I feel powerless in this lifetime, when I was a Red Indian called “Dripping Tap” in a previous incarnation things were so much simpler
In the life I am living now in the 20th/21st Century we are imprisoned by career, humiliated by bosses, attacked by banks, seduced by celebrity, bored by TV, forever hoping, fearing or regretting.
It – being The Empire, whatever we want to call the structures of power — wants you to be afraid. Anxiety suits the The Empire very well. Afraid people make good consumers and good workers. Governments and big business, therefore, love terrorism — they adore it, it’s good for business
Anxiety will drive us back into our comfort blankets of drinking copious amounts of alcohol and depression, so the system deliberately produces anxiety while simultaneously promising to take it away.
The veritable stream of scare stories in the newspapers about rising crime makes us feel afraid. Newspapers set out to provide entertainment and gossip, stories that feed our need for shock and horror. They do it well. Flick through the Daily Mail on any given day and you’ll find that nine out of ten stories are negative and unsettling. Every radio bulletin and every TV news show, every newspaper and many of our daily conversations drive home the same message: worry, worry, worry. It’s a dangerous world out there, filled with crazy, suicidal, bomb-hurling terrorists and murderers and thieves and rotters and natural disasters. Stay home! Watch TV! Buy stuff on the web! Curl up on the sofa with a drink and a bong, like my friend Rimmer and escape from Reality
Like in the novel George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, we are told that we are in a perpetual state of war — it’s just that the enemy sometimes changes. We are no longer at war with the IRA; we are now at war with Al-Qaeda. Different enemy, same anxiety and same end result: mass powerlessness.
But if we bother to investigate these myths for a few seconds, they soon reveal themselves to be mere convenient fictions.
Crime rates have remained fairly constant for the last 150 years, even in Bradley, our fear of crime is vastly out of proportion to the reality The truth is that we face far more danger from car accidents and liver disease than from crime. Motor accidents kill ten people a day in the UK, and liver disease hundreds, but no one talks about banning cars or criminalizing kestrel super strength that puts a strain on the liver.
Our work, organized into the cursed jobs system, doesn’t help, condemning as it does so many of us to meaningless toil.
Being a mere cog in this enormous empire has made work into something pointless, boring, soul- destroying, something to put up with, a necessary evil rather than a pleasure.
In the current scheme of things, when we’re not working, we’re consuming.
We leave the factory gates and pour our wages straight back into the system at Mr Sharmas off license purchasing countless cans of super lager. We suffer a strange split in our roles in society between that of worker and consumer, the oppressed and the courted. Now, though, the moment we leave the factory gates and start to make our way back home, we the are serenaded from all sides by advertising. The service culture makes us into little princes surrounded by simpering courtiers eager to curry favour so that we will give them our cash or let them have their wicked way with us. They make us feel important. The world of advertising practises its dark arts of seduction.
The whole panoply of modern state control, also, is surely designed to make us feel nervous. The very institutions and devices that are sold to us as comforts and security measures create insecurity by constantly reminding us of dangers. Police; speed cameras; CCTV cameras; burglar alarms. Those two dark jailors Health and Safety are used by the interferers to foist ever more stringent attacks on our liberties. It’s worth remembering, for example, that when the police force was proposed by Home Secretary Robert Peel in 1828, there was a huge outcry from the people, who complained about the attack on their freedoms that such an idea represented. Before the government-run police force, law-keeping was managed by locally elected constables.
For every crime committed, there is a tenfold attack on personal liberties. One bomb leads to a thousand new laws. Governments love crime, as crime gives them a reason to exist — protection of the citizenry — and an excuse to control us. Therefore, the real anarchist should avoid criminal acts at all costs.
George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four is becoming a reality in other ways, too. At the time of writing, the US government is trying to subpoena the records of Google, the search engine which can record everything we have searched for, thus gaining an insight into the innermost workings of our minds. The Internet threatens to turn from being a tool of liberation into a tool of surveillance, a spy in every home. I suppose the same thing could happen to our emails. Our most intimate conversations are being logged, recorded, saved, and they will be sitting for ever on some giant hard drive should the authorities need to look at them in the future. Big Brother is not only watching us but listening to us, eavesdropping on us and even peering into our brains and inspecting the contents of our very souls. What’s more, we have submitted entirely voluntarily to this system. It was never like this with the Royal Mail. And now there is a new threat to our civil liberties in the UK in the form of ID cards, on which will be recorded our misdemeanors.
Anxiety and our being surrounded by anxiety inducing agents is at the absolute centre of the Empires mission. That is why I say: ‘It’s not your fault.’ Everywhere, the same myth is perpetuated: you are just one object away from happiness. It could be the latest Madonna album, a donation to charity, a more comprehensive insurance policy, a different credit card, a fabulous holiday, a better job, a faster car . . . However many times we are disappointed by the failure of this myth to bring us satisfaction; we keep coming back for more. We ‘feed the hand that bites us’. We remain unsatisfied. The Empire is constantly and perpetually disappointing. The very thing that promises you freedom can quickly become the thing that oppresses you.
Anxiety is the sacrifice of creativity in the service of security. It is the giving up of personal freedoms in return for the promise, never fulfilled, of comfort, cotton wool, air-conditioned shopping centres. Security is a myth; it simply doesn’t exist. This does not stop us, however, from constantly chasing it.
Some of us may find a sort of pleasure in anxiety and its opposites, just as some enjoy swinging from white to brown, crack to heroin, from the highs to the lows. I recently went to visit my friend The Russian Spy. He asked if I wanted to have a look at his Jungle Telegraph. I said, no, that newspapers made me feel afraid by parading a load of problems which I am utterly powerless to do anything about. He replied: ‘Oh, I rather like feeling afraid. Then I have a drink!’
We also need a diet of stimulating company, good cheer, and merriment, feasting and fun. ‘Good cheer’ or, to put it in the modern vernacular, ‘having a laugh with your mates’, is one of the highest pleasures that life has to offer and can blot out those afraid feelings, largely by revealing that they are shared. Removing newspapers and TV from your life helps enormously. I have managed to cut out newspapers completely, which leaves a lot more time to concentrate on the important things in life, like writing silly stories and making daft DVDs to annoy The Ice Queen.
I have replaced drink with AA, and newspapers with books about Quantum Mechanics
My friend Jedi Master Damian has recommended cycling, fifteen miles of cycling a day, nearly two hours’ worth, and what a joy it was. Cycling he says brings an exhilarating sense of freedom and self-mastery as well as a very enjoyable sense of not spending money. You coast through Bradley, in it but not of it, living it and not controlled by it. On buses and trains, you are sitting targets for the advertising hoardings, the brainwashing. On a bike, you can simply sail past them. People cite ‘danger’ as a reason to avoid cycling, but this is a pathetic excuse and an example of the mean spirit that I am fighting. So what if there’s a little danger in your life? That’s good. But, whatever you do, avoid the bus I can’t sit staring in silence at people I don’t know.’
