An Easter tale

And then, about 20 minutes after they took Barabas away, a small brown bunny rabbit appeared at the foot of the cross which was erected on a small hill in Golgotha.

“Hello” said the little bunny rabbit.

“Hello” said the man who was nailed to the cross, which the bunny rabbit sat at the foot of.

“Why are you nailed to that piece of wood?” asked the bunny rabbit.

“Well it’s complicated,” said the man.

“Oh forget I asked,” said the bunny rabbit slightly hurt by the insinuation that he, a lowly bunny rabbit would not understand.

“Oh I’m sorry” said the man, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No it’s okay” said the bunny rabbit, “I can see you’ve got a lot on already, don’t worry about me”.

“Are you sure?” Insisted the man.

“Yes, I’m certain. Besides which, from your current predicament I can only assume you’ve been a very bad man which has lead to you having pieces of metal forced into your wrists and feet and then left to die on those bits of wood.”

“Hmm…” said the man, thinking, “Y’know, I really haven’t been bad at all”

“Really?” said the bunny rabbit in a tone, which was clear to the man that he was extremely dubious that the man was indeed free from the kind of sin that would typically result in being nailed to wood.

“No really” said the man. “All I did was say that it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if everyone was nicer to one another”.

“Oh” said the bunny rabbit, “That really doesn’t sound that bad at all”.

“Yes, I know,” said the man, “That and the fact that I am the Son of God and everyone should praise me and my Father a bit”.

“Err…” said the bunny rabbit as he turned to make a hasty retreat.

“Please wait a moment little brown bunny rabbit!” Cried out the man.

“Look,” said the little brown bunny rabbit, “I really need to be getting on with all my sniffing about and that”.

“Could you do me a tiny favour?” asked the man.

“It’s not going to take all day is it?” replied the rabbit as he sat up on his haunches with his front paws resting on his hips.

“No, not all, it’s very, very simple.” said the man.

“Okay, I’ll do it. But I want you to know” said the bunny rabbit, “that I’m doing it because as luck would have it I was a gap in my schedule for today.”

“I understand.” Said the man.

“And it has nothing to do with you being the Son of God and that,” continued the rabbit, “’cause I’m really not into all that social climbing stuff.”

“No, no, I understand. I can tell that you are a decent little creature with no aspirations to get a leg up to be a fixture of any annual religious festivals that may or may not result from this current event.”

“Okay then,” said the rabbit, “what can I do you for?”

“Well…” said the man, “I’m really rather peckish, could you get me a snack?”

“No problemo, and what about you Sir?” said the rabbit to man who was also nailed to pieces of wood next to the fellow with whom the rabbit was having this most unusual conversation.

“I wouldn’t mind something sweet” said the man with a croaky voice.

“Okay then,” said the rabbit. “I’ll be back in a tick”.

And off he shot, down the hill along the dusty road and into town.

The sun beat down and the men drifted in and out of consciousness, until about an hour and a half had passed.

“Mush” said the rabbit.

There was no response.

“Oi mush!” he repeated only this time with greater vigour.

The man slowly awoke and looked down as far as he could, “Oh, you’ve come back” he said to the rabbit.

“You betchya” said the rabbit, “And I’ve got you some ace nosh”.

“Oh good” said the man, “what is it?”

“A chocolate egg” said the rabbit.

“A what?” said the man somewhat perplexed.

“A chocolate egg” repeated the rabbit.

“And what is that?” asked the man.

“It’s chocolate, fashioned into the shape of an egg,” explained the rabbit.

“Oh right,” said the man, “Can I have a piece?”

The rabbit proceeded to throw piece after piece up to the man and to the Gentleman to his left who also requested something sweet to eat.

After a short while, the chocolate egg was all gone.

“Tell me little one,” said the man, “where did you get the chocolate egg from?”

“Well,” said the little brown bunny rabbit, “I actually got it from home.”

“Oh, and where is home for you?” asked the man.

“You know the town of Ster?” said the rabbit.

“Yes” said the man, “I do believe I do.”

“Well,” said the rabbit, “I live in a small hole in the ground, just to the East of there.”

That is how the crucifixion of the Christ, chocolate eggs and the East Ster bunny rabbit have come to be celebrated together at this time of year.

The play - first couple of minutes

ACT ONE

A church hall in a small village in the south of England. Positioned at each corner of the hall are four plinths with plastic lily’s and candles. At the centre of the hall is an open casket with the suited body of Nigel Abbott, arms folded, seemingly at peace.

At the back of the hall is a long table with a white tablecloth draped over it and a range of buffet snacks and drinks.

Albinoni's Adagios plays in the background.

