Who is the Prisoner?

In a break with tradition - and to celebrate the fact that a certain iconic television series celebrates its 50th anniversary this month - the following short story isn't daft!

#SaveTheDay

Imagine for a moment that two completely different television series do, in fact, tell the same story. 

It could go something like this...

Hello!

You all know me.

At least you think you do.

I've been around for a long, long time now. So long, in fact, that I'm almost like part of the furniture! The sort of furniture children hide behind....

But do you really know me? Do you know what I was like before I was that old man, the one who everybody seems to think arrived fully formed?

There are other "me's" that nobody knows about, not even you. You'll find out about one of them soon enough - on 23 November 2013, in fact. You wait and see. A special day, that will be.

But, as I was saying. A long time ago, before I was old...I was young. Yes, young! Is that really so strange?

Something terrible happened.

You've heard of fight or flight? How, when something difficult occurs, people either fight it or run from it? There was a complicated situation, I was at a low ebb and not ready to fight, so what else could I do?

I ran.

I left my planet all alone, that first time, with no friend or member of the family to stand by me. This was long before I sought company - or company sought me.

I had to hide from my people. Somewhere where they couldn't find me.

Do you know where I went? I bet you can guess.

It is a place which was new to me then, a place you know as Earth. Britain. London. In the 1960s.

My people are - were - a highly advanced civilisation. Few things could be hidden from them, and it takes a special sort of skill, or person, to remain at large without their finding that person. I'm good at that sort of thing now, of course - or at least, I think I am. But in those days it was all new to me. I needed to hide, time to think, time without them breathing down my neck - and so I determined to become somebody that they would not find.

Travel might have been an option, but that would have involved leaving a trail, so the first thing I did on Earth was to make my mode of transport undetectable - shut her down, as it were - and to shed myself of the trappings and technology which come with being from a so-called advanced civilisation.

I immersed myself in human culture. I nested, made a home and endeavoured to appear to be, to all intents and purposes, a human being.

Now, you know me. Sort of. I do get bored quickly, don't I? I crave adventure! Even then, in hiding, I had a thirst for adventure.

So what did I do?

I found a job! No ordinary job of course - it had to be diverse, interesting, exciting, perhaps even dangerous...a lot to ask for, you might think. But I found that job and with it an identity - although in truth it was more of a non-identity.

Yes, back there in swinging, 1960's London, I became a man whose job it was to be anonymous. Good, eh? My work was hush-hush. Secret stuff. And it mattered, too.

For a time it all went swimmingly. But, of course, then it didn't. There was conflict, you see - as there always is. Eventually, that conflict could not be resolved and so, one day, I found myself with little choice other than to confront a man behind a desk and slam an envelope down in front of him.

I resigned.

I had no plan about what to do next, other than to get out of London for a while. I still needed to lay low - perhaps even more so than ever before.

I packed a suitcase. It was time to take flight again.

What happened next is a blur. There was gas, I think, coming through the keyhole. Somebody was trying to drug me.

I lost consciousness.

Then after a time, I woke up again.

When I awoke, I appeared to be in the same place; same room, same furnishings.

And yet, when I looked out of the window, I discovered that I was somewhere else.

Now, as you know, this sort of thing can be par-for-the-course when you've got the sort of time-space machine that I flit about in. But I hadn't programmed the old girl to take me anywhere on that occasion - to my mind, she was still dormant - and yet suddenly, there I was, somewhere else.

Had my people caught up with me? Or was somebody else behind this? Was I even on Earth? It looked like Earth, but I really wasn't sure.

I looked around - in a bit of a blind panic, at first, I have to admit. I went outside and explored my immediate surroundings; what appeared to be a pretty little village next to the sea. My first guess was that persons unknown had abducted me and relocated me to Italy, but the air tasted wrong - and the climate was a bit more, well...British. Welsh, even. It was a beautiful place; colourful, delicate. But there was a sense of underlying menace too, and I knew right from the moment of my arrival that something was very wrong.

Over the coming days, I discovered that I had indeed been abducted. I still don't know for sure, who by. Years, decades, centuries have passed since then - but still there are questions which remain unanswered. My captors claimed that they wanted to know why I had resigned from my job and, quite possibly, they really did want to know. But I did not know whether they were on my side, or whether they were enemies I had made during my time working on Earth, or, more disturbingly, whether they were from somewhere else altogether. They could have been from my home planet! Or an enemy of my people. Or somebody from Earth perhaps, who suspected I was not quite what I appeared to be.

Lots of questions, but no answers.

Who were they? Who was in charge? What did they want?

We played cat and mouse. Oh, how we played! They were my captors, I was their prisoner. I say "they"...for a time I wondered whether I was delusional and whether it was all in my head.

Imagine that, for a moment. What if I'm not really over a thousand years old after all, that my memories are all delusion! Too much...? Perhaps it is best that we assume, for the sake of keeping this simple, that I'm not delusional.

Even though I may be.

They entertained me, fed me, acted courteously - sometimes - and even appeared to be sporting. How did I respond? I was sporting too. Devious. And British, too - I had to keep them guessing, after all. Always got to keep them guessing. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Keeping people guessing.

Then it got a bit nasty. Interrogation and stuff - you know the drill. Metaphorically speaking, they turned me upside down and shook me until every last penny and piece of fluff fell out of my pockets.  Ah...my lovely, deep deep pockets! But I digress. They played with my mind, and I played with theirs.

Of course, me being me - or whoever it was that I was back then - I didn't take any of this lying down, you know? When have you ever known me to take anything lying down? Except, of course, for that time on Prefect's Pleasure Planet, three light years out from Metebelis...but we don't talk about that! "What happens on tour, stays on tour", eh? "Unlimited rice pudding, etcetera, etcetera!"

Sorry. 

Must stay focused.

So.

We played a game, my captors and I. For all their playing with my mind, I did my best to play with theirs too.

I prodded and probed - sometimes playfully, sometimes violently - because, in as much as they wanted answers from me, I wanted answers from them.

Who were they? What did they want? Who was number 1? Was it still The Beatles? Or perhaps...The Who?

I didn't get an answer to any of those questions. Not really.

