World of Carp

I'm working in the garage when a man comes in. He has a goatee beard and little round glasses. He reminds me a bit of Ben Elton or something. Do you remember Ben Elton? He was very right on and into political correctness, wasn't he? Always going on about political correctness, he was. Ha ha! Anyway, the man is driving a Ford Mondeo and he's just filled it up with petrol. I'm surprised because you would think it might be against his principals or something.

'Pump six and this,' he says, or something, and he picks a packet of Toffos from the rack and hands them over for me to price them. Do you remember Toffos? A man's gotta chew what a man's gotta chew! Ha ha! Do you remember Brucie's Generation Game?

I scan the Toffos and the machine makes a bleeping noise like a robot - like Metal Mickey in fact, or something. Do you remember Metal Mickey? I'm surprised the man wanted Toffos. He looks like he'd rather have picked a packet of tofu! Lefties like that, don't they? They eat tofu and veggie burgers, and they have leather patches sewn onto the elbows of their jumpers. Their kids always have names like Jocasta or Xerxes or something. Ha ha!

It's terrible how they've treated Tommy Robinson, isn't it? He was only saying what the rest of us were thinking. Do you remember thinking? That's what we used to do in the old days before the internet and He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, or something. Thinking was like our version of television, and we used to think all sorts of things, but of course you're not allowed to do that these days in case you think something that the liberal media elite don't like, such as how the US election was obviously rigged - a man on YouTube said so, or something.

'That will be £5.64,' I say to Mondeo man.

He gives me a tenner and I give him his change. There's a picture of the Queen on the tenner. Good thing there aren't any illegal Muslims here. They wouldn't like that - a picture of the Queen. They wouldn't like that at all, but you can't say anything about them because you're not allowed. Do you remember the Queen? We Are the Champions was their best one, I think.

I'm waiting for the man to leave but instead of going back to his car he goes to look at the mucky magazines. Meanwhile a lorry pulls in at the diesel pump, or something.

 

It didn't look much like this because this is a toy truck which I bought at the corner shop, for some reason. It's really small. A real lorry driver wouldn't be able to fit in the cab, and also it doesn't have an engine. You wouldn't be able to transport much gravel in the back of this lorry, because it's so small, or something. Who remembers Larry the Lorry on the telly when you were a kid? Always getting into trouble, wasn't he?

If Mondeo man was driving this lorry he would fill it full of tofu or kale then drive it to a lesbian women's workshop or something, but they wouldn't let him shag them because they're lezzers. Ha ha!

After a while the man decided he didn't want to buy a magazine after all so he left the garage. I don't know why he didn't just go back to his car and drive off after he'd paid. Maybe he wasn't in a hurry. There must have been some explanation, something light-hearted and partially reliant upon the audience's collective recall of some humourously substandard juvenalia from the seventies described in a tone amounting to the written equivalent of a sort of half-hearted semi-ironic shrug or something, but I can't think what it was.

 

Look! It's Malcolm Muggeridge! He used to be on the telly all the time when I was little, and if that isn't fucking funny then I don't know what is.

Who remembers John Tyndall? I know they say he stole some women's knickers from Woolies but I don't think he did it, personally. It might have been the other one. I think he was supposed to be a bit of a whoopsie, although we're not supposed to call them that any more, or something. Anyway, there's nothing about it on Wikipedia.

Do you remember Get Up and Go with Mooncat? He was a green cat from the moon. What was that all about? You're probably not even allowed to say he was green any more, or something.

Please buy my book.

Mystery Science Book Club 3000

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—

Sounds like somebody was standing in line for The Phantom Menace! Am I right, guys?

—it was the age of wisdom—

Well, if you were in line for The Phantom Menace, then it must have totally been some other age! I mean seriously, you know what I'm saying?

—it was the age of foolishness—

Yeah - that would be whoever thought Jar Jar Binks was a good idea. Am I right, guys?

—it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness—

This guy needs to pick a lane.

—it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—

We were all heading home to catch DS9 before Jar Jar Binks showed up again. Am I right or am I right?

—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Is this an insurance commercial? You know what I'm saying!

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne—

Throne! Ha ha!

—of England; there were—

I don't get it.

—a king with a large—

Schlong!

—jaw and a queen with—

A great rack! Ho ho!

—a fair face, on the throne of France.

I still don't get the throne joke.

In both countries it was clearer than crystal—

Throne, like on the john, like the guy was taking a dump, you know what I'm saying?

—to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes—

Oh yeah. I get it now! Ha ha!

—that things in general were settled for ever.

You know, this was funnier when we had movies to work with.
 

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were—

I hear you. Those were some good times. Like you remember when we watched - what was it called - some deal with the Earth's Core, and anyway Peter Cushing was in it, so I made the joke that he was Grand Moff Tarkin from Star Wars?

—conceded to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently—

Yeah, man. That was fucking hilarious, dude. That was some next level funny fucking shit right there. I've got to be honest with you, I can't see this deal with the books working out so well.

—attained her five-and-twentieth blessed—

I don't know. It could be okay. We just got to get into it.

—birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards—

Like the Imperial Guard from Star Wars! Ha ha!

—had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made—

Okay. Maybe we can do this. That was pretty fucking funny, man. Imperial Guard - that's some funny shit, let me tell you!

—for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages—

Maybe the ghost was like Eminem or Dr. Dre!

—as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere—

You're killing it, dude! You got this. This is comedy fucking gold, you know what I'm saying?

—messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.

Wait? What? The guy talks to chickens?

France, less favoured on the whole as to matters—

I don't think that's what he meant, but who knows?
 

—spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident—

Hey, sounds like Aquaman just showed up!

Ha ha!

The Writers' Workshop

Where do you get the ideas for your amazing books? is a question I am asked all too often, and it's not the only question either! Sometimes it's how do you write your amazing books? which is of course another matter entirely. Naturally, were I to answer such questions on each occasion of my being asked, I would barely have time to write my amazing books! Therefore it seemed high time I offered some more general address in hope of satisfying everyone's curiosity, affording my readers a precious glimpse of how the magic comes about; and so today I'll be sharing some of my thoughts on the work of a few aspiring authors.