The lights slowly come up as if it is a new dawn. As the lights are raised, the stage is slowly filled with mourners.

An elderly couple clad in funeral black enter stage left; man and woman walk up to the coffin. The woman looks at the body of Nigel Abbott and immediately brings her hanky to her face to hide her distress. The man comforts her and moves her to the back of the stage.

MATT SLEEN enters, blue jeans, trainers, black T-shirt, he is accompanied by LIZ ABBOTT. LIZ is dressed in a long black dress with a black hat and veil. She looks as if she should be an elderly Italian lady attending the funeral of her husband, which she is not. Together they walk to the coffin and peer in. MATT looks over to the elderly couple in the corner, the elderly woman still crying, her husband still trying to comfort her. LIZ lifts her veil and continues to gaze at the body of her bother.

LIZ sighs deeply and audibly as if she is deep in retrospective thought.

LIZ: Wish he’d always been this quiet.

MATT: Is that really your brother?

LIZ: (Incredulously) What?

MATT: Is that really Nig?

LIZ: ‘Cause it bloody is. (LIZ looks at the other people in the hall) Must be, that’s Auntie Pat and Uncle Derek over there.

MATT: Who’s that? (gestures with his head toward CLAIRE LEWIS - young blond suited woman who has just entered).

LIZ: Erm… Don’t know, don’t recognises her. Maybe an ex of Nig’s.

MATT: No way, she’s quite hot.

LIZ digs MATT sharply in the side with her elbow and shots him a disapproving look.

MATT: What?

LIZ: Just… I don’t know, just be a bit more… (pause) y’know, were at my bothers funeral for God sake.

MATT: I know I know.

LIZ: Well… y’know.

MATT: I know.

LIZ: Hmm.

MATT looks around, waits for LIZ to look down at her brother again and looks over to the CLAIRE again. CLAIRE notices MATT and nods solemnly back. LIZ without looking up digs MATT again in the side.

MATT: Owwwwa. (pause, rubs side) Liz, when can we start the buffet? My body thinks my throats been slit.

LIZ shoots MATT an outraged look, MATT immediately realises that his remark may not have been entirely appropriate. He puts his hands up and shrugs his shoulders to indicate that he is sorry. LIZ has another look around and then down at the body of her brother. She slowly and gently places the back of her hand on her brother’s cheek. As soon as she touches him, she looks surprised. She turns her hand round and fully places her hand, palm side down across his face.

LIZ: He’s not as cold as I would have expected. Go on Matt, have a feel.

MATT: (Shocked) I’m not touching a dead body.

LIZ: Go on, don’t be such a baby, it’s not some stranger, it’s Nigel.

MATT: No way, I wasn’t that keen on touching your brother when he was alive, I’ll be buggered if I’m gonna start getting frisky with his corpse.

LIZ: Have you seen a dead body before?

MATT: Only my Gran when I was ten or eleven.

LIZ: This is my first. (pause for a beat) I thought his body would be freezing; it’s much warmer that I was expecting.

MATT: What, warmer than when he was alive?

LIZ: (Shooting MATT another look of annoyance) Matt! Again inappropriate.

MATT: Alright Liz, I’m sorry.

LIZ: Nigel would have found that funny.

MATT: Yeah, ‘pose so. Can we get some food now?

LIZ: I think we should at least wait until some more of the mourners get here.

Uncle Wassisname

I had an Uncle many years ago.
He drove up from London in his white car with my Auntie.

He wasn't really my Uncle,
he was my Fathers Uncle. My Great Uncle.

My Sister and I called him Uncle Wassisname,
because he could never remember anyones names.

He'd say, "I said to, erm wassisname,
I said to him, I said, y'know I saw, er... wassisname...?

We laughed and laughed as my Mum and Dad
tried to piece the story together as Uncle Wassisname told it.

Over the years it took Uncle Wassisname longer and longer to find Malvern
Despite the road networks improving considerably.

And he seemed to be forgeting more and more,
With his stories becoming utterly incomprehensible.

One day my Mum told us that Uncle Wassisname had Alzheimer's,
We didn't call him Uncle Wassisname after that.

In fact, it wasn't long after that that he died.
I can't for the life of me remember his real name now.

The odd house - a poem

I say have you seen,
The cheese mezzanine?
Or the lean-to,
Made from poo?
And what did you make,
Of the stairs built with cake?
The kitchen formed with wax
I admit, has drawbacks,
But the egg shell den
Had a great sense of zen.
After the week I spent there,
I simply didn't care,
The toilet, crafted from rice.
Was home to some mice.
And the lawn nice and green,
Was in a shape quite obscene.

