Timpblog 3000

Pirate Bill is the happiest of pirates. A happier pirate you will never see, even if you see more pirates than the average person. There he lies, a'swingin' on his piratey hammock, a'natterin' with his piratey chums, setting the world to rights on a sunny (piratey) afternoon. Utterly, utterly, content he is, content as a man who knows his place in the world and would change it not a jot.

Pirate Bill's ship, the Plundering Princess, is no longer the rotten, maggoty, grubby galleon of old. Since Bill's remarkable change of fortune she has thrived under his command. Her once barnacle-encrusted stern is now varnished, shining and proud, cutting through the water like a cutlass through salt beef. Her decks are swabbed, her masts are straight and her hold is decidedly ship-shape. Even her figurehead, the princess herself, has gone from seaweed-green hag to pale-skinned beauty, her gilded tresses glinting in the Caribbean sun.

His crew are the finest specimens of pirate-kind one could ever hope to meet, bushy-bearded and stripy-topped to a man. Sporting razor cutlasses and golden earrings, they have devoted their lives to plunderin' the oceans for their booty, and the oceans have been kind in return. Feared and respected throughout the land, they love their shipmates and their cap'n (Bill, of course) like brothers, and he loves them all in return. The Plundering Princess is such a delightfully pally ship it seems to swagger as it sails, it's rigging humming a chirpy sea shanty under the ever-changing winds, if one is inclined to listen.

But it wasn't always like this. Gather round and I'll tell ye a tail, of storms and fights, and duels and squalls, and scuffles and monsoons. A tale of altercations and choppy seas, of hurricanes and intensely fought ship-to-ship combat. And gold. Lots and lots (and lots) of lovely lovely gold.

At last, my hamster story is finished! Hopefully the next one will take less time, I just need an idea...

This story was written 6 years ago, when I was 15. It was originally meant to be homwework for my GCSE English class but, unknown to me, my teacher entered it in a competiton run by Harper Collins, and it ended up being published in the anthology Listen To Me. There it would no doubt have stayed, but my friend Paul came up with the idea to do a follow-up piece describing the hamster's side of the story. As a result I thought I'd better post the original as well. And here it is:

To Infinity and Beyond

Hi there. Nigel Butts here (yes, I know it’s an unfortunate name, but it only causes about 17 laughs a day).
    I’m going to tell you about my inspired science fair project and the science fair itself, from which my headmaster will never recover.
    We had never had a science fair before at our school, so this was a bit of an experiment for us (to put it mildly) and one which we will never repeat thanks to Richard Smodley and his attempt to show the effects of spraying hydrogen on to a Bunsen-burner flame.

    I got the idea for my project from the programme we had watched a few weeks back about animals being blasted into space. It may sound a bit ambitious, and it was, but I decided to send my sister’s hamster into the great beyond, using a home-made rocket which runs on diesel (don’t worry; I made it a little mini crash helmet).
    The rocket was a beautiful thing, not a primitive contraption made up of washing up bottles and sticky tape like you might expect, but an awe-inspiring, shining vision of sophistication and power.
    The main carapace was the product of several hours of diligent work. Made of aluminium, it shone like a full moon on a winter’s night, its sweeping lines brining to mind the sleek body of a dolphin, perfectly streamlined. Her name was The Goddess, and she stood, monumental and proud at over four feet tall, on long sharkfin legs, painted a blazing red.
    The bulge of the rocket booster and the distinctive smell of diesel in the air gave the only hint of the potential power of this beast. The cockpit of the shuttle was another masterpiece. There were obviously no controls, but I had made a miniature leather chair (I’m sure my mum won’t miss the tiny square of material missing from the back of her sofa!) which looked out of the Plexiglas window, hopefully onto the deserted, lonely void of space. It was a labour of love, and had lost me several friends, but it was worth it and nothing would stop me from winning first prize at the science fair.

    There was only one person who could terminate my chances of winning before they even go off the ground (no pun intended), and that was my arch-nemesis, Trevor Barnsley. He was my ex-best friend (we had gone our separate ways after he stole my first and only love Mary Wilkinson and I threw custard over his head at lunch time) and would do anything to go one better than me.
    Trevor’s experiment was the teacher’s favourite. It was based on the idea that listening to the sound of crickets chirping improves the standard of a pupil’s work. Instead of using a recording, he had used real crickets, kept in a glass tank – so his project was open to sabotage (evil laugh).

    After I had completed my rocket, the only thing left to do was train my sister’s hamster to cope with the rigours of this journey into the unknown. My initial worry was whether it could withstand the immense pressures of space flight, so I built a simulator based on the ones real astronauts use at NASA. I made a pivot for the main arm out of a wedge-shaped piece of wood, with a plywood base, which was bolted to the floor. On top of this, attached by a four-inch nail to the top of the pivot, I placed a long arm (about three feet) made from an old piece of copper pipe we had in the garage.
    At one end of this arm was a weight equal to the mass of the hamster, and at the other end was a clear plastic bubble, made from one of those detergent containers which go in the washing machine.The hamster (sorry, astronaut) was placed in this bubble, and the arm was spun around by hand, as fast as I could make it go. (I can still hear the whuush of that simulator on quiet nights even now. Ah, happy memories). This would simulate the rocket’s take-off. The rest of the training was watching the video of Apollo 13 (a very appropriate film).

The day of the science fair finally arrived, and it was by no means an anticlimax. The sun was beaming merrily away, the birds were twittering in the trees, and we came to school in high spirits, excited at the prospect of showing off our scientific genius. It seemed as if nothing could possibly go wrong.
    The morning was spent setting up our experiments and making derogatory comments about each other’s work. The fair was to be held in the main hall, and I set my rocket up underneath the skylight so it would have an unimpeded take-off (in theory).
    The only event worth recording was when Trevor’s crickets escaped from their glass case and caused our big, tough PE teacher, Mr Hurton, to run out of the room shrieking like a girl when one of the landed on his head (I wonder how that happened. Evil laugh).