War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. Whether it be Star Trek, Star Wars or Babylon 5, I love science-fiction, and science-fiction novels can be great too. In fact I'm unapologetically a particularly huge fan of Philip K. Dick, the crazy genius who brought us both Blade Runner and Total Recall. Unfortunately, anyone reading War of the Worlds hoping for anything in the vein of one of Dick's famous twist endings will be disappointed. War of the Worlds is a steampunk novel, and steampunk is Victorian science-fiction, although I know I hardly need to explain that to anyone who, like me, follows the adventures of that mysterious traveller in time and space known only as the Doctor! If War of the Worlds sounds familiar, then you're probably thinking of the wonderful BBC serial of which this is the novelisation. Wells strives to tell an exciting adventure in jolly old Victorian England but comes unstuck by concentrating on the action whilst ignoring the powerful character development we saw on the screen. I'm all for writers branching out and doing their own thing, but not at the expense of the drama. My advice would have been to develop some conflict for George, perhaps with a childhood scene wherein (for example) his father makes light of our young protagonist, perhaps being dismissive of a childish drawing the boy has done for his dear old dad. Wells' War might then serve as a clever metaphor for George's internal struggle as he wrestles with feelings of abandonment, subconsciously seeking the approval of a father figure while fleeing from the Martians and their terrible ray guns. Wells might do well (no pun intended there!) to pick up a few of my officially licensed He-Man and the Masters of the Universe tie-in novels so as to see how his somewhat flat characters could have been better handled.

Women in Love by D.H. Lawrence. No-one loves to curl up on the sofa on a rainy day with a super-gooey romance like I do, but I have a hard time believing that D.H. Lawrence feels the same even if that's what he's tried to write here. This is probably the grumpiest, gloomiest romance I've ever tried to read, and the hero doesn't even sound particularly dashing. There's an introduction by one of the author's snooty friends making a big deal out of Lawrence's descriptions of the natural world, but to be honest I found this aspect even more depressing than his failure to summon up anything approaching lovey dovey. My advice to D.H. would be to treat himself to a binge watch of Midsomer Murders for some pointers on creating a charming rustic atmosphere, and because romance does actually feature in the show every now and then - certainly more than you'll find in Women in Love. Women Having a Bit of a Moan would have been a more accurate title!

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. Behind each successful author there will always be a queue of others hoping to ride on the same ticket to YA publishing stardom, and I'm sure Stephenie Meyer has lost count of those hoping to duplicate her success with the fantastic Twilight franchise. Mary Shelley can hardly be faulted for her ambition in picking such a well established character as Frankenstein, but she  should have done a bit more research. Whilst this Frankenstein sounds familiar from Shelley's long-winded steampunk influenced description, the problem is that old bolts-through-the-neck never shuts up, instead delivering long lectures which I doubt even the great Boris Karloff, the original Frankenstein, would have had the patience to memorise. With a little more effort, this could have been the beginning of an amazing, if not terribly original, franchise with  Frankenstein meeting a spooky Egyptian mummy, a werewolf and so on, but it's hardly surprising that Shelley's publisher declined to pick up the option on this one.

The Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs. I know what you're thinking - it sounds like one of those super saucy Confessions films from the swinging seventies starring Robin Askwith, the key to which was the suggestion of lewd material without showing too much. If Mr. Burroughs saw any of those films, I would say he probably didn't learn anything because this book doesn't make any sense, and is extremely lewd with page after page describing what two men of certain inclinations might get up to if left to their own devices. Now I'm no prude, and I'm a great supporter of the LGBT community, but this sort of thing really is beyond the pale. There isn't even any description of anyone sharing a romantic lunch in suitable preface to the bedroom unpleasantness described in such detail, which I'm sure the author thought was very clever indeed. No-one likes a toffee nosed show off, Mr. Burroughs. In the author's defence, it seems the publisher has mistakenly published the pages of his novel in the wrong order, resulting in a mish-mash of such bewildering composition as to resemble the sort of insanity which was popular amongst the spaced out druggers of the 1960s, and fans of cult classic The Prisoner might enjoy some of The Naked Lunch had Burroughs not spent so much of the book describing things I would rather not discuss with children present.

London Fields by Martin Amis. I have to confess that I don't know how this one ended, having given up half way through. The problem is that whilst Amis clearly strives to recreate the charm of the beloved Cockney characters from EastEnders, he fails to imbue them with what we writers refer to as relatability, which is a quality where the reader is able to imagine him or herself as one of the characters in the book. My advice to Mr. Amis would be to pick up a couple of volumes of Black Pudding Row, my popular series of heart-warming tales of down to earth folk living in a pleasant town in the north of England. It's possible to write working class characters without recourse to foul language, Mr. Amis. You simply have to keep at it.

So there we have it for this time. I hope you've enjoyed my sharing a few humble suggestions as much as I've enjoyed sharing them with you; and if you're a budding author, I hope this has provided a few pointers. A book should transport its reader to a magical world of wonderment and make believe, so it's important that we who have been blessed with the task of arranging that transport should get it right!

2000AD After I Stopped Reading

My first issue of 2000AD comic was prog 20, cover dated 9th of July, 1977. I bought it from the other newsagent in Shipston's main square, the darker, slightly weirder place run by the bloke who resembled something from Planet of the Apes. I was immediately hooked, then found out that Peter Empson had been reading it from the beginning and was willing to swap his collection of eighteen back issues (minus the second one, in case anyone is doing the calculations) for a big stack of copies of the Topper.

I stopped reading in October 1980, having become somewhat burned out with the more shitey regular stories - Mean Arena, Meltdown Man, and Judge Dredd treading water with crap such as The Secret Diary of Adrian Cockroach Aged 13½ Months.

In January 1986, Nick Scullard gave me a massive stack of back issues, actually most of those I'd missed since 1980. He gave them to me because his collection had been transformed into a damp tower of clay following a thorough soaking when the pipes in his house burst during a freeze. He couldn't face dealing with it, so I dried them out on a radiator, one page at a time, managing to salvage nearly all of them and thus bringing me up to date with the galaxy's greatest comic, albeit in slightly wobbly, water-damaged form. It looked as though the comic had picked up somewhat since October 1980, and so I resumed my weekly purchase; which I continued until some point during 1991, at which point I once again lost interest. Contributing factors included: artists who couldn't actually draw; Garth Ennis imaginatively writing a story featuring a violent character called Tarantino who swears a lot; Garth Ennis sending Judge Dredd to Ireland where he meets an Irish Judge who enjoys a lovely pint of Guinness, so he does; Armoured Gideon; Dead Meat featuring Inspector Raam; Jamie fucking Hewlett; Armoured Gideon again; artists writing the names of their fave bands on walls in the background of the strip; Brigand Doom, but mainly because the name was stupid; comic strips which wished they were in Deadline.

While I have a lot of love for the cream of 2000AD, I try not to think about the ropey stuff, which is difficult because there has been one fuck of a lot of it. I've bought the occasional issue since but have seen nothing to entice me back to the fold. Therefore, writing from a position of extensive ignorance, here is my postdiction of stories which will have appeared in the galaxy's greatest since I decided I couldn't read any more back in 1991 or thereabouts. I feel confident that at least three of these, which I've just made up, have actually appeared in the comic.

