it was a fake name being given for the sole purpose of secretly having sex with Katie Price. They got into the lift, even though their room was on the first floor, but that just seemed natural to Bear now, he was already immersed in the celebrity world of little to no walking. Just before the ping of the doors Katie asked Bear if he was ready to do it. He was.

They slipped into room 103. By the time Bear had closed the door, Katie was already naked on the bed and holding a variety of sex toys, many of which looked terrifying and otherwordly. "Now do it." she sang. He turned to face away from her and from rear end of his body came the sweet smell of summertime. "That's it!" she cried "That's it. Do it again. Do it again!"

He removed his trousers and farted once more. Katie rolled around the bed in ecstasy. "Like roses dipped in petrol! Like cookies baked in fresh snow! What smells you have!" For five more minutes this erotic game of fart and smell continued, until finally Jordan asked Bear to move closer to the wardrobe. "Put your bum right up against the door. Yes, that's it. Now fart, fart like you've never farted before." And so he did. For the first time in his life he felt normal, free to break wind without fear of looks of pity and scorn. It was the greatest moment of his life, but a moment is all that it lasted, because from the wardrobe came an almighty cry of

"THAT'S THE ONE!!!" Quickly followed by the banging of the doors as the blew open. There stood Peter Andre clutching a thick rope in his tiny hands. Bear stood frozen in panic, like a deer caught in the headlights. The scene shifted into slow motion as Peter tackled Bear onto the bed. "Grab his arms." squeaked the Australian singer. For what seemed like an eternity the three of them struggled on that king sized mattress, until eventually Bear was tamed, tied and broken.

Jordan lifted her bra from the floor and used it to gag the bloodied Bear. It tasted like corriander and peppermint. "We've finally done it." she said to her husband "We've finally found the scent." The couple made love as if it were their honeymoon, not worrying about the sobbing man tied up next to them.

Once night time arrived, the celebrity pair used the cover of darkness and the cover of a duvet to sneak the bound man to their car. He was delicately placed in the boot and driven to the couple's secret country home. Sadly the drive took a long time and the prisoner wasn't offered a single toilet break, even when the kidnappers stopped at two separate motorway Burger Kings for Whoppers, fried cheese and milkshakes. He shit himself. Real bad. When Jordan opened the boot she was greeted by the terrifying smell of heaven. It overpowered her senses and she fainted. When she came to, Peter had already moved the prisoner into the house, a house which lacked the soft furnishings and leopard skin rugs one would have expected in their country retreat. The place was one giant laboratory.

There lay Bear, naked on a table, with a tube in his mouth and a tube in his you know what (not his penis). He tried to cry out, but the tube made it impossible. He struggled, but his limbs were bound with fluffy handcuffs. He gave up. He accepted his fate and lay there motionless, as still as Jordan's strange, tender kiss. Twelve days later he was dead.

Six months passed. The 20th of August 2007 arrived with great anticipation. Not for Bear, he was long dead, but Katie and Peter had invested three years of tiresome work into finding the right fragrence for Katie's Celebrity Scent. At 9am, Stunning would hit the shelves of Boots, Superdrug and selected Tesco Extras. Who knows how many men were killed in the search? (17) But it would all be worth it. It would all be worth it. Those were the words that Jordan had uttered to her husband so many times over the past three years. The guilt was eating him alive, his six pack was crumbling and his hair was thinning. He had just one shot at redemption, the success of Katie's perfume. Only then would the deaths of those poor men not be in vain.

Two years melted away like cheap ice. Stunning had gained just 0.37% of the Celebrity Scent market share. Even the late Jade Goody still controlled 14% of the lucrative market. Some say it failed because they added too much jasmine. Others say that through the heart shaped bottle women could hear the dying screams of Bear. Mere ghost stories started on internet messageboards by the makers of Sarah Jessica Parker's own smells. It doesn't take a wise man to realise that it was doomed from the very beginning, no matter how beautiful the smell, because with Katie's murky past the public would never willingly want to smell like her.

It all proved to be too much for Peter, he was just a man looking for a simple life of love and the occasional number one hit single. The tremendous strain on his tormented soul, the bubbling remorse boiling away at his insides, the cries that continued to haunt his dreams. He walked through life like a creme egg robbed of its creme. He could never forgive her for forcing him into a life of murder and fragrence. "But I never made you do anything" she told him "You did it all for love."

"And how is that any different?" he wept. "How is that any different?" A week later they split.

And they all lived publically ever after.

326

2009-10-12T06:19:00.000-07:00

There's only so many times you can tell someone your name isn't Matt, before you start to wonder if maybe it is.

325

2009-10-09T04:58:00.000-07:00

As I was leaving the hospital with my newborn baby in my arms, a man with a clipboard tackled me to the ground. Luckily I was able to twist my body and land on my back, avoiding a very basic baby crushing.

"You've forgotten to take out baby insurance!" the man cried as my husband helped me get to my feet. "Imagine if your baby had been crushed right then."

"But why do I need insurance?" I asked. "We've got the goddamn NHS." I saluted a passing nurse. I've always been very proud of our free healthcare.

"Sure, that'll cover you for accidental damage, but what about loss or theft?"

He explained that with the platinum service I could have a new baby on my doorstep within 24 hours. I read through the leaflet that he aggresively forced into my hand and it did seem like a very good deal. Although I couldn't help but wonder how they could get their hands on a new baby at such short notice. I've always considered myself a bit of an amateur scientist and whenever I've tried to create babies from scratch using spare sperm and coffee jars they've usually taken over a fortnight to grow.

"We just take one from the refund ward." I didn't know what that was. He explained that quite often after seeing their baby for the first time the mothers would send them back.

"Obviously you've just seen a newborn baby. They're disgusting, right? All covered in guts and stuff. Imagine ordering a meal at a nice restaurant and they sent you that? You wouldn't eat it, would you?" A lot of what he just said didn't make sense, but I could understand some people not wanting to keep their babies, because they really are quite ugly at the start.

"So what happens to the babies who get sent back?" I asked.

"They grow up in the refund ward, waiting for someone to lose their baby, but sadly that very rarely happens these days. Most of them spend their whole lives here and eventually become doctors, because it's easier and cheaper to learn as you go. About half the doctors we've got here have never set foot outside. We tell them that there's dragons out there. It's a good setup."

I was getting bored of the conversation now and I wanted to get home, so I quickly took out contents cover, in case someone stole my baby's kidneys.

In the car on the way home I couldn't help wonder if the insurance man was a refund baby who wasn't bright enough to become a doctor. For a moment there when he said the word dragon I could have sworn I saw a look of terror in his eyes.

Alison, Cambridge.

324

2009-10-05T06:25:00.000-07:00

In the future sliced bread will be outlawed. Not because the world will be a post-apocalyptic nightmare, but because technology will so advanced that everything in our lives will be taken care of. Forcing people to slice their own bread will create the illusion of life still having challenges.

Terry, Nottingham.

323

2009-09-15T05:29:00.000-07:00

Like many Jewish men today, I was born with a penis between my legs, just above my testicles. Despite this being very common, the doctors and my parents were lost for words when they saw my tiny baby penis. Why? I was born with a very rare condition - Blanket Foreskin.

It has long been suspected that many thousands of years ago foreskins were a lot bigger, big enough to completely wrap around a man and his mate during the coldest of weather. Women would seek the man with the greatest foreskin in order to survive the harsh winters. After learning to create blankets that weren't made from foreskins, we no longer needed such crude genetics and our beloved evolution threw it away. I was a throwback to a golden time.

The day of my circumcision arrived. The mohel tore off my trousers and with a sharpened blade in his hand he let out an almighty gasp. "I cannot do it." he cried. For half an hour he explained that clearly my foreskin was a gift from God. Such a beautiful thing should not be cut away and thrown to the wolves. It made him rethink his entire career (a month later he became a tennis player, but with little success).

So that was that, there I was, a young Jewish boy with the world's biggest foreskin. News soon got out and scientists, wise men and Hollywood executives came knocking on my parents' door. They all had their own idea about what should be done with my "gift". There was talk of a reality tv show, but this was long before The Osbournes or The Hills. It just didn't seem like good tv to my mother. "Who would watch it?" she asked. A few religious nuts suggested throwing me into a volcano as a sacrifice to the God of the foreskin, but my father informed them that no such god existed. One rich businessman offered ten million dollars to buy the skin, because he wanted to turn it into a belt for his wife. All in all, they were terrible ideas.

A few weeks after the knocks stopped arriving at our door, someone rang the doorbell. It was Patrick Swayze. He was 14 years old. There was no time travel involved, this was simply the past and he had yet to reach a greater age. My mother led him into the kitchen, where he said these exact words: "For too long the penis has been seen as a weapon towards women. I think your son could put an end to that." Before my mother could ask him how, he'd already pulled out a set of blueprints and spread them on the kitchen table. His idea was simple, abandon the dagger like symbology of the penis and turn it into something greater - an umbrella. "What a great statement to make." he said "On a rainy day, you tell a woman that she can stand under your umbrella, which is also your penis, it will shield her from harm. It is the great protector."

His drawings were basic, but his idea was not. After bringing in a specialist from Germany to make Swayze's dream a reality, my foreskin was transformed into an umbrella, using various rods and wires. It would be 12 years before my first erection, but on that day my penis became a thing of beauty, it opened up and stopped the rain falling on my head. It was the 60s and it sent out the greatest message of love the world had ever seen. Forget Woodstock, forget LSD, my penis had brought a generation of people together. "Come stand under my umbrella!" my t-shirt would say and that's what people did.

Unfortunately the 60s didn't last forever, they were quickly swallowed up by the 70s. The world was becoming a darker place. Pretty soon is was the 80s, the most sinister decade in human history. It was like people could sense the coming of the Internet. I was once the poster child for innocence and love, but now, although I hadn't changed, I could no longer walk down rainy alleyways at night asking women if they wanted to stand under my umbrella, because the times would not allow it.

I moved to Egypt, the country with the lowest annual rainfall in the world, a place where no-one knew my name. I hung up my umbrella forever. My penis had failed to spread love to the world, failed to put women at ease and show that a man could be sensitive and strong at the same time. But Swayze did not fail, through his movies like Ghost and Dirty Dancing he showed that even the most masculine men can be tender. Whilst Christopher Reeve was tricking the world into thinking that a man could fly, Patrick Swayze was making us believe that a man could cry.

He was a beautiful man, with a good heart and I will miss him.

322

2009-08-01T06:05:00.001-07:00

"Come See The Amazing Rapping Donkey" the sign said. "Only $4". I don't know why they were charging dollars when we were in Bolton, but luckily I always carry small change in every currency. I paid my money and they led me into the tent. Sure enough, there was a donkey rapping on the stage, he was dressed in diamonds, gold and six baseball caps, like a gangster version of Buckaroo. I walked straight back out.

"I'd like my money back." I said to the dwarf at the concession stand.
"What's the problem?" she said, poking me in the chest with a tiny plastic spear.
"That donkey is performing The Real Slim Shady. He's just reciting someone else's song. True rapping comes from the heart, that donkey is rapping from the ears."
"No refunds." she said. "Now get out of here."

In a fit of rage at the poor customer service I grabbed her head and twisted it clean off, crying out to the heavens, roaring like a tiger/lion hybrid. As I stood there holding her face in my hands I had an uncontrolable urge to take a bite out of it. It tasted like candyfloss. Everything went cloudy.

A moment later the world became clear again. I looked down at my niece's decapitated body and immediately regretted taking all of those mushrooms before coming to the carnival. I'm the worst uncle.

Richard, Bolton.

321

2009-08-01T04:56:00.001-07:00

I'll never forget the time me and my girlfriend were the last two people on Earth. It was kind of a big deal for us, because we'd only been going out for three months and I was hoping she was going to break up with me soon.
"I guess we'll have to repopulate the world." I said, as I fired my plasma rifle at a radioactive bison.
"Not right now." she said "I've got a headache."

Eleven months later we had our first child. We named him Denise. It was my idea to reboot women's names as names for men. Nobody would know.
"I guess we'd better start trying to make a sister for Denise." I said to my wife, as I parked the space shuttle inside our dormant volcano palace.
"I never really planned on having more than one." she said.
"Yes, but we can't have just one child."
"Why not?" she said "I was an only child and I turned out ok."

Dustin, San Diego.

320

2009-07-31T17:00:00.000-07:00

Women don't respond well to violence, or so they say. But look at that Cupid fella, shoot a couple of ladies with a bow and arrow and they're ready for love, or at least some kind of dry humping. It's not practical to carry such weaponry these days, because they won't let you on the Tube. You need a gun, or at least a knife. I haven't tried it myself, because I'm a beautiful man and I don't need such tactics.

I don't know what I'm talking about. I was supposed to be saying something about muggings. So, yeah, scientists say it's impossible for a woman to fall in love with a man whilst he's mugging her, but that's how my parents met. My father was no low life, he was just trying to put himself through medicine school. By day he studied, by night he stole from the innocent, weak and beautiful. There was nothing wrong with it really. The way he saw it he would probably save their lives once he became a fulltime doctor or it was their own fault for not being trained in self defence.

It was a cold winter night when my dad pulled a small sword on my mother. He looked into her deep, fear filled eyes and said "Give me that goddamn diamond ring, but only because one day I want to buy you one twice as big." It wasn't the most romantic of proposals, but how could she say no? He had a sword, for god's sake.

David, NYC.

319

2009-07-31T16:33:00.000-07:00

People complain about giant supermarkets taking over the world, but where else can you buy eggs? It's not like we've got egg shops everywhere. We're trapped and it's our own fault. Until we figure out a way to survive in a world without eggs we should be grateful.

Tesco sells everything. It's incredible. Where else can you go at 5am to buy cocktail sausages or fall in love with with the woman looking after the self service machines? Nowadays they even sell supermarket franchises. You buy one, setup a shop, get a customer base, then Tesco come and open a new store next door putting your business out of business. It's a system that works. It's a system with eggs.

Colin, Chester.

318

2009-07-20T16:34:00.000-07:00

The best actors are famed for doing research for their roles. The most famous is probably Robert De Niro for Taxi Driver. While preparing for his role as Travis Bickle, De Niro was filming Bernardo Bertolucci's 1900. According to Peter Boyle, he would "finish shooting on a Friday in Rome...get on a plane from Italy, fly to New York", whereupon he got himself a cab driver's license. He would then go to a garage, pick up a real cab and drive around New York, shoot a pimp, then fly back to Rome again.

Nowadays most actors just use Wikipedia for their research. It's too dangerous to be out in the real world, especially since Pretty Woman. Not many people outside the business know this, but Julia Roberts really did work as a prostitute when preparing for the best romantic comedy of 1990. She even had her own pimp who used to beat her up. Eventually she couldn't take his abuse anymore, so she had to tell him "Look, I'm not really a hooker. I'm Julia Roberts. I'm an actress. You've seen Steel Magnolias, right?"

Sadly he hadn't, and he broke three of her fingers.

Gary, Baltimore.

317

2009-07-08T08:03:00.000-07:00

As soon as it happened I ran over to the bus stop. I just had to tell someone.
"I've just been struck by lightning!" I said to the man.
"Please." he said "Can I wait for one bus without someone talking to me about the weather?"
"But it's amazing. I feel all different. I think I'm picking up digital radio in my left ear."
"And there's ever been anything worth hearing on digital radio?" he asked, going back to reading his paper.
"Look at this though!" I said as I shot a bolt of lightning at the bus timetable, shattering the plastic into a million tiny pieces.
"BOOOOOOOORING." he moaned deeply.

Chris, London.

316

2009-07-02T12:21:00.000-07:00

Is there anything worse than not correcting someone straight away when they got your name wrong? You're trapped forever.

One time I was in this church with my girlfriend and this priest says to her "Do you take David Preston to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
She's all "Who the hell is David Preston?"
And I'm like "That's me."
"No you're not." she says. What can you say to that? You don't want to get into an argument on your wedding day, so you play along. It's all fucked.

David Preston, Liverpool.

315

2009-06-30T05:07:00.000-07:00

I'd literally just moved into the neighbourhood. I couldn't have been there for more than ten minutes before a man knocked on my door.

"Welcome." he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you", which was strange because we hadn't met yet. The door was still closed. Maybe he was practicing.

When I opened the door I saw a man, maybe seven feet tall, dressed in some kind of faux military uniform and carrying two fishing rods.
"I'm Randy. Let's go fishing."
"Hi, Randy. I'm Anthony. I can't really go fishing right now, I'm still unpacking."
"Nonsense. These boxes will still be here when we get back" he said, kicking the box nearest the door. "Let's go."

I wasn't sure what to do. For a moment I just stood there, hoping he'd go away. When he didn't I got a little worried, so half an hour later I was sitting in Randy's little fishing boat in the middle of a lake.
"My dad used to bring me here every year." he said.
"It's nice. How long will we be staying?"
"As long as it takes."

An hour passed and we'd yet to catch a single fish. I was about ready to demand to be allowed to go home when something began to pull at my rod.
"I think I've got something." I said.
"Give it to me." Randy yelled, taking hold of my rod and pushing me to the side. Ten seconds later I could see the fish dangling on the line. Randy pulled it in and gripped it with two hands. He stared at it deeply for a moment, then he began to shake it.
"Where is it? Tell me where it is!" he screamed. After a minute of the same question over and over again Randy gave up and threw the fish back in the water.

Over the next two hours we caught eight fish, all were met with the exact same question and violent shaking. All were thrown back. Just after Randy placed the ninth fish back in the water he said "Come on then. Let's go home."

We travelled back to town in Randy's pickup truck in silence. What was with this man? Was he about to become my best friend? My crazy best friend who lives in my street and doesn't leave me alone.

We pulled up outside my new house. I thanked Randy for the ride and started to walk up my driveway. Curiosity was beginning to get the better of me, so I turned back. "Hey, Randy. What were you looking for?"
"What do you mean?" he said.
"You kept asking the fish about something."
"Oh, no, I'm not looking for anything."
"Then why do you ask them the same question?"
"That's just the way my father taught me to fish."

I had nothing left to say.

Anthony, Austin.

313

2009-06-23T08:31:00.000-07:00

My local cinema was never too strict. It wasn't part of a chain, so there was a bit more freedom. It was nice, hardly any evilness. They knew there was no way they could stop people bringing their own food in, so they only enforced the "You CANNOT bring HOT food in" rule, which is a good thing. You don't want people eating Mcdonalds in the backrow, because a cinema is one of the few places in the world you can get away from Mcdonalds and Burger King, if only for a few hours.

I was watching Backdraft and looking at the flames as the plan came to me, a plan that would take up the next twenty-five years of my life. I'd always been a rule exploiter, able to find the tiniest loophooles and push limits to the limit. One day I realised that although I was only allowed to take cold food in, there was nothing to stop me cooking it once I was in there. I started small with a fondue, then worked my way up to a disposable barbeque. There was usually a lot left over, so I'd share it with my fellow filmgoers. People loved it. I'd always fancied myself as a bit of a chef, but I never dreamed of opening my own restaurant, because it's such a huge gamble. By the time you've read this sentence five restaurants have gone bankrupt. Now six.

Eventually word got out that there was a man with a portable gas stove who cooked the best steaks in town. The cinema turned a blind eye, because it was good for both of us. Box office takings were up and I was getting the praise I'd looked for my whole life. I was more or less running my own restaurant with the overheads of a lemonade stand. Nearly half the people in every screening were couples who had only come for dinner, and everyone was having a good time. It's how I imagined the 60s were, but darker and with better seats.