Another strategy for dealing with anxiety is to ensure that your day is varied. One of the joys of living in Bradley is that there is plenty of things to do. Two evenings a week, I trudge up to my friends’ house, The King of The Potatoe People and his son Mr Poppel to exchange Gossip.
One night per week I pay a visit to the singles night, er I mean the AA and yes I do have one of those things called a job which serve the empire but it isn’t one of those high stress jobs, its just on a dispatch desk at a large building materials company.
In my office I enjoy banter with a whole range of people, there’s Alf Garnet our Assistant Manager, Dolph Lungren our Manager, plus Father Bell and The Honeymonster who supervise the plant.
Here I am allowed to expand my mind by writing our monthly newsletter, the Jungle Telegraph and I am told by my doctor that if I keep taking those little pink tablets everyday I will be ok.
Despite previous reminders, our records show that we have still not received payment for your electricity bill. Your account details will now be passed to our debt collection representatives who will visit your premises to disconnect your electricity supply or install a pre-payment meter at your premises.
Letter to the “The King Of The Potato People” from Steve Hayfield,
Director of Revenue Management. YEB, 2007
A liability order for non payment of the sum of £875.40 was issued against you by the Huddersfield Magistrates Court on 28.07.2007.
Letter to the author from Local Taxation Division, Kirklees
‘Serving our Community’
Every day, an avalanche of oppression lands on my doormat; Brown envelopes, Menacing typefaces, Plastic windows, Letters in red, purple, black. Requests for more money generally printed in large type and in bold colours for the really stupid.
The cogs of the empires bureaucratic machines roll on. If only I could escape from all these bills, I think, and then I could take these lead weights off my feet and fly
The enormous cost of everyday life is increased when you are poorly, like me. There is a tax on being disorganized. Those of us who want to live free, live idle, live, have a tendency — this tendency is labeled ‘irresponsible’ by the sensible people — to ignore all the bills, parking tickets, tax demands, bank statements, TV license bills and the rest of the unutterably hideous flotsam of modern life. I stuff them in a drawer, I postpone payment, I delay and procrastinate. I have better things to do, like blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.
But if you delay your payment, the bills start turning ever more frightening colours and the tone becomes gradually more threatening with each new reminder. The letters are composed in a ‘patronizing yet vaguely authoritarian manner’. The language is debased, ugly, cold, impersonal, guilt-inducing, and it really means: ‘Get yourself together, you useless fool. You’re letting the side down. Everyone else has paid. It’s people like you who damage the whole system. Pull your socks up.’
The monthly council tax bill exhibits a similar tone, a confusing mix of the helpful and the menacing. Here is a direct quote. First, there is the kindly, paternal note: ‘If you need help, we are here — online, on the phone, or in person.’ But this is immediately followed by the threat, printed in bold: ‘If you do not pay up you risk prison and extra charges.’
And because of my tendency to neglect my financial affairs, I get stung with horrendous charges from the TV license people in return for the load of garbage that is broadcast into my home each week.
The whole notion of a fine carries with it some memory of punishment for misdeeds. Rather than being a straightforward business transaction, or a legalized form of stealing, as it really is, a fine carries a moral component. A fine is something given by the authorities when you have done something wrong. God has punished you. If, for example, you are late with a council tax payment, then you are fined £100 — but by whose authority? If you don’t buy a ticket for a train before you board, some companies make you pay the full, astronomical fare. And, of course, it’s never anyone’s fault. The system has a clever way of ducking responsibility for its own outrages. Probably the sheer scale of the companies works in their favour in this regard. ‘I don’t make the rules,’ say our oppressors. ‘I’m only following orders.’ This chain of command exists to make us feel guilty if we get angry at a lowly clerk or call-centre operative and so renders us powerless.
In the Middle Ages, fines were imposed by the commune, the village, your local group, for transgressions of the rules. Medieval manorial records show that misdemeanors were constantly fined by the local community ‘The Ice Queen did cause a nuisance by leaving her dung pile in the King’s Highway, Fined 1s5d.but pardoned because she is looking after Uncle Rimmer and Aunty Jiggy.’
But the sheer scale of the institutions involved nowadays in the empire has removed any sense of collectivity or connection from the transaction: we simply feel aggrieved and hard done by.
Needless to say, it doesn’t work the other way around.
We completely powerless to impose fines on the companies that have served us if they fuck up in some way which they often do.
It’s a one-way contract, designed to benefit the big guy and rob the little guy. Stealing from the poor and powerless is easy.
Truly it is easier to rob the poor: just look at Tesco’s.
We have often been told that organization means efficiency it would be far truer to say that organization means inefficiency, large organizations are necessarily and by their very nature inefficient because of the endless human chains involved. The bigger the organization, the more there is to go wrong. The small set-up is more efficient the most efficient way of producing a cabbage, for example, is to grow it yourself.
It is more efficient to grow a tree for wood outside your front door than to rely on oil which is mined in Saudi Arabia, made into gas in a refinery somewhere, and then piped through politically unstable countries until it finally reaches your house.
You could avoid getting involved with the empire in the first place. The obvious way to be free of bills is to cancel the services the bills ask payment for. No Sky TV no mobile phone, no Internet, no car
The more bills you pay, the more you are asking others to do things for you, which in another world, you would be doing yourself. They sell themselves to you, all these bill-pedlars, with the promise that they will make your life easier. But they don’t. They make it more difficult. Reducing your dependence on external services provides time and money. You can even make your own energy. It’s time to bring back medieval technology: windmills and water power. Collect your rainwater. Install solar panels. Wind, flowing water, rain and sun are all free gifts from nature. It makes sense to use them.
Put simply, if you avoid consuming the products of the system, then you will not have to pay for those products. This way, you will save not only the money that you used to spend on umpteen services, you will also save on the time and mental hassle spent dealing with all those bills. The oppression will gradually depart from your doorstep. And you won’t have to work so hard. Life will become cheaper and easier.
It’s common for pop stars who have done everything drink, drugs and all the rest of it — to give everything up and drink lukewarm water and lemon and go to bed at nine thirty. The two paths are closely linked. Myself, I am a moderate; I go for the middle path. I never wanted to give up drinking but I ended up with these bloody pains in my stomach and had to stop in the end but I still enjoy the odd bong from time to time.
I am the King Of The Potato people and I live at Potato mansion with my son Mr Poppel, we get visited once or twice per week with Mad Mick and his son Luke Baggins which we spend exchanging gossip and discussing the utopia we would create if we ran the country.
About 5 years ago we used to both consume large quantities of Skol Super Lager and Mad Mick lived in a smelly flat not far from where I live now but first Mad Mick chose to become a monk and go live with his mum at the monastery and then after frequent bouts of pancreatic I finally gave up drinking and started planning my rebellion against the empire.