A postdiction is like a prediction but instead refers to something which has already happened, in case you were wondering.

Comic Rock: Sailing. Nemesis the Warlock, which was wonderful, began life as Comic Rock, an occasional series of one-off strips somehow inspired by something in the hit parade of the day in an endearingly wrong-footed effort to get down with the kids. What this actually meant was that the strips were named after Going Underground by the Jam and an unlistenable television advertised heavy rock compilation whilst making no other concession to the sources of their alleged inspiration; which was probably for the best given that Killer Watt, the unlistenable compilation in question, featured Ted Nugent. The notional third episode of Comic Rock was inspired by the song Sailing as recorded by Rod Stewart, which was a tune that the kids on the streets were digging at the time. The story featured arch villain Torquemada in a boat, beneath which Nemesis the Warlock swims, drilling a hole in the bottom so that it sinks. Credo!

Donna Kebab. This was another Pat Mills' tale of a quick-witted underdog fighting an overpowering authoritarian state whilst striking adjacent blows against sexism, racism, and people who aren't down with the kids or who tell kids what to do but don't know nuffink. Donna Kebab is set in a future society modelled on that of ancient Greece. Mills boldly defies racism by writing for a cast of exclusively Hellenic ethnicity, here defined in terms which will be familiar to anyone who ever bought or ate a doner kebab, ingeniously subverting expectations by mocking those who engage with other cultures only through cheap fast food. Donna sports a large moustache in defiance of sexual stereotyping, and makes frequent comedic expressions of her support for Arsenal football team by exclaiming up the Arse!, just like Harry Enfield from about a million years ago. She also wields a powerful technological sword made from a shish kebab rotisserie, and takes counsel from the spirit of Plato, the ancient philosopher, to whom she irreverently refers as Play-Doh.

Metal Guru. He was a robot and he gave out spiritual advice to those who sought to understand the meaning of existence, but then someone pushed him too far by asking a question so stupid that it blew his ancient wisdom circuits, sending him on a killing spree across New Afghanistan. Once the clever wordplay of the title had been established, the strip was mostly about squads of the Spiritual Guru Containment Unit attempting and failing to take down the Metal Guru as he rampaged through towns and cities, twisting heads off whilst screaming his catchphrase, Enlightenment!

My Groovy Edwardian Hat. This strip, named after Vanilla Traction Engine's 1968 hit single, was written and drawn by Brendan McCarthy and was heavy on its use of disembodied shoes with pairs of eyes seen peering from within. It seemed to be focussed on a character called Twitchy, although Twitchy was actually absent from six of the eight episodes. To date, no-one has been able to explain what happened in My Groovy Edwardian Hat, let alone what the fuck it was supposed to be about.

Slapheads. Future sport was never this tough, possibly excepting previous examples of Roy of the Rovers dressed up as Rollerball; but Slapheads was different in so much as that it was named after an insulting term for bald people, because it just fucking was, okay? The game featured a mix of genetically modified humans and surgically altered convicts whose arms had been replaced by giant flippers, and their objective was to score points by quite literally slapping one another about the head for the edification of a braying audience of bloodthirsty spectators all filming it on their phones. Unsurprisingly, the manager was up to something fishy involving sponsorship money taken from a bald wig manufacturer, and that's mainly what the story was about.

Steam Iron. Introducing the splendiferous escapades of that most delightful mechanical sleuth and adventurer, Professor Pistlethwaite's Patented Detection Engine Model No. 14, additionally known and recognised in the court of Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria by his more colloquial sobriquet, Steam Iron on account of the means by which his mechanism is afforded energy and momentum, the material of his construction, and - by way of a third meaning implicit in the combination of the two words - his pronounced and enthusiastic homosexuality as demonstrated by his adopting many of the delightful mannerisms of Mr. Wilde, the playwright. Most likely written by Dan Abnett, because why wouldn't it be?

Strontium Cat. Behind the ingenious wordplay of the title, Strontium Cat constituted a further expansion of the Strontium Dog mythology, this time fixing upon a time-travelling bounty hunter, stranded in 1930's New York, getting by with just his wits, his catlike mutant senses, and his not inconsiderable chops as a jazz saxophonist. Fate conspires to land him a weekly gig playing with Zoot Jellyroll's quartet at the Blue Tiger down on the lower east side, and then it's a slow decline as the strip's creators gradually exhaust their already slender stock of jazz references.

Sweet & Sour. This was another Pat Mills' tale of quick-witted underdogs fighting an overpowering authoritarian state whilst striking adjacent blows against sexism, racism, and people who aren't down with the kids or who tell kids what to do but don't know nuffink. Sweet & Sour is set in a future society modelled on that of ancient China. Mills boldly defies racism by writing for a cast of exclusively Chinese ethnicity, here defined in terms which will be familiar to anyone who ever bought or ate a Chinese takeaway, ingeniously subverting expectations by mocking those who engage with other cultures only through cheap fast food. Clementine Sweet sports a long moustache whilst Brett Sour wears a traditional lady's cheongsam in defiance of sexual stereotyping, and their victories are celebrated with verses of the Ying Tong Song, just like Spike Milligan from about a million years ago. Sweet also wields a powerful technological sword made from chopsticks, and takes counsel from the spirit of Confucius, the ancient philosopher, to whom she irreverently refers as Mr. Confusing. Come to think of it, this one might have been Mark Millar.

Terrible Planet. After Death Planet, Deadly Planet, Hell Planet and all of the others, what adjectives were left? The futuristic colonists of Terrible Planet have fled an ecologically devastated Earth in search of a new life amongst the stars, hoping to make Agamemnon IV their new home; but there's one problem - Agamemnon IV is, quite frankly, terrible. It rains a lot, and everywhere you go there's a faint smell of sulphur, like someone farted, and it always seems kind of chilly considering how near the planet is to its sun; and there's this island where you can't walk ten paces without falling over, and no-one can work out why. Even Doctor Steiner can't explain it, although to be honest he doesn't seem to know much for a scientist. Only the other day they were talking about music and Steiner was surprised when someone told him that the Sex Pistols - a group from ancient Earth history - hadn't been able to read sheet music. 'But how then were they able to play their instruments?' he had asked, incredulous.