They let me escape. Then they brought me back. They gave me drugs and the game continued. I worked out my location, so they changed it. This happened several times. Sometimes I got mad. Once or twice, I thought I'd got the better of them - to the extent that they replaced the fellow who appeared to be in charge. Assuming they actually did change him, of course - what if it was the same bloke all the time, only with a different body? That is certainly a possibility, particularly if he was like me...

But let's not go there! So many questions.

So few answers.

Like...

Why were they so fond of umbrellas?

Mini mokes?

Games of Chess?

Cups of tea?

Ooh! Could I trouble you for a cup of tea? Better make a pot. And if you have any of those biscuits, you know, the cheesy ones...

Much obliged! Now, where was I?

Ah yes. In that village, I suppose you could call it.

They kept me incarcerated for a long time, you know. In the village. How long, I have no idea. The game continued, became less playful, became nothing if not downright absurd - but it continued nonetheless, and before long we were playing for much higher stakes. Yes indeed - the terrible Zodin had nothing on that lot, I can tell you. Unless of course my captor was, in fact, the terrible Zodin...

Lovely cuppa, by the way. Thank you.

Well, after a protracted period of mind games, one day I appeared to earn the right to stand face to face with the person who was really in charge. Not just the nominal person in charge, mind you, but the head honcho. Numero Uno.

"Who was number 1?" I hear you cry! Well, that too is rather hard to explain. There was a tussle...a thing going on with a mask...and a rocket...and somebody that looked awfully like me. He could have been me, I suppose, if we/he/I had broken the laws of time. Who knows? This timey wimey stuff does so addle the brain, don't you find?

Was my captor me? For so long I had suspected that my captor might have been like me, but never for a moment had I considered that they or he might have actually been me. Me, me, that is. Not that grumpy one with the silly headgear and a fondness for calling people "sagacity"...

Sorry. Rambling again.

Mmm - yum! Lovely biscuits. Oh, and Battenberg too? You do spoil me - how kind! I'll come here again.

Perhaps best not to hold me to that.

Oh, dear me, yes. Me. Me! But of course with me being me, it is entirely possible that my captor really was me. But which me? A me from the far future, or from a week hence? Or was it not me at all, but just another mind game?

I had no time to reflect on this. Everything began to fall apart, the walls of my prison quite literally falling away. I had a chance to escape, so I took it. I ran again. Fight or flight.

I returned to London. My home was still there - but of course, it would be, wouldn't it...because my home was my mode of transport! As I say, she was younger then, just like I was - and she could do that sort of thing. But had she been there all the time, where I had left her, or had she been with me, in that village place? Had I even left her at all, or been inside her all the time?

Oh, dear me - the mind truly does boggle, doesn't it?

Well, of course, I couldn't think straight. Still can't, you say? Well, I certainly couldn't think then, except to know that I had to get away again. Not just from London either, but from Earth. So, yes, I got out. But - I must to you this - wherever I went, there was always a nagging feeling that I had never escaped, that I was still, in fact, a prisoner. Even now...

Just imagine that.

What if, after all this time, all these stories about me - the stuff of legend! - is all just in my mind! What if I'm not even sat here talking to you now?

Oh, but, surely not? How could the universe survive without me? A saviour, a hero, friend, foe, somebody to be trusted...or feared - that's me! I am many things, aren't I?! I'm great! But, who am I really, eh? President of the High Council of the Thingummy Wotsits? Last of the Whatsernames? Am I actually just a loon? Am I incarcerated? Is it all a game? Are we playing a game? Am I playing with myself?

Gosh - is that the time?

Oh, good grief - time!

All this talk of me and possibly another me and all these other variables - timey wimey stuff, mind games, the old days, and fight or flight... I almost forgot!

I was going to tell you about a special event!

A very special day is nearly here.

23 November.

You might want to #SaveTheDay ...

THE TALE OF THE FLAPPY, FLOPPY BUNNY

The Land Rover drew to a halt in the middle of the lane. The driver, Greg, could see something moving about in the road up ahead.
"What is that thing?" Greg asked nervously. He did not like the countryside - it always gave him the heebie-jeebies.
Carl, Greg's passenger, craned his neck for a closer look. "I can't tell," he responded. "Drive a little closer."
Greg did not move. Carl looked over at him. His driver looked like he was having some sort of internal struggle.  
"Well?" Carl prompted impatiently.
Greg finally seemed to come to a decision, put the Land Rover into gear and slowly edged it forward until the two men could see the thing in the road.
"It's a rabbit," Carl stated. "A large rabbit, I grant you, but it's just a rabbit."
Greg was not convinced. "It's not moving like a normal rabbit would," he observed. "What if it's...undead?"
Carl shook his head in disbelief. "Greg. There is no such thing as an undead rabbit!"
Greg wouldn't take his eyes off the furry lump in the road.  "How do you know? Back in the days when the internet was working, you could go online and there were loads of pictures of zombie bunnies on there." He gripped the steering wheel tightly.
"They were drawings!" Carl declared.
"Based on real rabbits," Greg suggested.
"Says who?" Carl was exasperated. "Did you ever, even once, see an actual photograph of an undead bunny?"
Greg did not respond. He was pointing at the creature in the lane. "Look, it's moving."
They both looked. The rabbit was shuffling in a very clumsy way. It did not look healthy, and you could tell even from this distance that there was something wrong with it's eyes. The rabbit tried to hop in the direction of the Land Rover, but the movement turned out to be more like a stilted lurch, with a bit of lopsided thing going on for good measure.
"Tell me that is normal for a rabbit," said Greg, as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Carl squinted as he studied the rabbit more closely. "I tell you Greg - there is no such thing as an undead rabbit," he stated firmly. "That thing has probably got myxomatosis."
"Myxoma-what?" said Greg.
"Myxomatosis," Carl repeated. He tutted. "Do you townies know nothing? It's a disease which rabbits suffer from. They go blind and stuff and then eventually die. The best thing we could do for that rabbit, if it is suffering from myxomatosis, is drive over it."
Greg couldn't believe his ears. "Drive over it?" he repeated incredulously.
"Yes. Put it out of its misery."
Greg shook his head. "And what if you're wrong, and it really is an undead rabbit? It will just get up off the ground again, stagger down the road after us and limp along until it hunts us down and kills us!"
Carl almost laughed. "You have a spectacular imagination,"  he said. "Now, we've got a long drive ahead of us, so are you going to drive over it or shall I?"
Greg fell silent.  
"Myxomatosis, you say?" Greg said eventually.
"Yes," said Carl. "The rabbit goes blind and gets lumps around his head and his goolies. He'll have gone all listless and developed a fever, and sooner or later he'll pop his clogs. If you drive over him, he'll have a quick death."
"How do you know it's a he?" asked Greg.
"Greg..." Carl growled threateningly.
"Ok, ok," said Greg. He put the Land Rover into gear again. "But I do this under protest."
Greg drove the vehicle forward until it was almost upon the rabbit. Greg applied the brakes suddenly, as if he had changed his mind at the last moment, but then just as suddenly drove forward and squashed the rabbit. Then he drove on for another few yards before bringing the Land Rover to a halt.

