When Kids Ruled the World

I had a terrible realisation recently. I think I might be 11. And there’s a good chance you are too.  Let me explain. I remember my dad when he was in his thirties, as I am now. And I remember, very distinctly, that he was a proper grown up. He knew what he was doing. He had a business and a mortgage, he took us on holidays, could fix anything that broke. There was no sense that he was pretending to be an adult. I do not feel like that.

I remember when I was 11 and my birthday was coming up and I thought “When I’m twelve I won’t be a kid anymore.” And then nothing changed. And then my 16th birthday came up and I thought, “Finally I’ll be an adult.” I turned 16 and nothing happened. Soon I was 18. I felt the same. Now I’m 32 and wondering at what point some internal thing will click into adult mode and I no longer find fart jokes funny. Maybe it will be when I turn 40. I am still an 11 year old waiting to grow up.

I have no idea how the whole grown up thing works. From the outside looking in I probably seem like a fully functioning adult. I’m a dad, and I’m managing to parent well enough, I have a job and pay my bills, but secretly I have no idea what I’m doing. And then I thought, what if everyone else is secretly 11 too and we’re all just pretending at being an adult? What if our leaders are secretly running the country with no fucking idea what they’re doing? It would explain a lot.

And then I saw this picture on the front page of the Guardian newspaper of Theresa May and Michael Gove and I thought, “Shit! They’re 11!” God help us all.

20160728_233845

Further evidence –

Gove_713317c102465109RestrictedMichaelGoveNEWS-large_trans++eo_i_u9APj8RuoebjoAHt0k9u7HhRJvuo-ZLenGRumATheresa-May  gove-may1402327762670_wps_3_From_the_left_Home_SecretBoris-JohnsonGeorge-OsbourneObama-Crazy2770E34200000578-0-image-m-49_142871285569128166-unaxzb

I rest my case.

 

Did a Ghost just fly out of this Trumpet?

(Video of ghost at bottom of post)

I don’t believe in ghosts. Let’s start with that. I have recently moved into the house my mother grew up in. 5 generations of my family have lived in this house over the years. We haven’t always owned the house, and there was a gap of about 40 years where other families lived here, but serendipitously the house wound up back in the family.

It is said that my mother’s grandmother haunts the small room upstairs (now my daughter’s bedroom. Please don’t tell her). My great grandmother didn’t approve of my parents’ marriage and on the morning of their wedding her ghost made her displeasure known. The small room upstairs is L shaped and on the far wall, around the corner of the L, was stacked some collapsible chairs. Those chairs had somehow moved around the corner and wedged themselves against the door so no one could get in. All of the wedding stuff was trapped.

Fast forward to present day. Last weekend my sister and her son moved in with me. My sister looks a lot like my mother, and I look a lot like my uncle. My sister, being of the hysterical type, is convinced that her being has stirred up the ghost.

“She’s going to think I’m mum!” she bellowed, like a mad twenty eight year old toddler.

“Ghosts aren’t real. Please move. You’re blocking the telly.”

“I was taking a picture of the cats yesterday and a ghost walked past the camera. I shit you not.”

“I’m trying to watch QI.”

“A real ghost.”

“You’re not going to move are you?”

“We should film me and see if there’s a ghost. What’s the best way to do that?”

“I think you have to play the trumpet while listening to Wagner.”

“Ok. Let’s do it.”

“You’re mental.”

“You’re just scared.”

“Fine. Go get the trumpet.”

And so it was that we came to film the video below. And lo and behold, at the end of the video, a fucking ghost flies out of the trumpet. Personally I think it’s a piece of dust with a sense of humour. My sister on the other hand is still crying.

Lord Rochdale and the Station Hop Robbery (a short story)

It is my understanding that a train is a sort of stubborn bus. I’ve never seen one myself. I stood on a station once and waited to see one, to see what all the fuss was about, but was sadly distracted by a pair of mating pigeons. I heard it go by and turned quickly to catch a glimpse but by the time I realised I had turned the wrong way, the blasted thing had disappeared.

You’re probably wondering why I’m going on about this, and who the bloody hell I am anyway? And rightly so. You should know these things. They’re important to a story. My name is Charlie. I’m a dashing sort of chap, about so high, with a passion for ornithology. So, now the formalities are out of the way, let’s get to the nub –

A friend of mine, Lord Rochdale (a dastardly sort of bloke, you wouldn’t like him), called me on the phone and asked me if I would like to help him burgle one (a train I mean, not a phone). I told him they are probably hard to steal seeing as they tend to be fixed to the tracks but I’m free next Thursday afternoon so why not. Not much else to do on a Thursday.