Tough of the Time Track. Puzzling reboot of an old character from Victor, this time snatching Alf Tupper from his traditional twentieth century background and obliging him to compete in the trans-temporal games against runners from ancient Rome, caveman times, outer space, Nazi Germany and elsewhen, most of whom seem to share the same knowing sense of humour as a media studies student living above a barber's shop in Camden Town. This one was drawn by an artist who once produced a fifty page cartoon strip entirely about her own vagina, and Alf is consequently a somewhat changed character. He still fucking loves his chips, but now considers them something of a guilty pleasure. Also, his fave band is Vant.

San Antonio's Intergalactic Visitors

Looking at this photograph, it may take a moment for you to notice anything out of the ordinary, but it is there. This is an ordinary photograph taken by myself on Wednesday the 30th of January, 2019 using my trusty Samsung PL65 digital camera. Excepting that the flash hasn't worked for the last couple of years, the camera is in no way faulty, and the above photograph features no model work or related trickery. Nor was Photoshop used to edit the image.

I was on my daily twenty mile bike ride along San Antonio's Tobin Trail. I had just passed beneath the bridges of both the railway line and Wetmore Road, and I was heading up the hill which is a supposedly natural feature of that stretch of the trail when I noticed an object nestled in the grass. The path upon which I rode followed a winding course, and so I stopped at the outermost point of the curve, which was also the point closest to the object. Looking north I saw what appeared to be a construction resembling a pipe projecting upwards from the grass. I have been riding the Tobin Trail for nearly eight years and am therefore familiar with the landscape, and yet this feature was new to me. I estimate that the construction would have been about thirty feet from where I stood. I did not approach the construction, which appeared artificial in nature, for to do so would have meant leaving my bicycle unguarded, but I was able to take a number of photographs. Let's have a closer look.

There is no doubt in my mind that the photograph shows an artificial construction. It is not a tree stump, and as I have already stated, this is a genuine photograph and not something produced through use of Photoshop or similar.

This section of the Tobin Trail comprises a surfaced path leading up to the top of the hill and then down on the other side, forming what would be a horseshoe shape if seen from above. If we were to draw a line between the two tips of the horseshoe, we have a rough dirt path running along the base of the hill, as can be seen in the first photograph. Viewed from above, the area around the mysterious pipe is laid out like so:

 

It has been suggested to me that the construction may simply be a certain type of water bottle, perhaps one left behind by a person - either a walker or a cyclist - who opted to take a short cut to the further part of the trail. While this is a nice idea, not only can neither any cyclist nor any walker be seen in my photograph, but I do not recall having seen any such person taking this proposed short cut in a great many weeks. Of course, whilst the object may well be a water bottle left behind by this hypothetical individual, it may equally well be something which fell out of Doctor Who's TARDIS as he flew over on his way to fight the Daleks, but I would rather avoid such flights of fancy as I attempt to deduce the facts of this mystery.

This is a water bottle of the kind proposed by our sceptical friend, as seen on the Amazon website. Unfortunately, as you can see, it is quite different to the construction shown in the second photograph, so we might do better to concentrate on the main issue rather than waste our time with random speculation.

Working on the assumption of the construction being something akin to a chimney or perhaps an exhaust pipe, it seems likely that it must be the single visible extension of a subterranean complex, perhaps housing spacecraft from another world, providing rest and recreation for the alien pilots after their long voyage from the stars. Many researchers have noticed a correlation between UFO sightings and airports or air bases, and it can surely be no coincidence that the telltale exhaust pipe is situated at less than the distance of one mile from San Antonio airport. Indeed, I distinctly recall having seen signs instructing members of the public that in making use of the Tobin Trail, they are upon land which is the property of the aviation authority.

The location of the exhaust pipe is indicated by the numeral (1) on the first map, and the same is a detail of this second larger map denoted by the square. The airport runway is to be seen on the left-hand side of the map.

Naturally, I would not wish to take the supposed correlation between UFO sightings and airports or air bases for granted just because what seems to be a subterranean UFO base just happens to be situated near an airport; so it was fortuitous indeed that I was able to witness evidence of the same with my own eyes and also to record it on camera. I was stood at the point indicated by the numeral (3) on the first map when I noticed a mysterious object rising up from the direction of the airport. It was twenty-three minutes past one in the afternoon, Friday the 1st of February, 2019. The sky was overcast and the object moved through the air from west to north-east. The electricity pylon seen on the left of this photograph is the one which is visible in the first photograph. As before, I should stress that this is a genuine photograph and has not been subject to manipulation or enhancement using Photoshop.

As can be seen in the blown up image which follows, the object initially appeared as a sort of cone shape, tipped to one side (most likely simply due to how it was flying) and mounted upon a longer, cigar-shaped base. There seems to be something projecting from the left of the cone, perhaps an aerial, or perhaps even one of the extraterrestrial passengers who has decided to take a look out of the window at this mysterious world some of us like to call Earth!

By the time I was able to take a second photograph, the craft was passing much closer to my vantage point, affording me a better shot, but unfortunately by this point it had already taken on a familiar form resembling that of a light aircraft of terrestrial design - as seen in the photograph below. If unusual, this transformation has been noted as a common type of camouflage adopted by our interplanetary visitors in recent years, and for me it was sufficient proof that I was onto something. Could this be a craft which had only recently taken off from the underground saucer base I had discovered? Was this what I had just seen with my own eyes?

It seems incredible that these beings should have allowed me to witness their activity in this way, and to have allowed me to discover the facts of their existence in the first place; but then perhaps my discovery had been an unintentional one.

I have been cycling the Tobin Trail since 2011, and up until a year or so ago, as I reached the point designated by the numeral (2) on the first map, I usually alighted, pausing my journey so that I might urinate. The point indicated is on the top of the hill in such a position as to allow me to see others approaching from a great distance, whilst being hidden from view by motorists on both Wurzbach Parkway and Wetmore Road by the curvature of the hill (as can be seen from the second map). Therefore, feeling myself blessed with sufficient privacy, I habitually urinated at this point on a daily basis; until recently when I learned that technically this constitutes indecent exposure under United States law, and if successfully convicted of that charge, I would find myself obliged by law to inform all my neighbours of my status as a registered sex offender! I therefore now suspect that the subterraneans were attempting to warn me off or to put me out of the picture by somehow inducing my need to urinate at that specific location, hoping I would then be discovered and prosecuted. Indeed, I already mentioned having seen signs instructing members of the public that in making use of the Tobin Trail, they are upon land which is the property of the aviation authority. It is curious that I am no longer able to find any of these signs anywhere along the Tobin Trail, almost as though they have been removed by someone, or perhaps something! Without such warnings, an innocent walker or cyclist might commit trespass and find themselves inconveniently detained by legal authorities; or perhaps I should say conveniently detained for I'm sure it would prove quite convenient for person, persons, or perhaps even beings who would prefer their activities to remain undetected.