***

Behind the Land Rover, in the middle of the road, one squashed rabbit lay motionless and unmoving.  It was not breathing and was clearly dead.

***

"I need to go back and check that it's dead," Greg declared.
"But what if it's an undead rabbit?" Carl mocked, wide-eyed and mimicking Greg's voice.
Greg stared him down. "Are you coming?" he asked, as he undid his seatbelt and made to climb out of the Land Rover.
"Of course," Carl responded, undoing his own seatbelt and leaping into action.

***

In the road, one squashed rabbit remained motionless and unmoving. Two figures approached it from a Land Rover, one more keenly than the other. The first figure reached the dead rabbit several seconds before the other figure, and bent down low to study the bloody mess in the road.
"There you go," declared Carl. "One dead rabbit. You did the right thing Greg."
Greg stood behind Carl and glanced down once, very briefly, at the remains of the rabbit. "You're sure it's dead?" he asked, keeping his eyes firmly on the horizon.
"Absolutely," Carl confirmed.
"Good. Come on then. Let's get out of here."
Carl got to his feet, stretched and then headed back towards the Land Rover. Greg was already way ahead of him and climbing back into the vehicle. Behind Carl, the rabbit remained squashed, unmoving and dead on the floor.
As Carl climbed into the Land Rover, Greg shifted the vehicle into first gear. "Ready?" he asked and, without waiting for a response, he drove away briskly.
Carl glanced back over his shoulder towards the squashed rabbit in the road. Still not moving. It was clearly dead. As the Land Rover approached the top of the hill, Greg also glanced back, using his rearview mirror. Yes, the rabbit was clearly dead.

***

As the Land Rover drove away, one dead rabbit in the middle of the road remained dead.

***

As the Land Rover disappeared over the top of the hill, one dead rabbit remained dead.

***

As the sounds of the Land Rover faded into the distance, one dead rabbit peeled itself up off the road, swore, and began to hobble off in the direction the Land Rover had taken.
"April Fool, suckers!" rasped the rabbit.  
It had a long journey ahead.

A WINTER'S TALE

The best thing about popping out to the shed on a bitterly cold winter's afternoon is coming back into the house and settling down in front of a roaring fire. 
Kicking his boots off and dropping a pile of wood next to the fire, the cosy, warm atmosphere was not lost on John. He sighed contentedly to himself as he plonked himself down on the rug.
John reached over to tickle the cat under the chin, but found himself unable to do so. The cat did not have a chin, because John did not have a cat, so to stop himself getting disheartened John grabbed a satsuma from the fruit bowl.
John was just about to peel the satsuma when Gillian walked into the room. John placed the satsuma under a cushion. He would have it later.
"There are Jehovah's Witnesses at the door," Gilliam announced, as she sauntered demurely across to the sofa.
"Oh?"
John got up, went to the window and peered out. The Jehovah's Witnesses spotted him almost immediately. John gave them a cheery wave. They gave him a cheery wave back. 
John turned his back on the window, sidled over to the drinks cabinet and set about pouring himself a scotch. "Would you like a drink?" he asked Gillian as he poured.
"A Snowball, if I may," Gillian replied. 
John started to mix a Snowball.
The fire crackled.
"Are you going to open the door to them?" Gillian asked after a while.
"Who?"
"The Jehovah's Witnesses."
John looked horrified. "Absolutely not. They'd start talking to me! No, I tend normally just to give them a wave. That makes them think I'm on my way to answering the door, and they hang around for a while. Stops them bothering the neighbours down the lane, you see."
John chuckled to himself as he handed Gillian her drink. "They've been on my doorstep for a few weeks now, you know. By the time they realised that I wasn't going to open the door, their boots were frozen to the floor. It's going to be a long winter too, so I imagine they'll be stuck there until March." 
Gillian pointed to a barometer which was hanging on the wall. "You never know, if we get another storm they may turn into snowmen," she suggested, with an evil glint in her eye. 
Just then a thought occurred to John, so he excused himself momentarily and nipped out of the room. Gillian could hear him moving about in the kitchen. Before long he returned, opened the window a crack, lobbed a few bits of stale bread at the Jehovah's Witnesses and then closed the window again.
"We don't want them to starve, do we?" John explained, as he turned back to Gillian and picked up his drink. "I may not like them, but I'm not cruel." He raised his glass. "To your good health, Gillian."
Gillian raised her own glass and smiled. "And to yours. Cheers."
They drank. Then John sat down next to Gillian and they lapsed into silence. They sipped their drinks and stared at the fire for a bit. Finally, John decided the time had come to seek an answer to the question which had been nagging him since Gillian had entered the room.
"I say old girl...what are you doing here, exactly?"
"Mmm?" Gillian seemed surprised by the question. "Ah. Well, you see...I ran out of clean clothes this morning. Not knowing what else to do, I thought I'd pop round here for a bit, say hello and see if I could borrow a few togs from your good lady wife."
John nodded. "That would certainly explain why you're naked," he observed.  
They lapsed into another silence. "Hang on though - I don't have a wife!" John exclaimed suddenly.
Gillian looked taken aback and shifted in her seat. "You don't?"
John shook his head and thought about it for a moment. "No, I don't think so."
"Then who is that woman I see standing at your bedroom window all the time?" the naked lady enquired.
John thought about that too. "You're probably thinking of Agatha, my stuffed bear," he suggested after a time.
"But of course," Gillian responded, patting his knee. "I keep forgetting that you're a taxidermist."
The fire spat and crackled.  
"I should put another log on there," said John, remembering the reason he had gone out to the shed. He got up and set about re-laying the fire.
"So what do you think I should do for clothes?" Gillian asked, when the fire's future had been secured for a while longer.