Jump forwards a few days and there we are; Thursday. Time to do some burglary. I arrived at the small train station just outside of Kent as agreed. I was wearing my trilby hat and trench coat, as is sensible in this weather, and there at the far end of the platform was my cohort and accomplice, Rochdale. He was staring at me.

“What are they thinking!” he shouted.

“Who?” I replied.

“The Gods!”

“I imagine they are trying to help us in any way they can.” I said, having arrived next to him. The oncoming sound of a train was already present.

“I am uncomfortable and miserable. Had I known it was going to pour down I might have cancelled.”

“It’s not too late.”

“Bugger it. We’re stealing that damn painting if it’s the last thing we do.”

“I thought we were stealing a train.”

He looked at me like a wizard looks at a clown. “Steal the train? How do you propose we do that?”

I shrugged. “Jimmy it?”

“It’s not a Fiat Panda, Charlie, it’s a bloody locomotive. You can’t just “jimmy it”.”

“Right. No, of course. What painting?”

“On that train is a young man named Percy Witherbrick. Have you heard of him?” I shook my head, “He’s a cousin on my mother’s side. He has in his possession a painting by Gainsborough, I’m assuming you’ve heard of Gainsborough?”

“Paints faces?”

“Yes. Sort of. Portraits. Percy’s father passed recently and they found one in his attic along with a whole bunch of other paintings, mostly worthless. Witherbrick is on his way to get it authenticated. At this moment in time that painting doesn’t exist. If he gets to his destination they will register it. Real or not. This is our only chance to get our hands on something worth millions that nobody yet knows about.”

“Who is the painting of?”

“Percy’s grandmother.”

There was a hiss and the train stopped in front of us. “Alright, you go in front of me. I’m going to duck behind you so he doesn’t recognise my face.”

“Right ho. This way then is it?”

“Just keep walking. He’ll be in first class. Next carriage along.”

The interior of the train was dull, lifeless, rusty, clattering. The seats were faded blue and full of street urchins and criminals (one suspects. I tried not to look at them.)

We bustled down the aisle and made it to the entrance of the first class carriage. Rochdale peered over my shoulder. His moustache tickled my ear.

“There he is. Four rows down facing us. Do you see him?”

“The man with the goatee beard and cardboard tube?”

“The very same.”

“What’s the plan?”

“We’ll casually walk down the aisle, me hiding behind you, and when we get close enough I’ll reach round and punch him in the face. Got it?”

“It’s a very sophisticated plan.”

“It’s not at all sophisticated. Let’s get on with it.”

We snuck carefully down the carriage and stopped in front of Percy. He looked up and smiled at me. I smiled back. Rochdale walloped him squarely the face. It was quite something. His head went back, his eyes closed, and he started snoring. I gently took the tube out of his limp hands and we backed back out of the carriage. People witnessed the event but didn’t make much of it. They were upper middle class people, it’s not easy to shock upper middle class people.

We ran back through the urchin carriage to the doors just as we pulled up at the next station. We jumped out and ran for the street. There was a car waiting for us on the road, prearranged by the criminal genius that is Rochdale.

We bundled in. Rochdale slapped me on the back. “Good show old boy!” he shouted. “Perry, step on it!” (Perry is the name of the driver.)

He did step on it and we hurtled down the road and away from the scene of our crime.

“Champagne Charleston?”

“It would be rude not to,” I said.

Rochdale cracked open the champers and filled two glasses. We chin-chinned and downed the contents.

“Shall we have a look?” said Rochdale.

“I think we must,” I said.

Rochdale put his glass down (which immediately fell over and wetted our shoes due to the nature of Perry’s fervent driving) and carefully removed the white cap. Inside was a rolled up canvas. Rochdale withdrew the painting. He unrolled it. We stared.

“What the fu-“ (I’m sorry for his language, I won’t include it in the story. That sort of thing just won’t do.)

“Well it’s certainly not a Gainsborough,” I said.

His shoulders sagged and his fists clenched the canvas, tearing it slightly. “You think?”

“I think it’s quite obvious.”

“Perry! Stop the car.”

The car stopped.