Having shed some light on the mysteries of the land on the western side of San Antonio airport, and the mysterious non-human creatures which shelter beneath it in their technological hideout, we are left only with the question of why now? My own hunch is that we find ourselves presently entering a crucial stage of human history, now that we have an innovative president pushing a bold new type of politics which has already given us the promise of our own Star Trek style Space Force, and so it is only natural that beings from other realms, and even other times, should wish to study this episode of human history. With this thought in mind, I direct readers to the point indicated by the numeral (4) on the second map. This pointer indicates the location of an artificial shelter constructed so as to protect those using the Tobin Trail from chips of rock which may be dislodged as trains pass by on the overhead railway line. It can hardly be a coincidence that this same shelter has been decorated with several stickers promoting the president's forthcoming campaign for re-election in the year 2020; although given all which we now know of this mystery, it wouldn't surprise me if these stickers had actually been bought back from the future after he has already won!

Sceptics will doubtless raise the same sort of objections they always raise, namely that I have been mistaken and what I saw was actually the planet Venus, or they will claim that I have invented most of this story, then tried to support my invention using trick photographs cleverly forged by means of Photoshop. Yet I have the proof, for my photographs, those which I have shared here, are quite genuine and have not been artificially made on Photoshop; and if this is all a fantasy, then what induced me to urinate at the top of the hill nearly every day, year after year; and what is the true nature of the mysterious shape-changing craft I saw that day? I would ask these questions of my critics, but I know that they would be greeted only with silence.

What more proof do I need than that the beings themselves have attempted to curtail my investigations. On Friday the 1st of February, 2019, just after my encounter with the alien craft, I was able to take this photograph.

Compare this with the second photograph and you will see that the pipe, the chimney, the exhaust system or whatever it may be, is of articulated construction and has now been laid flat in the grass so as to conceal it from further scrutiny. They knew that I had detected them, and that their secret presence on our world was no longer quite such a secret. Why else would they have gone to such trouble to elude detection?

If you can think of a reason, I'd sure like to hear it.

Pillock

So that wasn't Nico we were protesting outside the church with to stop Viraj Mendez from being deported in Manchester?, you said. Okay, thanks for clearing that up.

I had to read the twisted grammar twice because my first impression was that you were claiming to have protested Nico, formerly of the Velvet Underground. This would have squared fairly well with my initial point:

I usually try to steer clear of general grumbling about Trump and the proposed wall, but today found myself in violent disagreement with the former drummer of the Velvet Underground on the subject. Luckily this requires no reassessment of a much loved back catalogue of work with a peg over my nose because I always thought the Velvet Underground were pure shite; so that's nice.

It was then pointed out to me that the rest of the fuckers had probably  been Republicans anyway, so none of it makes much difference in the great scheme of things; and that was when you blew your top, swooping in to expose our shameful ignorance of Nico protesting outside the church to stop Viraj Mendez from being deported.

That showed us.

I'm a snowflake, you explained. I get emotional when people go after dead friends.

I wish I'd known about your friendship with Nico of the Velvet Underground.

What was she like? What was her favourite food? When you all went to the pub, did she stand her round or was it the case that she always seemed to have mysteriously gone off for a piss when it was her shout?

I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised, given your close personal friendship with Adam Ant. I remember when that guy said something or other about a Nine Inch Nails song.

I will never buy Trent's records until he pays Adam what is owed to him, you boldly proclaimed, standing firm as a mighty sentinel against the injustice of wayward royalties. I'll bet Adam is glad to have someone like you on his side, although I didn't realise you knew Trent Reznor as well.

Fuck.

Who don't you know?

Did you and Adam ever go to the pub with Nico? What I would have given to have overheard that conversation. Did you all get up and walk out when Trent came in for a pint and a packet of salt and vinegar, or was that before Nine Inch Nails covered that old Adam & the Ants song, back when you were all pals together?

You once told me you had been in a punk band back in Blackpool. I asked what they had been called, because I used to read a lot of punk fanzines, and I even know a couple of Blackpool people who played in punk bands. It seemed like there might even be a slim chance I had heard of you. Maybe you know Simon or Stan?

Sadly you didn't have time to tell me the name of the band you had been in because, as you explained, you were just about to start your shift at Whataburger, and had you told me the name of the Blackpool punk band you had been in that I might have heard of, then you might have made yourself late for your shift at Whataburger; so I'm just glad that didn't happen because I would have felt guilty.

Phew.

It's a shame we didn't get to meet when you were here in San Antonio. I mean, here we are in Texas, both originally from England, both fans of the same stuff - roughly speaking, and it would have been great to meet up and compare notes; and I saw that you were at the museum. You know that's a five minute drive from my front door, right? I guess it was just a little bit too difficult so it didn't happen, but maybe next time you're in town, or maybe Bess and I will be able to visit you if we happen to be over there on your side of the state…

Who fucking knows?

Science-Fiction for Righties

Perky Girl Assistant finished cleaning the TARDIS dunny and returned the quantum bog brush to its receptacle. The work station set into the nearby roundel bleeped to acknowledge the end of her shift - eight hours, by Gallifreyan standard. Now all that was left to do were her tax returns for the day's labour, but she was still removing her overall as that mysterious traveller in time and space known only as the Doctor burst in through the door.

'There you are,' he said breathlessly. 'We're needed. I've just received a distress call from Prime Minister Farage! Early twenty-first century, and I believe during White History Month, unless I'm very much mistaken.'

'But my tax returns…' she floundered as the sentence failed to complete itself. 'It's just that I don't want—'

'No time for that,' barked the Doctor eccentrically. 'The game is afoot! There is adventure to be had.'

'What? Seriously?'

'No - I'm joking. You must of course fill in your tax return first. It's only fair. I'm not made of money.' He snapped his fingers in a jovial yet firm manner. 'Step to it, Perky Girl Assistant!'

She quickly went to her quarters and changed into a perkier outfit so as to save time. She switched on the neutrino computer and set to work. She had laboured eight hours at seventy Gallifreyan dollars an hour, making 560GD from which she owed the Doctor 30% in tax, which would be 168GD, leaving her with 392GD. Of this sum she presently owed 290GD in room rental, use of facilities, and time-space tax; so that left her with just over one-hundred. It seemed a little unfair, and yet the figures added up. I'm not running a charity here, the Doctor had told her on a number of occasions, and it was equally true that she enjoyed the full benefit of all that the TARDIS had to offer, and he had overheads of his own to consider. Artron crystals didn't come cheap, and without them that mysterious traveller in time and space known only as the Doctor would just be some weird cunt stood in an old police box.