*

The Jehovah's Witnesses thought their luck was in. They'd only been standing there long enough to grow ten-inch beards when, at last, the door before them opened! 
The jolly looking fellow who had occasionally waved and thrown bits of food at them from the window was finally standing, right there, on the doorstep.
John beamed his biggest smile.
"Well, hello!" said he, cheerfully.
"Um...h-h-hello," the Jehovah's Witnesses stuttered in response. They weren't sure what else to say now that the door had finally opened - not just because they had been standing there for weeks on end and wondering what was going on, but more because the man from inside the house was clipping their beards off with a large pair of scissors.
"Turned out nice again," said John, making conversation.
He hacked away with his scissors.
"Hmmff. Mmmff," said one now rather unkempt Jehovah's Witness. The other just giggled nervously as John and his scissors turned on him and plied their way through his facial hair. 
And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, the man was gone again, back inside his nice warm house, with the door shut firmly behind him.

*

Gillian was warming her gloaming by the fire.  
"How about this?" John declared, waving the straggly hair about triumphantly. "I chopped the beards off the Jehovah's Witnesses - I'm sure I could make some sort of clothing from this!"
Gillian was not so sure. "If those fellows have been outside as long as you say they have, there may be squirrels nesting in those beards," she pointed out.
John's face dropped. As much as he did not want to admit it, he could not fault Gillian's reasoning. Nevertheless, he struggled to keep the disappointment out of his voice. 
"Fair point," he conceded, dropping the beards on the floor and glancing around the room dejectedly. His eyes alighted on some of the animals he had stuffed and which were displayed on a cabinet in the corner.
"Perhaps I could make you a bra out of a couple of hedgehogs," he pondered, half-heartedly. "And there's a ferret over there-"
But Gillian was shaking her head. "Thanks for the offer, darling," she interrupted, not unkindly, "but I'm just not a hedgehog-bra sort of girl, really."
So John made her another drink, while he considered what else could be done. He paced up and down, stroked his chin, looked out of the window - and noticed that the Jehovah's witnesses were wearing clothes.

*

Not for the first time that day, the Jehovah's Witnesses found the door opening in front of them.
The smiling man was there again, greeting them warmly, but still brandishing his scissors. One Jehovah's Witness involuntarily raised his hands to protect what little hair he had on his head, while the other one reacted by moving to protect his groin. 
But they need not have worried, they reflected a little later, when John had disappeared back into his house.  All in all, it had been quite a successful day, in a way. They had made contact with a prospective convert, after all - and been given something to eat too! Even if it had been a little bit mouldy. Yes, all in all, not too bad a day. It might get a bit cold after dark, though, they reflected, as they stood there with nothing but Bibles to stop the frostbite attacking their knackers.

*

Inside the house, John was proudly showing Gillian the many strips of cloth he had cut off the Jehovah's Witnesses. Gillian was grinning from ear to ear. Clearly she did not want to dress like a Jehovah's Witness, but John was a dab hand with a sowing machine, and would be able to knock up some suitable clothes in no time.
"All I need to do now is take some measurements," declared John triumphantly, brandishing a tape measure. 
Gillian began to rise from her seat, when she spotted the beard hair where John had discarded it on the rug. She picked it up. "What shall I do with this?" she asked.
John pointed to a cushion. "Give it to the satsuma under there."
Gillian frowned, but turned back to the sofa anyway, picked up a cushion and found a satsuma beneath it.  
"Well, hello!" she cried, delighted to meet the satsuma.
"Hello," the satsuma replied shyly.
Gillian quickly arranged a nest from the beard hair and, once it was complete, picked up the satsuma, stroked its cheek and then carefully placed it in the centre of the nest.
"Why, thank you," said the satsuma, as it wriggled and made itself comfortable.
"My pleasure," Gillian replied.
"Another drink, before I crack on with these clothes?" suggested John.
"Absolutely," said Gillian.
So John poured some drinks, and as he did so, he chuckled. His chuckling was infectious, and Gillian found herself chuckling too. Before long, the satsuma joined in, and not long after that, they were all laughing heartily. John, Gillian and the satsuma moved over to the window, looked out and laughed as they waved at the Jehovah's Witnesses. The Jehovah's Witnesses cast caution to the wind, waved back, and they laughed too.
It was turning into a perfect winter's day.

THE GOLDEN RECORD

Excerpt of statement made by US President Carter, placed on Voyager spacecraft which were launched into space in 1977:

"We cast this message into the cosmos ... of the 200 billion stars in the Milky Way galaxy, some - perhaps many - may have inhabited planets and space faring civilizations. If one such civilization intercepts Voyager and can understand these recorded contents, here is our message...we hope some day, having solved the problems we face, to join a community of Galactic Civilizations. This record represents our hope and our determination and our goodwill in a vast and awesome universe."