Sadly, a day came when I was defeated by a bastard. The chances were slim, but I'd ended up in the same screen as probably the only man in the world who didn't like the smell of bacon being fried. He complained to the manager, who had no option but to rethink the entire situation.

The year was 1997 when we put our heads together. It took just four meetings to come up with the perfect solution. Titanic had been out for just over a month and everyone had already seen it. We made the 12.45pm and 7pm showings of James Cameron's epic the official opening times of my restaurant. Everyone going into the film would know the deal, so any complaints could be dismissed like tears in the rain.

The plan was a success and I single handedly kept Titanic in the cinema for a year, breaking box office records and launching Leonardo Di Caprio into the A-List. Eventually people started getting annoyed with Titanic on in the background, so we changed it to a hot new film - Wild Wild West. It was a terrible decision and more food was thrown at the screen than the time I'd overcooked the tomatoes. We decided to simply rotate the films between Wayne's World, Lethal Weapon and Die Hard, three films nobody ever tires of.

Unfortunately, it all went heartbreakingly wrong in 2017, after twenty-five years of good films and good food. The owner of the cinema, a man who had become a close friend of mine, passed away. He left his humble business to his only son, Eric, a man who had no interest in films. Eric had always wanted a big pile of money, so my restaurant was sold to Odeon without delay.

When the boys from HQ came to inspect what was going on they were horrified. Their team of accountants, hearts so black with emptiness that their mouths would suck in sunlight, burst into panic and anger when they realised that I was stopping customers from buying their popcorn and nachos of the lowest quality but highest price. They needed it fixed. They needed the rules changed to a level of strictness that only a chain could abide.

A week later, after the experts had worked their terrifying magic, my local cinema was no longer a place of joy and heartwarming goodtimes. It was a level 5 cinema prison. The strictest there is. You weren't allowed to take in any recording equipment, which is usually pretty standard, but a level 5 means that they would drug you before you went in to stop you forming any lasting memories. Odeon's managers had come to realise that memories were potentially causing piracy by allowing viewers to remake the film themselves and put it on the internet. Just after the film finished, before you'd completely forgotten everything, they gave you a piece of paper to write a number between 1 and 10. In years to come that piece of paper would be your only reminder that you'd ever seen the film and that number the only measure of whether you had enjoyed it or not.

Luckily for me I'd always been a cautious man. It was time to enact the plan I'd first thought of in that screening of Backdraft many years before. Ever since my first fondue watching The Cable Guy I had been using it as a distraction of that fact that I was slowly filling my local cinema with C4 plastic explosives. Before they got a chance to shut me down I struck without warning. Now my town has no cinema, but at least I never had to go through the indignity of being told I was out of business. I went out on my own terms, in a scene of fire and explosions fit for any hollywood movie.

314

2009-06-22T07:27:00.000-07:00

Films that might get made:

To Helen Back: The Andersons of 666 Hellfire Terrace keep getting mail for a woman named Helen Back, but according to the council nobody with that name has ever lived at that address. What the hell is going on?

Punk'd You, Asian: Ashton Kutcher's hit show hits the big screen. Twitter's number one son travels to India and messes up all of their legal documents by removing all the commas, with hilarious consequences. Will it start an international conflict?

Parrots of the Caribbean: Remake of the original using the exact same script, but with all the actors replaced by CGI parrots, thus alienating all of the adults who were surprisngly impressed by the original. A box office smash!

Super-Man: The story of Marvel trying to outfox DC's lawyers by making their own Superman film by adding a hyphen to his name.

Pistol, Smoke: Michael Cera plays Johnny Pistol, a young man struggling to cope with peer pressure as his friends encourage him to smoke. Are they really his friends?

Ex-Stacey: From the producers of Pistol, Smoke, comes a touching drama about a young girl, Stacey Drinkwater, who dies after taking ectasy for the first time, which has the wonderful knock on effect of bringing her parents closer together after years of unhappy marriage.

Only In America: Morgan Freeman narrates a list of items only available in the USA.

Deadline: Postman, Ewan Mcgregor, is the last but one man on Earth and about to face his toughest assignment yet; deliver a package to the last man on Earth (Mel Gibson) before a deadly virus wipes out all mankind.

Mario Prologue: A young Italian carpenter puts himself through plumbing school whilst trying to raise his younger brother.

Spaghetti and Meatballs: Partners Detective John Bangers and Vince Mash are the laughing stock of the police force. Tired of the daily bullying they both get their names changed without telling the other with hilarious consequences.

Rock-E: In the distant future, Rocky Balboa is more machine than man and he's the last boxer on Earth. Who will fight him? Nobody.

312

2009-06-16T04:07:00.000-07:00

Films not coming out in 2010:

Beatle Jews - An imaginary tale. What if the Beatles' plane had crash landed in Israel on their way to India? See John and Paul as you've never seen them before, as accountants, movie producers and other Jewish stereotypes.

The Bourne Collector - Thriller. Denzel Washington plays a quadriplegic forensic expert with nothing to do all day except watch films. A fan of the Bourne Trilogy, he has them all on dvd, even the four disc special edition of The Bourne Ultimatum which was only available in Japan. Now, with no more films on the way, there's only one more thing to add to his collection - Matt Damon. The hunt is on.

Total Freecall - Arnie is back and this time it's personal. A personal call that is! The Governor of California has free phonecalls after 6pm to any landline for up to an hour, but when the film is two hours long will he remember to hangup and redial halfway through?

Mint's Condition - Jessica Alba is a single mother with a broken heart. With no money to pay for an operation she looks destined to leave her daughter an orphan. All until billionaire Harvey Mint (Jude Law) offers to pay for her surgery, but he has one condition - Alba must marry him for one year. Can conditional love ever become unconditional?

Right to Remain Soylent? - Charlton Heston is Non-Brand Hotdogs number one employee. On a typical Tuesday disaster strikes at the factory when his finger is chopped off and falls into a tin of hotdogs, which is quickly lost. Does he tell his foreman and stop production immediately costing the business millions of dollars or should he stay quiet and carry on as normal?

S-Word in the Stone - After Basic Instinct 2 flops at the box office, Sharon Stone becomes deeply saddened, causing a terrifying case of constipation.

Lost in Trainstation - Big Budget Sequel. On his way to the airport, Bill Murray must tackle Tokyo's busiest train station. Will he find his platform when all the signs are in Japanese?

The Bustop - While waiting for a bus a small breasted woman is shot down by an accidental gang shooting. With just minutes to live all she can think about is how she never got the chest she always wanted. Luckily for her, also waiting for the same bus is L.A.'s number one plastic surgeon (Jude Law). When the bus is only 30 seconds away and he's already late for work, will he have time to carry out the procedure? Bigger won't make her better.

The Car Ate A Kid - Comedy Farce. Ralph Macchio is the world's best driving instructor, but when his car is stolen by ninjas he needs a new one fast. Minutes later he finds one in an abandoned fairground. After showing the new car to his six year old son the unthinkable happens. Will he find a new son at the abandoned fairground before his wife gets home?

Deceit - Nicholas Cage plays a tough New York City cop with a dark secret - He's actually a fireman.

Return to Cinder - After the party of the year Prince Charming has to clean up the mess before the King and Queen get back from Canada. With no time to find Cinderella to deliver her glass slipper he uses DHL courier service. Will Cindy fall in love with the delivery man and live contently ever after?

Glad He Ate Her - Russell Crowe awakens on a desert island all alone except for a woman he's never liked. When starvation sets in he has no choice but to devour her without regret.

Cash of the Tight'Uns - Two moderately wealthy men compare bank statements in their garden, but when a charity fundraiser lady comes calling they refuse to give a donation.

Bigg - Tom Hanks wakes up to find his wildest dream come true. He's young, he's black and his debut album has just gone platinum.

Crime Scene - When socialite Paris Hilton trades the velvet rope for police tape it's only a matter of time before everybody is hanging out at murder central. How can the same woman always be at the wrong place at the right time?

Trash Talk - Detroit's worst garbage man (Eddie Murphy) is only one day away from getting the sack when he develops the power to communicate with anything that has been thrown away. A genuine stinker.

Speed 3 - Retired cop, Keanu Reeves, struggles to adapt to a world that's moving too fast. With wireless internet and bluetooth headsets on every corner, how will our hero react when someone has just told him that you can pause live tv?

151

2009-06-10T13:06:00.000-07:00

In a bid to dilute life's cruel taste I submerged myself in water for forty years. When I awoke from my watery dream I was too wrinkled to be called a man and too man to be called a wrinkle. I knew that I could no longer call dry land my home and I had failed to find comfort in the depths of the darkest oceans. My only option was to freeze myself within a block of man-sized ice in the desperate hope that future generations may find a cure for loneliness.

Hal, Ice.

Competition:

Hello competitioners, batteriesfeelincluded fans and black-hearted plagiarists. It's been a thrilling week or so, and all of us here are overjoyed with the success of what is hopefully the first of many batteriesfeelincluded drawing competitions. The entries were frequently of an above average quality, and you should all be proud of yourselves.

Special mentions go to Dan Beames for capturing the semi-lifeless feel of a body frozen in ice, and to Cadburywolf, Briedle and Ninebucks for their impressive illustratorial nous.

However, there can only be one winner, and after much discussion, a nearly unanimous decision (if you count me as eight or more people) was reached. The winner is... Ballookey. The piece was graphically inventive, and managed to not only capture the tone and content of the story, but also add to it in an unexpected way. So congratulations, Ballookey. Your prize will never be announced or exist.

Jonathan James-Whitehead BA. Also got an A in GCSE Art.

The Winner:

Ballookey

Other Entries:

Dan Beames

Will (Theprowler)

Ninebucks

Drowsynumbness

Cooper King

Themanwhofellasleep

Chaino

Richard Kirby

Cadburywolf

Briedle

311

2009-05-20T07:37:00.000-07:00

Easy Solutions #3

So, you want your favourite singer to write a song about you, but she has no idea that you even exist.

What you will need: 1 x Superman t-shirt, 3 x Tough Guys, 1 x Van, Basic Fighting Skills.

Step One: Start by locating the singer. Until Google releases its Celebrity Locator program, the best tool you have at your disposal is Twitter. Celebrities often use Twitter to announce their exact location to the world.

Step Two: When the singer is leaving her location signal for the three tough guys to attack her and steal her handbag/purse/petty cash. Depending on the singer’s level of fame, she might have a bodyguard. Increase the toughness of your guys accordingly.

Step Three: Wearing your Superman t-shirt stop the singer from being attacked. Use basic fighting techniques to subdue the tough guys.

Step Four: It is vital that during the fight you are hit in the mouth, causing your lip to tear on your teeth. Unless you have some kind of blood disorder you should now bleed heavily from the mouth.

Step Five: Once you become victorious the attackers should run away. At this point you should shout the words “You’d better run.”

Step Six: Ideally the singer would have been pushed to the floor during the attack. After the attackers have fled you can help her up by grabbing her hands. This physical contact soon after an attack will form a strong bond between the two of you. Show no signs that you know who the singer is.

Step Seven: The singer will look upon your chest and see the Superman logo and it will be impossible for her to resist saying something like “You’re a hero.” Play this down by saying “It’s just a t-shirt”. She will be impressed by your modesty. In her mind you and Superman will now be linked. Under no circumstances must you swap the Superman t-shirt for the full costume. And it has to be Superman. Do not risk wearing a Batman t-shirt, because of his mental health issues.

Step Eight: Offer to walk the singer wherever she’s going. She will prefer to get a taxi, but all of her money will now be in the possession of the attackers. If she persists in asking for a taxi, simply say “I’m pretty sure those guys were taxi drivers.”

Step Nine: As you walk with her be as charming as possible. If you are not a charming person simply adopt the personality of a Will Smith or Owen Wilson type character. Do not use an accent unless you can maintain it consistently.

Step Ten: As you chat away, seemingly oblivious to your singer’s fame, she will find the whole experience a refreshing change. She will open up in ways she never thought possible since her rise to stardom. Using information you’ve picked up from her interviews, make yourself seem like her ideal lover. For example, if you know that she likes cats, comment on how good you think cats are.

Step Eleven: When you arrive at the destination she will have developed feelings of a romantic nature for you. As you say goodbye she will want to kiss you. This is why it is important for your lip to be bleeding. Kissing will not be an option. It will cause her to be frustrated.

Step Twelve: As you walk off, turn around and call back to her, something that references one of her songs. She will be amazed that you knew who she was the whole time. These words will also be the signal to the van that has been following you both.

Step Thirteen: The van containing the three tough guys must now pull up alongside you. Two should get out and proceed to beat you up. Once you are beaten into a bloody pulp, they should pick you up and throw you into the back of the van, not before one of them shouts “Dammit, Danny, you’ve killed another one.”

Step Fourteen: Your favourite singer will now be heartbroken. She will never get that kiss. Wanting to avoid a media scandal she will not report these events to the police. It would be bad for her career to be connected to a murder. Instead she will go into her room and do the only thing she knows how – she will write a song about the man who died saving her life, the man she never got to kiss.

Step Fifteen: Wait for the singer to release her latest album. Listen to it until you hear a song that references the events of steps 2-13. It should be easily identifiable, because it will contain the line “I didn’t even know his name.”

Notes: You will have reservations about doing this, because you will have seen this tactic used in every single sitcom, always with terrible results, but this is real life and it will work. It's advisable not to try this any anyone who is too famous.

310

2009-05-19T04:25:00.000-07:00

Easy Solutions #2

So, you want to kiss your sexy neighbour, but you've never even said hello.

What you will need: 1 x computer with photoshop, 1 x printer, 1 x A4 envelope, 1 x black pen, 1 x red pen, 1 x stamp, 1 x pot of extra strength glue, 1 x photo of yourself with a lady.

Step One: Use your computer to photoshop Angelina Jolie's head onto the lady's body in your photograph. If you are unable to do this, seek the assistance of a ten year old child.

Step Two: Print out the photo, place it in a frame and hang it in your hallway.

Step Three: Use your computer to write a script for a short Hollywood film. Put all of your effort into it, because although it will probably never get made, you might discover that you have a hidden talent.

Step Four: Print out two copies of the script and place them in the envelope. Write your name and address on the envelope using the black pen. Then, using the red pen, write the words "Confidential" and "Urgent" in bold capital letters. Exclamation marks are optional.

Step Five: Lick the stamp and stick it on the top right hand corner of the envelope.

Step Six: On Saturday morning stand outside your neighbour's house until the postman arrives. As soon as he posts your neighbour's letters run up to her door and post your envelope.

Step Seven: Return home and glue your letterbox shut.

Step Eight: Pretty soon your neighbour will discover your envelope and she will immediately bring it to the correct address, because of the bold red writing. She will be unable to simply post it through your letterbox, because you have glued it shut. When she knocks your door, answer it.

Step Nine: When she hands you the envelope say the words "Oh, thank God. I was worried I wasn't going to get this in time before Monday." The "Confidential" written on the envelope will have made her curious, so she may ask what the envelope contains.

Step Ten:Even if she doesn't, casually announce that it's just the script for a new film you're starring in with Angelina Jolie. While your neighbour is being impressed mention that you've just opened a bottle of wine. Ask her if she would like a glass. You won't need to have a bottle ready. She will automatically decline, because it's Saturday morning, but it will make you appear artistic, because only creative types drink wine in the morning.

Step Eleven: There's a 50/50 chance that she will now ask if you know Angelina Jolie. Even if she doesn't ask this question it is important that you now point her towards the photograph hanging in your hallway, thus causing her to enter your house.

Step Twelve: Whilst she is looking at the photo, open the envelope and say the words "Why have they sent me two?"

Step Thirteen: After she is done admiring the photograph say the words "Hey, you wouldn't mind running through a few scenes with me, would you?" She will be reluctant to decline, because she's already declined your offer of wine and won't want to seem rude, especially to a man who she now believes to be an associate of a top movie star.

Step Fourteen: Take her into the living room and tell her that you aren't in many of the early scenes, so you should start with the final act.

Step Fifteen: After she's read a few lines, compliment her by saying "You're very good. Have you done any acting before?" This will put her at ease.

Step Sixteen: Now, if you've written your script correctly, you will have included a climax where you and Angelina Jolie's character kiss. It's Hollywood writing 101. Upon reading the direction notes of this scene your neighbour will instinctively be reluctant to kiss a man she's only just met on a Saturday morning.

Step Seventeen: However, before she says the words "We don't have to kiss, do we?" she will start to think about Angelina Jolie and her lips. All women have the exact same strong feelings about Angelina Jolie, and no matter what they say, it is thinly veiled jealousy. Your neighbour will start to wonder about you kissing Angelina Jolie on Monday. At first she will realise that this is her one opportunity to beat Angelina Jolie by being a better kisser. Then she will imagine the kiss chain from her, to you, to Angelina Jolie, to Brad Pitt. This will seal the deal in her mind.

Step Eighteen: When your neighbour moves her mouth close to your's, begin to kiss her. Mission accomplished.

Step Nineteen(Optional): If you want to take a risk, you can make your script about a man who kisses his neighbour by doing this exact thing. Your neighbour might appreciate the Charlie Kauffman quality to it. It's a good way to come clean and rid yourself of the guilt. If she admires your efforts you might enter into a love affair. Sadly this step will only work 60% of the time.

Notes: Women can use this tutorial by simply replacing the photo of Angelina Jolie with Johnny Depp.

308

2009-05-11T08:44:00.000-07:00

A heart shaped submarine doesn't show up on sonar. They say it's simple physics, but I know the power of love.

Dickie, Exeter.

307

2009-05-01T17:26:00.000-07:00

It was a worringly hot summer's day when the doorbell rang. A doorbell that plays 'We wish you a Merry Christmas' seemed like a good idea six months ago, but things change, people change. Upon opening the door I was confronted by a child who couldn't have been older than ten.

'I’m sorry to bother you,' he said 'But I’m here to talk to you about a very exciting... thing.' There was a hint of Scottish in his accent and his confident manner unsettled me. 'Tell me, do you ever send mail?' I nodded in agreement, whilst putting my foot behind the door, ready to stop any sudden advance. 'That’s great.' he said. 'Now, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you do that?'

'Well I just write a letter then post it.' I told him.

'And you do that on paper?' Once again I nodded in agreement.

'Now there’s your problem right there. The reason I’m here is to offer you this opportunity to purchase these genuine mail tiles for a low, low price.' He made a step to his left, revealing the two foot high pile of rusty brown tiles behind him.

'Why the heck would I want to send my mail on a tile, boy?' I said, half relieved he wasn't trying to make me join a cult, half annoyed at my time being wasted.

'The reason is very simple. Say, for example, a colleague or associate had borrowed a DVD, maybe your favourite DVD, and he’d had it for over six months. Well, you wouldn’t want to put a brick through his window to get it back, would you? You need to save that heavy stuff for your enemies. And what’s a letter going to do when he can just recycle or set fire to it? You need to show you mean business, but how? Mail tiles. Plain and simple. It’s the perfect balance, like a miniature brick for slotting through letterboxes. When he arrives home and sees a tile on his doormat you can be sure that DVD’s gonna be on your desk come Monday morning. And if it’s not, you could easily stick a couple of tiles together to make something similar to a brick. So what do you say? Can I put you down for a hundred?'

'Son, where in God’s flowers did you get all these tiles?' I asked.

'I run a small factory. That much I can assure you.' he said, trying to offer me a business card written on the back of a train ticket.

