52 storiesrubber-with-text

Rubber grinned as he fell through the air, watching the sky disappear, the top of the building get smaller, and the rush of wind thundering past his ears. His friends paused, wide mouthed, clutching their tequila shots from their boredom induced game they’d just invented entitled ‘Tequila Slammers on the Windowsill’. All three of them had licked the salt off their hands and then leaned back at the same time, downing their drinks, but only two of them had returned to the upright position ready to suck on their lemon slices.

His real name was Robert, which his mum had shortened to Robbie when he was a baby, then added the nickname that stuck after the sixth time he fell out of his baby seat and bounced. Rubber Robbie, the bouncy kid. Catchy. He’d fallen off numerous things as a child and bounced right onto his feet again. No tears. Just a giggle and off he went. As Rubber grew his childhood boinginess never left him. He’d fallen from trikes, bikes, swings, slides, walls, wardrobes, and many trees. He’d bounced off lino, carpet, grass, woodchip, concrete, asphalt, marble, rock, and even steel, and each time he’d bounced just like a tyre, or a spring, or a rubber band ball, and got up and walked away unharmed.

Once he fell from the top of a multi-storey car park after a particularly violent argument with his girlfriend and her, it turned out, not ex-boyfriend. The huge hairy man had pushed Rubber over the wall with his hammer like arms. He’d resembled a gurning gibbon, thought Rubber, just before he plummeted 200 feet towards the pavement, in complete calm silence. The man with the hammer like arms maintained his puzzled expression from the 20th story when Rubber got up, brushed the cigarette ends off his jeans, and walked off, turning to wave to his aggressor who couldn’t contemplate how to get to the ground as quickly as Rubber had in order to finish the job.

This is why, as Rubber fell from the window, he wasn’t too bothered about it. He’d bounce, as usual, get up, and walk away. He hadn’t noticed the black railings that led up to the steps and curled around to the door. Shiny and sparkling in their glossy paint. Tall, thin, each with a beautiful hand crafted split spike on top.

The pop was heard in the next town. The mess took the local council ages to clear up. Blood spatters were found for weeks afterwards and a reluctant council employee was despatched with scrubbing brush and paint. Mavis found Rubber’s little finger in her geraniums a week later, and left it out for the birds along with a few bacon rinds. She noticed how they seemed to have to chew on it quite vigorously before swallowing. Must be a bit rubbery, she thought.





“Got a fag mate?”
The chav sneered at my lack of charitable assent.
“Got 20p for the phone then?”
His eyes fill with the further unfairness of life. He jitters in his skin, hands firmly in his thin coat pockets. Agitation spurs him on.
“No need for that is there?” he barks at my stoic face.
Not to exacerbate the situation, and purely out of need, I produce a fully formed cigarette from my baccy pouch and light its delightful end. The excess smoke engulfs the Eastmoorlian creature and he splutters with pretend distress.
“All right, mate. No need to rub it in, innit.”
“You can’t rub smoke in,” I say, informatively.
His lack of words portrays his disbelief at this cold hearted fag bearer whose wanton malice makes his bitterness spurt fountains of bile within his Gregg’s filled stomach.
“Please mate, just one, eh?”
I pull another freshly rolled cig from my pocket and place it in his grubby hands.
“Make sure you breathe it in nice and deep,” I say, as I generously offer a flame to spark his desire. And he follows my instruction, nice and deep, into his squishy lungs, into his corrupted blood, into his body and soul.
He coughs.
I think he’s trying to thank me, but the melting flesh from his throat must be catching the words.
He coughs. Then hacks.
The red stuff falls from his mouth. He tries to speak, something to do with “What the f…” But he coughs again. The pool of bloody lung cajoles around his ragged trainers.
“Why don’t you take another drag?” I say.
I think he saw my satisfied smirk as I left, framed by the concrete pavement and chunks of his own innards.







The Naked Truth

the-naked-truthShe stood before him wearing nothing but the dagger shaped necklace she’d worn all through their first date. His eyes were wide with anticipation as he drank in her perfect body. All the right bits swayed as she walked towards him then pushed at his chest so his legs had to submit to the bed behind him. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and a finger made its way down her cheek bone to her lips, parting them slightly, enough to see her sparkling teeth just beyond. Her hand carried on to her necklace, her fingers coiled round it’s shaft. She gripped it. Hard. Then pulled. There was no ripping sound. There was no blood. Just an invisible zip that released her skin from her body, neck to belly button. It fell from her shoulders, peeled from her hips, her thighs, her legs. And she stepped out of her covering, dropping it in a jellied blob on the stained carpet, the sinewy bits that had held it there dripped from her skeleton. She ripped off her mask from the chin and stared at his trembling body.
“You wanted the naked truth, didn’t you?”