A group of blue creatures sat round a green fire on a rocky plain. 100 metres due east of where these creatures - the Fugglewumps - sat, lay a space probe which had crash-landed on their planet earlier that evening. Upon opening it, the Fugglewumps had discovered that the probe contained a golden record.
"How the Frogging Belgium are we supposed to play this?" asked Wumpyflumpy, waving the record around angrily. "Vinyl went out years ago. Have they not heard of the OuterNet?"
Gumpy snatched the record from Wumpyflumpy and bit it carefully with his septic grapple. "Actually, it's not vinyl," he announced. "It's made of gold-plated copper."
"Copper? Vinyl?  Who cares!" said Wumpyflumpy aggressively. He did not like being contradicted.
"Some of the Flaggle people on the Ossory Peninsula still use records," Hoggle pointed out. "I've got an adaptor which I bought off them for two rints."
Chunty barely stifled his scorn. "Pass it over here," he said to Gumpy. "I've got a triple-fladged mega-Doldy quattro 8D vinyl-to-bonse adaptor in my front ear - I can tell you what's on it."
Gumpy passed the record carefully to Ripplewink, who passed it carefully to Flad, who passed it gingerly to Squidge, who chucked the record over to Chunty. Chunty snatched it out of the air with his second throbbing hobble. He quickly attached the record to his front ear and went into a trance.
"So what's on it?" Wumpyflumpy asked impatiently. "What does it say?"
"It's from a planet called Earth," Chunty said as the data on the record rolled into his translatory orifice and out of his dumplings. "It appears to contain greetings in several languages...one of them says we greet you, great ones. We wish you longevity."
"At least they're polite," Flad pointed out.
Chunty continued relaying the messages from Earth. "Another one says friends of space, how are you all? Have you eaten yet? Come visit us if you have time."
"Have you eaten yet?" Ripplewink mocked. "Are they inviting us to go and eat them?"
Flad laughed. "What else does the record contain?" she asked Chunty.
"Some music," Chunty replied, "a rather odd collection of images...and various sounds which I presume are examples of what the Earthlings encounter on a daily basis."
"Let's have a look!" cried Hoggle excitedly, standing on his hind pottage and holding out a hand he'd found somewhere. Chunty tossed the record over. Hoggle sat down and checked out the contents of the record himself.
Everybody else fell silent and huddled closer to the fire. It was a cold night.
"There's no Kenny Loggins!" Hoggle eventually declared, breaking the silence. He was aghast. "Why would anybody send a record out into space and not include Kenny Loggins?!"
"Perhaps Kenny Loggins hadn't been invented when the probe was launched," Chunty ventured.
"What's a Kenny Loggins?" asked Wumpyflumpy, who was none the wiser.
"Ignorant dolt," mumbled Gavelwink, who had remained sullen and silent until this point. He lapsed back into his sullen silence. 
Hoggle was tutting and shaking his wimpeys. "Fancy including recordings of mud pots and a tame dog, but no Kenny Loggins. Are these Earthlings insane?"
"There are recordings of mud pots?" Squidge could not hide his disbelief.
"What - is - a - Kenny - Loggins?" Wumpyflumpy repeated, getting angry.
"You wouldn't understand," Chunty said patiently. "I'll explain when you're older."
"But I'm nearly four hundred!" Wumpyflumpy protested.
"Exactly," muttered a particularly old and rosey Fugglewump called Darren. He itched his flippers.
Suddenly Hoggle nearly wet himself laughing.
"What's the matter with him?" asked Gavelwink, casting a weary glance over at Hoggle.
"Human sex organs!" Hoggle sobbed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "There are pictures on this record of human sex organs!"
Everybody got up then and wanted to have a look at the record. They tossed it around, along with Hoggle's adaptor, and one by one the Fugglewumps fell about laughing as the record was passed from one Fugglewump to another. Before long, all seventeen of the Fugglewumps around that fire were rolling around on the floor, wetting themselves - literally - and crying with laughter.
Eventually, after several failed attempts, Hoggle managed to manoeuvre himself into an upright position and to stop crying for long enough to speak. "If you want to make contact with alien races, why on Earth would you send recordings of a tame dog and pictures of your sexual organs?" They all fell about laughing again - even Wumpyflumpy, who was not sure what his older companions were talking about.
"And no Kenny Loggins!" Darren added, crying so much that he nearly passed out.
Eventually - after about an hour - the mirth died down and the Fugglewumps dragged themselves back to the warmth of the fire. The golden record lay discarded on the floor next to Chunty's dumplings.
"What shall we do with this?" he asked eventually, picking up the record and twirling it idly with his fadgel.
"Lob it on the fire," Gavelwink suggested.
So he did.
It did not burn very well, but glowed a nice colour.
The Fugglewumps fell silent. Mostly. Apart from the odd giggle.
Hoggle shook his head again. 
"No Kenny Loggins," he mumbled, with a chuckle. "What were they thinking?"

***

The Golden Record, which was sent out amongst the stars on the Voyager space craft, really did include the messages as relayed above, the sounds of mud pots and a tame dog, and pictures of human sexual organs, amongst other things. But, as far as I am aware, no Kenny Loggins.

A FANTASTIC VIEW OF WAITROSE

Eric was a retired, elderly gentleman who lived alone in an unobtrusive bungalow which just happened to have a fantastic view of Waitrose. Everybody who visited Eric commented on what a fantastic view of Waitrose it was.
The Postman, who Eric invited in for a cup of tea one cold winter’s morning, stood at the big window which dominated one wall of Eric’s living room, shook his head and marvelled at the sight before him.  
“That is one incredible view of Waitrose,” the Postman observed, and took a sip of his tea. 
Eric agreed. “Everybody says that,” he said.
Everybody did indeed say that: the milkman; the man who checked the electricity meter; Paul from the bungalow on the end; Elsie at number 12. The gas man was the only person who had not made a comment, and that was only because he stood there speechless, shaking his head.  
Marjorie, the Meals-on-Wheels lady with the wandering eyes, was delivering stew and dumplings one day. She spotted the view from where she stood on the doorstep and cheekily pushed past Eric, making her way through to the living room to get a better look. “My goodness!” she declared. “What an astounding view of Waitrose!”
Eric stood at her shoulder and coughed. “Yes. It is.”  He had nothing else to say, so he peeled the lid off the stew and dumplings and began to tuck in while Marjorie oohed and aahed and her eyes wandered.
Eric’s grandchildren, Tom and Mary, visited most Saturday afternoons. As regular visitors, Eric thought their amazement at the view might have diminished over time, but they never failed to comment. The same was true of Millicent Jones-Smythe-Jones, a well-to-do spinster who lived on the Bromsgrove Road and who tended to pop in on Eric of a Tuesday morning.
“That view of Waitrose is especially magnificent today,” she observed, one particularly sunny Tuesday. “You can see all the shoppers trundling in and out, purchasing all those quality goods,” she added, getting a bit carried away with the thrill of it all.
Eric farted loudly. He did not particularly enjoy the visits from Millicent Jones-Smythe-Jones, and could not remember having ever invited her round to his bungalow, but she continued to call on him regardless.  She would probably keep coming even when he was six feet under, Eric supposed. She was toffee-nosed, bossy, deaf, and clearly had no sense of smell, if her complete lack of response to his fart was anything to go by.
Gordon the Mormon, who tried to convert Eric on the last Friday afternoon of every month, once popped in to use Eric’s lavatory and was momentarily overcome by the view as he passed through the living room.
“What an astonishing view of Waitrose!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” agreed Eric, in his usual unenthusiastic manner.
“I bet it looks impressive at night. All lit up and everything.”
“Yes.  I suppose it does,” agreed Eric.
“A bit like a Christmas Tree, eh?” Gordon was on a roll.
“Yes,” agreed Eric.
“Like a Christmas view for you, every day, then?” suggested Gordon.
“Except on Christmas Day,” Eric pointed out flatly. “When it’s closed.”
Gordon nodded.  
Gordon nodded a lot.  
Gordon was not sure what else to say, but did not want to leave the bungalow now that he had finally made it across the threshold.
“Why did you move into a bungalow with such a fantastic view of Waitrose?” he asked eventually.
Eric tried not to get annoyed. “I did not move in because there was a fantastic view of Waitrose.”
“No, of course not,” said Gordon. “Silly me.”
There was an awkward silence.
“You could always sell the place, use the fantastic view of Waitrose as a selling point,” suggested Gordon.
“Why would anybody think a fantastic view of Waitrose was a selling point?” Eric asked.
“Oh, you never know,” said Gordon, who was nodding again.
Eric made a big show of raising his arm in order to study his watch and to make it clear that Gordon had outstayed his welcome. Gordon ignored him. “It is a fantastic view though. I’m sure it would keep a chap entertained for hours.”
The two men eyed each other warily.
“So.” Gordon cleared his throat. 
There was another awkward silence.
“You lived here before they built Waitrose.”
Eric folded his arms. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t move in specifically because of the fantastic view of Waitrose.”
Eric shook his head. “No.”
Gordon nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “So what did you have a view of before they built Waitrose? Open fields? The lock on the canal over yonder?”
Eric moved over to the window and began to stare out, a faraway look in his eyes. He was silent for a full minute, during which time his lower lip began to quiver.  
Gordon saw the quiver and adopted a more sympathetic tone. “I apologise if I’ve upset you Derek,” he said, quietly, putting an arm around Eric’s shoulder. 
Eric ignored the arm, and the fact that Gordon had got his name wrong. He conjured up his saddest face, sniffed and even managed to squeeze out a tear which he let roll down his cheek.  
“Listen, old chap,” said Gordon, almost kindly, “I’m sorry for digging up old memories. Whatever was there before Waitrose must have been very special.”
Eric managed a sad smile and patted Gordon on the arm. “That’s alright,” he sobbed quietly. “I don’t like to to dwell on the past, but…"
Eric paused for a full twenty seconds, for effect.
"...I really did used to have a stupendously good view of Morrisons.”
Gordon did not visit again.