After lunch, it was time for the teachers to see the results of our hard work. Michael Flatley’s diorama was the first to be judged. It was made out of Plasticine and showed a very unflattering model of our science teacher taking a chemistry class. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t very well received. Next came Maria Water’s models of different types of housing, ranging from straw huts to the very latest developments (her dad is an architect).
From then on it started to go downhill when, with much trepidation, the judges looked at Richard Smodley’s effort, the aforementioned Bunsen-burner experiment. This was as dangerous as it sounds and resulted in a medium-sized fireball engulfing Maria’s display, setting her precious row of houses alight. The headmaster rushed to the scene with a fire extinguisher, but by the time the fire had been put out, both of the displays were ruined.

    If I could make my project work, it looked as if I had it in the bag (as Trevor, sadly, never found his crickets). I started off with a short explanation of what I wanted to do, fended off a few questions about the safety of the hamster, and got straight down to business. I instructed everyone to stand back, and lit the fuse. They watched with bated breath as the spark spat and sputtered slowly towards the engine. There were gasps of wonderment as the fuel ignited and the rocket rose majestically towards the heavens… and hit the ceiling. It had veered off course, and its maiden voyage ended in a small explosion, the tiny form of the hamster drifting down on its home-made parachute. (Luckily, I had foreseen this eventuality).
    This was the final nail in the coffin of the science fair, and a decision was taken never to hold another one. The day ended with the headmaster apologizing to the parents for such a catastrophic series of events. Even this was marred when my sister’s hamster (which had somehow escaped) decided to nibble at the headmaster’s shoes in revenge for the way he’d been treated. This was a source of great hilarity for the parents, who had thoroughly enjoyed the whole fiasco.
    As for my beautiful rocket, all that was left was a little brass plaque reading: TO INFINTY AND BEYOND.

When I was just a few days old, snuggled with the litter into the warmth and security of the nest, my mother told me I was special. “Young pups,” she said. “You will achieve great things in this life. Never forget that. Each and every one of you will push the boundaries of hamster endeavour, and succeed in your chosen paths. I am, and will always be, as proud of you as a parent can be.”

I, blind and hairless and not yet two inches, believed her of course. I was not yet experienced in the ways of the world, and took her words to be true. I had no reason to suspect that she would lie to us, and it did not seem so unreasonable. We lived in a Rotastak; we were well fed, with water available on demand and a wheel to keep us in shape. Our owners would regularly take us out to allow us to explore our surroundings and find our true path in the world, gaining us experience that would stand us in good stead for the trials that lay ahead. Or so I thought.

Even when, at the tender age of two months and one week, my siblings and I were separated I thought nothing of it. They were off to have their own adventures and explore new territories, to spread the good name of Snuggles throughout the world and fulfill their destinies. I was left behind, without my brothers and sisters but secure in a mother’s love and excited at what the future may bring. I had had a lust for adventure from the moment I first set foot in The Sphere. The Sphere was a giant transparent ball that gave me my first taste of freedom and danger, of an independence I had never previously known, away even from the hands of my owners. And I liked it. I wanted to see the world beyond the confines of The Living Room and (on rare occasions) The Kitchen. I knew there was excitement waiting for me beyond my carpeted domain, if only I could reach it.

By the age of six months I had become a young man. Fully equipped with tooth and claw, I felt strong and agile, and began an intense workout regime in my cage. I would do circuits of my home, using the vertical tubes to build my upper body and sprinting through the horizontal ones. I would spend many minutes a night on the wheel, until my stamina rose to impressive levels, enjoying the feel of ridged plastic under my paws. I kept to a strict diet, avoiding the chocolate treats that my mother so loved, and feasting on the seeds and vegetables that I knew would make me strong. At the end of every night, as dawn was beginning to break, I would sit in the turret of the Rotastak, expanding my mind through meditation and watching the sun drive the shadows from the room. Mother both inspired and spurred my efforts, and I basked in her ever-growing pride.

Such things can only last for so long. It was not long before I had reached the peak of physical perfection, and sought a new challenge. I longed to test my well-honed body, to push it to the limits and discover what I was capable of. But, alas, my opportunities were limited. I became restless, frustrated with my small-house life and tired of the delights that Rotastak had to offer. Exercise and familial devotion was not enough; I wanted more, and had no clue how to get it. “Patience,” my mother preached. “Your time will come.” But I began to feel that my time would never come, and even dared to wonder if I was indeed special, if the greatness my mother had promised was in fact a cruel lie.

It was at the age of one that I feel my life truly began. The time until then had merely been preparation, a bitter mix of anticipation and frustration, of exercise and idleness that seemed unbearable at times but which I now believe was essential. It had given me the best possible training for the task to which I was assigned, my true calling and my shot at greatness. Shortly after my first birthday I was plucked from my dreams and from my cage by a giant hand. Nothing unusual there – I had been held many times before, though admittedly not as often lately as in my youth. I thought little of it, but hoped to be allowed to run about a little and perhaps find my way into the hole in the bottom of the sofa, a feature that I had spotted on an earlier foray and an unbearable temptation. I longed for that secret darkness, but would not reach it that day.

Instead I was taken to a part of the house I had not seen before, up a great cliff-like structure and into a room that was dark and warm, full of strange objects and saturated with human odour. I was placed on a great soft plain, my claws scrabbling on the squashy surface and my brain struggling to process these new surroundings. While I was testing my temporary home and conquering its yielding ridges, the human was hard at work. It had begun to clear a space in the carpet that lay a dizzying height below my perch, and once this had been done a strange contraption was produced. The purpose of this alien device was a mystery to me, but even in my wildest imaginings I could not have foreseen what it would do. To this day I am not sure exactly, but the experience left a permanent scar on my memory, and not an entirely unpleasant one.