Play outline

This will be a two-act play.

Act One.

The play opens at a funeral of the main character, Alex.

It is an open coffin affair, with Alex at rest in the center of the room, tilted up slightly making him visible to the audience.

The room is filled with approximately 10 mourners all of whom are either in small groups chatting, or standing alone deep in thought. There is general chitchat amongst the mourner’s predominately on the subject of how Alex died?

It is quickly established that Alex potentially took his own life, although due the circumstances of his death, this is far from clear.

Other talking points are of family matters and reminisce.

The chatter slowly builds up the character of who Alex was to each person and fleshes out who is in attendance and what their particular relationship was to the deceased.

This part of the play will include both sad and funny conversations which revealing how we each individually deal with death.

After approx 20 mins of this everything suddenly stops - mid conversations. The lights are slowly lowered and the main light focus to stage left.

Then, just as suddenly Alex the deceased literally screams back into life. A horrific wretched scream of horror and pain as he propels himself from the coffin, crashing to the stage floor. Panicked and confused he scrambles to where the light is, clinging desperately to the stage curtain.

His monologue starts as he recalls the last few moments of his life, which are incomplete and confused with his own current terror. He slowly gets back to his feet and examines his surroundings.

Realizing where he is and potentially what is happening he begs the mourners to speak to him but they remain silent. Alex again beings to fall apart.

As he falls back to the ground, sobbing a man enters the room, walks up to the coffin and beings to talk to the where Alex had been lying.

Alex immediately recognises the man as his father.

The father starts to ask Alex questions as to why he did what he did, and why he had lived such a questionable life.

Alex tries to answer back, and gradually the non-sequiturs from Father and son form a broken conversation.

The father asks why Alex did what he did. Alex tries to explain, but the explanation is hollow try as he does to blame those in the room.

He addresses those he blames directly and is shocked when they respond – but only in a direct way, yes/ no without elaboration, like asking someone who is asleep – Alex starts asking everyone in the room questions. The Father asks his Son if he has yet got a satisfactory answer for his actions – there are none. The Son asks what happens next and the Father says they need to go back.

End of Act one.

This act opens at the wedding of the deceased.

You what, Bette?

The Tuesday evening short story

Mr Henderson's Office

Upon reading the note handed to her by Brian's PA, Helena Gahan immediately felt a sense of impending dread; not for herself but for the happy little girl she'd had the pleasure of teaching for the past 10 months.

But it wasn't just a sense of empathy that was now forcing tears to her eyes - which she fought back with a grim determination to remain both professional and supportive - it was her own memories of that wet Sunday evening in the hospice many years before she had decided to embarked on a career in primary education.

"Elizabeth dear", he said as calmly as she possibly could, "would you come with me to the Head's office please?"

"I'm just finishing this drawing of the French flag, Miss Gahan", Elizabeth protested as she dipped her thick paint brush into a pot of gloopy red paint.

Helena placed one hand on the Elizabeth's head, gently stroking her long brown pony-tailed hair, with the other she carefully took hold of the brush that Elizabeth held, placing it into the cleaning bowl.

"That can wait until later, I need you to come with me now to Mr Henderson's office, your Mother is waiting for you"

"But it's not home time yet is it Miss?"

"No Elizabeth", replied Helena as she helped the sparkly eyed eight-year-old to pack her little red rucksack which was emblazend with a bright yellow star on the front, "I think your Mummy needs to see you about something important".

Before long they were walking together down the long corridor which stretched the whole length of Hemsea C of E Primary School, from the Juniors where Helena taught through to year 11, and Mr Alderson's class in which Elizabeth's older brother Daniel was a pupil.

Elizabeth skipped along, excited at the prospect of seeing her mother again so early in the afternoon. She had tried to find out from Miss Gahan why it was her Mother was here before normal home time.

Must be a surprise, she had decided.

Having held it together so far, Helena took a deep breath before enter Brian's office.

Mr Henderson, a heavy set man in his late forties sat at his desk, and was speaking in a low comforting tone to the person opposite to him who sat with their back to the door.

Helena coughed pointedly to interrupt the conversation and it was at this moment that Elizabeth felt that something was terribly wrong.

It was indeed her mother sitting at Mr Hendersons desk, but not her Mother as she normally was. No, right now her mother Jenny had dark rings around her eyes, which were themselves watery. Jenny immediately jumped to her feet and took hold of Elizabeth to give her a sufforcating hug.

Elizabeth pushed away in an attempt to quiz her Mother about what was going on.

"We're still waiting for Daniel", her Mother replied.

"I'm feeling scared Mummy, what's happening?" Elizabeth pleaded.