After politely, but firmly, declining his offer I asked that he never knocked my door again. When he said he'd rung the doorbell I told him to watch his goddamn cheek. Give a kid a factory and he thinks he owns the world.

It would be nearly two days before I noticed the rain coming in through my ceiling.

Tony, Sunderland.

306

2009-04-14T17:43:00.000-07:00

People come to me for ideas. They want me to fix things. I tell them that not all broken things are meant to be fixed. A cracked plate isn’t broken because someone dropped it on the floor, it’s broken because nobody cared enough to make sure it never got dropped. Obviously that’s just some kind of bad metaphor. Nobody should care about plates.

When the bosses of Formula One came knocking on my door I was reluctant to answer, because not only was I undressed, but I also knew what they wanted. There was talk of a rule change, something to do with the points system to make the races more exciting. They were standing outside my house because they wanted to make sure there wasn’t a better way to increase excitement. Eventually they kicked the door down, by which time I’d managed to throw on some jeans and a t-shirt.

‘I know why you’ve come here, but I won’t do it, people will die.’ I told them.
Sadly for me I took little persuading. Their initial offer was money, something I had very little of. With the recession booming as it was, and my urgent need for a new front door, I accepted.

I explained that all they needed to do was allow Ussain Bolt to enter and use a Flintstones car. And that’s what they did. Come opening race of the season there was ten car pileup on the first corner of the first lap. Five people were killed.

Six months later I got an email from Boxing. They wanted me to fix the whole sport. Nobody wanted to watch the damn thing anymore, it was just the same old punch, punch action everytime. I politely informed them that it was none of my concern and asked that they removed me from their mailing list.

Within the hour I had Ricky Hatton at my door threatening to knock my lights out if I didn’t come up with a way to promote his next pay-per-view fight.

‘Well, Ricky.’ I said ‘as you’re probably aware, at the moment, tickets to watch Guitar Hero bands are outselling real bands by three to one. They’re filling Wembley Stadium everynight. All you’ve got to do is fight the world’s best Wii boxing player.’

At first he was hesitant, he was worried that he could seriously hurt his opponent, but I explained that it might be a closer fight than he thought. The Nintendo game uses most of the basic principles of the real thing. It’s just dodging and jabbing. ‘Although you’re almost certainly right, someone will probably be killed, such is the outcome of most of my plans.’ I told him.

On December 19th, Ricky “The Hitman” Hatton died at the hands of a nine year old boy. Nobody could have expected the child to have a knife hidden inside his glove, even though children are famed for their love of playing with knives.

As Ricky lay bleeding on the blue canvas at the end of the first round, I knew that £9.95 was too much to pay to watch two and a half minutes of boxing.

Nearly a week later I was getting ready to sit down for Christmas dinner with my family. It had been a bad year. I’d unwillingly caused the deaths of six sportsmen.

My sister had yet to arrive with her new boyfriend, whom none of us had met or heard anything about yet. Just as the turkey was being pulled out of the oven, in walked my sister and her boyfriend, who just happened to be John Virgo.

All through dinner my family kept asking John Virgo questions about snooker and Jim Davidson. ‘How many points is the brown ball worth again?’ my dad would ask. ‘What’s Jim Davidson really like, John?’ John would answer politely, without flair or genuine interest in the conversation. Instead he only seemed to be interested in me. Everytime I looked up I caught his eyes fixed on me.

When my mother started to clear the plates, John Virgo stood up made an announcement. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ he said. ‘It isn’t right. Celia, I don’t love you. I’m only here because I wanted to meet your brother.’

Not wanting a scene to errupt, I led the former world number ten into the study.
'I can guess why you wanted to see me.’ I said, as I pulled out a folder from my father’s desk. ‘You want me to fix snooker.’ He nodded. I handed him the green hardbacked folder. ‘Everything you need is in here. Just make sure you tell Ronnie O’Sullivan.’ He thanked me and left without saying goodbye to the rest of my family. I guess it’s true what they say, a waistcoat doesn’t buy manners. Inside the folder was a 32 page instruction guide on how to redevelop snooker for the 21st century, borrowing heavily from professional wrestling. If John Virgo was wise enough to follow my advice, the next World Championship would focus primarily on behind the scene action rather than the matches themselves. Traditional dress would be thrown out the window and a complex soap opera would emerge between the best snooker players the world.

Day one of the tournament came. I sat down to watch the live feed of the dressing room where a spandex covered Mark Williams opened a verbal can of whoop-ass on a waistcoat wearing Ronnie O’Sullivan. ‘You’ll be getting a rocket up your arse.’ yelled the Welshman. Ronnie seemed confused and taken back. When Williams began to focus his attacks on Ronnie’s father, something seemed to snap in the World #1. Lifting up his cue, Ronnie speared the stick through Mark Williams’ heart, killing him instantly.

In my living room chair I placed my head in my hands. They’d forgotten to tell Ronnie O’Sullivan.

305

2009-04-02T07:26:00.000-07:00

I came home from work, put my keys in a place I’d probably forget and went straight to the kitchen. My girlfriend wasn’t there, not that I expect her to be at all times. I’m no pig, but it’s usually where I find her between five and six. After taking a can of coke from the fridge I headed to the bedroom. There she was, standing next to the bed, dressed in a nurse’s uniform.

‘Have you got a new job?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s for sex. Does it turn you on?’ she said.

‘Not really. It makes me think of hospitals and dying. Maybe you should take it off.’

‘Just get on the bed.’ she said. She pushed me onto the bed and slid off my trousers. For months she’d been suggesting roleplay, but I’d always say ‘That aint keepin’ it real.’ in my best gangster voice.

I never told her that sometimes when we made love I imagined that I was Batman. She wouldn’t understand. Running her hands up my legs, then cupping my balls she said ‘I think I’ve found a lump.’

‘I like that you’re really getting into character’ I said ‘but I don’t think this is working.’

‘I’m serious.’

Eighteen hours later I was sitting in my doctor’s office. He must be about eighty. I’m never sure if it’s better to have a really old doctor or a really young one. An old one has more experience, but someone might have forgotten to tell him all the latest advancements in medicine over the past fifty years.

‘I’m afraid I have some good news and some bad news. It’s not cancer.’ he said.

‘Oh, thank God.’

‘However, I found something else when I was looking at your bloodwork. Your sadness levels are off the charts.’

‘But I definitely don’t have cancer?’ I asked ‘I’m going to be ok?’

‘Well here’s the thing – in all my years of medicine I’ve never seen anything like it.’

He opened his drawer and pulled out a tube of clear liquid. ‘Your blood is made of tears. By all medical standards you should be dead.’

‘It’s a miracle.’ I proclaimed.

‘I’m afraid you don’t seem to realise just how sad you are. You could die at any moment.’

‘But I feel fine. And you’re positive I don’t have cancer?’

‘Yes, but look at this scan.’ he said, as he got up and stuck a picture to one of those light up wall things. ‘This here is your pituitary gland. It should be about the size of a pea, but yours is the size of a walnut and it’s shaped like a labrador’s face.’

‘But that’s a good thing, right? It’s cute?’

‘I’m afraid it’s the saddest possible face.’

I was beginning to doubt what the doctor was saying. Maybe it was simple denial, but I wanted a second opinion.

‘Could I have someone else take a look at me?’ I asked. ‘Someone a bit younger?’

‘I wouldn’t want to upset one of my colleagues by having them witness such a condition. I daresay I’ll have trouble sleeping for a week. Listen, I’m not supposed to do this, it goes against everything I stand for and I could lose my license, but I’d be willing to put you to sleep.’

‘I’m not sure. I just don’t feel that sad.’

‘At least go home and think about it.’

I agreed that I would. As I got up to leave he called me back. ‘I didn’t want to tell you this earlier, because I wasn’t sure how you’d take it in your state, but you do have cancer. Here’s my private number. Call me if you change your mind.’

Simon, Liverpool.

304

2009-03-31T06:48:00.000-07:00

What a waste of a lunch hour. I spent nearly all of it stuck inside a clock shop. For a place that sells time, they sure do steal a lot of it. Someone should look into their operation. After queuing for twenty minutes I finally got to the front, slammed my clock on the counter and said ‘I’m not happy.’

‘What seems to be the problem?’ asked the man wearing a tie with three clocks on it – one for London, one for Tokyo and one for New York.

‘Well I bought this clock from you yesterday and it’s stopped working.’

‘Did you have it on all day?’ he said.

‘Of course, that’s the whole point.’

‘Well that’s your problem right there.’ he said. ‘It’s a 24 hour clock.’

‘But I don’t want a clock that only lasts for a day. I want one that will last forever.’ I cried.

He lifted up a box from beneath the counter and said ‘You’ll need a digital one then. We’ve got an offer on at the moment – two for one on all digital clocks.’

‘I don’t need two. I need one. One clock.’

‘Say no more.’ he said and slipped me a floppy disc. The queue was getting restless.

‘What the hell is this?’ I asked, looking at the disc.

‘Well you’ll need to upload it first, but I can assure you that will one will last forever. Never needs winding either.’

‘But it’s on a floppy disc. My computer doesn’t even have a drive for that anymore.’

‘Yeah, we don’t sell many of these. Most modern computers come with clocks already built in these days.'

The line of people waiting to return items was beginning to resemble a mob. Somehow a couple of them had managed to find flaming torches. 'Please hurry up.' one of them shouted 'My windup clock keeps telling me it's time to die.'

The man with the three-clocked tie took no notice of the chaos unfolding in his shop. 'Maybe I can interest you in this watch instead.' he said. 'There’s 25% off all watches at the moment.’

‘But it only goes up to nine o’clock!’ I yelled. My patience was long lost. ‘Just give me a clock that will last more than a day, goes all the way up to midnight and doesn’t live inside a floppy disc.’

‘I have just the one for you, sir.’ he said, taking the shop’s own clock off the wall. ‘I’ll even throw in this travel clock for free, but I must warn you that it only works on planes and trains. We’re working on a boat one, but hour engineers aren’t optimistic that it can be done. That’ll be £9.99.’

I paid the man and began to leave. As I was nearing the door he shouted out ‘Don’t
forget, the clocks go back tomorrow night.’

‘I know.’ I replied.

‘Good.’ he said ‘We’ll be around at about two to pick them up.’

Jason, Clapham.

302

2009-03-27T10:03:00.000-07:00

When people got bored and stopped using the internet, Google came to me. They came to beg. They wanted me to fix it, to make it better. I told them to just let it rest for a while, let people catch up on their board games. Straight away they knew that I'd been paid by the board game companies to say that, and so, they offered to double whatever Hasbro had promised me. Always being prepared, I had the solution ready - new emoticons.

Here are the international emoticons for:

__&__	"I've fallen on the ice and I can't get up."
A * * -8	"A snowman is attacking my tent."
H_O_H	"There's a boulder on the rugby pitch. Someone call the police!"
~~\o/~~	"I see a drowning man, but I can't swim, so he will have to drown."
SSS $	"A gang of snakes are burning another snake at the stake. It's not God's work."
(}< ###	"I've developed x-ray vision, but all I can see are traintracks."
^A^A+A^A^	"Bury me in the mountains, papa."
>-ii-< iiii	"Go fetch mother, a giant crab is attacking the penguins."
[____i]i	"The only man I've ever loved is in prison. Now we have to make love through a fence."
<^> - - [] []	"Don't bother coming into work today - Aliens are attacking the city."
i-\ H~~^~~	"Jumping the shark."
~Q_	"One of my sperm has escaped and now he's snorting lines of coke."
~n=n''- IIIII	"There's a wolf at my door and my house is made of sticks. What the hell was I thinking?"

303

2009-03-26T07:38:00.000-07:00

“I’m leaving. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Ten.”
“You never talk to me.”
“Nine.”
“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. What’s wrong with you?”
“Eight.”
“After everything I’ve done for you it’s the least you can do. Just talk to me.”
“Seven.”
“I’ve stood by you, haven’t I? Who asked her father to lend you the money to start your own business? Me. It’s always me.”
“Six.”
“Did I try to talk you out of it? Did I ever use the words 'A karaoke bar that only plays Love Will Tear Us Apart wouldn’t work'? No, because I loved you.”
“Five.”
“And when you disappeared for six months without telling anyone, did I find comfort with another man? Did I not wait for you? Was I angry when you came back?”
“Four.”
“Even though you’d spent half a year in isolation trying to copyright every possible song that could be written in the future.”
“Three.”
“And did I laugh at you when you’d only written songs that already existed?”
“Two.”
“What happened to you? What happened to the man who loved me, the man who said he’d die without me?”
“One.”
“Well I guess he’s gone, and so am I.”
“Zero.”

Emma, Manchester.

301

2009-03-17T17:15:00.000-07:00

When Rosemary left Javier he became filled with despair, the kind of despair which quickly turns to the most intense dull sadness. His days were occupied with gentle weeping, and sleepless nights struggled to pass. He hid the sadness from his friends, because it seemed like the British thing to do, even though his broken heart pumped Spanish blood. Nobody noticed his cries for help whenever he declined a social invitation with the words ‘I’m watching the Sopranos’, even though he’d often stated his dislike for the show in the past. Always on the verge of doing something dramatic and dangerous in his mind, he never got passed the getting out of bed stage. The closest he came to self harm was the time he held a pillow over his face, but he found the attack far too relaxing and fell asleep.

Nine months later, on a fresh winter morning, Javier was sitting alone on a park bench. Watching the pigeons and eating an apple Danish pastry he began to whistle. Suddenly his sadness lifted. The grey cloud that had been pressing on his lungs for three quarters of a year was gone and he could breathe easy. Although many would come to the conclusion that nine months is the exact amount of time is takes to recover from heartache, Javier could think only of the pastry.

Never wanting to be sad again, Javier took to the study of pastries, and to a lesser extent, cakes. After a year of hard work he became one of the all time great pastry chefs. In his eyes, each and every dessert he baked was a miracle capable of curing any form of sadness, from grief to loneliness. Knowing this gave him great responsibility, and so, he opened the world’s first free bakery.

The bakery was a success, Javier was happy again and his life had a newfound sense of purpose. There was only one problem – his bakery was in his home town, where everybody knew him. Every day men and women would come to the bakery and make small talk. ‘How are you?’ they’d say. ‘What’s going on? I hear you broke up with Rosemary. How are you coping? Do you think you’ll get back together?’ Little did he know that the sadness had become a part of him, like the blood running through his veins, hidden away and forgotten about until a cut or a graze. The daily wave of questions about Rosemary was slicing at his skin and he could feel the sadness leaking out again.

Javier did the only thing that seemed logical – he left the country and left the continent, building a small bakery at the foot of the world’s seventh tallest mountain. It would be nearly four years before he had his first customer, but once news got out about the free pastries Javier’s bakery become the most talked about in the world. Word of mouth is a powerful tool, but when that word is ‘free’ people become crazed. Men, women and children, sad and happy alike, came from across the world to sample Javier’s mythical pastries, but he was just one man.

Demand smothered supply, meaning that the bakery was open for just one minute a day – the final moment before dawn became sunrise, after that there was nothing left. People would queue for days, sometimes weeks just to get their hands on one of one of Javier’s croissants.

Javier would often lie in bed wondering if his pastries were the best in the world. Why would people travel thousands of miles if they weren’t? Maybe his customers only queued for days at a time because the desserts were free. He needed to know for sure, and so, one morning, many years after Javier had tasted that Apple Danish on a park bench, he unlocked the door of his bakery and let the first fifty customers in. What they saw on the wall drove them to madness: ‘All Pastries $1’. Javier decided that a dollar was a reasonable amount to pay for the best pastry in the world. If people were willing to pay that dollar he would be re-assured of his skill as a chef. What Javier hadn’t anticipated was the collective mind of a group of people who had been waiting for ten days on the promise of free snacks. The price was irrelevant, the sign could have said one cent or a million Euros, and the reaction would still have been the same. Men, women and children began to tear the place apart, for reasons which Javier would never learn, many of them had come equipped with baseball bats and petrol cans. In the seconds it took for dawn to become sunrise, Javier’s bakery became nothing more than a pile of burning planks turning to charcoal at the bottom of the world’s seventh tallest mountain.

As Javier looked down at the rubble and his broken dream he saw the last Apple Danish he would ever bake, squashed and broken. Picking it up with the plastic tong attached to his belt, he placed the pastry in cellophane bag. He wanted to be alone. Pushing through the crowd he began to march up the mountain. After six hours of walking he looked down at where his bakery once stood. There were still thousands of people waiting, looking like ants, unaware that they were queuing for nothing. Javier began to feel sad again. As he raised the apple Danish to his lips, ready to seal up his pain, he started to feel comforted by his sadness. It had been a long time since he’d felt this badly, it was like being re-united with an old friend. Nostalgia, even for terrible things, is better than nothing.

Upward he climbed, guided only by his subconscious, for what could have been days. Time had been replaced by sadness. Finally, when there was no place left to climb, Javier gathered his thoughts. He’d reached the top of the world’s seventh tallest mountain. He had failed in curing sadness for all mankind through pastries and cakes, but he’d climbed a very tall mountain. It was an acceptable consolation prize. What should have been the loneliest place in the world was slightly less so, because Javier wasn’t the only person at the top of this mountain. Across from him, in a moon white wedding dress, was Rosemary. She was crying. Sitting down beside her, he asked:
‘Run away from a wedding?’
‘Yes.’ she sobbed.
‘Your’s?’
She nodded. ‘I guess you want to be alone. I’ll leave.’ he said. ‘Would you like some of this before I go?’ he asked, offering Rosemary his apple Danish. Accepting it she broke it in half and handed him the bigger piece. After taking a bite Rosemary stopped crying and chewed in silence. A minute later she spoke the words Javier had been waiting to hear for nearly six years.

‘This is the best apple Danish I’ve ever tasted.’

Javier smiled, as he began to descend the mountain Rosemary called out to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said ‘I’ve missed you, you know?’ Putting her hand on his neck she pulled him closer to her, and they kissed. When it was over Javier looked down at the apple Danish in his hand, thought to himself for a moment, and then threw it away. As they both watched it fall hundreds of feet, Rosemary took Javier’s hand.

The sun began to set, casting shades of blood red onto Rosemary's dress. They kissed again. He tasted the pastry on her tongue and he was happy. It really was the best pastry in the world. She began to say the words Javier had been waiting to hear for nearly six years and nine months.

‘I never stopped…’ But the next two words were lost in a scream, as Javier pushed Rosemary off the seventh tallest mountain in the world.

Oscar, Barcelona.

300

2009-03-16T08:43:00.000-07:00

I’ve always had a strange relationship with jokes. There was a time when I didn’t understand them at all. The first joke I ever heard was the one about the chicken crossing road. Over twenty years have passed since then and I still don’t get it. I remember when I was eight years old my grandfather asked me ‘When is a door not a door?’ I didn’t know. ‘When it’s ajar.’ he said. I laughed, but I would be close to sixteen before I worked it out.

Now, as a grown man, I understand jokes too well, so much so that I cannot be amused by a single one. I was on the bus this morning when I overheard a man telling a woman a joke. I’m sure you’ve all heard it before, it’s the one where Superman is flying over Metropolis one day when he sees Wonder Woman lying naked on a rooftop with her legs spread open. To cut a long story short, Superman attempts to have sex with her quickly without her noticing only to end up having anal sex with the Invisible Man.