Once the contraption had been set up I was picked up once again. The human was talking to me, or at least I assume he was – despite my best efforts I have not learned to understand their language. He was clearly very excited, and his eagerness was infectious. I began to feel that something incredible was about to happen, and I was correct. I was brought to the strange contraption and placed inside a clear bubble, not unlike The Sphere but much smaller. I felt instantly at home in this chamber – The Sphere held many fond memories for me and I assumed that this more personal version would lead to a similar feeling of freedom, perhaps allowing me to roam in places I had not previously been able to reach. The only confusion came from the fact that it was suspended far above the ground. How was I to roll if I could not touch the floor?

I was not to roll. I was to fly. The bubble began to move within seconds of my entry. Not under my own control, as in The Sphere, but entirely automatically and under a truly strange trajectory. It seemed as if I was traveling in great leisurely loops in the air, always in the same direction and at first at an almost soothing speed, pressing me lightly into the bubble’s curved shell. Soon however this gentle pressure became a more forceful pushing, as the speed of the bubble increased, and kept on increasing. The sensation became uncomfortable as I was forced into the rear of the enclosure, until I imagined I had taken the shape of its curved walls. But I did not care. The world around me became a blur, the contents of the strange room turned into a fuzzy mass of colour, a dreamlike sensation that opened my mind and caused a surge of adrenaline that I had never previously experienced, even when I had lost my footing on my wheel and was swept up in its motion. And the sound. The sound was incredible. It built from a gentle rushing, like the breezes I had heard from my cage into a great thrumming, or perhaps a whooshing, which enveloped my senses and did not belong to world I had known. It was the sound of fear, and of adventure.

The epiphany was over before it had begun. No sooner had I adjusted to the joy of flight, I was returned to my cage. Senses buzzing, mind whirling, the hours that followed were the hardest to bear. I had been exposed to the giddy thrill of the adrenaline rush, my mind opened and my horizons widened, only to be incarcerated once again. I wanted to take on the world, but the world was not available. Once again, all I had was the nest, the wheel, the water bottle and the tubes, all too familiar and now suddenly hateful, a symbol of the cruel tricks that life can play. My mother became a stranger to me. Content in her ways, she tried to console me, to make me see the good in our life, but I resented her blinkered world-view, her acceptance of the status quo. How could I achieve greatness and spread the name of Snuggles if I was trapped in this sea of mediocrity, drowning in a whirlpool of broken dreams. I grew depressed, not knowing when, or if, I would experience again the rush of the bubble.

To my great shame I fell prey to a vice that has been the undoing of many a lesser hamster, a practice that I would once have frowned upon, but was now powerless to resist. I began storing food in my cheeks, taking comfort in their fullness, sucking the sweet juices from the oats that filled my pouches, in an attempt to recreate the thrill of that fateful day through lesser pleasures. At first just the odd sunflower seed was sufficient. Just enough to roll around with the tongue, to distract my thoughts from the unobtainable, to know that should I chose it could be gnawed, but not yet, just when I chose to. Before long variety was needed, the simple choice between seed or nut, perhaps a piece of carrot when the desire arose. These trivial decisions took away some of the sense of helplessness, providing an illusion of choice to my restricted existence. But again they grew stale, inadequate. More food was needed to provide the same release, growing seed by seed, flake by flake until my cheeks swelled, and I struggled to hide the signs from my innocent mother. I spat out the contents when she approached, trampling them into the wood shavings, only to reingest as she left, the woody tang a reminder of my shame. My cheeks became sore, my breathing laboured, but I could not stop. I knew it was only a distraction, but as my hope of adventure faded my need for comfort grew, however shallow, however degrading.

Maybe he noticed my growing distress. Maybe he wanted to pick at my torment like a week old scab. Maybe he was simply bored. Whatever the reason, there was one more incident of note before the climax to this story. A dozen long days post bubble, as I began to reach the darkest depths of addiction, I was once again removed from my prison. I was not taken far - I never left the room - but at the same time I was taken further than any hamster had gone before. To the infinite blackness of space, and beyond. The human once more thrust his hand into my cage and held me tight, a grip he would maintain for several hours, though I would scarcely notice. We moved as one to the sofa. He sat down, sighing. I wriggled in his grasp, freeing my trapped front right paw, and fighting for a comfortable position. He stroked me, gently between the ears, and I relaxed. He relaxed with me - we were not to revisit the bubble, the initial twinge of excitement died in my gut. The human opened what my mother refers to as "The Third Window", the strange portal that so often wakes me from my dreams, its lights and sounds filling the room as they had done many times before. For the first time I paid close attention to the mysterious box, having nothing else to do. In doing so I swapped the life of a hamster for one of a human, orange suited and bound for the stars.

Heroic acts, stirring music and enormous machines flashed before my eyes and stirred my soul, immersing me in a world of danger and drama. At first things seemed to be going well. The men were heroes, loved by their families and treated as kings by the rest of the world. They were the bravest, smartest men on the planet, backed by the greatest team of human scientists and near unlimited funding. It seemed that nothing could go wrong, and the sight of those orange-clad men striding towards their shuttle brought a tear to my eye. But, horror of horrors, the joy could not last. There was an explosion, and an oxygen tank burst, and they had to hide in a small part of the spacecraft, and they had an argument, and they had to make an adaptor out of stuff, and they had to slingshot round the moon, and they nearly didn't make it. But they did, and I was so happy I squeaked, just a little bit. It was the best thing I've ever seen, and it made me happy to see that obstacles can be overcome, and even at the darkest moments of our lives there is light up ahead. I wanted to be on that ship, with those men, fighting for survival and getting by on my wits. I wanted the chance to explore new territory, to go where no hamster had gone before. I wanted to be an astronaut, and I knew, deep down inside, that I had seen this for a reason. I, too, was bound for the stars.