Brian interjected that it would be a good few more minutes before Mr Douglas would be along with Daniel, whom had been in a PE lesson on the playing field when his presence in the office had been requested.

"Okay," replied Jenny, as she lifted Elizabeth up and sat her in the chair in which moments before she herself had been seated.

She knelt down in front of Elizabeth so that she could be at the exact same head height, she smiled in a way which indicated anything but happiness to Elizabeth and started.

"It's about your Daddy, Lizzie."

"What about Daddy?"

Elizabeth caught a glance of Miss Gahan put her hand up to her face to cover her eyes before her Mother continued.

"I'm so very sorry Lizzie, but your Daddy died a little while ago."

Elizabeth was confused, "But Daddy's at work?"

"Yes Lizzie, he was, and that was where he died".

Who is Cristina Marquez?

I'm used to spam, as we all are. It's as inevitable as spots on your bum or me never commenting on your blogs. But I've recently had a series of most curious spam emails from a site called Relationships.com addressed to a Cristina Marquez - I am not Cristina Marquez - I am Herge Smith - Angry Chimp - killer of Elf Shorts - Dalek obsessive and Dachshund owner...

So who is Cristina Marquez?

Now, in itself this is no big deal - however, this spam has been generated via an aborted co-op blog that I was briefly engaged in over at Shut the fuck up which I contributed to with none other than miss Cakesniffer herself - or as we've come to know her TINA - crisTINA - see? Do you see? Do ya punk?

And then she posts this - Crazy Hair Seeks Non-Crazy In which she talks about setting an internet dating thing - just like relationship...dum dum duuuumm...

Coincidence?

COINCIDENCE??

Maybe.

Maybe not...

Mind you, do I actually know Tina's surname and it ain't as far as I've been led to believe Marquez.

BUT IT IS EQUALLY FOREIGN SOUNDING! (my surname really is Smith btw - as boring as that it.).

The Sunday evening short story.

Why did you miss the Wednesday afternoon management meeting?
by Herge Smith

There was a man who worked in an office.

He had grey hair, some of which protruded from his nose and ears.

As a younger man, he had many dreams and aspirations but these had been replaced by a mortgage he did not want, a wife he did not love and children he could not understand.

He had a reasonably important position in a big money company somewhere in the city.

His colleagues did not like him and treated him with barely restrained contempt, which he mistakenly interpreted as respect.

On an ordinary Wednesday morning following a heavy autumn shower the man, whilst sitting at his desk contemplating the coming management meeting, suddenly felt a tremendous pain in his chest.

Lydia, the PA to the MD was angry that the man was late for the management meeting, and had blatantly ignored both her emails and telephone calls. She herself had no power in the company; however, she frequently used the MD’s name as a means to vicariously assert an inappropriate and unearned level of authority throughout the company.

Today it would be the man that she would take down a peg or two, she thought as she walked to his office.

Lydia was confused by what she saw as she entered, the man slumped at his desk. She quickly called a paramedic for assistance, although this was a futile act, the man had been dead for many hours.

The company replaced the man within 6 weeks. His wife replaced him within a year.

The man’s eldest child with whom he’d never had a close relationship felt angry that his father had chosen his career over his family, leaving the child with ‘issues’ that would haunt him into his own adult life, whereas the youngest child quickly came to see her mothers new husband as her natural father, (which indeed he was).

The end.

And on the subject of Lost...

I'm becoming increasingly annoyed by Lost. Why not stop watching it? I hear you more sensible folk out there say, - 'cause I'm an idiot is my reply.

But seriously, after watching the season conclusion to The Shield yesterday, and being totally bowled over by the intricate plotting and the superlative characterisation (which was never forced or fake) which lead to a grimly inevitable conclusion, Lost in comparison is stripped bare and left for all to see what it truly is - The Emporers new clothes.

People, it's nothing great, it's the 9 seasons McGuffin of the alien storyline that crippled the X-Files - nothing more.

I still watch it though, just in case... 'cause like I said, I'm an idiot.

And as I said before about 24 - man, it's a guilty pleasure (of sorts).

Keep listing your top five shows people - I want to do bit on your choices in a future post.

Now, about Battlestar Galactica...





(Blimey, this blog is rapidly becoming - TV obsessed Chimp - or worse).

Can't write much... watching The Shield

TV is crap. There is never anything good on. I gave up ages ago; it's all rubbish.

BOLLOCKS.

I agree that there is a lot of crap on Telly, the same way there are an amazing amount of shitty books in bookshops, and an horrific amount of piss poor water down commercially created tunes in record shops. But it is not the case AT ALL that all TV is crap.