STAR TWITS

Captain Berk stood on the bridge of his starship, hands on hips, staring at an image of a Blobulon Mega-Battlecruiser on the view screen. The alien ship was massive, coming at them very fast and equipped with more fire-power than a Solihull resident had jewellery. 
This was not good. 
It was not good at all.
Berk threw himself down into his Captain's chair and called out to his First Officer.
"Spank! Your assessment please."
First Officer Spank had not heard the Captain. Spank was too busy doing something with his iTricordapad.
"Spank!" the Captain called again.
Spank looked around, momentarily disorientated.
"Sorry Captain. I was just uploading photos of that nebula we passed last week to my Facebonk page."
Berk was not impressed. "Never mind that," said the Captain, pointing at the screen. "We've got trouble."
Spank turned to look at the screen. "Ah...yes."
The First Officer was about to say something else when his iTricordapad bleeped. He fiddled with it for a moment. "Cool...I just got a text from Lieutenant Hubba-hubba!"
Berk rolled his eyes and started to go red in the face. "For freck's sake - she's only five feet away from you!" 
"Indeed." Spank turned to look at the hot babe sat in the corner. She winked at him. Spank winked back and wiggled his pointy ears.
Captain Berk thumped the arm of his chair. "Turn your iTricordapad off and concentrate!" he bellowed. "This is serious! That goes for everybody!"
There were some hastily mumbled apologies, followed by a lot of shuffling about as the crew put their tablet-cum-phonecorders on silent and shoved them in their handbags, man-bags and shmemly-vulcoid-bags. Then finally everybody faced the view screen at the front of the bridge and paid attention.
A bulb on the computer console in front of Second Officer Solo began to flash.
"The aliens are powering up their weapons, Captain," Solo reported.
Captain Berk knew what to do next. "Red alert," he commanded. "Raise shields, charge weapons and prepare to fire."
Solo got to his feet, stretched his tired muscles, yawned and began to head for the door.
Berk's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Where the jumping freck do you think you're going?"
Solo pointed at the clock. "My shift has ended," he replied. "I've got to pick up my daughter from her swimming lesson on B Deck, and the missus wants me back promptly tonight because she's going out with some of the girls."


Despite increasingly blue protests from Captain Berk, Solo left the bridge. 
His first stop was at the ship's lavatory on P Deck.
"Looks like I found the Captain's log again," he sighed, looking down the pan. He flushed it away, then dropped his pants and set about making himself comfortable on the throne.
A few moments later the ship started to shudder violently. Hostilities had started. 
Solo hung on extra tightly as the ship withstood a barrage of alien gunfire. 
Before long the electricity failed, the lights went out and Solo was left to do his business in the dark.
"Well, at least I don't have to worry about the door swishing open every time somebody walks past," he observed, to nobody in particular.


Up on the bridge, things were in disarray. There was no power and the crew were trying to pilot the ship in total darkness.
"My computer isn't working," shouted one officer, "and I can't get hold of the IT department!"
"Have you tried switching it off and on again at the wall?" shouted another.
This went on for a couple of minutes.
When the lights finally came back up, the full extent of the damage became evident. The Captain's glass of orange juice had spilled all over the floor and he could not find his teddy bear or his Fab Lolly anywhere. Peanuts and popcorn were scattered all over the place. Lieutenant Hubba-hubba's vanity mirror had shattered.  First Officer Spank was hastily zipping up his trousers, while the Lieutenant was hurriedly returning to her station, adjusting her skirt and tidying up her hair. 
But all eyes were on the view screen. 
The Blobulon Mega-Battlecruiser was by now so close that the crew could see one of the aliens sticking his head out of a porthole and making rude hand signals at them.  He even appeared to be blowing raspberries.
"How much more of this can we stand?" asked Captain Berk.
"Not much," growled Spank, rolling up his sleeves and flexing his muscles. "I want to beam over there and twat the smug git."
"Talking of beaming up..." Berk flipped on his communicator. "Shipman Twott? This is Captain Berk speaking. Please beam up all officers who are down on the planet, without delay."