***

Later that evening they were sat at the table of the main dining room at 10, Downing Street. There was the Doctor and his assistant, both tucking into their veal fritters, with the Prime Minister and his wife, Gisele Bündchen, facing them. A respectful butler refilled their glasses with wine as the Doctor regaled his host with an account of their most recent adventures.

'You see, the Cyberpersons were using the portal—'

'I'm sorry?' Farage grinned his famous grin. 'Who?'

'Cyberpersons. I know,' chortled that mysterious traveller in time and space known only as the Doctor. 'Wretched, isn't it?'

They all rolled their eyes.

'You see they were using the portal to reconfigure the ancestral gene pool, so that by the time we arrived, it was standing room only.'

'O que era apenas espaço parado?' Gisele asked in Portuguese.

'This would be the disabled lesbian Muslim theatre workshop?' wondered the Prime Minister darkly.

'I'm afraid so,' confirmed the Doctor answeringly.

'All funded by innocent taxpayers, I don't doubt.'

'Exactly!' The Doctor slammed the palm of his hand upon the burnished oak of the table. 'That's why the planet's economy had been decimated.'

'You couldn't make it up,' said Perky Girl Assistant helpfully, but no-one took any notice, as usual.

She still missed that mysterious traveller in time and space known only as the old Doctor. She just couldn't get used to this new, burly figure, supposedly his thirtieth incarnation, or his thirty-first if you included the one he never liked to talk about, the one with a fanny. She had asked him, of course, but he usually ran off into the cloister room, and she could never tell whether he was blushing or angry. All a terrible misunderstanding, he would mutter before descending into a rambling refutation of his cursed Gallifreyan biology, the evils of Socialism, the triumph of a free market economy, and how he had never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever been confused - not even for one second…

I, Writer

If you're anything like me, then I doubt there can be a day goes by without you pause to reflect and ask yourself, what is the magic of this thing we call writing? Well, happily I'm here to help you out, to draw back the curtain of mystery and answer that question, for I have the privilege of being a writer. I've always written, whether it be my wonderful books, personal letters bringing a little sunshine into the lives of my many, many friends, or even just notes to the milkman requesting an extra pot of low-fat yoghurt. It is my trade and I am very good at it.

Writing is easy for me. I sit down at the computer and adventures and stories just flow from my fingertips. I know not where they come from, and in truth I'd rather not shed daylight upon magic, for it seems wiser to simply be grateful that I am so able to spread happiness with the amazing tales I tell. Consider if you will, the humble street sweeper or fast food worker. Watch him as he works that broom and cleans our roads of fag packets and dog poo, or observe as the young lady takes our order for burger and fries, then calmly assembles our meal with the sort of care which suggests she could do it in her sleep. Do they pause to consider their duties? Does our man regard his broom and decide to use it in a particular way, or does our waitress stop to ask herself where she might find the fries in her workplace? Of course not, and that's how writing is for me.

I can write all kinds of wonderful stories. Some of you may know my name from the series of exciting adventures I have written featuring He-Man and his Masters of the Universe, but I've also written grown-up books too, such as Black Pudding Row, a heart-warming tale of down to earth folk in a pleasant town in the north of England. Then there are the regular blog posts in which I share my thoughts on writing, allowing you the reader a precious glimpse into the creative process and how I come by all of my amazing ideas. I don't even know if any of these words will be read as I write them, but I, ever the optimist, persevere nonetheless for there is no greater satisfaction than knowing that I have brought pleasure to someone, somewhere. You might say it's a calling.

From time to time I may stray into a book store, and sometimes I see that my works are on sale, ready to be snapped up and treasured by an eager public, but other times it seems my name has been overlooked. I am not there. Not even my He-Man adventures. Of course I feel sad, for in many ways I am no different to any of my readers and I too am only seeking for some little diversion from the daily drudgery of life, something magical, a world of wonder and adventure to explore, because that's really what a good book should be. And I try my hardest to write only good books.

I have not yet won an award, and nor have I been asked to speak at any important literary events, but that doesn't matter to me. The only recognition I crave is that of my loyal readers recognising me as the one who tells those wonderful, crazy stories. Does our friend the street sweeper care that his only satisfaction comes from a living wage and the knowledge of a job well done? Does the fast food girl ever dream of breaking the world record for how fast she is able to serve her hungry customers? I don't think they do, because, much like myself, they just get on with it and do what needs to be done.

Wait a moment, Lawrence, I hear you ask, how can you know such things? Surely you, as a writer, have never had to sweep a street or flip a burger? How can you know?

Guilty as charged, for I have been blessed with the talent by which I make my daily bread, and by which I am able to place myself inside the world of a street sweeper or a fast food operative and imagine how it must be for them. And in doing so I am able to understand something of their respective worlds, and how in a funny way, we are all very similar. The girl serving burgers might feel a little glum when they dock her wages for forgetting to supersize a meal, just as I too become downhearted when I see that a book store carries none of my titles, or when an important television executive responds to one of my imaginative proposals with a cursory rejection letter.

But then under such circumstances I, ever the optimist, might walk down our wonderfully clean street to the fast food outlet and cheer myself up with a meal and a shake, just as those people might finish their shifts and curl up in front of a roaring log fire and escape into one of my wonderful novels. Thus does the circle of love, life, and laughter maintain itself. Because we're all worth it.

In closing I'd just like to reiterate that I'm really not bothered about not having won any awards. I really can't emphasise that enough. It doesn't trouble me in the slightest.

Jersey Shore Eruditorum

It's February 9th, 2012 - Syrian Army troops continue to pour into Homs as part of the latest offensive, with scores of civilians and anti-government protesters reported as having been killed in the past day; Jessie J is feeling sexy and free at the top of the hit parade with Domino; and we have just forty-eight hours to go before my beloved Manchester United soccer group goal the Liverpools two to one at their iconic Old Trafford soccer stadium.

Meanwhile we've reached the sixth episode of the fifth season of MTV's iconic Jersey Shore, although before getting started on that, maybe we should brush up on a little game theory. Modern game theory began with the idea regarding the existence of mixed-strategy equilibria in two-person zero-sum games and its proof by John von Neumann. Von Neumann's original proof used Brouwer fixed-point theorem on continuous mappings into compact convex sets, which became a standard method in game theory and mathematical economics. His paper was followed by the 1944 book Theory of Games and Economic Behavior, co-written with Oskar Morgenstern, which considered cooperative games of several players. The second edition of this book provided an axiomatic theory of expected utility, which allowed mathematical statisticians and economists to treat decision-making under uncertainty.