Initially I was joined by Rimmer
Rimmer joined the Space Corps at a low-entry level as a third technician, and devoted his life to his career, engaging with few activities outside of work. On one notable occasion, he volunteered for the Samaritans, a suicide-prevention helpline, only to resign after one day when five people committed suicide after talking to him — one of whom had dialled the wrong number and only wanted the cricket results — an event dubbed "Lemming Sunday" by the newspapers, but he too had fallen on hard times when the empire had broken him and wound up destitute at Salt Pot Mansion.
However me and Rimmer fell out after he moved to his sisters The Ice Queens palace and left his dogs for me to look after, he then refused to come and pick them back up even after I complained they were causing me to suffer another nervous breakdown.
So one day in anger I drove over to Ice Mansion to give Rimmer the dogs back but he hid in the house and pretended he wasn’t there and I was greeted with The Ice Queens, fiancé, The Russian Spy who threw me over there washing line further exacerbating my back problem.
With Rimmer gone I had to find other Potato people to help me with the rebellion against the empire and the dreaded death star they were constructing that would zap people who failed to pay one of there bills e.g. a council tax payment or a TV licensing request.
For this I gained the help of Diesel and The Tasmanian Devil as well as Werewolf and Werewolfs brother, whom the latter character took over my Taxi Company which was going bankrupt.
Now I have started growing my own cabbages in my back garden and in my shed I have been constructing solar powered washing machines so that I am self sufficient and the rebellion against the mighty empire is gathering pace.
The bills I receive no longer trouble me and when the agents of the empire come, the bailiffs we are ready…
I am the Russian Spy and I despise the empire or maybe what is known to you all as The Government, Capitalism, its crap.
Democracy, as conceived by politicians, is a form of The Empire, that is to say, it is a method of making people do what their leaders wish under
the impression that they are doing what they themselves wish.
Here is a Letter from council asking for vote registration in 2006
“Please note. Persons wishing to obtain credit may experience problems obtaining credit if their name does not appear on the Electoral Register”.
Do you think we might be able to live free of The Empire.
A vast, centralized state seems such an unavoidable reality that the most we seem able to hope for is to vote every five years for a very slightly different oligarchy to correct the worst excesses of the previous one.
We cannot see beyond parliament as a means of organizing things. We grumble about the clowns in power and then elect a new lot of clowns. We believe in ‘reform’, that endless, futile process of meddling. Hope triumphs over experience.
The Empires appreciate terrorists, because they provide a good advertisement for the need for The Empire, for its protection. They love wars, because they give The Empire a reason for existing
There is also something rotten at the heart of The Empire — and that is the simple fact that to be in power is a career option. You get paid for it. Plus, you get free taxis, swanky dinners, and people write about you in the newspapers. Politics is Fame Academy for the talentless, the X-Factor for boring men and women. Surely the fact that every politician is on a career treadmill and is constantly trying to earn more money and reach a higher position in the hierarchy is in itself enough evidence to damn the entire project If our public servants, so-called, were unpaid and anonymous, then we might find it easier to trust them.
Politics is not the art of running a country; it is the art of persuading the people that they need a set of paid politicians to run the country. And in this dark art, our leaders are skilled and proficient. In order to keep themselves in power, they need to sell us the idea of themselves as our saviors and also to sell us the idea that we could not run things without them. In other words, they simply need to convince us that we are stupid and helpless. And this is what they work so hard to do. This is achieved principally by constant media coverage. Every newspaper, every radio bulletin, every TV news show, every news-based website: they are all crammed to bursting with coverage of party politics. It is the kind of free publicity that a PR for a private company can only dream of. And all these bulletins sell the inevitability and the necessity of The Empire to us. They do it very well: most prime ministers would be very plausible sellers of second-hand cars — indeed, I don’t doubt that most could sell you crack cocaine while persuading you that you were helping struggling economies and doing your health a lot of good into the bargain.
Then there is the spectacle of a general election. Every five years or so, the people, who have been more or less ignored by the politicians since the previous election, are suddenly bombarded with the notion that voting is very important. In an absurd piece of theatre, party leaders appear on television and are asked questions by groups of ‘ordinary people’. This TV show, which is on for an hour every five years, is supposed to convince the viewer that we live in a democracy. Leaflets are dropped, earnest young candidates (career politicians on the make) come to the door promising that they will sort out the mess created by the current The Empire. Newspapers are full of endless speculation and reports on the campaigns. I suppose that the whole thing can be enjoyed for a few moments as a piece of entertainment. The mistake is to think it has the slightest meaning or relevance to our everyday lives whatsoever. The election will happen, the fever will die down and things will go back to normal, the elected party doing whatever it feels like because it persuades itself that the people have elected it.
The niggardly spirit of parliament communicates itself to the farthest reaches of the kingdom. The bureaucrats, the joyless health and safety police, have tentacles everywhere I recently tried to organize a banquet in my fiance’s palace, Ice Mansion where I live with Miss Jiggy, Uncle Rimmer, The Ice Queen and her four going on five children.
A simple task, one might have thought. But no. After battling with piles of forms in order to get a Public Entertainment License so we would be permitted by the authorities to have eighty people dancing to Madonna and Beanie Man, I eventually gave up, because, in order to get the license for this one event, we were going to have to spend £1,400 to have an emergency fire fighting system installed, thanks to health and safety regulations and Uncle Rimmers bongs
Well, £1,400 might be affordable to a big company, but our budget simply would not stretch. So what I did instead was to throw the party anyway but keep it private. I sent invitations to all the locals and all our friends (but not The King of the Potato People because he tried to unload some dogs at the palace a few months back).
On the day itself people brought their own Stellas. The Ice Queen cooked a mighty Polar Bear, and we offered baguettes We held it at tea-time and called it a tea dance so people could bring their kids. The party started at four, finished at eight thirty that evening. Everyone drank heavily the room was filled with smoke mainly from Uncle Rimmers bongs, there was dancing, and Dominating Donna, Silverback, Day Burty and friends alike had a thoroughly good time. We even made a small profit, which went back into the Stella fund for next week.
However, I could easily have given up, and that would have been as a direct result of recent The Empire legislation, which removes power from localities, imposes the same rules across the whole country and makes it very, very difficult to put on a party. And the final insult is that we pay the The Empire between a quarter and a half of our income for the privilege of being patronized and bossed around. We are obliged by law to spend an enormous amount of money in tax so that 650 parliamentarians can give full rein to their vanity and bustling self-importance. Even the supposedly put-upon medieval peasant was expected to put only 10 per cent of his earnings and produce into the local pot. If he resented that, what would he think of giving up to 40 per cent? And, in the days before standing armies and national debt, there was no central taxation. Your tithes went straight back into your local community rather than, as today, your tax being sucked off to London, wasted on the salaries of a load of ditherers and then returned to your local area having shrunk to almost nothing.
In the past, the Puritan tendencies of Parliament were often corrected to a degree by the more fun-loving monarchy. Now, sadly, the monarchy has lost any sort of power, and the old system of a parliament and a king has been replaced by The Empire by the boring, a mediocrity. I rejoice when Prince Charles comes out with a cranky view. He opposes the bourgeois consensus and has the courage to express opinions that do not reflect the received wisdom.