I quashed my addiction. With the certain knowledge of interstellar glory came a newfound purpose to my life. I kicked the pouch habit and once again began training, in earnest this time, as I knew only those in peak physical condition are able to launch. Yet the promise of escape also brought me closer to home. I began to look at my cage with new eyes, to appreciate its warmth and its safety. Confined it may be, restrictive and dull, it was my home. The setting for my first steps, my first squeak and my first adult claw. It was all I had known, and for many months it was all I had needed. Most of all, my thoughts turned to my mother. My dear sweet mother, who wanted nothing but the best for her children and encouraged them to get it. My mentor and my soul mate, and my only friend. The thought of leaving her, possibly forever, was nearly too much to bear. How easy it would have been to remain by her side, to live out the rest of her days together in the cage, sustained by her love. But to do so would have done her a dishonour. For the one thing she prized above all else was independence. The courage to strike out on one's own, to take a risk and return a conquering hero or a glorious failure. To immortalise the name of Snuggles. Of course, I may not return home at all. The third window had taught me that, but it had shown me so much more that death became a minor concern. I chose to face my destiny and look it square in the eye.

Finally, it came. The day of reckoning. It began, as many days do, with the sound of rattling bars as the door to my cage was opened. Then came the hand of my owner, purposeful and direct, plucking me from my home without hesitation. My stomach lurched, and I grinned. I knew my moment had come. Something in the speed of my extraction, with no stroking or prodding, told me today was not a day for playing. There was serious work to be done, and I was the hamster to do it. It was a glorious day. The sun streamed through the window and the birds twittered merrily outside. The sun's rays roused me from my lingering torpor and gave me strength, warming me to my bones. My sleep-dusted eyes struggled to adjust to to the light, but though my vision was blurred and my eyes smarted I could see my destination. I was taken through into The Kitchen, dropped into a large cardboard chamber, open at the top, and carried towards the Door. Yes, the Door. The door to the outside world, my route out of this house and, i hoped, this planet, and my life of impotent anticipation.

The fresh air hit me like a juggernaut, filling my lungs and blasting the sleep from my head. Then the light, bright and clean, with a unfiltered purity unseen by my black hamster eyes. Then the sounds: of nature in all her glory, birdsong and rustling leaves; the deeper chatter of passing humans; and the harsh, unnatural, sounds of passing cars. Their engines were much louder than I remembered from the Third Window and seemed to shake the ground as they passed - a taster of the awesome power I would soon experience first hand. I could see little of the world around me, other then a rectangle of sky above, the occasional tree, shocking in its lush complexity, and the face of my owner, smiling to himself as he made his way to our goal. I was outside, for only the second time in my life, still trapped, but also free and part of a world that had been for so long beyond my grasp. I felt at home, and at ease.

I slept most of the way. Running frantically around the chamber in search of a better view and gulping in lungfuls of clean summer air had tired me out. I awoke only when the gentle bobbing motion of my owner's stroll stopped with a jolt. My traveling chamber had been placed on a hard surface in a room with a high sloping wooden ceiling. From the noise around me I guessed that there were many humans in this space, more than I had ever known. They chattered and shouted excitedly, with occasional lulls as a deeper voice called for silence over the clamour. Still unable to see anything other than the rectangle above me I guessed we were in mission control, the base of operations I had seen many nights before. The sounds I could hear were the countless technicians preparing for launch, carrying out the last minute checks and safety routines that were essential for a safe launch. Yes, I thought, I am in safe hands here, the butterflies in my stomach perfectly natural but unfounded, my journey would be as safe as humanly possible. I welcomed though the surge of adrenaline that returned to my system. I would need all of my wits about me for the daunting task ahead.

I have reached the grand finale. Both dramatic and farcical, in one fell swoop it shattered my dreams and gave me new hope. In short, it turned me into the hamster I am today. I was picked up one final time. My claws scrabbled involuntarily, in time with the pounding of my heart. I knew what came next and I was not disappointed. Before me, gleaming under the open skylight above, was my means of escape, the vehicle that would transport me to greatness. The rocket, for that is what is was, dominated the room and demanded attention. Its mirrored surface was perfectly smooth, polished to high shine, and poised upon viciously curved, blood-red, sharks-fin legs. The epitome of focused, pure design, this was an object made for a single purpose - to go upwards, very, very quickly indeed. It screamed power, but not without control when tamed by worthy paws. The cockpit was opened, I was placed inside, and I nestled deep into my captain's chair which, of course, fitted me like a glove. Only one thing felt wrong. There were no controls, or none that I could see. Perhaps they were concealed, or merely invisible to untrained eyes. More likely, and deeply shocking when considered in retrospect, there were none.

A moment of calm first, and a collective gasp. The whole room held their breath, as well they might, but not me as I pounded every surface and searched every corner. "This was not how it was meant to end" I thought, sweat moistening my fur as I imagined the humiliation to follow. Autopilot would only take me so far, without manual control I was powerless and heading for disaster. But the cockpit was smooth, precisely constructed but mocking in its blankness. Try as I might I could find no buttons, no screens, and certainly no joystick to guide my craft among the stars. Defeated and choking back sobs I slumped against the glass. Then the silence ended and mere buttons became unimportant. The engines roared, the cockpit juddered, then takeoff. I was slammed back in my seat and reminded of my time in the bubble - it had prepared me well for the stresses of launch. For a few majestic seconds the rocket rose straight and true and I forgot my fears, I was an astronaut and damn the consequences. I was about to earn my place among those orange-suited heroes, and fulfill my mother's dream of immortalising the proud name of Snuggles and all it represents. And then I hit the ceiling. My craft had missed the skylight by inches and ricocheted off the slanted wooden roof, though thankfully not as a blinding fireball. The cockpit window flew open on impact and I was ejected from my seat, free-falling for a second before my parachute kicked in and I floated gracefully to the ground.

