My Dream...
I find myself wandering up a grimly Dickensian alleyway, on my way to a summer party in a pleasant Victorian suburb. When I arrive, all and sundry are sprawled on the verdant grass lawn, stretching down from the front porch, to a pool of jolly flowers near the garden wall. There we all sit, sipping our drinks and revelling in idle chatter, when who should run in but Will bloody Smith, claiming that a terrorist attack perpetrated by Nationalist extremists has just taken place down the road. They have, Will Smith informs us, used poison gas on the home of a large family of successful immigrants, shooting dead the six poor buggers who made it out of the building alive. The extremists, clearly inexperienced in the field of gaseous terrorism, have lost control of the gas, and it is enveloping the entire suburb in its toxic embrace, like some monstrous creature from a low budget ‘Blob-horror’ movie. Terrified, the lot of us make a run for it, darting around the house and bounding over the fence in the back garden. Eventually, and inexplicably, we reach a gaping chasm, a vast and uncrossable canyon. To our dismay, in the time it has take us to run this far, the country has declared war with someone or other, and troops are positioned atop our side of the canyon, panzerschreking (why on earth panzerschreks?) the living daylights out of the opposite cliff-face, which boasts a network of tunnels in which are entrenched our, as yet unnamed, enemies.
The troops on our side of the canyon are powerless. They cannot, even with outdated Nazi anti-tank weaponry, breach the solid rock walls of the enemy’s geological fortress. An untimely barrage from the enemy destroys the section of cliff on which we are all standing, and we plummet with the rubble into the abyss below.
We wake up on Mars. After much exploration to confirm this, one of our number claims to have discovered a very odd fossil. We inspect it and it proves to be a peculiar looking creature, vaguely cylindrical in form, with a ridge of short tendrils stretching the circumference of its body. Some sort of brutal thorn protrudes from one of the flattish surfaces. At this point we notice the tendrils are moving. One of us suggests that it is simply the wind (we have somehow not succumbed to the carbon dioxide atmosphere yet), but another of our number, checking the wind direction with a moistened finger, declares that the wind is actually blowing in the opposite direction. We experience that numbing sense of horror and realisation that is the trademark of such stories, and Will Smith unnecessarily confirms our suspicions that the creature is alive. It turns out that this thing is the larval stage of an enormous, millipede-like creature. As it happens, many of them fuse together (with the thorny bits) to create a huge, sentient killing-machine, operating under the control of a collective consciousness (like that apparently found with swarms of ants, bees, termites etc.). One such monstrosity, an absolute behemoth, consisting of thousands of the little devils, bursts from the Martian soil, intent on devouring us. At that moment however, rescue arrives in the form of NASA, who very hospitably take us home.
Will Smith and I become hugely worried about these creatures. For some reason, knowing nothing about them, we fear an imminent invasion. You may think us silly to make such an assumption, but we do at least make a pitch to NASA for a research grant, so that we might learn more about them. I am put in charge of the team responsible for making the pitch, and we fail dismally. No one believes that Mars is populated by a species of arthropods whose physical size is limited only by how many of the little larvae are willing to latch on. We despair for our species, until one of the boffins on the grant committee sidles over to me, as I stare blindly into space, and confesses to believe us. Furthermore, he is a friggin’ billionaire and agrees to fund the mission, which is somehow ready to be put into effect within hours. Sadly, I woke up just as I was putting on my spacesuit (which was little more than a padded onesie). Lord knows what feats of heroism I might have dreamt up thereafter... Regardless, if I ever meet Will Smith, I will pitch this story to him in the form of a movie script. As long as it comes out in 3-D and is something like Avatar, I will be rolling in it after opening night.
Miscellaneous Woes and Realizations...
I have recently discovered that a surprising number of my books are more bloodstained than books are wont to be. This is largely because of my frequent nosebleeds. You see, when your face boasts as impressive a proboscis as mine does, a large volume of stuff gets blown into it, necessitating an unseemly amount of picking and rubbing and itching, all of which irritate the sensitive lining of my nostrils. I shall, however, maintain the much more interesting story that I am a vicious serial killer, whose weapons of choice are Henry James novels and Bernard Shaw biographies. I think you will agree that this is preferable to the altogether more unpleasant, probing reality.
In other news, I have found myself in a position in life where I am unflinchingly happy. Admittedly, I am unemployed, single, and as physically, fashionably and socially handicapped as ever. I fear I may have failed my European History examination (the one I had to leave prior to its start in order to dry-heave over a toilet bowl) and if I do not get a job soon I will have to move back to Crieff and work in the Hydro (both of which I am loath to do). I entertain myself during the day by shuffling about the flat in threadbare slippers, sipping tea and grumbling to myself (that and my constant sniffling is how Michael and Robbie can tell it's me who has just come in the front door), and the long summer evenings find me either watching pornography, or drinking irresponsibly, and often both. Nonetheless, I am altogether quite content with my lot in life. The financial strictures under which I currently operate will not last long if I can wrangle employment somewhere or other, and I choose to utilise my poor coping skills to quash any doubts regarding examinations by means of that time-tested and trusty mechanism which I adore: pretending problems aren’t there and buggering on like a mad man.
Romantic troubles have failed to engender tears for some weeks, and my twenty year yearning for a blissful relationship seems to have been, in chronological order: disappointed, poisoned, crippled with gangrene and blown away by the rancid, boozy farts I have become adept at producing. I have lost my long-held desire to impress women, and actually seem to be doing all the better for it (or so I like to think). Indeed, two memorable conversations with girls, both occurring on the same night, in the same pub, with the two sitting four feet from one another, saw me labelling one a “soulless monster”. I somehow inadvertently called the other (whom I actually quite fancied) a “prostitute or a porn star” on account of the thigh-high socks she, unbeknownst to me, happened to own for non-ironic purposes. I don’t remember how I managed to reverse such a slip, but I am told I did, and I think it had something to do with the socks she was actually wearing at the time. The other girl, poor thing, is, I believe, slightly frightened of me. I don’t know why Michael and Peter insist on introducing me to people. I should, by all accounts, be kept in my room, insulated from the rest of society.
Also, I realised only a few minutes ago that all the job applications I have sent using my University email account have been horrendous duds. Apparently, despite being a clever man, I am unable to use the attachment function of said email account. It is somehow a boost to my ego to believe that this is the only reason none of them have contacted me thus far, although the more I consider this, the less sense it makes...
Having updated you on my life as it stands, and provided you with the details of every vaguely interesting thing that has happened to me since last month, I must bid you farewell. It is eight o’clock and I have a rather promising dinner lined up. A microwavable steak and Guinness casserole which I may enliven (as if it is necessary, pah!) with boiled potatoes and carrots.
Jamie
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