Out of pity for the man telling the joke I had to interrupt. For over ten minutes I had to explain why Superman should have been able to see the Invisible Man, because his range of vision is far superior to our own, although it’s often debated whether it extends to thermal vision. Still, even if he couldn’t see the Invisible Man he would have definitely heard two heartbeats, making it clear that Wonder Woman wasn’t alone. Also, Superman is no fool, when confronted by another superhero who is naked and screaming in sexual bliss on a rooftop, questions would surely be raised in his head. However, the most incredible flaw of this whole setup makes the scientific faults irrelevant. Superman, by his very nature, doesn’t fly around raping people. It just doesn’t add up.

Jules, Brighton.

299

2009-03-10T13:42:00.000-07:00

I could never understand what people were talking about in films when they said “Get me some Benjamins” or “I got a wallet full of Washington.” I hoped there’d be a web site explaining which presidents were on all the different bills, but all I could find on the internet was porn and erection pills. My only option was a first class ticket to the American treasury.

I arrived first thing on Monday. Sneaking in was very easy, because there was a free tour of the building fifteen times a day. My tour guide said “If you’ve got any questions during the tour, please don’t hesitate to ask.” I took this as my opportunity to find out some information, and so I asked “Which presidents are on all the bills?” He said that he wasn’t sure. He knew that Lincoln was on a $5 or $10 note, but he’d have to check.

“I don’t have time.” I said. “Take me to the man in charge.”

I was led into a room two and a half miles beneath the ground where an old man sat alone, stacks of paper on his desk and a permanent marker pen in his hand.

“I can see you’re very busy, so I won’t take up much of your time.” I said, watching him draw the dollar sign on a half completed $1 bill. “I’ve just come to find out which presidents are on the different bills.” Without looking up at me, he slid open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a book called “Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Who Is On The Dollar Bills and Why”.

“Thanks.” I said, lifting the heavy book and placing it in my bag.

As I began to leave the room I realised I’d probably never meet this man again, and so, I decided to pitch him an idea I’d long been holding.

“Have you ever thought about making a ninety-nine cent note to save on change? You know, for things that cost $1.99 and that?” He stopped drawing. Looking up at me, as he took off his glasses, he said:

“Son, that’s the best goddamn idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Really?” I asked, wondering if he was being sarcastic and his American accent was terrible at it.

“It’s so good I’m gonna start making them right now!”

“Wow” I said. “Which president are you going to put on it?”

His reply was a long and boring one, to tell it in full detail would only send you to sleep as it almost did to me. To cut a long story short he had taken this job thirty nine years ago. Fresh out of college with a degree in Arts and Crafts, he needed to earn a quick buck. He dreamed of becoming a comic book artist, but nobody was hiring. One morning he opened the newspaper to see the words “Artist? Want to make a lot of money?” written in dark bold lettering. The rest I’m sure you can work out yourself.

For the first time in thirty nine years he was confronted with chance to draw something other than a dead president.

“Son, stay here while I draft something up.”

An hour passed, an hour in which I read the first seventy-five pages of a book called “Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Who Is On The Dollar Bills and Why”, but still I was only able find out that George Washington was on the one dollar bill.

“Well, here it is” he said, beckoning me over to his desk. There I saw the world’s first ninety-nine cent bill. Unsure of what to make of it, I asked:

“Are you please with it?”

“For the first time in nearly four decades I’ve drawn something from my heart. I know happiness and job fulfilment I’ve only dreamed of.” A smile as wide as Kansas crossed his face. “Now I can die a happy man.” He was dead.

Worrying that I could somehow get the blame for this, I grabbed the 99c note and ran back to the first floor. I returned home on Monday evening, having had enough hours on the flight to complete the book “Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Who Is On The Dollar Bills and Why” and learn everything I’d set out to discover. The first and last 99c dollar was just a happy bonus. Here it is:

Jerry, London.

298

2009-02-26T12:47:00.000-08:00

Is there anything worse than spotting a flock of charity clipboarders in the street, then ducking off to the side to avoid them, only to have one jump out from around the corner by H. Samuel? You look at her and she’s all beautiful like a swan. She says ‘I’m not going to hassle you to sign up. I just want someone to talk to. I’m so bored.’ So you talk to her for a bit and it turns out that you both really like the White Stripes. As you start to walk away she mentions that she has a spare ticket to a White Stripes concert that evening. Even though you wouldn’t normally accept this kind of invitation from a stranger you say yes, because it’s sold out and you really want to go. It’s a great concert, followed by some great walking home with her. You don’t sleep with her, but you agree to go out again. Fast forward six months and you’re living together. Skip another ten years and you’re married with two kids. You’re sitting at the breakfast table drinking coffee and reading your mail – a brochure for Center Parcs and your bank statement. According to the bank statement, £2 was taken out by direct debit to something called Help The Aged, a charity you’ve always been against. You go to confront your wife about this, but she isn’t in the living room and she isn’t in the bedroom. The wardrobe is half empty and her wedding ring on the bedside table. It’s the long con and you can’t believe you fell for it. To make matters worse you don’t even cancel the direct debit, because apart from the ring and two children, that’s all you have left of her.

Michael, Leeds.

297

2009-02-21T16:30:00.000-08:00

When Paulo heard a man’s voice coming from the seashell he was both surprised and disappointed. Paulo had wanted only to hear the sound of the ocean. He wanted to be soothed. The confident and powerful voice told him to stand back immediately. These words, and the tone of the hidden voice, did not soothe him. The anxiety that he was trying to rid himself of was more pronounced than ever. As Paulo placed the shell back on the sand, a man with extraordinary features emerged from it. The man from the shell announced himself to be a genie, one who had come to grant Paulo three wishes.

“But before you make any wishes, I must warn you that I am an evil genie.”

“What does that mean?” Paulo asked, looking at the genie’s waistcoat which was made of rubies and sheepskin.

“Whatever you wish for will have an unpleasant evil twist. No good will come of anything your heart desires.”

Like all men who seek the sounds of the ocean for relaxation, Paulo wished for a million pounds. He could not imagine a negative side effect of such a bet.

“Your wish is done.” the genie told Paulo. “Check the credit on your mobile telephone.”

“But I’m on contract.” Paulo declared.

“Not anymore.” Paulo entered three digits into his phone and pressed call. His balance was one million pounds. Knowing that there was no way he could ever use this million pounds without hanging around phoneboxes and offering strangers phonecalls at cut rates, Paulo became saddened. He had been tricked, and the fact that he had been warned about being tricked made his sadness even more painful. Paulo could take no comfort in the thought that he would never have to go through the motions of topping up his phone again. He hadn’t had to worry about that since 2001, when he left his Pay as You Go for a monthly contract, after learning that he could get twice as many text messages for the same price.

Paulo was not a good man; he was alone in the world. His first thought after discovering he had three wishes was money, his second was Rachel. Money had always come before the only woman Paulo had ever loved. Paulo’s second wish was this: “I wish that Rachel still loved me.”

“It is done.” the genie said. His words were followed by a smile, the smile of someone who had just committed evil. He had forced eternal love into the heart of a woman.

At that very moment, somewhere on the other side of the world, that woman fell to the floor, spitting coffee from her mouth as the love in her heart was pumped into every molecule of her being.

Two days went by before Rachel came knocking on the door of the man she had sworn to never see again. The last words she had spoken to the man were the opposite of “I love you.”, but those were the words she was now speaking. Not only did Rachel want to see Paulo again, she wanted to see nothing else.

Within an hour of being together, Paulo knew that it would not last. Rachel loved him more than anyone had ever loved anything. Her love was so intense that when he made love to her for the first time in three years, he felt claustrophobic, the anxiety was too much to bear. His panic attack prevented either of them from climaxing.

Although he was a millionaire on paper and he had the love of a beautiful woman, Paulo was four times more depressed than when he had met the genie just two days ago. Determined to at least try to make it work with Rachel, he asked her to move in with him.

A week passed, a week filled with gentle sobbing whenever Paulo used the bathroom. Rachel could not be apart from him for one second, and so, she removed all the doors from the house. There was nowhere for him to be alone, nowhere for him to hide, not even his own thoughts. Every gap in conversation was met with “What are you thinking?”

A week was all Paulo could stand, love had torn him apart. Calling upon the genie, he wished for Rachel to stop loving him.

“Your wish is done.” the genie spoke.

Paulo soon settled back into his life of a week ago. All the while, Rachel was back on the other side of the world drawing up plans. The genie had not only removed Rachel’s love, he had injected her with hate. Rachel hated Paulo more than anyone had ever hated anything.

While Paulo spent his days offering offpeak phonecalls to the homeless, Rachel was gathering an army. She was preparing to launch a war against the man she had recently promised to love forever. It was not hard for her to find supporters for her cause. Women will always come to the aid of one of their kind, and men will do anything for a pretty face.

News of a fifty thousand strong force marching towards Paulo’s location reached Paulo’s television. The reporter spoke of angry men and women armed with guns and broken bottles, even small children waving flags of hate had been called up to the fight. This worried Paulo.

In a panic, Paulo used thirty-seven pence of his remaining £999,989.67 balance to call the genie’s shellphone.

“You’ve got to help me.” he said. “They’re a mile away from my house!”

“I’m not really supposed to do this, but I like you and I feel bad. I will grant you a fourth wish.”

“How should I stop this army of hate marching on my house?” Paulo asked, his anxiety worse than ever.

“I probably shouldn’t answer that. I am an evil genie after all. Whatever answer I give will surely be rooted in evil.”

“Ok, ok, fine. Can you give me superpowers?”

“It would be the easiest thing for me to do. To show you how truly sorry I am for this whole mess I will give you powers beyond even Superman. It is done.”

Feeling uncharacteristically brave, Paulo put on some trousers and left his house, ready to wait for the battle. Soon there were fifty thousand men, women and children standing at the entrance to Paulo’s street, a cul-de-sac with no escape. At the head of the impeccably organised angry mob was Rachel, her white t-shirt was stained with raccoon blood, the only thing she had eaten in days. Hate had driven her mad. Just like everyone else in the crowd, she was pointing a rifle at Paulo’s heart.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” Paulo shouted. “I still love you, you know.”

“Too late.” she replied.

“Fine. Give me your best shot.” Fifty thousand guns fired, flashes of light, thunderous explosions and a strong breeze, but nothing else. The air between Rachel and Paulo remained empty except for the hate. For a moment Paulo laughed to himself. Blanks. She still loved him and wanted only to scare him. Not even a genie could take away their love. Then he noticed the ground at his feet, a river of red ran from the curb to his toes. Moving his hand along his chest he felt the holes where the bullets had entered, his torso had become the bloody surface of the moon. There were no blanks. As he fell to the floor he realised what the genie meant when he said he’d have powers beyond Superman - he could see through lead.

James, England.

296

2009-02-19T15:26:00.000-08:00

I never had any reason to believe real life wasn’t like the movies. I always thought that people fell in love whilst dancing, and so, I trained to become the best dancer in the world. Dancing is easy if you’re willing to put in eight hours a day for ten years.

My evenings were filled with dark and smokey adventures in ballrooms and nightclubs. I was locked in the search for the woman of my dreams. Often a lady would approach me and ask me to dance, to which I assumed I was always supposed to reply “I don’t dance.” Just like in the movies they were supposed to beg me to come and dance, and eventually I would reluctantly agree. Then we’d dance and fall in love. Life isn’t like the movies. In real life, when you say “I don’t dance.” the lady of your dreams will simply say “Okay.” and walk away.

It wasn’t until I’d been failing to dance with women for three years that I finally decided I’d start accepting their invitations. I could see no other way of getting to display my dancing talents without going into showbusiness.

Soon enough, I met the woman of my dreams on the dance floor. Her hair was long and wild, like a nightmare waterfall. We kissed, and, as the movies had promised me, I felt fireworks inside my chest. Sadly, fireworks are designed simply for looking at in the sky. To have them explode in your chest is not a pleasurable experience at all.

After the kiss, many years passed, years filled with kisses from the same woman. As she became older her hair became shorter and less wild, like a tiny well maintained white picket fence. Although life was good and I was happy, I can’t say it was exciting. There were never any car chases, sex montages or incredible twists. Life wasn’t like any film I'd ever seen. It was boring, like a book without pictures.

On my 31st birthday, the woman with whom I had danced , kissed and fallen in love with gave me a present, as is the custom in and outside of cinema. It was a signed first edition copy of The Hungry Caterpillar, my favourite childhood book. According to every film I'd seen a similar situation, I was supposed to say “I don’t deserve you.” and so, I said it. Life may have not been a film, but I didn't want to risk straying from the script.

For a moment the woman of my dreams became lost in deep and silent thought. She got up from the breakfast table and wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her body. “You’re right.” she said. She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. That was the last time I ever saw her. Life just isn’t like the movies.

John, Glasgow.

295

2009-02-19T06:45:00.000-08:00

You’ve all heard of amnesia, even if you’ve forgotten about it. What most people don’t know is there are hundreds of different types of amnesia. The most common, the one that everyone has heard of, is American Amnesia, where the sufferer develops complete memory loss which will often serve as a cheap plot device in the story of their life. With this type of Amnesia, all memories will return by the end of the life episode, be it a day or significant chapter in their life.

Perhaps the most dangerous type of amnesia is Amnesia-467a, which erases only one part of a person’s memory: the part which tells them how to ride a bike. It is so dangerous, because the sufferer will often get on a bike, quite unaware that they’ve forgotten how to ride it. It then becomes only a matter of time before they fall off or collide with a fire engine.

In a bid to cure the world of Amnesia-467a, I dedicated a year of my life to creating an antidote. I began by grinding down an elephant’s trunk into a fine powder, which is what I believed to be the cause of an elephant’s inability to forget. I took this powder and added it to a kettle of nuclear waste (the most useful substance known to man in terms of science shortcuts). Knowing that heat will often cause a reaction of some sort, I switched the kettle on. As I expected, the liquid came to a boil. After a final stir and adding a drop of bicycle tire, I poured the sticky green sludge into a goldfish bowl, along with a goldfish, the worst sufferer of amnesia in the animal kingdom.

As I had hoped, the experiment was a complete success. Not only did the goldfish never forget a single thing ever again, he regained every lost memory. His name was Rudolph. Instantly he became heartbroken. Longing to be re-united with the only fish he’d ever loved, he escaped into the toilet and fled into the sea. For a long time he searched for her, moving from pet shop to carnival stall. It wasn’t until he gazed upon a newspaper that he realised he’d been searching for over one hundred years. She was gone. The nuclear radiation had caused him to become immortal, trapped with the memory of first love that could never be.

There were two results of this adventure:

1) Disney has bought the rights to Rudolph’s story and hope to have a full length animated feature out next fall. Due to Rudolph’s status as a fish, he will receive nothing.

2) Rudolph spent so much time in the ocean that every drop of water in the world passed through his body. This water would eventually run through the taps of human beings. The nuclear anti-amnesia fish water changed the genetic makeup of all who drank it, which is why you’ll never forget how to ride a bike.

Dr. Grong, L.A.

294

2009-02-18T13:26:00.001-08:00

Comedy has become very popular these days. You can even get it on TV. Sadly it's now more profitable to sell the space where the punchline goes, instead of telling a traditional funny joke. I heard the following jokes at a standup show last week:

Knock Knock
Who's there?
BT, we're here to talk to you about our great broadband packages.

Did you hear about the Irish gambler? He opened an online William Hill poker account and got £50 of free chips.

Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to the HMV summer sale (3 dvds for £20).

What do you get when you cross a blu-ray player with a next generation games console?
A PS3, now in stock.

A priest, a nun and a rabbi are sitting on an airplane. It's lands safely. Qantas Airways.

It's all quite sickening, but I must admit that I laughed at all of them. It was just the way he told them.

Tony, Peteborough.

293

2009-02-12T16:45:00.000-08:00

I was reading my newspaper at the bus stop, which is never an ideal situation. To make matters worse, I was forced to do it standing, because the seat was wet. There was only one thing which could have made the situation even worse: a talking man. Wait, that’s a lie, there were two things, the second being a strong wind.
As a mighty breeze blew the pages of the newspaper in fifty different directions, an old man had been carried into the bus stop.

He spoke. I’m not sure what he said, but I was sure it was something to do the rain. Somehow my brain has evolved to censor out any words connected with the weather. It saves me from the terrifying mind-numbing boredom at bus stops, but sadly my sister’s name is Gail, and I couldn’t tell you a single thing that’s happened to her in the last five years.

“That’s disgusting, isn’t it?” he said, pointing at the front page of the paper. Today’s main news story was about how the CEOs of the major banks were still getting millions of pounds in bonuses, despite the economic crisis.

“I have no opinion on that.” I told him. Realising that all hope of reading my paper in peace was gone; I folded it up and placed it under my arm. Sadly the headline on the back page was still visible: Scolari Sacked.

“It’s ridiculous. He’s only been there six months.” the man said “They’re not even out of the title race.”

“I have no opinion on that.” I replied. All roads were now leading into an unavoidable conversation.

“Heard about Jade Goody? She’s not the greatest woman who ever lived, but how can people be so cruel about her now? Do you..”

“I’m afraid I must stop you right there. I have no opinions on anything you could possibly say.”

“Abortions?”

“No.”

“Israel? Iraq? Come on, you must have some opinions about one of them.”

“I don’t. I don’t have any opinions.”

“But why?”

“Having an opinion is just one step away from having a wrong one. I’m playing it safe. Imagine feeling very passionate about something, only to find out that you’re completely wrong. No thanks.” I could see that I had pushed a button inside him. His face was turning red.

“That’s the problem with young people today! You don’t care, you just don’t care! No wonder the country’s going down the pan.” He waved his umbrella at me and walked off. “No opinions…” he mumbled to himself. “Did my father die in the war just so…” I couldn’t hear what he said next, because the bus had arrived. I got on and smiled to myself. Of course I have opinions. I just like winding people up.

Andrew, London.

292

2009-02-12T09:39:00.001-08:00

It's all well and good telling me I need to stop living in my brother's shadow, but when your brother is a ten thousand feet tall government supersoldier cyborg who blocks out half the sun, the shadow's kind of unavoidable.

Lee, Shade.

291

2009-02-10T16:10:00.000-08:00

Waking up in a hospital bed is the second most terrifying thing in the world. The first most terrifying thing being a snake which gives birth to spiders, and, seeing as such a creature will probably never exist, we have to take the hospital bed threat very seriously. Even if you were fully expecting to wake up in a hospital bed the shock is still the same. Not many people know this, but the reason that hospital beds cause so much alarm is because it’s physically and emotionally impossible to masturbate in them. I apologise for raising the issue of masturbation so early in the story, but it’s an important one that needs to be addressed. You might think that it’s impossible to carry out the act of self love in a hospital bed simply because of the fear and disease filled atmosphere that hospitals are famed for, or the lack of a private room, but it’s actually something to do with the fundamental design of the bed itself.

I remember some time ago, when I was just a student, I found myself drunk and in the bedroom of the third most attractive girl I’ve ever kissed. She had a typical student bedroom filled with posters of films she’d never seen and a TV supported by a pile of red bricks. The centrepiece of the room being her bed: a hospital bed. As far as I could tell she wasn’t ill. When I asked her what was up with the bed she explained that it was all she could afford. Hospital beds tend to be cheaper because of all the people who have died in them. We soon got down to business, or at least we tried to, but I was having trouble making myself a man. It was pretty clear to me that the bed was to blame. Minutes went by and I could see that she was getting frustrated and offended. To avoid hurting her feelings any longer I had to abort the mission by telling her that in my drunken state I’d forgotten I was gay. It wasn’t until a month later that I realised I could have done without the last part.