Derek the Disco Snail



It was a cold, dark night, and somewhat moist. A perfect night, thought Derek, as he made his way through the crispy leaves and decaying annuals. His trail sparkled in the moonlight, joining the organic artwork of his friends on the otherwise dull brickwork of The Wall. But Derek’s trail stood out from the rest on account of the regular bumps and humps along its winding path. This was because Derek liked to shimmy. He also liked to bop. And occasionally grind. Derek was a disco snail.

Now, it is true to say that snails aren’t known primarily for their disco prowess, even amongst their fellow snails. Derek’s friends had come to accept his love of the boogie, but still they knew he just wasn’t normal, like snails normally are. Some snails, the ones who weren’t Derek’s friends, we’re really quite nasty about it. Like, for instance, Pamela, who was approaching, slowly. She slinked along, knowing all other snails were watching her perfect shell lolling from side to side, seductively looking in their direction. Just ignore her, Derek said to himself.
“Hey Derek,” said Pamela as they began to pass, “I see you still can’t keep a straight trail.” She laughed through her bubbling slime which fizzed and popped with each chuckle.
“What’s it like being such a weirdo, eh? Who ever heard of a snail doing disco? Freak!”
This last hurtful word echoed through the small garden as Pamela passed, sniggering and fizzing. Derek stopped in his tracks and hung his eyes. As much as his friends accepted his unusual hobby he knew that Pamela was only voicing what they all really thought. He looked back over his bumpy trail, then turned and tried his hardest to keep himself straight as he made his way to the top of The Wall.
“Derek mate, good to see you!” Lucy’s friendly face lifted Derek’s eyes, and the lapse of concentration sent his back end into a sharp bump and controlled grind.
“Hi,” said Derek, mournfully. Lucy’s concern managed to coerce Derek’s troubles from him.
“Oh just ignore her.”
“I try to. It’s difficult though.”
“Difficult shmifficult,” said Lucy. “She’s nothing. Just a snail with a straight trail.”
“A straight trail snail?” Derek let out a little shimmy to the rhythm of his words.
“She’s only jealous.”
“Jealous of not being normal?”
“Exactly. Who wants to be normal?” said Lucy, sarcastically. “And you can’t get more normal than Pamela.” Both snails giggled and bubbled.
“And, Derek, you should be proud of your talents.” Lucy edged closer to her friend, so they were almost touching foots. “You should show them off. Let the world know about your snailian disco. Like, say, at some kind of disco championship.” Lucy smirked. Derek didn’t like it when Lucy smirked. It usually meant deviancy, or she’d been eating birch leaves which always gave her terrible wind.
“Look,” she said, pointing her eye stalks downwards and slowly revealing the title of the soggy paper they’d both been resting on.

Regional Freestyle Disco Dancing Championship
Lockfelt Village Hall
Friday 10th February
All competitors must be on the floor by 8pm

Lucy spent a good half hour persuading Derek to take up the challenge. It would be good for him, she said. Spend some time with his fellow discoers. Show everyone, including Pamela, that he didn’t care what anyone thought of his freakish ways. This was who he was, and he should be proud of it.

The night was almost upon him, and Derek was feeling the nerves. Lucy had spent all day chewing up copper tape to stick to his shell. He had a frill of moss along the flare of his sides and a medallion of the reddest hawthorn berry Lucy could find. She’d fought off a blackbird for this last accessory. Lucy had risked her life for him, so Derek knew there was no backing out now. He had a sneaky sip of beer from the bating trap before he left and he bumped and humped his way to the village hall feeling the call of the funky beat through the ground. As he climbed through the ladies’ frosted window the pulse intensified. This was like an inner fuel to Derek, and meant he made good time across the damp toilet floor, between the feet of the queue, and onto the dance floor. The thrill of the music enveloped him. He’d never felt such a powerful beat before, and he shimmied with every inch if his slimy body. The dance floor was busy with sparkling heels, and by eight o’clock all competitors were warmed up and ready to drop their funk, including Derek.

The judge was watching the rolling hips and disco points with keen eyes. Raymond Filcher, 1977 Disco Champion (Northern Region), scrutinised with expert vigour. Wobbles were dismissed from the floor, as were incomplete splits and out of sync hustles. In fact, everyone started to wonder if anyone would survive the pernickety judge’s harsh dismissals. They knew one would though. DeeDee ‘Delicious’ Myers was, as far as Raymond Filcher was concerned, the Queen of Disco. Her hair was pulled violently to the top of her head, leaving a long blond silky tail that finished in a bounce between her shoulder blades. Her face was pulled by the strangulated hair so that it seemed she consisted entirely of a red lipstick smile which bounced around the room along with the disco ball’s reflections. As she kicked her long legs high the pink lame jumpsuit held strong, giving a fitting surround to the four inch red stilettos lying underneath the flared ends. Her whole body shimmered as she boogied, including every inch of exposed skin under a layer of pink body glitter. Raymond was enchanted, and she caught his eye at every opportunity just to make sure he stayed that way.