How does this figure in our review of Jersey Shore, I hear you ask. Of course, I should probably point out that this isn't so much a review as a little something of my own humble concoction which I like to call psychochronography, which is much like the psychogeography of the Situationists but instead examines a television show in context of its time by mentioning a few unrelated things which happened on the same date in the first paragraph, so let's leave the reviews to those who just want to talk about what happened and whether or not they liked it.

Anyway, game theory figures because today I'm discussing an iconic episode entitled The Follow Game, and I'll come to why it should be thus entitled in a moment.

As we renew our acquaintance with the residents of Ocean Terrace, we find that the Situation is on our familiar iconic duck-shaped novelty telephone to the Unit. As my many regular readers will already know, the Situation is the name by which housemate Mike Sorrentino designates himself as a sort of event in space-time, which seems a fair assessment given his serving as a kind of living axis around which drama occurs; and the Unit is simply the Unit - a man known to Mike, and I imagine that the name serves to imply that he has a large, possibly iconic penis. Anyway, Mike is naturally discussing a presumably drunken sexual liaison with Snooki, one which Snooki has repeatedly denied ever having occurred, and he's discussing it with the Unit because the Unit is supposedly a witness to the alleged penetrative event. It's clear that Mike intends to use this information to cause trouble, but as to when he's going to play his hand, we just don't know. He also tells Unit that he spoke to Deena's sister and asked what she would like for breakfast, therefore implying that he intended to have sexual intercourse with her at some point immediately prior to the preparation of said breakfast. This brings a wry smile to his face.

It probably wouldn't have brought a wry smile to Deena's face had she heard, but thankfully she is otherwise preoccupied with the fact that Vinny is using the shower. She wants to produce a stool so Vinny's hygienic considerations are quite an inconvenience, seemingly more so than would be the thought of Mike engaging in sexual congress with her sister, hypothetically speaking.

Next we learn that Jwoww is concerned with just how little she has seen of Roger lately. She feels that she is being sidelined.

'At least she got her hair done,' observes Deena, 'so that's good,' but this fact alone seems to bring little comfort. Later, regarding Mike, she sagely notes that a leopard never sheds its stripes. Were truer words ever uttered on this programme?

Jenni is still disgruntled when later they all go to the iconic Aztec bar in search of what Deena defines as a good time. As I've discussed in previous columns, the traditional duality of Jersey Shore divides equally into categories I have identified as real and fake, with the housemates gravitating towards the former but so often finding themselves having fallen into the trappings of becoming the latter. Mike represents the most extreme example of this duality in behaving patently fake specifically whilst aspirationally being real, yo. The model has further destabilised since Deena came in to replace the hapless Angelina at the beginning of series three, bringing with her an alternate duality founded in her conception of a good time contrasted with its unidentified thematic opposite. Snooki has a good time at Aztec in Deena's terms by engaging in robotic dancing. This Platonic good time ideal is essentially a monopole in relation to the already established real/fake duality, which is perhaps why these parallel thematic strands are able to co-exist.

Vinny meanwhile attempts to convert Nicky, who introduces herself as a lesbian, to heterosexuality - an endeavour he likens to the discovery of the Americas by Christopher Colombus, or for the sake of argument, the discovery of the same land mass.

Snooki burps repeatedly as they all walk back to the house, whilst Deena talks to another girl towards whom Vinny has expressed a pronounced sexual interest. Failing to convert Nicky to heterosexuality, he bids her an amicable good night and avails himself of his second choice with a thankful nod to Deena; although he later reports that the sexual intercourse was of only average standard.

Next morning we discover that the reason for Snooki's burping marathon was most likely due to how much she drank, and she now feels consequently unwell. We see this illustrated as she falls over and rhetorically asks, 'why am I alive?' A stint of sunbathing brings little comfort, and eventually she and Deena stagger to work at the iconic Shore Store in the company of Pauly.

The deal is that, as we all understand by now, the housemates work in the Shore Store, as run by Danny, in return for their being allowed to live in the iconic house on Ocean Terrace. The Shore Store specialises in novelty t-shirts and related apparel, so the work is essentially retail. We the viewers might assume the work to be fairly undemanding, but clearly it's more complicated than that and Snooki decides that it is unfair that she should be expected to work when she could be having a good time, as Deena might put it. Additionally she continues to feel unwell, and so devises what we now know as the Follow Game. The rules of the Follow Game are simple but effective, and Snooki illustrates by walking around the store between the racks of novelty t-shirts, followed closely by Deena, and then right out of the store and off for a drink. Danny is of course unable to appreciate the logic behind the Follow Game, instead focussing on Snooki and Deena's continued absenteeism despite repeat warnings.

Up to this point, Snooki and Deena have referred to themselves as the Meatballs, perhaps in reference to shared diminutive stature and Italian-American heritage; but now, as they run into Mike, they take on the new self-actualised mantel of Team Fun - a surprising development considering Mike's earlier discussion with the Unit regarding his having had alleged carnal knowledge of Snooki.

Snooki, much like Orpheus, therefore emerges from the underworld of her own personal journey through alcohol and robotic dancing to rebirth into the alchemical marriage of Team Fun. As we shall see in the next episode, the marriage is fruitful and the birth serves to unite disparate thematic currents - namely Snooki's reluctance to work within Danny's iconic terms of employment - in the form of the amateurish but nevertheless enthusiastically decorated cake which she and Deena prepare as an apology for taking the Follow Game through their own labyrinth of personal discovery, not to mention liberty.

Deena looks a bit like Grandpa Munster when you think about it, doesn't she?

2016 from What I Can Remember

2016 has generally been characterised as the year which can fucking fuck the fuck off, at least on facebook. Up until a couple of days ago I remained sympathetic but uncommitted to this verdict because people are dying all the time, it's just that this year they were mostly people we'd all heard of. Then on Saturday the 17th of December I discovered that my friend Robert Dellar had died, which more or less settled it for me. He was fifty-two and had just had his birthday. A few days later, Sophia Pearsun wrote:

I have been speaking with the coroner and our family GP yesterday and today and it has been decided that there needs to be a post-mortem done to determine cause of Robert's death. Robert was anaemic, but other than that all other test results were within healthy ranges.

Robert had been feeling unwell with low energy since about May this year. This got worse around two months ago when Robert also started to be in pain when he lay down. This was sometimes helped by sitting up but occasionally Robert needed to stand to make the pain go away. Robert got very few hours sleep and not more than two to three hours at a time, usually far less. The exception to this was Thursday when he slept all night.