But like everything, it's about moderation. Great TV can be in everyway as rewarding as reading a good book or seeing a fantastic play - just be a bit fussy, that's all.

And here are 5 reasons why there IS something on TV;

1. The Wire - probably/ possibly the single greatest TV show ever created. Multi-layered and slow burning, oozing with terrific acting and even better scripting. The Wire is exactly like reading a great novel; the more you get into it the more you get from it.

2. The Shield - the 2nd greatest TV show ever - If The Wire is the Beetles, then The Shield is the Rolling Stones. Exciting, fast moving, hyper-kinetic, The Shield works as great standalone episodes with a structured story arc which tracks across all five series - in fact the conclusion to the 5 season is focused on events throughout the previous 4 series, including in a particularly audacious move, the pilot episode.

3. The Daily Show/ The Colbert Report - Great stuff, simply breathtaking that they seemingly churn this stuff out DAILY.

4. South Park. How long has this thing been on now? And still it has teeth.

5. Battlestar Galactica. My love for this is worrying. And I will dedicate an entire post to it soon.

So, how bad are your viewing habits? What is your current top 5? I bet they are nowhere near as sophisticated as mine.

And don't give me that bullshit about not watching TV 'cause it's crap, or you can never find anything to watch. Fuck me, you'd never admit to never reading for the same reason so get off your high horse.

Mind you saying that most TV is shite, hence the blogging.

What? Fucking off, Angry Chimp can be as much a hypocrite as he likes.

More 24

Angry Chimp’s 24.

The 197th season of the Fox channels acclaimed extreme paranoia inducing TV show 24 is currently airing in both the US and the UK, and probably a bunch of allied countries as well.

Obviously it has been well documented that 24 is split over 24 individual episodes per season with each episode a ‘real-time’ hour in the life of counter terrorist operative (and occasionally dead) Jack Bauer, (Keifer Sutherland - a man who has spent his entire career in his fathers shadow)

Anyway, I like 24 in an utterly guilty way – it’s total trash and for every 24 I watch I would like an episode of The Shield and Battlestar Galactica to be taken into consideration. (More on Battlestar Galactica next week).

I decided last weekend to have a 24 day. Here’s what happened in the 1st 6 exciting hours.

The following takes place between 6:00am and 12:00pm

6:00am – I was asleep.

7:00am – There was sudden thud on the bed, I awake with a start and shout; “Damn it!”. It’s only Daisy. I put her back into her bed and go back to sleep.

8:00am – I wake brief from a dream which I can’t quite remember but has still made me feel quite anguished. I go back to sleep in moments.

9:00am – Get up and let the dogs out, go back to bed.

10:00am – Awake briefly after hearing terrible low long whines and disturbing scrapping/ scratching noises. Realise that I haven’t let the dogs back in and it’s pouring with rain. I get up and let them in.

11:00am – After an hour of wandering around in ‘Queens of the Stone Age’ T-Shirt and boxers, occasionally scratching myself I finally get it together enough to get a coffee. After the ace injection of caffeine, I jump into gear and pull on some jeans and my converse. With fleece in hand I head out into the world to get Saturday morning essentials – A Guardian, a pain au chocolat, some ciabatta, ham and a cake or two.

12:00pm – Return home and collect wallet. Head back out to the Patisserie.

How very exciting is this special addition of 24 so far? Yes, it is true that I haven’t yet stopped for a loo break, but this will be addressed in part two of
Angry Chimp’s 24!

Blog - A movie script - Opening scene

Blog

A Blog Script by Bloggers

FADE IN:

Angry Chimp Productions

1. Ext. Space – Looking down on the Earth, spinning slowly in an airless void.

(Silence)

ALICE
In the beginning, there was a word,

And then there were more words, and before long coherent sentences were formed with people asking; ‘What time is it?’, ‘Why did you hit me?’, ‘Does that come with Cheese?’, ‘Sorry I missed that, what did you say?’.

And for a time that was great, but soon some folk wanted what they had been saying to be remembered, even after they were dead, so they wrote the things they said down, and some things they had just been thinking about.

And for a time that was great, but soon some folk got pissed off with no one paying them any attention so they had what they wrote published and got other folk to buy their words and thoughts.

Making some people rich, mostly the publishers.

And for a time that was great.

(The Earth starts to spin more quickly)

But then the internet was born.

(Hundreds of shining lines form around the Earth, interconnecting, expanding and straddling from one side of the Planet to another.)

And everyone could write down their thoughts and have them instantly read by hundreds of strangers from all corners of the planet.

And no one had to pay any publishers a thing. Which made everyone very happy.