As the night wore on the amount of feet on the dance floor lessened, thanks to Raymond’s disciplined pruning, and Derek could concentrate more on his funk than on trying to avoid the deathly platforms. That’s when Mojo Harris, Disco DJ, noticed him. The Baron of Disco had been boogying to his rambunctious tunes as he fiddled with the various knobs and sliders on his decks. He wasn’t particularly interested in this small time competition, which was nothing compared to back in the day. The talent was young and vibrant then. Now it was old and saggy, and the lightness had gone, the steps heavier and more clumsy. It was a dubious ode to disco, that’s for sure. He preferred to get lost in the music he played until someone gave him the game over sign. But this…this…this master of the beat, this rider of the rhythm, this tiny groove-filled bundle of far outness was a show stopper! He grabbed his mic.
“That cat’s outta sight, man!”
Everyone turned, squinted, then found the tiny snail in the middle of the dance floor, his copper taped body glinting under the disco lights.
“It’s a snail, you moron,” shouted Ken, DeeDee’s current boyfriend.
“Look at him go!” yelled Mojo. And everyone did.
Derek felt radiant. The combination of the music, the spinning lights, and attentive eyes upon him made him fizz with joy. He strutted his way round his part of the dance floor, timing his foot stomps perfectly, dipping his lustrous shell to the left, then the right, and he could feel the room pulsing with him. And so could DeeDee.

Raymond had dismissed the rest of the contestants with relative ease, leaving Derek, DeeDee, and Gary, a small, neat man wearing original Qiana shirt and trousers with appropriate flared and pointy bits, all in various shades of brown. While Raymond was busy working out a technical reason for dismissing Gary from the competition instead of an ill-considered fashion reason, DeeDee took matters into her own hands. Or stilettos. She trotted in time towards Derek’s patch, now covered in glistening slime rings. It was difficult to make out the small target with the swirling disco ball reflections and shiny floor, but a flash of copper alerted her to her target and she began her deadly move. She twisted and kicked, then threw her arms in the air dramatically and stamped her foot hard, but found she’d missed the snail by millimetres. She covered her disappointment with a few finger points, and, after a wiggle of hips, spun and slammed down a shiny red stiletto on the polished floor. Still no crushed snail. She needed to get closer, so she could see him properly. She got down on all fours and improvised some cat-esque crawl, accentuating the movement of her hips and shoulders and curling her fingers before slamming her pretend paws to the floor in a final pounce. She could see the snail, she was nearly on him. A couple more slinks and she’d be there. She grinned manically, helped by her strict hair, and was about to pounce when two large blue and purple platform shoes created a barrier.
“Hey pink lady, whatchu think you’re doin’, huh?” said DJ Mojo Harris.

The announcement was made, and the contestants cleared the dance floor for their allotted break before the final round of the competition. Derek found safety under a table, away from bustling shoes.
“Hey little bud, want some refreshments?”
Derek stared up at the towering figure in his sparkling blue spandex jumpsuit with a V neck so deep it was nearly indecent. A shiny golden medallion nestled amongst his sweaty forest of man chest, topped off with a big black bushy afro, purple shades, and the whitest smile any snail has ever seen. In a way the Baron of Disco resembled the shape of a perfectly proportioned tree, which Derek appreciated more so than any human.
The large afro got larger as Mojo bent to offer a lift via his hand, and Derek accepted. After he’d had a sip from a melting ice cube procured by his new friend, Derek felt renewed.
“Say, man, you can totally disco. I dig!” Mojo’s afro bobbed as he nodded in agreement with himself. Derek would have blushed, if he could.
“Thank you, Mr Harris, he managed.”
“Hey man, call me Mojo. Don’t go freakin’ me out with formality.”
“Okay,” said Derek. “I’m Derek,” said Derek, not quite knowing how to do conversations with humans.
“Derek, man, I take pleasure in meeting your vibes.”
“Thanks for your help out there. There were a few close shaves.”
“Hey, man, I know you could have handled the situ, but just wanted to help. I didn’t wanna step or your toes or nutin’, dig?”
“No, I can’t. Dig, that is. I don’t have toes,” said Derek. “Just this one foot.” Derek waved the tail end of his foot at Mojo, who beamed his generous smile.
“No toes, huh?”
“Yeah. I can get up to 46 meters per hour on a good day, but certainly not fast enough to dodge a human sized hand. If you hadn’t come along I’d be with the great snails in the sky by now.”
“Hey man, I saw her giving you the hairy eyeball. Knew she was up to no good.”
“She’s going to win. I know that.” Derek sighed. “I can’t believe I’ve got this far, to be honest.”
“Don’t let those chumps drag you down, brother. She may have the moves, but she ain’t got the soul. Not like you. You blow those cheese weasels outta the water, man!”
Derek smiled, but shook his head. “Thanks, Mr Ha…I mean, Mojo. But I might as well give it up now, especially if she’s gonna play dirty like that.”
“Now that, my friend, just ain’t gonna fly,” said Mojo with a bob of his spongy head. “There’s two types of people in this world, ones with egos causing their tangentials to go out of whack, and ones with music in their soul. The vibe of love. The pure groove that fills them up to their tips. Tha’s you, man. A one hundred and fi’ty percent bona fide-ee disco snail. Slammin’!”
Mojo flipped his fingers so hard his joints cracked. “Cool threads too!”
Derek remembered Lucy and how she’d risked her life for his cool threads. He’d come this far, and he had loved every second of it. He didn’t care if he won, he just wanted to tell Lucy that he’d done it.
“Give us a lift to the dance floor would you Mr Mojo? I’ve got a competition to finish.”