Hopefully I’ve got my point about hospital beds across to you now, because I’m about to tell you about the time I woke up screaming and I need you to understand why.

I woke up screaming. I was in a hospital bed with all the trimmings, tubes going up my nose, a needle stuck in my arm, a bunch of grapes to my left and the memory of being shot in the leg by a pimp. I should probably explain the whole getting shot thing, even though it’s not particularly interesting.

Last month I found myself in the waiting room of a brothel for the first time in my life. I’d always been half-heartedly against paying for sex, probably because of my lack of money rather than any moral reason. Still, I was only there because my friend Peter begged me.

“I’m not sure about this.” I said. “It’s a bit creepy.”

“Lighten up, it’s just a normal thing that normal people do all the time. It’s the oldest profession in the world.”

“But none of these girls look very happy.”

“That’s because they’re at work, nobody’s happy at work.”

The tiny Asian woman behind the counter called out “Number fifty six.” which happened to be the number on the pink ticket in my hand.

I was led through a narrow badly carpeted corridor with doors on both sides. Between the doors were portraits of famous prostitutes, but I’d never heard of any of them. The Asian woman unlocked the sixth door on the right and told me to go in. I’m not sure what I was expecting, maybe an exotic mini-palace with Persian rugs, soft lighting and the stench of sex, but what I found was an attractive woman sitting behind a desk in what looked like a doctor’s office. It even had an examining table. I couldn’t help but notice that the walls were covered with crucifixes. Maybe I’ve finally found my soul mate I thought a woman who shares my unnatural fear of vampires.

“So how do we do this?” I asked.

“You’ve had sex before?”

“Yes, but never for money.”

“Well it’s exactly the same, except you pay me. Just undress and lay down on the table.”

She noticed the look of panic on my face. “What’s wrong?” she asked. There was no sane way of telling her that an examining table was too much like a hospital bed, so I told her that I’d prefer to stand, because I had a bad back. “Would you like me to take a look at your back?” she asked.

“Are you a doctor then?”

“Well you’re in a doctor’s office.”

“I’d better not. If my doctor found out I was paying someone else for medical help he’d probably get quite upset.”

We got to kissing, which surprised me, because I was sure prostitutes didn’t do that. Then again, everything I knew about prostitution I got from Pretty Woman, a film riddled with historical inaccuracies. After a few minutes we were naked and she was telling me she loved me. She was coming on too strong, but it was definitely great value for money.

“Have you got a condom?” I asked.

“No.” she said. “I’m Catholic.”

“Oh, is that what all the crosses are about?”

“Yes, what did you think they were for?” Maybe this girl wasn’t my soul mate after all. I thought I’d test the ground by bringing up the vampire thing.

“Vampires?”

She laughed. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. “So I can’t use protection?”

“Against what? Vampires?”

“No, it’s just that...” There’s no nice way to tell a girl that you think she might be full of sexually transmitted diseases, so I stopped the sentence there and had unprotected sex in the spirit of politeness.

A month later I get a phone call. She’s pregnant. My first thought is to ask her how she got this number, but clearly there are more important issues to discuss.

“Why aren’t you on the pill?” I cry down the phone.

“The thought of burning in Hell for all eternity kind of puts me off.”

“How do you even know it’s mine?”

“You’re the only guy I’ve slept with.”

“But you’re a prostitute!”

“Only part time. Most of my clients are patients for my surgery.”

She explains that she wants to keep the baby, although she doesn’t expect me to play the present father, which is kind of a relief. I’d make a terrible father. She does, however, expect me to compensate her for being out of work for the next eight months.

“I don’t have a lot of money.” I tell her “I don’t really have any money at all.”

We come to the only honorable agreement. I have to take over her job until the baby is born. The prostitution part of it, seeing as the height of my medical training is having the ability to tell people not to run with scissors. I thought about suggesting she carried on working whilst pregnant, because there are probably all kinds of weirdos who’d pay extra for that, but it’s not the kind of thing you can say to the mother of your unborn child.

Yesterday was my first day. As you already know, it ends with me being shot by a pimp, so it was as bad a first day as any.

I roll up on time, showered, shaved and presentable. I tell the tiny Asian woman that I’m not sure about any of this. “Maybe I could just answer the phone?”

“You’ll be fine. Everyone gets nervous on their first day.”

My first customer was awkward, the second was easier, but by midday things have started to get pretty bad. Most men, when expecting to have sex with a woman, especially when they’ve paid, can get a bit annoyed when they’re led into a room filled with crosses, an examining table and a naked man. Half of them would straight up ask for their money back, the other half would carry on, but I could tell most of them didn’t enjoy it.

I got a break at three o’clock, which is when I got to meet my pimp. I didn’t even realise I had one. My only wish was that he was one of those nice friendly pimps that you never hear about. Sadly he was the other kind. We got into an argument about the refunds. He told me I wasn’t trying hard enough, my customer service levels weren’t high enough, I needed to try harder, Targets! Targets! Targets!

“You’re not the boss of me!” I told him.

“Son, do you even know what a pimp is?”

“Yes, a very rude man!” I yelled, which is the last thing I ever said before I could no longer say that I’d never been shot in the leg by a pimp.

Anthony, Swansea.

290

2009-02-10T16:05:00.000-08:00

My first novel blew the minds of all who read it. It was a conventional coming of age tale set in 1950s suburban America filled with carnivals, lost baseballs and first kisses. Just an ordinary story, right up until the last chapter where I unleashed the biggest twist in literary history: it turned out that the main character had been a lizard the whole time.

My second novel was a traditional love story set during the First World War. Nobody could have predicted that I’d use the exact same twist as my first novel. It blew their minds.

A lot of publicity surrounded the release of my third novel, which I still regard as my greatest work. Bookmakers were taking bets over whether or not my main character would be revealed to be a lizard. You could get odds of 1000 to 1 on there being a lizard twist, because nobody could believe I would dare to use the lizard twist three times in a row. I’d like to say a lot of people got rich off that bet, because come the final chapter there were lizards everywhere, but not a single person took the bet. It was just too unlikely.

In 2010, at the actor’s request, I wrote Al Pacino’s biography. I explained that I would almost certainly add a twist at the end, most likely a lizard. He said that would be fine. The book blew people’s minds, because soon after its release Al Pacino revealed himself to be a lizard.

Homer, London.

289

2009-02-06T07:47:00.000-08:00

The setting sun has burst its shell, covering the sky in a messy lilac yolk. My footsteps on the gravel sound like a thousand Roman soldiers as I march up the driveway. Every day is an exact replica of the last, mass produced in a day factory somewhere by a man with no imagination. The cycle of tomorrow becoming today and today becoming yesterday is happening far too quickly, like a revolving door I can’t escape from. I’ll be thirty nine next week.

I enter my unlocked house to the smell of boiled vegetables. Every room is filled with steam. I throw my briefcase under the stairs and loosen my tie. Through the cloud enveloping the kitchen my wife emerges, smiling and holding my son. He’s nearly three and looks bigger than he did ten hours ago. Something doesn’t feel right.

After dinner I melt into the couch, still in my work clothes. There’s no beer left in the house, so I open a bottle of red wine. I hate red wine. My daughter, Stephanie, sits in front of the fireplace watching the TV. She’s sitting too close. I tell her she’ll go blind if she sits any closer. She doesn’t listen, because she has the newfound wisdom of an eighteen year old. Superman Returns in on at 9. All four of us watch it. I can’t remember that last time we all sat down to watch a film together. Michael falls asleep after twenty minutes, and Linda drops in and out, but Stephanie’s is caught up in the film.

“Well that was boring.” I announce as the credits start to roll. “You’ll never beat the original.”

Stephanie disagrees and we get into an unecessary arguement. She says the only reason I didn’t like it was because I have some kind of blind nostalgic allegience to the Reeve films, which she insists have aged very badly.

“In thirty years time people will realise how Returns is a much better film.” she says.

As I get into bed I ask Linda if Stephanie has always hated me.
“She doesn’t hate you.” she says, as she pulls herself close to me. We make love, but I’m not there.

Afterwards, as I lay on my back staring at the black ceiling which could be a mile or an inch away from my face I become equally claustrophic and agoraphobic at the same time. Something feels wrong. I feel trapped, trapped in a week that has only just started, trapped in a life that I never planned on having.

Then it hits me, a shiver runs down my spine when I realise that I’ve walked into the wrong house. This is not my family. Panic digs her hands into my chest, stopping me from running. What the hell is going on? Why didn’t they say anything? After I’ve had a minute to think I realise that I have no choice but to stay. Just like when someone calls you by the wrong name and you don’t correct them immediately, you’re stuck with that name forever, forced to play along.

Six months go by and the bluff continues. The awkardness has subsided and it almost feels like home. I still keep in touch with my old family on Facebook, but I’m trying to make a go of it here. I could be happy here.

Douglas, Preston.

288

2009-02-06T06:26:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in the life of every man when he will reach his lowest point. It can come at any stage in his life, childhood, middle age or his deathbed, but for every man it’s caused by the exact same event: the moment when he realises that he will never become the world's strongest man. Even men who have never expressed any interest in becoming the strongest man in the world will, for a moment, find themselves heartbroken. It’s the moment when they realise that everything is no longer possible and it’s all downhill from now. The worst sufferers are the 40 year old weak men who have been consciously aware of their limited strength all their lives, but had often convinced themselves that if they ever needed to they could become simply put in the work to become mighty. Nine times out of ten they’ll come to this realisation on their 40th birthday, which will not only ruin the day, but the next thirty years. This is why it’s important to make it very clear to children that they will never become the world’s strongest man. Now go forth and tell every child you can find before it’s too late.

Roman, Oxford.

287

2009-02-03T16:14:00.000-08:00

Never fear, I've redesigned the logo for the 2012 Olympics.

Gary, Croyden.

286

2009-02-01T16:10:00.000-08:00

I remember when Being John Malkovich came out back in 99 . I went crazy for it. I must have watched it fifty times. I knew every line like the back of my hand. I became obsessed with portals, they filled my every thought. I had just one dream: build a portal into John Malkovich’s brain. I tried. I failed. I succeeded only in building a portal which could take me inside the film Being John Malkovich. I must admit that I was pretty well suited to being in Being John Malkovich, because my knowledge of the script and direction was second to none. I don’t think Charlton Heston was right for the part anyway.

John Cusack, Being John Malkovich.

285

2009-01-31T08:23:00.000-08:00

Back in the 80s and 90s people were always impressed if you worked in computers. Old people were especially impressed, but even teenage girls were in awe of a man who was handy with a mouse. You’d be sitting in I.T. class watching your teacher flirting with the most attractive girls and thinking “Damn, that man’s got girl skills and computer skills. He’s like James Bond.” Even when he got suspended you just knew that he’d land on his feet, he could just go freelance with his computer know-how, like a rogue agent working for the Russians.

By the time I got my PHD in computer engineering it was 2001 and everybody was already working in computers. It was like being a soldier back in World War II, nobody cared. So, now, when people ask me what I do for a living I say “I work as a computer.”
“You work in computers?” they always reply.
“No. I am a computer.”
“Wow.” They say. “Is there a lot of money in that?”
“Yes.” I tell them. “Lots.”

284

2009-01-30T13:42:00.000-08:00

“Well, this is my sex shed.” I said. “Built it myself.”
“Looks like a normal one to me. There’s not even a bed.” She quipped.
“Appearances can be decieving. Just ignore all the tools and let the smell of petrol wash away your inhibitions.”
“What makes it a sex shed then?”
“Once you’re in it you have to have sex.” I said, unbuttoning my shirt.
“Well I’m not having sex with you.” She replied, folding her arms.
“I’m sad to say that you very much will be.” I slid shut the bolt on the door and lit a scented candle. “What did you think I meant when I said ‘do you want to see my sex shed’?”
“I’ll cry rape! You’ll go to prison for ten years!”
“Lady, you’re in a sex shed. There’s not a judge in the country who wouldn’t laugh you out of their courtroom. Now just relax and try not to step on that rake.”

Peter, Oldham.

283

2009-01-24T06:20:00.000-08:00

After the success of Batman Begins, movie studios started to realise that you could make a serious and good superhero film and still make millions of dollars. People wanted to see what made the hero tick, what made him the man he becomes.

In a moment of money making genius, the head of Warner Brothers bought the rights to Super Mario: The Movie. “It’s the biggest selling game of all time!” he told his secretary.
“But they already made a movie. It was a massive flop.” She explained.
“Yes” he said “But that was before Batman Begins. All we need is a British director.”

As luck would have it, I was on a tour of the Warner Brothers studio at the time. Whilst walking and reading a tourist map I bumped into Mr. Warner himself.
“I do apologise” I said “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“You’re British!” he cried.
“I have as much right to use the bathroom as any other, sir.” I told him.
“No, no, what I mean to say is would you like to direct a movie?”
“I don’t know.” I said “What’s it about?”
“Super Mario, the biggest selling game of all time!”
“Ah, I was always more of a Sonic man myself. What’s the budget?” I asked.
“$100,000,000” he said, straightening his tie and slicking back his hair. I could see that he was a man of vast resources. Testing my luck I told him:
“I couldn’t direct a backseat blowjob on my camera phone for that. I wouldn’t dare attempt it for a dollar less than 250 million. Call me when you’re ready to make a real movie.” I walked off, not daring to look back to see if my bluff had worked.

A minute later I felt a hand on my shoulder. The out of breath executive said “Ok, ok, 250, but you are British, right?”
“As British as Bob Hoskins in gravy.”

Within a month I was on the set of "Mario: Prologue" and had managed to negotiate myself complete creative control, as well as an extra $50 million to budget.

Eighteen months later the film premiered at Sundance, but nobody knew what to think. A month later it hit cinemas worldwide. Time Magazine called it the flop of the millennium.

It seems to me that people just weren’t ready for a three hour superhero origin film that focussed on the protaganist’s move from carpentry into plumbing and his struggle at plumbing school as he tries to raise his younger brother.

Roger Ebert criticised my decision to shoot it entirely in Italian without subtitles, calling it “pretentious beyond belief”, and said that the whole Jesus/Carpenter/Messiah-Complex metaphor was uncomfortably forced.

I guess most people just weren’t interested in the internal struggle of a man ready to give up a well paying job to learn the trade of a higher paying job. Barry Norman called it “The Pursuit of Greed."

When the studio asked how I managed to spend $300 million without having a single action sequence or any CGI I knew that I wasn’t working for true artists.
"Catering ain't cheap" I told them.
"It hasn't even taken $10,000,000 wordlwide after four weeks!" they cried.
"Well I'm sure when people see the film they'll all rush out and buy the game"
"But they've already got the game. It's the biggest selling game of all time!" they said.
"Then I think it's about time we started talking about my raise"

Charles, London.

282

2009-01-24T05:15:00.001-08:00

Wouldn't it be just swell if it turned out that men have been having periods this whole time, but we were so manly that we just hadn't noticed?

Eric, Swindon.

281

2009-01-18T15:28:00.000-08:00

I’d always made it very clear that I never wanted children. She said she felt the same way. When she started setting her alarm to go off every two hours throughout the night with the sound of a baby crying she insisted it was just a thing that women did sometimes. She categorically stated that she wasn’t preparing herself for anything resembling parenting. Even when she got pregnant she said it was just because we needed the milk. Then when she gave birth to the twins she promised me that she just needed a couple of extras for a play she was writing. Now, as I sit here staring at two teenagers with my nose, I can’t help but feel that she lied to me. I guess it's finally time to tell her that I've been secretly impregnating catholic prostitues on three continents for the past twenty four years.

Owen, Las Vegas.

280

2009-01-17T13:58:00.000-08:00

You’ve probably never met a rich person. Even if you are constantly relaxing in the company of people with millions of pounds in the bank you cannot count them as rich. The real rich people are never seen nor heard by mere mortals and their wealth is beyond calculation. I’ll warn you now that I don’t mean to suggest that money does not make you rich. I’m not trying to say that it’s family and love which makes someone the richest person in the world. I’m no hippy.

Luckily for me I once knew a rich person, because it was my job to be his Yes Man. Not a Yes Man in the sense that he paid me to always agree with him, much like the fake rich people of the day often do. It was simply my job to always be in the same room as my master and if somebody asked him a question to which the answer would be yes, I would step in to spare him the effort and trouble. There were three of us employed in such a role, one for Yes, one for No and one for Perhaps. For this service we were each paid ten billion pounds a year, but we were far from rich.

To give you a further example of his wealth I will tell you that whilst everyone else was lighting their cigars with £50 notes, my boss was using winning lottery tickets, especially rollovers. Although I must admit that his cigars were always of the lowest quality. He would say “Unless I enjoy the act of smoking, spending money on expensive cigars would be a terrible waste. I’m no fool.”

The rich communicate in a different way to the poor. Whereas the unwashed masses communicate through speech and social networking sites, people of wealth speak through horses. When a rich man wishes to court a rich lady, he asks her by using a racehorse. He does this by buying the fastest horse on the planet and naming it something along the lines of “Patricia, Will You Marry Me?”. He then enters the horse into a high profile race.

When Patricia browses her copy of the latest newspaper to see which horse has won the Grand National, the message is instantly delivered. It is vital that the best horse is chosen, otherwise the message would be lost amongst the other loser names like “Bobby’s Ticket” and “Green Wednesday”.

If the lady accepts the proposal she will fund a Hollywood blockbuster and ensure that its name is “Yes, I will.” It is important for her to find the best director, writers and cast to guarantee the film reaches the top of the box office, because this is the only way for her response to make its way back. If the film flops, even though the answer is yes, it is considered the ultimate insult. To us it would appear to be a long and time consuming process, but time moves differently for the rich.

There are still a few similarities between the rich and the poor when it comes to dating. Rivalries are common place, just as in the animal kingdom. Lizards battle to the death and koalas compete at karaoke to win a mate. The rich have equally elaborate ways of proving themselves to be worthy suitors.

When my former employer was pursuing the love of a fair haired lady he became locked into a battle of wealth with a man of similar richness. To prove his stature, my boss’s opponent bought the New York Yankees and the Miami Dolphins. I’m sure you’re thinking “Big deal, people buy baseball teams and football teams all the time.”

However, he did something only a truly rich man is capable of, he switched them around. The Yankees were forced to struggle at American Football, whilst the Dolphins flopped out of the World Series. Destroying something which brings enjoyment to the lives of millions is a fine way of seducing a rich woman.
Fortunately, my master was able to combat these actions by doing the exact same thing, but with the NHS and every Fire Brigade in England.

Now they’ve been married for nearly fifteen years. A common person would celebrate this anniversary with a gift made of crystal. Sadly when a rich person reaches fifteen years of marriage they have to attempt to assassinate Billy Crystal to prove that their love is still as strong as the day they got married. Luckily for the actor rich people marriages don’t tend to last that long.

279

2009-01-12T06:28:00.000-08:00

Is there anything worse than walking through an abandoned sewer at night when a rat jumps onto the back of your neck and in your panic you fall to the floor to roll around and crush it to death, then an hour later you realise that the label from your t-shirt is sticking out and the rat was only trying to tuck it in?

Fraser, Birmingham.

278

2009-01-04T17:45:00.000-08:00

I’ve never had much luck with the ladies. It’s impossible for me to say the right thing, because there’s a special “Wrong” filter in my brain. If I’m with a girl and I know that I only need to say the words “You’re beautiful” to have sex with her, by the time those words have passed through the filter they come out as “You’re beautiful. Maybe too beautiful. I might have to cut you up a bit.” Then if I don’t get my laugh exactly right afterwards I come off looking like a genuine psychopath.