Last Wednesday, Robert had another blood test and it showed that his haemoglobin levels had started to fall again. Robert was told to go to hospital to get a transfusion. On Friday, his fifty-second birthday, we went to the hospital with a letter from our GP. Robert's blood was tested again. Blood oxygen levels were normal. Haemoglobin levels had also risen since Wednesday which resulted in Robert not being eligible for a blood transfusion. Robert was pleased that he didn't need to stay in hospital. We went home and had tea and birthday cake. We spent a pleasant evening in reading, listening to music and watching telly.

When I got up on Saturday morning, Robert was awake and asked me to get him a cup of tea. I made him some, said goodbye and went out at around 10.15. When I got back at approximately 13.45, I opened the front door to find Robert dead on the hallway floor.

It turned out to have been a pulmonary embolism, apparently meaning it would have been quick and without pain. Robert and I were never close as such, but I'd known him a long time and we had collaborated on a cartoon strip called Raffy the Psychiatric Labrador. He was one of the gang therefore yes, 2016 can most certainly fucking fuck the fuck off so far as I'm concerned.

The death of Lemmy of both Motörhead and Hawkwind almost certainly came at the tail end of 2015 but somehow felt like part of the reaper's open season on top pop personalities which later claimed both David Bowie and Prince; but I'm writing from memory here. I've kept a diary going for the duration of 2016, but I can't be bothered to spend six hours going through it all, day by day, so I'm going to work on the assumption that I will have remembered the things which were worth remembering.

David Bowie's death somewhat knocked me sideways. I gave up on him back in 1980 when he decided he'd really just wanted to be Marty Robbins all along, but the internet coaxed me into buying Blackstar out of curiosity, and for the sheer thrill of buying a brand new vinyl album in a record shop. Amazingly it turned out to be a genuinely great vinyl album, which made me feel somewhat guilty at having ignored the man for most of the previous three decades; and then suddenly he was dead, and as stated it knocked me sideways, and specifically it knocked me sideways into the local head shop because it's the only place where I can buy tobacco which isn't completely disgusting. I only smoke when unusually stressed, an indulgence I allow myself mainly because I now seem to be able to give up once I've reached the end of the packet, and I suffer no further cravings. There was almost certainly more to my being stressed than the death of David Bowie, but whatever else was going on I can't remember, so it was probably something to do with Junior's continued aversion to flushing the toilet.

I gave up smoking yet again and then Prince died, which was sad but which concerned me less, and at least didn't drive me back to the snouts. The radio filled with glowing tributes omitting the fact of his work having been mostly unlistenable since Sign o' the Times. My wife and I watched Purple Rain in tribute but it wasn't very good.

My next ciggies as therapy session was inspired by the election of the Annoying Orange. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised what with the way the world has been going. They want to make America great again. Personally I'd rather make America Mexico again, but apparently that's just me.

The United Kingdom had just about voted to leave the European Union way back in March or April or whenever it was, signalling a general return of civilisation to the political right. I had a few predictable arguments on facebook, and one unpredictable one with Harley Richardson who kept on repeating that the English people have spoken, which was also what my dad said and sounded nothing like the headline of a crowd pleasing newspaper which tells you what you want to hear. Apparently the notion that people had voted as they did due to an increasing hatred of those Islams coming over here and claiming our benefits was a tissue of lies forged by the leftie media owned by that notorious Marxist Rupert Murdoch and his Stalin-loving paymasters back in the Kremlin. Harley explained this to me very carefully, or he explained something to me very carefully, but not having attended a grammar school I was unfortunately too stupid to understand. Harley also weighed in on the climate debate, opining something along the lines of how we just don't know because there's no evidence, but sadly I was once again simply too stupid to understand.

Oh well.

Then it happened again in America. Just an hour ago I heard some bloke on the radio explaining how our President-elect had once eliminated contestants on his game show, The Apprentice, on a weekly basis; and when eliminating those contestants, he'd always consulted his two assistants to see what they thought about who he was about to stuff down the business end of his giant allegorical cannon; and a couple of times he'd consulted his own children, that week serving in an advisory capacity on the aforementioned game show, presumably taking a break from the entirely legal destruction of wildlife.

So that was a weight off my mind.

I suppose France will be next to fall to the forces of common sense, and we'll find that the French people have spoken, and soon the whole world will be great again, just like it was in the nineteen-fucking-thirties.

I read sixty-six books this year, although a few of them were comic books. I'm not sure which I liked best. The weirdest one would almost certainly have been something by Robert Moore Williams, who was churning them out up until the mid-seventies but whom I'd never even heard of until this year. The worst would have to be a toss-up between the Disney's Alice Through the Looking Glass novelisation and Simon Messingham's The Indestructible Man. In other media, I also discovered the wonderful music of Young Fathers and Ricardo Villalobos - although to be fair the Ricardo Villalobos album turns out to be over ten years old - and there was a new Pixies album, which was jolly nice. We saw both Lewis Black and Henry Rollins performing live, but not together obviously. I didn't watch much telly, but The Path was pretty great, and my wife and I discovered Jersey Shore. I think I may have watched an episode of Doctor Who with Peter Bacardi but I'm not sure which one it was. It was better than I expected, although on the other hand, whenever I hear something by Coldplay it usually turns out to be better than I expected.

I painted book covers for an Esperanto translation of Clifford Simak's Way Station, a couple of Faction Paradox novels, and something by Simon Bucher-Jones - although that may have been at the end of last year. I drew a couple of episodes of Raffy the Psychiatric Labrador for Robert Dellar's Southwark Mental Health News, and I wrote a fucking ton, some of which may have emerged in published form here and there, although apparently I'm not very good at keeping track of that sort of thing.

This was also the year in which I first entered a synagogue, and Bess and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary, and I renewed contact with Rob Colson and Jeremy Diston - both old friends to whom I had not spoken in a while. I was on the local television news talking about sewerage, and the doctor said I was too fat so I lost some weight. I tried eating boring food but it didn't make the slightest bit of difference, so I added five miles to my daily bike ride and that seemed to do the trick. Bess's car blew up so she bought a new one, and we acquired a new kitten. He's called Jello and he is the same colour as our incoming president - but obviously nicer, which brings us up to eight in total, not counting the strays I feed.

We bought our house.

Dee Dee and her family over the road moved out when her landlord sold the place, which was a shame, but I still see Angela on the tills at HEB and they seem to have settled in fine at their new place.

Also, I found out that the farm on which I lived in rural Warwickshire for the first eleven years of my life is the farm on which Teletubbies was filmed. The Teletubbies set was in the corner of a field in which I use to roam as a kid.

There was probably some other stuff which happened in 2016, but I'm sure that's enough to be going on with.