Rochdale got out and closed the door. And then he reacted. I’ve been looking through my dictionary to find the right would to describe his reaction. Tempestuous doesn’t quite cut it. Impassioned maybe? He let the painting fall to the ground and screamed at it. I can’t repeat all of his words here but there was something about Percy watching too much Art Attack. It all ended with him tearing off his clothes and throwing his shoes at a passing cat. He then chased the poor feline, half naked and screaming, down the street, leaving me alone in the car.

I looked out of the window at the torn and soaked painting on the floor. It was a Jackson Pollock. Pity really.

10 Simple Steps to Getting Noticed on Wattpad

10 Simple Steps Cover

Step one

Write a book called, “10 Simple Steps to Getting Noticed on Wattpad.” (Like I did right here – https://www.wattpad.com/story/51458336 )

Step two

Use said book to give helpful information. Slyly mention your main book as an example. Just like I’m about to do in step three.

Step three

Have an excellent cover with a very funny sticker in the top right-hand corner (Here’s a good example of what I mean – https://www.wattpad.com/story/41481274-the-accidental-scoundrel )

Step four

Sell your soul. Here’s a helpful guide to get you started –

1) Put your book in a shoebox along with a lock of your own hair, some toenail clippings, and a picture of Hellen Mirren.

2) Go to the middle of a crossroads and bury the shoe box. (Depending on the type of road surface you may need a pneumatic drill and a fake stop sign, especially if you intend to do this at rush hour.)

3) Say the words, “Unbiwattpadio garnethme readerworms ignitio soulio.”

4) Wait.

5) Apologise to the traffic and go back home.

6) Consult a psychiatrist.

Step five

Consider packing the whole thing in.

Step six

Having consumed quite a lot of whisky remember how brilliant a writer you really are and get straight back on to Wattpad.

Step seven

Endlessly follow other authors and pretend to like their books so they will pretend to like yours in return.

Step eight

Wonder where exactly this staircase is leading to. Do you have an attic? Look back at the previous seven steps and try and remember exactly what it was you came up here for in the first place.

Step nine

Lean against metaphorical banister and call psychiatrist and say you’re having a metaphysical meltdown and could he please recommend alcohol as you think it would do a lot better than any time spent on a chaise longue. Remember that “chaise longue” is French for “long chair” and chuckle at how unsophisticated that particular piece of furniture now seems.

Step ten

Put your finger in your ear and wiggle it up and down. No really, try it. Doing it? It sounds just like Pac-Man doesn’t it?

Step eleven (damn, I’ve miscounted somehow)

I don’t know how to get noticed on Wattpad. It’s really hard, man. I’ve been on here for like 4 months and I’ve only got one vote. You are really asking the wrong person.

Thank you for reading. Now, go and read The Accidental Scoundrel and, if it makes you laugh, do please vote for it.

Oh, and – Step Twelve

Never directly ask for votes.

Unified Field Theory of Pointless Moodiness

Einstein Happy

Trying to relieve stress with logic is like trying to put out a fire by explaining water to it. Yet here I am, thinking my way into happiness. When my siblings and I were teenagers my dad banned the word “stress” in the house insisting that there was no such thing. Especially if you’re a teenager. Now, as an adult, whenever I feel that certain pressure in the brain that we call stress I immediately feel embarrassed and stop it at once. He’s right though, and I have spent a lot of time thinking about it. I spend a lot of time thinking about a lot of things. What I want to do is come up with a Unified Field Theory of Pointless Moodiness. In a similar way Einstein tried to bring Physics and Quantum Mechanics together in his Unified Field Theory. And, like him, I suspect I will ultimately fail.

The problem is my thoughts on the subject are a series of valid points that openly contradict each other (I won’t go into them all here, it will only become tedious.) My other problem is I’m not a particularly emotional person. Also, my inability to worry has led to a certain amount of hinderous (that’s a new word I just invented. Write it down and phone the OED for me) complacency. For many people when an overdue bill arrives in the post it is the worry of the consequences of not paying it that sets forth a plan of action. It sits in the mind and niggles at you and you won’t be able to relax until you have the burden of debt removed from your shoulders. I can’t remember the last time I worried about such things. If I have money I pay the bills. If I don’t have money I don’t pay the bills. The solution to a bill is to pay it, if the solution has to wait until payday then so be it. When payday comes around I will have almost certainly forgotten about the bill entirely and will go and spend the money in the pub instead. Where I have a thoroughly good time. You see, I have avoided worrying and also enjoyed a pint. When I remember about the bill again I make the same plan. It’s a marvellous thing.