With the jolt of my landing on the polished wooden floor came a jolt of realisation. I was not meant for the stars, I never had been. I had been naive to think that I could cope with the ordeal of manned space flight, and foolish to believe that I was anything but a pawn in the twisted games of my owner. I have come to realise that I was mere ballast, the fluffy public face of a project beyond my control and doomed to failure. I was nothing special, and had been granted this adventure through chance alone. But despite this I feel blessed. I have done things that no hamster has done before, and faced each opportunity with an unflinching stare and a desire to do the best I could. For this I am proud, and I have no regrets. But the best thing of all is that I have learned to love the ordinary, the life I was born into yet longed to escape. When I was taken home I returned to the nest with my head held high. I told my mother where I had been, the whole fantastic tale. She laughed and held me close, and told me "Son, I'm so glad you're home", and I was too. Adventure may be a thrill, but it's no match for a Rotastak with food and water available on demand, a wheel to keep you in shape and a mother to tickle you with her whiskers as she nuzzles your face in the evening.

Here's a story that's been sitting on my computer for the last year, feeling lost and alone. It was written in response to a coursework essay question I was set in Introduction to Philosophy, and I think it would have been a much better answer than the essay I submitted. Enjoy.

“Ok, pay attention, here are the rules. No hair pulling; no eye gouging; only non-fatal smiting; no miracles…” God listened impatiently as the official ran through the list, carefully designed to ensure that the contest at least maintained the pretence of fairness. “I should be the one making the rules,” he thought. “I’ve had much more practice than he has.” He did not complain however, as it was important that the contest was not subject to the tiresome disputes that dogged his existence. After all, he was here to end an argument, not start one.

“You can do it son, we believe in you,” urged Isaac Newton, stifling a snigger.
    “How can you fail when you have the power of science behind you,” encouraged Albert Einstein, wondering whether it was too late to call his bookmaker and place a few thousand more on his friend’s defeat.
    Charles Darwin was scared. He was a scientist, not a mighty warrior, and the idea of fighting the most powerful being in the universe armed with little more than some theories and a few sharpened pencils was not one that made him dizzy with excitement. He didn’t even want to hurt God in principle – it wasn’t the sort of thing that was taught in church, but when he got that phone call from that excitable American with the spiky hair who kept on about “kicking his ass” and “putting on a show” it had seemed like the right thing to do.

A few hundred yards away from the fretting Darwin and the quietly confident Almighty, past the warren of corridors, dressing rooms and offices that formed the backstage area of the Heavenly Arena, the amphitheatre was beginning to fill. This was no small feat, as the seating capacity exceeded six billion, covering an area roughly the size of the Isle of Wight, but few people on Earth wanted to miss this fantastic opportunity; not just to witness the life-changing event that was promised, but also to buy T-Shirts that said “I’ve Been to Heaven and All I Got was this Lousy T-Shirt”. Sporadic fighting had broken out due to a slightly flawed seating plan (based on 200 year old data that passed as “up to date” in heaven), but overall it could be said that this was the one time that humanity had coexisted in complete harmony, united by the prospect of spiritual fulfilment and hopefully a little blood.  

A whine of feedback signalled the beginning of an announcement, and the sound of a billion different conversations subsided to a dull murmur.
    “Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls. The theological arena is buzzing here tonight, as we prepare to witness one of the biggest spectacles ever to be held in this illustrious stadium. Yes, you’ve guessed it. For your viewing pleasure, Don King Promotions presents the ultimate battle of the titans, the fight to end all fights, the once in a lifetime event that is… DARWIN VERSUS GOD!”
    The crowd roared, rising to its feet and fighting to see who could chant the loudest.
    “Darwin, Darwin, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, he hasn’t evolved enough yet,” competed with, “He’s big, he’s mighty, he’ll put up a good fighty. He’s God!”
    “However, before we bring on these two titans of world opinion, I would like to present possibly the greatest support act in the known universe. Taking the word warm-up to a whole new level, it gives me enormous pleasure, and a few nervous twitches, to introduce… Satan’s Sadists! (Sponsored by Cadbury’s Fingers – God’s chocolate).”
    Confused mutterings spread among a few die-hard believers who thought that maybe this wasn’t the most appropriate form of entertainment to be enjoying in Heaven, but chants of “flay them, flay them, flay them” from the vast majority of the audience smothered the dissent.

Huge pillars of fire erupted from each corner of the square wooden stage that had been erected on the sea of white, and clouds of black smoke billowed from its centre, bringing with them an overpowering stench of sulphur and a slight hint of chocolate. Four devils dressed in purple sequined jackets appeared in the middle of the cloud, and began to dance in a devilish, but slightly camp, fashion, stomping their hooves on the boards to the beat of “Fire” by Arthur Brown, which echoed around the arena from unseen speakers. “I am the God of hellfire, and I bring you fire…” The largest devil, twirling a cane topped with a silver skull, flashed his most evil grin at the audience. “Thank you, thank you, you’re too kind,” he snarled. “You are about to witness a demonstration of some of the oldest skills in existence, practised by masters of their trade. Those of you who can bear to look will be treated to a display never before seen by the living. You will be entertained, disgusted and enthralled in equal measure, as we try to give you just a little taster of what Hell is all about.” The crowd stamped their feet in barely suppressed glee, acknowledged with a brief nod from the lead devil. “So without further ado,” and here his words swelled to an almost deafening volume, “LET THE FUN BEGIN”.
    Four “lucky” volunteers, fresh from the catacombs of hell, were led on by swimsuit-clad she-devils and, after a brief but one-sided struggle, were tied to wooden stakes that were bolted to the floor in a line along one side of the stage. Perhaps to ease their unhappiness at being tortured in front of billions of baying spectators, each was given a purple Cadbury’s Fingers baseball cap with the slogan “The Sinful Snack” embroidered in large red letters. Each devil took up a position in front of his designated victim, and pulled as if from nowhere a glittering and vicious-looking set of torture instruments.