It’s a special treat when I have a girlfriend at Christmas. There’s always that Winter doubt when you’ve got a lady in your sights and you’re not sure if you should wait until January to make a move, because you’ll have to buy her Christmas presents, but what’s a couple of quid in exchange for a non-lonely festive season?

The girl I was with last Christmas was great. Her name was Snow. She always had these great hats and scarves. If there was ever a girl built for winter it was her. My parents waited until they were 75 to have me, so they’re long gone. Snow invited me to spend Christmas with her family, even though we’d only been dating for five weeks and three days.

We got to their house on the morning of Christmas Eve. They lived in something bigger than a house, but smaller than a mansion in a tiny generic countryside village. Their snow covered driveway looked like a boring Christmas card, the perfect Christmas setting.

The day was spent putting up decorations. They leave it that late because it’s their tradition to wait until the whole family is together. On the surface it seemed pretty lazy, but I suspected there might be some kind of warm family spirit hidden away in there somewhere.

Throughout the day various members of Snow’s family introduced themselves. There must have been about twenty of us staying in the house. They were all really friendly, but there was one thing which stood out: every person I spoke to asked what Santa was getting me for Christmas. I assumed they were being jolly and patronising, but when I was putting up some mistletoe in the hallway I overheard Snow’s mother talking to herself in the study. “Oh, Santa, please don’t let me down again this year. I’ve been ever so good.”

Panic struck my heart as I came to a realisation. I crept into the living room where the tree had been completed over an hour ago. There was not a single present beneath it. I ran upstairs to Snow’s parents bedroom and tore the place apart. There were no presents in the cupboard nor under the bed. Something was very wrong.

I went back downstairs to confront Snow. “Lady” I cried “What did you get for Christmas last year?”

“Nothing.” She said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I guess I was a bad girl.”

It became clear that I was trapped within a house of madness, a house where nobody had ever broken the news that Santa didn’t exist. None of them had bought any presents, because they were confident that come nightfall the man in red would fill their stockings with jewels and gadgets. They would be heartbroken.

At 8pm they all went to bed. “Early to bed, early to rise” said Snow’s father.

“We don’t want to catch Father Christmas in the act, do we?” Snow’s sister said to her son.

Laying in bed next to the girl whose family had been kind enough to invite me into their home on the most magical day of the year, I had a pain in my heart. I could not allow the events of tomorrow to occur. There would be a Christmas.

I got out of bed and dressed myself. As quiet as a mouse I tiptoed out of the house and into my car. Those kind people would have presents in their stockings if it was the last thing I ever did.

It was 9.30pm on Christmas Eve. The only shops still open were Petrol Stations and 24 Hour Jewish Sex Shops. It wasn’t ideal, but I managed to get something for everyone at the cost of £4,000. What’s four grand for Christmas in a loving home?

Morning came and I was awoken by screams. Snow’s mother came running into our room waving a dildo crying “He came. He finally came”. It was generally agreed by everyone in the household that it had been the greatest Christmas of all time. As I sat watching the children playing with their inflatable dolls and the men smelling their car air-fresheners, I felt at peace with myself. A night of roaring log fires passed and we all went to bed a little bit drunk.

The next morning the sunlit hit my eyes. In my drunken state I’d forgotten to close the curtains before bed. As my eyes shifted into focus I saw that the curtains had vanished. I rolled over to Snow to ask her where the curtains had gone, but she too was nowhere to be seen. She must have already been having breakfast.

I crept downstairs, careful not wake anyone, because it was still early. However, the sight that awaited me in the living room caused me to cry out in despair. Everything was gone, the decorations, the furniture, the potraits on the wall. A cold sensation ran down my spine. As I took a step backwards I could feel something wet under my foot: blood. It was flowing from my back. My kidney was gone.

The police arrived an hour later. “It’s not that uncommon.” The shortest one said “Gypsies. Every year some poor sod gets reeled in.” It seems that it’s been going on for centuries. They find an abandoned house, invite a lonely man over for Christmas and play the old “We still believe in Santa Claus” routine. He then rushes out in the night and spends his life savings on gifts. They all get merry and drunk on Christmas day, they wait for the guy to pass out, remove his kidney, clear the house, then sell all the gifts. They don’t even sell the kidney. It’s just a Christmas tradition.

Andrew, Leeds.

277

2009-01-04T10:32:00.000-08:00

Over one thousand people said we’d take four steps back when we reverted to using horses instead of cars. Most celebrities and politicians said it was a greener sideways step towards to a brighter future. At least we were free from oil’s slick black hands.

All until Jay-Z made Puff Daddy’s horse drink a barrell of oil at Kanye West’s birthday party. Jay-Z had only bought Kanye £50 worth of Dixons vouchers and feared a horse would upstage his gift. The oil was designed to kill the horse, because a dead horse is a terrible birthday present. Sadly the horse found the oil most refreshing.

Pretty soon all the kids were doing it. Horses didn’t want to drink anything else. Within five years there wasn’t a horse on the planet that didn’t run on oil.

Sol, LA.

275

2008-12-31T15:18:00.000-08:00

People say that romance is dead, but it’s just evolving. Candles have been replaced by LEDs, poetry has been replaced by txt spk and long walks on the beach have been replaced by the 100m sprints in Asda carparks. It’s just how things go. Pretty soon compliments and doing fun things together will be replaced by the simple Facebook poke. This much I know.

In a bid to kick it back to the old days I decided the take my lady friend for a Spring stroll on a cliff, the third most romantic generic location (behind a hilltop and a frozen lake respectively).

Knowing that hunger could very well be an issue in this isolated location I prepared a picnic basket filled with the most romantic foods (Toblerones, Mint Aeros and Flakes). To increase the romance tenfold I decided to have the basket already planted there, which meant leaving it unguarded. This thought worried me. Although this was not a popular spot, I could not cope with the idea that some stranger might stumble upon my romance hamper, and so, I buried it. Precaution is my middle name, so I buried it far deeper than I needed to. I also buried the shovel in a separate less deep hole, for fear that someone might find the shovel and decide to go on a random dig, which could unearth my basket.

The day of the date came, and we walked hand in hand, staring out at the bleached white sun. Maybe I’ve imagined this, but a tiny lamb leapt into my arms and we both stroked it whilst laughing manically at the joy of such a thing.

We reached the spot where I’d buried the shovel in a shallow grave. “Look over there!” I yelled as I pointed at a bush. As she turned her back I got to my knees and began to dig with my bare hands. “Well, will you look at what I found” I said. “I bet there’s some treasure around here.”

I set about digging, as the woman of my dreams looked out at the sea. “Come and see this view.” She said.

“In a moment” I replied “I think I’ve found something.”

Minutes passed, and I was still far from unearthing the picnic surprise. My date was losing patience. Half an hour had gone, and the treasure was still far my grasp. I’d been too cautious with my burying. By this time I’d become quite manic. Her pleas for moving on or conversation were met by screeches of “Leave me. Let me work. I’m onto something.”

The sun began to set and the sky became a rainbow of purple, violet and peach. “Come and enjoy this sunset with me, please” she begged, but I gave no reply. It was officially dark and getting cold, so after two hours of digging I looked up to offer her my jacket, but she’d already gone. I’d gone too far to give up now.

You’re probably expecting some funny twist, like I dug all the way to China or I’d been digging in the wrong place, but there was nothing humorous about what I found after eight hours of hard digging. Someone had stolen my picnic basket. Maybe romance really is dead.

James, Lincoln.

276

2008-12-31T08:14:00.000-08:00

It had always been my dream to create a hit beverage. I wanted children in Sudan drinking my cans and doctors in Toronto sipping my bottles. I wanted Coca-Cola to be the new Pepsi, and Pepsi to be the new something less than whatever Pepsi is.

There was only one way to establish my brand: the Guinness route. Before Guinness even dared to unleash their drink they invented the Guinness Book of World Records. Every home in the world has one. It was the ultimate strategy: Instant brand recognition. As soon as Guinness hit the pubs, people were seeing a new drink with a familiar and tasty name.

All I needed was a book. Harry Potter had already been done, and so, I had to come up with a completely new idea. Within six years I had it: The Moon. People are genuinely crazy for the moon. That’s why they are called “Lunatics”. If you hide a drawing of the moon inside someone’s pillow they’ll have nightmares. That is the power of Earth’s pearly white satellite.

It was pretty clear to me what people wanted to know about the moon. Everyone knows who the first man on the moon was, but no-one, not even NASA, has any record of who the second man was. Even the second man himself wouldn’t be entirely sure. Being first is the only thing people care about in the late 21st century.

I designed a book to record the first of every event in the moon’s history. Who was the first man to dance on the moon? Who was the first person to cry on the moon? Just as I expected, people went crazy for the book.

As with the Guinness Book of World Records, everyone wanted to be in it, which meant millions of silly topics. People would do whatever it took to get in. They’d spend hundreds of pounds on a flight to the moon just to be the first person to hold their left hand in the air whilst rubbing a kettle with their right foot on the moon.

By the third annual, there were over 100,000,000,000,000,000,000 entries. I was rich beyond my wildest dreams. What reason did I have for launching a hit beverage now? The dream was over. I used my trillions of space dollars to send a bomb into the moon’s core. I was the first and last man to ever destroy the moon.

Anthony, West Europe.

274

2008-12-28T14:09:00.000-08:00

You pick up a lot of tips being a traffic cop. Not tips in the money sense. People rarely tip when you give them a ticket, unless you really impress them. More like, for example, you can avoid getting photographed by speed cameras by driving over them. Or if you’re involved in a car crash, you can just take the wheels off before the police arrive and say “How can it be my fault? I don’t even have wheels”. Nine out of ten police won’t have an answer to that.

The best tip I can offer you is this: If you’re ever caught speeding and you see the flashing blue lights in your rearview mirror, just move up into sixth gear and accelerate until you pass 299 792 458 m / s. Then pullover. When the police officer asks you how fast you think you were going, just play dumb and ask how fast. When he says “over 299 792 458 m / s” you just have to say “That’s faster than the speed of light. It’s impossible”. He or she will apologise for wasting your time and let you go on your way. Depending on which country you’re in, they might even let you have a go of their gun.

Alan, London.

273

2008-12-25T14:37:00.000-08:00

I like a drink. I’m happy to admit that. Forget all those people who say “I don’t drink. Just a sherry at christmas.” Or the bastards who claim they don’t smoke, apart from a cigar on New Year’s Eve. It’s only one step away from “I don’t murder people, just a prostitute for my birthday.”

Anyway, I’ve been known to go on a binge session now and then when it’s called for. A few months ago my cat died, so I drank 12 cans of Fosters. We all do some pretty embarassing shit when we’re drunk. Not a work’s do goes by without me waking up stiff with cringe.

So I wake up the next morning face down on my laptop. Empty cans everywhere. No memory of the night before. I walk to the bathroom for a piss and notice the toilet is full of paper, and not the toilet kind. I pull a few sheets out and it’s pretty clear that I’d drunkenly handwritten about fiteen pages of jokes about the Millennium Bug. Some really good stuff. Sadly the year is 2009 and the material is useless. Cursing my lack of a time machine, I accept that I’ll never become a successful standup comedian. The paper goes back in the toilet and I flush.

A few weeks later my dog died. I’d bought a crate of 24 Fosters when the cat died, so I had 12 left. By the next morning they were gone, as were my memories of the night before. Once again I took my morning walk to the bathroom, and once again the toilet was filled with A4 lined paper. In my drunken state I’d designed a fully working time machine. “If only I’d had this two weeks ago!” I cried “I could have become a great comedian”. By the time I realised I could have used the time machine to retrieve my forgotten jokes I’d already flushed. Twice.

Anthony, Leeds.

272

2008-12-20T08:21:00.000-08:00

You’ve got to dream. Some men dream only of setting up a company selling t-shirts with the slogan “You’ve got to dream” on them. Other men dream of bigger things. Quite literally.

One man dreamt of creating a device capable of enlarging sperm to one billion times their normal size. Only to be able to ride the sperm from A to B like a horse. Or have two giant sperm pulling a charriot of gold and cedar.

Perhaps his obsession with sperm was inspired by the loss of his testicles at the age of two. Perhaps some men are just destined to dream of sperm.

It was this dream which led this man to his bloody death as he begged for sperm outside a trendy London nightspot.

Oliver, UK.

271

2008-12-18T06:27:00.000-08:00

Some time ago I attempted to break into the rap market. In a bid to leapfrog the competition I decided to predict where the genre was heading in ten or twenty years time.

The direction seemed pretty clear to me. Eventually all hip-hop would focus on what it would be like to have more than one penis, which would then lead to how rappers would cope if their entire bodies were made up of penises of various shapes and sizes.

This is was my pitch to the record companies:

I got a dick in my dick comin outta my dick
I got 47 women tryna get a lick
I got 99 bitches tryna catch a peak
I got a mother dickin dick for every day o’the week

I give myself blowjobs, cos I got a dick in my mouth
I’m covered in dicks from the North down to the South
I got one pointing east, I got one pointing west
Bitches tryna decide which is best
It’s probably the one sticking outta my chest
It’s got a big fat vein from the base up to the neck
(It speaks five languages. It makes sandwiches. Bitches I fuck try to claim for damages)

I got a dick for pissing
A dick for kissing
And when the time’s right I got a dick for fishing
If you don’t wanna see them then that’s your decision
But you bitches better know what you be missing

When all my dicks are hard
I get a pain in my chest
From the strain on my heart
So I gotta take a rest
I got a dick up my sleeve and a dick in my vest
When I fuck a bitch she don’t know which dick is next

I got a dick in my shirt, a dick in my trousers
I got so many dicks I can cum for hours
I got so many dicks that sometimes I get scared
That with so many dicks I’m gonna piss the bed
I’ll put one in the muff
One in the guff
I hold one man competitions for dick of the month

I know it smells like my dicks aint been washed
But I clean them all at incredible cost
I spend dollars on gel
To cover the smell
But by the time I’m finished it’s time to start again.

Weeknight streetfights
Bitches better act right
Cos getting dickslapped is a motherdickin' sad sight

I need to get my venom inside your feminine side
Venom inside
Your feminine side
No place to hide

I’ve got an OCD
One Curly Dick
It’s like a curly wurly but ten times as thick
It don’t taste like chocolate
It don’t taste like salt
Tastes like a ten year old whiskey
Single Malt.

When I meet a girl with just one vagina
I have to resist the urge to put all my dicks inside her
It takes incredible restraint
But I aint no saint
So "Stop with all the dicks" is a common complaint"

I’m the MDP four years in a row
Most dicked person since 2000 and Fo
I got pubic hair every colour of the rainbow
Bitches see my dicks there's no way they can say no

My dicks take lives
Cos they’re shaped like knives
When I fuck a bitch she don’t want them inside
She’s all “If you’re gonna go and put your dick in my cunt
Would you mind using one a little more blunt”
I say “Shut your mouth, bitch, I do what I want.
I’ll put a dick in your ass and and two in the front”

My balls are volcanic
They sank the Titanic
But no need to panic
My cum is balsamic.

If you're having dick problems, I feel bad for you, son
I got 99 dicks and you've only got one.

*********

Now I'm not allowed to work with children.

Frank Debonair, Bath.

270

2008-12-15T10:04:00.000-08:00

My father always said that if you didn’t have at least one story to tell about your neighbour, they weren’t your neighbour at all. The man who lived next door to us when I was growing up used to collect puppets. That’s not the story I have to tell, but looking back I can’t believe my parents used to leave me alone with him. Puppets, for God’s sake.

Well, he used to do this thing where he’d say “I’ve got a real sweet tooth.” And then he’d pull a blackjack out of his mouth and hand it you. You’d think it was some kind of bad joke, but a minute later he’d ask for it back. Then he’d put it in his mouth again. He really was using it as a tooth.

I never understood why. If he was going to use a sweet, why would he choose a blackjack? Why not some kind of milky white chew, or at least a fruit salad? It looked terrible.

Dominic, London.

269

2008-12-03T08:14:00.000-08:00

A poorly fed cat crosses the road, narrowly missing a double decker bus as she jumps onto the pavement and into a bush.

A man tries to trim the top of a hedge, but he can’t reach, his ladder will topple within the next few minutes.

A woman looks at her receipt from the supermarket and sees they’ve charged her twice for the same item. She knows that she’s gone too far to turn back.

The sky is too blue and bright for it to be October and the warm air clings too tightly to my skin for me to be comfortable in my winter coat.

I wait at the bus stop. I am joined by another man. He is bald, but not old. He seems healthy, and so, I assume he lost his hair at a very young age. I imagine it happened when he was just 16, still in school and suffering from an unspeakable emotional dilemma. In his hand is a box made of wood. I don’t know woods, but I think it might be maple.

“Have you seen this?” he says to me, as lifts his box closer to my face.

“Yes, it’s a nice box. What is it, maple or something?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know the names of woods.” he tells me. I think about telling him that I’m the same, but it seems too mundane and unnecessary to say to another human being.

“The box itself isn’t what’s important” he says “It’s what’s inside. Take a look at this.” He opens the box and shows me a metallic orb, about the size of a hockey ball, resting on a bed of purple velvet. The sun shines down on it and casts a blinding glare. I wonder to myself, if I was taller and could look down at this man’s head, would it reflect the light just as well? Why are bald heads shiny when the rest of the body isn’t?

“This, my friend,” he says “is my greatest invention yet. It has taken me most of my adult life to create. This device can answer any question your mind can imagine.”

“Like a magic eight ball?” I ask.

“No, it is nothing like a magic eight ball. This device is the most incredible technological development in the past one hundred years.”

“More incredible than the Wii?”

“Of course it is. In order to make this machine work I had to master the secrets of time travel. It can answer any question about the past, present or future! Go on, ask a question!”

“No, thank you.” I tell him.

“But you must!” he cries, causing a bird resting on the roof of the bus stop to fly away. The opportunity to gain any knowledge your heart desires is a priceless gift.”

“But there’s nothing I want to know. Thank all the same, but I’m happy with the knowledge I already have, and I can always Google the rest.”

“Google!” he yells, startling a man who is reaching too far off his ladder and falls on top of an underfed cat. “Please, you must ask a question. If not for you, then for me. It’s taken so long to build.”

“Ok then. What’s my name?”

“Your name! This ball can tell you how many stars there are in the sky and you ask it to guess your name. Come on!”

“But there’s really nothing I want to know. Ok, what time will the bus arrive?”

“It says that on the timetable! 14.22! Please, this machine can tell you who killed Tutunkhamun, it can tell you the exact date the universe will end, it can tell you if God exists, it can tell you what tonight’s lottery numbers will be. Please, just take the lottery numbers.” A bus appears on the horizon. Clouds have started to appear in the sky.

“I don’t know, that seems a bit like cheating. I’d be robbing the real winner of millions of pounds. Just tell me who’ll win in the football tonight. Arsenal or Fulham?”

The bus gets closer. The man with the shiny metal ball placed on a purple velvet inside a box, which could very well be maple wood, catches sight of the bus and knows he doesn’t have much time.

“Fine” he says, as he rubs his hand over the orb like a bald man waxing his head.