So what can we do? What can we do? What can we do in order, as the modern vernacular has it, to ‘get our lives back’? What can we do to be ourselves, rather than trying to conform aid contort ourselves into a uniform model? Well, we can start simply by ignoring The Empire. The best way to smash the state is to take no notice of it and hope it goes away. We are constantly told by the media that not voting is a sign of ‘apathy’, while to me it is a sign of the absolute Opposite. When you do not vote, as I don’t, then something fundamental shifts in your psyche. You can no longer blame the The Empire for your problems, as you have opted out of their system. Therefore, you start, to ‘act for yourself’. You become responsible.
An important mental step in escaping the power of The Empire is to understand that, to some degree, we ourselves are complicit with the problem. By not acting for ourselves, we allow others to act for us. It’s no use sitting around moaning about your life, because that is to abdicate responsibility for it. And nothing external can make us think or act in certain ways unless we allow it to do so.
In order to keep bureaucracy and taxes to a minimum, we will earn small amounts of money and instead do favours for each other. We don’t want affordable housing, jobs and shopping centres. Those are slave’s perks, handed down by authority which may be more or less lenient according to whichever The Empire fate has installed. What we want is to create our own little aristocracies We want soil, caravans and trees, smallholdings, vegetable patches, art and crafts. And beer and books. That’s all. So, not a turning over but rather a mass ignoring of the dominant system might be our only hope.
Like in the book “The Lion The Witch & The Wardrobe”, Narnia is not so much a religious allegory, as is commonly thought, as a story about freedom. The White Witch is a symbol for Elizabeth I and her crackdown on fun, which attacked Merry England. In Narnia, you will remember, it is always winter and never Christmas. Mr Tumnus the fawn remembers the old days of dancing and merry-making. Gone is the variety of the seasons, gone feasting, gone dancing. Instead, mere uniformity.
We are, in fact, all free. It is just a question of whether or not we choose to exercise that freedom. We make the choice. I am here to remind you that you can be free if you so wish, for this is a simple fact that is more or less hidden from us. We are told we are slaves and we accept it because we can’t be bothered to be free. instead, we sink into work-slavery and shopping.
I am Jedi Master Mad Mick commonly shortened to just “Mad Mick” by my many friends which is not to acknowledge my abilities with the force but its just easier to say, in fact some people even call me “Mick” or “Michael”.
I work at “The Lost World” at a secret location between Leeds and Castleford as “The Despatch & Talking Bollocks Director” and I am in charge of Despatching wagons as well as purchasing.
I work in a small office with 4 other poor souls, The Honeymonster, Father Bell, Alf Garnet and our CEO Dolph Lungren, overall there are 38 people in total working at our site but the company as a whole has more that 70,000 employees worldwide.
Anyway today I am not here to talk about my place of work or indeed moan about the 23½ mile commute backwards and forwards along one of the busiest and most dangerous motorways in the UK, I am here to talk about the people I know where I live, well some of them anyway.
I don’t really know why I write stupid aimless waffle like this but I guess when I decided to become a Monk back in September 2004 I had nothing better to do with my spare time.
I live with my mummy and daddy at “The Monastery” in the village of Bradley, I also share this house with my schizophrenic brother “The Ticking Bomb” who has 2 personalities, one that is incredibly morose, doesn’t talk to anyone, a total loner and generally miserable and another personality that is incredibly morose, doesn’t talk to anyone, a total loner and generally miserable.
If these two personalities sound the same it is because they are, we often fantasize that The Ticking Bomb has another personality deep within his psyche called “Muffin Man” and this personality only comes to the surface at night.
According to the legends Muffin Man wonders round Bradley and stops crime, he is a bit like the characters Batman, Spiderman and Superman but so far these rumours are just that simply heresy.
During the day it has been reported by many of Bradley’s inhabitants, especially those who are fond of fishing that they can find a lovely secluded fishing place next to the river and set up all there gear content that there isn’t another soul for miles around.
They gaze there eyes across the undergrowth near the lagoon and are astonished to find out that hidden in the bushes is The Ticking Bomb busy drinking his cans of super lager and smoking his rollups.
You see somewhere in his life, he lost is way and now he just wonders around aimlessly trying to escape boredom by anaesthetising reality with cans of special brew
I am a bit like Doctor Snuggles as well at The Monastery where I live, we have just taken in another unwanted doggie called Mr Bodie and he has fitted in well as a companion to my best mate and aging female black Labrador cross called Miss Boley as well as Starry our cat and two goldfish Billy and Burty.
I mentioned earlier that I was a monk, well I say that because after a previous encounter with the mother of my only child I lost any sexual feelings for members off the opposite sex and before you say it I am not a Uphill Gardner neither.
However in recent years I have noticed that I am beginning to redevelop emotions and feelings, for a few girls, my latest is Veras who is a member of my Monday Spiritual Group, I just always seem to be attracted to girls who have a big Fuck Off across their forehead.
So well the product of the love I shared with my first encounter, The Ice Queen is called Luke Baggins and has just turned 13, he still likes to visit me every weekend and really has been an inspiration to me.
Me and Luke Baggins have a special handshake when greeting and saying bye to each other and this is that I grab his left foot with my right hand and he grabs my right foot with his left hand and with both our other legs we hop 3 times on the spot.
Luke also introduced me to playing “lightsabres” with rolls of wrapping paper in the pound shop or supermarket and I once sent him into a bookshop to enquire about a book called “Fly Fishing” by “JR Hartley”, this was when he was younger he now views a lot of my requests as suspect.
When he was younger too he believed all sorts of nonsense I used to tell him such as there was a strange creature who lived in our local nature reserve called “Hamster-Spring-a-Leak”, that my mums house was haunted by its previous occupant called Mr Dennison and also an entity called “The Creepy Crawley Hand” was poking about the place but both of the latter lived in our attic and only came out after the hours of midnight when our car turned back into a pumpkin.
Luke has 2 other brothers called Stig and simply “Baby” and a sister called Bobble who are all younger than him, Stig and Bobbles’ dad is Zooming Jason who is a bit of a dodgy “wideboy” and lives at our local scrap yard which is situated under electricity pylons.
Luke also has another brother on the way whose dad is his mum The Ice Queens current and indeed best boyfriend (now fiancé) called The Russian Spy and she is naming him after me and The Russian Spies dad The Quantum Physicist.
Luke lives at Ice Mansion in Almondbury with all the above and also his Uncle Rimmer and Aunty Jiggy.
His Uncle Rimmer joined the Space Corps at a low-entry level as a third technician, and devoted his life to his career, engaging with few activities outside of work. On one notable occasion, he volunteered for the Samaritans, a suicide-prevention helpline, only to resign after one day when five people committed suicide after talking to him — one of whom had dialled the wrong number and only wanted the cricket results — an event dubbed "Lemming Sunday" by the newspapers.