UFTPM (Unified Field Theory of Pointless Moodiness)

Statement 1 –

Stress is the result of an unresolved problem.

Statement 2 –

A problem is only a problem if it can be solved.

Statement 3 –

If there is not a solution then what you are dealing with is not in-fact a problem (and therefore not stress – see statement 1.)

(It is either outside of your control, and therefor can’t be fixed with worry – not that anything can -, or the thing that is causing you stress cannot be fixed because it is a hardship or a tragedy. In that case you are only feeling stressed by accident and need to reassign a different emotion. I would recommend sadness.)

Statement 4 –

Nobody else cares. You should join them.

Statement 5 –

I fancy a pint. (And here my theory falls apart. Alas, Einstein, you and I are cursed by the same troubles.)

Summery

Time will pass, you are infinitely small and unimportant. Think of an elderly person. Can you see him? Walking down the road, or sitting in front of the telly. Do you think he remembers that Tuesday afternoon 40 years ago when he had a backlog of paperwork. Or that time he was on hold for like an hour and then the person who answered the phone had to re-divert him and then the line went dead and he had to call again when all he wanted to do is get his goddamn internet reconnected! No. Don’t be silly. He didn’t have the internet. Actually, if I’m honest I don’t know him very well, this imaginary old man of ours. Of course he doesn’t remember. Many years from now you too will be old and you will not remember the insignificant thing that is worrying you right now. Especially if it is work related.

Why am I banging on about stress? For the past week I was convinced that I was stressed. I was having a tough week at work (there has been a hostile takeover and everything has turned to shit) and I forgot how fleeting this moment is. I forgot that time would pass. Stress is an indulgent emotion. If it were a worthwhile feeling then it wouldn’t disappear so fast. As soon as you blurt out the thing that is annoying you to a friend, or an imaginary friend (even lunatics need to vent), all the stress falls away and you feel silly. Do you know why? Because there is no such thing. There is only the moment between the problem and the solution. Once you realise that, you will see, it is pointless getting down about it. It isn’t stress you’re feeling anyway. You probably just have a headache because you’ve had too much coffee.

If you are now feeling stressed, having just read about it (These things happen. Subliminal suggestion and all that. You’re probably thinking about that unpaid bill right now aren’t you? Or that parking fine maybe? Sorry about that.) I’ll tell you a joke to make you feel better.

Why did the baker have brown hands?

Because he kneaded a poo.

Wait, I’m not done yet. I have another joke for you.

What is the difference between roast beef and pea soup?

You can roast beef but you can’t pea soup.

Alright, last one now.

What do you call a fish with no eyes?

Fsh

Ok, one more.

A horse walks into a bar. The barman says, “Why the long face?”

And the horse says, “My mum just died.”

Ok, that one might have got you down again. Here, this one will cheer you back up, and then I promise I’m done.

Knock, Knock.

“Who’s there?”

“Your local MP.”

Knock, Knock

“Are you there? I said it’s your local MP. I’m out meeting my constabulary.”

Knock Knock.

“I’m not answering the door!”

Ok, I made the last two up. What was this post about? I’ve forgotten. Oh yes, Stress. Or something. Hold on. I’m trying to think of another joke. Ok, here we go.

“Doctor, doctor, I feel like a pair of curtains.”

“I’m not a doctor. The real doctor is dead. Now take off your trousers.”

Ha! That’s ridiculous. Ok, I’m going now.

Bird (Short Story of the Weird Variety)

When I started writing me and a friend, Danny, used to text each other three words and then we would have to write a short story about those things. For instance, one text said, “Goat, money, burgers.” Another one said, “My son, a sausage, 99 encyclopaedias.” We would have one day to write each story and would generally spend about an hour writing them. The above suggestions became a story about a giant magic goat that loved burgers and had the ability to travel in time, and the other was about a baby detective investigating a sausage related murder, the solving of which hung on a single misspelling in the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

They were funny, short, ridiculous stories that were never meant to be read by anyone except for us. They are kept in a secret file called, “Do Not Share”. They were writing exercises, and that was all.

However, seeing as I am beyond shame, I have decided to share one of these stories with you. Sadly, I can’t remember what the three words were (we wrote these stories several years ago). I came across it by accident recently and it made me laugh. The story is called…

Bird

‘Hey, man, you sure these are safe?’ Smirf held the bag up to eye level, ‘They look kinda wild. Know what I mean? Buzz? Buzz!? You know what I mean?’