The music started up and the three contestants stretched their way to the dance floor. The audience were on their feet, focused, curious, and rather enamoured with the little snail. Derek bobbed his way in a circle, imbibing DJ Mojo’s tunes, who’s massive afro was bobbing away too, as if they were connected by the invisible beats. DeeDee was busy with a new move she’d been practising in front of Ken which involved wiggling as much as possible whilst thrusting her head in time to the music. It made her look like a broken clockwork chicken. Gary, who’d started with a very impressive quadruple heel spin with double toe adjustment, was now concentrating on hip rolling, which he knew he needed to get into his routine, and knew it would probably be the thing that Raymond disqualified him for. He was absolutely right, and Raymond, somewhat relieved something had finally turned up, pointed exaggeratedly off the dance floor.

Derek was doing the best strut. So was DeeDee, eyeing up the pesky snail with a dagger filled stare. Her nostrils flared above her wide mouth, and she launched into a classic New York hustle. Derek did the same, it being known as a group dance move. But then, just after her slide step, she spun across the floor and launched herself into the air, her legs wide, arms reaching her stiletto toes, and landed perfectly, with no wobble, straight into a triple spin. Derek appreciated this move, but, not to be outdone, he jumped into the air and bent back on himself, catching his tail in his mouth, then landed into a head jerking bop with a tail end hump. The crowd went wild. Derek could hear the gasps of amazement and mutters of “How did he do that?” which only made his hump more rampant.

By this time DeeDee was in full finger point mode, her hips swaying the opposite way to her impassioned pointing, to the ceiling, to the floor, to the ceiling, to the floor. The determination on her face radiated almost as much as her pink glittery body. She glanced at the pathetic snail and her face pinched. Derek couldn’t do the disco finger, so he was doing the disco eye stalk instead, which, cleverly, he mirrored with a bit of disco tail. He spun on the spot, then stopped in time with the thunderous beat and stood firm, pointing around the crowd with his left eye. The crowd could feel the boldness with which he stared at them and they all beamed and clapped with an almost collective head bop. He stepped to the right, then the left, then forward and back. His shell wiggled in time with a coppery twinkle.
“Discolicious!” yelled Mojo over his mic.
Derek had never felt such euphoria. Such acceptance. He didn’t just feel normal, he felt special. He was so caught up in the moment that he hadn’t noticed Ken, DeeDee’s boyfriend, creeping up behind him through the crowd until it was too late. The salt rained down on him like boulders of viscous poison. Ken’s wide eyes bulged with delight.
“What you gonna do now, snail?” he sneered.
And, to be quite honest, Derek didn’t know what he was going to do now. He could feel his moist foot drying up as he panicked. He tried to slither out of the salty mess, but the traction it caused was too much for his little body to overpower. At least he would die on a dance floor, he thought. Then suddenly, a pool of cool water surrounded his foot from behind. He looked round to see where it was coming from and saw Lucy stood in a puddle of liquid and ice cubes, flicking her tail. But it wasn’t just Lucy. There was Bob and Mike, Theresa and Marge, Lulu, Robbie and Carlton, all his mates, all pushing at spilled plastic cups and flicking their tails, sending the lifesaving liquid in Derek’s direction, far enough so he could make his way safely out of the salty death trap. He pointed his eyes in their direction, in time with the music, of course, and smiled at his friends, who started booging at the edge of the dance floor. Even Pamela was there, shimmying away.