Uncle Rimmer then fell upon hard times after being made redundant from the space corps and ending up living at The Salt Pot Mansion which he was subsequently forced to leave after refusing to say “sorry” to his then landlord Uncle George and this he how he ended up living at Ice Mansion “temporarily”, though he does now have a new flat which used to belong to his old friend The Knight Rider however it is too cold to move into yet.
The Ice Queen is a fantastic mother to all her children but her luck with boyfriends has not always been exemplarity, first there was me who in them days wasn’t the most stable of individuals, then came Zooming Jason who wasn’t the most generous of individuals then a total disaster with the evil Mr Umper Lumpa but finally she found bliss with The Russian Spy.
Anyway that’s enough about the occupants of Ice Mansion, so what about the other people I know, well of course there is my niece, Buttercup, who was the product of the dangerous combination of my brother Ticking Bomb who I mentioned earlier but before he went nuts and the Ice Queens older sister, Dominating Donna, talk about keeping it in the family!
Buttercup now lives with her mum and her mums boyfriend Silverback who worked at The Kirklees incinerators in Huddersfield but really this was just a cover story for his real job which was investigating people with special powers like Noah from the TV Program “Heroes”.
Buttercup used to be such a nice sweet little girl with plenty of nice pleasant friends like Dandelion, Tulip and Daisy but since Christmas she had started hanging around with really bad people on one of the roughest estates in Huddersfield and as a result had started to become an agent of the dark side.
On one occasion she had “borrowed” her grandma and granddads key so she could let herself into there house in the middle of the night but had not
bothered coming in the end and left the key behind at this dodgy drug den in Fartown, the key then had to be recovered by The King Of The Potato People.
Which brings me to my next character, The King Of The Potato People and I am not going to mention this time his brief meeting with The Russian Spy when he was catapulted over the clothes line after a dispute about some dogs that Uncle Rimmer had left him lumbered with because I think this subject has been covered quite well by many earlier releases of my bullshit.
The King Of The Potato People is probably the current friend I have known the longest and is very intelligent with an IQ of 6000 (the same IQ as 6000 PE teachers and 12,000 car park attendants) although you would not believe this to talk to him.
He has an 11 year old son called Mr Poppel to Dominationg Donna having stolen her from my brother The Ticking Bomb after he went nuts and I think in tetrospect he somewhat regrets this decision.
He used to have a thriving taxi business which didn’t make much profit but did make him very poorly with all the stress but now has handed his empire over to one of his nephews called Kryten
Kryten is a series 4000 Service Mechanoid and with The King Of The Potato People's help Kryten learnt to lie, cheat, and develop emotions of his own much to his brother The Werewolfs annoyance because not only did Kryten have more knowledge in Taxi Driving Procedure than him but he also commanded more respect from The King Of The Potato People and Mr Poppel. This droid originally designed to clean toilets now had a position of authority and respect. Kryten development continued over the years and the arrival of Diesel caused new emotions to surface. Those of anger, resentment and jealousy towards the new potato member whom he was convinced would lure his beloved Mr The King Of The Potato People away with all his 'in and out bits'. Not only that but she put the Salad Cream in the cupboard and his pants in his socks drawer.
The King Of The Potato People has no love for the empire, like most of my friends and despises the bills they keep sending him, he complains mercilessly about the crap on the television and promises that 2008 will be his year.
He has been “poorly” with some strange pains in his stomach somewhere for the last three and a half years after being attacked by five menacing individuals who wore hoods over their invisible heads as the inside of the hood was empty and only darkness could be seen by anyone peering in, for transport they rode high powered motocross bikes and for weapons they each carried a hammer
The King Of The Potato People was in his usual inebriated condition back then and was a sitting duck for what was about to occur, The King Of The Potato People was always complaining that his Citroen xsara Picasso, he had back then had no air conditioning now that wasn’t a problem anymore since it had no windows
The King Of The Potato People then received a black eye when he attempted to go out side and negotiate a settlement with the hoods and his room window was also obliterated, he was then knocked unconscious and since that day has been continuously troubled with pains in his stomach.
During the time recuperating he has quit drinking like myself, back in them days me and him would sink numerous cans of super-strength while talking loads of crap indeed from 1995-2004 I must of spent in the region of £35,000 on cans of Skol Super, I would drink them like people consume soft drinks my first one would be at 4am to get me started for the day.
By dinnertime at work the shakes would be starting and I would nip out for a “walk” to keep healthy only I would be gagging for another which I would rapidly consume in the fields near where I worked before immediately throwing up then stagger back to work and pretend everything was normal.
Getting home was the best though, I would run from the bus stop to Mr Sharmas and buy myself a couple Skol Supers straight from the fridge and dash to my favourite spot in the woods then drink them down before tea.
I would then wobble home and eat my tea which I immediately threw up about three quarters of it before getting four more icy cold cans from my emergency stash and enjoying the evening with them watching the funny patterns on the screen of my sons playstation while playing an audio CD and enjoying a joint.
Finally I would pass out bed No1 for the night which was usually damp from the night before but I kept turning the mattress and letting it dry out of all the urine that gradually dissolved it.
Finally I would wake having wet myself again at around 4am transfer myself to Bed No2 then drink my 4am can from the fridge and repeat the process all over again.
Occasionally I would cut down to 4 cans per day but this was real difficult and invariable I made up for it at some later date, weekends, holidays and Christmas were spent with a can of skol super attached to a drip above my head and spent in a permanent daze.
Now all that has changed since the spiritual group I told you about earlier is in fact the AA, no not the car breakdown company but Alcoholics Anonymous and it is here I have met my soul mate Veras.
Although I ain’t asked her out yet as of going to press, I feel comfortable talking to her and we share a lot of the madness in the past, in fact she used to brew her own beer in her bedroom and was a street drinker like myself.
So well I guess this is bringing to a end this episode of “Friends”, in the next episode I will talk about the ones I have mentioned a bit more and also introduce some new characters such has Picker Packer, Jedi Master D666, The Tasmanian Devil, Switch and The Bradley Megaphone to name a few.
I hope you have enjoyed it, I will leave you with the prophetic story about the Golf Balls and the Mayonnaise Jar…
A Jedi Master stood before his class of padawans and had some items in front of him. He picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls; he then asked the padawans if the jar was full, they agreed that it was.
The Jedi Master then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar, he shook the jar lightly, the pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls and once again he then asked the padawans if the jar was full, they agreed it was.
The Jedi Master next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar, of course, the sand filled up everything else, he asked once more if the jar was full, the padawans responded with a unanimous "yes."
The Jedi Master then produced two glasses of wine from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand.
"Now," said the Jedi Master, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life.
The golf balls are the important things; your family, your children, your health, your friends, and your favourite passions; things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full."
"The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car.
The sand is everything else; the small stuff."
"If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls, the same goes for life, if you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you."
"Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness, play with your children, write stories about your life and friends and give them to people, have fun and enjoy yourself, live in the moment - take care of the golf balls first; the things that really matter, set your priorities, the rest is just sand."
One of the padawans raised her hand and inquired what the wine represented.
The Jedi Master smiled. "I'm glad you asked, it just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of glasses of wine with a friend."
But make sure you, unlike me just only have a couple! And yes I will keep on taking them nice little pink tablets like the doctor told me.
The AA conscience meeting is like them days at school when the term comes to an end and the teacher lets you bring games in, you can reflect on the few months that’s past you by.
And so it was tonight at our Last of the Summer Winos Monday meeting after a long and very powerful share by our pseudo-vicar Mr Tony Blair who was eight years sober but due to the anonyminity principle I am not allowed to mention that.
The only other strange incident that occurred in the meeting was Veras got up and left prematurely and Bob the Builder who was sat next to her was accused of “touching her” by Yoda.
Anyway, the conscious meeting commenced right after everyone except me had sung happy birthday and I had collected the takings for what could maybe be my last time.
We were all assembled in a ring, The Author, The Computer Cowboy, Spanish, The Messiah, Tony Blair, The Doctors Next Door Neighbour, two I will call Mr A and Ms B to protect there identity, The Catlady, Yoda and myself with The Doctor in the secretarys seat chairing the meeting.
We all received a copy of the minutes of the last meeting, the meetings agenda and my extensive “keep it simple” finance report
At The Doctors prompting, The Messiah commenced the meeting by giving a description of the role of the GSO which he described as “very exciting” but when saying this did so in rather slow speech possibly indicating that it could mean exactly the opposite.
After an extensive debate it was decided that The GSO, The secretary and the treasurer all required a minimum of one years continuous sobriety whereas the literature secretary required just 3 months sobriety.
The Messiah in trying to sell the position had to admit that he had only attended one GSO meeting in the last 2 years but did say that Intergroup was very important for organising telephone help lines, with literature and doing duties that couldn’t be done at group level.
This prompted jeers by Yoda and a calling for order by The Doctor and the position of GSO was put up for nominations which The Doctors Next Door Neighbour indicated that The Posh Lady might be interested but was not present at the meeting has she had prior engagements and at this she was quickly proposed and seconded into the job.
The next duty was my own as treasurer, I reported that we were paid up rent-wise until the end of March and we had £139.13 in the pot after tonight’s taking, I was advised by Mr Blair to keep hold of the money subject to a check by the future literature secretary.
The Doctor put my position up to nominations to a dark silence and this was broken by Spanish indicating that he might be interested but who would produce these posh reports and the only way he could improve was doing say a power point presentation, I offered to email him the excel spreadsheet but he declined saying if it aint broke don’t fix it.
The Doctor then asked me if I was prepared to continue to be the treasurer for another 12 months and I said it would be no problem, in fact I added that it gives me a purpose in life which followed a little laughter.
The third position of literature secretary was preposed and seconded to The Author, the previous trusted servent Mr Blair admitting that he had not done a stock take of the literature for “quite some time” and had grown “complacent” towards his duties adding that it was more suitable for members in the early stages of sobriety in that it didn’t require a great deal of responsibility.
The final position of Secretary was also replaced, meaning that 3 out of the four positions had been substituted and only my own position had remained with me, I suspect they really believed that this position of treasurer had given me a purpose to attend at least one meeting per week, maybe they suspected that if someone else had replaced me here I might drift away from meetings altogether.
What followed the was the proverbial classic debate which made the House Of Commons look a efficient synergy of perfection.
It all started because the Catlady proposed that maybe we should adopt a new position of Catering person who would help the “opener upper” by washing up etc and also serve cups of tea to the members of the meeting through the “hatch” into the spare room thereby eliminating congestion in the kitchen area.
Just as votes were about to be cast on the idea, both Yoda and Tony Blair put forward counter-arguments to the proposal saying it was “stupid” and they like the idea of making there way through the congestion in the kitchen to make the tea how they like it in there favourite cups.
Votes were once again about to be cast but this was once again interrupted by The Author who indicated that it was dangerous for so many people to congregate in the kitchen area and it was basically a dog eat dog world in there where people would just look after themselves pinching people who had waited longers hot water and tea-bags.
This then prompted both Mr A and Ms B to say they would be the first two people to volunteer for the job as Father Ted’s Assistant should it be accepted on a trial period.
Ms B added that she had many of the most meaningful conversations while over the sink washing cups and this had had a very positive effect on her sobriety.
Eventually votes were cast almost unanimously in favour of the position of Catering Person which like the positions of Opener-Upper and Chair-person would be rotated on a four week cycle, the only two voting against were Tony Blair and Yoda.
So well that brought to an end our Conscience meeting for January 2008 and as I drove home I thought what fun it had been!
Many years in the past around the time when Terry and Mick started working at Swillington the before the introduction of mechanical diggers the employees here had to dig out the clay using picks shovels and crowbars.
Then Don came with his Akerman H10V and started using machines which was a lot easier, now with the new plant we will have giant computerised digging machines which will be operated by Don or whoever his successor is from a little building facing the quarry, he will operate one of these diggers by remote control and place all the clay in a special huge automatic tipper wagon which will run on a railway track and take the clay backwards and forwards to the automatic grinding machine.
The bricks will be produced virtually labour free by robots but we will still need some form of human interaction for which four people will be selected to have a operation to implant a computer chip and a special aerial.
Darren Bell and Steve Todd have already been accepted on to the waiting list for a even more advanced super-implant, Steve will probably have his s-implant fitted at the same time has his new hip which was in fact kindly donated by a Rhino who died carrying a donor card.
The chips will allow the central computer to report all the details of the plants operation, kiln temperatures, dryer temperatures, production rates directly into the field of vision and which will do this by fooling the brains neurones that the information is in fact there in space in front of them.
The information will be fed wirelessly to them and will have aerials a bit like the teletubbies, they will both then be able to subordinate the various tasks to their chosen 4 brick operatives or if necessary the electricians David Zinis and/or Geoff Shaw.
The brick operatives smaller chip will allow just the relevant information selected by Darren or Steve so that they are not overwhelmed by the bigger picture of the plants overall functioning and distracted as a result.
David Zinis already carries a two way radio so the change to a Bluetooth earpiece will be not such a drastic step however Geoff will be forced to carry the new device and if he refuses will have it surgically implanted in his ear.
At the end of the line both Gary and Andy will have specially adapted Forklift Trucks which will be able to carry up to 16 packs at a time off the special conveyor which will have the capacity to buffer up to 256 packs before bringing the automated dehacker to a temporary halt.
Of course the information and time left before the filling of the buffers off the dehacker will be constantly relayed to Gary and Andys respective Fork Lift Trucks allowing them time to load wagons in between.
Sadly by the time all this occurs Mick Brayford will be retired and in his place will be an android in the office similar to kryten off the TV program red dwarf who will make cups of tea, issue commands to the two remaining superfitters and discuss life in the pits with Mr Lardner.