Smirf looked over at Buzz.  They were sitting opposite each other outside a café. Buzz’s eyes had gone red and his skin looked greyer than normal. A stalk was hanging out of his mouth. He blinked slowly and opened his mouth, ‘Muh.’

Smirf turned his attention back to the bag of mushrooms, ‘Where did you say you got these?’

Buzz opened his mouth again, ‘Summ uh.’

One of Buzz’s eyes closed and the other widened and a weird little grin crept over his face.  Smirf stared at him for a while.

‘If you got these from Spaceman Dave I’m going to kill you.’

Buzz sagged in his chair and his head fell forward and landed on the table. He laughed lazily at himself. Smirf opened the bag and took out a mushroom. He squashed it up in his hand and stirred it into his coffee.

‘When will I learn?’ he said, and looked over at Buzz again who twitched and chuckled to himself. Smirf sighed and drank his coffee.

Inanimate objects began to pop and change colour around him. A waitress turned into a fish and swam into the sky humming a beautiful tune. He looked at Buzz. Bubbles were rising from his body. The table blew away like a handkerchief and the ground turned purple. He looked at his arms and they stretched out in front of him like oil on water. Everything drifted away and went dark. Smirf sank backwards and fell gently into a dark abyss. He looked down at his body. His legs slowly faded away followed by his arms and then his torso. Finally his head faded and all that was left was his consciousness falling silently through the soft darkness.

He landed hard on a large cylindrical slab of stone.

‘Owe! What the fuck!’ he said.

Buzz was standing over him, ‘Hey man,’ said Buzz, ‘What’s going on?’

Smirf rubbed his head and stood up. He looked around him. It was just them; Smirf and Buzz standing on a circular concrete slab in the middle of an endless void of darkness.

‘How the hell should I know!’ said Smirf.

‘Weird huh?’

‘Yes, Buzz, it’s weird. Of course it’s weird! It’s always weird when I’m with you!’

‘Yeh.’

Smirf looked around, ‘It’s just darkness. Everywhere. Darkness.’

‘Not everywhere,’ said Buzz.

‘Where isn’t it dark?’

Buzz pointed upwards and Smirf looked. High above them was a bird the size of a planet. Its eyes were as big as continents and as deep as oceans. Its wings stretched across space and vanished into the distance. The tip of its mountain-sized beak hung just a few hundred yards above them. The giant bird tilted its head and looked at the two men.

‘Right,’ said Smirf, ‘I didn’t notice that.’

‘Big isn’t it,’ observed Buzz.

Smirf looked at Buzz who was craning his neck up at the bird with his hands on his hips.

‘Yes, it’s quite big.’

Smirf and Buzz stared at the bird for a while and the giant bird stared back.

‘What do you think we should do?’ said Buzz.

‘Not sure, our options are fairly slim aren’t they.’

‘We could jump off,’ suggested Buzz.

‘No.’

‘I think we’re bird food,’ said Buzz.

The giant bird lowered its head so the top of its beak was level with Smirf and Buzz. It then continued to observe them.

‘Hmm,’ said Smirf.

‘I dare you to jump on to its beak,’ said Buzz.

‘No,’ said Smirf, ignoring him, ‘Hello Bird!’ he shouted.

The bird looked surprised and seemed to think for a moment. It opened its mouth a bit, as if it was about to say something, thought against it, and then closed it again. Buzz and Smirf looked at each other.

‘I think he can understand us,’ said Smirf.

‘Hello bird!!’ shouted Buzz.

This time the bird pulled its head back and looked dumbstruck. Slowly the bird got its nerves back and lowered its head to peer at the two men again.

‘Hello?’ said the bird, hesitantly.

‘Hello!’ shouted Smirf and Buzz simultaneously.

The bird panicked and ducked its head bellow the concrete pillar in an extraordinary attempt to hide itself.

‘I think it’s scared of us,’ said Smirf.

The bird slowly edged its head back up and looked at the two men. It felt quite out of sorts. He’d never seen, well, anything before. Just him, the darkness, and the cement pillar.

‘Hello,’ whispered the bird, and then moved its head away in case anything strange happened.

‘Hello,’ said Smirf, politely.

‘You speak bird,’ said the bird.

‘No,’ said Smirf, ‘you speak English.’