Everyone but the publishers, who moaned about this new revolution in publishing on their own little Internet diaries, or web logs as they became known.

(Now strings of words can be seen forming along the lines that criss-cross the Earth, and as the words form so do the voices, speaking along with words. Not many at first, but as they touch an overlapping line they spawn new strings of words and voices with them – young voices, old voices, men, women, children. Voices and languages from every corner of the planet getting louder as more and more voices are added. Each overlapping the other)

VOICE 1
July 3rd. Woke this morning with a slight headache, must have been all the tequila slammers I had last night…

VOICE 2
Tuesday 27th March. She hit me again last night. I swore I’d leave if it happened again but I feel this terrible compulsion to stay with her, it’s like a sickness…

VOICE 3
Monday. The bombing continued until the late hours. East Comer was hit, I fear for all those souls that huddle together their each night for shelter…

VOICE 4
Friday 6th June. Why do all the old buggers decided to go for a drive during rush hour? I know for them it’s like midday, but for goodness sake, they should be banned…

VOICE 5
September 27th. Tuesday morning. I write this with a great weight on my heart. Alas dear readers Amy finally told me why she has been so off with me...

VOICE 6
Thursday. I hate my job. I cannot stand it any longer; I am taking a gun into work with me tomorrow…

VOICE 7
14th April 2006. Whom does the PM think he’s kidding. It was only sixth months ago that he stated precise the opposite and now he’s trying to sell this nonsense as a frame work for a positive step forward…

VOICE 8
Day 8. Buggaboo are the best new indie group around. I saw them down at the Garage and Crow and they totally tore through their set hyperactive energy…

VOICE 9
Saturday 30th Feb. The scars from the operation are now fading, but I still cannot face let him touch me there. Is that weird? I just feel that part of me is missing…

(over the disembodied voices the main title card appears)

MAIN TITLE CARD:

Blog

(The voices are so many now no single voice is distinguishable. Gradually one voice becomes clearer as all other voices fade away. This is the voice of Alice, a woman in her early Forties, divorced with two teenage children. She has the accent of a woman from the Midlands, Northampton to be precise).

ALICE
So, I celebrate my 365th entry today. One-year blogging and what have I achieved? Finally got the official nod that me and Darren are no longer a functioning family unit. Could have told them that years ago. Lizzie is no longer my sweet little girl, but a petulant foul mouthed little madam, although her schoolwork is good. As for Dan, the less said about him the better.

One year on and what have I achieved?

(We pull away from the Earth with incredibly speed, the darkness of space being taken up by huge letters, quickly forming the desk top of a generic blogging tool. The Earth is now in the top right hand corner, spinning round to inform the user they are on line. We can see all that Alice has just said as typed prose. The arrow hovers over the publish icon.

And then more words are added, Alice reading as she types).

In fact, why did I start this blog lark in the first place?

(The arrow hovers back to the publish icon and becomes a little hand which punches down on the icon sending Alice's thoughts out for the World to read).

2.

NEXT: Tina's turn.

(There are no rules here, the story can go in any direction you like - have fun).

Let's write a movie!!

I want us to write a movie together called, ‘Blog’ (appropriately enough).

I’ll start with an opening scene, which will lay down a very bare bones premise and then pass the next scene along to whomever wants to play.

This movie script will obviously end up a rambling mess, but it should be some fun to read.

Okay, an opening scene coming up...

is a dead chimp...

and whilst we're on the subject of Alan Moore...

V for Vendetta.

From Hell.

Tom Strong.

The League of Extraordinay Gentlemen.

Big Numbers

Skizz.

Marvelman (Miracleman)

The Killing Joke.

D.R and Quinch.

Watchmen.

Whatever happened to the Man of Tomorrow?

Swamp Thing.

But to my mind, Alan Moore's greatest work was The Ballad of Halo Jones. And this isn't so much because it's a great piece of writing and story telling, it most certainly is it. But because of the medium in which Halo Jones appeared.

But I'm getting slightly ahead of myself.

Back when Star Wars was shiney and new and not sullied by teddy bear allegory for Vietnam or badly acted metaphors of America's current War on Terror smokescreen there was a void in the UK weekly comic magazine market. Until that was with the dawning of 1978 and introduction of 2000AD, a galaxy busting weekly thrill that threw it's predominately young male readership into future scenarios of East Vs West war, Fascist societies with laws enforced by a ruling class of Judges and Dan Dare - whom never seemed entirely at home, cut off as he was from his Eagle.

And over the years the stories developed and the bare boned clichéd scenarios started to take on a speck of sophistication; Judge Dredd, a horrific creature of unbending loyalty to the rules and the iron fist of law and order started to make some sense. In an ultra violent society of mass unemployment and over crowded living conditions, you needed Dredd to keep control.