Meanwhile DeeDee had taken the opportunity of having the floor virtually to herself and was leaping and flinging in all directions, twisting, turning, dipping, flipping, hair sailing through the air and whipping round her neck. She ended with a couple of cartwheels and perfect splits, which had definitely caught Raymond’s eye. She swept her legs round and wiggled her body into the start of the Bus Stop stance, but then some drips landed on her face from above. She looked up to see where they’d come from, and there, right on the huge disco ball in the middle of the ceiling, was Derek, strutting, sliding, pointing, and throwing his head from side to side. Raymond, DeeDee, Mojo, and the crowd stared in awe, and, as smiles of astonishment were forming all around the room, Derek lifted himself up onto the very tip of his foot and stayed there, spinning with the ball and casting a huge snail shaped shadow over the reflections it made around the room. DeeDee’s angry outburst was covered by the roaring crowd. She looked at Ken, and Ken nodded, producing a large mallet from behind his back which he’d been ordered to fetch from the car boot. But, just as DeeDee was preparing for her next move – a spin with double heel tap – her left stiletto heel disappeared from underneath her. She tried to save herself with her right heel, but it caught on something sticky, leaving her foot there without her body on top of it. Her scream went unheard against the cheering crowd, and it wasn’t until the final beats pulsed through the room and Derek did a stunning dismount from his spinning podium, landing squarely, perfectly, on his own foot, that anybody noticed DeeDee’s fate. Not that the crowd cared. Their applause could be heard even from The Wall. Encouraged (pushed) by Mojo Harris, Raymond stepped onto the dance floor holding a big golden trophy with purple glitter ribbons on the handles. The crowd watched, and he stumbled to turn on his mic. Through the wailing feedback Raymond’s voice hesitantly stuttered, “Er… [squeeeeal], and this year’s winner [squeeeak]…er…is…”
“His name’s Derek, man,” said Mojo from his own mic, “And he’s the funkiest disco snail you’ll ever meet!”


Having made the rounds on Mojo’s hand, next to his trophy held in Mojo’s other hand, Derek was dropped off into his circle of friends who all gathered round, slimy feet touching, to congratulate their special friend. Derek was overwhelmed. He bubbled and fizzed. His friends bubbled and fizzed, until a mound of foam was all that could be seen. Derek saw Lucy at the side of his foaming pile of friends and smiled at her. If it wasn’t for her…
“Hey, Derek,” said Pamela. Her big fluttering eyes blocked the space between Derek and Lucy.
“Wanna escort me back to The Wall tonight, hmm?” The suggestive way she said this made Derek do a double take. Was Pamela actually flirting with him?
“I’ll give you a foot rub,” she said.
When a snail offers another snail a foot rub it means something slightly more than just a foot rub, given the location of a snail’s unmentionables. As Pamela giggled coyly Derek saw Lucy behind her. She was turning away from them, her eyes hanging. Why is she leaving? asked Derek’s thoughts. Surely she doesn’t think…
“Er, actually, no thanks, Pamela. I’d rather slip back with Lucy. Thanks for coming though. See you around on The Wall some time.” Pamela wafted her eyes high into the air and turned, rather slower than she’d have liked, and left, by herself.

Outside, the ambulance man was trying to convince DeeDee ‘Delicious’ Myers that even with her twisted ankle – which she’d insisted they’d come and attend to, with lights – she could at least try to make it into the ambulance that she didn’t really need. DeeDee was in floods of tears. Her hair had come loose and sagged in a scraggly puff on the back of her head. This had consequences for the rest of her face which no longer seemed to contain just a red lipped smile. Quite the opposite in fact, streaked with blue mascara and pink glitter. Ken was trying to assist his girlfriend but kept getting slapped for his trouble, then shouted at. Raymond’s pleas of remorse went unheard. He swore he couldn’t work out how it had happened. Of course, Raymond wasn’t to know that if a whole bunch of snails cover a polished floor in fresh slime and leave a nice half chewed sticky birch leaf in the middle of it then it could be a hazard of some sort….


Under the orange glow of the streetlights a figure not dissimilar to that of a tree bobbed down the pavement in time with an inaudible tune. He held a golden trophy in one hand, and kept looking to the floor and grinning a bright grin. Lucy snuggled against Derek’s foot as they made their way home to The Wall. It could have been a trick of the light, but Derek’s friends all said that his slime trail was a little more discoy that night.

The boogielicious end.