‘Right,’ said the bird, and then thought for a bit, ‘I’ve gone mad haven’t I?’

‘Not really sure,’ said Smirf, ‘Possibly.’

‘Are you going to eat me?’ asked the bird.

‘No,’ said Smirf, ‘You’re the size of a planet.’

‘Am I? What’s a planet?’ asked the bird.

‘It’s a big round thing,’ said Buzz.

‘Oh,’ said the bird, ‘But I’m bird shaped.’ The bird’s deep but kind voice surrounded them with its volume.

‘Indeed you are,’ said Smirf, ‘Listen, we’re a bit confused. You’re a massive talking bird and we’re not used to that kind of thing.’

‘And you are a small terrifying pink thing with no wings. And you can speak! Don’t you find that strange?’ asked the bird.

‘It’s never really occurred to me,’ said Smirf.

‘Birds don’t talk where we come from. Just people,’ said Buzz.

‘I see,’ said the bird, ‘And where do you come from?’

‘A planet called Earth,’ said Smirf.

‘Oh. And how did you get here?’ asked the bird.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know. We ate some mushrooms and now we’re here. This doesn’t normally happen but I’m afraid, the fact that this is happening while we are under the influence of mushrooms, may mean that you don’t actually exist,’ said Smirf.

The bird contemplated the ramifications of this idea and then said, ‘Mushrooms you say?’

‘Yes,’ said Buzz.

‘Sounds unlikely.’ said the bird, ‘so you’re trying to tell me that you live on a large round thing, you ate some mushrooms, and now you are here and you can talk?’

‘Yes,’ said Smirf.

‘Tell me,’ said the bird, ‘Are their many types of bird where you come from?’

‘Yes, hundreds,’ said Smirf.

‘Just as I thought. And how many long talking pink things are there?’

‘Just us,’ said Smirf, suddenly unsure of himself.

The bird seemed to have been expecting this answer. ‘I think I have some bad news,’ said the bird.

‘What’s that?’ said Smirf.

‘I think I have gone mad.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Smirf.

‘I suspect you are, it does after all mean that you aren’t real,’ said the bird.

‘I think I need to sit down,’ said Buzz, sitting down.

‘Ok,’ said the bird.

Smirf thought for a moment, ‘No, I think we’re real. It’s definitely you who is not.’

‘No,’ said the bird, ‘I remember being here before you got here. I’ve been around forever.’

‘But I also remember being around before I got here,’ said Smirf.

‘How long?’ asked the bird.

‘How long what?’ asked Smirf.

‘How long have you been around?’

‘20 years,’ said Smirf.

‘Pah! That’s nothing,’ said the bird, ‘I am infinite in time. I have always been around.’

‘Well, we’re definitely real,’ said Smirf.

‘What if we aren’t?’ said Buzz, who was now lying down.

‘If I have gone mad,’ began the bird, ‘It is very possible that I invented a whole reality for you. My subconscious has had billions of years to construct a million different realities. I don’t know whether it has. It makes sense that it must have being doing something with its time. All I’ve been doing is looking out at everything.’

Smirf thought about this while Buzz put his fingers in his ears and started humming. ‘How about last week when I found a piece of paper on the floor thinking it was money only to find out when I got home that it was just a used piece of toilet paper. Did your subconscious invent that?’ asked Smirf.

‘That depends,’ said the bird, ‘If you are a figment of my imagination then yes. If you are not, then no.’

Buzz started to hum louder.

‘How can we find out? And if it turns out we are a figment of your imagination what does that mean for us?’ asked Smirf.

‘Give me a minute,’ said the bird, and then the bird looked away. Its eyes dimmed and the bird became vacantly still.

Buzz took his fingers out of his ears and stopped humming, ‘Have you killed him?’ he asked.

‘No, I think he’s gone off to talk to his subconscious,’ said Smirf.

The enormity of the bird hung above them. Its size incomprehensible; each feather the size of a yacht, and talons so big they could easily hook around The Moon. It was a hell of a hallucination if it was one.

‘Right!’ said the bird, suddenly alive again, ‘I have some good news and I have some bad news.’ Buzz and Smirf stood next to each other looking up at the monstrous bird like two children in front of a judge. ‘The good news is that you are real.’

Smirf and Buzz cheered. And then stopped, ‘So what’s the bad news?’ asked Buzz.

‘You are a figment of my imagination,’ said the bird.

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Smirf.

‘No, not at first,’ said the bird.