Meanwhile A blue skinned genetically created soldier roamed the chemically polluted battlefields of a far of planet fought over by corporations in the guise of Norts and Southers. Not entirely alone, this Rogue Trooper looked to avenge the deaths of his kin with 3 of his closest comrades personalities in electronically encoded into computer chips which following their deaths at the Quartz Zone massacre he cut from their heads and placed into his equipment.

For comedy relief there was Sam Slade, a hunter of errant robots, he too had a couple of sidekicks, however they were far less helpful than Rogues. Stoogie, a robotic cigar obsessively advised Slade that he should cut down his intake of nicotine, least he damage himself which often occurred party due to his other assistant, Hoagy, a robot who was by no means of a Hal level of intellect. Hoagy had apprenticed himself to Sam despite Sam's insistence that he not.

And a long long time before Joss Whedon came up with a Space Western, there was Strontium Dog. Johnny Alpha, a mutant, thus an outcast from our society which has always and will always find an underclass to demonise and sideline.

Alpha, who had a long and torturous history, along with his loyal business partner/ fellow Stont Wulf Sternhammer (despite actually being a Viking and not a mutant) were bounty hunters, tracking down the scum of the universe for cash. A horrible job which frequently had Alpha and co finding and killing fellow mutants; was in fact the only job Mutants were legally allowed to do.

Strontium Dog, despite being very Sci-fantasy was in fact a western played out throughout the Galaxy and often throughout time and was it seems now based on the best works of Hellman, Leone and Sturges.

The one Strontium Dog story that sticks most resolutely in the mind now, some 20 years after it was first published was called ‘Rage’, and followed Alpha's attempt to track down the men that killed his friend Wulf. The story lasted some 26ish parts, and considering this was a story in which each part was only 6 or 7 pages long and was a weekly instalment it was quite an epic event - 6 months of Alphas hatred for the Max Bubba gang, growing weekly to it's epic conclusion in which Alpha shots Max down.

Except he does not. Alpha inextricably makes a mistake and Max survives. Max, ever the crook robs the hospital that has saved his life and heads out in to the street to enjoy this unexpected chance of more life. But whom does he find waiting for him? Johnny Alpha of course.

"Why are you doing this Alpha?" Max cries out, "Why are you torturing me?"

"Because I hate you" Alpha replies coldly and he guns him down, this time for good.

2000AD was a phenomenon. Yes the comics abroad were good, great even, but they seemed to my young eyes to be predominantly Superhero comics and consequently somewhat childish (although writers that include Moore and Frank Miller did much to change that). 2000AD was all about uncompromising men that fight and kill and always come out on top but always, ALWAYS damaged by the experience in some way.

And then came along Halo Jones in 1984.

Halo Jones was an unemployed teenage girl that lived in a mass housing project called the Hoop who dreamed of getting away from her life of 'increased leisure'. She talked about celebrities with her housemates, went shopping and ended up being the most radical story published in 2000AD.

For a start the only other females to grace the cheap grey newsprint paper of 2000AD up to that point had been female colleagues of Judge Dredd (in the form of Judges Anderson, Hershey and Chief Judge McGruder). Jones was a revelation. And you just knew that Moore knew exactly what he was doing.

Jones did not have a gun, or a political opinion or even a reason to be, she was just like us, an every person trying to do something with her life when the odds are you won't and you can't.

The first 'book' of Halo Jones sees Halo finally escaping the Hoop on a luxury Liner that cruises space called the Clara Pandy.

Is she the captain? or an the chief engineer, or even a guest? No, she is a waitress.

Not to say that Halo Jones was dull or uninvolved, the stories still featured violent acts, mystery characters and killer robotic dogs (or Dog in the form of Toby), it was just that Jones wasn't a super strong super resourceful character - she was quite normal, and we the readers called not only relate to this, we loved it.

We still loved Rogue and Joe Dredd and Sam and Johnny and Slaine and The VC's and Ace Trucking Co, D.R and Quinch (another great more creation about a couple of badly behaved teenage aliens, just out for a good time) it was just that Halo gave the comic class, elevating from trash literature to... erm, well literature I suppose.

Ultimately Halo was dragged into a future war, but it was war as we've seen in Full Metal Jacket, and All Quiet on the Western Front. A pointless generation destroying event that seems to serve no purpose other than that decided by the politicians. Halo soon becomes a pawn in this war, fighting on the incredibly heavy gravity planet Moab, where time is distorted on the battlefield making a 5-minute skirmish last weeks. The characters are further detached and dehumanised by this, and Halo comments that it's hard to get upset by the death of a comrade who died before your eyes moments earlier, who in actuality died months previous.