What followed over the next hour is far too horrific to put into print, but highlights included demonstrations of torture by Countdown, blunt cheese grater (a crowd favourite), week old fried-breakfast grease and rampaging elephant, along with the more traditional live liver-eating and boulder-rolling. The finale however was something very special indeed, and was the result of many weeks of careful discussion and focus-group testing, designed to ensure that no-one in the crowd would remain unmoved by what they witnessed and, if possible, that none of them would sleep for a substantial portion of the rest of their lives.
    Not that the audience was warned of this beforehand. Completely unsuspecting, they were having fun and, in the interval before the finale, were discussing what they needed to buy on their weekly shop, or nudging their atheist friends and gloating “I told you so” as it finally dawned upon them that yes, God does exist and, more importantly, he knows how to put on a good show.

Yet more jets of flame, and a couple of fireballs for good measure, regained the crowd’s attention, and the lead devil (Jeffrey to his friends) rapped his cane on the stage. “Can I have your attention please? We hope that we have entertained and amazed you, made you cringe and made you smile, made you vomit and made you buy hugely overpriced soft drinks to take away the taste afterwards. Most of all, we hope that you will now think just a little bit more carefully when you decide to do something bad back on Earth, and then decide to do it anyway. Our act is almost over, but what you will see next will make the wonders of the past hour seem a mere appetiser, a warm-up to the worst fate that can possibly befall any man, woman or child. Prepare yourself for something so horrible that even Satan himself thought we were going too far. I am of course talking about our newest and most horrific method of execution… death by Vanessa Feltz!”
    As a drum roll blasted from the speakers, the audience looked at each other nervously. Surely they must be joking. Surely no one could be that cruel. It must be a hoax. But alas, their hopes were dashed when they spied the unmistakable shape of the well-known TV presenter being winched down from a giant crane that overhung the arena. The winching stopped when she reached a height of approximately above the stage, and she dangled there, swaying in the wind, while the audience gasped in horror and some of the less stout-hearted spectators fled for the exits. Meanwhile, the devils were busy tying the four (by now severely damaged, but still screaming) victims together, and positioning them in the centre of a giant plastic bull’s-eye that had been laid out by the she-devils. A countdown appeared on the giant screens.

10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…

On zero Feltz was released, and a faint wail could be heard as she plummeted towards the cowering men (who, by the way, had been selected for their roles after it was discovered that they were actually quite enjoying Hell, and were heard telling some of the new arrivals that “you get used to it eventually”. They needed to be taught a lesson). Her shadow grew larger and larger, and after what seemed like an eternity she impacted with a force roughly equivalent to a small tactical nuclear weapon. With a mighty squelch Vanessa exploded into a shower of bone and blubber that covered the first 50 rows of seats with a slippery, yet sticky, shower of gore. The four men were crushed instantly, sent back to hell to serve out the rest of their eternal torture, and the audience puked as one.
    “Thank you, thank you, you’ve been a great audience. We must now sink back to the infernal depths from whence we came, but before we go I would like to leave you with these words. SEE YOU IN HELL.” This last sentence was delivered at an even more ear-splitting volume than before, as the devils disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. Unfortunately the effect was rather spoilt by the well-choreographed antics of a pair of giant dancing Cadbury’s fingers, who came on from the wings accompanied by some sickeningly twee glockenspiel music and the jingle “Cadburys, Cadburys, they make tasty treats. Chocolatey and crunchy – they’re oh so good to eat.”

*

Darwin gasped, spluttered, drew in a long shuddering breath, then slowly opened his eyes. Lights blinded him, sending liquid streaks of fire through his skull and causing him to wince in discomfort. “Where am I?” he moaned, “why am I on the floor?”
    “You’re in your dressing room, and you fainted, so we had to pour our jug of freshly squeezed, ice cold, lemonade on you,” spat Marie Curie, a look of disgust marring her distinguished features. “It was brought to us by an angel. We expect you to buy us a new one.”
    “Yes, yes, of course,” squirmed Darwin. A look of hope came into his eyes. “Did I miss the fight?”
    “It’s in ten minutes. You’d better dry yourself,” she smirked. “Oh, and say your prayers.”

In his luxuriously appointed, but stunningly tasteless, dressing room God lounged on his custom-made faux-suede sofa, listening to his favourite tape of Tibetan prayer chants.“When I win, do you think they’ll all respect me?” he asked.
    “Of course they will father,” comforted Jesus, without the slightest hint of insincerity. “Just look at all you’ve done for them. They have so much to thank you for. When they realise that you gave them life, the universe and everything their hearts desire, they will worship you for eternity.”
    “All of them?”
    “All of them,” Jesus reassured. “Even John Paul.”
    “It would be good to get him back on side,” sighed God. “I made sure I put him on my Christmas card list straight after that horrible assassination business.”
    “Of course you did Father. There was nothing you could have done. He’ll come around”.