They waited for a moment.

‘It still doesn’t make sense. Will you elaborate?’ asked Smirf.

The bird lowered its head apologetically, ‘Ok, but promise you won’t be mad at me,’ said the bird, ‘I didn’t know what my subconscious was up to.’

‘Ok. I promise I won’t be mad,’ said Smirf.

The bird looked at Buzz.

‘Oh, I promise too,’ said Buzz.

The enormous bird took a breath and then tried to explain, ‘My subconscious has been getting bored recently. Well, I say recently, it’s been the last couple of billion years. Playing little pranks on me here and there, silly stuff, you know; making me bite my tongue when I’m sleeping, that kind of thing; creating a star and making it supernova in front of me. That made me jump! You know, silly stuff like that.’

Smirf and Buzz looked at each other, ‘created a star,’ mouthed Buzz.

The bird continued, ‘He’s been quiet for a few millennia now. I knew he was plotting something.’

‘So what’s he been plotting?’ asked Buzz, with a tinge of worry in his voice.

‘He decided to make me think I’d gone mad,’ said the bird.

‘What did he do?’ asked Smirf.

If the bird had cheeks he would have blushed, ‘He created an entire universe, with planets and stars and allsorts. And, err, talking pink things with fingers.’

Buzz looked at his hands.

‘The problem was, you existed in a different reality so he brought you two here partly to prove to himself that he had done it, and partly to freak me out. We just had a chat about it and he said he was going to keep you here and never tell me what you were so I really would think I’m mad, but then he said he was so proud of what he had created he decided he’d rather boast about it instead. I’ve never invented anything,’ said the bird glumly.

‘You and your subconscious are one and the same,’ Smirf pointed out, quite profoundly.

‘Not in a head this big,’ chuckled the bird.

Buzz nodded like he knew what the bird meant.

‘So now what do we do?’ asked Smirf.

The bird thought for a moment, ‘I suppose you can go home if you like?’

‘We can! I thought we were stuck here!’ shouted Buzz excitedly.

‘No, you can go, but please do come back, I get terribly bored,’ said the bird, with its deep voice falling around them.

‘Ok. How?’ asked Buzz.

‘Oh, good question, hold on.’

The bird went vacant for a moment and then came back, ‘Take this,’ it said plucking a small feather from its chest using its beak. It dropped the slightly larger than average feather at their feet and Smirf and Buzz picked it up, ‘just use it to stir your tea and have a sip. You’ll be back here in a jiffy,’ said the bird.

‘Cool,’ said Buzz, examining the feather. It was the size of a lance and they struggled to hold it. He wondered how easy it would be to stir tea with it.

‘Cheerio then,’ said the bird, ‘Sorry you’re not real.’

‘That’s ok,’ said Smirf.

‘No worries,’ said Buzz.

The giant bird ruffled its feathers and the two men vanished. The platform and the bird were alone again.

‘I miss them already,’ said the bird.

Smirf and Buzz suddenly woke up. It was getting dark but they were still sitting at the café table. A waitress was clearing up around them.

‘Oh good, you’re awake,’ she said, ‘I’ve been trying to wake you for ages. We’re closing now.’

Smirf looked around slightly confused, ‘Ok,’ he said, ‘Buzz, wake up.’

Buzz stirred, ‘Hmm?’

‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Smirf, struggling to stand up, ‘How long have we been asleep?’

‘About six hours,’ said the waitress, ‘Like I said, I couldn’t wake you.’

Buzz managed to get to his feet and started walking off.

‘Hold on!’ shouted Smirf, and caught up with him.

‘Weird trip dude,’ said Buzz.

‘Me too, man.’

‘Damn bird,’ said Buzz.

‘Yeah. What? A bird?’ said Smirf, stopping in the street.

Buzz stopped as well, ‘Yeah, there was a massive fucking bird.’ Smirf stared at him. ‘Are you ok?’ asked Buzz.

‘Did the bird say that we weren’t real?’ asked Smirf.

Buzz looked blank for a while, ‘Yeah.’

‘Was he the size of a planet?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you sit down and stick your fingers in your ears and hum so you didn’t have to hear what he was saying?’

Buzz’s mouth lulled, ‘Uh huh.’

‘Oh,’ said Smirf.

They stared at each other for a bit and then started searching frantically for the feather. They couldn’t find it. They looked back at the table they were sat at, and there, under the table, was a slightly larger than average, feather.

The End