In the Starship's teleport suite, Shipman Twott put down his cheeseburger and set about beaming the crew back aboard the ship. He adjusted a few controls, but then just as he hit the big green 'Go!' button, the ship lurched again, and instead of beaming some of the crew up, he found a very red faced and butt-naked Second Officer Solo trying to rag one out in the transporter.
"Oops, sorry!" cried Shipman Twott. 
He quickly hit the 'Go!' button again. Second Officer Solo promptly disappeared, to be replaced by all the crew members who had been down on the planet's surface. One was balancing a pint of Grimulan Ale on his nose, while a second was wearing a gimp suit, another was dressed as a smurf and several others were making the-beast-with-five-backs (from Metebelis 3).
"Hey!" shouted the smurf. He looked annoyed. "I thought you were meant to warn us first!"


Meanwhile on the bridge, Captain Berk was on his feet, punching the air in victory. 
They had blown the aliens to oblivion. On the view screen there was nothing left of the Blobulon Mega-Battlecruiser, just debris: twisted metal, red goo, the odd cushion and a tin of pineapple chunks.
"We did it!" Berk cried, jubilant.
But First Officer Spank was not listening again. He was pulling a face and looking around with suspicion. "By freck - what's that smell?" he wondered.
Berk heard a wet, farty noise behind him, and turned to find Second Officer Solo taking a dump in the Captain's chair.
Second Officer Solo smiled sheepishly. 
"I think I've just gone where no one has gone before..." he said.

ONE NIGHT ON THE PLANET OF THE BARKING SPIDERS

"While you're here, would you mind farting into this microphone for me?"
It was a spring evening. 1991. Peter's friend Numpty had just turned up with his girlfriend. 
Now, Peter was a keen audio enthusiast who spent a lot of time making home recordings. In the past Numpty had been asked to talk, read poetry and even ad-lib lyrics into a microphone. He had never, however, been asked to fart. Still, Numpty was nothing if not obliging, and so he stood before the microphone as requested, and began to clench...
Over the next few hours, the two twenty-something males recorded their farts and burps. Amazingly, Numpty's girlfriend remained with them - except when she needed to leave the room for air, of course - and Peter's impressionable youngest sister even contributed.
Over the next couple of years, the recordings which they had made that fateful night grew in notoriety. They weren't particularly good recordings - badly mixed on a twin tape deck, very rough and ready - but it was the content that mattered. Certainly, Peter and Numpty's peers were largely very impressed and, while one or two of the girls pretended to be disgusted, most of them clearly weren't.
Time moved on.
By 1994 Peter had a new microphone. He wanted to see how it compared to the old one and it didn't take much cajoling before he was persuaded to stage a second long night of the ill wind. By this time Peter was engaged to be married and the woman to whom he was betrothed also joined in... although she probably then decided it had been a bad decision, as their engagement was called off shortly afterwards. Funny that.
Time marched on again.
Peter bought a minidisc recorder. You can guess what he did with that.
In time he got married to another, more tolerant woman, who Peter discovered talked in her sleep. Peter tried keeping a dictaphone next to the bed in order to record his wife's nocturnal ramblings, but for some reason she stopped doing it, so he ended up recording the first winds of the morning instead.
One night in 2001 - ten years on from that first long night of the ill wind - Peter invited some friends round for a party. By now Peter and his wife lived in a different part of the country, and his new friends were unaware of his audio legacy. Peter ended up playing his recordings. His new friends were terribly impressed - and slightly drunk. One of them grabbed the dictaphone, farted into it and, before long, they were all at it. They had to open a window. A few weeks later Peter played these recordings to two young lads, who were barely into their teens. The way their eyes gleamed showed Peter that those young boys were having an epiphany. The looks on their faces as they gazed up in awe will remain with Peter for ever. My work is done, he thought. Today I have passed on the baton to a younger generation.
And time continued to pass.
Despite how it sounds, over the years Peter had in fact achieved more than just record farts. Somehow he ended up doing a bit of audio work with a proper chart-topping 80s band and was even interviewed for a job in a recording studio by the sea. While he didn't get the job, it did spur him on to take his skills more seriously and develop them. The days of recording bottom burps were behind him.
As time passed, technology improved - by now it was possible to make quality digital recordings at home, to mix and manipulate them, all with a computer. Peter had been married for over a decade, and even had a couple of kids, but still dabbled with sounds when time allowed.
And then, one seemingly ordinary day in 2011, somebody pointed out that 20 years had passed since that first notorious recording. That got Peter thinking... about advances in technology... and of the possibilities which those advances offered...
It was late one Wednesday evening, early 2012. Peter's wife was watching drivel on the telly and Peter felt rather uncomfortable following a surfeit of beans at teatime. Suddenly he took a snap decision, grabbed his iPod and nipped up to the bathroom which, acoustically, was the best room in the house. Five minutes later and he had made four short, sharp recordings on his iPod. "Is this death?" he croaked, gasping for air and getting a Doctor Who quote in, even as he threw open the window to get some oxygen.
By 10.30 that evening those four recordings had been transferred to Peter's computer. Peter's wife had since gone to bed, but Peter worked into the night, his face lit only by the glare of the computer screen. He manipulated his new sounds, slowed them down, sped them up, bent them out of shape and mixed them in surround sound...
It was 2.30 in the morning before Peter went to bed. When he awoke the following morning he listened back to what he had recorded the night before. It's good, he thought, interesting enough, but there is more to be done. What if I trim the beginning off some of those sounds so that it is less obvious to the casual listener what those sounds are?
By Thursday evening the work was complete. Peter listened closely and was pleased with his work. This is audio art! he decided. It is art with a capital F! One day, thought Peter, I will sell this work to Charles Saatchi for hundreds of thousands of pounds, and Saatchi will broadcast these sounds in a darkened room in his London Gallery. One day, thought Peter, Damien Hurst will visit that gallery, listen to these sounds and weep at my feet as he realises how his work pales in comparison to this sonic masterpiece.
Peter's wife came in to the room. She heard what Peter was listening to and said, "Have you been recording your farts again?" She tutted and shook her head. "Grow up. The washing up needs doing and I need help putting the girls to bed!"
Or, thought Peter, I could just upload it to my Soundcloud page.
And so he did.
He suggests that you click on the following link and play it loud.
http://soundcloud.com/user4198011/04-one-night-on-the-planet-of

HOPPING MAD

The conclusion to the story begun in 'LIVING A BOY'S ADVENTURE TALE'!