Mad Mick will be resituated at the house at the bottom of the lane and will have a dual role of despatch ticket coordinator and night watchman, he will also be able to live in the house and thereby avoid his 23 ½ mile commute backwards and forwards from Huddersfield and causing less contribution to the carbon footprint.
The computer that oversees the whole plant will be automatically updated by a terminal at the despatch desk of bricks leaving the factory by the activation of the despatch notes and also the automatic weighing of vehicles as they come onto and leave the premises, there will be no other way into the yard except past mad micks despatch window.
When bricks are produced at the dehacker they will automatically added to the yards stock in real time this will be achieved by a special state of the art “eye” which will recognise the brick types being produced.
Production plans will be okayed by Mr Lardner and programmed into the system via internet from Stewartby or wherever the HQ is situated by then and this information will be automatically relayed to Steve Todds superchip when time has come to change over, of course all the kiln temperatures and sands rusticating machines etc will be automatically ordered and put in place.
The possibility of a teleporting device to instantaneously transport Mr Lardner backwards and forwards to his home in Leicestershire has been considered and not yet ruled out, though at present the latest Mach IV Quantum Teleporting devices will only transport up to XXXL people and Mr Lardner is XXXXL.
This new plant should be in production by 2010 and Mr Todd is due for his dual hip/implant operation in late 2009.
Once upon a time, in a Queen-dom called Almondbury, there lived a little princess named Bobble.
She was eight years old, going on nine and a very good little girl and never misbehaved in any way, she looked forward every weekend to seeing Trisha’s mum and sister, in Deighton, but this weekend she wouldn’t be going because Bobble fell ill due to the fumes from her Uncle Rimmer’s bong and took to her bed.
Uncle Rimmer was always drinking his Stella’s and smoking his bongs and talking to his good friend Mr Parrot, but he sometimes forgot that poor Bobble and the other members of The Ice Queens palace did not want to inhale all the fumes and listen to his parrot as well.
The Potato Doctor was called to see her and took her temperature and felt her pulse and made her stick out her tongue.
The Potato Doctor lived in Bradley and was known locally there as the King of the Potato People and did not see eye to eye with Rimmer because he had left some dogs at his house and run off without coming back to collect them but this was far in the past now and since that day they had not spoken to each other.
The Potato Doctor was worried. He sent for the Ice Queen, Bobble's mother, and the Ice Queen came to see her.
"I will get you anything your heart desires," the Ice Queen said. "Is there anything your heart desires?"
"Yes," said the princess. "I want the moon, if I can have the moon, I will be well again."
Now the Ice Queen had a great many sons who always got for her anything she wanted so she told her daughter that she could have the moon. Then she went to the throne room and pulled a bell cord, three long pulls and a short pull, and presently the Luke Baggins came into the room.
The Luke Baggins was the son of Mad Mick and he tried hard to make his mum happy but she wouldn’t let him bring his PSP or his laptop from his dads house to play with them but he being the kid he was took it all in his stride however her daughter bobble got everything she wanted being the Ice Queens only daughter.
"I want the moon," said the Ice Queen. "Your sister Princess Bobble wants the moon. If she can have the moon, she will get well again."
"The moon?" exclaimed Luke Baggins, his eyes widening. Luke loved his mum but would never dare tell her, it was so hard to get close to her because she was so cold, and well his dad, Mad Mick was always joking about hamster spring a leak and it was hard to have a serious discussion with him.
"Yes, the moon," said the Ice Queen. "M-o-o-n, moon. Get it tonight, tomorrow at the latest."
The Luke Baggins wiped his forehead with T Shirt and then blew his nose loudly and wiped it on the sleeve of his new coat that he had bought at Hudderfield market after his brother Stig had squirted meatball marina all over his sweatshirt.
"I have got a great many things for you in my time, mum," he said. "And I always try my best to please you"
He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. "Here I got a list here." he glanced at the list, frowning. "I have crawled into the attic looking for wires and hidden cameras, I have brought you ice cubes, ethylene glycol, and liquid nitrogen to walm you up, snow drops, paper doyleys, and cans of
carling black label, a quarter of skunk, two dozen cans of stella, and a packet of cigs - sorry, Rimmer wrote that in there."
"I don't remember any paper doyleys," snapped the Ice Queen.
"It says paper doyleys right here on the list, and they are checked off with a little check mark," said Luke Baggins indignantly. "So there must have been paper doyleys. You just forgot."
"Never mind the doyleys," said the Ice Queen. "What I want now is the moon."
"I have gone as far as Skipsea and Wales to get things for you, dear mother," said Luke Baggins. "But the moon is out of the question. It is 35,000 miles away and it is bigger than the room the princess lies in. Furthermore, it is made of solid ice. I cannot get the moon for you. Paper doyleys, yes, the moon, no."
The Ice Queen flew into a rage and told the Luke Baggins to leave the room and to tell Stig, her other son to come to the throne room and then go to his bed
Stig was a funny little, kid with a long “o” face, he often talked on MSN messenger to people nearly always starting his conversations with “Hi” then “What U Up 2” before following with a lot of bad spelling which invariably left the reader confused.
Today he was wearing a high red peaked hat converted with silver stars, and a long blue robe covered with golden owls which he had found in a drawer at Mad Mick’s house when he had been to visit Luke but got bored because Luke was always sat watching wrestling on his laptop.
“What are you doing with that stupid hat and gown on” The Ice Queen boomed when she saw him, “you have been to see Luke’s silly dad again, he’s f*cked Luke’s head up he’s not going to do the same to you”
She then told him she wanted the moon for his little sister, Bobble, and that she expected Stig to get it.
"I have worked a great deal of magic for you in my time, mum," said Stig. "As a matter of fact, I just happen to have in my pocket a list of the stuff I have done for you." He drew a paper from a deep pocket of his robe.
"It begins: `Dear Beth: I really love you and would like to be your boyfriend, I have feelings for you… -' No, that isn't it." Stig blushed, his “o” face looking a little sheepish then he pulled another piece of crumpled bum roll from another pocket of his robe. "Here it is," he said. "I bought you that 2 foot purple stuffed rabbit.
I saved you from evil Mr Umper Lumpa.
I helped you cook that meat and potato pie using pedigree chum dog food.
I went carol singing with you last Christmas and I bought you that cloak of invisibility-"
"It didn't work," said the Ice Queen. "The cloak of invisibility didn't work."
"Yes it did," said Stig.
"No, it didn't," said the Ice Queen. "I kept bumping into things, the same as ever."
"The cloak of invisibility is supposed to make you invisible," said Stig.
"It is not supposed to keep you from drinking cans of Carling Black Label."
"All I know is, I kept bumping into things," said the Ice Queen.
"What I want you to do now," said the Ice Queen, "is to get me the moon. Your little sis Princess Bobble wants the moon, and when she gets it, she will be well again."
"Nobody can get the moon," said Stig. "It is 150,000 miles away, and it is made of frozen green cheese, and it is twice as big as the palace."