Humanity Stirs

52 stories

The body lay on the table, face down. Grey. Hairless. Stripped of any individuality, almost on purpose. Its skinny arms dangled over the edge, fingers hanging. Reaching? No, just hanging. Too long a way to reach the cold floor. From above, the splayed figure was pathetic.
“Maybe he wanted to die,” said someone.
One of the other dark figures surrounding the table agreed with a growling, “Hmm.” It ran its fingers across the hundreds of daggers hovering around its shapeless figure, each with their own symbols, some much bigger than others. Meaningless symbols to those wretches like that of the body it was now stabbing with a hilt covered in shapes like £.
“Just not strong enough,” said another figure. “Sympathy is overrated,” and it whacked the dead heal with its whipping $.
“Apparently it cared too much.” The laugh this comment generated echoed through all the worlds, stripping walls of their strength and suffocating the last of the summer flowers. “Imagine that!” said the towering figure at the head of the table.
“I just can’t,” replied the tyrannical force circling the dark room. “Weak creature,” it sneered.
“Irrationality is its downfall,” said the £ figure. “Why save others when you can save yourself?”
A murmur of unchallenged wisdom hovered above the figures, stoic in its contemplation of the emaciated figure on the table. It took with it drifts of dystopian joy layered with opulent wisps of disdain and superiority.
“Can we get on?” said a wrinkled orange figure watching from the edge of the room. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes.”
The tyrannical force belched an annoyed breath over the irritating necessity from the earth realm, making his orange hair run from his head only to be snatched back by reinforced roots and Elnett hairspray. But the puny wrinkled form raised petulant eyebrows and stood firm, waiting for his master’s words.
“Bring him in,” said the towering figure, watching the darkness part at the opposite end of the table.
A creature squirmed its way through the dank ethereal walls, writhing with depths of despair from time long past. It spat and groaned with pleasure. Jellied eyes oozed misery from their holes of unimaginable darkness. Sharp writhing tentacles threatened the air with painful fear.
The orange figure squirmed, unable to keep his human weakness hidden.
The towering figure laughed, then nodded at the creature. “Take your invaluable paper and cut to the bones.” And the creature obeyed.
It sliced with its many paper knives, some with the same symbols as before, some different, some made of pure hate, some of poisonous words and untruths. There were even some made from the agonies of the old chains used long ago in the last great oppression of the earth realm. These cut the deepest, and it was unleashed.
The rivers ran from the dead body, floods of sparkling mists, all coloured differently from the next. They ran and overflowed, pushed by a force that rationality says can’t exist. The figures in the room shielded themselves from the invisible fizzing brightness as if it were a disease, rabid with curiosity, ingenuity, and the endless possible. The sensations stung at their thick skins, but left no marks. The room stank of will of progress and the sparks of passion. Wanting to find. Wanting to be better. With keen sweeps they searched and looked, turning back and forward, up, down, retracing themselves like silk ribbons on perfect air. But they could not find their destination. Their end was no longer available. They could not exist, for there was nowhere for them to do so.
The collected figures smiled as the rivers became streams, then drips running desperately to the floor. Their last resting place until it was as if they’d never existed.
The body looked greyer. Deader. More than stolen of life. More than any of its kind could imagine. It was a satisfying sight to the onlookers. The orange figure even grunted a lofty snigger.
But then, from somewhere and by something that can’t be known, the body stirred…


Dear Theresa May, Prime Minister of my country…

Dear Theresa May, if you hate humans so much why did you become a politician?
And why, Theresa May, would this be a legacy you want to be responsible for: the backwards leaver, destroying any hope of a united human race?
Are you really that scared of him, Theresa May? You’d let our country once again be subservient to the cause of humanity’s downfall?
And, as a woman, Theresa May, why would you condemn your gender to the repression of a hundred years ago, flicking the Vs at the brave women who fought for you so you could become a leader of our country? 
When did you lose yourself?

Great British Microwave Meal Challenge!


“And now on BeeBeeSee Onesie, it’s time for what you’ve all been waiting for, the Great British Microwave Meal Challenge!”

[Cue live feed]
[Cue too many seconds silence]
[Cue nasal VO]

“Check your wattage. Check your timings. And don’t forget to stir it half way through. Will it still be frozen in the middle? Grab your TV dinner and settle in on the sofa, it’s time for the Great British Microwave Meals Challenge!”

[Cue hurriedly written plonky theme tune, with pings and bings and unnecessary sharp beeps]
[Wide angled shot of cheap set, cheap lighting, and cheap presenters]
[Stand-by Cue: Ready to cut to presenters if John falls whilst doing manual sweeping shot]

“Welcome to another week of the Great British Microwave Meals Challenge!”
“Yes, welcome. I’m Mel Gribson, and this is Charlie Undertoe.”
“And what a show we’ve got this week!”
“We certainly have, Charlie. After last week’s soup challenge and the sad demise of Amanda who created way too much spillage for the judges, this week is sure to be a bit more taxing for our contestants.”
“Certainly is, Mel. Last week was a walk in the park compared to this week’s challenge. Let’s find out all about it, shall we?”
“Certainly. Let’s.”