"Tell me, friend - are you John Barrowman?"


The bandaged man suddenly shouted "look!" and pointed at the telly.
Boris and the boring pillock turned to see what he was pointing at. Nothing particularly exciting seemed to be happening, so they returned their attention to the bandaged man - only to find that he was no longer there.
"He's getting away!" cried the boring pillock, leaping out of bed towards the door. He grasped the handle and heaved with all his might, but the door had been locked from the outside. The boring pillock - who suddenly did not seem so boring anymore - hammered on the door in frustration and cursed loudly in Norsk.
Boris looked on in both amazement and confusion.
What is going on? he wondered.
The not-so boring pillock was now back at his bed, fumbling about in his bag and wincing a bit too. Clearly he was still not well enough to be jumping about. A moment later he pulled out a mobile phone and made a call.
"This is Agent P," said the pillock, speaking fluently in the native tongue. "Barrowman is loose. Repeat: Barrowman is loose." Then he slammed the phone down on the bed and half-leaped, half-hobbled back to the door, which he continued to pound on.
"Somebody open this door!" Agent P shouted in frustration. Then he rested his forehead on the door, closed his eyes and muttered, "Barrowman will be halfway to the Hopping Championships by now."
Boris finally found his voice. "What's going on?" he asked.
Agent P turned and looked Boris in the eyes. Then he came to a decision.
"I'm an agent employed by the Norwegian Secret Services," Agent P explained. "I've been following John Barrowman for some time now. We have reason to believe that he wants Norway's greatest secret for himself." And with that he turned to look at the television, on which one of a-ha was grinning away.
Boris frowned. "Norway's greatest secret?" he repeated, confused. "You don't mean... a-ha?"
The agent shook his head. "Look again," he said, pointing at the pop star on the screen. "Look more closely. A-ha first got together in the 1980s..."
"...and yet they've hardly aged a day," Boris realised.
"Exactly," the agent agreed.
A lightbulb appeared above Boris's head. "Norway has the secret of eternal youth!" he declared excitedly.
"No, Norway doesn't...but a-ha do," the agent corrected. "And Barrowman wants it for himself."
"We've got to stop him!" Boris cried, forgetting his aches and pains, leaping from the bed on his one leg and grasping the door handle. "If Barrowman gets the secret of eternal youth, there'll be no stopping him. Ever!"
The agent agreed. "He'll be like Sir Cliff Richard, only much more dangerous."
Just then there was a noise out in the corridor. The door opened and a bemused looking nurse appeared. The agent rose to his feet and made to push past her, but Boris held him back.
"No. Let me," Boris said, looking down at his one leg. "I'll be much faster."


On the podium at the Norwegian Hopping Championships, Lars Larsen of Trollstigen was about to receive his winner's trophy from one of a-ha.
"So, which one of a-ha are you?" Lars whispered conspiratorially, as they shook hands and he took possession of the trophy.
Suddenly there was a commotion in the distance and everybody turned to see what was going on. Something was mincing towards them exceptionally fast. It looked like roadrunner, only a bit gay.
And behind it was something else, also closing fast.
Was that...a one legged man?
The crowd began to part as the two human bullets bore down on them.
The ex-member of a-ha up on the stage suddenly looked very nervous. He had every right to be.
"I'm not really a member of a-ha you know!" he blurted out. Nobody was listening. "I'm just a stand in! Look!" He pulled off a mask to reveal the man underneath - Sir Bruce Forsyth! "The real a-ha are being experimented on in a secret underground bunker..."
But it was too late. Barrowman had leapt up on to the podium and floored him.
And yet, Barrowman had little time to do anything else. Behind him, in the centre of the gathered crowd, in slow motion and with a loud cry of "nooooo....!", Boris Tattersall boinged high into the air on his one leg, landed in front of Lars Larrsen, grabbed the Norwegian Hopping Championships winner's trophy and clobbered Barrowman over the back of the head with it.
Lars Larsen fell back and Sir Bruce gasped as Barrowman's face suddenly took on a fake, rubberlike hue and fell away like the mask that it was. The man who had been disguised as John Barrowman climbed to his feet and turned to face the audience. There was a huge collective gasp as they saw that he was, in fact, Sir Cliff Richard!
Norwegian authorities leapt up on to the stage, grabbed Sir Cliff and began to drag him away. "Give us a twirl," said Brucey, dusting himself down. 
"I would have gotten away with it," Sir Cliff shouted defiantly, "if it hadn't been for you pesky, meddling, one-legged nobodies!"
"Oh, wasn't that a shame..." Sir Bruce waved with more than a hint of sarcasm as Sir Cliff was bundled into a waiting car. "Nice to see you, to see you..."
Elsewhere on the stage, Boris offered the winner's trophy back to Lars Larsen.
"No, friend," said Lars, refusing to take the trophy. "You keep it. You deserve it." He pointed at the trophy. "Besides which, it's bent."
Boris shrugged, turned to face the crowd and lifted the bent trophy. Everybody cheered.
Sir Bruce put his arm around Boris's shoulder and hollered, "Didn't he do well?"
The Norwegians had no idea what he was on about but cheered again anyway.


A few minutes later, Boris hopped off the podium to find Agent P standing beside a taxi and holding the door open for him. Boris climbed in and Agent P joined him on the back seat.
"Well done," said Agent P, with genuine gratitude. "You've averted a terrible disaster."
Boris shrugged. "You realise the real John Barrowman is still out there somewhere?"
Agent P nodded. "Yes, he is. But so is Sir Bruce Forsyth. And he has a vested interest in protecting the secret which Barrowman so desperately wants."
"A vested interest...?" Boris waited for Agent P to elaborate, but he did not. 
Agent P smiled, then changed the subject. "So. After all this excitement, I bet you're quite hungry. Shall we get a bite to eat?"
Boris grinned. "Oh - now you're talking! As a cockney might say, I'm Hank Marvin!" he said, laughing.
Agent P laughed too.
In the front of the taxi, the driver pulled his cap a bit lower. 
"Driver, take us to an expensive restaurant!" Agent P declared.
The driver was in the shadows. 
"As you wish sir," he said. 
He really was Hank Marvin.