The Ice Queen flew into another rage and sent Stig back to his bedroom with Luke. Then she rang a gong and summoned the Mr Fibble.
Mr Fibble was The Ice Queens youngest son at this moment in time but that would soon change with her next incarnation now well on the way
Mr Fibble crawled over with his dummy in his mouth and his eyes wide and full of wonder
"I don't want to hear a long list of all the things you have figured out for me since
2007," the Ice Queen said to him. "I want you to figure out how to get the moon for your sister princess Bobble. When she gets the moon, she will be well again."
"Maaama Emmmmmma," said Mr Fibble
You see Mr Fibble couldn’t talk yet but he had mastered the art of exploring and this he did driving the Ice Queen potty
"Daaaada," said Mr Fibble.
The Ice Queen flew into still another rage and sent Mr Fibble away. Then she rang for The Russian Spy.
The Russian Spy came hobbling into the throne room in his motley and his cap and bells, and sat at the foot of the throne, he had recently injured his back again playing a bit of rough and tumble with Uncle Rimmer and before that having thrown The King Of The Potato People over the washing line
"What is thy bidding my master?" asked the Russian Spy kneeling at her throne just like Darth Vador did for his gaffer in the 1980 film “The Empire Strikes Back”
The Russian Spy was the latest in a long line of servants that The Ice Queen had takenin, starting with that nutcase Mad Mick who was replaced by Zooming Jason and then the dark agent of evil Mr Umper Lumpa but everyone agreed that The Russian Spy was by far the best
"Nobody can do anything for me," said the Ice Queen mournfully. "Princess Bobble wants the moon and she cannot be well till she gets it, but nobody can get it for her. Every time I ask anybody for the moon, it gets larger and farther away. There is nothing you can do for me."
"How big do they say it is," asked The Russian Spy, "and how far away?"
"The Luke Baggins says it is 35,000 miles away and bigger than princess
Bobble's room," said the Ice Queen. "Stig says it is 150,000 miles away, and twice as big as this palace. Mr Fibble says “Daaada, Emmmmmma gurgle."
The Russian Spy sat and thought for a little while then he took a swig of his Carling Black Label. "Luke and Stig," he said, "must both be right. If they are both right, then the moon must be just as large and as far away as each person thinks it is. The thing to do is find out how big and how far away princess Bobble thinks it is."
"I never thought of that," said the Ice Queen.
"I will go to her, your majesty," said The Russian Spy. And he crept softly into
Princess bobbles room.
Princess Bobble was awake, and she was glad to see The Russian Spy, but her face was very pale and her voice very weak.
"Have you brought the moon to me?" she asked.
"Not yet," said The Russian Spy, "but I will get it for you right away. How big do you think it is?"
"It is a little smaller than my thumbnail," she said, "for when I hold my thumbnail up at the moon, it covers it."
"And how far away is it?" asked The Russian Spy.
"It is not as high as the big tree outside my window," said Bobble, "for sometimes it gets caught in the top branches."
"It will be very easy to get the moon for you," said The Russian Spy. "I will climb the tree tonight when it gets caught in the top branches and bring it to you."
Then he thought of something else. "What is the moon made of, Bobble?" he asked.
"Oh," she said, "it's made of gold, of course, silly."
The Russian Spy left Bobble's room and went to see the Aunty Jiggy.
Aunty Jiggy was very beautiful and very kind, she was also unfortunate in being Uncle Rimmer’s caretaker which meant many long hours at the bakery so she could pay for all the things he wanted, the only job Uncle Rimmer had was when he once worked for The Samaritans but everyone who phoned up ended up topping themselves including a poor unfortunate soul who had thought he was ringing the speaking clock.
Aunty Jiggy was good at making things and she was used to working hard so that she could provide Uncle Rimmer with all the toys and presents he wished, she had bought him a brand new Play station 3 over Christmas and she had to pay for his bongs, Stella’s and parrot food.
Anyway Miss Jiggy kindly made a tiny round moon just a little smaller than the thumbnail of princess Bobble then she put it on a golden chain so the princess could wear it around her neck.
"What is this thing I have made?" asked the Miss Jiggy when she was finished with it.
"You have made the moon," said The Russian Spy. "That is the moon."
"But the moon," said Aunty Jiggy, "is 500,000 miles away and is made of bronze and is round like a marble."
"That's what you think," said The Russian Spy as he went away with the moon.
The Russian Spy took the moon to princess Bobble, and she was overjoyed. The next day she was well again and could get up and go out in the streets to play.
But the Ice Queen's worries were not yet over. She knew that the moon would shine in the sky again that night, and she did not want the princess Bobble to see it. If she did, she would know that the moon she wore on a chain around her neck was not the real moon.
So the Ice Queen sent for the Luke Baggins and said, "We must keep princess
Bobble from seeing the moon when it shines in the sky tonight. Think of something."
The Luke Baggins tapped his forehead with his fingers thoughtfully and said, "I know just the thing. We can make some dark glasses for the princess Bobble. We can make them so dark that she will not be able to see the moon when it shines in the sky."
This made the Ice Queen very angry, and she shook her head from side to side. "If she wore dark glasses, she would bump into things," she said, "and then she would be ill again."
So she sent Luke Baggins back to bed and called Stig.
"We must hide the moon," said the Ice Queen, "so princess Bobble will not see it when it shines in the sky tonight. How are we going to do that?"
Stig stood on his hands and then he stood on his head and then he stood on his feet again. "I know what we can do," he said. "We can stretch some black velvet curtains on poles. The curtains will cover all the palace gardens like a circus tent, and the princess Bobble will not be able to see through them, so she will not see the moon in the sky."
The Ice Queen was so angry at this that she waved her arms around. "Black velvet curtains would keep out the air," she said. "Princess Bobble would not be able to breathe, and she would be ill again." So he sent Stig to bed and summoned Mr Fibble.
"We must do something," said the Ice Queen, "so princess Bobble will not see the moon when it shines in the sky tonight. If you know so much, figure out a way to do that."
Mr Fibble crawled around in a circle, and then he crawled around in a square, and then filled his nappy. "Heho" he said. "Emmmmma."
The Ice Queen sent Mr Fibble away.
When she looked up again, it was dark outside and she saw the bright rim of the moon just peeping over the horizon. She jumped up in a great fright and rang for The Russian Spy.
The Russian Spy came hobbling into the room and kneeled down at the foot of her throne his back was killing him after another day earning money for his boss Uncle Ebenezer who had given him a £5 Christmas bonus this year
"What is thy bidding my master?" he asked.
"Nobody can do anything for me," said the Ice Queen, mournfully. "The moon is coming up again. It will shine into princess Bobble's bedroom, and she will know it is still in the sky and that she does not wear it on a golden chain around her neck. Please do something, for when the princess sees the moon, she will be ill again."
The Russian Spy took a swig of his Carling Black Label. "What do your sons say?" he asked.