“If I die fighting God, will I go straight to Hell?” Darwin begged to know, becoming increasingly agitated at the idea of fighting an immortal, and grasping desperately for reasons to cancel the fight. “I skipped breakfast this morning – I might pass out with hunger when I’m in the ring. Maybe I should postpone. What if…”
    Marie Curie cut him off. “In answer to your first question, you’re already dead. As for your second question, you’re already dead. You can’t die, you don’t need food, you won’t have to go to the toilet halfway through the fight, and there’s little chance that God will forget to turn up.”
    “But…” Darwin whimpered.
    “But nothing,” Curie interrupted. “You are fighting for the honour of scientists everywhere, and for all those who want the right to laugh at those who have beliefs different to themselves. If you lose this fight science will become obsolete, and we will have to rely on religious leaders to answer our questions on the workings of our great planet. This will inevitably result in a society where nothing works but religious leaders live a ridicule free life in huge marble palaces, safe in the knowledge that any wrong information they impart is simply part of God’s mysterious plan, and that if anyone doubts them some serious smiting will occur.” She stamped her foot, making Darwin flinch. “I am not prepared to see that happen.”
    “It’s not so bad”, comforted Thomas Edison. “I have an invention that will make the fight much easier, and may even give you an edge over your opponent.” Darwin looked up hopefully, wiping the tears from his eyes. Curie looked doubtful. “It’s a special type of blindfold that not only prevents you from seeing, but also fits in your ears and plays a nice happy tune.” Edison brandished a complicated device that resembled a pair of brass night-vision goggles with a miniature gramophone strapped to the top. “It will calm your nerves, as you’ll have no idea what’s going on, and God may feel so sorry for you that he will cancel the match. After all, he wouldn’t hit a man with glasses, would he?”
    As he finished speaking a sign lit up on the wall, announcing that there was one minute to go before show-time. Darwin swallowed hard, glared at his so-called friends who seemed to be finding his situation extremely funny, shoved the proffered contraption back into Edison’s chest, straightened his bow tie, and pushed open the door that led to the entrance tunnel for the Heavenly Arena.

Next door God, having received the same notice, sighed, prised himself from his comfortable chair, turned to receive a thumbs up from Jesus and the assorted saints that filled the room, and strode towards the exit. The great oak doors swung open before him and the contest began.

“Wait a minute, what’s this? Ladies and gentlemen, it appears that your wait is finally over. Judging from the crowd of devoted followers that have appeared at the entrance to the arena, it seems that God is about to make his entrance. Yes, here he is now; weighing in at infinity pounds and no ounces, fighting for his home town of Everywhere, The Universe, he looks in fine condition tonight.”
    “Quite so Jim, but we have come to expect nothing less from the omnipotent one himself. It seems that being immortal and all-powerful can do wonders for your physical (or metaphysical) state. We can expect big things from this one tonight, and maybe the odd miracle or two.”

A hushed silence fell across the arena, as God made his way into the stadium. Almost obscured by a swirling flock of seraphim, it is difficult to make out his exact appearance, but one gets the impression of an immense presence compacted into a very small space, and a massive aura of self-confidence, bordering on arrogance. Moving quickly towards his seat in the red corner of the ring, the raised walkway on which he tread appeared to turn to gold under his feet, and a wonderful perfume filled the air.
    It is clear he will pull no punches in the forthcoming contest however, as bolts of lighting flew from his person to hit those supporters of Darwin who were unfortunate enough to be sitting nearby, singeing hair and setting the clothing of one unlucky woman on fire. The ropes surrounding the ring sprang from their mountings to allow the Almighty to pass, refastened themselves behind him, and the Lord of All Creation took his seat, still cloaked by a host of angels.

“That’s how you make an entrance folks – it’s nice to see that God hasn’t lost his taste for drama. All we need now is his opponent, before the excitement in this arena becomes too much for us mortals to bear.”
    “Indeed Jim. The air in this colossal arena is thick with anticipation, the crowd eager to welcome one of the great figures of human history, the father of modern evolutionary theory and one of the greatest scientists the world has ever known. He is truly a magnificent example to us all, and I’m sure that not even being dead for the last 120 years will diminish his power to enlighten and amaze us with his brilliance.”
    “Here he comes now - the fantastic, the mighty, the really rather clever… CHARLES DARWIN!”
The crowd, by now rather hoarse with the prolonged excitement of the evening, made another valiant attempt to deafen themselves and those around them with their hysteria, their roars hitting the challenger like a hurricane wind, and doing little to increase his confidence. Blinking in the harsh light of the spotlights, and half-stunned by the aural assault, Darwin stepped forward from the tunnel onto the walkway, and began his advance toward the ring.
    With each step his confidence began to grow, as he realised that the crowd are actually cheering him, and that some of them are even waving encouraging banners like “Do It For The Monkeys” and, rather misguidedly, “Darwin’s Not E=MCScared Of Anyone”. Beginning to enjoy the attention ,he turned to wave at a particularly enthusiastic group of young women and slipped on a half-eaten choc-ice thrown onto the walkway, hitting the cold floor with a thump and feeling his skull bounce off its unyielding hardness. “Bugger” he thought, as he slipped from consciousness for the second time that day.

“Oooo, that’s gotta hurt. What do you think Jim, have you ever seen a more embarrassing entrance to a sporting arena?”
    “Well Mike, I have to say I can’t think of one, particularly when the stakes are so high and the audience is so large. He’ll take a while to live this one down, no matter what the outcome of tonight.”
    “Quite so Jim. As you can see, the arena’s expert team of medical staff are attending to the challenger, and I’m sure they have been trained for situations like this. We’ll just have to pray that he can continue with the contest.”
    “Well why pray when you have a direct line to God himself. I have him on my radio here, and hopefully with a little persuading he’ll see to it that the clash can continue.”

*

Darwin came to for the second time that afternoon. Not, this time, to the blinding lights and freezing lemonade of his dressing room, but instead to the shapely rear of a swimsuit-clad ring girl, entertaining the crowd with her lack of clothing. A much pleasanter proposition, marred only by the realisation of what he had done to knock himself out. “God hates me,” he thought.
    A voice inside his head replied “No, I just pity you,” accompanied by brief glimpse of a smirk from his opponent opposite. “Are you sure you’re up to this? That was a nasty fall you had.”
    “Yes,” thought Darwin through the mental equivalent of gritted teeth. “Thank you for your concern”.
    “You know you’d still be out cold if I hadn’t intervened,” sneered God.
    “Praise the Lord, it’s a miracle,” snarled Darwin. “I’ll settle for water into wine next time.” For the first time today he looked forward to the contest ahead of him, despite the risk of severe physical injury that accompanied it. Then a thought struck him. “God,” he asked, “what exactly are we meant to be doing in this ring?”