“Arsenal or Fulham?” A moment passes and he looks up at me. “You could have discovered the meaning of life. Instead you have discovered the outcome of a game where 22 wealthy men try to kick a ball into a net. I hope this secret knowledge is of great importance to you and steers your life in all the right directions. You have failed yourself and the human race, but I am glad that I was able to prove that my invention works and give you this information. The answer is Arsenal.”

The bus arrives and the man with the orb walks away proud that he has proven he’s created a machine capable of unravelling life’s mysteries. Sadly there was no mystery here. Arsenal are in top form and Fulham haven’t won away from home all season.

Alexander, Slough.

268

2008-12-03T08:04:00.001-08:00

My mother warned me never to marry a statistician. “They don’t love like us” she said, but I was young.

It was clear that things weren’t working from the start. After things began to get worse I was convinced I didn’t love him. He was cold, distant and square like a machine. We got into an argument and I told him I was leaving.

“But you love me” he said.
I explained using various reasons from my heart that I didn’t.

“I’m afraid that’s not the case.” he said.

“I’m not one of your figures or charts” I screamed. “I’m a human being. I know what I feel.”

Then he showed me a graph which proved that I really did love him, and so, I stayed. You can’t argue with a graph. We’ve been unhappily married ever since.

Denise, Cambridge.

267

2008-12-03T08:01:00.000-08:00

I know a lot of people say if they didn’t have bad luck they wouldn’t have any luck at all, but I don’t even have that. My life is just a series of escalating unfortunate events. That's why I'm the unluckiest man you don't know.

I should give you some examples. I once walked into a newsagents, asked for a lucky dip lottery ticket and ended up with six zeros. When I asked for a replacement the machine gave me 12 34 19 03 20 06, which wasn't only unlucky because they were in the wrong order, but it made up the exact time and date of the saddest moment of my life. In my despair I set fire to the ticket and vowed to never play the lottery again. Later that evening a £14,000,000 jackpot went unclaimed after Sapphire, a machine which shares its name with a long lost lover, drew the numbers 12, 34, 19,03,20,06 and the bonus ball 29. The 29 was particularly hurtful.

In March 2006, Sapphire and I were on a two week holiday in Rome. We were standing outside the Coliseum, very much in love, very much on holiday. The place was filled with men dressed like soldiers from an army ill-equipped to deal with tanks and chemical warfare. I knew it would be playing right into their hands, but I asked if we could have our photo taken with one of them. Handing my brand new five megapixel camera to a suspicious looking handsome man I asked if he'd mind taking the shot. I know what you’re thinking - he stole my camera, but sadly he stole my girlfriend.

His name was Vincent Flash, and he was the greatest man I’d ever met. After taking our picture we got to talking, and I couldn’t help but take a shine to him. Even when he did that thing where a man you’ve never met kisses your girlfriend’s hand and you think to yourself "You bloody bastard", he did it with such charm that part of me envied my girlfriend.

After some chatting we discovered that Vincent was staying at the same hotel as us. He was in Rome alone, having recently lost his wife, so we invited him to join us for dinner that evening. He didn’t even decline out of politeness, which I couldn't help but be impressed by.

It was at dinner that I realised I'd heard the name Vincent Flash before, but I couldn't remember where. After three bottles of wine, we were very much in awe of him. He had this incredible quality about him and his opinions were so right, even on things I completely disagreed with. I knew that we'd met a very special man.

After he excused himself to go to the bathroom I leaned over to my girlfriend and asked her if we should invite Vincent up to our room for sex. She took an unexpected amount of offence. It didn't help that when she said "I don't want to be part of a man sandwich" I corrected her and explained that it would actually be a woman sandwich, because the men would serve as the bread. Maybe I deserved the slap, but I felt hard done by when I was forced to sleep on the floor. When you pay £200 a night for a room you kind of expect a bed.

Whilst she was asleep in the soft bed, and I was awake on the hard floor, I used my phone to google “Vincent Flash”. There was a reason the name had seemed familiar. It belonged to the man who single handedly defeated the terrorist cell “Black Window” at the Jamaican embassy in Brazil last year, a feat which saw the loss of all forty five hostages. It was all over the news for most of that afternoon.

The internet was filled with rumours about Vincent. One web site said that he once punched a rabid dog so hard that a puppy came out. Another said the dog was already in labour and it was a cheap shot. Either way, it was pretty brave. According to his Wikipedia page he once interrupted a wedding, walked up to the best man and punched him in the face, then lit a cigar and said “No, I’m the best man”.

I won’t bore you with the precise details of the next few days, and not because they make me look like a gullible fool, but we saw a lot of Vincent that week. As each day passed I became more and more convinced that I had genuine feelings for him, and everything suggested that he felt the same way.

Finally, on our last night in Rome I made my move. Vincent and I found ourselves alone for the first time since we'd met. Sapphire was downstairs arranging our transport for the airport and I didn't have much time. Reading the signals that I knew to be true I placed my hand on his face and a kiss on his lips. It was at that very moment when Sapphire opened the hotel room door. Her cries of "How could you?" were met with "I should leave" from Vincent. As Vincent, the only man I've ever kissed, left the room, Sapphire pulled the battery powered thermometer/clock combo off the wall and threw it straight at my head. Glancing down at the cracked screen I saw that the room was 29 degrees. "I can't look at you." she said, picking up her handbag and walking out into the corridor where Vincent stood. In her hysterical state she took comfort in his arms, and she's been there ever since.

David, London.

266

2008-12-03T07:58:00.000-08:00

The problem with my parents was they tried so hard to be good parents that they didn’t notice that they were doing a terrible job. If my father wanted a mug saying “Number One Dad” he wanted it from an official parenting governing body who recognised his contribution to the world of raising kids.

Dinner time was always the most depressing affair. Once a week they’d put on a sort of strange performance at the table to entertain me and my brother. Sometimes it was scenes from famous films, but most of the time it was original material. Stuff like my mother would look down at her plate and start crying, so my dad would say:

“Come on, mum (Yes, he called her mum. I didn’t know she had a real name until I was 14), it’s not so bad”

“But they’re so round.” She would say.

“Just try one.”

“But they’re so disgusting.”

“Please, for me.”

“And they’re so green.” And this would go on for about fifteen minutes, with my
mother getting quite hysterical at some points, just so my dad could finish by saying “Go on, honey, give peas a chance”.

They were so focussed on these skits and trying to make me like them as friends that I didn’t learn how to tie my shoelaces until I was 13 and I’m still not quite sure how one goes about blowing their nose.

Oliver, Dunstable.

265

2008-12-03T07:55:00.000-08:00

I know a thousand pounds isn’t a lot to pay for superpowers, but it’s still a lot of money. I cannot help but feel that these new superpower vending machines are not all they are cracked up to be. Maybe if they didn’t only have them at carnivals they would be a bit better.

I was disappointed with my first one. It took me the entire summer to save up that
£1000. I must have mowed about fifty lawns and painted sixty fences, so it was understandable that when I was granted the power of catching I felt ripped off. Sure, I’d never drop an object again, no matter what its size or shape was, but it’s not the kind of thing a kid dreams about every minute of the day.

I convinced my dad to give me £1000 when the carnival came again, but it meant I wouldn’t get a Christmas or birthday present that year. It was worth the risk, I thought. Sadly the ability to know when any person is checking their hotmail is the worst ever superpower.

Dunbar, Carmarthen.

264

2008-12-03T07:52:00.000-08:00

Yes, kids, phone boxes were real. Don’t listen to what that lying prime minister says. I know it’s hard for you to imagine such a thing now that you’ve all got phones right inside your brain, but in my day people had to use phone boxes if they needed to call someone when they weren’t in their house.

Then, one day, mobile phones got invented. They were a lot like the brain phones of today, except people kept them in their pockets. You won’t remember pockets, but they were part of this thing called trousers which we used to wear over our legs. You’ll need to wiki legs (This isn’t a bio-history lesson!).

Anyway, all of a sudden we had thousands of these redundant phone boxes everywhere. It got the public in a panic. “What will become of BT?” people used to say. They didn’t really do anything about it at first. Their staff just walked around looking pretty depressed all day at the thought of these wasted phone boxes.

Then, in 2012, one of the sons of the British Telecom fat cats came up with an idea; why not advertise phone boxes as something cool and retro like vinyl records?

At the same time, someone had been watching a re-run of Dragons Den, the episode with the guy who covers stuff with 24 karat gold. He thought it would be great publicity stunt to cover every phone box with 24 karat gold. He was the son of one of the fattest big wigged cats, and so, by the time the sun had set, every phone box in Britain was the colour of, and made of, gold.

People didn’t go for it though. Since the decline in phone box usage for phone calls, there’d been a steady rise in the number of people using phone boxes for masturbation. There was a stigma about it. Nobody wanted to be caught phoning someone in a seedy wank box, even if it was made of solid gold.

BT was on the verge of collapse. They’d spent every last penny they had on the Great Gold Phone Box Disaster of the week before. In what was perhaps their darkest hour, a man, a poor man whose parents had never owned a significant share of British Telecom rose up like a blinding light and pondered: “If people are wanking in our boxes, why don’t we charge them for it?”

His words were met with frantic whispers and discussion. “It’ll never work!” “It’s too un-British!” “Could it work?”After hours of heated debate, and many coffees, a strategy was devised. BT needed to convince the British public that public wanking in Britain was as normal as bangers and mash. There was only one way to do it, a lone man, a man the public trusted, a man as British as wanking in a phone box; Bob Hoskins. BT had no money to pay him for his services, but his heart was so attached to the company that he said he’d do it for free. They didn’t even have to ask him. He had been hiding on a window ledge outside the board meeting for the entire duration.

The press caught wind of something stirring over at BT HQ, and pretty soon the only thing anyone was talking about was the new BT advert which was to be aired at 9pm on Sunday night. It was such a huge thing. They even cancelled the Olympics for it, and not just took the Olympics off TV that night; they called the whole event off for good.

When 9pm came and Bob Hoskins finally spoke the words “It’s good to wank”, nothing was ever going to be the same again. The word phone box had left the tongues of the masses, only to be replaced by wank box. People were spending every spare minute they had masturbating in those tiny gold plated sex cathedrals. You couldn’t get through a day at work without hearing one of your colleagues shout “I’m just going on my break down the wank box.”

BT was back on top. Profits had trebled overnight, but BT weren’t the only ones to gain from the wanking hysteria. Masturbation had overtaken sex with married couples for the first time in forty years, and over the next decade the population decreased for the first time in history. Obviously this meant that waiting times for almost anything you can imagine fell dramatically, all except the queue at your nearest wank box. The world was a better place, or at least Britain was.

Sadly it all went wrong on one fateful night, the night on which someone shit inside a London wank box. Once the environmental health and safety brigade discovered the steaming pile of destruction, it was just hours before every wank box in Britain had been closed down. The dream was over. How do I know all this? I was that man who shit in that box.

Old Man Peterson, London.

263

2008-12-03T07:50:00.000-08:00

I’m sure if you were to look upon my finely chiselled face you’d recognise me in an instant, but you’d struggle to know why. I’m Burt Manchester and I’ve been the number one Queue Actor in Hollywood for over twenty years.

You’ve seen me in such films as Goodfellas, Independence Day, Batman Begins and The Shawshank Redemption. Whenever a director needs to fill his queue with people, my name is at the top of his list. “Get me Burt Manchester” has become something of a catchphrase in Tinsel Town.

Perhaps the greatest moment in my career was back in 1995 when Michael Mann took me to one side and told me that I could no longer be in his movie. It was the bank robbery scene in Heat. I think his exact words were:

“It just isn’t going to work. Is that your real cheque book? You’re blowing my mind with your attention to detail, but you’re too distracting. I can’t have people sitting in a cinema and failing to notice two of the biggest actors in the world just because they can’t take their eyes off the man in the background trying to make a deposit. I need the audience to be focussed on De Niro and Kilmer, not wondering how long that handsome yet plain man has been standing in line. You understand, don’t you? Here’s ten million dollars, don’t tell the producers.”

Since then I’ve had to tone my queuing down a notch. I’ve been mostly doing art house flicks and independent stuff, but I still occasionally queue in a Transformers or Adam Sandler film. Hey, a man’s got to eat!

Burt Manchester, Hollywood.

262

2008-12-03T07:47:00.000-08:00

Jesus. Don’t talk to me about the Credit Crunch. Ok, just for a minute then. Yeah, I remember the Credit Crunch. It did my fucking head in. It was just the latest craze like yo-yos and Ben Stiller.

Every single advert on the radio would name drop the Crunch. They were all “Yeah, our Credit Crunch friendly prices, blah fucking blah”. It only took six months for it to become the most fashionable thing in Hollywood. Actresses were turning up on the red carpet wearing plastic bags and saying “Yeah, it’s the credit crunch”, even though they had millions of dollars in the bank and loads of normal expensive clothes in their wardrobes.”

The worst was when Paris Hilton came to the premiere of Rush Hour 5 with a tramp. He was cracked off his face and all she could say was “Credit Crunch” as she shrugged her shoulders with the blankest look in her eyes I’d ever seen.

Actually, that wasn’t the worst; the worst was when Kellogs brought out their Credit
Nut Crunch cereal. It was literally just nuts and sawdust.

Bart, San Diego.

261

2008-12-03T06:02:00.000-08:00

She was like a Magic Eye painting, everyone thought she was this sweet and innocent little girl, but I just couldn’t see it. Nobody suspected her of anything, because doctors said it was impossible to calculate her IQ, whether or not this was because it was too high or too low they couldn’t say, but most people assumed the latter. All I saw was a woman who knew what she was doing. Everything she did was part of a carefully thought out plan. When she went shopping she bought food according to weight, not price, because she knew exactly how many kg her arms could hold. If that doesn’t prove she wasn’t completely oblivious to everything then I’m probably wasting my breath. All I’m saying is if you’re going to pin this murder on me you should at least find out where she was that night.

Lee, Burnley.

260

2008-12-03T05:32:00.000-08:00

I first realised that human beings were heading in the wrong direction when I saw that they were sleeping next to clocks which had the primary function of causing alarm. Hating yourself was the new doing nice things to make yourself feel good, and so, I saw an opportunity to make myself a very rich man; Misery Workshops, expensive classes teaching you how to be as miserable as humanly possible.

Sadly nearly every customer I had mistook what I meant by misery workshop, and thought it was a support group to get rid of the sadly. Most of my teachings had a devastating effect on these already devastated people, and 80% of them committed suicide soon after their first lecture. Even worse, in a bid to raise interest I offered the first lesson for free, so I never became rich. Everyone lost out.

P. Wilson, Chicago.

259

2008-12-03T05:06:00.000-08:00

I’ll never forget the day my collection of VHS tapes became obsolete. I was just thirteen years old and I thought the world was over. In truth I only had about twenty videos and it wasn’t the end of the world, but it seemed like a lot back then.

DVDs were the most evil creation of all time. They killed the videotape, my videotapes. Time is a great healer, and by the time I was 18 I had finally embraced digital versatile discs. For the first time in my life I could see why having films on discs was so much better than video tapes. They’re rounder! With a steady income I acquired a collection of DVDs which put my pathetic videos to shame. “This is it!” I told my friends “They won’t top this. DVDs for life, my friends. DVDs for life.” How naive I was.

I had over five hundred DVDs and all of a sudden they brought out HD and Blu-Ray.

“This’ll be the end of me” I told Cathy. I had a choice to make. I wouldn’t be left with a pile of obsolete DVDs on my hands. I had to upgrade to the next generation, but which format would survive the world? There was no way that Blu-Ray was going to make it with a name like that, and so, I replaced every single one of my DVDs with HD. Sadly something happened which nobody could have predicted; Blu-Ray won.
Ten years later we’d been through over forty different formats, even going back to VHS for a week in May 2016 for David Beckham’s birthday.

Finally a company decided that things had gone too far, of course that company was LG who had decades of guilt to rid themselves of for year upon year of putting out poorly constructed electronics. It was a video player filled with miniature black holes, wormholes and flux capacitors. The machine was designed to anticipate developments in the market and automatically become the next generation machine years before the technology had even been conceived. They said it was the last machine you’d ever need, but there were catches; it cost £250,000 and wasn’t backwards compatible, and so it could only play future films.

Of course I bought one, and much to Cathy’s disliking I had to sell the house to pay for it.
“But it’s like it was built just to solve every problem in my life” I told her.

The day after I bought it I sat myself on the sofa and flicked over to Pepsi-BBC News. I began to think about how my life could never go wrong again. In front of me was a machine which would never become obsolete, because as soon as it was about made obsolete by a better machine it would become that machine. A smile crossed my face. I was content. Then a headline flashed up on the screen; “Everyone in the movie business quits to pursue other things”. And another film was never made again.

Michael, Chester.

258

2008-12-03T05:01:00.000-08:00

All superheroes have their own believable origin story. Batman lost his parents, Superman lost his planet, Spider-Man lost his ability to never get bitten by a radioactive spider. I’m no different. I was born with a very special heart, a heart which defied science in all its forms.

When the doctor held his stethoscope to my throbbing chest he heard a familiar beat, and not the beat of every heart he’d listened to up until that day. The beat he heard was Purple Rain, by the artist currently known as Prince. Unable to find a medical explanation, the doctor lazily put it down to a Christmas miracle.

When news of my tuneful heart got out, my story made the front page of the local gazette. Pretty soon my mother was taking me to county fairs and holding a microphone to my heart as I slept in my crib on the stage. I was the talk of Somerset, and no good has ever come of anyone being the talk of Somerset.

It wasn’t long before a man in a suit, a man from Warner Brothers was knocking on the door of the house I grew up in. In his hand, the hand which wasn’t knocking the door of the house I grew up in was a carrier bag filled with modems and legal documents.

“Before I begin” he said “Would you like to buy a modem?”

After my mother declined, the man, Eric was his name, made it very clear that my heart was in breach of copyright law. My mother put up a fight, but she wasn’t a big shot city lawyer, and she wasn’t dealing with EMI, the people’s record company.

“I don’t want you to think we’re monsters over at Warner” he said “We don’t expect you to give us the heart. We’re really very reasonable. All we ask is your son wears this device on his chest for the rest of his life. It sends a very small electrical current into his heart to regulate the beat.”

What else was my mother to do? My father was at work in the local Nuclear Power Station and wouldn’t be home for hours. She had no choice but to agree.

Eric cut me open right there and then. As fate would have it, when he was stitching me up, one of his modems fell into my chest. Over the course of many years, my body’s natural reaction to this foreign object was to embrace it. My flesh and organs fashioned wires and whatsits, which connected my heart to the modem. Through no fault of my own, my heart began to download music illegally straight into my pulse. I’d walk through a Wi-Fi zone and end up coming out with the entire Beatles catalogue programmed into the beating of my heart.

I tried to keep it to myself, but when I was seventeen I fulfilled a childhood dream and landed a small part in Holby City. Ratings for the show had reached an all time low, and in a desperate attempt to attract viewers the producers decided to screen a live episode. As the man playing the doctor placed his stethoscope upon my chest he broke character and let out an almighty cry.

“His heart’s playing Yellow Submarine. Someone get a doctor!”

Within an hour the clip had made it onto Youtube and I was an internet sensation. The press hounded my home and I was forced to hide out at my parent’s house for a few weeks.

On a sunny spring morning a hand pounded against the door of the house I grew up in. The hand belonged to Paul McCartney. Behind him were a team of lawyers, doctors and Roman Catholic priests. As soon as my father opened the door the doctors pounced, my father was pushed to the floor as the men made their way into the kitchen.

“Where’s the boy?” McCartney asked in a gentle whisper.