[Cue end of sentence smiles close up]
[Cue VT]
[Cue nasal VO]
“Well, Mel and Charlie, we’ve spiced this week’s challenge up a bit with one of the nation’s favourites: chicken tikka masala. A classic rich and creamy dish, full of flavour, which made its way to Britain in the 1950s during a wave of emigration from India. The use of bite sized pieces of chicken was at the request of an emperor around 5,000 years ago who didn’t like the thought of choking on bones and so ordered his chefs to cut the chicken off before cooking. The tikka masala sauce is said to have been added by a Bangladeshi chef in a small Indian restaurant in Glasgow after a complaint by a customer that the dish was too dry. The chef tossed a tin of tomato soup, some spices and a spoonful of yoghurt to solve the dryness, and the dish that we love today was born. Now one of our staple national dishes, we get through 18 tonnes of it every week! The evolution of the chicken tikka masala ends here on GBMM, but will our contestants do it justice?”

[SFX cue] PING!

“Oh that’s the question, Mike. Thanks for that.”
“I love chicken tikka masala, Mel.”
“Me too, Charlie. That structureless chicken and rubbery rice that only a microwave can make. Divine.”
“I’m dribbling as you speak, Mel.”
“Oh, I don’t need to know about that, Charlie.”

[Cue close up of the whites of Mel’s fearful eyes]
[Laughter ends]

“It’s me. Yes! Now, our first contestant to take on this week’s challenge is Simon, our 20 year old student from Croydon.”
“Simon did well last week. His soup was delicious, wasn’t it Mel?”
“Oh yes. And with hardly any spillage.”
“Yes, his transference technique was quite impressive. Didn’t get any on the tray either. Quite professional.”
“But will he do as well this week, Charlie?”
“I don’t know, Mel. Let’s find out shall we?”

[Cut to live kitchen stream #1]

“So he’s reading the instructions carefully, Mel. A good idea to read them twice, I always think.”
“Yes, Charlie. And check you’re reading the correct wattage information.”
“Oh yes! Many have been caught out with that one.”

[Cut to Mel’s teeth (brightness setting #-1)
[Laughter ends]

“Looks like he’s ready, Charlie. He’s taking the cardboard packaging off.”
“Where’s he going now?”
“I don’t know. Oh…listen. I thought I heard a draw opening. Yes…yes, I think that’s cutlery.”
“Getting a bit ahead of himself there!”
“No, look. It’s just a knife.”
“Ahh. Giving it a good stab. Great elbow action there from Simon.”
“Very impressive.”
“He’s placing it in the centre of the microwave. Now, he struggled with this last week, didn’t he, Mel?”
“Yes, his centring was off, which can affect the resulting hotness.”
“That’s right. Looks like he’s corrected it this week. Good to see him paying attention to the judge’s comments.”
“Delia did lay into him a bit for that, so I’m not surprised he’s remembered this week. Hoping to counteract one of his few flaws from last week’s challenge.”
“He’s taking his time with the settings. Oh, this is looking promising, Mel.”
“What we’re looking for here is five and a half minutes with a good stir half way through. He has instructions for an 800 watt and a 900 watt, so hopefully he’ll pick the right one.”
“Dave’s mistake last week showed how disastrous that can be.”

[Cut to grinning idiot presenters]
[Laughter ends]

“Indeed, Charlie. A different microwave each week makes it even harder for the contestants this year. They can’t rest on their heels, can they?”
“No, no.”
“This microwave is 800 watt, but has Simon noticed?”
“He’s going for the dial, Mel! Turning it now.”
“Has he got the right time?”
“Er…can’t see while he’s stood in front. Hang on. Hang on. Aaaannnd, yes! Five and a half minutes. And the door’s shut. We’re off! This is a good start from our Simon.”
“It is, Charlie. I like the way he leans against the counter while the meal’s going round. Attentiveness like that will get you far.”
“As a student you’d hope he’s good at attentiveness. In class at least!”
“Haha! Yes, you would. Not sure about anywhere else though! He looks pretty hungry, the way he’s chewing on his nails like that.”
“Probably why he’s staying so close. Eagerness like that is good. Oooh, we’re getting to half way, Mel. Will he remember to stir?”
“Do you know, Charlie, I’m not sure. He hasn’t even got a spoon out, or a fork. In fact…yes…no…yes, I can confirm there is no cutlery in sight, except for that knife.”
“Let’s hope he won’t eat with that!”