By the end of the third 'book' Halo steals a space ship and just 'escapes' into space. On her own.

More books were planned but never appeared. Perhaps they would have been as fantastic as the three we got, perhaps not. Doesn't matter cause what we got was so good.

Alan Moore was, is and will always be a terrific writer. Maybe next time I'll talk a bit about how he turned Swamp Thing from a (literally) bog standard man-monster seeks cure comic into a genre bending hit or Marvelman which after a hiatus of 20 years went from pulp 50's nonsense to the herald of modern superhero comics (and more so).

Then of course, as always when anyone speaks of Alan Moore there is Watchmen.

This Vicious Cabaret

Tony Blair's controversial plan for a new law to stop people "glorifying" terrorism has been backed by MPs.

But what does that actually mean? Does this mean that by the back door the Government and the police can now prosecute anyone or any organisation they deem to be promoting what the incumbent power views as terrorism? Basically anything which suggests they should be removed, by force is necessary?

Let me explain with a current example -

The adaptation of the comic written by Alan Moore called V for Vendetta (which first appeared in Warrior Magazine - alongside his equally impressive Marvelman story) is soon to be released in the US and UK as a film.

The story is set (or was in the comic) in a Fascist Britain circa 1997 (I assume this has been now changed). There are no black people, no gay people, no descent. Only the corrupt iron fisted Governement, it's scheming jackals and the scared underclass they rule.

And then Codename V appears. A Guy Fawkes mask wearing mystery man who from the very outset sees the use of extreme violence and major acts of public destruction as the means to unsettle Britain's ruling elite.

When I and many others first read V back in 1980-1981 he was just a Shakespeare spouting freedom fighter, who would do whatever was necessary to force political change. But in light of the last few years, he is something far far more interesting than we could have imagined, he is an out and out terrorist who blows up the House of parliament, assassinates key figures of Government, and in pone artiularly chilling parallel for our times, enters a TV News room and threatens to detonate the explosive vest he wears under his cape.

Now what V is doing is attacking a Government he sees as fundamental wrong - they are racist, homophobic mass murderers. Although it is never implied that they have illegally invaded any Middle Eastern sovereign nations, but they are still bad none the less. The thing is though, you totally see the World through V, through this terrorist, and you completely understand his actions in the face of such opposition.

Now a movie is around the corner, which by all accounts is reasonably faithful to the comic. And from a certain point of view both the movie and the comic glorify V and his direct action approach to Political upheaval - It glorifies this particular form of terrorism.

So where does that leave our new law? Can this film and comic it came from become illegal.

I dunno, I would like to think that if such a ridiculous knee jerk piece of legislation came into effect the Government and police would at least have the common sense to use it wisely - then you see men like Mr Wolfgang, an octogenarian peace campaigner being roughly ejected from the Labour Party Conference in Brighton last year under new anti-terrorism legislation for simply shouting 'Nonsence' when Jack Straw was pontificating about the Governments 'reasons' for invading Iraq.

Anyway, just a thought.

This is the voice of fate, signing off.

She’s such brave girl.

Well there you go. You hurtle down a hard as nails ice trench at up to 90mph on a three grand tray, head first mark you, with your face barely an inch from major on the spot reconstructive surgery and what does the media in all it’s glory do? Patronise you.

“Oh, isn’t she such a brave girl?”

Not really surprised, just a bit disappointed that after all these years even the BBC can’t be arsed to straighten itself up and stop being so pathetically sexist.

You never hear 26-year-old men being referred to as brave boy do you? Not unless it’s fucking Dad’s Army of course.

It’s not about political correctness, it’s just about treating one another with respect.

Anyway, rather than wait for feedback from you lot on this topic I lobbied my workmates about this disgraceful treatment of a professional athletes success at a World platform event.

And the consensus from this group of intelligent women all between the ages of 25-30?

“So what?”

As my fictional hero of the early nineties slacker generation – Buddy Bradley would say;

“What’s the use?”

Go on, I don’t care anymore, call as many women as you like stupid shit like ‘bird’ or ‘chick’ or ‘Doris’ or ‘Darlin’ or whatever…

‘cause you know you fuckin’ luv it you filthy slappers!

Another 12 hours!

at work.

That's 4 days this week already, and I'm working the weekend.

Marketing slave that I am.

Boo hoo.

And I'm poor.

How did I end up like this?

I know there are people worse off than me.

With lower paid more menial jobs,

but knowing that doesn't make me feel any less tired,

or exploited.