*

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. As you can see, our brave warriors are in place, and Charles Darwin is back in fighting form after his nasty accident.”
    “Yes indeed Jim, we are just seconds away from the main event, although I have heard that a Mrs Loughton from Dorset will be suing Darwin for severe choc-ice damage and emotional distress caused thereof. We’ll let you know how that turns out.”
    “Thank you Mike, good to see the lawyers haven’t taken a day off for the occasion. However, I have some bad news concerning the contest, which, as we all know, promised to be the greatest spectacle in history, a momentous event that will go down in legend as the official Best Thing Ever. It has been brought to my attention in the last five minutes by a representative from the contest promoters that there is a slight problem with the planned bout.”
    “Tell us more,” asked Mike, eyebrows raised.
    “It wasn’t.”
    “Wasn’t what?” demanded Mike, his voice cracking slightly as his veneer of cool professionalism began to slip.
    Jim stared intently out of the window, avoiding his colleague’s gaze, “It wasn’t planned.”
    “Look, buddy, you’d better explain the situation pretty damn quick” threatened Mike, his TV persona evaporating as he faced the potential ruin of the crowning glory of his career. “I… I mean, the public, have waited a long time for this moment.” As he finished his outburst he rose from his chair, towering over his co-presenter and twitching with barely suppressed anger.
    Jim focused on a distant ice-cream seller, wishing he could trade places for an hour or so, “I’m afraid to say that when Don King came up with the idea for this contest, the idea alone of God fighting Darwin was enough to send him into a hyperactive frenzy. Mr King booked the stadium, secured the stars, set up a promotion team and arranged to have the entire human race transported to this venue, all in the space of a few days. Unfortunately, he forgot to work out exactly how our two protagonists would settle their dispute in an entertaining manner.”

Mike’s eyes bulged, his breathing became heavier, and his fingers began to drum on the granite desk top. “You’re saying that we don’t have a fight,” came his barely audible reply.
    “Apparently Mr King’s employees realised the problem yesterday, and tried to come up with a solution, but no-one could come up with a way to make a contest between an all-powerful, all-knowing entity and a long dead, and frankly rather pathetic, human a fair one. A philosophical debate, boxing match, tiddlywinks, Scalextric, even table football were suggested, but none could be proven to be fair or suitable for such an important contest.”
    “And the contest was started because…” growled Mike.
    “There was a huge amount of money at stake, both in terms of ticket sales and advertising revenue. Six billion tickets at twenty dollars each is a lot of money, and you wouldn’t believe how much Cadbury paid them. Also, the level of fear at Don King Management is so high that no-one actually told him the problem. I think they were hoping they could wing it.” Jim instinctively flinched as he delivered this bombshell to his colleague.

Sure enough, it was too much for veteran anchorman Mike “Slick” Washington to bear. With an anguished bellow of “I want my Emmy,” he flung his laptop through the plate glass window of the studio, where it fell onto the increasingly restless crowd. Tearing at his immaculately coiffed hair, he proceeded to go on a rampage that could at best be called unprofessional, and at worst psychotic, resulting in the destruction of a wide selection of broadcasting equipment in the studio and the open mouthed stares of those attempting to operate it.
    With a final petulant, but almost satisfied, snort, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him and causing the Celestial TV logo on the rear wall of the studio to fall to the floor, turning the intricately carved crystal harp into an explosion of razor sharp shrapnel.

“Well folks, I’m afraid that’s all for today,” apologised Jim into the only surviving camera. “We hope you enjoyed the show, and rest assured we’ll be bringing you the rematch as soon as it can be arranged. For now though, here’s a special Christmas edition of America’s Most Fatal Car Crashes. Enjoy.”

Hello, and welcome to Timpblog 3000. It's always nice to open with a pirate story, so that's what I've done. Further adventures of the heroic Pirate Bill may follow at a later date. Or they may not.

Last night I went to see King Billy and the Marvelous at the Kingfisher pub in Ipswich. The Kingfisher is one of the dodgier pubs in Ipswich (as demonstrated by the "England First Party. Pensioners Before Asylum Seekers" sticker on the toilet mirror) and also one of the smallest, so my expectations were low, particularly as I had no idea who it was I was going to see. It turns out that I had seen the band play once before, when they supported The Bluetones at a Norwich Waterfront gig in March. The fact that I only vaguely recognised the name, and had no memories of their set, shows the kind of impression they made on me then, but luckily on second viewing they were really rather good.

King Billy and the Marvelous can best be described as a kind of soul/ska/punk/chav hybrid, very definitely true to their Ipswich roots, but actually talented enough to compete musically with the likes of The Ordinary Boys (if you count that as a compliment). Their set was funky, their lyrics were imaginative and the lead singer was charismatic, even considereing his baseball cap and tanktop. Even better, the band could actually play, with some vicious drumming and several fiddly guitar riffs from their guitarist Ben Dorriety, who made full use of a massive array of effects pedals. Before the mid-session interval they even abandoned the singing for a breakneck "hoedown", all but forcing us into a Vegas-style kickline. For the encore they tested a couple of new songs, with a summery, laid-back feel that had echoes of the Bluetones and sounded better than much of their old material.

The gig was the first proper pub gig that I had been to, and the Kingfisher itself was a big factor in my enjoyment.  Despite the furnace-like heat inside, the sound quality was good, the beer was reasonably priced, and the pub was small enough and empty enough that we could stand within a couple of yards of the main singer. My friends also manged to invade the stage in a sweaty drunken shouty mass towards the end of the night without getting thrown out. Even the skinheads at the back looked like they were having fun.

The only negative point to the evening was that every one of my friends bought a King Billy T-Shirt, as they'd seen the band several times and vaguely knew the drummer. This means that if I ever see the band again I will be hounded mercilessly to do the same. It's a small price to pay though, as entry was free and it's nice to see proof that Ipswich can produce musical talent that isn't Charlie from Busted.

You can listen to the band at their Myspace site if you follow this link here.