“He’s not here” my mother replied. “He hasn’t been to visit for months.”

“Lies!” he cried as he struck my mother to ground with a rolling pin. “Search upstairs. He’s here somewhere.”

I was in the bathroom, unaware of the scene unfolding below me. I heard what seemed liked a herd of rhinos climbing the stairs. There came a knock on the door.

“I’m in here” I shouted, in fear of my mother coming in and seeing my penis for the first time in four years.

“He’s in here” I heard a man yell. A moment later the door was wide open and not for the first time in my life I cursed my parents for never putting a lock on the bathroom door. Sadly this time I didn’t have a magazine to cover my dignity.
I was dragged naked down the stairs and thrown onto the sofa.

“He’s an abomination. We must kill him now” said one of the eldest priests.

“Nobody is killing anyone today” Paul told the priest.

“Hey, Paul” I said “I’m a big fan. I’ve got all your songs”

“I’m quite aware of that” he said. “That’s why we’re here. Ringo, take the heart.”
I hadn’t noticed him, but Ringo Starr had been standing at the back of the room dressed in a nurse’s uniform. He came towards me with a needle.

“It’s ok” Paul said “He’s not just a drummer and children’s TV show narrator. Ringo here is a trained surgeon, florist, chemist and a hair product technician”
That’s the last thing I remember and that’s the last time I had a heart.

When I awoke I thought I was in a bathtub filled with ice and my kidneys had been stolen, but they’d just put me back where they’d found me and the water had gone cold. My heart was gone, it had been replaced my something which smelled a lot like fish. It was a fish.

I know what you’re thinking: how could I be alive with a fish for a heart. It must have been magic. Well, there’s no such thing as magic. The fish was called a Pulse Fish, and you’d never read about one in any book.

I could feel it pumping the blood around my body just as well as my heart had ever done. They come from a planet much like our own, but billions of light years away. How this one came to be in the possession of the remaining members of the Beatles I never found out, and I don’t think I ever will. The only information I had was left written on my bathroom mirror in lipstick. It said

“The fish in your chest is a Pulse Fish. It comes from a planet very much like our own, but billions of light years away.
Love Ringo and Paul.
P.S. They only live for one year.”

The weight of this knowledge that I had less than a year to live had a devastating effect on my mind. Not knowing how old the Pulse Fish had been when Ringo Starr inserted it into my chest, I feared I could die at moment. I’d never believed that any man who lived each day as their last would fill every hour with seducing women, snowboarding off mountain tops and watching sunsets, instead he would surely spend his final hours frozen in a mixture of shock, panic and woe.

Wanting the nightmare to be over I made my way to my local nuclear power station. I would kill myself by exposing myself to lethal levels of radiation. There was no other way.

Quite easily I made my way to the heart of the station. It's always handy when your father's the head of security and the password for every door is your birthday.

Overlooking a pool of unnaturally green and glowing goo I pulled off my best t-shirt and prepared to jump in headfirst.

“Hey! What are you doing” I heard a man cry “You haven’t got your hardhat on” he said.

“It’s ok” I told him “I’m just going to kill myself by rolling around in this nuclear waste for a bit”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Set one foot in there and you’ll come out with superpowers all over your body.”

But I wouldn’t listen. I threw myself in and swam around like an Olympic swimmer trying to get his money’s worth five minutes before the leisure centre was closing.

I emerged a minute later and I’d lost all my hair. Confident that I’d achieved my goal I set off back to the house I grew up in, so I could die in peace in the bath.
I filled the bath with the most expensive salts and bubbles I’d ever bought my mother for Christmas. She had so many bottles of bath products piled up from over the years, most of them unopened. When I asked her why she never used them she said “They’re too nice to use. I’m saving them for a special occasion.” If there was ever a time when a bath was a special occasion it’s when you’re having your last bath whilst waiting to die from radiation poisoning.

As I lay in the water my eyes glanced upon the shampoos. Even though I’d lost all my hair in the power plant I thought it would be a nice treat to shampoo my bald head. But which one was fitting for a final head wash? Herbal Essences? Head and Shoulders? Wash and Go seemed slightly appropriate, but there was one bottle which stood out more than any other; Shampoo X. It didn’t have any fancily designed bottle, it just looked like a milk bottle with the name written on it in lipstick. I was reminded of the scene from Indiana Jones: The Last Crusade with the Holy Grail. Shampoo X would be the final shampoo for me. As I lathered it into my smooth dying skull I knew that I wouldn’t get a chance to rinse and repeat. I could hear death rattle. I submerged myself completely under the water and waited for death to take me. I blacked out moments later.

To my surprise I regained consciousness one hour later and my hair had re-grown longer and shinier than ever, and I was alive! I got out of the bath and dried myself with a damp towel. As I looked at myself in the mirror I couldn’t help but notice that my muscles had trebled in size. It would be many years before I learned how this miracle had happened. Luckily you won’t have to wait that long, because I can tell you right now. Shampoo X contained nutrients not from this planet; they came from a planet much like our own, but billions of light years away, a planet with rivers filled with a fish called the Pulse Fish. Luckily nuclear radiation effects life differently on that planet, and when combined with one of the secret ingredients in Shampoo X, the Pulse Fish became immortal.

And that, my friends, is how came to be known as the superhero that the papers are calling Pulse. There have been a lot of rumours surrounding my powers, and so, I think it’s time I set the record straight.

Yes, I am able to communicate telepathically with my fish heart, but I’m not under his control. No, I cannot breathe underwater indefinitely; I need to come up for air every six hours. In addition to my superior strength, reflexes and acceleration over short distances, I am able to give off what I call my “Pulse Ray” which causes my enemies to go into cardiac arrest. As recent photos have shown, my hair is always the same length and hasn’t grown since I used Shampoo X on it, which has led some to believe that cutting it would have a Samson-like effect on my powers, but luckily my hair is indestructible, as far as I know. Hopefully it will never be put to the test when it matters most!

Pulse, Gotham City.

257

2008-12-02T17:49:00.000-08:00

I know people say that knowledge is the greatest weapon, but I’ve found this stick with two bits pointing out of the end which is perfect for poking people in the eyes.

Luke, London.

256

2008-12-02T17:45:00.000-08:00

I got talking to a man at the bus stop this evening. Usually, I avoid such terrible things by listening to my iPod, but it broke the other day. If you’re wondering how it broke I’ll tell you right now. If you don’t want to know, skip forward a bit.

Well, I put it in my back pocket and sat on a hard bench. Why? My jeans were too tight and if I’d put it in my front pocket it would have looked like I had a bad case of iPod shaped penis.

Luckily my limited social skills are one level above weather talkers, and so, I asked him what he did for a living.

“I steal tips” he said.

“In what way?” I asked.

“Well, you know when you go to a restaurant and leave a tip on the table? I pretty much steal it.”

“How do you do that then?” I asked.

“I basically sit in a restaurant all day and grab the money off nearby tables as soon as the coast is clear.”

“Surely you can’t make that much from it? You’d have to be buying food all day.”

“Not really” he said “I just buy a bowl of chips now and then when I start attracting attention. Ideally I go to somewhere that does free refills on drinks. They’re better anyway, because usually waitresses in refill places do more work, so they’re more likely to get tips.”

“But the money can’t be that good?”

“The money is incredible” he told me “I’m insanely rich.”

“Hmmm. Then why are you catching the bus?” I asked.

“It’s the flashiest way to travel” he said.

“No it isn’t!” I yelled at him.

“It is when you do it the way I do. When I get on this bus people will know I have so much more money than them and they’ll be incredibly jealous.”

A moment later and we both got on the 82A, which goes to Norwich hospital. I flashed my bus pass and moved to the back seats.

“I’d like you to take me to Newcastle” the tip stealer said to the driver.

“I’m going to the hospital, mate. You’ll need to get 41 to the city centre then catch the shuttle if you want to go to Newcastle. Every hour they run.”

“I must insist that you take me straight to Newcastle. Here’s £10,000.”

“Um, ok” the driver said “I’m gonna get in trouble for this, but I can always say you had a gun. What about the other passengers?”

“Leave them to me. Right! Everyone not going to Newcastle please exit the vehicle and collect your £1000 compensation on the way.”

“But we need to go to the hospital” a man cried “We’re sick”

But his cries went unnoticed. Everyone was making their way towards the man handing out the £50 notes.

Trevor, Norwich.

255

2008-12-02T17:43:00.000-08:00

I was the greatest forger the world had ever seen. There wasn’t a banknote that I couldn’t duplicate. Name a currency and I’ve forged it, even that stupid Greek one.

In the late 90s my £20 notes were so perfect that they were costing me over £30 to make. This was no good. An idea came to me. I hadn’t gone into forgery to lose money. I was in it to make money (I hope you get the clever double meaning there, it took me all night.) I came up with a plan to sell my expensive £20 notes to rich people for £40 each. They were the ultimate luxury item.

“Reassuringly expensive” I told them. “What better way to show your superior wealth than to pay twice as much for something whilst appearing to only pay the normal price?”

“But how will anybody know?” they’d all ask.

“Just tell them” I said. “Go to a restaurant; order a £40 meal and when the bill comes tell the waiter that you’re paying with rich man £20 notes, so you’re actually spending £80, when you could easily pay with normal money and leave a £40 tip and be no worse off, but you won’t, because you’re a better man.”

I’d like to say that I got rich off this scheme, but sadly I won the lottery instead.

Duncan, Newcastle.

254

2008-12-02T17:41:00.000-08:00

When I used to tell people that I had a bullet for a brother they thought I was threatening to shoot a black man. I’ve since had to change my wording to “My brother is a bullet”.

When my mother was in labour with my little brother, some crack-fiends rushed into the hospital looking for some morphine. They had a gun, the shoot-shoot kind. They burst into the delivery room where my mother lay. They shot her.

As fate would have it, the bullet entered her womb and hit my unborn brother in the head. The momentum of the bullet was so strong that it burst his brain out of his head and out of my mother’s sweet back. The tiny brain pierced the wall, entered the next room and smashed into a vial of green liquid; a new secret formula called Chemical X. Somehow the brain tissue merged with the lead of the bullet, creating a piece of metal capable of communicating telepathically with humans and certain breeds of dog. It’s been hard on all of my family, to say the least.

Neville, California.

253

2008-12-02T16:59:00.000-08:00

My parents had a wicked sense of humour. They gave me a name which would guarantee me a life of people asking “Are you him?” and me having to say “No, he’s fictional and I’m a woman.”

Sue Perman, Los Angeles.

252

2008-12-02T16:55:00.000-08:00

When they asked me if I was interested in making Back to the Future 4 on April 1st I thought it was a practical joke. “No, we’re really serious” Robert Zemeckis said. “We’re in a rush though, so we have to start filming right now. Come on, you can read the script in the car!”

From what little I read, the script seemed solid enough. The premise was my character using dinosaurs from the past to fight off an alien invasion in the future.

Everyone was already there when I got to the set. Christopher Lloyd, who I hadn’t seen for nearly ten years, came up to me and said “You’re a good man, Mikey” and patted me on the back.

“Ok, get in the car, Fox!” shouted the director. “Action!”

So there I was sitting in the De lorean, not knowing what I was supposed to be doing.

“Just fiddle with the buttons” Zemeckis yelled.

And then it happened: the ultimate April fools prank. They’d put me in a real time machine.

I write this letter to you, whoever you are, from the prehistoric past, in the hope that you find it and tell my wife and kids where I am. If they are able to come and get me, that would be great, but I understand that it won’t be as easy as that and there might be complications. Tell them that although it’s very lonely for me here, I’m making the most of it.

I’ve found a woman encased in a block of ice. If it thaws in my lifetime I will make her my best friend.

Michael J. Fox, A Cave.

251

2008-12-02T16:52:00.000-08:00

Some years ago I bought a book. Like most books I buy, I read it all. Even if I hate a book from page one I’ll force myself to finish it, such is my hatred for myself. After finishing this particular book I was convinced that I hadn’t enjoyed it, so I donated it to my local charity shop.

On my way home from this minor adventure I began to wonder if I’d been too quick to judge the book. Maybe I had been wrong. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Could I have judged the book solely by its cover? It definitely had a terrible cover.
Without regard for the oncoming traffic I spun the car around at 60 mph and headed straight back to the shop.

“Hi” I said “I was just in here about five minutes ago.”

“Oh yes, I remember” said the old lady behind the counter “You gave us the Da Vinci code.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’d like it back.”

“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible” she told me.

“Nothing is impossible.” I cried in my mightiest middle class voice, but she didn’t flinch an inch. “It belonged to me five minutes ago, and I gave it to you for free!”

“Yes, a very kind thing to do, sir.”

I ended up having to buy my book back for £2.99. I gave the woman £3 and I must admit that I may have lost my head a little bit when she assumed I wouldn’t want my penny change. A lifetime ban, she called it, but I knew she only worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“We’ll see.” I whispered as I left with the book in my hand.

As soon as I got home I started to read Dan Brown’s book again. By the time the ten o’clock news came on I’d finished it. Was it good? I wasn’t sure, which must have meant it wasn’t. My first impression was the right one. I’d take it back to the charity shop tomorrow, which was a Wednesday - a day on which my lifetime ban wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on.

After donating the book for the second time I was driving home again, the rain was beating down and some Northern clown was saying things on the radio. Suddenly a terrible thought consumed my brain. Had I already made my mind up that I wasn’t going to like the book the second time, simply because I didn’t like it the first time around? I slammed on my brakes and began to reverse the car all the way back to the charity shop, a feat which sadly caused the death of one rabbit and the destruction of one Slazenger tennis ball.

Within a minute of being back in the shop, a scene had erupted, a scene not unlike the day previous. This time, however, I wasn’t dealing with a little old lady. Behind the counter was a man, one of those do-gooders, built like a steam engine, trained in every Eastern fighting practice, but with a gentle heart of gold. He struck me as the kind of man who would sit on the floor, up against a radiator, even if there was an empty chair in the room. Not if the radiator was on, of course, but you get the idea of the force I was dealing with.

Within a minute I found myself face down on the floor with my arm being held behind my back. Made to apologise, I was handed a lifetime ban, luckily I was allowed to buy back my book before I left.

After reading the book for the third time I was beginning to think that maybe it was good after all. Or was I just trying to justify buying it three times? I decided that I definitely liked the book and would think about it no more.

I posted it back to the charity shop anonymously and didn’t think about it for two whole days. Sadly, when those two days were up, I could think about nothing else. Knowing I couldn’t set foot in my local charity shop ever again I had no option but to buy it new from WH Smith. And that is how the terrible cycle began.

For the next six months I found myself buying the book nearly ever other day and posting it through the charity shop letterbox the next. Sometimes, on my worst days I’d even buy it two or three times. I know what you’re thinking; why didn’t I just hold onto the book and not give it away after each read? The answer is simple, after each completion I was convinced that my mind was made up over whether or not I thought the Da Vinci Code was good or bad, and I’d never need to read it again, but I was obsessed. Plus I’m a sucker for giving things to charity shops, because it makes me feel like a good person without having to lose any of my precious money.

The book had taken over my life. I was signing my name Robert Langdon whenever I used my credit card. Chip and Pin was just a distant dream. I’d often spend hours trying to solve riddles that didn’t exist in bus time tables or the number of leaves on a tree. Even worse, I’d put the Da Vinci Code at the top of the Best Sellers list all by myself, and kept it there for far too long. I don't expect you to forgive me, I accept what I've done. Just please, do not punish my children for my failures.

Chester Dockstock, London.

250

2008-12-02T16:42:00.000-08:00

It was the ultimate act of misdirection, the greatest trick I’d ever seen. For years she distracted me by becoming my wife and raising a family. All the while she was secretly taking my DVDs out of their cases and selling them on eBay. It hurt to find out that she never loved me and our life was a sham, but it nearly killed me when I found out that I only had Lethal Weapon II left.

Jason, Leeds.

249

2008-12-02T16:28:00.000-08:00

I’m sure we’ve all had a good laugh at America and their amnesia. I bet some of you are watching a hit America drama right now and crying to the heavens “Amnesia! He can’t have amnesia; his wife had amnesia last week! Full families of people don’t just have amnesia all the time.” I thought it was just a cheap writing tool, but how wrong I was. So if you’re crying to the heavens right now, you’d better stop, because you’re making a fool of yourself.

Two months ago, I went on a routine holiday (or vacation!) to America, and within two hours of stepping off the plane I had a pretty bad case of Amnesia.
In a bid to get to the bottom of it, I got to the bottom of it. I won’t tell you the details of my investigation, because it was too thuggish for the scientists, and too scientific for the thugs.

My discovery was this: Shampoo. For all these years it’s been the American hair soap makers who have been washing away more than just dandruff and hair dirt. They’ve been washing away memories. A secret ingredient, most likely brought in from the nearest rainforest, has been causing all this amnesia.

The reason is thus: After washing their hair, the American will become disorientated and filled with short term memory loss. Unable to remember whether or not they have washed their hair, they wash it again. Why? The Shampoo runs out twice as quickly, and the shampoo makers become the richest villains in the entire world as sales double or treble. Sadly nearly 40% of Americans are genetically more open to amnesia and can end up going through an entire bottle in one visit to the shower, leading to more serious long term memory loss, the kind which you are probably seeing on your television at this very minute.

Can’t Remember, London.

248

2008-12-02T16:25:00.000-08:00

You probably wouldn't recognise me, but I'm the greatest child actor who ever lived. I was robbed of my childhood, but you'd never see me in any film. There was never an audition I didn't nail, there was never a part I didn't get, but there was never a film that didn't have my scenes cut when they reached the editing room in a bid to reduce the running time.

I blame my agent. Not once in my entire childhood did he find me a role that was essential to the story. I'm not bitter. I have my parents who stole my millions of dollars, the dead look in my eyes and my dependency on prescription medication, nearly everything a former child actor needs, just not a face that people can say "Oh, he hasn't aged well" about, because they never got to see it in the first place.

Mikey, San Francisco.

247

2008-12-02T07:25:00.001-08:00

Babysitting is a tough gig. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar or a little girl. It takes a real man to watch over a child. The only reason most parents seek the services of a young teenage girl to babysit their kids is they hope that any intruding kidnapper will pick the babysitter over their own children.

I've just got back from my first paid babysitting job. It was a disaster. Not one of my three years of babysitting college could have prepared me for the horrors of the real deal. When the parents came home (slightly drunk, I might add!) they were all:

"That's not our baby."

But I tried to explain that it was a better one.

"It's not even a boy" they said.

"I know, but these ones last longer" I told them. "And feel how tight her grip is!

Just put your finger in there. Careful though, you might not get it back!"

"Where's our baby?" they yelled. "Where's our baby?"

They didn't even stop to think about the lack of attention they were giving their new one. I could tell that they weren't good parents.

"Look" I said "I'll show you your baby, but you're really not going to like it."

"Oh, Jesus, is he dead? Please, God." cried the mother.

"Of course he's not dead. What do you take me for?" I asked.
Five minutes later they were all:

"Oh, my God. What's happened to his face?"

"It's complicated" I said.

"Why does his arm look like metal?"

"Well, it kind of is. It's a lot stronger than that old one I had to throw away." I could tell that they didn't appreciate my craftmanship, but I'm a babysitter, not a welder.

"What's that sticking out of his nappy? Oh, my god! Is that a tail? Why has he got a tail? Where's the dog!?!?"

"Look" I said "The dog's dead, but he was never part of the deal."

Nelson, Farnborough.