[Cut to camera assistant Ben by mistake]
[Laughter ends]

“Only ten seconds till stirring time, Charlie, and still no sign of movement from Simon. Seems more interested in that bit of dead cuticle.”
“Distraction. Gah! So easily it can happen. I think the soothing drone of the microwave doesn’t help. What do you think, Mel?”
“I think you could be right, Charlie. It is kind of meditative.”

[Cut to microwave]

“Oh no! He’s missed it! He’s missed his half way point. Coming up to five seconds over. Such a shame, Mel.”
“Such a shame. Ten seconds.”
“Is he ever going to realise? Huh!”
“This is getting serious. The longer he leaves it the worse the judge’s score.”
“Come on, Simon!”
“Oh, Charlie, 25 seconds over. This isn’t good.”
“Ah! Finally, he’s realised. Knocking that knife on the floor is careless.”
“Yes, very clumsy.”
“Oooh, he thwacked that door open didn’t he, Mel?”
“Almost explosive! This kind of thing could unsettle his concentration. He’s got to be careful here not to be too hasty.”
“Looks like that corner was hot, Mel. Yes, it obviously was, he’s blowing on his fingers. Sounds like he’s getting that much needed cutlery though.”
“At last.”
“Yeah. Crucial to the task.”
“I thought he was going to stir it with his finger for a minute!”

[Forget to cut to anything else]
[Laughter ends]

“He’s managed to pull back the cellophane without ripping it. A skill particular to this task, and very well carried out.”
“I like his style here, Mel. He’s chopping into the still frozen chicken tikka in the middle, breaking up that sauce.”
“Yes, a sensible technique. Just hope he doesn’t break those 30 percent meat chicken breasts up too much with it.”
“That would ruin the aesthetics somewhat, yes.”
“Yes. Yes.”

[Cut to Mel nodding distantly]

“Still, better to be cooked than aesthetically pleasing.”
“Very true, Mel. The judges will be looking for that above most other things.”
“Oh good, he’s stirring the rice too. An easy thing to forget with these more complex meals, Charlie.”
“You’re right there, Mel. I’ve done it a few times myself. Ha!”
“Of course you have. And a lovely re-covering there, pushing the edges into the warm plastic corners. Great touch.”
“Great touch.”
“So that’s on the go again now, Charlie.”
“Well, it has been very intense so far, don’t you think?”
“I agree. Very. The only thing that’s let him down is that slight over half way faux pas. But we’ve had good instruction reading, a good stabbing motion, and good stirring action from Simon. Only one more thing that can go wrong.”
“The stand for one minute.”
“What about getting it out, Mel?”

[Cut to dead director on studio floor]
[Laughter ends]

“I meant, Mel – oh, you are terrible! – I meant the removal of that hot, hot, hot plastic container from the microwave itself.”
“I know, Charlie. Yes, there is a high possibility of scalding and dropping at that point, you’re right. Something to watch out for there.”
“Time’s nearly up! Let’s have an audience countdown!”

[Cue fake audience countdown]
[SFX cue] PING!

“You can see the steam as he opened the door there, Mel.”
“He’s having to waft it away a bit, so maybe that will remind him about being careful with removal.”
“Let’s hope so. Yes, he’s testing the plastic with his finger. The one that isn’t burned already. He’s found a cooler spot, and on the other side. He’s going to attempt the lift, Mel! He’s…!”
“Very beautifully done. Swift and decisive.”
“Astounding removal there.”
“Oh no! What’s he doing? Removing the cellophane before the wait one minute! The judges won’t like that will they, Charlie?”
“Well, you can understand the logic. It will cool to a manageable temperature quicker without the covering.”
“Yes, true. But still, it’s very unconventional. I’m not sure he’ll get away with it, you know.”
“He seems to be waiting though. He’s already got his plate ready. Cutlery’s on the side there.”
“Back to that cuticle again.”
“A good mental strategy maybe.”
“Possibly. If he snaps out of it in time for the end of the wait one minute period.”
“Only 15 seconds to go, Mel. I think Simon’s done really well with what was quite a taxing task, if I’m honest.”
“He has. I’m quite impressed overall.”
“Five seconds.”
“Come on, Simon! Just this final hurdle now!”
“Yes! Exactly a minute. Look at that beautiful meal being tipped onto the plate. The sauce all runny, no frozen bits. Nice and hot.”
“You can see the steam coming off it still, which is a relief. I thought his early cellophane removal would have affected that more.”
“Yes, lucky there. And he’s even fluffing up the rice with his fork. Nice touch.”
“Nice touch indeed, Charlie. But what did our judges think?”

[Cut to dead judges]
[Cut back to presenters]
[Cut to empty audience seats]
[Cut wrists]

[End of broadcast]